A Ballad of Love and Glory(23)

She heard Joaquín sigh in resignation. She went over to him and peered outside. Far into the wet darkness, in the direction of the west entrance to the rancho, she could see lights flickering on and off, in a pattern she couldn’t understand but knew was not random. These were signals guerrillas used to communicate with each other. Torchlights by night, smoke signals by day.

Joaquín turned to get dressed.

“What do they want?”

“Tú sabes,” he said. He put on his boots, strapped on his spurs, and came to kiss the top of her head. “I must carry out my sacred duty to protect our frontier,” he said, repeating Juan Cortina’s words.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and looked up at him. “Whatever happens out there, there will be no turning back.”

“Así es, mi amor. But what choice do we have?” He bent to kiss her, soft and gentle at first, but then, he pressed her against him and his kiss deepened. Urgent. Pleading. She reached for him, but he groaned and tore himself away. “Go back to bed, cari?o. At least one of us should get some sleep.” 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 wouldn’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 the 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 could 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 keep it from falling into the hands of invaders, these white “men of vision” who would come to desecrate the soil with their cotton plantations and machinery and their tortured slaves, ambition-driven 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 tracked 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 the 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 shooting 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.