Linda L

December 1-3, 1775

Fernanda rummaged through the trunk for her new clothes. Earlier that day, the Yuma’s had guided the colonists astride their horses across the Colorado River. It was a slow and tedious process with so many people to get to the other side of the wide river, a distance of over one hundred horses nose to tail, Nicolas had told her. But they’d accomplished it with no mishaps, and Feliciana had convinced everyone they must have a fandango to celebrate. Everyone except Father Font, who'd voiced his objections. But Captain Anza had given his approval.

Papa and the boys had gone ahead to the party, leaving Fernanda alone to dress. She pulled out the clothes, smiling as she remembered Feliciana telling her when they first met they might have a fandango, and Fernanda had not believed her. Now, she slipped into her white petticoat, loving the feel of the cotton. Stiffer, rougher than her old one, but so clean, so new. She stepped into her skirt and pulled it up while shaking her hips so the petticoat fell beneath the skirt. And the blouse, what beautiful embroidery it had. Once dressed, she pulled the broken cow-horn comb through her hair, humming, imagining the men’s surprise when they saw the women in all their new finery.

Fernanda did feel pretty, and alluring. She swayed her hips, picturing Nicolas trying to sneak another kiss. They hadn’t spoken again about the race, and he had been so helpful to the family and attentive to her; she pushed his comment to the back of her mind.

She rustled through the trunk, grabbed two ribbons — the red one and the green one Gloria had given her — and wove them through her hair. The braid draped over her shoulder, and the ribbons streamed past the end of her hair. She picked up the ribbon ends and let them flow through her fingers, suddenly imagining Miguel’s face when he saw her. Would he think she was pretty? And then it was Miguel she saw in her mind, not Nicolas, whose lips were parted, leaning toward her for a kiss…

She dug deeper into the trunk and pulled out the new rebozo, bringing with it another, older one. “Mama’s,” she whispered. She draped it over her shoulders. Papa would be pleased if she wore it to the dance. But she eyed the new shawl with its royal blue and green embroidery and golden fringe. “All of us will look beautiful tonight,” Feliciana had told the women. After days of traveling, dirt, and dust, Fernanda longed to look beautiful. Mama would understand. Still, she hid her guilt along with her mother’s rebozo at the bottom of the trunk.

Outside the tent, no one was in sight. She twirled, and the pleated skirt billowed around her. Like a poppy plucked from the desert floor and caught up in a hot Sonoran wind, she felt she could fly away into the night. The sound of music and singing flitted over the tops of the tents. She started to skip toward the fandango when some other noise stopped her: singing, drums, and other instruments coming from the Yuma village across the sandy field and beyond a row of willow trees. Fernanda hesitated, listening to the laughter and shouts of the Spaniards’ dance. Then she turned in the direction of the Yumas.

She walked across the field, the moon lighting the way around scrubby creosote and ash-colored burro weed. When she reached the grove of trees, she saw light from several fires flickering through the branches. Fingering one of the narrow willow leaves, she wondered if she should go on. What would they think when they saw her? Would she appear rude for interrupting their celebration? How would she speak to them? And why hadn’t she thought of these things before coming?

A new song wafted through the rustling leaves, reminding her of the Pimas’ song that had filled her with such a feeling of beauty, of affinity with the Indians. Forgetting her hesitation, wanting to be a part of their celebration, she parted the branches and stepped into an opening, into the Yuma village.

Three fires burned in the center of the clearing. Their flames reached for the black sky, flinging sparks up to the blazing white-hot stars. Hundreds of Yumas sat on the ground in a large circle outside the fires. Some faces shone bright in the firelight. Others wore eerie masks created by firelight and shadows. And many were only visible by a dark silhouette. Sitting closest to the fires were the musicians. A few men played a slow wistful song on their flutes. Other men beat a muted rhythm on overturned baskets. Women softly shook gourd rattles, while others scraped roughened or notched sticks against one another to create a sound like the buzz of cicadas on a hot afternoon.

The Yumas swayed and began to sing. Fernanda stayed in the shadows of the trees, but she too rocked to the music. Closing her eyes, a vision of Mama cradling Ignacio in her arms floated in Fernanda’s mind. Yes, a lullaby. It must be a lullaby.

Abruptly, the music stopped. The drummers picked up sticks and struck the drums with a rapid beat. Many of the Yumas, surely one hundred or more, hopped up and formed a circle around the fires, draping their arms across each other’s shoulders. While the other musicians picked up the driving beat of the drummers, the dancers raised their feet and stomped in unison around the fires. The thick bark strips of the women’s and two-spirits’ skirts rustled and rattled like another musical instrument. The dancers raised their faces to the sky and sang. Fernanda didn’t understand the words, but she understood the joy on their faces. Entranced by the vibrant music and dancing, she tiptoed closer to the celebration.

The circle of Yumas danced past her, each face illuminated by a nearby fire. The men had decorated their faces and bodies with blue and black paint, the women with red. A girl, her face painted red with two rows of white round spots on each cheek, broke from the circle and approached Fernanda. The girl’s expression brightened with recognition, and Fernanda realized she was the girl from the race. She clasped Fernanda’s hands and tugged her toward the circle.

Fernanda pulled back. What had she gotten herself into? She should get to the fandango. The word stopped her. She was at a fandango. Why shouldn’t she dance here, then return to camp. She would dance for her Pima half, for Mama, then dance for her Spanish half.

She let the girl pull her into the circle, and she followed the simple dance steps. The other dancers glanced at her curiously, but they continued with their song. Fernanda realized they repeated a chorus, and after a few rounds, she joined in.

The girl’s eyes widened in surprise and then sparkled with pleasure. Each time the chorus came, she and Fernanda sang together with the happiness of newfound friends. When the dance ended, Fernanda backed away from the circle. The Yuma girl walked with her. Fernanda pointed toward the faint sound of the Spanish music and waved, saying goodbye.

The girl nodded then pointed at herself and said, “Aqwaq.”

That must be her name, Fernanda thought. She placed her hand on her chest and said, “Fernanda.”

Aqwaq bent her head, removed a necklace, and handed it to Fernanda. A chevron shell with a hole punched in it hung from a string of rawhide. Surely it must be precious to the girl. The traders from the Baja California coast didn’t find their way to that part of New Spain often.

“I can’t take this, Aqwaq,” Fernanda said, shaking her head.

Aqwaq said something, took the necklace, and slipped it over Fernanda’s head.

Fernanda picked up the chevron and whispered, “Thank you.” Rubbing her finger over the ridges of the shell, she thought, I should give her a gift in return. But I’ve nothing to give. Except my new rebozo. I have two others, my old one and Mama’s.

The distant sound of a guitar and laughter touched her ears. She pictured the fandango, the women twirling in their new clothes, beautiful and colorful as scattered flower petals. She loved the new rebozo and wanted so much to look beautiful, too.

She hugged Aqwaq and said, “Thank you. I must go.” But her selfishness made her feel small against the grandeur of the star-dusted night, the beauty of the music and brightness of the dancing, the joy of connecting with Aqwaq and the other Yumas. She touched the necklace as she walked back to the trees. She would make it up to Aqwaq and bring her something special tomorrow. She waved one last time, and then parted the branches and left the Yuma village behind.

At the camp, small groups of people warming themselves by small fires formed a larger circle around an area left open for dancing. There, in the center, stood Feliciana with her arms raised behind her head, swinging her hips and singing a saucy ballad accompanied by guitars, small drums, and flutes. Father Font watched, scowling. Obviously, he didn’t approve of Feliciana’s performance, although everyone else, including the other two priests, were laughing and clapping.

Fernanda settled between Papa and Ignacio. Her other brothers also sat cross-legged around the fire, along with the Feliz family, the Gonzaleses, Gutierrezes, Gloria, and Miguel.

“Nanda, where you been?” Ignacio asked.

Fernanda hugged him, avoiding the question and Papa’s raised eyebrows.

When she didn’t answer, Papa handed her a plate of food. She felt too excited to eat, but the unexpected sight and smell of sausage made her mouth water, and she took a bite.

“Captain Anza ordered extra rations tonight for our fiesta,” Antonio said, stabbing a piece of sausage with his fork.

“And wine,” Señor Gonzales said. He handed Fernanda a cup.

She eyed Papa, and the señor laughed. “A little will not harm her.”

Papa shrugged, and Fernanda took a sip. The wine burned her throat, but settled warmly in her stomach. Señor Gonzales strummed his guitar, and Miguel began to play his flute. Fernanda again sipped the wine, stealing a glance at Miguel. He raised his eyes to her as he played, and she quickly looked away. She hadn’t spoken to him or Nicolas since the race yesterday. Her stomach fluttered each time she remembered Miguel’s words: You were born to ride. And her stomach knotted each time she remembered Nicolas’s: Get it out of your system now. She scanned the groups for Nicolas and saw him standing around a fire with other soldiers.

“Where have you been?” Gloria said. “I thought you would miss the dancing.”

Papa eyed her. “The time you took has paid off. You look beautiful, mi’ja.”

Fernanda leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Papa, I’ll tell you about it later. I visited the Yuma village.”

A series of expressions crossed her father’s face: surprise, curiosity, something close to anger, and then, with a shake of his head, resignation.

Fernanda bit her lip. She was truly a troublesome daughter. Poor Papa.

Señor Gonzales handed his guitar to Fernanda. “Here, Fernanda. You play. My fingers need a rest.”

Fernanda strummed a few songs while the last of the colonists joined the party. The musicians picked up the pace of their music. Fernanda, unable to keep up with them, handed the guitar back to Señor Gonzales. Feliciana again went to the center of the circle, and her feet moved in intricate steps to the hard, fast strums of the guitar. A man joined her, stepping and clapping with his hands in the air as he circled around her. More people jumped in, and soon the area was swirling with dancers.

Fernanda leaped up and grabbed her father’s hand. “Come, Papa. You must dance, too.”

Papa chuckled and shook his head. “Me? No, no. I’m too old for such things.”

Fernanda purposefully puffed out her lower lip. “If you don’t dance, neither will I, and you’ll spoil all my fun.”

Papa slapped his palm across his chest. “Ah, mi’ja. You know how to wrench your poor father’s heart. We shall dance.”

Fernanda kissed his cheek then pulled him into the middle of the clapping stomping dancers. Feliciana twirled past. Then Gloria. Micaela looped her arm through Papa’s, swung him around, and moved on. Papa caught the excitement and wove through the crowd, performing a fancy jig that made Fernanda gasp with laughter. She had never seen her father so unfettered.

She skipped and danced, looping arms with Feliciana, Señor Feliz, and Luis. Then Miguel hooked her arm, and they swung around and around, Fernanda laughing and squealing. He grabbed her hands, and they kicked through the crowd. He twirled her, then put his hand at her waist and guided her around the other dancers. She dropped her head back, staring up at the swirling stars, her heart bursting free. What a glorious evening! She spun past Nicolas who stood at the edge of the dancers. Ramona stood next to him, talking and wiggling her hips, probably trying to entice him to dance. But he only had eyes for Fernanda. As Fernanda tried to wave to him, Miguel gripped both her hands and swung her across the circle.

Oh, I should stop and pull Nicolas in to the dance, she thought. But she was having too much fun. And Miguel… his eyes… his touch…

A hand clutched her arm. Her smile faltered as she turned to see Nicolas, his eyes full of hatred, staring at Miguel. He said to her, “It isn’t proper for you to dance with other men when we’re betrothed.”

Fernanda’s chest heaved from the exertion of dancing. Her head still spun, and she pressed her palm against her forehead.

Miguel placed his hand at the small of her back as if to steady her, and Nicolas’s hold on her arm tightened.

She yanked her arm free and stepped away from both men. “There’s no shame in dancing, Nicolas. You can’t keep telling me what I can and can’t do! And I’d prefer to discuss our affairs in private. Besides, we’re not officially betrothed.”

Nicolas’s face drained of color, pale like the moon against a dark sky. “Fine,” he said between clenched teeth. “Let’s discuss it. Now. Away from here.”

“That’s ridiculous. Huh! We’re in the middle of a fandango.” She had forced the laugh, but tears of anger and desperation choked her words. She glanced at Miguel and saw the hatred for Nicolas radiating from his face, his entire body. Oh, why had she let this happen?

“I see. Now I’m ridiculous.” Behind Nicolas’s glare, his hurt was obvious. “Sometimes I don’t know who you are, Fernanda.”

“Perhaps that’s your problem,” Miguel said.

Nicolas clenched his fists. “What did you say?”

“I said that is your problem. You don’t know who she is. You treat her as if you own her. Soldier.” Miguel spat the word in his usual way.

“You can’t speak to me that way, you worthless—“

“Who is worthless — soldier?” Miguel’s lips twisted, as if he might snarl.

Nicolas’s face all but exploded in a fury of red. “I’ve had enough of your insolent ways, you spineless coward.”

“We’ll see who’s the coward.”

And before Fernanda could stop them, the two men were in the dirt, rolling and punching, grunting and cursing. The music and dancing stopped.

Fernanda screamed. “Stop, please stop!”

Nicolas slammed his fist into Miguel’s eye. Miguel punched Nicolas in the stomach and then in the mouth. Papa and another man ran over and tried to break up the fight. Two soldiers jumped in, one grabbing Miguel, the other Nicolas, and pulled them away from each other. One of Miguel’s eyes was beginning to swell, and Nicolas’s lip and nose were bleeding. A soldier shoved Miguel away so hard he stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet. Both soldiers helped Nicolas walk back to the barracks.

Papa called, “Play, play! Everything’s fine. Continue with the fandango.” And then to Fernanda, he said, “Mi’ja, come sit with me by the fire.”

“I’m sorry,” Miguel said to Fernanda. His swollen eye was now just a slit. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. It’s just him… how he treats you.”

Fernanda, hurt and saddened the beautiful night was ruined and disgusted with both men, could barely bring herself to look at Miguel. “I thought you were sick of all fighting,” she said, and then, with her back to him said, “Papa, I’m tired. I think I’ll return to the tent.”

Papa took her elbow and escorted her away. Over his shoulder he said to Miguel, “You’d best see to that eye before it’s completely swollen shut.”

Alone in her tent, Fernanda sank onto her mat and dropped her head into her hands. Her head ached, probably from the wine, but her heart still pounded in her chest from anger and humiliation. Santa Maria! She’d had enough of both men. Not men — children, little boys. She ran her fingers through her hair, and then yanked on the ribbons, trying to rip them from her hair. But she only made her headache worse.

She took a deep breath and began to unravel her braid. It made her feel ill to see either one of them hurt. But each time she thought of their foolish, ridiculous behavior, she became furious all over again.

Before the fight, though… dancing with Miguel had been like floating on happiness. She hadn’t wanted it to end. And he’d defended her against Nicolas’s controlling ways. Why couldn’t Nicolas have let them be? She would have danced with him once the next song began.

Fernanda stretched out on the mat and stared at the roof of the tent. She knew Nicolas truly loved her, but he shouldn’t have fought with Miguel. And then the words she’d thrown at Nicolas about their marriage hit her with a cold wave of guilt. She may as well have slapped his face in front of Miguel and the entire expedition. He infuriated her, but he didn’t deserve that. He owed her an apology, but she owed him one as well. Tomorrow, she’d tell him she was sorry, and she hoped he’d say the same to her.

As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered how Miguel was doing, if Gloria was taking care of his eye, if he’d be able to see out of it in the morning, and if he was thinking of her at all…

Chapter Thirteen