Three Wishes by Lisa Tawn Bergren, Lisa T. Bergren Page A

obviously reading my expression. “Coming from Rancho Ventura, we could be kidnapped and held for ransom.”
    “I think it would be an adventure to be kidnapped,” Estrella said, looping her arm through mine.
    “Estie! Such silly words!” her sister chastised her.
    “It’s not silly, Frani. To want to see other places, meet new people. Why, Zara is the first new person I’ve met in years.” She drew out that last word in dramatic fashion.
    “That is only because you are not yet of age. When that day comes, you’ll be able to meet many people. Many boys too.” She bumped her sister with a teasing hip. I liked seeing this new, softer side of the girl. Obviously, her little sister brought out the best in her.
    “It is not boys I wish to meet!”
    “Of course it isn’t,” her sister continued to tease. “That’s why you read every novel, yes? For the setting, correct? Never the love story.”
    Estrella frowned, and I hid a smile. It was clear that her big sis had nailed it. But the young girl was so adorable…I hated for her to think that I was anything but her staunch friend. We moved to the stables, and when Francesca turned to enter, I said, “Oh, it’s all right. I’ve been in there already.” I wasn’t ready to relive the memory of my heated discussion with Javier in there—for many reasons.
    So we went on to one of the four other outbuildings, all as big as the stables. The first proved to be a butchering shed, where we didn’t linger long. I quickly saw the blood and recoiled at the horrendous odor of piles of red meat for drying and cubes of fat—to be rendered into tallow, Francesca explained, confused by my utter lack of knowledge—as well as hides being scraped and taken out to dry flat in the sun. I hurriedly urged the girls onward. In the next shed was the second stage of curing hides, which appeared to involve covering them with disgusting, mashed cow-brains and working them smooth, and again, I rushed them on, practically gagging over the smell.
    “Do you have a sensitive stomach, Zara?” Estrella asked, staring up at me in concern as we walked.
    “I suppose you could put it that way.”
    “Was your father not a rancher?”
    “No,” I said. “I never knew my father or mother. I lived with my abuela, and she ran a restaurant.”
    “A restaurant!” Francesca said. “Then you must come from a very big city.”
    “It wasn’t all that big,” I said.
    She turned to me excitedly. “So you remember it? What was the name?”
    I lifted a hand to my temples and rubbed. To answer her truthfully might only lead to more questions, and then still more when Javier and his mother learned of it. No one would recognize it. The town probably wasn’t even founded for another fifty or a hundred years. “I remember what it looked like. That’s all I can share,” I said, lifting my hands helplessly. It was true. It was all I could share.
    The girls looked upon me with sincere empathy.
    “What kind of food did your abuela cook?” asked Estrella, walking through the next doors. She took my hand. “And how sad for you, that your parents died! I’m only glad that you had your dear abuela.”
    “She cooked many of my favorites,” I said, choosing to let them think my parents were dead. “ Tamales y arroz con pollo y lentejas con fruta … And she made the most delicious tortillas.” It was with some relief that I saw this next building was a storehouse, with stacks of congealed tallow, candles, and hides, as well as barrels of salt, flour, and sugar and a few crates of fruit and nuts. We walked down the length of it, and I admired the amazing stores of goods, stacked to the ceiling in places. “Is this all for trade?” I asked.
    “It’s mostly for the rancho,” Francesca said. “We have over a hundred workers who depend on us for at least one meal a day. And then with the needs for tanning the hides and rendering the tallow…”
    “It takes a great deal,” I put in, understanding.