A Ballad of Love and Glory(24)

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 looked 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 window, 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 outside 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 ni?a, 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, se?ora 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 seeped 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.





9


April 1846

Rancho Los Meste?os, 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 running 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 seeped out.