his face in
my
hands and said, “
Y tu.
You also,” and I made Udell carry my rifle when he and Aubrey went home. As he mounted his horse I called, “Aim left a touch.”
After that, it seemed I carried the warmth of him in my hands, and as I curled up in bed that night, shivering, trying to warm up one spot before I stretched out, I folded my hands and told myself I could still feel the skin of Udell’s face. It was a guilty pleasure, craving the touch of his skin against mine. When I thought about it a little, I thought about it a lot. I wanted to press my cheek to his, and leave it there, and sleep, curled against him. If Jack walked in the door this very minute, I’d never think about Udell Hanna again, but Jack’s not going to do that. So I put my hands on my own face, remembering Udell’s hands and his face in the fabric of my own skin, and slept that way through the night, comforted.
This morning as I was headed out to feed the chickens, Rudolfo Maldonado rode up to my front porch. The sight of him gave me a start and I realized that I’d been looking for Udell. I pulled an old hat on, took my basket, and stepped off the porch toward the chicken coop. I wondered if he would tell me about what went on at his place without me asking. I wished my suspicions about him would quiet. Reckon once someone has crossed that line with me and I quit trusting them, they’re going to travel down a long, long road to get back to where I believe what they say.
Gussied up and grinning, Rudolfo swept off his hat, saying he’d come to beg my family, Albert’s family, and even Udell and his son, to come to his home Christmas Eve for a fiesta. I told him he’d have to ask each one, and that I’d not speak for others. I unwound the wire that held the pen shut and went inside.
Rudolfo watched me closely while I dumped out the hens’ trough and banged it against a post to knock the gravel and trash out of it. From the corner of my eye I saw him put his boot up on the chopping block I keep by the door of the coop and lean toward me. He said, “You should have some
peon
to do this, Sarah.” He let out a long breath and the steam came toward me.
“Well, I don’t,” I said as I measured mash in an old coffee can and spread it in three big streaks on the ground. The chickens all came a-running, making that waterfalling sound they do when they’re happily eating. When several minutes passed and Rudolfo said nothing else, I turned and looked him in the eye. The expression on his face was not the slick baldness of lying I’ve seen on him before. Instead, it was a shade of some unspoken sorrow. Regret, maybe, or pain.
It still rankles me to remember last summer. He’ll never know how close I came to accepting his marriage proposal only a few months ago. He had come to me saying he was planning to go into politics and needed a wife. He had all the land and cows in the area. I’d never worry another day of my life. I’d have had
peons
to feed my chickens,
cocineros
to fetch my supper,
caballeros
to tend my stock. Just in time, I’d found out he’d paid a man to tear up my south windmill and poison the water tanks. Why, I’d as soon be hung as marry the likes of Rudolfo after that.
Within days of my threatening Rudolfo with a shotgun, he had married a neighbor girl. Leta was the oldest daughter of the Cujillo family; probably had figured her life was to be a spinster, until her much older
vecino
suddenly chose her from the brood to be his
esposa.
I held fast to my feed bucket, keeping some distance between us, watching him study the chickens as they clustered around the hem of my skirt. After their honeymoon he had set off with some of his hired men for Vera Cruz and Mexico City, and was gone over a fortnight. His wife, all of twenty and two years old, was home by that time and holding a bucket of her own, sicker than any girl I ever knew with a baby coming. What I knew of her, I reckoned Leta Cujillo Maldonado made his
my
hands and said, “
Y tu.
You also,” and I made Udell carry my rifle when he and Aubrey went home. As he mounted his horse I called, “Aim left a touch.”
After that, it seemed I carried the warmth of him in my hands, and as I curled up in bed that night, shivering, trying to warm up one spot before I stretched out, I folded my hands and told myself I could still feel the skin of Udell’s face. It was a guilty pleasure, craving the touch of his skin against mine. When I thought about it a little, I thought about it a lot. I wanted to press my cheek to his, and leave it there, and sleep, curled against him. If Jack walked in the door this very minute, I’d never think about Udell Hanna again, but Jack’s not going to do that. So I put my hands on my own face, remembering Udell’s hands and his face in the fabric of my own skin, and slept that way through the night, comforted.
This morning as I was headed out to feed the chickens, Rudolfo Maldonado rode up to my front porch. The sight of him gave me a start and I realized that I’d been looking for Udell. I pulled an old hat on, took my basket, and stepped off the porch toward the chicken coop. I wondered if he would tell me about what went on at his place without me asking. I wished my suspicions about him would quiet. Reckon once someone has crossed that line with me and I quit trusting them, they’re going to travel down a long, long road to get back to where I believe what they say.
Gussied up and grinning, Rudolfo swept off his hat, saying he’d come to beg my family, Albert’s family, and even Udell and his son, to come to his home Christmas Eve for a fiesta. I told him he’d have to ask each one, and that I’d not speak for others. I unwound the wire that held the pen shut and went inside.
Rudolfo watched me closely while I dumped out the hens’ trough and banged it against a post to knock the gravel and trash out of it. From the corner of my eye I saw him put his boot up on the chopping block I keep by the door of the coop and lean toward me. He said, “You should have some
peon
to do this, Sarah.” He let out a long breath and the steam came toward me.
“Well, I don’t,” I said as I measured mash in an old coffee can and spread it in three big streaks on the ground. The chickens all came a-running, making that waterfalling sound they do when they’re happily eating. When several minutes passed and Rudolfo said nothing else, I turned and looked him in the eye. The expression on his face was not the slick baldness of lying I’ve seen on him before. Instead, it was a shade of some unspoken sorrow. Regret, maybe, or pain.
It still rankles me to remember last summer. He’ll never know how close I came to accepting his marriage proposal only a few months ago. He had come to me saying he was planning to go into politics and needed a wife. He had all the land and cows in the area. I’d never worry another day of my life. I’d have had
peons
to feed my chickens,
cocineros
to fetch my supper,
caballeros
to tend my stock. Just in time, I’d found out he’d paid a man to tear up my south windmill and poison the water tanks. Why, I’d as soon be hung as marry the likes of Rudolfo after that.
Within days of my threatening Rudolfo with a shotgun, he had married a neighbor girl. Leta was the oldest daughter of the Cujillo family; probably had figured her life was to be a spinster, until her much older
vecino
suddenly chose her from the brood to be his
esposa.
I held fast to my feed bucket, keeping some distance between us, watching him study the chickens as they clustered around the hem of my skirt. After their honeymoon he had set off with some of his hired men for Vera Cruz and Mexico City, and was gone over a fortnight. His wife, all of twenty and two years old, was home by that time and holding a bucket of her own, sicker than any girl I ever knew with a baby coming. What I knew of her, I reckoned Leta Cujillo Maldonado made his
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