The Daughter of Madrugada - Rilegato

Frances M. Wood is the author of the middle-grade novel Becoming Rosemary, which was praised by Kirkus Reviews as “a nearly flawless, always charming coming-of-age tale.”

Chapter 1

The Wind

Listen, Wind! Do you hear me? Your gusts are wet and salty--they feel so strange upon my face and hands. Nothing like the sweet breezes I used to know, filled with chaparral and oak and wild grasses. O Wind, change direction and take me home. Take me back to Rancho Madrugada. . . .

Chapter 2

American Spies

I've always talked to the wind, but it used to be a game. Like the game that I played with my brothers late last winter, almost a year ago. Dos, Tres and I were out searching for spies. We were riding horses along a ridgeline high above, but still within, our California ranch. Rancho Madrugada.

I stopped, surprising all of our horses. "O Wind!" I implored.

"What, Cesa?" my second brother, Dos, asked me.

I hadn't spoken to him; Dos isn't always too bright. "Hush!" I commanded.

Dos stilled his pony with a touch to its neck.

"O Wind!" The breeze blew from the west that day. I remember that, so clearly. Because there was the smallest hint of salt in the air. "Bring us a spy!"

It was more than a request. It was a demand. Ever since war was declared between Mexico and the United States in 1846 we de Haro children had been hunting for enemies. Americans. But we hadn't seen even one yet. Probably because all the real fighting was so far away from our home. Probably because most of the fighting had stopped. But I hoped. We all hoped. There was always a chance.

Dos was ten then. My third brother, Tres, was nine. I, at thirteen, was their leader. I pushed back my hair--too long for a general of the Mexican army, but long enough for a Mexican girl--and turned my nose again to the wind.

"Cesa!" Tres let his horse circle around me, then dance a little. He waved one of his arms.

I teased Tres by not responding. Instead I breathed in, smelling deeply, tasting the richness of the high meadows, crushed by rain and now reborn. The truth was, we de Haros hadn't seen even an innocent American, a neutral--a merchant ship captain--since the fighting began.

"Cesa!" Tres insisted.

"Oh, all right." I peered in the direction he was indicating.

"See?" Tres said tantalizingly.

I saw. A figure on horseback, galloping wildly in the valley below. I considered.

"He's very tall!" I finally said, making Tres grin.

"He sits his horse very badly!" Dos chimed in.

"His beard is very long!" Tres exulted.

"He's an American spy!" I shouted.

With whoops of war we spurred our horses down the green, grassy slopes. Still yelling, we rode behind and up to the eldest of my brothers, Grego. Who is neither tall, a bad rider nor bearded. Most certainly, Grego isn't bearded.

"Halt!" I commanded.

"Shoot him!" Dos screamed.

Grego glared at us, but in the wrong way. I saw, then Dos and Tres saw, that Grego wasn't willing to play along. But still, we pursued him. "Stop in the name of the Republic of Mexico!"

"No!" Grego's voice was as loud as ours were, but more angry, determined. "Look!" He didn't slow down. He made us race beside him. I looked, and the others did, too. But all we saw was something like a bowl--maybe it was a stiff and flattened bag--attached to Grego's arm by a leather strap. I tried to match Grego's rhythm so that I could see better. Our horses loped along as though they were matching waves.

"A hat?" I asked.

"An American hat!" Grego declared.

My stomach jolted. The hat of an enemy! I, too, leaned over my horse's neck. We rode for home with dire intensity.

At the house, we four slid off our horses, all talking, all shouting. Now I could see enough of the hat to realize it was a dark blue cap with a leather shade over the eyes. American, for sure. "Spy!"

"Hush!" Our great-aunt--dressed in black, forever a widow--stepped from the parlor onto the veranda and waved us to silence. "Enough!"

"Tia!" I dropped my reins and began to explain. After all, I was the oldest, it was my place to speak first.

But Grego hopped onto the veranda. He pushed his words in front of mine. "Tia!" He showed her the hat.

Tia took the hat from Grego. She studied it. And then she sighed. She didn't call for help--one of the servants to run for Grandfather and Papi, another servant to round up those men working closest to the house. Instead she brushed the hat off--as if that could make it clean! "Your uncle Isidro returned this morning," she told us. "He is resting. Be as quiet as possible. Wash and change, and then come to the table for the noon meal."

Had our aunt lost her mind? I was on the veranda now, too, and I stepped in front of Grego. "We must do something, Tia!" I tried to make my voice stern, adult. I stood almost as tall as my aunt. I could make my back equally rigid--although I was shaking, just a little.

"I don't know where the American is now," Grego warned. "I found the hat way south, beside the creek, near the path that leads to San Jose."

We stood like a small army before our aunt, our hearts racing, waiting for her to call the alarm so that we could jump onto our horses and race again.

But: "Your uncle met the man." Tia was so calm, her words so measured. "He was an American, as you say. But no danger to us. He was only passing through an edge of our ranch and is probably long gone by now. So go wash, children, and prepare for dinner."

"He might be a spy, Tia!" I said.

"We're at war!" my brothers clamored.

"Hush!" Again Tia silenced us. "Your uncle is resting."

We hushed our voices. But we had to move. Our hands and legs were as restless as our hearts. Grego elbowed Dos. Tres kicked at the veranda floor.

"Children!" Tia reached to quiet us with her hands: a grip upon Grego's shoulder, a firm palm upon my back. "There are no spies. Not any longer. Your uncle came home from Mexico City with official word. The war with the United States is over."

"Hurray!" my brothers exploded.

This time Tia only shook her head. "Go wash," she said.