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Señorita Juana Maria de Alverez y Padilla sat ramrod straight in the rear seat of the family caleche. Her black Portuguese lace mantilla lay properly arranged along her beautiful blemish-free cheeks, her lips slightly reddened, her bright crimson gown full and covering all but her long sculptured neck. Her dueña, or chaperon, Tía, Aunt, Angelina Alverez, faced her. Riding in the rear-facing front seat, also ramrod straight, her dueña was dressed in black from head to toe and noticeably less slender.
With a gold family crest painted on the door panels, the caleche glinted in the sun. Juana’s father Don Estoban Padilla had imported the carriage all the way from Baltimore in the United States. For almost half a year the carriage had sat, wrapped tightly in oilskin, on the pitching deck of a hide brig. Now, with the tireless hand-rubbing of a dozen Chumash who worked at the rancho, it gleamed.
Black lacquer side panels reflected the passersby, and bronze side lanterns with cut-crystal panes refracted the sunlight, throwing a rainbow of color. The matched gray Andalusian stallions proudly sported plumes of white ostrich on brass-trimmed headstalls. The rest of their tack was trimmed in polished silver in Californio style.
Every paisano in Santa Barbara was proud of the coach, a far finer vehicle than the rough two-wheeled carreta s of the pueblo, as they had always been proud of Don Estoban Padilla, his family, and his fine Andalusian horses.
The caleche was driven by a Chumash, booted and dressed in black, and followed by five vaqueros from Rancho del Robles Viejos, the ranch of the old oaks. A well-dressed young Californio in velvet jacket and trousers paused at the approach of the carriage. “Señorita Juana! Buenos dias.” He doffed his flat-crowned hat, bowing deeply as the carriage passed.
Juana cut her eyes to him but covered the lower half of her face with her fan. Her dark eyes flashed in recognition, eliciting a wide smile from him, but she did not speak.
“There is no need to gawk,” her dueña instructed. “There will be plenty of time for the young men when you are a little older.”
“That may be so, Tía Angelina. But I am certainly old enough. Both you and Mama were married younger than I am now. And there is no harm in looking.”
Her aunt moaned. “You will not think ‘no harm’ if your father, or that wild young mestizo he sends to watch over us, takes offense.” She glanced back at the escort. “Look behind you, little one.”
Juana turned in her seat to face the rear, and her dark eyes widened. All five vaqueros had reined up, and Inocente Ruiz, the tall, slender vaquero her aunt had referred to, leaned far out of the saddle, his quirt shaking in the face of the frightened young man who had called out to her.
“Inocente,” Juana called loudly, “vamos!”
The vaquero looked up, turned back to the young man and shook the quirt once more, saying something Juana could only imagine. He wheeled his horse, galloping to close the distance between the escort and the carriage. Juana turned her attention back to her aunt, who continued to chastise her.
“It is rude and impolite to raise your voice in public, Juana,” her aunt scolded.
“And it is worse than rude to accost a man for offering pleasantries,” Juana said. “Inocente is many things, I think, but ‘innocent’ is not one of them. Sometimes I—”
“It is not your place, Juana, to judge your father, your dueña, or your father’s appointed protectors. You just be thankful for those who love and look after you. Inocente is faithful and would lay down his life for you.
“For that I am grateful” Juana said. “Protect is one thing,” she thought, “smother is another.” And Inocente Ruiz is half Chumash, a mestizo. His temper will come to no good. For a mestizo, he was far too arrogant, though he was rather handsome. He had the straight fine features of the Castilians, but he could be cruel, and as deadly as a rattlesnake.
She stared at the adobes they passed, lost in her thoughts. She had known Inocente Ruiz most of her life and never had more than a few words with him, and those only when she asked him to do for her. His responses had been limited to “Sí, señorita.”
He was no talker, more of a brooder, a man who seemed to simmer like a pot ready to boil over. Why would Father have such a man shadow her? It was enough that Tia Angelina heard and saw everything she did.
She sighed and sat back as the two beautiful matched gray Andalusians picked up their gait across the town’s central square, their hooves ringing on the cobblestones. All heads in the square turned to admire the beautiful carriage and one of Alta California’s most beautiful señoritas. They cut their eyes away when they fell under the cold hawk-like stare of Inocente Ruiz.