(This is part one in a series that will be updated weekly. Click on my profile to find subsequent parts.)
Luke woke with a start as the train shuddered to a stop outside the dusty town. The sign outside his window read Mesilla.
“Just stopping for water,” explained the conductor as he descended from the car. “Should only take an hour.”
Lukas McPherson was stiff from three days’ train travel. His time since the end of the war had been one constant drift. At the age of thirty-five, he could not return home to New Orleans. It just wasn’t the same since the Yankees took it over. While Luke was fighting with the Tiger Rifles at Sharpsburg, he learned that General Butler’s troops had killed his parents while enforcing martial law. It had been almost seventeen years since Appomattox, but without any family left, he had traveled the rails doing odd jobs and looking for his place in life. On a whim, Luke had boarded the new Southern Pacific line for California; hoping to find what was missing from his life.
He rubbed his stubbled chin and removed the hat from his shock of red hair as he surveyed the sad whistle stop. Before him lay the remnants of a dying town that had once been a thriving mission town. The adobe church faced east on the west side of the town square. A low, crumbling wall surrounded the town’s few dwellings. Luke headed toward the only house with smoke wafting from the chimney on hopes of finding a meal.
…
Inside the deteriorating cottage, Luke saw the back of a large man at a thick wooden table, sitting across from an elderly mestizo couple. The smell of bacon and pipe smoke filled the room. The elder man looked up from his platter of beans.
“Hola, amigo, hungry?”
“I could eat,” Luke said indifferently, trying to hide the fact he hadn’t eaten since he boarded the train.
“Gracia, haga un plato para el hombre.”
“Sí, abuelo,” called Grace from the kitchen, bringing Luke his own bowl of beans with a side of corn tortillas and a steaming cup of coffee.
Forgetting himself, Luke eagerly devoured the food. It was not until he turned to the coffee that he realized they were all watching him.
“What brings you to our part of the desert?” asked the large man.
Looking up, Luke realized the man was dressed in a worn Franciscan habit. Being cautious, he answered, “Just passing through. My name is Luke. The conductor said we would only be here for an hour or so.”
“You had better make yourself comfortable, filling that locomotive around here will require at least a day’s draw on the well,” warned the priest. “My name is Father Santana. Mass is about four hours from now, I will see you there.”
The priest rose, gracious thanked his hosts and departed. It had been years since Luke had been to Mass. He remembered attending with his mother at St Louis Cathedral. The enormous white building had always fascinated him. He recalled the smell of the incense and the sound of the bells at the Sanctus. Those were happy memories. Most of the Southern towns he had stayed in didn’t even have a Catholic Church. He decided he would attend that evening.
“Father is so strange, always busy,” remarked Maria to her husband, “I liked Father Antonio better; he spent more time with us.”
“You’ll have to excuse my wife, she is selfish when if comes to priests. If I didn’t know any better, I would be jealous,” he chuckled to Luke. “My name is Hector Ramirez and my wife is Cecilia.”
“Grandpa, mind your manners around our guest. Mr. Luke, Father Santana is a very educated man. He studied in Spain,” explained the girl. “You can call me Grace.”
“Thanks for the food, ma’am.”
…
As an altar boy extinguished a candle on either side of the altar, Luke blessed himself with Holy Water and approached Father Santana just outside the Church.
“Thank you for hearing my confession, Father. I bet you don’t get many as long and colorful as that.”
“It was a pleasure,” he replied. “Are you going back for more of Grace’s cooking later?”
“Well, considering she and her family are the only people I’ve seen in town, I suppose I will.”
“I will see you there at eight.”
…
Grace sat down at the table with the two men as they ate their eggs over easy, beans, bacon, and cornbread. She enjoyed cooking for people who enjoyed eating. She was curious about Luke. Seeing him at Mass was shocking. She was used to all the other vaqueros that rode in on the train, spent their time at the cantina outside the wall, and left the next day.
“Where are your grandparents, Grace?” asked Luke.
“They are old and went to bed. I usually cook supper for Father at night and get a lesson in Latin as payment.”
“She learns quickly. Don’t let her modesty fool you,” commented Father Santana. “She read Virgil faster than I did the first time.”
Grace blushed at the compliment; she was not used to caring what the visiting cowboys thought. Luke watched her as she cleared the table. Her modest dress hid most of her shape, but what he liked most were her eyes. They sparkled when she smiled and had a blue hue with just a tinge of green, no doubt descended from the original Spanish conquistadors.
“Father, what do you make of this town? I’ve only seen a couple of families; everybody else seems to be related to the railroad traffic. Why do people like Grace’s family stay here?”
Father Santana cleared his throat, “I believe this town will die in the next generation, unless something big happens that gives people a reason to stay. There is no work for the young people and the old people are dying fast. The people stay here because they have nowhere else. This is all they know.”
Her work finished, Grace sat down to join them. “Grace, where will you go when your grandparents are gone?”
“Well, Mr. Luke, I’ve thought about moving to El Paso or even San Antonio. We have three sections of land south of town that my great grandparents used as a vineyard, but it isn’t worth enough to sell.”
“Have you all ever thought about running cattle down there?”
“I believe my grandfather meant to long ago, but he was hurt in a riding accident and wasn’t able to build the fences.”
…
The sun was just rising over the Organ Mountains when Luke knocked at the Ramirez’ door. Grace let him in and pointed to the table where her grandfather sat, then rushed into the kitchen for his coffee, eggs, bacon, and grits. Luke noticed she had put her hair up in a pretty ribbon and her dress seemed much too nice for a regular day of chores.
“Buenos días, Señor Luke, how was your night with Padre?”
“Well, once he stopped talking, I was able to sleep,” he replied with a grin. “Mr. Ramirez, Grace told Father and I last night that you had once wanted to run cattle on your land south of here, but were unable due to fencing. I was wondering, if you would put up the resources, I’d be glad to build that fence and get the area ready. All I’d need is a horse and meals.”
“Aye, Señor, I see my granddaughter’s cooking has talked you out of your train ticket,” he chuckled over their breakfast. “I have a spare horse and saddle; we will ride down there today to look around.”
“Well sir, these are the best grits I’ve had outside of New Orleans.”
“I use butter and bacon grease,” Grace chimed in with a wink.
“Then it is settled,” the old man boomed, “You will fill my ranch and Grace will fill your stomach.”
…
END PART I