Meals in the Pierce casa were a family affair. No one was excused. Sometimes her brothers were out on the range, but that was the only exception allowed.
Sunshine streamed in through the windows. Her father was at the head of the table, her mother and sister on the right, her brothers on the left. Trella claimed her usual chair next to Dolores.
“Well, look who it is,” Steve said with a grin. “We thought maybe you were sleeping in until noon.” Of all the brothers, he looked most like their father. He preferred to dress in American-style clothes, not Mexican, and although fluent in English and Spanish, as they all were, he seldom spoke the latter unless he had to.
“I hope a horse steps on you today,” Trella retorted.
“Your brother has a point, daughter,” Juanita said. “Breakfast started ten minutes ago. Do us the courtesy of being on time.” As always, she was the perfect portrait of poise and elegance.
Dolores could not resist adding her opinion. “My darling sister probably could not decide what to wear. The maid told me that she changes her clothes five or six times each morning and leaves them scattered about her room.”
Dar looked at them over his coffee cup. “That maid has a name. And, Trella, how many times must I remind you to pick up after yourself? Just because we have servants does not give you an excuse to be lazy.”
“Yes, father,” Trella said dutifully. Under the table, she kicked Dolores.
The breakfast conversation bored her. Steve and Armando talked about horses and the bull they were taking to the rodeo. Julio asked if he would be permitted to ride the bull this year, and her father said they would see.
Trella felt sorry for Julio. He was a year older than she, and straining at the bit to be a man.
“You let Steve and Armando ride the bull when they were my age. I do not understand why I can’t.”
Dar was spooning raisins into a bowl of oatmeal. He never had oatmeal without raisins. “Did I say you couldn’t? No, son. But the bull this year is new and untested. If it has a vicious temperament you might want to hold off.”
“I will not be treated like a child,” Julio sulked.
“When do I ever do that?” Dar asked in mild reproach. He never got angry, their father. He was always reasonable and calm and in complete control of himself and all around him.
“You do, and don’t realize it,” Julio would not relent. “Even some of the vaqueros have noticed. Just the other day, Hijino asked why it is that you never let me break any of the mustangs.”
“What business is it of his?” Steve asked.
“That one has a mouth on him,” Armando said. In contrast to Steve, he, like Julio, always wore Mexican clothes. Of the three brothers he was the most level-headed. In that respect, he took after their father, although his features were more like their mother’s. “He is always talking. Some of the men wish he would talk less.”
That earned an, “Oh?” from their father.
“He is a good worker, though,” Armando quickly amended. “He rides like he was born to the saddle, and I have never seen anyone better with a rope.”
“Look at how he dresses,” Steve said. “He is in love with himself, and with his own voice. He is always going on and on about how everything Mexican is better than everything north of the border.”
“One of those, is he?” Dar said. “Does he also look down his nose at the people north of the border?”
Armando answered. “Not that we are aware, no, father.”
“I will have a talk with Berto anyway,” Dar said.
Trella had heard enough. “I think Hijino is nice,” she made bold to interject. She also thought the new vaquero was uncommonly handsome, and liked how he flattered her with his comments and his eyes. She had dreamed about him the other night. In it, he saved her from bandits and she rode off into the sunset with him on his wonderful white horse. It was a silly dream, but it made her feel all warm inside when she remembered it the next day.
“Everyone is nice to you pretty girls,” Armando said. “You are the darlings of the rancho.”
“I do not ask to be.” Trella resented being treated as a girl. She was a woman, whether anyone else agreed or not. In a sullen mood, she ate her breakfast in silence, barely listening to the others.
Afterward, her father went to find Berto. Steve, Armando, and Julio had work to do. Juanita had to begin packing for the trip to the Circle T. Dolores practiced on the piano.
Left on her own, Trella strolled outdoors. She breathed deep of the morning air, and bent her steps toward the stable. She had done so frequently of late, always with the hope of seeing the man she now saw standing by the corral. He was practicing with his rope, throwing the loop over a gatepost.
“Buenos días, señorita.”
“Buenos días, Hijino,” Trella said. Her hands clasped behind her back so her bosom, such as it was, jutted against her blouse, Trella leaned against the rails.
“How do you do it?” Hijino asked.
“Do what?”
“Always look so pretty. In Mexico City you would have caballeros groveling at your feet to win your favor.”
“I would not,” Trella said, secretly pleased by the flattery. She did not want him to know that, though, so she said, “Shouldn’t you be off tending cattle?”
“Why, señorita, you stab me in the heart. Can it be you do not enjoy my company? I enjoy yours.”
Trella could not get over how handsome he was. That he showed an interest in her seemed too good to be true. “If my father heard you say that, he would be cross with you.”
“Your father has not said two words to me since the day I was hired,” Hijino said. “He has forgotten I exist.”
“That’s what you think,” Trella remarked. “You were brought up at breakfast today.”
Hijino’s arms froze in midswing. “I was?”
“Sí. Armando says you talk too much,” Trella teased. “And Steve thinks you are too critical of norteamericanos. You had better learn to hold your tongue, or you will find yourself out of a job.”
“Thank you for telling me. I will be more careful from now on. I will walk on eggs with my mouth.”
Trella laughed. “What a strange way to put it. Just don’t talk about how much better Mexico is than the United States.”
“So that was it.” With a deft flick, Hijino tossed his rope over the post. “I can not help it if I love the country I am from. Have you ever been there?” He did not wait for her to answer. “If you have, then you must feel as I do. Mexico is special. Its people are special. They are more of the earth. More natural. They are not like these norteamericanos who are only interested in hoarding pesos, and who treat the land like it is their personal possession to scar as they wish.”
His passion stirred Trella. “Perhaps that is true of some norteamericanos, but not my father.”
“No, señorita, not your padre. And why is that, do you think? I think it is because in his great love for your madre, he has become more like us. More like you and me. More mejicano than norteamericano.”
Trella had never thought of it like that. “He has always told me to embrace both ways of life.”
“Yet he lives more like a Mexican than that gringo across the river,” Hijino pointed out.
Straightening, Trella glanced nervously about. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that ever again. They might think you do not like gringos.” It worried her that he might be fired.
“I have nothing against most gringos,” Hijino said. “Only the ones who call us greasers, whether to our face or behind our backs.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “I have heard that some of the gringo cowboys do just that.”