Fernanda sat on a log, watching Ignacio dig in the dirt. Three weeks had passed since Mama’s death. The image of her mother in the water, always in her mind, still nauseated her. Had Mama suffered? Did she struggle to save herself, hoping someone would come to her aid? Or did she, please God, fall unconscious the minute she hit her head? When her body was lowered into the grave and sprinkled with the white lime that would hasten her return to the earth, Fernanda had turned away. But the scrape of the shovel and the thud of dirt would echo in her head for the rest of her life.
Her shoulders drooped. Her body seemed to be pulled down into the very ground that held her mother. She should prepare the noon meal, but she couldn’t raise the energy to stand. No one seemed hungry anyway, and her brothers only complained about the food she prepared. Didn’t they realize she was trying her best? Did they ever offer to help? No, of course not. The woman must do everything. Fernanda rubbed her eyes. She shouldn’t bicker with them. Instead she should try to comfort them. Poor Papa needed her help.
She peered up at the roof where Papa repaired the holes he had neglected since that horrible day. He had sat in a chair every day for a week, as if only half-alive, waiting for the sun to set, waiting for another day to pass. Now, at least, he was doing something, although his heart didn’t seem to be in it.
The sound of trotting hooves broke into her thoughts. Nicolas rode up, tied his horse to a post, and then sat next to her.
Ignacio called, “Nic’las, look!” He held up a stone, the sparkling fool’s gold glinting in the sun.
Nicolas waved, and then caressed Fernanda’s hand. “How are you faring?”
She shrugged.
“Fernanda.” Nicolas lifted her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “I know you have much sorrow. But your family needs your help. You must be the one who brings their lives back to normal.”
She jerked her head away. Always telling me what I must do. “Why does it have to be me? The boys do nothing to help.” Dropping her head onto her lap, she began to weep. “I’m not prepared for this. Oh, I miss Mama, I miss her so much.”
Nicolas wrapped his arms around her, and Fernanda cried into his chest. They’d never been so close, but the sun-warmed wool of his jacket and the smells it had absorbed — horses, leather, tobacco — comforted her. At least for a few minutes, her mind didn’t have to think, her heart didn’t have to feel.
Nicolas rubbed his cheek against her hair and murmured, “We’ll deal with this tragedy together, my love.”
Fernanda wiped her tears with the back of her hand and released a long shaky breath. She gently pushed away from Nicolas. He truly was a good man. She’d never had a chance to talk to him about their wedding plans. And now…
As if hearing her thoughts, he said, “I know, in deference to your mother, our marriage will have to be delayed. I understand, Fernanda, and we have ample time to discuss it before the expedition departs.”
The expedition. California. Now it seemed like a silly girl’s dream. How could she marry Nicolas and live in far-off California? She couldn’t leave Papa to care for the boys by himself. And what kind of life would she lead in Tubac with Nicolas gone, the boys to care for, the house, the chores, all on her shoulders? Guilt washed over her, prickling her skin like dried suds from the soapberry fruit. How could she think about her own happiness and dreams? Poor Papa… her brothers… little Ignacio without a mother… Still, she couldn’t help picturing herself trapped inside the small adobe hut, year after year, until she was a gray shriveled old woman.
Unlike Ramona, who had been sure to let Fernanda know Ramona’s father, a lieutenant, had joined the expedition, and her entire family would be going to California. Casually, cruelly, mentioning it at Mama’s funeral while sliding glances toward Nicolas. But what did that matter now?
Nicolas was right about her family. She gazed around the yard, trying to see through eyes unclouded by grief. Ignacio’s shirt was torn and dirty, his face smudged with dust. The firewood needed stacking. Broken sections of fence left the weed-filled garden unprotected. Flies buzzed around the filthy mule’s eyes.
“Yes, Nicolas,” she said. “I’ve been hiding in my sorrow. I must pull the family back together.” Her head throbbed with the responsibility, and she forced away more tears. As for Nicolas, she’d talk to him about their marriage, that there would be no marriage, later.
Ignacio shouted, “Nanda, look!” He bounced on top of a boulder, pointing toward the road that ran a short distance past the hut.
Nicolas leaped up from the log. “It’s Captain Anza with the recruits from Horcasitas.”
Fernanda picked up Ignacio and walked to the fence for a closer look. She glanced up at the roof to see if Papa was watching, but there was no sign of him.
Nicolas joined her. “At long last, they’re here,” he said. “We’ll be setting out for the journey within the month, no doubt, sooner with any luck.”
Fernanda studied the entourage as they passed, and her heart came alive for the first time since her mother’s death. If only Mama were there to see. She bounced Ignacio in her arms. “Look, Nacio! These people will travel all the way to California.”
“Cows, too?”
Fernanda pressed her cheek against his. “Yes, the cows, too.”
Captain Anza led the travelers, and she had no doubt he was, indeed, Juan Bautista de Anza. He rode high on his horse, his back straight with authority. His entire being seemed to point the way forward: his jutting beard, his intent gaze, his long narrow nose. Three Franciscan priests, dressed in brown, dusty-hemmed robes and sandals, rode with him. Two wore wide-brimmed hats. The third, his scalp shaved except for a ring of hair encircling his head like a halo, spoke earnestly to the captain.
“The priest talking to Captain Anza is Father Pedro Font,” Nicolas said. “He’s renowned for his knowledge of geography and will record the latitudes and longitudes for the captain.” Nicolas snorted. “Yes, a learned man. But more often a hindrance than a help with his irritating, complaining ways.”
“What of the other priests?”
“Fray Antonio Garcés accompanied Anza on the first expedition to Monte Rey in Alta California. On this trip, he and Fray Tomás Eixarch will only go as far as the northern region of the Rio Colorado.”
Fernanda’s head buzzed with the names: Monte Rey — King’s Mountain, Rio Colorado — Red River, conjuring visions of strange and wonderful new lands.
Nicolas, with soldierly authority, said, “There are approximately 170 people, including families, soldiers, muleteers, and vaqueros. The captain hopes to add at least seventy more here at Tubac. There are also three Indian interpreters.”
“The colonists will have close contact with Indians?” Fernanda asked.
“Yes, on last year’s expedition, the Yumas and Pimas were helpful to the soldiers.”
Pimas — Mama’s tribe. Oh, for a chance to see them. A girl Fernanda’s age rode past, and she imagined being in the girl’s place. If she did meet the Pimas, would she be able to communicate with them? What would they look like? Like Mama? Like her?
Nicolas’s voice broke into her daydream, relating more statistics. “Those pack mules, 165 of them, carry the provisions: food, tents, arms, and presents for the Indians. The vaqueros are herding more than three hundred cattle and the same number of horses. Half the cattle will be used for food on the journey, the other half for the missions in California.”
Ignacio squirmed in her arms, and when she set him on the ground, he waved to the travelers, shouting, “Hola. Hola!”
The colonists were not the uplifting parade of adventurers Fernanda had expected. They slumped on their horses, swatted flies from their faces, and scratched their scalps. A few of the women were with child.
Two people stood out, though: a young man and a girl, both riding beautiful horses, he a black and she a dapple gray. The girl waved at Ignacio, sidled her horse closer to them, and called, “Buenos dias.”
The young man called to her, “Gloria, stay with the group.”
The girl hesitated then trotted up to Ignacio, dug in her saddlebag, and handed him a wooden top. Ignacio took it and stared at it as if it were a golden treasure. Fernanda put her hands on her brother’s shoulders. “What do you say, Ignacio?”
“Gracias!” He squatted on the ground and spun the top.
“How kind of you,” Fernanda said to the girl. “How has your journey—?”
“Gloria.” The young man called, riding over to them, his face tight. “I told you not to wander off by yourself.”
“I only wanted to give this little boy one of my tops,” she said.
“You certainly pleased him. Thank you, again,” Fernanda said.
The man seemed to just notice Fernanda, and for a brief moment his face lost its hard edge. His eyes widened, his lips parted. Then his dark complexion flushed when he appeared to realize he was staring.
Fernanda felt her own face grow hot. Her heart skipped, causing her to catch her breath. The man’s straight, thick black hair was barely contained in a queue at the back of his neck. Sweat stained his shirt that, though dirty, looked to be of the finest cotton the way it draped over his broad chest and muscular arms.
His full lips closed into a hard line, and she forced her eyes away from his. Nicolas was scowling at the other man, and he stepped closer to Fernanda and held her elbow possessively.
The young man glared back at Nicolas, a sneer twisting his mouth. “Come, Gloria.” He reined his horse around sharply and trotted off. Gloria waved goodbye and then followed him.
“Insolent…” Nicolas mumbled some other unintelligible words as he and Fernanda watched them ride away.
”The girl was sweet, though,” she said.
“Yes, and it will be a long journey for her traveling at the side of such an impertinent swine.”
Fernanda shook her shoulders slightly, still feeling the man’s stare, how it had seemed to grip her, how she’d been unable to look away…
****
Later that evening, Fernanda lay on her bed with Ignacio in her arms. Papa sat outside as he had every night since Mama’s death. Stifled by sadness and heat, hoping Papa would like some company, Fernanda slipped off the bed and tiptoed outside.
Her father sat on a log, staring across the desert, loosely holding his tin cigarette box on his lap. Fernanda slid the box from his hands, opened it, and rolled a cigarro for him. Almost every night, her mother had done the same, presenting the cigarro to him as she would to an honored guest, except for the loving, caressing touch of her hand on his.
Papa took the box from Fernanda and removed the flint, steel, and cotton wick. Holding the cigarro between his lips, he struck the flint against the steel until a spark caught the wick, and he lit the tobacco. In the flare of the fire, Fernanda glimpsed his heavy-lidded eyes. He inhaled deeply then breathed out, letting the smoke escape in a cloud around his head. “Mi’ja,” he said, picking up her hand.
“Yes, Papa?” Fernanda tried to peer into his eyes, but they were lost again in the darkness and smoke.
“I watched Captain Anza and the colonists trail past our house today.”
Ah, he had seen them.
“I thought of the new life they’ll have in California.” His voice choked, and he dropped his head in his hands. “There’s nothing here for us now. I can’t face each day, seeing the familiar places, expecting your mother to call us to our meal, to join me here as we talk and gaze at the stars.”
“Papa,” Fernanda whispered and touched his shoulder.
He raised his head and said, “I’m prepared to take the family on this journey. Do you still think that’s best?”
The old excitement tugged at her stomach, but it quickly passed. Nothing could replace the hollow, aching feeling of knowing her mother was gone forever. “Whatever you wish, Papa. I’ll do whatever you wish.”
Papa again gazed out at the desert. “Did you know your mother was fourteen when we met? I was a twenty-year-old soldier in the king’s army.” A smile twitched on his lips. “I was brash and overconfident, apparently handsome to the ladies, and I enjoyed their attention. Then I met your mother, loving her the minute I gazed into her dark eyes, those eyes that told me she was wiser than any general who, in my mind at that time, were the wisest of all.”
Hearing Papa speak so openly about his feelings toward her mother brought a warmth of embarrassment to Fernanda’s face. But it made her feel closer to him and to Mama.
“Your mother lived with other Pimas at the Caborca mission,” Papa continued. “The Pimas called her Heosig — Flower — for the blossom-shaped birthmark on her cheek. As you know, her parents were killed by Apaches, although she was too young to remember the circumstances of their deaths. The priests raised her with other orphaned children.”
Poor Mama. Fernanda shivered despite the warm evening. Wanting to speak of happier things, she asked, “How did you and Mama come to marry, Papa?”
“I knew how the missions operated, structures put into place by the Jesuits. When boys and girls reached a certain age, marriage was arranged by the madores, the children’s supervisors.” Papa drew on his cigarro and blew smoke out into the night. “Understand, mi’ja. Most of the Indians at the mission had a strong Christian faith, including your mother. I believe they had little opportunity to practice their Pima traditions.” He ground the burning tobacco into the dirt. “Religion was the one thing my Pima princess—” His voice changed, as if his throat had closed, trying to stifle a sob “—my private endearment for your mother.” He seemed to recover, and continued. “It was the one thing your mother and I didn’t agree on.”
“Why, Papa?”
Her father hesitated. “There were rumors about the-the ploys the missionaries used to convert the Indians that angered me. And made me lose my faith. Your mother would have obeyed the priests and married the man they’d chosen, even though I knew she loved me. I was determined, so I hid my displeasure. The priests assumed I was still a Catholic, and they seemed to trust me, so they allowed her to marry me. When I retired from the military, the authorities granted me this piece of land, and I brought her here. We lived a beautiful life together.”
After a moment, Papa cleared his throat. “Mi’ja.”
“Yes, Papa?”
He coughed. “I understood from your mother… that is, she mentioned you and Nicolas were to marry soon, before the expedition departed.”
Poor Papa. He sounded so uncomfortable.
“That’s true, but now…” Fernanda said.
“Yes, now.” Papa hung his head, and then held Fernanda’s hand between his two rough palms. “Mi’ja, I must ask something of you, Nicolas, too. A young bride should devote herself to her husband. But I’ll need help on the expedition, especially with Ignacio. It will be a hard transition for him, making this journey without his mother. Can the two of you hold off on your marriage until we reach California? Once we are there, you, and all of us, can start fresh.”
“Of course, Papa. Of course. I’ll talk to Nicolas. I’m sure he’ll agree.”
So, she had gotten what she had wished for, but at what price? Her shoulders slumped with the sadness of it all. She missed Mama so much a sharp ache in her chest cut off her breath for a moment.
“I know so little about Mama’s past,” she said. “Many times she told me I was like her grandmother, but she never explained. Do you know what she meant?”
“When your mother married me, she cut all ties with the Pimas. Finally, one day, she said she wanted to tell me about a confusing and hurtful time in her childhood but made me promise to never speak of it again. I believe she wanted to relieve herself of the pain and then leave the past behind.
“After her parents died, the priests kept her at the mission rather than returning her to the Pima village. But they allowed her grandmother, Suhna, to visit her. She had a loving relationship with Suhna, and what she loved in her, she must have seen in you, mi’ja.
“But there came a time when her grandmother stopped visiting, and your mother kept that hurt to herself. When she grew older, she asked the priests what had become of her grandmother. The Jesuits told her Suhna had stolen your mother away in the dead of night and abandoned her in the desert. The priests found her and brought her back to the mission.”
“Abandoned her!” Fernanda imagined her mother’s shock at hearing those words. “Why would Great-grandmother leave Mama if they loved each other?”
“There is no good answer to your question. Even though your mother didn’t remember, she thought it must be true since Suhna stopped visiting her.”
“How sad Mama and Great-grandmother lost the love between them.”
Papa put his arm around Fernanda and held her close. “These things happen in families, and, unfortunately, they’re sometimes never resolved.”
Fernanda bowed her head, hiding fresh tears from Papa. She couldn’t bear to tell him how angry she’d been with Mama, or how she’d let Mama walk away with their argument unsettled. If she could only go back to that last morning when Mama had praised her cooking, had playfully pulled her braid, had reached out to her, she’d apologize to Mama. She’d tell Mama she and Nicolas would marry. She’d see the brightest joy on her mother’s face. But it was too late. “And… and Mama… never saw Great-grandmother again?”
“Your mother didn’t say, and I honored her wish and never spoke of it again. She had her own ways, as you know, few words and little expression. As you also know, behind her calm exterior face lay courage, wisdom, and love. Her spirit, mi’ja, will guide us on the journey to California.”
Was Mama’s spirit with them now? Was she there in the stars that filled the sky like tossed handfuls of glittering sand? Mama, I’ll make you proud of me. You’ll see. Promise you’ll watch over us.
Holding her father’s hand as they watched the moon rise, Fernanda wondered if Great-grandmother had truly been as wild as Mama said. She felt some kinship, some link to her great-grandmother since Mama had likened Fernanda to her. She didn’t believe Great-grandmother abandoned Mama. As surely as her blood flows in my veins, I know Great-grandmother loved you, Mama, and wouldn’t do such a thing. Something else must have happened.
The pain of her own unresolved fight with her mother wrenched her stomach. Somehow, she’d make it up to Mama. On the journey, she’d find out more about Mama and her people, Fernanda’s people. She’d ask every Pima she met about Heosig and Suhna. She’d learn the truth, and the truth would be a gift to Mama. Not only a gift, but an offering of the love she should have shown her mother the day she died.