* * *
I have heard that the marinero lives, Tía, and is residing at the mission.” Juana, who was stitching a band of leather around the hem of an old skirt, looked across the table at her aunt.
Her aunt chose to ignore the reference to the Anglo. “Juana what you are doing is foolishness. Leather is not becoming to a señorita. You should be sewing something for the coming procession, the fandango, and rodeo, You will need to look your finest for the fiesta of Corpus Christi,” Angelina shook her head at the girl’s attempt to protect her hems.
“This is not for riding down Calle Principal, Tía, only for riding on the rancho. The hems of my skirts are all soiled now. No one but the vaqueros will see, Now, tell me what you’ve heard of the marinero.”
“He has healed, and he is learning the way of the vaquero. Ramón Diego is allowing him to ride from the remuda to Don Nicholas Den.”
“And he is learning?”
“Better than most Anglos, so I hear.” Tía Angelina looked up from her mending. “You have an unusual interest in this Anglo, Juana. Your father would not approve.”
“He was a very rough-looking man, Tía, but there was something about him.”
“True, he was dressed in rags,” her Tía agreed, “but he was tall, with the hair of those of the north of Spain, and he had the eyes of an angel.”
“Tía!” Juana exclaimed, laughing. “I am surprised at you.”
“This old woman is not cold and in her grave, Juana.” Tía Angelina laid her sewing on the table. “But you must listen, querida”—she used the term of endearment with her niece— “the gente de razón would not approve of your worrying about this Anglo, eyes of an angel or not.”
“Would you be shocked, Tía,” Juana said with a slight smile, “if told you I cared little about the upper class of Santa Barbara? The gente de razón sometimes remind me of cocks that crow in the yard and hens that peek and peck at one of their sister’s bloodspots until their poor sister is dead.”
“No, my niece,” Angelina said with a deep sigh, “I would not be shocked.” She appraised her beautiful young charge, and her eyes grew distant, as if she were thinking of a time long past. “You have the look of a wild mare about you sometimes,” she murmured. Then her voice strengthened. “But I would he surprised if you were so foolish as to tell anyone other than your dueña such things.”
“Then you would also not be shocked to know that I intend to give this Anglo a horse and saddle, and if Inocente does not apologize to him, I will do so myself.”
“And your father will see that you see nothing more than the inside of your room for a year, querida. Do not let the tail of the whip bloody your own back while trying to lash the mule.”
“Father will listen to me.”
“As you shout from your locked room, Juana. As you shout from your room.”
Fourteen
Juana stood on the wide corredor of the hacienda. Tía Angelina stood ramrod straight behind her, and her mother, Doña Isabel, her back as ridged as the whalebone stool she sat on, watched with indignation. Across the wide yard, her father, Inocente, and the old vaquero del establo Alfonso, whose duty was to keep the barn and watch over the brood stock and family’s personal animals, walked from the spacious building leading a graceful palomino mare.
“I do not approve of this,” Doña Isabel murmured to her sister Angelina.
“It is her birthday, Isabel. Times are changing. Besides”—she bent low so Juana could not hear—it will get her mind off the young men.”
“But for a young woman to ride so much—you know the risk.”
“She will tire of it soon enough.” Angelina smiled knowingly.
Juana stepped down from the wide porch when her father and Inocente arrived. Alfonso stood back, sombrero in hand, gray hair flowing in waves to his shoulders, smiling with toothless but sincere pleasure. Her father, usually somber, wore a wide smile too.
“She is beautiful, Father. Thank you.”
“Inocente is seeing to your saddle, niña. It is his gift.” She had been riding on a worn saddle with flattened padding used by her aunt when she was a girl.
“And thank you also, Inocente.”
The vaquero cut his eyes away from Juana’s. He wondered why he could never look this girl in the eye and felt his face flush. He cleared his throat. “It will be finished soon, Señorita. I am sorry it is not ready now, but we wanted it perfect.” The sidesaddle had not been finished fine enough to suit Inocente; he had taken it back to the saddle maker and ordered it redone. Only the finest for little Juana.
Alfonso took a tentative step forward, a proud pleasure in his old eyes. “And I have groomed her, Señorita Juana. See how her coat gleams? I have even oiled and polished her hooves for you.”
“She is lovely, Alfonso. Thank you.”
Inocente stepped back as Juana walked around the mare. And while she admired the animal, Inocente admired her from the corner of his eye. Again he felt his neck redden. This girl was only a few years younger than he, but she was a Padilla. He knew he should not have thoughts of the jefe’s daughter, but too many times this last year he had let his mind wander to what could be. He silently chastised himself. He was a mere mestizo, while she was of the jefe’s family… a daughter of a don... a Castilian. He forced his attention to the mare.
At fifteen hands, the palomino was not particularly tall, but neither was Juana. Inocente had begged Don Estoban to select an even smaller horse, an older and gentler one. But the old don felt he was already conceding by allowing any of his family to ride a mare. A vaquero would not be seen astride anything other than a stallion, and the Californio did not believe in gelding his stallions. Inocente had at least influenced the selection to that extent. The mare was the gentlest of animals.
“…and Inocente has taken great pains with her,” Estoban was saying. “She will be a fine riding horse.” He turned to the women on the porch. “Don’t you think so, Mama?”
Doña Isabel rose from her seat and gave her back to her husband as she entered the front door of the hacienda. “You know what I think of Juana riding. The carriage is the proper place for a daughter of mine.” Her voice and her long flowing black skirts disappeared with her.
Juana glanced at her retreating mother, but the closing door cut off any chance for rebuttal. Juana turned to her father and smiled with love in her eyes. She is the most beautiful mare I’ve ever seen, Father.” She ran her fingers through the mare’s mane, combing its thick strands and smoothing it against the graceful golden neck. The mare softly nuzzled Juana’s arm, nickering quietly.
“Please, Inocente, be very careful with her.” Juana’s beautiful doe eyes pleaded. “I do not believe in the quirt. Train her with gentleness.”
“With care, little Juana,” he managed, though it was hard to make his tongue work.
"Thank you Inocente. You surprise me. I didn’t think you had a gentle side.”
"She will be trained well, whatever it takes.” Embarrassed with his display of what he considered weakness and vanity, he strode away toward the barn.
“Trained well, Inocente,” Juana called after him, “but with love… always with love.” Juana stood on her tiptoes and brushed her father’s cheek with her own, His smile reflected her happiness.
“And I will take very good care of her, Señorita Juana,” Alfonso said, his hat still clutched in his gnarled hands.
“I know you will, Alfonso. I can always count on you.”
Satisfied, he pulled on his sombrero, and followed in Inocente’s footsteps.
Juana stood beside her father. “You know, Papa, we should do something for the marinero.”
“What marinero?”
“Come inside now, Juana,” Tía Angelina called impatiently, trying to avoid the confrontation she knew was coming. “It is time to get ready for supper.”
“What marinero? Don Estoban asked again, but his eves had narrowed.
“I told you, Father. The man Inocente r
oped and dragged halfway around the pueblo. I understand the Anglo received a broken arm. He could have died from that terrible dragging. Inocente owes him an apology.”
Estoban’s face reddened for a moment. “It is your birthday, Juana… your day! Do not spoil it with thoughts of some worthless marinero. Go with your aunt.’’
Juana spun on her heel, and started toward the hacienda, then turned back at the top of the steps. “The mare is beautiful, Father. Thank you. I wish you would reconsider about the Anglo.”
“Go help your Tía,” he said firmly, and she turned and hurried inside.