* * *
Juana and her family spent the early morning dressing in their finest for the morning mass and the procession that would follow. They were staying at the home of Don Julio Camacho, and the Camachos would accompany them to the church. Isidora Camacho, Juana’s dearest friend, and Juana would participate in the procession. Juana had arrived the day before in time to help in the building of the enramadas, a shrine of white muslin with the image of the family’s favorite saint set above a red cloth covered with flowers and candles. It rested in the street, just in front of the beautiful ivy-covered Camacho hacienda. In front of all the haciendas up and down the street other shrines covered in linen or boughs glowed with lighted candles.
“Hurry, little Juana, or we will be late.” Her tía dressed in her finest black lace gown, entered the room where Isidora and Juana dressed. She picked Juana’s turtle-shell comb and mantilla off the bed and adjusted its white lace, then walked over and placed it on her head.
“Be careful not to muss my hair,” Juana scolded.
“You have a week of celebration to impress the vaqueros, Juana,” Isidora teased.
After the Corpus Christi, the fiesta would begin. The feasting would go on for a full week, each don hosting parties at his hacienda. Those vaqueros of low family standing, not invited to the haciendas, would celebrate with gambling and drinking in the establos, and a dozen cockfights would be under way in the barns and corrals at any one time. Thursday, the bullfight would take place. Friday, the great bull-and-bear fight would be held in the plaza. On Thursday, the bull, unlike the same event in Mexico or Spain, would be spared the sword. The fighter would work only to bring him to his knees in exhaustion. If the bull fought well, he would not be used in Friday’s event where the fight was to the death.
Finally, on Saturday came the fandango, where the bands that had been wandering from event to event and house to house would gather as one great orchestra and the dancing would last all night. The week would climax with mass on the following Sunday morning where the challenge would be to stay awake. Afterward, each exhausted family would stagger home,
Juana did not think much of Dora’s teasing about so serious a subject as impressing the young men of the pueblo. “You are spoken for. Dora,” Juana said impatiently as she tucked a tendril of chestnut hair into its exact position. “I am not.”
“And you will never be if you do not stand still and allow me to do this properly,” her aunt chastised.
The sound of a knock echoed through the bedroom and Don Estoban’s voice rang through the door. “We will be late niñas. Hurry.”
With a final glance in the polished metal mirror over the dresser, the women hurried out of the room to join the rest of the household’s ladies, already seated in Don Estoban’s caleche. The men would follow on their stallions, which pranced proudly, seemingly aware of the fine glittering silver conchos on their black leather tack.
Satisfied they had enough time, Don Estoban and Don Julio Comacho led the families at a slow walk to church to begin, Santa Barbara’s finest and most holy week.
Juana, in the caleche’s rear-facing seat, watched the vaqueros who followed. She had never stopped to realize how handsome Inocente was. He led the men. Tall and straight in the saddle, he rode with head held high. She smiled, but he merely nodded.
She was unable to catch his glance again.