Josiah nodded. “I see my wife, Lily, in Lyle, too. He’s like her in a lot of ways. Some days that is hard to see, but I’m glad for it when I’m home.”
“I understand. How old is he, your son?”
“Four. Nearly four.”
“He is only a bebé, then.”
“Yes.”
“And you leave him for days, weeks at a time?”
“He’s in Ofelia’s care. She loves him like he is her own.”
“But he is not.”
“No.”
Silence settled between the two of them again. This time it was deeper, more personal. Francesca had touched on the guilt that Josiah carried every day that he rode with the Rangers. He needed little to remind him that his son needed a father in his life.
“I’m sorry,” Francesca said, this time in English. “I should not speak of matters that I know nothing about. I have no children of my own. There are more tamales. Would you like some?”
“Sure, yes.” It was difficult to be angry with Francesca. She had wandered into an area of his heart that most people usually had no access to. He was vulnerable. Naked. Under a thin blanket, in a house whose rules and comforts he did not know. All matters that made him miss his own home even more.
Francesca dished out three more tamales and handed Josiah the plate. “I will leave you to yourself then.”
“You don’t have to go. I’m sorry if I was curt with you.”
“No, no señor, it is late. I have other chores to finish before I end the day.”
“It is only night then? Not morning?”
“Sí, Señor Elliot rode out at last light. Papa and I tried to convince him to wait until morning, but he would have nothing of it.”
“That would be Scrap.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s a nickname for Señor Elliot.”
“I see.”
“Please tell your father that I’m grateful for his hospitality.”
“Sí, I will.”
Francesca turned then and walked away from the bed, the light following her gently, allowing Josiah to see the silhouette of her body through the thin linen material of her blouse and skirt.
He turned away once she disappeared out the door, surprised at himself.
He had mentioned Lily, told Francesca of his dead wife, but had not bothered to mention that he was courting a woman in Austin, who had all of the makings of a fine wife and mother for Lyle. It was an omission that made him as uncomfortable as the lumpy foreign mattress he’d woke up and found himself on.
CHAPTER 8
Morning light filtered into the room, shimmering around the closed curtain at the window. The coolness of the night was evaporating, overtaken by the coming heat of the day. A slight breeze pushed under the door, searching for an escape route, finding it in a long crack in the wall adjacent to the window. The window was closed tight. Ugly brown water stains drained down the wall to the floor from the sill, giving a musty smell to the room that Josiah had not noticed before. For a brief moment, he thought he could smell his own sickness, the injury settling under his skin, out to do him harm in an unseen, and unavoidable, attack.
He sat on the edge of the bed, half-awake, still not sure where he was or how he had gotten to the room.
The night had been filled with fits of sleeplessness and of pain and worry. The side of his face felt like he had fallen into a thick patch of prickly pear, itching, stinging, festering inside his skin until it felt like it would explode. If not for the bandage and salve that Francesca had seen to place there, Josiah surely would have gone mad, or succumbed to the wound in total surrender. He was feverish one minute, sweating and wet all over, then dry the next minute, like there was nothing wrong with him at all.
Mostly, though, the night had brought nightmares and dreams, visions of ghosts wafting in and out of his consciousness, untouchable and silent. His voice was vacant, stuck somewhere between the waking world and the sleeping one, not allowing him to speak with the specters. Other faces he did not know, or recognize, visited him as well, until Josiah finally relented and gave up trying to participate in the dream. He woke up then, grasping at the meaning of it all, trying to hang on to the sight of Lily, of friends lost in the war. He wanted nothing more than to hear their voices as he woke, but all he was left with was the whisper of the breeze pushing in under the door and the distant sounds of life stirring just outside it.
A knock came at the door, startling Josiah, pulling him completely out of his dream state and fully into the waking world.
“Are you decent, Señor Josiah?” It was Francesca’s voice, certain, sweet, and surprisingly welcome.
“Yes,” Josiah said, making sure the blanket was wrapped tightly at his waist. His feet rested on the cool, red tiled floor, and he sat up as straight as he could.
Francesca had seen him bare-chested the night before, but he still felt a bit of real modesty, uncertain if it was proper to be in the company of a strange woman barely covered, even though he was injured and obviously under her care.
The door creaked open, and Francesca peeked inside the room before walking inside.
Josiah’s hands tingled, and he was surprised that he was anxious to see the girl. He felt boyishly bashful, then, exposed in a way he was unfamiliar, and uncomfortable, with.
Francesca was dressed similarly to the night before, but in a clean, long burgundy skirt and a loose-fitting white blouse, untucked at the waist. She carried a pail of steaming water and a handful of small white linens. “I am here to change your bandages, señor. Papa is cooking huevos rancheros, some breakfast. You like, um, eggs, I hope?”
“Yes, sure, thank you.” Josiah shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“You are no trouble, señor, I promise you.”
“Please, call me Josiah.”
“I am sorry, I forgot. It is just habit to be respectful.”
“I appreciate that, but I feel like I shouldn’t be here, that you’re going out of your way unnecessarily. I wasn’t expecting to walk into the cantina and get shot right away. I wasn’t expecting to get shot at all.”
“You do not understand . . .” Francesca hesitated and looked up to the ceiling as she stopped at the end of the bed. “Those men were not nice men.” Her eyes were suddenly wet, glazed over with tears threatening to roll down her cheeks, but she fought off the urge to cry with a bite of her bottom lip. Shame replaced the pain on her face, and she hung her head, refusing to show Josiah any more emotion than she already had.
Josiah flexed his fingers and rolled them into a tight fist without thinking about it. “Did they hurt you?”
“No, no. They did not touch me.” Francesca’s voice was sharp, abrupt, as she looked up, directly into Josiah’s eyes. “But it was only a matter of time. Papa is an old man. They were growing tired of waiting for their amigo, bored with just looking at me. I am sorry, I should not be telling you this. But please know that not all of us in Arroyo are in agreement with Juan Cortina’s desires. We have no quarrel with the Anglos, or the Kings who own the ranch, or with those who rule all of Tejas. There are more banditos than those two that have visited the cantina in the last few years.”
“It has been difficult for you here?”
Francesca nodded. “It is just Papa and I. We do the best we can, but there is nowhere else for us to go. This is all we know to do. So we get up every day and just do what needs to be done, the best we can. Sometimes, we are happy.”
“I’m sorry.”
Silence fell between them as Francesca looked away and walked to the table next to the bed. She set the bowl and linens down, then pulled open the heavy curtain.
Josiah watched her every move, unable to take his eyes off her. Harsh, bright light cut into the small room, blinding him for a moment.
It was like being inside the dream of the night before, caught in a fire, but feeling no threat, just the warmth and comfort from the light, and the presence of another human being offering nothing but comfort and sustenance.
“How did you sleep?” she asked.
“I dreamed about tamales.” It was a lie, but the truth seemed obvious. Josiah didn’t want Francesca to think that her care for him was lacking in any way. He did not feel rested at all.
Francesca smiled, then chuckled. “I am not the greatest cocinero in the land. No one has ever dreamed of my food before.”
“Then I am glad to be the first.”
The smile stayed on Francesca’s face as she moved to Josiah’s side. “I need to remove the vendajes, the bandages.”
“I understand.”
Francesca touched Josiah gently on the shoulder. Her fingers were warm, soft, and skillful as she pulled away the bandage. She drew in a deep breath.
“What’s the matter?” Josiah asked.
“You have other scars. I did not notice when I dressed the wounds. I was just concerned about helping you.”
Josiah lowered his head then. Each of his scars held a story he’d rather not tell, rather not relive, even to Francesca. So he said nothing.
“Are you a bad man, Josiah Wolfe?” Francesca asked, running her hand over the scar from the Lost Valley fight.
He shook his head no. “I don’t think so.”
“But like Señor Elliot, you have killed men?”
“Only when I had to,” Josiah said. “To save a friend’s life, or my own. In battle, or in duty to a cause I signed up for, like this one, to ride with the Rangers. Killing is never easy, at least for me.”
The breeze had pushed the door open, and a chicken clucked nervously outside. The first smell of breakfast wafted into the room.
“This wound is red, starting to gape,” Francesca said. “I fear infection is setting in. I have a salve, but it may work too slow. If the wound grows worse, we will have to set a hot iron to your skin to stop the infection from growing.”
“It’s only a graze,” Josiah said.
“I have seen men die from simpler wounds, cuts to the hand.”
Josiah nodded. He, too, had seen his fair share of deaths in the war caused by grazes, cuts, and wounds that had not seemed life-threatening. Most times, infections were stopped with amputations. He had felt lucky to walk home from the war intact, with all of his arms and legs, while so many of his fellow soldiers had left a piece of themselves behind on the battlefield.
“It is not a worry yet,” Francesca said. “I do not want you to have false hope that you are well enough to leave today. You need to rest, give yourself time to heal.”
“I fear I have little time to waste,” Josiah said. “I’ll leave when Scrap returns, whether I’m ready or not.”
“I understand, but I hope Señor Elliot takes his time in returning.”
Josiah said nothing, just watched Francesca go about tending to his wounds. He could smell her clean scent over the mustiness of the room. She must have already bathed and gotten her chores done for the morning before seeing to him. When she pulled away, it saddened him. He wanted Francesca to stay close to him. There was an energy about her that he felt he needed, that he’d been lacking.
“What is the matter, Josiah?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, the question snapping him back to reality. The guilt he felt about his rising feelings for Francesca must have crossed his face. He could not forget that he was courting Pearl, that there was a woman in his life, working her way into his heart, but neither could he forget that Pearl was hundreds of miles away, while he was here, being looked after and cared for by a very beautiful woman. “I suppose I’m just missing home.”
“You fear never seeing your hijo, your son, again?”
Josiah nodded. “It’s more than that.”
Francesca pulled away and placed the used bandage on the table next to the bed. She was standing, facing him. “What?”
“There is a woman I’m courting. I care about her.”
Francesca said nothing. Another chicken clucked outside the door, drawing her attention from him. But there was no mistaking the quick look of disappointment flashing on her face as she turned away. She took a deep breath then, squared her shoulders, and said, “I have warmed a tub of water for you, señor, if you would like to bathe before you eat breakfast.”
And with that, Francesca hurried out of the room, leaving behind everything that she had brought in, including her smile and the offer of comfort.
CHAPTER 9
Josiah was sitting outside when Francesca’s father brought him a plate of eggs. He was a tall, thin man. His brown skin was lighter than normal, not quite white, more the color of a woven basket, but not as dark and velvety as Francesca’s skin. His face was gaunt, wrinkled, with sunken cheeks, and his chestnut eyes flittered about constantly, looking around like a nervous bird’s. He had yet to look Josiah directly in the eye.
“Thank you,” Josiah said. Gracias would have been more appropriate, but speaking another language had always been difficult for Josiah. More to the truth, he was stubborn about talking in the Mexican tongue, refused to on most accounts, unless he absolutely had to. Unless he was undercover as a spy—and that was not the case here, since Scrap had told of their real identities—and even then it was difficult. He was an Anglo. And Anglos spoke Texan, at least his generation of Anglos. His son, Lyle, spoke Mexican more fluently at four years old than Josiah ever would. It was a conflict that was easier to ignore than confront.
“De nada. You’re welcome, Señor Wolfe,” the man said.
A moment of panic ran through Josiah’s veins. He already felt weak, but now he felt weaker. Even though Scrap trusted the pair of Mexicans to tell them the truth, Josiah wasn’t sure he could trust them both. He had no idea if the father was really a good man. Two Rangers killing two of Cortina’s men in a cantina in Arroyo was too good a story not to tell. And with Scrap off chasing one of Cortina’s men, Josiah was left to look after himself, weakened by the fight and unsure of everything.
Francesca’s father nodded, turned, and started to hurry away.
“Wait,” Josiah said. “Please, what is your name? You know my name. I should know yours.”
The man stopped and looked to the ground. “Adolfo. Adolfo Soto.”
“That is a good name.”
“It means noble wolf, but I am just a poor man with a talent for pouring beer and nothing else of value. The Kings are Anglo, owners of more land than I can imagine, noble like the lions who stalk from a distance. Do you know the Kings, señor?”
Josiah flinched at the similarity between his name and the English translation of Adolfo’s, but he said nothing to acknowledge it. “No, I don’t know any of them. They’re a good family, though, undeserving of the thieving that Cortina inflicts on them and their ranch.” He hesitated, still unsure if he should fully expose his honest self. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, and I appreciate the hospitality.”
“You are hurt, señor. What is a man to do?” Adolfo unconsciously cocked his head over his shoulder, to the right.
Josiah was sitting at a simple table made of mesquite. The roof protected him from the direct sun, and he sat butted up next to the wall, as much in the shadows as possible. He silently followed Adolfo’s nod and caught sight of a baked white mission half a block down the street, sitting openly in a field of hard dirt, all by itself, a simple wood cross rising upward from its narrow and short bell tower. The land was flat behind it, stretching out to meet the ocean, too far in the distance to be heard; but it could still be tasted. Salt touched his tongue lightly.
The mission was weathered, streaked with water stains, just like the windowsill in the room he had woken up in. There was a crucifix in the room, but Josiah had paid it no mind, had barely noticed it, tho
ught nothing of its placement. Crosses were as plentiful as roaches in this part of Texas.
Josiah’s own religious beliefs were nonexistent. His faith was in the moment, in the worry about what lay ahead, as long as he walked on this earth. Beyond that, there was only darkness and the unknown. Death was walking into the night, and never walking out of it.
When Lily, his wife, lay dying, she’d asked for the preacher to come to her bedside from her church in Seerville. Josiah went into town to make the request, and the preacher, a man whose name he could not remember now, refused, fearing for his own life—fearing that he, too, would become infected with the sickness that was eating away inside of Lily, weakening her every breath until she could no longer talk.
Lily was crushed, heartbroken, by the preacher’s rejection, by his human fear. She had been a believer all of her life, and in the dire moment when she needed reassurance that her faith was valid and true, that the promises of an afterlife meant something, she was left to face it all on her own. Josiah had never taken another man of God seriously since then—including the ex-monk, turned bounty hunter, who had tried to kill him a few months back.
“Thank you again, Adolfo,” Josiah said. “I am in your debt.”
Adolfo stood stiffly, fidgeting with the strings of the stained apron he wore. It looked like he had butchered more than one hog while wearing it. “No, no, señor. There is no debt. I have only done what is the right thing to do.”
Josiah stared down at the plate of food. Scrap had not told him where their friendship stood, or, at least, it was impossible for Josiah to remember. The fight in the cantina and the pain of the gunshots in his flesh had left him more disoriented than he realized.
The Gila Wars Page 6