I melted back into the crowd, hoping to become invisible in case Aidan was there. Women, young and old, wore fine dresses and hats. Their fancy shoes were quite unsuitable for the prairie dust and gravel. I was curious why none of the women’s faces were tanned. I concluded that they considered it unseemly, just like the Anglo-Irish aristocratic women did. I put my hand up to my face, which had been bronzed by the sun. I was aware of the women, particularly the younger ones, staring at my face and my trousers and whispering to one another. My fair hair, bleached the color of straw by the same Texas sun, fell in a braid down my back, unlike their elaborate styles tucked up under their hats. I turned to walk away and noticed that the women and men had split into two camps.

I didn’t know which way to go, so I made my way to the outskirts of the crowd, where musicians in tight black suits studded with silver buttons and huge, round straw hats were playing guitars. The music was enchanting. They sang in Spanish, their voices soft and melodious. They must be Mexicans, I thought.

Mayflower came up behind me. “Aren’t they wonderful? They’re called mariachis, and they’re from Mexico. Where we’re standing used to be part of Mexico. They’ve influenced many of our ways, including our music and our food.”

“So, that’s why there are so many of them around here,” I said. “But I noticed that most are working as servants or ranch hands.”

Mayflower pursed her lips and nodded. “Some things are slow to change, darlin’.”

I began to feel sick to my stomach. The heat and the smells were closing in on me, and I was afraid I might faint and make a show of myself. I walked over to a nearby water barrel and ladled some water into my mouth. It was warm, but more refreshing than hot coffee would have been. I straightened up and turned around. Aidan O’Hanlon stood at the edge of the crowd, watching me. I took in a deep breath as panic gripped me. Francine, wearing a gaudy, low-cut dress and a feathered hat, hung onto Aidan’s arm. Lily was beside them, crouched down with some other children examining what looked like a dead armadillo. My face flushed and sweat dripped down the back of my neck. I looked down at my riding clothes, feeling ugly and plain in comparison with Francine.

I was rescued by the unexpected appearance beside me of Mr. Kearney from the hotel. He was impeccably dressed in khaki trousers, a crisp white shirt and a white cowboy hat that he doffed to me. I turned away from Aidan’s stare, which I felt burning through me.

I managed a smile. “Hello, Mr. Kearney.”

He gave slight bow. “Good afternoon, Miss . . . er . . .”