Cayatu reached out to take his hand. “At the mission we all wear the same clothes, Tomas. The missionaries say we’re all equal. Your family’s place in your village isn’t important here. It isn’t important to me.”

Tomas snatched his hand away. “It’s best if we don’t walk together,” he said, shaking his head as he moved up the path ahead of her. But after a few steps, Tomas turned back to face her. “Your father’s important place in your village came from his mother, just as my father’s low place came from his mother. No matter how hard I worked, my life would have been the same as my father’s. When the Franciscans told how everyone at their missions worked together, I decided to come. I’d like to have respect for a time in my life. Or at least know my children would not be laughed at.” He thrust his hands into the pockets of his cotton trousers and quickened his pace up the hill ahead of her. “Watch me,” he called back after a few more steps, “you’ll see that I can earn your respect at the mission.”

Chapter Five

Esteben Salamanca rose slowly from the crude bench on his side of the makeshift confessional. His aging joints ached from the damp chill of the Santa Barbara winter, but he was beginning to feel better now that spring was returning. Still, it took him a moment to straighten all the way up and adjust his robe.

Josefa emerged from the other side of the hastily built confessional that had only a screen of tules between the two benches. She dabbed a cloth handkerchief on her cheeks and waited until the old monk could walk outside with her.

“Pray for the soul of your lost child, Señora—you and Guillermo,” Salamanca told her as they walked from the church to the crest of the hill.