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What the hell was he thinkin’?


A glass brimming with wine and handed to him by Juanita herself, changed the mood for Pedro Valdez. He strummed a second tune, brighter, faster, and with a wild abandonment that stirred the heart. It was to this that Juanita danced, her skirts swirling to her knees, her feet bare and brown as the dust itself and her black hair streaming out like an ebony veil with each movement of her head.

It was a sight to hold the attention of every man. They watched her, spellbound by the wild, primitive sway of her body. They saw the smile on her lips, the breathless excitement painted on her face. They viewed the climb of her skirts, higher and higher as she twirled. They saw the fire in her eyes far brighter than the lantern’s glow, and they applauded long and loud when she finally stopped.

“Well, we know where he found her,” Lincoln muttered. “Dancin’ in some seedy bar in Laredo. You don’t marry a woman like that. What the hell was he thinkin’?”

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