Spanish Serenade (42 page)

As she ate the breakfast of fresh-baked bread and hot chocolate served to them, Pilar glanced down the table at the bandit leader. He was talking quietly with Baltasar. The older man seemed to have shrunk in the last days on the trail. His wound had been slow to heal, and he still favored his side. He had spoken little and spent much time riding alone and staring at the horizon.

Refugio appeared rested and fit. He had ceased wearing the bandaging around his head, declaring it was no longer needed. Perhaps if wasn't; the only sign of the injury was the dark path of the scab running through his hair. He rebounded quickly from his wounds, at least those that were physical.

He looked up, catching her eye almost as if he had known she was watching him. He smiled, a faint movement of the lips, before turning back once more to Baltasar. That small instant of recognition gave Pilar an odd feeling. It was almost as if he had looked at her because he could not help himself, but then deliberately relegated her to some portion of his mind where she would not interfere with what he had to do. A shiver moved over her there in the warm summer dawn.

They left shortly afterward, riding out with the blessing of the priest upon them and the farewells of the Indian children ringing in their cars. They crossed the river a short time later and headed toward the southwest.

The dust cloud appeared shortly after midday. It lay ahead of them and was moving at a fast pace in their direction. Their first thought was of Indians; attacks along this road leading to San Antonio were not impossible, or even uncommon. They left the track, except for Charro and Refugio, who circled forward to investigate.

The two men rode back at the head of a cavalcade of horsemen who whooped and hollered and even fired off a few shots in celebration. It was Charro's father and a group of his charros. They had ridden out to escort them safely to the hacienda. The priest had sent word the evening before of their arrival, and Señor Huerta had not been able to wait to see his son, nor to bear the thought that some mishap during the last hours of travel might prevent the homecoming. He had set out at dawn to be certain that all was well.

Charro's home, the house where he had been born, was built like a fortress to repel Indian attacks, and had served its purpose well on several occasions over the years. The adobe walls were thick and tall, and everything needed to sustain life over a long period was enclosed within them. The jacales, or huts of the Indian laborers — built with adobe walls and roofs of peeled poles covered with brush plastered with mud — were located outside the walls in random groupings, but there was ample space inside for their protection in time of need. The back wall of the house itself, rising two stories without windows, formed the rear of the stockade, so that the enclosure was like a large courtyard. The stables and other outbuildings were placed around the perimeter, while in the center was a splashing fountain in a basin of limestone.

The main house was of whitewashed adobe and built with a long and narrow balcony along the front of the upper floor, with a loggia of arched openings underneath it. Projecting out from just above the arches was a roof of latticework built of peeled poles. An ancient grapevine grew upon it, its luxurious leaves providing shade, while long runners also grew up to the balcony to make a curtain of greenery around it. On the floor of packed earth under the latticework was set a long, rough-hewn table flanked by benches. Bulbs of garlic and peppers of many kinds hung in strings from the lattice. Enormous clay pots made from cracked ollas, or water jars, were set here and there and filled with the bright red and pink of geraniums. The dwelling was certainly Spanish in design, and yet the roughness of the materials used, the brilliant whitewash and obvious arrangements for outdoor living, gave it a flavor of its own.

Charro's mother was waiting under the loggia as they rode through the great double gates into the courtyard. She came forward as Charro swung from the saddle, a plump, short woman with a round face creased by a soft maternal smile. She took her son into her arms, kissing his cheeks again and again and exclaiming over how he had filled out, how broad his shoulders were and how rough his hands. She greeted them all with delighted welcome. Still exclaiming and thanking God in equal measure, she led them all inside. Looking around, she beckoned to an Indian maidservant who hovered nearby, giving rapid instructions for their comfort.

“Benita!” Charro called out with pleasure, and strode forward to take the maidservant's hands. Holding her arms wide, he shook his head. “You've grown up while I was away, and very nicely, too, I must say. You were always pretty, but now look at you.”

Benita flushed under the cream of her skin, flashing a glance at Señora Huerta. Then she turned her enormous dark eyes back to Charro as if she could not help herself. There was the softness of affection, and perhaps more, in her square face. Charro grinned down at her in total unawareness of his mother's frowning glance behind him. It seemed likely that the girl was the Indian maidservant for whose sake he had been banished to Spain.

“Attend to me, Benita!” Señora Huerta said, her voice sharp. “There is much to be done if everything is to be ready for the fiesta.”

“Fiesta?” Charro asked, dropping the girl's hands and turning from her with his face alight. “You mean it?”

“But of course,” his father answered as he moved to clap him on the shoulder. “It isn't every day my son returns, especially by way of the overland route from Louisiana. We must celebrate such an auspicious event.”

“Tonight?”

“Naturally tonight. This is the day of your arrival, is it not? Everyone has asked where you were and what was happening with you so many times since you left that it would be a shame to keep the news from them too long.”

The riders with invitations to the fiesta had been sent out at the same time that Señor Huerta had left to meet them. Neighbors and friends began to arrive short hours later. They came, most of them, on horseback, with ladies and children riding pillion or else perched upon gentle donkeys or gaily caparisoned mules. A few came in carts, squeaking along, and there were even one or two in carriages, great cumbersome vehicles built more for durability over bad roads than for comfort. Many of them showed up together. They had traveled in groups for safety, one family merging with another as they joined the passing caravan or overtook each other on the road, so that the final company was some seventy or eighty strong.

They brought guitars and mandolins and concertinas, small drums and castanets and Indian rattles. They brought gifts of ground corn and strings of red peppers, goat's cheese and homemade wine and confections created with milk and chocolate and sugar and nuts. The older women wore black and covered their hair with caps; the younger ones had pinned flowers in their hair and had on dresses with flounces and lace in colors and styles only three or four years behind those of Madrid.

The great wide gates were left standing open until the last stragglers came ambling in. When no one arrived for a half-hour stretch, they were shut tight and the fiesta began.

The food was splendid, on the scale of some medieval banquet. There was beef simmered in a sauce of peppers and honey, flavored with tomato to make it tender, and whole pigs and lambs cooked over an open fire. There were rice dishes and bean dishes and dishes combining something of everything, all of it to be eaten with unleavened cakes of flour and also of cornmeal. The desserts began with the traditional flans and ended with cakes dripping with honey and butter, or else rich with dried fruits and flavorings of rum and vanilla. Everyone ate until they could hold no more, sitting elbow to elbow at tables brought out into the courtyard under the stars and set with flickering pottery oil lamps. Then the music and dancing began.

They played the fandango, the bolero, the Sevillanas, and also the contradanza imported from France by the Bourbons who sat on the throne. When they had need to catch their breaths, they slowed the pace to a gentle minuet. The women in black nodded and tapped their feet and kept careful watch over daughters and granddaughters and nieces while leaning this way and that to hear the latest gossip. The older men stood to one side, smoking foul-smelling cigarros and talking of cattle and horses and the latest news to come the long distance from Mexico City. The young women sat beside their mothers or else congregated in giggling, chattering groups. From that safety they sent bright, challenging glances to the young men who leaned against the arches of the loggia and favored them with appreciative appraisals.

Pilar, having been provided with an evening costume for the occasion by Charro's mother, danced with the partners presented to her by the thoughtful lady. Doña Luisa, though given black to wear by Señora Huerta, did the same. Most of the men of the band also performed to the music, as was expected of them as unattached males, and had no lack of partners. The only exception was Baltasar, who retreated to the stables with a plate of food in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He was not seen for the rest of the evening.

The night had scarcely begun before the tale of Refugio's championing of Charro during his trials in Spain, of their perilous sea voyage and long overland journey, had circled the courtyard. It added a luster to the band, increasing greatly the appeal they already had by virtue of being strangers in a comparatively narrow society. The gathering was not made privy to the whole story, however. There was no whisper of Refugio's identity as El Leon. This was a part of Charro's past his parents had apparently thought it best to keep hidden.

Señora Huerta, watching the proceedings from a vantage point under the loggia, was seen now and then to rest her gaze upon Refugio with a look of worry in her eyes. It did not affect her manner toward him, however. He was her son's deliverer, and moreover, a man of no small personal attraction. She smiled upon him and introduced him to her neighbors who happened to have daughters. And once, as she and the bandit leader strolled about the courtyard in quiet conversation, she was seen to stop and reach up to make the sign of the cross on his forehead.

Refugio danced with Pilar, a swift bolero that he executed with passion and grace. His dark gray gaze was intent as he watched her, but he smiled seldom and his touch was impersonal. Afterward he permitted Charro to claim her with no more than a mild protest, a token expression of regret.

Pilar and Charro promenaded around the courtyard, speaking at random of his home, the guests of his parents, the pleasures of the fiesta.

“I had not known how much I missed all this,” Charro said with a wave toward the musicians and his friends and neighbors. “I wasn't anxious to go when my father suggested it; still, I thought it would be fine to see great buildings, listen to learned men, meet elegant women, do great things. I've seen and done enough. I'll be content to marry and raise little Huertas, and stay here all my days.”

“In spite of the Apaches?”

“There are dangers everywhere. If it was not the Apaches, it would be something else, yellow fever, fires — bandits.” He gave her a droll smile. “But what of you? What will you do now?”

They were walking near the fountain. She reached to trail her fingers along the deep, damp stone basin surrounding it. “I don't know. Much depends on my stepfather, whether he is coming here and, if he is, what he intends to do. Even if he doesn't try to harm me, what he may say of me could make me unwelcome.”

“Impossible,” Charro declared.

She gave him a grateful smile. “If all goes well, I thought I might find work, sewing, perhaps.”

“Sewing!”

“I was well taught in the convent.”

“So were most of the women here; they make their own clothing. But you were not meant for menial tasks.”

“I have to do something!”

“What of Refugio?”

“I — Who can say?”

He watched her a long moment. “Yes, I understand. But . . . you know that if it were not for him, and if you were one of the daughters of our neighbors, that walking like this with me would be considered a prelude to betrothal?”

She sent him a swift glance. His gaze upon her was warm. She smiled a little, “I've grown so used to being without a duenna that I hadn't thought how it might look. Shall we rejoin the others to save your reputation?”

“To save me from my mother's wrath, maybe. But you might think about it.”

“A duenna?”

“No, Pilar, a betrothal. There will always be a place for you here.”

Behind them the music was gay and the shuffling of the dancer's feet light as they moved in time to it. Charro's slender face grew serious as he slowed his pace, moving with a horseman's grace in his close-fitting rider's clothes, which on this occasion were sewn with buttons made of Indian silver.

“That's a . . . very kind gesture.”

He grimaced. “It isn't kind at all; I'm thinking of myself. I will say no more because Refugio is my friend. But you will remember, please?”

The declaration, oblique thought it might have been, was warming. She had no idea of taking advantage of it, but she was grateful. She smiled at him in the dimness of the courtyard as they turned and strolled back toward the loggia.

It was when the music was at its loudest, the dancing at its fastest, and the merriment at its highest, that a pounding was heard at the gates.

Charro ran to the wall and swung up onto the guard platform beside the wide entrance to take a look. When he reported back that there was a squadron of soldiers outside, Señor Huerta ordered the gate opened. The soldiers marched inside while Indian servants ran to hold their mounts.