Don Feliciano was on the patio, looking as out of place as a foreigner. Néstor could not remember ever having seen the patrón so near his family’s house; it struck him then, through the dense clouds of sleep that still thickened his thinking, that something was very, very wrong.
Don Feliciano was already crossing the patio in three strides, spurs jingling, and seized him by the collar of his shirt.
“How dare you disobey me,” Don Feliciano thundered. The patrón’s face was lined and tired; but he was lit from within by rage that flushed his tanned face dark. His gray mustache was inches from Néstor’s face, quivering with anger. He still smelled of the dust and sweat of the road, the mix of exhaustion and anger making him seem feral.
Sharp, long-buried memories ripped to the surface. Don Feliciano with a belt, standing over Casimiro, whipping him for having allegedly flirted with a visiting ranchero’s daughter. Don Feliciano pointing at him in the candlelight the night Nena died.
“I don’t believe I disobeyed any of your orders, se?or,” he said, treading very carefully, keeping his voice low and level.
“You deserted the squadron,” Don Feliciano spat.
“I was protecting Se?orita Magdalena, as were my orders,” Néstor said.
“Don’t be glib with me. My orders were for you to keep Magdalena safe with the squadron,” Don Feliciano spat. “You kidnapped my daughter. I ought to have you whipped.”
Néstor inhaled through his nose to steady himself. He had to be calm in the face of Don Feliciano’s building storm, as if he were facing an irritated bull in a corral: no sudden movements, no flashes of his own anger, or he might be gored.
“When she was in danger, I delivered her from the battle,” he said, speaking slowly and clearly. “She wanted to return to Los Ojuelos and it was dangerous for her to do so alone, and so I—”
“Do you think that excuses your behavior?” Don Feliciano thundered. “You are a stain on her honor. She has a future ahead of her, a marriage, and I will not have rumors about some peón standing in the way of that.”
Anger rose like a rattlesnake in Néstor’s chest, fangs bared. He tore Don Feliciano’s hand from his shirt.
“I am not your peón,” he spat. “I do not work for you. I owe you no money. I am an independent man and I demand that you speak to me like an equal, for I am your equal.”
For a second, Don Feliciano stared at him, as if surprised that Néstor was capable of speech.
Then he tossed his head back. His laughter echoed across the rancho, brassy and mocking.
Over Don Feliciano’s shoulder, he glimpsed a female figure running toward his family’s jacal from la casa mayor.
Nena.
Néstor curled his hands into fists and clenched them. He had to rein in his temper. It was time for the conversation he had rehearsed a hundred times while riding back to the rancho, whether he was ready or not.
“I am buying a porción near Los Ojuelos,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even. “When I have done so, I am going to marry Magdalena. She and I have already spoken about this.”
This struck Don Feliciano’s mirth a killing blow. His brows drew together, his face a dark mask of surprise.
Not a good sign. Néstor dug in his heels for a long battle.
“Papá!” Nena cried, breathless as she approached. Thank God. His reinforcements had arrived at last, her forehead and cheeks glistening with sweat from the sprint across the rancho. “Papá, listen to me. I needed protection on the road home. You know that. Leave him be.”
Don Feliciano turned to her abruptly. “Are you engaged to this man?”
Nena’s brows rose; her mouth dropped open. “What?” she said. The question had taken her by surprise. “No, Papá. Come, I need to speak to you alone.”
Néstor’s stomach dropped out beneath him.
If you want me, he had said to her. If you will have me.
A low ringing filled his ears.
She had never answered.
What do you want? Another question that she never replied to.
He said, Do you trust me? She said that she did. That was all she said.
But he should not have trusted her.
He should never have believed that she would stand up to her parents so easily.
“Nena,” he said, mouth dry. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, hollow and thin. “Tell him.”
Nena ignored this. She didn’t even look at him. It bit like the lash of a whip. “Papá, come with me,” she said. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”
She shot Néstor a look that he could tell was supposed to be meaningful, but he could not parse it. His pulse throbbed in his temple.
“Nena—”
“Silence!” Don Feliciano roared.
If Don Feliciano’s face had been dark with anger before, it was now consumed with a wicked sort of delight at this turn of the battle. He lurched forward at Néstor; for a moment, he thought the patrón was going to strike him, and he dodged to avoid it. Instead, the patrón seized him by his shirt collar again. Néstor was slow to catch his balance, too slow to stop when Don Feliciano thrust him forward and threw him on the ground.
He hit the solid tipichil floor with the flat of his back; his skull snapped back and met the packed earth and stone with a thunk that sent his teeth clashing against one another.
Abuela cried out; Nena was shouting for Don Feliciano to stop. Néstor’s ears rang. He coughed and rolled onto his side, fighting to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him.
Don Feliciano stepped forward. His hand was on his pistol in its holster.
“You’re right, you’re not my peón. You have no right to be on my property. I banish you,” he said. “If I ever see you on my land again, I will shoot you.”
Behind Don Feliciano, Abuela’s hands flew to her mouth. Nena was at her elbow, her face stricken, her mouth open in surprise.
There was nothing Abuela could do. But Nena could stand up to her father. Nena could step forward and intervene. If Nena were being treated this way, Néstor would have thrown himself in front of a charging bull. He had dismounted and put her on his own horse in the middle of a battle to make sure she was safe. He had faced a monster against whom guns were useless, placed himself between Nena and its machete-like claws.
But she hung back.
She stayed behind her father, her shoulders curled in. She said nothing to defend him. Nothing to confront Don Feliciano.
Néstor’s heart folded in on itself. Perhaps Nena meant it when she said she wanted him to stay. She cared for him, he knew she did—he could taste it in the tears he kissed away from her cheeks. He could feel it in the way her mouth met his, in the way she clung to him.
But whatever she felt, it was not enough to speak now. Not enough to stand up to her father.
Not enough.
He had been stupid to believe otherwise. He had been blinded by the brilliance of her miraculous return to his life. By how desperately he wanted her love. How much he yearned for her to stand next to him on the patio of his dreams.
He was foolish, and now he would pay the price.
Don Feliciano stepped back from Néstor, breathing heavily.
“Get off my land,” he barked. “Now.”
Heart pounding, Néstor rose. His hands shook, but he kept his face stony and hard. He did not meet Abuela’s eyes—he couldn’t, not when her half-muffled sobs were all that filled the silence. He did not so much as look at Nena as he turned his back on them.
He turned his back on the patrón, on Nena, and on all of Los Ojuelos.
He strode to the corral.
28
NENA
WHEN THE PEOPLE of the rancho gathered for vespers that night, the whispers that ran through them like breezes in the tall grass were not about Papá. Not about the humiliating defeat that the Mexican forces had suffered in Matamoros, though that had been all the Serrano family could talk about throughout the long, stifling afternoon.