Josefina Montoya hummed as she stood in the sunshine waiting for her sisters. It was a bright, breezy morning in late summer and the girls were going to the stream to wash clothes. Josefina’s basket was full of laundry, but she didn’t mind. She enjoyed going to the stream on a day like this. The sky was a deep, strong blue. Josefina wished she could touch it. She was sure it would feel smooth and cool.

Josefina liked to stand in front of her house, where the life of the rancho was going on all around her. She could smell the sharp scent of smoke from the kitchen fire. She could see cows and sheep grazing in the pastures. Tall grass rolled all the way to the dark green trees on the foothills of the mountains, and the mountains zigzagged up to the sky. She could hear all the sounds of the rancho: chickens clucking, donkeys braying, birds chirping, workers hammering, and children laughing. The sounds seemed like music to Josefina. The wind joined in the music when it rustled the leaves on the cottonwood trees. And always, under it all, was the murmur of the stream.

Josefina shaded her eyes. Even from this far away, she could see Papá. He sat very straight and tall on his horse. He was talking to the workers in the cornfield. The rancho had belonged to Papá’s family for more than one hundred years. All those years, Papá’s family had cared for the animals and the land. It was not an easy life. Everyone had to work hard. Some years there was plenty of rain so that the crops grew and the animals were healthy. Some years there was not enough rain. Then the soil was dry and the animals went thirsty. But through good times and bad the rancho went on. It provided everything Josefina and her family needed to live: food, clothing, and shelter. Josefina loved the rancho. It had been her home all the nine years of her life. She believed it was the most beautiful place in all of New Mexico and all of the world.

Josefina was dancing a little dance of impatience to go with the song she was humming when her oldest sister, Ana, joined her.

“Josefina,” Ana said. “You remind me of a bird, singing and hopping from one foot to the other like that.”

“If I were a bird,” said Josefina with a grin, “I could have flown to the stream and back twenty times by now. I’ve been waiting and waiting! Where are Francisca and Clara?”

“They’re coming,” Ana sighed. “They couldn’t agree on whose turn it was to carry the washing tub.”

Josefina and Ana looked at each other and shook their heads. They were the youngest and eldest of the four sisters, and they got along beautifully. But Francisca and Clara, the middle sisters, often disagreed, always over some silly little thing. They reminded Josefina of goats ramming into each other head-to-head for no particular reason.

When the girls appeared at last, it was easy to see who had won the argument. Francisca, looking pleased with herself, carried only a basket of laundry balanced on her head. Clara, looking cross, carried the large copper washing tub.

Josefina put her basket of laundry into the empty cop- per tub. “I’ll take one handle of the tub, Clara,” she said. “We’ll carry it between us.”

Clara said, “Gracias.” But she sounded more grumpy than grateful.

Josefina knew a way to cheer her up. “Let’s race to the stream!” she said.

“Oh, no . . .” Francisca began to say. She didn’t like to do anything that might muss her clothes or her hair. But Josefina and Clara had already taken off running, so Ana and Francisca had to run, too.

The sisters flew down the dirt path that sloped past the fruit trees, past the fields, and to the stream. Josefina and Clara reached the stream first, plunked the tub down, kicked off their moccasins, and ran into the shallow water. Then they turned and scooped up handfuls of water to splash Ana and Francisca, who shrieked with laughter as the water hit them.

Finally, Ana scolded gently, “Now, girls, stop. We’ve come to wash the clothes that are in our baskets, not the ones we’re wearing!”

As the sisters went to work, Josefina said, “The sun and the breeze will dry the clothes quickly today.”

“Yes,” agreed Ana. “Mamá would have said, ‘You see, girls? God has sent us a good drying day. Monday is laundry day even in heaven.’”

“And then Mamá would have said, ‘Pull your rebozos up to shade your faces, girls. You don’t want your skin to look like old leather!’” added Francisca as she adjusted her shawl on her head. Francisca was always careful of her skin.

The sisters laughed softly and then grew quiet. Speaking of their mamá always made them thoughtful. Mamá had died the year before. The sorrow of her death was always in their hearts.

Josefina looked at the stream flowing past and listened to its low, rushing sound. Since Mamá died she had learned a truth that was both bitter and sweet. She had learned that love does not end. Josefina would always love Mamá, and so she would always miss her.

Josefina knew her sisters were also thinking about Mamá because Francisca said, “Look. See those yellow flowers across the stream?” She pointed with a soapy hand. “Aren’t they primroses? Mamá used to love those.”

“Yes, she did,” said Clara, agreeing with Francisca for once. “Why don’t you pick some, Josefina? You could dry them and put them in your memory box.”

“All right,” said Josefina. Papá had given her a little wooden box of Mamá’s. Josefina called it her memory box because in it she kept small things that reminded her of Mamá.

The quickest, driest way to the primroses was to walk across a fallen log that made a narrow bridge over the stream. Josefina climbed up onto the log. She held her arms out for balance and began to walk across.

“Oh, do be careful,” warned Ana.

Josefina did not think of herself as a brave person at all. She was afraid of snakes and lightning and guns, and shy of people she didn’t know. But she wasn’t afraid of crossing the log, which wasn’t very high above the stream anyway. She walked across, picked the primroses, and tucked the stems in her pouch. On the way back, she decided to tease Ana to make her laugh. She pretended to lose her balance. She waved her arms wildly up and down and wobbled more and more with each step.

“Josefina Montoya!” said Ana, who saw that she was fooling. “How can you be so shy and sweet in company when you’re so playful with your sisters? You tease the life out of me. You’ll make me old before my time!”

“You sound just like our grandfather,” said Josefina. She pretended to talk like Abuelito. “Yes, yes, yes, my beautiful granddaughters! This was the finest trip I’ve ever made! Oh, the adventures, the adventures! But this was my last trip. Oh, how these trips age me! They make me—”

“Old before my time!” all the sisters sang out together. Abuelito said the same thing after every journey.

Abuelito was their mamá’s father. He was a trader, and once each year he organized a huge caravan. The caravan was made up of many carts pulled by oxen and many mules carrying packs. The carts and mules were loaded with wool, hides, and blankets in New Mexico. Then the caravan traveled more than a thousand miles south to Mexico City on a trail called the Camino Real.

When Abuelito got to Mexico City, he traded the goods he’d brought from New Mexico for things from all over the world. He traded for silk and cotton fabrics and lace, for iron tools, paper, ink, books, fine dishes, coffee, and sugar. Then the caravan would load up and start the long trip back to New Mexico.

Abuelito had been gone for more than six months. Josefina and her sisters were excited because they expected Abuelito’s caravan to return any day now. Their rancho was always the caravan’s last stop before the town of Santa Fe, where Abuelito lived.

“I can’t wait until Abuelito comes!” said Josefina.

She thought that the arrival of the caravan was the most exciting thing that happened on the rancho. The wagons were full of treasures to be traded in Santa Fe. But the most important treasure the caravan brought was Abuelito himself, safe and sound and full of wonderful stories.

“I’m going to go on the caravan with Abuelito someday,” said Francisca, dreamily swirling a shirt in the stream. “I’ll see everything there is to see, and then I’ll settle down and live in Mexico City with Mamá’s sister, our Tía Dolores. I’m sure she lives in a grand house and knows all the most elegant people.”

Clara rolled her eyes and scrubbed hard with her soap. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “We hardly know Tía Dolores. We haven’t seen her for the whole ten years she’s been living in Mexico City.”

Francisca smiled a superior smile. “I’m older than you are, Clara,” she said. “I was nearly six when Tía Dolores left. I remember her.”

“Well,” said Clara tartly. “If she remembers you, I’m sure she won’t want you to live with her!”

Francisca was about to say something sharp when Josefina piped up.

“Ana,” said Josefina, trying to keep the peace, “what do you hope Abuelito will bring on the caravan?”

“Shoes for Juan and Antonio,” Ana replied. She and her husband, Tomás, had two little boys—Josefina’s beloved nephews.

“I hope he brings that plow Papá needs,” said Clara. She was always practical.

“How dull!” said Francisca. “I’m hoping for some new lace.”

“You think too much of how you look,” said Clara.

Francisca smirked. “Perhaps you ought—” she began.

But Josefina interrupted again. “Well, I know one thing we all hope Abuelito will bring,” she said cheerfully. “Chocolate!”

“Lots!” said Francisca and Clara. They spoke at exactly the same moment, which made them laugh at each other.

“You haven’t said what you’re wishing for,” Ana said to Josefina. She was squeezing water out of a petticoat. “Perhaps you’re hoping for a surprise.”

“Perhaps,” said Josefina, smiling.

The truth was, she didn’t know how to name what she wished for. What she wanted most was for her sisters to be at peace with one another. She wanted the household to be running smoothly, and Papá to be happy and laughing and making music again. She longed for life to be the way it was when Mamá was alive.

Right after Mamá died, Josefina had felt that the world should end. How could life go on for the rest of them without Mamá? It had seemed wrong, even cruel somehow, that nothing stopped. The sun rose and set. Seasons passed from one to another. There were still chores to be done every day. There were clothes to be washed, weeds to pull, animals to be fed, socks to be mended. But as time went by, Josefina began to see that the steady rhythm of life on the rancho was her best comfort. Mamá seemed close by when Josefina and her sisters were together doing the laundry or mending or cooking or cleaning. The sisters tried hard to do the chores the way that Mamá had taught them. Every day, they tried to remember their prayers and their manners and how to do things right. But it was not easy without Mamá’s loving guidance.

Josefina looked at the primroses in her pouch and thought of Mamá. Mamá had such faith in them all! She brought out the best in them. Now that she was gone, they struggled. Francisca and Clara squabbled. Ana worried. Josefina often felt lost and unsure. And Papá was very quiet. He had given away his violin, so he never filled the house with music anymore. Josefina sighed. She didn’t see how the caravan could bring anything to help them.

“Here comes a surprise,” said Clara. “But not one you’ll like, Josefina.”

Josefina looked up. “Oh, no,” she said.

It was a small herd of goats. They were coming down the hill to drink from the stream. Josefina disliked all goats and one goat in particular. The biggest, oldest, meanest goat was named Florecita. Florecita was a sneaky, nasty bully. She bit, she rammed, and she’d eat anything. Josefina was afraid of her. She frowned when she spotted Florecita at the edge of the herd, heading straight for her.

Josefina backed away. She’d been poked by Florecita’s sharp horns before, and she had no wish to be poked again. She scrambled up and stood on the log over the stream. Still Florecita did not stop coming. Josefina took one backward step, then another, then SPLASH! She missed her footing and fell off the log into the stream. It was very shallow, so she landed hard on the bottom.

“Oh, no!” she wailed. She saw that all but one sprig of the primroses had fallen out of her pouch. The flowers were floating on the water. Florecita snatched them up in her mean-looking teeth. She chewed them, looking satisfied. Then the goat turned and sauntered off to rejoin the herd.

“Are you all right?” Ana asked kindly as she helped Josefina to her feet. “You really must not let Florecita bully you like that!”

Josefina wrung out her skirt and smiled. “I tried to stand up to Florecita,” she joked, “but I ended up sitting down, didn’t I?”

She laughed along with her sisters, but she was annoyed with Florecita. She was even more annoyed with herself for letting Florecita scare her. As she looked at the one sprig of primroses left in her pouch, she thought of another thing she wanted that the caravan could not possibly bring her—the courage to stand up to Florecita!