LAUREN LOOKED UP from her third taco to see Alex smiling at her.
“What?” she said suspiciously, hoping he wasn’t about to comment on her appetite. She’d been ravenously hungry of late, which didn’t seem right, because at this point how big could the baby even be?
“You like barbacoa?”
“Is that what this is? If so, then yes, I thoroughly approve of barbacoa.”
“Good for you! I like to see a woman enjoying good food. Hello there, how are you?”
The last bit was addressed to a man in a fringed frontier shirt who’d greeted Alex as he walked by. Lauren was getting used to Alex’s conversation being punctuated with greetings to other people. Their walk from his carpenter’s shop to the food area had been a constant stream of smiles, nods, greetings and waves. Everyone seemed to know and like Alex.
The funny thing was how he went on talking to Lauren after these greetings, without losing his train of thought, as if there had been no interruption at all.
Lauren wiped her fingers and wadded up her paper napkin. “So what’s going on the rest of the day?”
“Well, in a little while Jorge’s gonna do a presentation on Tejanos in the Texas Revolution, and people will go on doing their demonstrations at their own booths. What all have you seen so far?”
“A blacksmith, an herbalist, Tamara and Jay, and a guy from South Carolina.”
“Yeah, I know that South Carolina guy. He’ll be at Béxar next month, playing a New Orleans Grey. There’s a Comanche warrior running around, have you seen him? His name is Ted. You ought to get some pics of him for sure. Leon’s a farrier, and he’s going to shoe a horse at some point—you don’t want to miss that. Hey there, Tom, Annie, good to see you! Oh, and you should see the writing guy, with his papers and quills and wax seals and iron gall ink and things. Then late in the afternoon we’ll have some black-powder shooting. It’s best we do that all at one time and place—hello!—because of the noise and smoke, and the fact that we’re, you know, discharging weapons. I’ve got my Escopeta and my pistols, and that South Carolina guy has a nice Kentucky rifle, and Steve brought his cannon. Then in the evening we’ll have a dance. The Chicharrones are gonna play—mostly traditional pieces, but some modern stuff, too. And I know you want to take lots of pictures, but maybe this time you’ll dance with me for more than one song.”
“In my fleece hoodie and running shoes, with all these nineteenth-century people? I’d look like some kind of freak.”
“Like you really care about being different from other people. But if you want some nineteenth-century threads, you ought to go see Claudia. She makes reproduction clothing on spec and sells it ready-made at events. You ought to meet her, anyway, because she’s so awesome.”
Lauren’s ears perked up. Maybe she had a name at last for Alex’s love interest.
“Let’s go see her now,” she said.
Claudia was strikingly attractive, in a strong-boned, dark-browed style, with a spectacular figure, shown to advantage in a deep red, corseted dress. She was also around fifty years old. Was this a cougar-type situation? No wonder Alex didn’t want Tony to know.
“Alex! Good to see you, mijo. I see you brought a friend.”
“Yes, I did. Claudia, this is Lauren.”
“Hello, Lauren, and welcome. I hope you’re enjoying our festival.”
No, not a cougar after all. An honorary aunt.
“Thank you, I am.”
“Lauren needs an outfit for the dance,” Alex said. “I told her you’re the one to see.”
“You’re right. Now you run along, mijo, and leave it to us. I’ll let you know when she’s ready.”
She spoke like someone who was used to being obeyed, and she wasn’t wrong. Alex simply said, “Yes, ma’am,” and left.
Claudia had a larger, more elaborate setup than most of the reenactors—a long tent with room for multiple rows of clothing hanging from strung-out twine, and a curtained-off area that looked like a dressing room.
Lauren started sifting through some dresses. “Your work is beautiful. Are you a seamstress full-time?”
“Oh, no. I’m a property attorney. Sewing is what I do for fun.”
“Did you make what Alex is wearing?”
“I did. That was a custom job. I don’t go for that level of authenticity for my off-the-rack things.”
Lauren thought of all the hand-stitched seams in Alex’s jacket, trousers, waistcoat and shirt. “You must be a very busy person.”
“Yes, I like to stay busy. Come over here and let me look at you.”
Claudia took Lauren by the shoulders, held her at arm’s length and looked her over with a piercing gaze. She would be a powerful force in the courtroom. Then she went straight to a rack and pulled out a dress.
“Try this on.”
It was a scoop-necked, long-skirted dress in a pale floral print. Unlike the dress Claudia was wearing, this one had a high waist—very high, just below the bust.
Lauren felt a stab of panic. Just how much had been laid bare to that piercing gaze? Was she beginning to show already?
“This style predates the Texas Revolution by a good bit,” Claudia said. “But it’s still appropriate for the Texas colonial period. For a while, around the turn of the nineteenth century, women stopped wearing stays, and the Empire waist was all the rage. Skirts were narrower, too. The whole style was very columnar and simple. It didn’t last long—corsets came back big-time just a few decades later—but it happened. I like to keep these dresses on hand, because the Empire waist is easier to manage for an off-the-rack garment. If you wanted to go full-on Victorian you’d need a corset and petticoats, and that gets complicated. You’d look great in it—you’re so tiny—but this style is a lot less of an investment for a newcomer, and a lot more comfortable for walking around. And even though you don’t get to show off your waistline, you can make up for it with cleavage. Try it on and see what you think.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Claudia led her to the changing area and held back the hanging panel door. There was a full-length mirror inside, and a small stool in one corner.
Lauren was pulling off her fleece hoodie when Claudia said from just outside, “So, you came to the festival with Alex.”
She didn’t ask questions; she made statements.
“Um, yes,” Lauren said. “It’s a mutual-friends kind of thing. I’m staying with my friend Dalia, and her husband is Alex’s brother. You know Tony and Dalia?”
“All their lives.”
“Dalia and I met in college. I’m spending the winter at her ranch in my live-in van. I’m a photographer, and I write for some travel blogs, and Tony thought the festival would be a good opportunity for me.”
“I remember you now. You were the photographer at the wedding. So you and Dalia met at that fancy Yankee school?”
Lauren smiled at the description of the small Pennsylvania liberal arts college as a “fancy Yankee school.” She’d already noticed that the word Yankee was used a lot more broadly around here than in the north, signifying not only New England, but also the Middle Atlantic states, as well as the Midwest, the Northwest and any state north of the person who was speaking, including Oklahoma.
“That’s right. We weren’t together for the whole four years, though. She stuck it out and got her degree, and I took off partway through a semester and drove to Tennessee.”
“Tennessee! What for?”
“Oh, the college discontinued the degree program I was pursuing, and that made me mad. So I decided to go to the Smoky Mountains, and see if they were really smoky.”
“Were they?”
“Yes.”
Claudia chuckled. “And now you’re staying at La Escarpa. Beautiful place. Wonderful how a big working ranch like that has kept running all those generations, and stayed in the same family—all the way back to Alejandro Ramirez and the Texas Revolution.”
“Alex told me his family and Dalia’s family are both descended from Alejandro Ramirez. How did the land get divided up?”
“Oh, the Reyes place was always a separate rancho, separately run. Gabriel Ramirez—that’s Alejandro and Romelia’s son, the one born during the Revolution—had two surviving sons by two different wives. The firstborn got La Escarpa, and the younger boy got the Reyes place. La Escarpa was always the better property, but the disparity wasn’t so wide back then.”
“What made that change?”
“Lots of things. Political unrest, market fluctuations, weather, sickness. Pieces of the Reyes land got parceled off and sold little by little over the years. By the time Alex’s grandfather inherited there was barely enough left to make a viable living with ranching. But Miguel dug in and refused to sell more. Said he was going to make a success of ranching if it killed him. He was smart and hardworking and relentless, and he managed to turn things around to a surprising degree. Even managed to buy back some of the land that had been sold off.”
How sad for Alex’s grandfather, to spend his life working to get the land in shape, only to come to realize that his son wasn’t fit to take it over.
Except that the grandfather apparently hadn’t realized that at all, or hadn’t wanted to admit it.
Lauren threw out a line. “Do you know Alex’s father?”
“Oh, yes. I went to high school with him. He was popular, but those bad-boy types always bored me. That particular apple fell pretty far from the tree. It’s a shame.”
Lauren wondered what Claudia thought of Alex’s chances with the will. Tony had said Alex’s legal battle was a lost cause, that even his attorney said he was wasting his...
“Wait, you said you’re a property attorney? Are you Alex’s attorney?”
“Yes, I’m representing him.”
Lauren was silent as she finished undressing, trying to phrase her next question in a way that would respect attorney-client privilege, and good taste.
“Hypothetically speaking, what are the chances of success for someone contesting a will?”
“Hypothetically speaking, it would depend on a lot of things. Is there something fishy about the existing will? Is there any reason to think the testator was incompetent at the time he made it, or coerced? If so, then the contestant might have a chance. If not, then the best he can realistically hope for is to create a delay, which might motivate the heir to make some sort of concession—like sharing the estate with the contestant, or selling it to him.”
Lauren pulled the dress over her head. What were the odds of a heavily indebted Carlos voluntarily choosing to do right by his sons? Or of a working-class man in his twenties raking up enough cash to buy a large rural property?
Probably not good.
“How are you coming along?” Claudia asked. “Can I help you with the fastenings?”
“Yes, please.”
She looked at herself in the full-length mirror while Claudia buttoned her up. Claudia was right about the cleavage. The neckline was wide and low, edged with a narrow ruffle. And the high waist didn’t look frumpy at all, but stately and dignified. The color was good, a pale coral with a small print.
“I like it,” she said.
“I do, too. It suits you. I knew that warm, light color would work well with your skin and hair. And speaking of hair, let’s see if we can contrive some sort of Federalist-era hairstyle for you. The period-appropriate thing is up in the back, with ringlets in the front. The way you’re wearing it now is actually not far off. Switch out your hair clip with a pearl bandeau and you’ll be all set. Here, sit down. I’ll be right back.”
Claudia pulled the stool closer to the mirror and left the dressing room. She returned soon with a basket of hair accessories.
“I guess you know Alex’s family pretty well,” Lauren said.
“Oh, yes. My father made Miguel’s will, decades ago, and our families have always been close. But the whole town knows about the situation with the land, and pretty much every other aspect of the Reyes family drama.”
“That can’t be easy for Alex.”
“No. But he soldiers on, working his two jobs and going out to his grandfather’s ranch on his days off. Someone’s got to feed cattle and make sure the fences are holding while the estate is in probate, and do you suppose Carlos does that? No, he does not. He’d just as soon sell off all the livestock and the equipment for whatever he can get. And will he reimburse Alex for his time and labor once the property is awarded to him? I don’t think so. But that’s Alex. Faithful to the death.”
Claudia finished fastening the bandeau and locked eyes with Lauren’s reflection in the mirror. Beneath all the praise Lauren sensed a strong don’t-hurt-my-boy vibe.
“He seems like a great guy,” she said. “But we’re just friends.”
Claudia smiled. “Okay.”
She gave Lauren a hand mirror. “Here, see what you think.”
Lauren turned around and used the hand mirror to view the back of her hair. She tilted her head, pleased with the cascading fall of curls and the pearl bandeau.
“I love it. The dress, too. I’ll take them both.”
“Great! I’ll give you a bag for your other clothes. You can leave them here and pick them up later.”
Lauren gave Claudia her card and took the bag into the dressing room. When she came out, Alex was just returning.
He halted in midstep, with his eyebrows slightly lifted, his mouth open and his gaze fixed on her.
“What do you think?” she asked.
He shut his mouth, cleared his throat and nodded. “Very authentic.”
“Wow, you sure know how to talk to the ladies, mijo,” Claudia said. “How are you still single?”
Lauren handed the bag to Claudia and signed the card reader. She could feel Alex watching her. His gaze was like a caress, the soft, light kind that raises a shiver.
Claudia smiled at them. “Have a good time!”
Lauren and Alex answered together, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Isn’t she great?” Alex asked once they were out of earshot.
“Oh, yes! And a little terrifying. I wouldn’t want to be on her bad side, but she seems like a good person to have in your corner.”
She hoped that meant Claudia could help Alex get the land—but how likely was that, when Claudia herself seemed to have little hope? It wasn’t fair.
In a little while she was learning about something else that wasn’t fair, when Jorge gave his presentation on Tejanos in the Revolution. The Texas Republic had not been kind to the Mexican-born, even to those who’d fought for independence. Texas was their home; they’d settled it, and defended it against their own former countrymen. And then they were cast out, treated like strangers, aliens, enemies. Many were forced off their land by greedy opportunists—just like what was happening to Alex.
It wasn’t right. Alex loved the land and its history; he wanted nothing more than to live and make his living there. He would care for it, cherish it, respect the old ways. But it didn’t look like he was going to get the chance.
“STAND THE WEAPON UP, stock on the ground, barrel to the sky. Put the powder down the muzzle. Now the ball. Now take the ramrod and push the ball down the barrel. Lift the frizzen and put the hammer on half-cock...that’s it. Pour more powder in the pan. Close the frizzen back again, nice and tight against the flint...there you go. Good.”
Lauren’s mind swam with all the new terminology. Everything was so precise and intricate and old. The flint was an actual little wedge-shaped stone held in the jaws of the cock with a small piece of leather, and Alex said it was only good for twenty to thirty shots before it would have to be replaced. A tiny brush to clean the pan, and a tiny pick to clear burned powder from the touch hole, both hung from the cartridge box on little chains. A slender pipe under the barrel held the ramrod, which had to be put back there after sending the ball home. It was amazing anyone ever kept track of all the steps.
Alex locked eyes with her over the Escopeta’s muzzle. “Now, at this point the weapon is ready to fire. Do not fire, or even put your finger on the trigger, until I say.”
He showed her how to hold the Escopeta, with the butt snugged between her shoulder and rib cage, and how to line the center post between the rear sites to take aim.
“Pull the hammer back with your thumb. Now you’re on full cock. Once you squeeze the trigger, you’re gonna set off this whole chain reaction. The flint sparks against the frizzen, and the powder ignites in the pan, and that ignites the main charge in the barrel. All this means you’re about to experience a small explosion right near your face. It happens fast, but not instantaneously. You have to keep still, and not flinch, or you’ll mess up your aim. Hold still, keep steady and follow through. Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Okay. Fire.”
Lauren squeezed the trigger.
The discharge was loud. The butt kicked into her shoulder, but she held as steady as she could.
“Did I hit the target?”
“Nope, missed it by a good yard,” Alex said cheerfully. “It takes a lot of practice to get even somewhat accurate with a smoothbore weapon.”
“That’s why rifles are better.”
The guy who’d spoken was a young man Lauren hadn’t met yet. He smiled at her and said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, teniente?”
“Lauren, that’s Zander. He’s new to reenacting. That’s why he makes sweeping generalizations. Rifles aren’t ‘better.’ They’re more accurate, but the old ones take longer to reload—not that loading is fast for any sort of muzzle-loading firearm. It’s a trade-off.”
Zander made a gesture that seemed to say “maybe, maybe-not.” “Debatable,” he said.
“Exactly,” said Alex.
“What kind of gun do you have?” Lauren asked.
She felt a little sorry for Zander because his gun looked so shabby compared to Alex’s. The stock had some sort of brass decorative thing on it, but the brass was tarnished and the wood looked dry. All the metal parts were pretty corroded.
“It’s a Jacob Dickert rifle. Very rare, and a lot bigger than that sawed-off little carbine. Come over here if you want to fire a real gun.”
“What did you say?”
There was an edge in Alex’s voice—little more than a warning, but unmistakable.
Zander chuckled. “Come on, I’m just messing with you, man. Don’t get all bent out of shape.”
He aimed and fired, but instead of a loud discharge there was a small click, followed by a flash of light and a puff of smoke from the lock mechanism, right by the trigger.
“And there you see the origin of the expression flash in the pan,” Alex told Lauren.
Zander looked annoyed, but there wasn’t much he could say. He’d kind of set himself up.
“The Dickert is a nice rifle,” Alex told him. “Have you met Ron, the gunsmith? You should take it to him. I don’t know if your stock can be saved, but he can make you a new one if necessary, and probably get the barrel and the lock in good shape. I’ve seen him do some excellent work on weapons that were pretty far gone.”
“Actually, this rifle was in near perfect condition when I bought it off eBay,” Zander said.
“What happened? Did you leave it outside overnight in the rain or something?”
“That’s exactly what I did.”
Zander seemed strangely proud of this.
Alex looked dumbfounded. “On purpose?”
“You bet. I didn’t want it to look all slick and shiny and new-minted. Now it has a nice, weathered, authentic vibe.”
Lauren could feel Alex’s shock and outrage. “It’s weathered, all right, but it’s not authentic,” he said. “No Revolutionary soldier would have dreamed of treating his weapon that way. They cleaned them, oiled them, kept them dry, babied them. Their lives depended on keeping their weapons functional and ready to fire.”
Zander smiled a smile so superior that even Lauren wanted to punch him. “You overestimate the intelligence of the common soldier.”
“Oh, yeah?” Alex held out his own weapon. “This Escopeta belonged to my great-great-great-great-grandfather. It’s never been restored, just maintained. It’s as clean and functional now as the day he carried it to the Siege of Béxar.”
Zander’s smile got even more odious. “Oh, is that what your daddy told you?”
Lauren saw the change that came over Alex’s face as he realized Zander was calling him stupid, or a liar—the dusky flush, the tightening of the jaw. He was fighting to keep control.
“Hey, Alex, let’s go see Steve and his cannon crew,” she said. “I want to get some pictures of them.”
Alex went willingly enough. He was not just angry, but visibly shaken.
“I’m sorry I encouraged him,” Lauren said. “I didn’t realize he was such a jerk.”
“What a little punk,” Alex said. He said the word like it was the ultimate put-down, and Lauren supposed that for him, it was. A shallow, flimsy person who didn’t take things seriously. What would he think of Evan?
“He’s a poser,” she said. “He probably won’t last long as a reenactor.”
“I hope not. Do you know how rare those Jacob Dickert rifles are? And to think he actually found one in pristine condition, and spent money on it, and ruined it—something old and valuable and functional and beautiful. I just... I can’t be around people like that.”
People like your dad, Lauren thought.
“So,” Alex said, “what did you think of your first experience with black-powder shooting?”
“I liked it. I’m impressed by the thought of soldiers going through all those steps, all those minute little motions, over and over in the right order, with nothing left out.”
“It is impressive, isn’t it? Fifteen seconds was the goal for loading and firing, but it took a lot of drilling to get that fast. And that’s under the best of conditions. Imagine doing it with lead balls whizzing past your head, and your friends dropping all around you, and artillery fire knocking the fortifications to pieces. Fire and load, fire and load, until you die or run out of ammo. Then you’re down to a brace of pistols and a bowie knife, if you have them. And then—that’s it.”
“Unless you win.”
“But you might not. And sometimes you know you won’t, like at the Alamo. And still you have to keep on. It takes muscle memory and physical strength. Discipline. Nerve.”
He could have been talking about himself. His fight for the family land sounded like as much of a lost cause as the Alamo, but he seemed determined to go down fighting.
ALEX WAS HAVING a hard time keeping his mind on his dancing. Fortunately he was a good enough dancer that he didn’t really need to think about what he was doing. He was free to let his thoughts wander to other things...like how jaw-droppingly gorgeous Lauren looked in her new dress.
He’d seen Federalist-style dresses before, and he’d be the first to admit that by modern standards they were not all that exciting. On any given day, unless he stayed in his apartment without going online, watching TV or looking at any images designed to sell pretty much anything, he was almost guaranteed to see plenty of female flesh casually displayed, with little left to the imagination. If anyone had asked him, he’d have said that those neoclassical dresses with their long skirts and high waists were nothing to write home about.
And then he’d seen Lauren.
The light, filmy fabric wasn’t tight anywhere, but as she moved the skirt kept showing hints of the shape within. And the bodice—well, he suddenly realized he had never payed proper attention to the Federalist-style bodice before. So many little folds of fabric gathered at the neckline, widening as they curved down, and then gathered again.
The overall effect was understated, simple, restrained...
And spectacular.
The Chicharrones were playing traditional dances from the early nineteenth century, when mestizo culture was just beginning to emerge. Lauren was a quick study, with almost an intuitive grasp of the essentials. Alex could see other men looking at her.
He was used to this warm feeling of shared vision and like-mindedness from other reenactors. But for Lauren to enter into his world that way was an entirely different sensation.
She was an international traveler. He was a small-town boy—the worst kind of small-town boy, the kind who didn’t leave. Who stayed, with a vengeance. He might hear or read about some interesting place in one of those parts of the country with its weird Yankee accents and fancy weather, and he might go so far as to say it sounded cool. But then he went on with his life, in the same twelve hundred or so square miles where he was born and grew up. Lauren got up and went to the place, and saw the thing, and when she was done, she went someplace else.
What would it mean for someone like that to choose him? It couldn’t happen.
Could it?
No. It was too fantastic to even think about. And even if it did happen, he didn’t have room in his life for that kind of complication.
And yet he suddenly found that he wanted it.
He wanted it bad.