“It was uncalled-for, Father,” Juana stomped her small foot on the Chinese carpet, “absolutely uncalled for. The man merely said good day. He was little more than a beggar, a wandering Anglo fool.”
“Calm down, niña.” Don Estoban smiled placatingly at his daughter. He had never seen her so angry. “It is not a thing for you to worry your pretty little head about. It is man’s business. Isn’t that right, Angelina?”
He looked to his sister-in-law, who stood staring out the distorted green-hued scene through the leaded bottle bottoms that made up the window. She turned and acknowledged his question with a harsh look but said nothing.
“It was insanity, Father,” Juana continued. “Inocente is not to accompany me again. He is a madman”
“It is not your place to say who your father is to employ to look out for you, young lady.” Estoban slapped his flat-crowned hat down on the long oak dining table. He stormed to a side cabinet, opened the door, and poured a shot of brandy into a crystal snifter. Angrily, he tried to replace the decanter’s glass stopper but fumbled with it and finally dropped it. Fortunately, the hard-packed earth was covered with soft rugs, and the stopper bounced harmlessly. Estoban collected himself, bent effortlessly, and retrieved the stopper, carefully replacing it. When he turned to face his daughter, he was calm again. “As I said, it is not for you to worry about.”
“It looked to me as if the man was dead, Papa. If so, his Christian burial is our responsibility. If not, we owe him comfort and a place to heal, and an apology and a reparation of some kind since he seemed to be afoot… a horse and saddle at the very least.” A tear rolled down her cheek. She turned so as not to give her father the pleasure of seeing her wipe it away. “He was a harmless unarmed Anglo who merely wished me a good day.”
“We owe the Anglos nothing,” Estoban's voice rang out harshly in the sparsely furnished room. “…nothing. He was far too forward, and if he lives, he will know the meaning of humility.” His voice softened. “You are tired, little Juana. Go to your room and rest. You will feel better by suppertime.”
“If that man is dead, I will never feel better again.” She sat on an intricately carved mahogany chest and dabbed at her eyes with a hanky, then looked up with renewed anger. “The Anglo is not the one who needs to learn humility. Inocente Ruiz is!”
“To your room, Juana. Relax and think of fiestas and fandangos and young men and your future. Do not think of Anglos.” He turned and stared out the window. “Anglos,” he said quietly, “are not a part of Alta California’s future.” But he did not believe his own words.
Choking down a sob, Juana spun on her heel and headed for her room.
“The foolishness of youth,” Estoban said, more to himself than Angelina, who moved from the window to face him.
“She is young, my brother-in-law, but she is also right. What Inocente did was uncalled-for. The man did nothing to deserve more than a harsh word from your segundo.”
Estoban snatched up his snifter and took a deep draw of the fiery liquid. “You, also, may retire to your room, Angelina.”
“As you wish, Don Estoban, but that does not make a wrong into a right.” She marched from the room,
Estoban stared after her, “I will never understand women,” he muttered. He poured himself another drink then called for Maria to bring him a cigar. He walked to the window of bottle bottoms and stared out. “I do hope the man lives,” he thought. “The loss of a life is an expensive price to pay for a lesson in manners. Perhaps a horse, if it makes Juana happy again, and if he lives.”