“ESMERELDA! ARE you all right?”
Carmen was standing in the doorway, holding open the screen door. Esmé brushed past her and headed for the sink.
“Oh, hell,” she murmured, as she opened the cold-water tap. “I suppose everyone on the ranch saw me trip over my own feet!”
“Here, chica.” Carmen bustled to the sink, snatched up a dish towel and soaked it in the spill of icy water. “Put this on your forehead and sit down.”
“I’m fine, Mama.”
“Good. Now, sit down.”
“Honestly, I’m okay.”
“Must you argue about everything?” Carmen took her daughter’s arm, led her to the big oak table, gently pushed her into a chair. “Just sit here and let me take care of you.”
Esmé sighed. The truth was, her knees still felt as if they were made of noodles and there were little black dots dancing in front of her eyes.
“Thank you.”
Carmen clucked her tongue. “And it is not necessary for a daughter to thank her mother. Here. Drink this.”
Esmé took the glass from her hand. “Orange juice?”
“Sí. With sugar added, the way you liked it when you were small.”
“The way you wouldn’t let me drink it,” Esmé said, with a little smile. She sipped the cold, sweet liquid, felt it slide down her throat, where it seemed to collect in a blob too large to deal with. She swallowed very carefully, and put the glass down.
“Too much sugar?”
“No. I just … It’s the sun, Mama. I feel a little nauseous.”
“Ah. Well, take tiny sips, chica. Have you eaten anything today? I know you didn’t touch your breakfast … What is it?”
Esmé could feel the sweat on her forehead turning to icy beads. “Please. Don’t talk about breakfast.”
Carmen turned and looked at her daughter. She drew out a chair and sat down across from her.
“Did you feel sick then, too?” she asked softly. “This morning, I mean?”
Esmé nodded. “A little. Actually, I’ve been feeling queasy lately.” She brought the glass to her lips and took a cautious drink. “I guess that cowboy was right.”
“Which cowboy?”
“The kid who caught me before I could pass out.” She sighed and smiled at her mother over the rim of her glass. “He said it took time to get used to the heat and I said I didn’t have to get used to it, that I’d grown up here. But I’ve been away for so long….”
“Long enough to have involved yourself with a man like Rio de Santos.”
Esmé looked up. Her mother’s expression was unreadable, but her black eyes were flashing.
“Mama,” she said carefully, “I don’t want to discuss Rio de Santos.”
“No. I’m sure you do not.” Carmen got to her feet, took a cloth from the sink and began briskly wiping down the countertop. “What girl would wish to discuss her lover with her mother?”
“I’m not a girl. And Rio’s not my lover.”
“Not anymore, but surely, he was.”
“That’s the operative word, Mama. Was. Rio isn’t anything to me, not anymore.”
“No?” Carmen tossed the cloth into the sink and put her fists on her hips. “Then, what is he doing here, huh?”
“He came to buy horses.”
Carmen barked out a laugh. “Horses? You cannot be so blind, chica. He came here for you.”
“If he did, he’s wasting his time.” Esmé pushed back her chair and stood up. “I don’t want him.”
“A woman does not turn her back on a man like that. He is the kind who leaves a woman to weep into her pillow, alone.”
“That’s so old-fashioned it makes me … sick,” Esmé groaned, and ran for the bathroom.
Carmen gripped the edge of the sink. She closed her eyes, as if in supplication, though she feared her prayer was already too late.