Ana Martin

by J. L. Jarvis

  It was not enough for the rider to lose face. He lost his temper, as well. He climbed back over the fence and advanced toward horse. Carlos held out a hand to caution the cowboy, but he kept walking. The horse turned his head just as the cowboy swung his fist and punched the horse in the face. Rearing up, the stallion just missed trampling Carlos as it took off running across the corral and up over the fence. Pedestrians scrambled out of its path as it headed wildly down the street.

  The horse’s owner stood cursing.

  Carlos glared at the rider and walked over to the owner. “Do you want him back?”

  The man understood Spanish, but answered in English. “Shoot, yeah!” he said as he watched his investment run away through the town.

  “I’ll need a horse,” said Carlos.

  The rancher eyed Carlos, then looked down the street. None of his cowboys had been able to handle this horse. He weighed the risks and turned to one of the ranch hands. “José, fix him up with a horse.”

  “And I’ll need a job,” said Carlos.

  The rancher’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Carlos. With a skeptical grin, he said, “Bring me that horse and you’ve got you a job.”

  Carlos nodded. José, a weathered vaquero with a marked limp, brought a sorrel mare over and handed Carlos the reins. Carlos swung himself up onto the mare. José lowered the stirrups. Through the warm air he flew, as the crowd gaped behind him. It had been a long time, but the feel of a horse had not left him. He was born to be here on a horse, riding fast through the hot gritty air, full of dust kicked up by hooves and brushed off by the wind as it blew through his billowing shirt.

  The mid-morning light shone behind Carlos as he rode the stallion into town with the sorrel mare in tow. The crowd had dispersed, but anyone who had seen the early morning spectacle now stopped and stared from the boardwalk. They had given the horse up for lost. José and the other ranch hands looked up from their work in the corral and watched with smiles not meant to be seen.

  The owner was in the midst of haggling with another rancher when the other man poked him and pointed his nose toward Carlos. The owner met Carlos with a satisfied nod of approval. A wide-eyed stable boy pushed open the gate, and Carlos patted and stroked the neck of the stallion as he rode into the corral. He dismounted and walked the horse until it was cool, then he led it into the stable. There was no shortage of help as Carlos took off the saddle. He handed it to a stable boy whose eyes darted past Carlos. The owner was standing outside the stall.

  He gave Carlos a nod and called someone over to take care of the horse. He extended his hand. “Cordell Royal.”

  “Carlos Barragan.”

  The ranch owner smiled. “You’ve got you a job.”

  Carlos said in English, “Thank you, Mr. Royal.”

  “Don’t thank me. We can use someone like you. Now, go with José here. He’ll get you fixed up.”

  As they walked to the stable, the thrown rider walked out. With an icy glare, he walked past Carlos.

  Carlos watched him with a squint, then exchanged glances with José.

  “That’s his way. It’ll pass.”

  “I don’t know. I think he’ll quit before that ever happens—quit or get fired.”

  Jose said, “No, he won’t get fired. That’s Mr. Tate Royal, the son of the owner.”

  Carlos raised a brow, but said nothing. José grinned and nodded.

  They moved onto the ranch, to a house—or so Mr. Royal had called it. It was little more than a shack that used to house chickens. But Ana worked cleaning and fixing it up with some curtains sewn from flour sacks tied back to let sun in through clean windows.

  One morning in winter, when gray remnants of night still lingered outdoors, Carlos took his last gulp of coffee and headed for the door. Abruptly he stopped and closed it.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Ana.

  Carlos turned and looked straight at her. Ana set down her coffee as he walked slowly toward her. He held out his hand. Ana took it and, with a puzzled smile, stood up to face him.

  “I love you.” He grinned and pulled her into a bear hug that made Ana laugh.

  She put her hands on his shoulders. “You’re crazy—and late.” Ana smiled as she combed his hair straight with her fingers. “There.” She gave him a kiss and sent him on his way. As he got to the door, she said, “Carlos?”

  He turned.

  “I love you, too,” she said.

  Carlos smiled as he put on his hat. When he opened the door there were two children waiting. “Good day,” he said, with a curious grin. There was a boy and a girl, perhaps six and eight. Both were barefoot.

  “Good day. Come in,” said Ana. She turned to Carlos. “These are my pupils. I’m teaching them English.”

  “I see,” said Carlos, with a formal nod of approval.

  Ana thought she saw a trace of sadness when he looked at the boy. He was close to the age Jaime was when he died.

  He touched his hat to Ana and left.

  Working the ranch was like coming home. Carlos felt wild and free riding horses and herding cattle. Wherever he looked, it was Royal Ranch land, hundreds of thousands of acres of it. Here he lived and felt free, even if, like the horses and cattle in the wide open air, his freedom was an illusion.

  Chapter 22

  Six Months Later

  Ana brushed through her tresses until they lay smooth as silk on her shoulders, then tied it all back with a strip of old grosgrain ribbon. The frock she wore was her best, a limp lavender linen saved for Sundays and special occasions. A winter chill crept in through the gaps between boards. Ana pulled a shawl tightly around her and watched.

  He was coming. A dust cloud announced his approach. When she saw him her heart became weightless. The sight of Carlos on horseback still did that to her. He took far too much time in the stable and walked home too slowly. When at last he walked through the door she tried so to look calm. Carlos saw her and stopped. His smile took her back to their first dance together at the House Martínez. Color rose in her face. “I’ve got everything ready.” She looked toward the fireplace, where a washtub lay full and ready. “I’ll need to warm up the water.”

  He took a step toward her. She turned to the sink, where a towel and washrag lay folded. “Here. You’ll need these.” Carlos took the towel and the washrag and followed her to the bed, where she smoothed out the clothes she had laid out for him to wear.

  Carlos came up behind her and ran his hands down her arms, interlacing his fingers in hers until she tightened her fingers in his. She breathed in. Carlos turned her around. “We don’t have to hurry.” He touched her lips gently with his and made her head swim. And he knew it. Light danced in his eyes.

  Ana smiled but resisted. “We’ll be late for the dance.”

  “We could dance here.”

  Ana lifted her gaze and took a step backward. “I’m not missing this dance.”

  “We won’t miss it. We’ll just be a little late.” He buried his face in her neck. When his lips touched her ear Ana drew in a short breath and impulsively picked up a towel and held it out to him.

  Carlos said, “Don’t bother to warm up the bath. I’ll take it cold.”

  Ana grinned.

  Carlos took a step toward her. “I might need some help.”

  “Go,” she ordered.

  While he bathed, Ana put on an apron and picked up his work clothes and put them away to be washed the next day. As she busied herself in the neat little house, she caught sight of him bathing and paused. As he washed, and she watched him, she found herself not caring so much if they missed the first song, or the next.

  Carlos stood up. While drying himself he looked up and caught her watching. His startled expression relaxed to a smile. Ana came to him and picked up the towel and tenderly blotted the moisture from his hair and his shoulders. He put his hands on her wrists. “If you don’t stop, we’ll be late.”

  They were late.

  They finished getting dressed and were g
etting ready to leave. Ana looked at herself in the mirror one last time. Carlos leaned by the door, his arms folded, and watched.

  She arrived at the door, but his gaze did not waver. “What is it?” she asked him.

  “The first time that we danced, you were dressed in fine clothes with your hair up in—those things that you had in your hair.” He put his hand to his own hair in an earnest effort to demonstrate his meaning, and the sight of the flighty gesture in his masculine hands charmed a smile from her.

  “Combs.”

  “Combs?”

  Ana shrugged. “Yes, that’s it. Just combs.”

  “But the way looked in your hair, their name should be finer.”

  Ana looked down and dismissed it as flattery.

  Carlos said, “What beautiful hair! The first time I touched it—”

  “You couldn’t wait to take the combs out.”

  “It was the story you told me. I looked at your hair and at you. You looked out at the land, and I saw what it had cost you.”

  His eyes glimmered with the memory. Ana’s heart sighed.

  He went on, unaware. “I couldn’t help myself. I had to hold it in my hands.” He sifted the strands through his fingers. “That’s when I knew.”

  As did Ana.

  He touched the frayed ribbon with a pang of regret. “You’ve given up so much.”

  “Did you fall in love with my combs and fine dresses?”

  “You know I did not.” He looked almost offended.

  “Then why would I need them?”

  Carlos kissed her gently. “But to live here, like this…” He ran a finger along the discolored neckline of her dress.

  “A dress can make a girl feel pretty, but a man’s gaze can make her feel loved.”

  The warmth of her face was enough to convince him, but he could not forget another expression. A few days before, they’d been strolling through the town when she stopped to linger outside a shop window. He followed her eyes to a set of ivory combs. They were ivory, and intricately carved. How pretty they would look in Ana’s upswept hair. But the cost was too great for two people trying to save for a place of their own. She stared at the combs for only a moment, but he had seen the look on her face. She never mentioned such things, but he knew she must miss them.

  Now here she was, dressed so plainly. She deserved so much more. He kissed her lips softly.

  “There is one thing I want,” Ana said.

  “I know,” he murmured, pulling her close.

  “To get to the dance before it is over.”

  He leaned his forehead on hers and heaved a great sigh.

  “The first few dances are never the best,” he said, pressing against her.

  Ana pried herself from his arms and walked out the door. With a moan, Carlos grabbed his hat and followed.

  Lively music rang out as they walked up to the barn. Ana smoothed out her dress and her hair. They were late, and heads turned. Both men and women could not help but admire their striking appearance. They greeted some friends, and then Carlos swept Ana into a dance. Three dances later, Ana begged for a rest. She was breathing too deeply as they stepped out for fresh air. The heat of the day lingered into the night.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. It’s been too long since I’ve danced.”

  Carlos eyed her.

  Bales of hay had been spread about outside for people to sit on. Ana found one and sat down. Carlos sat beside her and circled his arm around her waist.

  The sky was clear. Ana took it all in before looking at Carlos. “I’m so happy.”

  He held her close. Every kiss was the first and the last. “Will we change?”

  “Change how?” Carlos asked her.

  “Toward each other.”

  “Yes. Everyone changes.”

  “I know. I’m not saying it well.”

  Carlos leaned close to her cheek. Wisps of hair brushed his lips. “I can never get close enough—not even inside you.”

  Ana felt the rush of blood through her, but could not find the words.

  “Don’t worry,” said Carlos.

  Ana’s eyes misted. “My heart is so full.”

  “It will make room for more.” The smile began in his eyes.

  “You know?” she asked him.

  He spoke with great patience. “I have touched you with my hands and my lips. Do you think I would not notice the changes?”

  “I was waiting until I was certain.”

  Beneath the dim moon and lantern light, his eyes shone. “We will have a fine family.” They kissed, and he turned her around and encircled her waist. The looked up at the sky. It seemed larger tonight, just for them.

  “We’ll get married,” he said, breaking the stillness.

  “We are married.”

  “A real wedding, with a real priest.”

  “We’ve tried it before, and it did not go well. For us, weddings are cursed.”

  “Superstitions—from you?” He shook his head with disappointment.

  “Many couples marry with no more ceremony than to carry a suitcase over the threshold.”

  “Poor couples—in Mexico—who cannot afford the priest’s fee.”

  “We could not be more married,” said Ana.

  “That’s true for us, but not for the child. There’s a name for such a child. I will not have him called it.” His tone was as fierce as his face.

  Ana softly said, “Him?”

  Carlos changed in an instant. “Or her.” He put his hand on her abdomen.

  The next day, after mass, they spoke with the priest. It would be a small ceremony. They could not afford more.

  “Are you sure?” Carlos asked her.

  “I’ve had my share of grand parties and ball gowns. What we have is too special for that.”

  Carlos looked doubtful, but did not argue the point. Everyone thought they already were married. It would be easier not to make a big fuss. The important thing was for the child to have both their names. Carlos saw no need to wait. In two weeks they would be married in a quiet ceremony, with their friends José and Lupe as witnesses.

  The morning arrived for the wedding, and Ana was sick. Overwhelmed by the hot, humid air, she sat on the edge of the bed. Without warning, she bolted through the door. As she rounded the first corner of the house, she bent over. “I’ll never make it,” she said to herself as she straightened up and leaned the wall.

  “Yes, you will.”

  Ana flinched. “My God! Don’t do that to me! I thought you were inside.”

  Carlos held out a towel and said, “Are you nervous?”

  “No. It’s the baby. Everything seems to frighten me now.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  Ana glanced down and caught sight of her vomit and bent over again. When she finished, Carlos kicked some loose dirt over it and led Ana inside.

  Her best lavender dress, washed and ironed, hung from a peg on the wall. Ana stopped in her tracks. Carlos grabbed the empty chamber pot and held it out to her. Minutes later, she said, “It’s no use. I can’t do it.”

  “It will pass.”

  “Not for me. It doesn’t stop. All day long I feel sick.”

  Carlos went to the cupboard and came back with a day old tortilla. Ana pushed it away.

  “If you eat something—”

  “I can’t. It’s no use.”

  Carlos paced the floor.

  “Please. Do you have to keep moving?”

  He stood still.

  “Go away,” Ana moaned, leaning on her elbows and holding her head.

  “Try to take just a bite.”

  Ana looked up and cast him a fearsome glare.

  His face went blank. His decision was instant. “I’ll go to the curandera.”

  “Ginger,” said Ana.

  “What?”

  “It’s supposed to help.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No. But every woman who has ever given birth has shared one cure
or other. I’ve heard them all, and tried most, except ginger.”

  Ana leaned her elbows on her knees and looked down at the floor, unable to contemplate anything but her misery.

  “They say it gets better,” said Carlos as he put a hand on the back of her neck.

  “They’re lying.”

  Carlos grinned as he massaged the base of her scalp. More than one older woman had pulled him aside and warned him to be extra kind to Ana, while the men had all warned him just to steer clear.

  “I’ll go get some ginger and anything else I can find that might help,” Carlos said as he kissed her forehead.

  “There’s no time.”

  “I can ride fast,” he said confidently. The door closed behind him.

  He found the gingerroot at the market and bought some bicarbonate of soda, for good measure. Struck with sudden inspiration while passing a shop, he bought a spray of wild flowers for his bride to carry. On the way back, he passed by the window with the combs she admired. He stared for a moment. They were too much, but he thought of them in Ana’s hair and he went inside.

  The shopkeeper was bent over, shelving some stock. Carlos picked up the combs. His boot steps were loud on the hollow wood floor as he walked to the counter and set them down.

  The shopkeeper’s translucent skin reddened. “We don’t serve your kind.”

  A pair of men sat resting their heels on a cold stove in the back of the store. One was thick in the middle, dull-eyed and reading a newspaper. The other was lean and long legged. Carlos knew him at once. Tate Royal set his feet on the floor and stood looking at Carlos. Carlos returned the glare with his own steady gaze, and then turned to the shopkeeper and held out some money.

  The shopkeeper fixed his eyes on the money, then looked up at Carlos.

  Tate Royal came from the back, while the other set down his spittoon and followed after.

  The shopkeeper’s eyes darted over at the two men, and then said to Carlos, “I don’t want any trouble.”

  Carlos held out his money.

  “Hey, greaser,” said Tate. “You too stupid to read?”

  Ana had taught him to read the word “Mexican” on shop window signs. Most of the signs said, “No Dogs, Negroes or Mexicans.” But this sign said, “White Trade Only,” and Carlos could not read it. He returned a blank stare.