A Ballad of Love and Glory(16)
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The following morning, Ximena awoke to Joaquín caressing her. She smiled and gathered him into her arms. Usually in the mornings, when she awakened, he’d be already gone, his side of the bed cold and empty. So now, as he drew himself on top of her, she clung to him and breathed him in, the sweet and earthy smells of chaparral mingling with tanned leather. It helped her forget the fear that was slowly suffocating her, squeezing her like a frightened jackrabbit caught in the talons of a hoot owl.
As if sensing her troubled state of mind, he whispered her name in her ear, said sweet nothings to her as he touched her, stroking and coaxing her tense body to relax, to give in to pleasure, to anticipate only the sweetness of release.
We will get through this. We have to.
Afterward, as she lay in his arms, basking in the warm glow of their lovemaking, he invited her for a horseback ride around the rancho. Though she hated the thought of getting out of bed, of this intimate moment coming to an end, it had been a while since they’d gone on a ride together. She roused herself from bed and got dressed to join him.
Before long, she was guiding Cenizo out of the stables and into the approaching dawn, as the last stars faded and the grays gave way to violets then reds and golds. She and Joaquín watched as the sun peeked over the prairie and its first rays fell over their house, the huts of the ranch hands, the wells, the barn and stables, the corrals, the pigpens, the grove of pecan trees, the fruit trees and the cultivated fields, the open range, and the river beyond—then, suddenly, the entire rancho was illuminated, their land, their home. Bathed in the morning sunlight, Ximena prayed for God to bless her with more children. She prayed for the day when she and Joaquín could take their sons and daughters on a ride like this one, where they could all listen to the raucous calls of the chachalacas nesting in the huisaches bursting in vivid yellow blooms and inhale the crisp fragrance of the dewy morning as they watched the prairie quivering with life. She imagined their children riding along on their bay ponies. She would point out to them the doe and her twin fawns grazing on the white flowers of a blackbrush, the bees burrowing in the violet flowers of a guayacán, the prairie chickens chasing fluttering grasshoppers.
“You knew it was a bad idea to get involved with the guerrillas,” Joaquín said, breaking her reverie. “I should have discussed it with you first. I’m sorry, mi amor.”
She took her eyes off the turkey vultures circling in the distance and turned to look at him.
“I was wrong. But, Ximena, please understand that I’m not the one putting our future at risk. That happened the minute the Yanquis arrived. You, more than anyone, know what will happen if their invasion succeeds. We will lose everything. What kind of man will I be, cari?o, if I don’t at least try to protect what’s ours?”
She thought about her dream of the battlefield, the booming of the cannons, the smoke as menacing as storm clouds. “But there’s nothing you can do to stop what’s coming, Joaquín. Neither of us can.”
His face paled, and for a second, his eyes flared like hot coals. He put spurs to his horse and started off without her to the fields. She watched him go, and then, suddenly, he pulled on the reins.
She caught up to him and saw something her dreams hadn’t warned her about.
Among the recently planted fields, some of the foot-high corn stalks and beanstalks had been flattened or uprooted, the soil trampled by horses that had evidently ridden over it in circles. The stench of blood reached them, and she and Joaquín galloped on, past the brush fence, following the scavenging birds to the prairie where the branded cattle had been grazing the day before. The grasses and wild rye were speckled red with blood. Some of the cattle had been slaughtered and were being feasted upon by turkey vultures and caracaras. The rest of the herd was missing, either wandered off from home or taken.
“Comanches?” she asked.
Joaquín shook his head. “No. Los Rinches.”
“Rangers? Here on our land?”
“I didn’t want to worry you. But the Texas Rangers who’ve come down with Taylor have been roaming wild, destroying property, violating women, killing innocents. The Texians have volunteered in the US Army, coming in that guise to seek out personal revenge.”
“Revenge for what? Haven’t we hurt each other enough?”
Joaquín looked at her, impatient with her question. And then she realized he was right. The Alamo, Goliad, Mier… The Texians would never stop trying to avenge the deaths of their friends and relatives.
“Make no mistake, mi amor,” Joaquín said, reaching for her hand. “Texas knew what it was doing when it gave up its rights to govern itself. Under the flag of the United States, the Texians are hoping to settle old scores—and get rid of us once and for all.”
“And no matter how many of us they kill, it will never be enough,” she said.
6
April 1846
Fort Texas, Río Grande
On April 11, there was a commotion across the river in Matamoros. The church bells rang over the city, and a cannon roared in salute. General Pedro de Ampudia and his troops had arrived. From the parapets of the bastioned fort, Riley caught a glimpse of the Mexican troops and civilians lining the streets and rooftops, greeting their new commander and long-awaited reinforcements with patriotic music and cheers. The Mexican tricolor flag undulated in a warm southeast wind. Riley’s view was limited by the thicket of trees, but he saw enough to be impressed.