“Go back to bed, cariño. At least one of us should get some sle ep.” He turned and headed to the door. “Joaquín!” He stood in the doorway holding his escopeta, knife, and powder horn. She lowered her gaze. “Be careful,” she said simply. He returned to her side, stroked her hair, and held her while she rested her head on his chest. “I will come back to you,” he whispered. Then he pulled away. Minutes later, in the faint light of the indigo dawn, she could barely make out the solitary figure of man on horseback braving the storm as he left the rancho. There was a knock on the door, and Nana Hortencia came in carrying a tray of yaupon tea. “He wo uldn’t have stayed, even if you had told him what you saw in your dreams,” she said, matter - of - factly.
Ximena realized her grandmother had seen Joaquín leaving their chamber. Nana Hortencia looked out the window, at the pouring rain, and said, “Whenever a storm comes, the cattle turn their tails to the storm and try to outrun it. But the mighty buffalo faces the storm and runs straight into it. Your husband is trying to do as t he buffalo, mijita. It takes courage to do so.” Her grandmother took the brush and ran it through Ximena’s abundant hair. While she sipped her tea, Ximena thought about Nana Hortencia’s words and shook her head. The buffalo could do what it damn well pleased. She wanted Joaquín by her side, so they coul d both run away from the storm. When the old woman began to braid her hair, Ximena stopped her. She wanted her hair loose today so she could hide behind it. “Come now, we must get ready for our patients,” Nana said. “Giving of ourselves, our gifts, is how we overcome the distress in our spirits.” “I’m sorry, Nana. But I cannot accompany you today. Pardon me.” Nana Hortencia patted her head in understanding. “Don’t let your worries take possession of your soul, mijita,” she said and left Ximena to her solitude. For the rest of the day, the sky was bruised with storm clouds. The rain stopped and started in intervals, and the earth soaked it all in. The sun struggled through the watery clouds, and a few rays broke forth at times, illuminating the rancho with golden beams. Ximena’s breath caught in her throat at the beauty before her. How could she blame Joaquín for fighting to protect the spirit of these fertile plains? Their sanctuary. To ke ep it from falling into the hands of invaders, these white “men of vision” who would come to desecrate the soil with their cotton plan tations and machinery and their tortured slaves, ambitiondriven men who would exploit the land and violate its soul with their technological “advances” while they profited from it. Vultures coming to feast upon Mexican lands. Joaquín returned in the evening. Ximena could barely see him trudging along the muddy path back to the rancho, his head drooping like a flower pelted by rain. When he came in, he was so disoriented, he didn’t even take off his boots and chaparreras and tra cked mud all the way into their chamber, his spurs jiggling like the iron chains of a condemned man. “Ximena,” he said, the rain dripping from his sarape onto the chipichil floor. He smelled of wet earth and sagebrush, laced with something else. Blood. “Válgame Dios, ¿pero qué has hecho, Joaquín?”
There was a savage look in his eyes. And instead of telling her what he’d done, he fell upon her, his mouth crushing hers. He tore at her blouse, lifted her skirt and petticoats, and pressed her against the wall, taking her from behind so that she couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t see the wild, feverish look of a man who had just killed someone. Then, suddenly, he burst into sobs and crumbled to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.” She knelt down and gathered him onto her, rocked and cooed to him as if he were a babe in her arms. Joaquín came down with chills and fever and spent two days delirious in bed. The healing teas and spiritual cleansings Nana Hortencia gave him finally cured him, restoring enough of his strength that he could go outside for some fresh air and to soak up th e sun. He insisted on taking a morning ride with Ximena, and it wasn’t until they were almost back at the house that he began to tell her about the man he’d killed. A patrol of Taylor’s soldiers, probably looking for the missing quartermaster, had come upon him and the other guerrilleros hidden in the chaparral spying on the enemy camp. Weapons were drawn and fire exchanged. Joaquín’s gunpowder was wet from the rain. With his escopeta rendered useless and the Yanquis shooti ng at him from behind, Joaquín hurled his knife over the shrubs at the lieutenant aiming his pistol at him. When the Yanqui fell off his horse with the blade buried in his gut, Joaquín fell on him and plunged his knife into him again and again. The other Yanquis dispersed and left their fallen officer behind. He looked at his hands. “What have I done?” “You’re trying to protect your home. There’s no shame in that,” Ximena said, grabbing his hand. “But if you must fight, mi vida, wouldn’t it be best to face the Yanquis on the battlefield, not hiding behind the chaparral?” “They must still be scouring the country for him,” he said. A short while later, as they were approaching the stables, a cloud of dust appeared in the distance, and the sound of the horses’ hooves striking the earth shattered the silence. Riders were heading in their direction at high speed. Joaquín and Ximena look ed at each other. The color drained from his face. “Get in the house and hide yourselves!” he said. “And don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe.” She did as she was told, first calling out to Ramiro and the other ranch hands to join Joaquín. She ran into the house and gathered Nana Hortencia and the three house servants. They locked themselves in the healing room, barring the door. Peering out the w indow, Ximena had a view
of the stables and men running in all directions. She heard Joaquín’s muffled voice as he issued orders. “What’s happening out there?” Inés asked, holding on to Ximena’s arm. “Los Rinches are here,” she said. “They’ve tracked him to the rancho.” Gunshots rang out, followed by Joaquín’s angry voice and the voices of strangers. Then the stables burst into flames. They were too far for the smoke to reach them, and yet Ximena’s lungs choked up. She could feel the intense heat of the fire burning — not o utside her, but within. Her dream came back suddenly. The fire. The smoke. The blood. “I need to help Joaquín!” She rushed to remove the bar from the door. “Mi niña, do not go out there. We must stay hidden!” Nana Hortencia pleaded, hurrying to her side. “They’re taking the horses!” María said, looking out the window. “Let me leave, Nana,” Ximena begged, trying to get past the old woman. But Nana Hortencia grabbed her arm with a strength that surprised Ximena. “They will hurt you and these innocent creatures if they see you,” she said, pointing at the young women. “You know how the Rinches are. Come, do nothing foolish. Let your husband and the ranch hands handle it.” “Nana, please.” “Patrona, I’m scared.” She turned to see Inés cowering in the corner, with her hands over her eyes. She rushed to her and held her. “Don’t be afraid.” “Stay with us, señora Ximena,” Rosita pleaded. Ximena nodded. Her grandmother was right. She was responsible for the safety of these women. She looked around in resignation and spotted the pile of calendula flowers Nana Hortencia had picked that morning to make a salve. She took some of the flowers and sprinkled the orange petals on the altar in the corner, then lit fresh candles to the Virgen de Guadalupe. Removing the rosary she wore around her neck, a gift from Nana Hortencia made with bright red mescal beans, Ximena told the others, “Come pray with me.” They got on their knees, and in the pauses between their prayers, Ximena could hear the commotion outside, horses shrieking, men screaming, gunshots punctuating the chaos. Then, suddenly, all the sounds were gone and only the women’s soft chanting was heard. She opened her eyes and the prayers came to a stop.
“Stay here. I will return for you when it is safe,” Nana Hortencia said, getting to her feet. She left the room, and Inés slid the bar back. Ximena stood to look out the window, but only the stables were in plain view, engulfed in flames. There was no sign of Joaquín, or of anyone. Smoke began to curl into the room through the gap in the door. The main house was on fire. She yanked the bar from the door and said, “Out. Now!” “But the Rangers — ” She pulled the three women from the window and hurried them to the door. Just then, Nana Hortencia returned. “They are gone now. But — ” “He’s hurt, isn’t he?” Ximena said. She looked around the healing room, and her eyes fell on the calendula flowers on the table. She scooped them up in her arms and took off running, rushing past the burning house, the stables. Even before she reached him, she knew that her dream had come to pass. He was sprawled on the ground, shot through the breast. “Joaquín!” She stuffed the calendula under his shirt, pressing them on the wound to staunch the flow, but the blood se eped through the petals, through her fingers. “Ximena,” he gasped, clutching her hands, his lips bloody. “You need to leave. It isn’t safe — send for Cheno. Tell him...” “Joaquín! Don’t leave me!” The stables collapsed just as he began choking on his own blood. Ximena held him while his body spasmed and then grew still as his heart stopped beating. His lifeless eyes stared at her, the orange petals around him stained red. April 1846 Rancho Los Mesteños, Río Bravo Even as a young girl learning the healing arts from her grandmother, the sight of blood had never troubled Ximena. But now, inside the healing room, as she washed the wound on her husband’s chest with lavender - scented water and watched the red rivulets run ning down his torso, she had to control the queasiness in her stomach. This was Joaquín’s blood. This cavity in his flesh was where his life had se eped out. A few months before, while returning from a day of fishing at the river, they’d been overtaken by a sudden thunderstorm. The crashing got louder and lightning struck nearer as they held on to their horses, spurring them hard across the fields. Moments late r, lightning struck in front of Joaquín with such force it knocked him off his saddle, and he fell to the ground. In the flickering
lightning, she saw him lying there, unmoving, and she thought that he’d left her to the mercy of the world. But then, illuminated by another flash above her, she saw him open his eyes and smile at her. He was unhurt, just slightly stunned and disoriented. Now, as she gazed at him lying motionless on the table, she willed him to move, to open his eyes and smile at her once more. “Let me do it, mijita,” Nana Hortencia said, placing a warm hand over Ximena’s. “I can finish.” Ximena shook her head. “Gracias, Nana. I want to do this.” She took a de ep breath and plunged the bloody towel into the warm water. Watching the blood swirl in the bucket, she began to have trouble breathing, as though she were sinking under an unbearable weight that would crush her. She resolved to remain strong, to not allow the mounting pressure inside her to prevent her from performing this sacred act. She squeezed the towel and continued washing her husband’s body, then she gently patted him dry. Nana Hortencia had washed, mended, and pressed his bloodied shirt and now handed it to her. His body was stiffening, and it was difficult to put clothes on him. She wished she could have dressed him in his favorite outfit — buckskin pa ntaloons and a jacket embroidered with silk thread and ornamented with silver buttons. She would have tied the silk bow around his neck in the shape of a butterfly, just as she’d done the day he’d married her in that suit. But it was ashes now. Only the bl ackened limestone and adobe walls and the caved - in roof of the main house remained.