Her father, Don Patricio, was all ledgers and maps, a man who could calculate the worth of land down to the last arroyo. He looked at Jimena the way he studied harvest reports: what, exactly, could be extracted? Five of his children had married into advantage. One daughter, in his view, had not.
So the night of the season’s grand ball was cast as a last chance. Her mother commissioned a royal-blue silk dress threaded with gold, as if expense could distract the eyes of men trained to rank beauty with ruthless efficiency. Jimena descended the staircase with a bravery that deserved medals. The whispers arrived before she reached the floor.
Who will look past her figure?
She breathed through it, as a lady is taught, while another girl in a lighter dress was whirled away by an eager suitor. By the time the carriage took them home, the silence was louder than any verdict. In the morning her father summoned her to the room where contracts were made. He spoke of futures and usefulness. He spoke of arrangements. And in a decision that would echo across years, he arranged to send Jimena away to an Apache reservation on the northern frontier, where a captured warrior named Tlacael had been given a parcel of land under government supervision.
The explanation was cold: an “experiment” in peaceful settlement. A way to avoid further bloodshed. A place where Jimena might, at last, be “of use.” The words were heavy, and yet, amid the shock, something else stirred in her chest. Could a life beyond marble and mirrors feel like breath?
At dawn, the carriage rolled through arid country that seemed to stretch into forever. Red rock. Blue vault of sky. Wind that smelled like sage and sunlight. Jimena did not look back.
A House of Adobe, A Meeting of Equals
Continue reading…
