by Aria Ford
When they parted with the ensemble, as they entered Texas, the people advised them to get rid of their fancy carriage and told her she should dress up as a man, for her safety. That sounded gruesome even as an idea. Her friend, Simon, had convinced her to do so. So they sold the carriage for nothing, that is a murky hooded wagon, man’s simple clothing both for her and her chaperone, and some food, from those merchants.
She found wearing the clothes even more gruesome and disgusting in reality. But when they actually met up with dirty vaqueros leading their cattle, she was glad she wasn’t wearing a crinoline dress. The sombrero hid her hair well and she would stuff her face nose high in the scarf around her neck. However, those men never gave them any troubles: although they looked more like robbers than decent people, they saluted them politely, their hands at their hats or sombreros, and just saw to their business.
Those people seemed to have no boss but rather be their own bosses. They seemed harsh and broken. Their eyes made Margareta sad. The way things were evolving made her sad. Fortunately, she had Damiano’s letters with her, for comfort; she hadn’t been able to take all of them, so she had chosen the most beautiful ones, with sonnets about her hair, the beautiful description of his estate, rhymes about how perfect they were for each other, how he would wait only for her. One line she would read repeatedly: “I can assure you, sweet Margareta, there is nothing empty about me: if you were here, you would be my life.”
What had always impressed her about Damiano was the profound way in which he saw the world. She had remarked that even as a young girl. Although from a family as rich as hers, he didn’t seem superficial or infatuated, like other noble young men were. He would amaze her with his perceptiveness and the depths of his emotions. He was a dreamer like she was.
It was with these thoughts that she approached San Antonio. What struck her immediately and interrupted her romantic musing, was the huge burial ground, with hundreds – or was it thousands?- of wooden crosses. She had never seen anything like it. Some of the graves had been dug superficially and, after rain upon rain, some of the bones were sticking out of them. “Human bones.” Margareta thought and shuddered. She was glad they hadn’t arrived at night or she would have been terrified. She believed in ghosts and the like.
They hurried on, both Simon and her with chills riding down their backs. The sun was beginning to set and she really hoped to get to an inn first, get cleaned up and in the morning visit Damiano’s estate. Although, judging by the next desolate site they walked by, maybe the town had been even more affected than she had feared: there was this big house, half burnt, surrounded by other small rickety houses and neglected stables and roundups.
When she looked at Simon, she saw he had suddenly turned yellow, his eyes bulging out of his head, and asked him what was going on, but he just shook his head. She had noticed him becoming increasingly quiet and concerned, ever since they had entered Texas, but he wouldn’t talk about it. But this time, he really seemed troubled.
Out of nowhere -it seemed- there was suddenly the noise of cattle, accompanied by the whistles of someone. Simon inexplicably slammed his sombrero over his head, covering his eyes, and did the same with hers and pulled her scarf almost over her mouth. But before Margareta could ask why he was behaving so strangely, a few cows, goats, and horses passed their wagon by and two large dogs began barking at them. They were approached in the gallop of his horse by a vaquero, who stopped less than 20 feet from them, and called his dogs to him.
His sombrero was hanging down his back. He had a rifle in his hand. Margareta froze, although he wasn’t holding it menacingly, but rather just having it around, to show that it is there. He came closer, saying nothing, just scrutinizing them, shading his eyes with one hand.
Margareta’s heart gave a start upon seeing his visage clearer: he wore a sloppy beard and had the same harsh look on his sunburnt face as the other vaqueros they had encountered, yet there was something different about him. His expression wasn’t broken, but rather proud. The furrow between his eyes was deep, and so were the expression wrinkles framing his mouth. Yet his eyes were clear and, as the sun rays hit him directly, they glistened in an unusual color, dark green. It was the same with his beard and his unkempt, slightly long hair, which both had a strange auburn shade. She also remarked how he sat up in his saddle very straight, like a noble, not like a cowboy.
Although she wasn’t supposed to talk, so as not to give away the fact she was a woman, she felt the strong and unusual urge to speak to him. But he spurred his horse without a word, turning it around and driving his cattle with whistles towards the abandoned houses. Margareta shrugged and turned towards Simon, only to find him nose deep in his sombrero, his hands shaking on the reins.
“OK, what is going on?!” she had burst.
“Nothing…” Simon had babbled and urged the horses on.
They had entered the town and she found it under-populated, but not desolate in the way she had expected it, not in the way that abandoned chateaux had scared her. The people had been obviously busy rebuilding, getting their lives back together. Couple that with the nice weather –actually, pretty much like in Spain- and the pretty rich vegetation, and it wasn’t an ugly site. Maybe she would try and get merchants to come and do business again. In his letters, Damiano had told her that it was a flourishing town as far as commerce was concerned. She had inherited her late father’s sense for business, by following him around in his travels, so she had instantly assessed the town as having such great possibility for re-developing.
They passed a church by, which made her glad: it was the perfect spot to start socializing. Finally, they got to what seemed to be an inn, but it was more of a saloon, probably with other shady functions. Simon ran quickly inside. Now she knew that it was probably because he was getting his plan together, probably telling people not to say anything to her that would get her to ask questions.
And now she stood in front of that saloon, in a dress she used to wear when she went hunting with her dad, with the fierce thought that Simon had abandoned her there, yet still hoping he had only gone to announce Damiano of their arrival. She had no clue as to where she should head to. She had noticed the people staring at her, as she came downstairs, but she had thought it was because she had gone up as a man and came down as a woman, in a dress too fancy for that place. She quickly went inside again and asked about Simon and the Abana estate. The people there were speaking a weird mix of Spanish with an English accent and English with a Spanish accent, plus native words. She could understand them, though; she most certainly understood when some of the men burst out into wicked laughter.
A woman who seemed of easy virtue approached her, with pity in her eyes and said:
“Honey, your friend left you here. He took off in the middle of the night. And the Abana estate… well, there is no more estate. It was burnt down almost completely during the war.”
“And… the Abana family?” she had asked, her voice shaking.
“The only one left is their middle son, Damiano, but he’s a…”
“Can I buy a horse?” she had shouted and flashed a few gold coins.
*
Damiano Abana turned around when he heard his dogs barking. And if not for the dogs barking, he would’ve dismissed what he saw as a figment of his imagination: an Amazon woman was riding straight towards him from the direction of the barely risen sun, rays of light glowing from behind her. As she was approaching, he could see her large, dark curls bouncing around her shoulders and her tall, athletic waist, in contrast with her generous bosom which was starting from the movement of the horse. She looked exactly like a painting of Margareta Damiano… It was Margareta Damiano!
His dogs dashed towards her horse and before he could call them back they were already barking at the horses hooves and making it neigh and prance on his back legs. The girl shouted loudly, not a cry of fear, but more of an angry warrior yell, holding the reins tightly, never falling. In an instant, Damiano was near h
er, grabbing the reins and stilling her horse.
They found themselves staring closely at each other’s faces, and Margareta realized it was the vaquero she had seen the other day and had caught her attention. Her heart was pounding from the fright the horse had given her, but also from the realization of the fact he was…
“Da… miano?” she asked, unsure.
He could only nod.
“Hello!” and she smiled with all her teeth at him. “I am…”
“I know who you are,” he interrupted her rudely, astonished at how coarse and unfriendly his voice sounded.
He clenched his fist tighter on the reins because he felt a strange urge of driving his hand through her hair. Then pulling her to his chest and hugging her as tightly as he could. She looked exactly like in the paintings, with that amazing tanned skin, big, almond shaped, dark eyes, a small, snub nose and a mouth like a rosebud. Her shoulders were broad and she kept her back very straight. He realized he was staring with his mouth open and he closed it.
“How…” he began. “When did you arrive? Where is Simon?”
He spoke Spanish, with the same accent and pronunciation as the people at the saloon. Somehow, with his voice, it didn’t sound awkward to her, but really nice.
“We drove past you yesterday evening,” she answered. “I know I was in disguise, but didn’t you recognize Simon?”
He shook his head.
“You were the two strangers? I couldn’t recognize any of you. But Simon should have recognized me, and… the location of the ranch… Where is he now?”
Margareta frowned and pouted slightly, which he found adorable and strived to move the focus from her lips on her words, which weren’t very comforting:
“I think he might have fled.”
Damiano could understand how the condition of his former estate might have scared his cousin. But to flee like a coward and leave her there? That made him furious. It was his turn to frown. Margareta licked her lips, thinking, then started talking really fast, almost without breathing. She had this lovely Spanish lisp when she pronounced her “s”-es.
“Listen! Do you happen to own a wagon? I have my belongings in a room at the inn establishment. I wouldn’t trust them there for too long. And I also have to take this horse back, it’s only borrowed. The people here don’t accept gold as payment. They said they have no use for it because merchants rarely come to San Antonio since the war. You know, for a state called Texas2, the people aren’t very friendly. Not too polite, either. They suggested that I pay in some other way for my room and the horse... in nature. Luckily, there was this friendly, although promiscuous looking lady who stood up for me.”
It was the second time Damiano was feeling furious of his cousin and at the people in the town, too. But he couldn’t just leave his animals there to take her to town.
“Margareta,” he stopped her and she thought it was the most beautiful pronunciation of her name she had ever heard. “Please go back to town, and find the yellow house near the church. There, you will find an old man called Benicio; tell him who you are and that I’ve sent you. He will help you with a wagon and your things. As for the room, when you take the horse back, tell those pricks that they should take your gold or I’ll deal with them!”
Margareta enlarged her eyes, on hearing the curse word, but didn’t seem offended. She nodded, with a little smile on her lips. I mean, sure, he was rugged and scruffy, but he seemed manly and tough and was willing to stand up for her. He simply needed a woman’s touch.
While she was away, Damiano had time to think of the situation. All the alarming emotions he had felt upon seeing her: he simply couldn’t let them take him over. Life was going to be hard for her here. True that she didn’t seem delicate, not in any way, but quite tough, and she hadn’t seemed delicate or squeamish in her letters, either. On the one hand, he was glad she was exactly like she had described herself and he had imagined her to be: brave and adventurous; on the other hand, he didn’t need to develop a soft spot for her. No, he was going to help her adapt to that life, but without allowing her to come close to him.
While he was away, Margareta had time to check out the remains of the ranch… and be totally disgusted with the conditions he lived in. She just couldn’t understand why he hadn’t pulled himself together. The old man, Benicio, had told her how devastating the fire had been and that she shouldn’t judge him: how horrible it must’ve been to come back home wounded and find that while he was protecting something the government told him to, the same government did nothing to protect his loved ones. That had made him lock up inside himself. But he did remember him in the good days: a charming young man, a bit on the wild side, but not a mean person. Not like some people in town had been to him, as if they were glad to see that war, suffering, and death also affected the rich, not only the poor. Margareta thought that it was exactly like her story back in Spain before she decided to flee.
She was still musing, seated on the porch of the house he lived in, when she heard the bells of the cows, as they returned home. He also came, riding his horse, but he first drove the animals to their round ups and stable, before dismounting in front of her. She stood up to meet him, but he looked at her briefly and harsh and simply said:
“I still need to milk the cows and goats. If you’re hungry…”
“I ate. Benicio, that old darling, gave me bread and showed me around to where you keep cheese and smoked meat…”
Without letting her finish, he passed her by, entering the house. She noticed he had a slight limp in his right leg and she also noticed he was trying to conceal it, the best he could. He of average height, which made him just slightly taller than she was, but had a broad chest and strong arms. She decided she wasn’t going to be intimidated by that rude, savage attitude; he was probably just very tired and maybe also overwhelmed.
He had actually felt too moved of the image of her waiting on his porch, so he just tried to get it out of his mind.
“Did you make those? They were delicious!” he heard her shout after him.
“This is where you’ll sleep!” he shouted back, and when she didn’t come, he gave another shout: “Margy!”
She went inside following his voice, feeling giddy about that little pet name, the one he also used in his letters. But her happiness was over in an instant when she saw her lodging. They were in a room next to his. No one had lived there for a year: the dust was almost 2 inches. And those covers… Margareta didn’t wanna think about it, but just go along and arrange things in time.
“It’s safest for you to sleep here, close to me. I mean… so that I… so that you…” he babbled, cursing himself for letting his mouth run. “I gotta go. You should sleep if you ate. Good night!” and he stormed out of the room and out of the house.
“But where will I wash…?” she shouted after him.
“The ditch!” he shouted back.
“Outside?!”
*The next morning she suddenly woke up when someone slammed a pile of dirty clothes over her.
“Get up! Get dressed! Come with me!”
“Wait… What… where?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.
Damiano was standing in front of her bed, a gaslight in one hand and one pair of boots in the other.
“I will teach you to milk the cows and goats.”
“Milk the…?” she faintly started.
She stared blankly out of the window –there was barely any hint of light on the horizon– and then at the dirty clothes he had thrown on her –not that the covers she had finally used, with repulsion, to cover herself up, were any better- and took about half a minute to let the information sink into her brain. The conclusion was she hadn’t heard right. So she slammed her body back on the bed.
“Come, on” an impatient Damiano strut through the room, striving to walk without a limp. “I’ll go buy some chicken and a rooster. With you around, I can finally do that. Even you can guard some chicken.”
“Guard the chicken?!” she ask
ed.
“Yeah, from the chicken hawk. I can’t do that when I’m away with the livestock. But you’re here, now.” and he gestured widely towards her with the lantern.
He seemed almost glad, saying that and had a gleeful air, like a little boy.
“We can also start a vegetable garden,” he added, starting to pace the room again. “I gotta think about what seeds will still germinate at this time. Let’s hope the autumn will be long and warm as usual. You can also play the scarecrow in the garden when the plants emerge.”
“The… scarecrow?!” she echoed him again, getting more outraged by the minute.
“Yes. Just stand around the garden and drive the crows away. Or wead out. The birds will get scared if they see you.”
“What?!”
“And… “ he continued quickly, hoping she will let his ambiguous comment slip -which he hadn’t meant as an insult, but somehow it just came out that way- “and you can also clean this place up… and mine. Wash the covers, too.”
“Clean this place?!” she almost shouted, now fully awake.
“Are you a parrot?” he replied, annoyed.
“No! I am a lady! And I certainly didn’t come all the way here to be your milking cow!”
“Pf!” he went, arrogantly “Darlin’… you’ve got nothing on my milking cows!”
Margareta grabbed the clothes and threw them violently at him, yelling in anger:
“How dare you?!”
“Hey, what’s wrong with you, girl?” he snapped at her, shaking off the clothes which had fallen on the lantern. “Do you wanna set this place on fire?”
“This isn’t a place! It’s a pig sty! It would be best to burn it down. What’s wrong with you? Why haven’t you cleaned this yourself? It’s been half…”
“Well, I didn’t know her royal majesty, the queen of Spain, was coming for a visit! In case you haven’t noticed this isn’t Baden-Baden!”
“OK! Who the hell are you? And what have you done with the man who wrote me letters for 15 years?”
