Summer Chaparral

by Genevieve Turner

  The Señor studied Jace as if he were a coyote who’d slunk a hair too close. He nodded once to Felipe and then he was gone. The rest of the hands followed behind, a few giving Jace looks that were only slightly warmer than the one he’d gotten from the Señor.

  “What just happened there?” Jace asked. He’d never thought he could feel a stranger in the land he’d been born in, but he certainly felt one now.

  Felipe rubbed at his forehead, his shoulders slumping. “You…” He took a deep breath. “You’ve just been hired on. So you better not head off to San Diego, not after all that.” An assessing look from him. “Do you truly not speak any Spanish?”

  “¿Sí?” Jace tried. He shook his head. “No.”

  Felipe laughed. “Know any Cahuilla?”

  “If I don’t know Spanish,” Jace asked wryly, “what are the chances I know Cahuilla?” He hesitated. “Is it only Cahuilla men working here?”

  Felipe nodded. “Is that a problem?”

  “No. I guess Mexicans really do only hire Indians.”

  One thing his grandfather had gotten right. But even a stopped clock was right twice a day. And the old man’s pronouncements on ranching had always been dead on. Jace would forever be grateful for those lessons.

  Felipe raised his eyebrows. “Mexicans? The Señor has never been to Mexico, as far as I know. He’s a Californio, born and bred to this place. He’d call himself a Spaniard, although he’s never seen Spain, either. But I suppose it’s all the same to an American.”

  Jace had again that feeling of being foreign, of having walked into a new land simply by crossing the rancho’s threshold.

  “Was that Cahuilla you were speaking there?” he asked Felipe.

  “Yes. But the men know Spanish as well.”

  “Well, hopefully I’ll be here long enough to learn some of one or the other.”

  Felipe sent him a sharp glance. “You’d better be here a good long while. It wasn’t easy convincing the Señor, even with Franny’s help.”

  “And I appreciate it,” Jace assured him. “I don’t think I’ll be leaving at all—I like it here.” He thought of his little nest egg, sitting safe in a vault in the valley. It was the product of the sweat of his brow these last thirteen years—and the careful application of dice and cards to men less sober and sharp than himself. “I’d like to find a place of my own, settle down here—I just need to fatten my purse a little more beforehand.”

  “Sounds fair to me.”

  “I have to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

  For all that Felipe was proving to be a generous man, Jace couldn’t quite fathom why he’d done what he had. He didn’t owe Jace anything. They were practically strangers.

  But now Jace owed him something. He didn’t like being beholden—it put you in another man’s power. He supposed he’d have to become accustomed to such things if he was going to settle here, seeing as how free with their favors both Felipe and Harper had been already.

  He might never be entirely easy with owing anyone anything, though.

  Felipe ducked his head. “It was only the decent thing to do.”

  Most men wouldn’t agree. Or have bothered to do the decent thing.

  “But you shouldn’t thank me,” Felipe continued. His expression hardened as he turned to the girl hanging on the fence and their every word. “You ought to thank Franny. Who should be in the house.” His tone went as hard as his expression.

  Franny goggled at Jace adoringly. “That is a fine horse.”

  Unease at the calf eyes she was making had Jace shifting in his saddle until he realized they weren’t for him—they were for Spot. She’d gotten him the job and she appreciated his horse—Jace already liked her.

  As long as she kept her adoration confined to Spot. She was too young and too beloved of her father for him to want anything to do with her.

  “Franny,” Felipe barked. “Go. To. The. House.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him, but left without any other protest.

  “Let’s put up your horse and show you the bunkhouse.” Felipe and his horse went for the gate. “I still need to wash before dinner.”

  “How’s the food here?”

  “Fine.” Felipe smirked at him. “If you like undercooked beans and overcooked beef.”

  “Why’re you smiling? You have to eat it too.”

  “I eat at the Big House, with the family. It’s Señorita Catarina’s cooking for me.”

  Jace sobered at the reminder. “You don’t think… you don’t think Moreno heard what happened yesterday?”

  “No. If he had, he would have just shot you.”

  Wasn’t that reassuring? “He could still find out.”

  Felipe drew rein, his expression more serious than Jace had yet seen—he was about to deliver a warning. “I grew up with the Morenos. Not one of those siblings will tell. And as strict as the Señor and Señora are, they’ll believe their children. Besides, the town will find something new to chatter about next week.” A pause. “Just as long as you keep away from her.”

  Jace looked back to where that clothesline was, hidden as it was by one of the barns. She likely wasn’t there any longer, no doubt in the house behind those lace curtains helping with supper—but still, he had to look.

  “Don’t.” Felipe’s voice was soft. But the command was there. “She’s not for you.” For the barest moment his gaze flicked toward where Franny had gone, and then he was nudging his horse forward.

  Perhaps Felipe knew from firsthand experience about avoiding forbidden fruit.

  Jace had no choice but to follow. And to take his new friend’s excellent advice.

  Catarina took a small bite of the charro beans, rolling the taste on her tongue. A touch too salty.

  If this were her kitchen and not her mother’s, she’d have added some cilantro to balance the salt. But it wasn’t her kitchen. And her mother was perched in her usual corner, watching for any deviation from the Way Things Were Done.

  Señora Maria Dolores Alvarado Jaramillo de Moreno never added cilantro to her beans because her mother had never done so, and neither had her mother’s mother.

  So neither did her daughter.

  Catarina gave the beans one last stir and kept her mouth shut. As always.

  How did one argue with a lady who feared novelty? A lady who embraced tradition like a groom did his bride on the wedding night?

  One didn’t.

  Scooping up a bit of masa before sprinkling some water on it, Catarina used the metate to mix them, the scrape of stone against stone soothing in its familiarity. A few pats between her hands and the tortilla was ready for the pan, sizzling as it landed.

  She wrapped her hands in a towel and grabbed the fragrant pot of barbacoa, using her back to push open the door to the dining room.

  Isabel was already in her seat, hands in her uncreased skirt. Franny, who was supposed to be setting the table, was instead whispering in Felipe’s ear as he rolled his eyes.

  “Franny, did you set the extra place yet?” she demanded.

  “Yes! Stop asking me!”

  Catarina set the cast iron pot down a touch too hard, the silverware rattling in sympathy. “If I don’t ask, it never gets done.” And if it never got done, it reflected on her, not Franny. Not that her sister cared. She began ladling the meat onto the plate, the richness of the smell hitting her right in the stomach. There was nothing more savory than good barbacoa.

  She glanced at her sisters, lolling at the table as they were. “Go bring in the rest.”

  Isabel rose readily enough, while Franny obeyed just slowly enough to let Catarina know what she thought of having to help.

  Booted feet thundered down the stairs and across the hall leading to the dining room, followed by a more measured tramp. Juan, freshly washed and changed, stomped into the dining room and threw himself into the chair next to Felipe.

  She sidled up to him and hissed, “Your dogs are dead.”

  His glance wa
s puzzled. “No, I saw them just a moment ago, on the porch.”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. Was there a thicker wit than Juan’s?

  “Oh? Did you happen to see my garden as well?”

  “No, I—” He went stiff, guiltily dropping his head. “Whatever they did, they didn’t mean it. I’m sure they were only digging after a gopher or something.”

  “Pfft. I didn’t see any gopher hole. Only dead tomato plants.”

  His smile was wide and imploring. “You know they’re sorry.”

  She felt herself softening. Her brother’s affection for those stupid hounds was rather endearing, and she didn’t want to spend his last night at home sniping at him. “Well, I suppose—”

  Their father’s measured tread from the hall had them both dropping into their dutiful-child pose, Juan sitting straighter and Catarina continuing on with dishing out the food.

  When their father entered, his dark hair and thick mustache were damp and freshly combed, complimenting his brushed and pressed black suit. But no amount of scrubbing could remove the lines on his face that a lifetime in the saddle and the sun had given him.

  She slid a plate of barbacoa in front of him as he sat down. Isabel and Franny brought in the rest of supper in as she did. Her father smiled his thanks, settling himself more securely in the chair.

  There it was: everyone’s cue that supper had begun.

  Catarina cast her eye over the table one last time, ensuring everything was as her mother demanded. Meat, beans, tortillas, and all of her siblings properly washed and combed.

  The Señora came gliding out of the kitchen, performing her own inspection before sitting down, searching for anything missing.

  And she found it.

  “Where is Señor Obregon?” Only a pinch of disapproval there, but a pinch was all their mother needed to season her words.

  “Right here, Señora.” Deputy Sheriff Joaquin Obregon, fiancé to Isabel, strode into the room with an apologetic moue on his handsome, clean-shaven face, his gun holster slapping the fabric of his expensive trousers with every step.

  Her mother looked pointedly at the gun, but said nothing. Guns and hard liquor were two things she never allowed in her house, but sometimes even she was powerless in the face of American law.

  Once everyone was settled in their proper places, a solemn, almost reverent silence fell over the table. Every head at the table bowed and every hand joined with its neighbor in the age-old ritual of grace. When her father was done murmuring the blessing, there was a flurry as they all made the sign of the cross.

  The silence reigned when the prayer was finished, since good Spanish children waited for their parents to speak before speaking. Including full-grown Spanish children.

  She pushed her too-salty beans around her plate. Instead of eating, she peeped at her mother, sitting at the foot of the table, as regal as ever.

  Catarina coveted that power of her mother’s. How with just a look and a softly spoken word, the Señora had everyone on this rancho bending to her will.

  But if Catarina couldn’t have her mother’s power, she could have her approval. A poor substitute, like switching parsley for cilantro, but a poor one was better than none. As long as she kept this house running to her mother’s satisfaction—and kept her encounters with the local boys secret—she’d keep that approval. But she’d likely never have the power.

  And she’d never have a home of her own.

  A quick glance at Isabel and Joaquin had bitterness flooding her mouth. Isabel—so stiff, so humorless, so much younger than she. And so betrothed. Men never looked at Isabel the way they looked at Catarina—not even Joaquin.

  But no matter how Joaquin looked at Isabel, he’d still been given permission to court her. Catarina had her suspicions as to why—why he was blessed and her own would-be suitors were cursed.

  He was Spanish. The golden son of one of the only two Spanish families in Cabrillo. Well, three, counting the Ortegas.

  Felipe, the last of the Ortegas, was staring into his plate, occasionally tossing a glare toward Franny. Her sister must have done something to annoy him. Of course, everything Franny did annoyed Felipe.

  There was one Ortega left, but Felipe sparked nothing in her. The Ortegas had long been friends of the Morenos, so when his entire family had succumbed to diphtheria, it was only natural that they take in fifteen year old Felipe. After sitting down to dinner with him for the past nine years, Catarina ought to have felt something for him if she thought to marry him. Something a bit deeper than sisterly affection. Besides, he went walking with Ines Obregon on Sundays. Isabel would thank her not to tangle with her future sister-in-law.

  Which left Joaquin Obregon. Who was sharing an arch look with her sister. No, even if he weren’t engaged to Isabel, she couldn’t marry Obregon, with his over-puffed sense of self. She might be vain, but at least she had the sense to know it.

  And in terms of marriageable men, that left… no one.

  She supposed she could prevail on the hospitality of one of their cousins scattered across the state, find a husband somewhere else. But whenever she thought of leaving behind these mountains, of traveling some place not… home, her throat tightened and her eyes welled.

  There was a price to be paid for everything, and the price of staying in this place she loved was accepting her mother’s rule.

  She could also simply ask her parents why, after all this time, no man had ever presented himself on a Sunday and begged to take her for a drive. She laughed silently at the notion. Good Spanish children never questioned their parents. And if her parents said, “Yes, you must only marry one of us, one of the Old Spanish families”—what then could she do?

  Nothing. Which was what she was already doing.

  “Felipe,” her father said, finally breaking the silence, “I must speak with you about this American. You know I don’t like to hire them.”

  That was an understatement. Her father had never hired an American.

  Prickles rose from deep under her skin as she realized to whom her father referred. There was only one man it could possibly be.

  And Felipe had hired him? Who would have ever guessed he had the gumption for such a thing?

  “You’re too soft-hearted,” her father continued. Felipe simply stared at his plate. “You’ll see. In a week, the man will be trying to run the place. A man who looks down on you won’t be content working under you.”

  “But Papa,” Franny said, “you saw how he worked that steer.”

  “Pardon.” Their mother’s voice was soft as always. But press on that softness and one would find the steel beneath. “Is this the same man I was hearing such stories”—a sniff there—“about this morning? Stories involving the improper behavior of my own children?”

  The children’s heads drooped with shame.

  “What stories?” her father demanded.

  Her mother carefully dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, then deliberately rearranged it in her lap, wielding her silence like the weapon it was. “I believe Catarina could explain better than I.” Her gaze was colder than a winter’s midnight. “Catarina?”

  Catarina loosed a slow exhale, setting her fork beside her plate before glancing at her siblings. Juan and Isabel were staring back, mouths firmly closed.

  Well, she was the eldest. Leading her siblings through such difficulties was her duty.

  “He was at the common trough.” She smoothed her words with a bit of boredom, as if she could hardly be bothered to recall the details. “He asked directions to a few ranches—not ours—and I obliged. Isabel and Juan joined me after a time. When we left, the man was speaking with Felipe.” She raised her shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. “I can’t see what the gossips would have to repeat about that.”

  It was possibly the best imitation of her mother she’d ever given.

  A look passed between her mother and her father—a concerned meeting of eyes no more than half a heartbeat long—but after all those
decades of marriage, her parents could embed hours of discussion into only a glance.

  “I’ll fire him tomorrow,” her father announced.

  “But Papa—” Franny started.

  “Francisca,” was all their mother said.

  Franny shut her mouth and dropped her gaze.

  “An American on the place will be nothing but trouble,” her father said, wagging his finger in time with his lecture. “I have said, time and again, the Americans are not to be trusted.” He gathered speed. “Take this war they started with Mexico, all to steal California. Look at this new war they instigated with Spain, to steal Cuba.”

  Every word was as familiar as the alphabet, so often had she heard this exact recitation. And yet she understood none of it. He spoke of Americans as if they were dangerous, slavering creatures—and not their neighbors.

  Americans weren’t threatening; they were her schoolmates and friends.

  They—her own family—were Americans.

  Her parents might have created a little island of old California here—no English in the house, no Americans hired onto the rancho, everything in service to the old ways. But past the gates of the rancho, it was a new California.

  “They come here, to our home, to steal the gold they found, to steal the land we’ve held for generations—all legally of course,” her father sneered. “They made an underclass of our people, in the place that’s been our home since it was New Spain!” He paused to take a breath. “And those Bannisters—”

  “Señor,” her mother interjected. Just as Franny had done, her father instantly subsided.

  The Bannisters. Catarina knew that story very well, but not from her father. No, hearing the story had required some trickery as a child, had required her to hide behind the sofa at family gatherings as the aunties, Alvarados from her mother’s side of the family, told those tales that were Not Fit for Children.

  “Ah, the Rancho Alvarado!”

  That was how the tale had always begun, as if they were summoning its shade from the afterlife.

  “The largest rancho in Alta California.”

  “Deeded to us by the king himself.”