Midnight by Ellen Connor

upstairs?”
    “Yup.”
    “There you go, Doc. Even private room and board.”
    Nice. He wondered how many other bravos were permitted the liberty of haggling with la jefa , even to such a small degree.
    “Why do you care so much?” About Jameson and Wicker, about... everyone. It was clear she poured her heart and soul into this place—into everyone else’s troubles.
    “I want Tilly and Jameson’s baby born healthy. I want her strong afterward.” She pinned him with a hard look just this side of imploring. “It’s important for our future. They all need to see it’s possible to do more than just survive.”
    What she left unsaid was easy enough to figure. A drop in morale could mean an end to her leadership.
    Damn complicated animals, humans.
    “Ask me,” he said.
    Rosa’s softness died away. But unlike Jameson, who stood to lose all he’d gained since the Change, Chris had no ties. No weak spots.
    So he waited.
    “Fine,” she bit out. “Will you stay until the baby’s born?”
    “May as well. Sure.”
    “You’re a real son of a bitch, aren’t you?” She banged her way out of the store and stomped down the porch, muttering in Spanish about roasting men over a spit.

NINE
     
    Rosa was pleased. Ten days had passed since her successful run against those last trespassing truckers—ten days since Chris Welsh came to town. But with no further signs of aggression or intrigue, it was time to celebrate. Tonight they would finally let off some steam. A proper Burning Night.
    The fiddle sang out, its bright, infectious notes driving the bravos to dance in the plaza that blazed with the orange of a bonfire’s flames. Since there weren’t enough women to go around, the men formed up en masse. Rosa couldn’t remember who had started this tradition, perhaps as a mockery of the old country line dances—given the tunes Wicker could play. But the diversion had taken on a life of its own. This too was a test of their manhood, each vying to execute more intricate steps, ever faster movement, and quicker footwork.
    She watched from the sidelines, stifling a smile. They each wanted to impress a woman enough to get her to take him home for the night, but most of them had long since given up dancing for Rosa’s benefit. She no longer received significant glances from anyone but Falco. Firelight danced on their sun-burnished skin, rippling in mysterious patterns. All of them bore her mark—the tattoo each received after initiation—which gave her a secret smile.
    There was something beautiful and primitive about men dancing for the pleasure of women. The bravos took pride in their grace. It was every bit as much of a battle as any other part of their lives, only with a more desirable reward.
    Wicker was too old to play the game, so it was just as well he could fiddle. She admired his skill with the instrument; it was the only time he ever looked truly happy. Rosa knew a couple of the songs he played, such as “Turkey in the Straw” and “Cotton-Eyed Joe.” Not for the first time, she wondered about the loved ones Wicker had lost, but they didn’t ask such questions. Coming to Valle de Bravo was like being reborn.
    Falco stepped out of the line and jigged his way toward her, his feet a blur. The other men hooted and clapped in time. Not for the first time, he beckoned. But for the hundredth time, she laughed and shook her head. Anger flashed in his handsome face. Whatever life had been for him before the Change, it hadn’t taught him much about rejection.
    Which was too damn bad.
    Jolene had been giving him the come-hither eye for the last four months. A brown-haired woman in her midthirties, she had probably been overweight before, but hard work in the communal garden and the obligatory omission of junk food and processed sugar had firmed her up. With her bone structure, Jolene would never have Singer’s sylph slenderness, or even Rosa’s own compact, lean muscles, but some men—Brick in particular—liked a