The Names We Stand Beside

Rafael came back from the north with Juana Lucero beside him and mud drying on both their hems. He had ridden ahead to warn her; she had chosen to follow before he could bring her mother’s answer back alone.

Antonia met her at the door. For one moment they only looked at each other. Then Antonia reached for her daughter’s shoulders and Juana stepped into her arms.

“I had to hear it from you,” Juana said against her mother’s hair.

“I know.” Antonia held her firmly, as if the words had cost more than the journey. “I am sorry it came to this.”

Juana let go and looked around the room, taking in Rosa, me, and the chairs set out for witnesses. She was a little shorter than her mother, with a steady gaze and travel dust caught in the folds of her skirt.

“Rafael said this man wants my name and where I live,” she said. “Is that true?”

“It is,” I told her. “He says he must finish his review of the family branch.”

“And if he finishes?”

“He will call you eligible under the covenant.” I made myself say it plainly. “That does not mean he can take you while witnesses freely offer sanctuary. It does mean he will know exactly whom he is allowed to claim.”

Juana looked to Antonia. Her mother did not answer for her.

“Then I want to hear him say it,” Juana said. “I will give him my name myself. I won’t have my mother made to carry the whole matter.”

Rafael took off his hat and set it on his knee. “She had decided before we reached the acequia. I only brought her back.”

The next morning, Vincent arrived.

I heard the horse first, stumbling over the stones in the lane. I was at the table with Sister Inés’s copy of the register and the papers from my brother’s account. I had read the same lines so many times the ink had begun to blur at the edges.

When I opened the door, Vincent sat stiffly in the saddle, one hand resting on the horn. His hat brim shaded his face, though the morning sun was mild. There was dust on his coat and a fresh tear near one cuff.

For a moment I could not manage the proper thing to say. My hand went to the doorframe. He looked at it, then at me, and waited.

“You came,” I said.

“You asked me to.”

His voice was as even as ever. The ride had left him pale beneath the dust, and the set of his shoulders told me he had been pushing the horse. I wanted to touch his sleeve. I wanted to ask whether he had missed me. I wanted, in the same breath, to spare him whatever answer he might give.