The Gila Wars by Larry D. Sweazy Page B

losses had been deep, too. He recognized it when he saw it. He shifted in the bed, suddenly uncomfortable, remembering that he was naked underneath the light blanket that covered him. And the smell of the food tempted him, drew him up and away from his modesty. Desire met with weakness.
    â€œI have tamales in the
olla
, Josiah. I take it you like them?”
    Josiah nodded yes as his stomach rumbled.
    Francesca smiled for the first time. The brightness of her joy and relief crossed her face like a child welcomed into a lap. She opened the
olla
, a ceramic pot that looked like it was as old as time itself, if not older, brown and unglazed, dinged from years of daily use, and a thin cloud of steam spiraled upward in the air. She quickly dished out three tamales, still in the husks, and handed a plate to Josiah.
    He had pulled himself up and propped himself against the cool adobe wall with a thin feather pillow, making sure the blanket was securely tucked at his waist. It was uncomfortable, had hurt to move so quickly, annoying his new wounds, and reminding his old ones that they still existed. He took the plate and immediately began to pull off the husks.
    The masa melted in his mouth at the first bite, with strings of tender pork following. He ate all three before he stopped to breathe, to take a drink of water from a glass Francesca had poured and placed on the table next to the bed.
    â€œThese are some of the best tamales I’ve ever had,” Josiah said. “But I suppose I shouldn’t say that. I might offend Ofelia.”
    Francesca stood at the side of the bed, close enough to get Josiah anything he might need, but far enough away so there was a still a respectable distance between them. “Who is Ofelia?” There was no expression on her face or inflection in her voice other than curiosity.
    â€œIt’s hard to explain. She was the wet nurse for my son, but she has stayed on with me. Moved from our home to Austin.”
    â€œWhat became of your wife, if I am not being disrespectful?”
    There was a time when it was difficult for Josiah to even mention Lily’s name aloud—as it was now, for some reason. Her death had rocked him to the core, brought him to his knees, only to be brought back to his feet by the fact that he had a newborn son to care for.
    â€œShe died in childbirth,” Josiah whispered.
    Francesca’s face twisted then, and she looked away. “
Lo siento
,” she said, then made a sign of the cross from the top of her forehead to her chest. “It must be difficult. My papa has been a very lonely man since the death of my mother. It is his cantina, and the visitors that come along pull him from the bed every day. We both feel like half of us is missing, even though Papa says I am a true reflection of my mother. He misses her less when he sees me.”
    Josiah nodded. “I see my wife, Lily, in Lyle, too. He’s like her in a lot of ways. Some days that is hard to see, but I’m glad for it when I’m home.”
    â€œI understand. How old is he, your son?”
    â€œFour. Nearly four.”
    â€œHe is only a
bebé
, then.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd you leave him for days, weeks at a time?”
    â€œHe’s in Ofelia’s care. She loves him like he is her own.”
    â€œBut he is not.”
    â€œNo.”
    Silence settled between the two of them again. This time it was deeper, more personal. Francesca had touched on the guilt that Josiah carried every day that he rode with the Rangers. He needed little to remind him that his son needed a father in his life.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Francesca said, this time in English. “I should not speak of matters that I know nothing about. I have no children of my own. There are more tamales. Would you like some?”
    â€œSure, yes.” It was difficult to be angry with Francesca. She had wandered into an area of his heart that most people usually had no access to.