December 4-19, 1775
The icy wind ripped Fernanda’s rebozo from her frozen fingers. She snatched it back, clutched it under her chin, and hunched over Ignacio, trying to protect him from the wind’s ferocious attack. With two wool petticoats layered over the cotton one, wool gloves, and a wool cloak, she was still cold.
Squeezing her calves into Aletta’s sides, urging the mule forward, she stared across the plain at the mountains that loomed ahead. Clouds slumped like bundles of wet dark wool over the snowy peaks. If it was cold now, what would it be like in the mountains?
More than a week had passed since the fandango. Fernanda had completely forgotten to bring a gift to Aqwaq. All she could think about was Nicolas, and Miguel, and what had happened at the dance.
She winced as another blast of wind stung her cheeks. During the past week, at least ten horses had died from the freezing temperatures. A few emaciated Indians, so different from the Pimas and Yumas with their smiles and warmth, came down from the mountain and stole two more. Soldiers recovered them, but Fernanda didn’t blame the Indians. She imagined trying to survive in this cold, barren land. Miguel continued to question the Indians they encountered, and Fernanda kept a spark of hope alive.
Luis rode up to her, his nose red and lips white, his face raw and chapped from the cold. “Captain Anza is halting the train up ahead. He says there’s no use going on in this wind.”
Fernanda nodded, and Luis continued spreading the word to the other travelers. Since they had split into three divisions, he found every opportunity to help the captain and soldiers, probably hoping to prove himself to the soldiers he admired.
The colonists stopped near a marshy area with grass and underground springs. After soldiers dug wells for the animals, Fernanda crossed the spongy ground to take Aletta for a drink. Cold water seeped through her leather shoes, and she climbed onto the mule. While the mule sucked up water, Fernanda breathed onto her hands and wondered how Nicolas was faring. Was he staying warm? He’d been trained for hardship, so he should be fine. But her shoulders sagged, heavy with worry for his welfare, and guilt for what she’d said to him at the fandango.
The wind calmed some, and the travelers quickly set up camp, deciding to share tents because of scarce firewood. Feliciana and her girls joined Fernanda’s family, Gloria and Miguel stayed with the Gonzaleses, and the Gutiérrezes shared the Feliz tent.
Before daylight ended, gray clouds rolled across the sky like tumbleweeds, crashing and clinging together until they covered the sky in one dark mass. Fernanda imagined the clouds as giant canvas bags, filled and ready to burst with their burden of stinging snow. What would it be like to be surrounded by something so cold, so frozen? How did the Indians, with their scant clothing, survive? Well, they do, Fernanda thought. So we will, too, with our petticoats, trousers, and leather shoes.
As soon as Papa pounded the last stake into the ground, the wind began to blow. They scurried into the tent. Luis built a small fire, adding another piece of the precious wood only when the last log crumbled into a few red and black coals.
The young children drifted off to sleep. Papa, Feliciana, Luis, and Fernanda stayed awake, too cold to sleep and wanting to keep the small fire burning for some warmth. The wind whistled through every small opening of the tent. Well into the night, their wood ran low, and Luis ventured outside to find more.
He popped back inside, a flurry of snowflakes chasing him into the tent. “It’s snowing!”
Fernanda dashed to the tent opening. Nothing was visible except the slanting curtain of slushy snowflakes that stung her face. She flung the flap closed and hurried back to the fire, wiping the melting snow from her face, her cheeks as cold as the icy drops.
“We may not travel tomorrow if this weather continues,” Papa said.
“I hope not,” Fernanda said. “The children can’t ride in this wind and snow.” She glanced at the others, their faces sagging with fatigue, thin and old-looking — even Luis — from the poor food and bad weather. She must look the same. Her skirt hung looser around her waist with each passing day. She forced a smile and said, “At least we don’t have to worry about a water shortage.”
Papa chuckled softly. “That’s true, mi’ja, that’s true. Now let’s try to get some sleep.”
Fernanda snuggled under the blanket with Ignacio. Listening to the moaning wind, she stared into the last glowing coals of the fire. If they stayed there tomorrow, perhaps the three divisions would be reunited. She never liked the idea of separating the expedition. And Nicolas… The way they parted saddened her and caused a gnawing in her stomach that never quite went away.
A blast of wind shook the tent flap and a small drift of snow snuck inside. Fernanda held Ignacio closer. She couldn’t lessen her fear of the cold mountain passes that awaited them. She closed her eyes and pictured her home and garden in Tubac, her mother in the heat of the summer kitchen preparing dinner. The memory squeezed her heart. No, no. She wouldn’t think of that. She forced her mind to create other images — green hills, rich earth, sunshine — all she’d been told to expect in California. Eventually, she fell asleep.
****
Fernanda awoke, shivering. Frosty light seeped through the canvas walls. Yawning, she slipped away from Ignacio, deciding to find some wood before the others wakened. She put on her shoes, cloak, and gloves, draped her rebozo over her head, and tiptoed out of the tent, stopping short at the sight of the snow.
Although the sky was overcast with a steel gray, she squinted against the glaring whiteness that covered the ground, rocks, and shrubs. All was as bright as an expanse of sand in the sunlight, but oh, so cold! And so quiet. Once, wishing for privacy away from her family, she'd snuck to the back room of their hut and covered her ears to seal out all noise. Still she'd heard something: her breathing, her heartbeat, her thoughts. But here, now, there was not a single sound.
She stepped across the frozen ground, the crunch of her footsteps breaking the cottony silence. At the well, each blade of grass was covered in its own icy sheath. The watering holes were coated in a thin layer of transparent ice. She threw a stone, and it cracked the ice into an intricate web then disappeared into the dark jagged hole. A twig snapped behind her. She took in a sharp cold breath when she saw Miguel approaching. He, too, wore a wool cloak and gloves.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Fernanda pulled her rebozo tightly around her head and shoulders. “It’s so cold, but the snow is beautiful. I had no idea it would look like this.”
“Yes, it is beautiful. I thought this morning, how can something so wondrous be so harsh?” Miguel picked up a rock, aimed it at the hole Fernanda had created, and shot it straight through. They grinned at each other like two children sharing in their own secret game. There was an awkward silence. Fernanda picked a blade of frozen grass.
Miguel said, “Since water isn’t a problem any longer, the captain’s decided to wait for the other divisions.”
“Oh! I think that will be much better for us to travel again as a group.”
“You’re concerned about Nicolas.” It wasn’t a question.
“For him and all the soldiers.”
“He said you and he were betrothed.”
Fernanda heard the tension behind his deliberate even tone. She took a step toward the icy well. Could her face be so hot in the midst of all this cold? “And I said no final decision had been made.”
“It is your decision to make, correct?”
She snapped her head toward him in anger. But she thought, How does he always seem to know my deepest concerns?
When she gave no reply, he said, “Fernanda, I didn’t mean… it’s just…” He rubbed his face and quietly groaned.
Something about his manner, his tone, made Fernanda’s heart quicken.
“It’s just, I wondered if you were truly betrothed because…“ Miguel took her hand. His sculpted face seemed to have softened, his eyes the color of dark cocoa and just as warm. He bent his head closer to her face. “Fernanda, I—”
His breath was hot against her lips. He kissed her, and in spite of the cold, his lips were heated, a soft flame against her own, and she wanted the kiss to go on forever. He put his arms around her, pulling her close, deepening the kiss, and she relaxed, melting, her body tingling like it did when she bathed in the river, only she was warm not cold.
Excited shouts echoed from the camp. Fernanda pushed away from Miguel, but let her hands linger on his chest.
Emboldened, his eyes ignited, he grasped her hand and tried to pull her back.
But she shook her head, taking a step toward camp. “The others have discovered the snow,” she said.
“Fernanda, there are things we need to discuss.”
Not now. Not now. “I must go help with breakfast. They’ll be looking for me.”
“Promise me we’ll talk. Soon.”
“Miguel, I can’t think straight. I-I… yes, yes, I promise.” Then she asked gently, “Are you coming?”
“No, I’ll gather firewood for tonight.” As she walked away, Miguel said, “Fernanda, I can’t apologize because I’m not sorry. But, I must know. Are you angry?”
Fernanda stopped and said, “No, Miguel. I’m not angry.” She fought the impulse to run back into his arms, to feel his lips against hers once more, to be so close their hearts beat one against the other…
Miguel took a step toward her, but she quickly walked back to camp. If not for the snow, she would have skipped. She said his name in her mind. Miguel, Miguel! Then she thought, What about Nicolas? And she didn’t know whether to cry or shout for joy.
Later that day, a whispering snow fell. Fernanda, her brothers, and the other children danced around, trying to catch snowflakes in their hands or on their tongues. Antonio scooped up a handful of snow and threw it at Marcos. Other boys and girls joined in, their puffy breaths mingling with the falling snow.
Feathery snowflakes lighted on Fernanda’s eyelashes and cheeks. She held out her arms, and the frosty crystals drifted onto her upturned palms. Miguel was right. How could something so light and delicate contain such coldness? She hadn’t seen Miguel since the morning and wondered where he’d been all day. Her body tingled at the memory of his kiss, of his soft lips. How different his kiss had been from Nicolas’s where she’d felt… nothing. She imagined kissing Miguel again…
A snowball hitting her back knocked Miguel and Nicolas from her mind. Laughing, she scooped up a handful of snow and aimed for Antonio.
Luis ran up, calling, “The men from the second division have arrived! They’re weak and frozen, and the cattle, many of them died.”
Fernanda followed Luis to the returning soldiers. They limped into camp, some holding up comrades who were crippled from the storm. Others slumped forward on the saddles of scraggy horses. After nearly two weeks of fighting snow and wind and ice, their uniforms hung loose on their gaunt bodies.
“Fifteen saddle animals are either lost or dead,” one man said in a raspy voice.
Sergeant Grijalba helped a soldier, a private, his face as gray as the sky, from his horse. “The storm caught us on the road. We decided to march forward instead of taking the chance of being trapped in more severe conditions.” The sergeant coughed and briefly leaned against the horse. “We didn’t lose any men. But Aquino,” he nodded at the pale soldier. “I fear for his health. We need blankets and a fire. Is there a tent we can take him to?”
This dying soldier could be Nicolas, Fernanda thought. Where was he? Was he safe? “There are no barracks here,” she said. “Only families. You may bring him to our tent. We have room and enough blankets.”
Fernanda led the way to the tent, asking people to gather wood and bring it to her. As she approached the tent, she saw Miguel stacking wood near the opening.
“I’ve brought you wood for the night.” His voice was neutral, but, as much as he might be trying to hide it, his desire for her, his yearning, flickered across his face.
Fernanda felt it, too, and wished to run into his arms. And then her attention snapped back to the private. “Thank you, Miguel! We need the wood for this poor man. You should see them all. They’re ravaged from the snow storm.” She opened the tent flap. “Take him in,” she told the soldiers.
As they carried the gaunt man past Miguel, his mouth twisted, and Fernanda realized he reacted to all soldiers in the same way. At Casa Grande he’d said they were no better than Apaches. Why did he think that?
She gestured at the sick man. “Miguel…” How could he be so cruel?
The anger in Miguel’s eyes had returned, but they were also full of anguish when he said, “You don’t understand… it’s what they did…” He glared at the uniformed backs of the men as they disappeared into the tent. “I can’t—” And then he stomped away, his hands clenched at his sides.
Fernanda started to call him back, but the other soldiers came out of the tent, and she went inside. Luis had built up a fire, and as Fernanda wrapped blankets around the prostrate soldier, she worried about Nicolas, hoping he was safe, and wondering when he would return. She thought about Miguel, what he had meant, what it was that she didn’t understand. Would he or Gloria ever tell her? Then her thoughts returned to Nicolas, and the knot of worry in her stomach tightened.
She stayed at the soldier’s side. The tent heated up, and Fernanda wiped her hand across her sweating upper lip. She hadn’t been so warm for weeks. Slowly, color returned to the soldier’s face, and within a few hours, he was talking and sipping water.
****
Two days later, as Fernanda collected wood, a horse straggled into camp carrying a stiff, shivering soldier. She ran to him, saw other soldiers following, and shouted back to the camp, “The third division! Please help, the third division has arrived.”
Lieutenant Moraga rode up as other campers rushed to help.
“Are all the men here?” Fernanda asked, looking at each soldier.
The lieutenant said, “I can’t hear well. The cold, so painful. We were caught in the severest part of the storm, but we continued to march rather than be buried in the snow. My men need water and warmth. Some are frozen and, I fear, close to death.”
Another horse trailed into camp, stumbling, even though the emaciated soldier it carried couldn’t have been a heavy burden. Then Fernanda saw it was Nicolas. She rushed to him and gasped at the sight of his pale face, cracked lips, and stiff limbs. Oh, God, she prayed, please don’t let him die. She grabbed the reins and quickly led the horse to her tent. Nicolas groaned, but he didn’t seem to recognize her.
Her family, Feliciana, and others came and went, but Fernanda never left Nicolas’s side. She kept the fire going and blankets tucked around him. As the hours passed, he remained unconscious.
Alone in the tent, she cried while rubbing Nicolas’s hands and laying her palms on his cold face. What if he didn’t get well? What if he should die? She wept. Nicolas had loved her, cared for her, and all she’d done was treat him poorly. Touching his face, watching his shallow breathing, she prayed, Please, God, please let him live. She promised she would… she would—
A sudden realization struck her like a blast of frosty air. Nicolas, such a good man and a dear, dear friend. But that’s what she felt for him, the compassion and love she would for a beloved friend. She didn’t love him as a wife should love her husband. She closed her eyes against a wave of dizziness. No, she didn’t love him and never had.
“Nicolas,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. Nicolas, please get well. Please.” Her eyes burned from weeping. She wanted to cry again, to have that relief, but she had shed all her tears.
There was a stirring behind her, and someone entered the tent. “Fernanda,” Miguel said quietly.
Her sorrow for Nicolas couldn’t keep her heart from skipping at the sound of Miguel’s voice. She glanced over her shoulder and said, “Come in.”
“How is he?” Miguel asked.
She placed her hand on Nicolas’s shoulder. “He hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“He’ll be fine. The other soldiers are slowly recovering.”
His manner, his complete lack of sympathy, made her catch her breath. How could he be so caring and gentle one moment, and then act like this, as cold as the snow that covered the ground? Was it jealousy? Fernanda’s face burned.
They hadn’t had a chance to speak further after their kiss… to speak of any feelings between them, but she knew they both felt… something… Even now, as her anger and confusion grew, his closeness spread a warmth through her body that made her want to feel his touch as she had at Casa Grande, at the fandango, at the well. But what was the fury he carried inside that stomped out his other, loving self?
She stood and whispered fiercely, “I know you and Nicolas don’t like each other. But it’s not just him. It’s all soldiers. Why, Miguel? Why such anger, such hatred? What is it? What?”
Miguel’s jaw stiffened, and he turned as if to leave.
“You seem to be two different people, Miguel.” Fernanda softened her tone. “I-I care about you—”
He froze.
“—and… and Gloria. I want to understand.”
Miguel hesitated. Then he swung around. “Fine. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you my story.” He slapped his chest. “My sad story I wish to forget but can’t because I’m surrounded by reminders—” He jerked his hand at Nicolas “—every day.” He began pacing around the tent. “Like your parents, my father was Spanish, my mother Indian, a Papago. Both my parents wanted to be known as Spaniards, and they taught Gloria and me nothing about the Papagos. When I grew older, I wanted to know more about my ancestry. I became friendly with a nearby village of Papagos, learning their language, their traditions. Later, I fell in… I met a young woman, Hahth. We—” He closed his eyes briefly “—we wanted to marry.”
Fernanda breathed in sharply. He-he was in love with another? They were married? She twisted the material of her skirt around her fingers.
Miguel continued. “Of course, I wanted my parents’ blessing, and I finally convinced them to come to the village with me. We shared food with Hahth and her family. I thought things were going well. Then—” Miguel choked and swallowed. “Then three or four young Papago men galloped into the village. They shouted soldiers were coming, angry soldiers. There was danger.”
Fernanda swung her head back to Miguel, her jealousy forgotten.
Miguel rushed his words as if he couldn’t bear to keep them in his mouth. “The villagers scattered, screaming. Soldiers charged into the village, shouting something about horse thieves.” He rubbed his hand across his face and moaned. “By the time they passed through the village, many of the people were dead, mostly young men, but women, too. Including my parents and Hahth.” Miguel pounded his fists on his thighs. “Dead! Little children left orphaned, crying, screaming for their parents, seeing them lying there broken and bleeding!”
“Miguel,” Fernanda whispered. “I’m so sorry. Why? Why did the soldiers kill the villagers? Why did they kill your parents?”
Miguel paced again, his hands clenched into fists. “There was much confusion — people running and screaming. As the soldiers swung their swords, they shouted, ‘Apache horse thieves!’ But nobody there was Apache, and no one had stolen horses. A soldier attacked me.” He touched the scar on his face. “I fought him off, only wanting to get everyone — my parents, Hahth and her family — to safety. I lost sight of them. Later, I found them, but by then, it was too late. They were dead.”
“ Oh, Miguel! What of Gloria? Was she there? Did she see your parents die?”
“No. They had insisted she stay at home.” His face paled as if he might be ill. “If I’d lost her too…”
Fernanda cried into her hands. So horrible. Poor Miguel. Poor Gloria. She wanted to go back to the time before this terrible journey. Why did they come? Why did Mama die? How she wished Mama were here! She stumbled to Miguel and grasped his hand. “I’m sorry, Miguel. I’m so sorry.”
Miguel stood over Nicolas, his lip curling as if he would spit on him, or worse. “Now you understand my hatred of the Spanish soldiers.”
She wiped her eyes as his words penetrated her shock. “But Miguel, Nicolas didn’t kill your parents.”
“They’re all the same. War and killing are all they know.” His eyes blazed, wet with tears. “I don’t understand how you can love him. A soldier’s wife? No, Fernanda, that can’t be your life.”
Fernanda stepped back. His lack of compassion. His blind hatred of all soldiers. And now, telling her what was right for her. “You can’t tell me what my life can or can’t be. Don’t think you know so much about me.” She glanced at Nicolas, who remained asleep, and she lowered her voice, still tense. “I told you our marriage wasn’t decided, but now it is. Even though, after this terrible illness it’ll be cruel and heartless to tell him, I won’t marry him. I won’t marry at all. I never wanted to marry, and that’s as true now as it ever was. Why can’t everyone simply leave me alone? I just want to be left alone!” Her voice had risen, and now she ran back to Nicolas, afraid she’d disturbed him, but he hadn’t stirred. She knelt down at his side, draped her arms across his chest, and cried.
Miguel, who’d walked to the tent opening, said, his voice now gentle, “You told me once, Fernanda, when we first met, I was wrong to isolate myself from others. Now I’m telling you love, and marriage, with-with the right person, doesn’t have to be a prison.”
To Fernanda, sick with anger, sorrow, and confusion, his words were meaningless, and she said nothing. Miguel started to speak again, but the words caught in his throat, and he left the tent.