San Antone. V. J. Banis

go on without them while they went back alone.

      “No, we won’t say anything to anyone,” she decided aloud.

      “I think that’s best,” Lucretia said with an unmistakable air of complicity, so that Joanna felt no problem in appealing to her.

      “Lucretia, what can I do about it?” she asked. “Would it help if I talked to the others? Would it do any good to threaten them?”

      She could tell by the involuntary stiffening of Lucretia’s shoulders that the idea did not sit well.

      “I sho nuff couldn’t say.” The patois was back, and the shuffling movements as she turned to spoon out a salad of rice and curried fruit.

      Joanna felt she had been dismissed. Irritated, she glanced around and, seeing Melissa, remembered her difficulties with Doña Sebastiano.

      That, at least, was a problem she could do something about. She took one of Lucretia’s pound cakes with her as a peace offering and went to call on the señora.

      She found her seated under an elaborate canopy extended out from the side of her wagon, fanning herself while a trio of Mexican women chatted and cooked at an open fire. With their floridly colored clothes, their high, melodious voices, they might have been a trio of tropical birds. Two men—presumably the hired hands who were to drive and manage the animals—were busy nearby. Doña Sebastiano’s daughter was seated beside her; the two gave the impression of holding a royal audience.

      Despite her name, there was nothing Spanish about the doña or her appearance. She came from Baltimore, according to Melissa. Her Spanish husband had met her there while traveling, and married her after what Melissa described as a “whirlwind courtship.”

      Admittedly, the señora’s attitude might have prejudiced Joanna against her, but she had difficulty now imagining what that Spanish nobleman had seen that had so smitten him. Doña Sebastiano’s hair must once have been a fiery red, but it was faded now to the color of dying rose petals, and her skin, despite the insistent Texas sun, was pale and parchment-brittle. Seated stiffly, unsmiling, she watched as Joanna approached. There was nothing welcoming in her manner.

      The daughter, at least, was a beauty, Joanna had to concede that. Younger than Melissa, she appeared years older; far too mature and sophisticated for her age, in Joanna’s opinion, but there was no denying that she was ravishing. Her hair was a burnished chestnut color, her eyes very nearly the same, wide and luminous, and almost never at rest. Only her mouth was out of proportion; too tiny, it gave her a speculative look, as if she were weighing everything she saw. One could only assume that she found much of it wanting.

      “I’ve brought you a gift,” Joanna said, “as a way of saying thank you for being so hospitable to my daughter. She’s finding this entire business an ordeal; making new friends has helped take her mind off the inconvenience.”

      Doña Sebastiano eyed the gift with some reluctance, but her daughter’s diminutive hand darted out and snatched it greedily.

      “Our cook’s quite proud of her cakes. Justly so, I like to think,” Joanna said.

      “Thank you.” Doña Sebastiano’s smile required obvious effort.

      Joanna, who had not yet been introduced to the señora’s daughter, extended a hand. “I’m Mrs. Harte. I don’t believe we’ve met, but Melissa has spoken of you most favorably.”

      “My daughter, Nancy,” Doña Sebastiano said, and Nancy murmured a quick “How do you do?”

      “Your only child?”

      It seemed to Joanna that the señora’s prim look grew a shade sterner as she said, “No. I have another daughter, Carolyn. She is with her father, in San Antonio.”

      “Oh, yes, San Antonio,” Joanna said. “Perhaps while we’re traveling you’ll be able to tell me a little about the place, seeing it’s to be my new home. Is it much like Galveston?”

      “Not in the least,” Doña Sebastiano said, and Nancy added, “Galveston is civilized.”

      Joanna was somewhat taken aback by the obvious distaste the two women showed for their destination. “Is San Antonio as unpleasant as all that?” she asked.

      “If it were up to me,” Doña Sebastiano said, “I would remain in Galveston. But my husband heard of your train; it meant we could travel with an escort. So....” She shrugged. It was evident that she was returning to San Antonio at her husband’s request and not of her own volition. And she seemed to hold Joanna personally responsible for this turn of events.

      Joanna found herself disliking this arrogant, unfriendly woman; after all, if her husband was there, and her other daughter...what kind of woman....

      But she caught herself—she had come to make peace, not judgments. She cast a quick glance about. “I must say, you’ve shown admirable foresight,” she said.

      Doña Sebastiano was a woman who enjoyed compliments and was ever ready to agree with them. “Yes?”

      “In hiring your hands before we left Galveston.” Joanna indicated the two workmen. “If I’d anticipated my husband’s health.... As it is, I’ve had to make do with what was available. I do hope the young man I’ve hired proves reliable. I should hate to hold up the entire company.”

      “You hired that Indian, did you?”

      Joanna allowed herself to look surprised by the question. “Why, yes, I thought everyone knew.” She hesitated and then, with the air of one badly in need of guidance, added, “Have you had any experience working Indians? I’d appreciate any advice....”

      Doña Sebastiano appeared gratified by the request. “My advice,” she said, and her ladylike airs faded temporarily, “is to watch him like a hawk. An Indian’s no better than a Mexican—a pack of low-down, lying skunks. Of course, when that’s all you can git...just mark my words, you sleep with a gun by your pillow, you never know....” And she shook her head, clucking her tongue in her cheek.

      Joanna restrained a sudden urge to lean forward and slap the other woman. “I shall. And I’m grateful for your advice.”

      “Just mark my words.”

      Doña Sebastiano’s words had the air of finality about them, and Joanna seized upon the opportunity to take her leave.

      “Well, I hope we’ll have more opportunities to chat like this,” she said. “The advice of one of your station is bound to serve me well.”

      “Anytime,” Doña Sebastiano said with a queenly nod. Her daughter, Nancy, pursed her mouth consideringly. It was difficult to tell, Joanna was thinking, whether the daughter was less a fool than the mother, or simply less flagrant about it.

      In any case, Joanna concluded, making her way back toward her own party, she could not say she cared much for either of them. Which was unfortunate, considering they were, if she understood rightly, their nearest neighbors in San Antonio.

      She saw as she approached the wagon that they had company: Melissa and the boys stood chatting with a tall, blond gentleman. Joanna had seen him driving one of the other wagons, and rather thought she had been introduced to him, though she could not at the moment put a name on him.

      Melissa took care of that by introducing him as “Mr. Hansen.”

      “I came to bring your daughter some cream,” Mr. Hansen said. Like Doña Sebastiano’s, his manners were old-world stiff, but despite his formal manner, he seemed friendly. He was, she saw at closer range, older than she had originally assumed. His hair and his ruddy complexion gave him a boyish look, but there were creases about his eyes and the corners of his mouth, and his hands showed years of exposure to hard work and the elements.

      “Cream?”

      “For the skin. Of course, it is meant for both of you.” His embarrassment only served to underscore the fact that Joanna had been an afterthought.

      “Mr.