Several clay tiles had shifted.
Two were missing entirely.
The windstorm the previous week had done more damage than Rosa could repair herself.
She had planned to borrow a ladder.
Then Tomás developed a fever.
Then the goat kicked over half a bucket of milk.
Then laundry work doubled because a family in town had taken in visiting relatives.
The roof remained.
Gabriel studied the dark clouds gathering behind the mountains.
“It’s going to rain hard this afternoon.”
Rosa returned to the washboard.
“I know.”
“That roof won’t hold.”
“I know that too.”
His horse shifted.
Rosa expected the offer.
She prepared the refusal.
Instead Gabriel placed his hat back on.
“Have a good afternoon, Rosa.”
She looked at him.
“That’s all?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You gave me water. I thanked you.”
She almost felt foolish.
“Nothing.”
Gabriel nodded.
“Take care.”
He rode away.
Rosa watched him until the mesquite swallowed horse and rider.
Then she stared at the cup.
She disliked how much she had noticed him.
That was dangerous.
Not romantically.
Rosa did not have room for romance.
She had room for four families’ laundry, two infants, one goat, eleven chickens, a failing roof, and exactly three dollars and eighty cents in a tin box beneath her mattress.
Anything beyond that would have to wait.
She returned to work.
By noon, clouds had swallowed the sun.
The wind changed direction.
Rosa moved the babies closer to the house and checked the roof from every angle.
There would be leaks.
At least three.
Possibly four.
She owned two cooking pots large enough to catch water, one basin, and the laundry tub.
She would move the children into the driest corner.
Then there was the wall near the stove.
A crack had widened since winter.
Rosa pressed her fingers against it.
Still solid.
Probably.
She hated the word probably.
Julián had known these things.
He could look at a wall, a roof beam, a horse’s hoof, or a broken hinge and understand what it needed.
Rosa had known other things.
Accounts.
Food stores.
The spring.
Which hens would sit reliably.
When to plant beans.
How to stretch ten dollars across a month that wanted twelve.
Together they had made one capable household.
Alone, she constantly discovered which half of their knowledge had died with him.
That thought angered her.
Julián had not chosen to leave.
She knew that.
Still, some nights she became furious with him.
Then guilty.
Then angry about the guilt.
Grief, Rosa had learned, was not noble.
It was exhausting.
She checked the twins.
Tomás opened his eyes briefly.
“Not yet,” she whispered.
He considered the instruction.
Then closed them.
“Good boy.”
She resumed laundry.
The shirt was nearly finished when she heard horses again.
Rosa stood so quickly water splashed across her apron.
One horse.
Then another.
She wiped her hands against the damp cloth and moved closer to the fence.
Gabriel Moreno appeared between the trees.