by Carla Kelly
“Los Adaes,” Mondragón said. “Wasn’t that where, years ago, the governor had forced the settlers to go farther west to San Antonio de Bexar? And some objected?”
“Ah, yes. Eventually some of them straggled back toward Rio Trinidad. They had their fill of dust and Comanches.”
“What kind of people lived in Los Adaes when you got there?” Mondragón asked.
“What you would expect: discouraged folk, some French, runaway blacks, confused Indians.” He managed a laugh. “I treated malaria and sore eyes, mostly, and all kinds of venereal disease.”
Paloma made a little sound and turned her face away. She was such a tender soul.
“We had one common denominator, though.”
“Comanches.”
Anthony nodded. “They knew a weak settlement when they saw one. I suppose it was just a matter of time.”
Paloma made another sound, one that brought Mondragón’s hand to her neck as he pulled her face into the hollow of his shoulder.
“We know enough of that,” the juez said. “Say no more.”
“Oh, no! You get all of it,” Anthony said, his voice rising. “I was in the presidio, treating someone’s case of the clap, for God’s sake! The Penateka raped and tortured my wife and impaled her on a lance that came out of the top of her head. I think she was still alive when they did that. They snatched away Pia Maria.”
He looked at them and saw only confusion, then realized he had spoken in English. Well, never mind; they had imaginations. He was silent.
“Penateka,” Señor Mondragón said, repeating the only word he had understood. “Honey eaters. They took your daughter and sold her farther west? That would be their style.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know for certain?”
“After I buried my wife, I rode with some soldiers to San Antonio de Bexar.” He made a face, remembering how the men had treated him, an inglés who spoke poor Spanish. “Everyone needs a surgeon, señor.”
Mondragón nodded. “And a good blacksmith,” he added, which made Paloma chuckle.
Anthony thought he would be a bigger man and overlook their gentle humor at his expense. “We passed a settlement that had forted up and defended themselves. They mentioned seeing a little girl no more than three, with long yellow hair. Pia Maria. They said the Indians were not Penateka, but Nokoni, so she had been sold.”
“The Nokoni live north, not out here.”
“In San Antonio, I joined with traders who had come from a Nokoni camp where they said a blond child was traded to Kwahadi.” He couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice. “The Kwahadi traded twenty buffalo robes for her.”
Apparently Señor Mondragón saw the matter differently. “Twenty, eh? That tells me they are taking very good care of her. Twenty!”
For the first time since he had stared in horror at Catalina, Anthony felt the tiniest comfort. He looked at the juez, seeing nothing but sincerity in the man’s expression. There was no false hope there; Señor Mondragón believed what he was saying. “You think so?”
“I know it,” he replied simply.
The Mondragóns looked at him now with kindness in their eyes, all teasing aside.
“I must find Pia Maria. I have nothing left,” Anthony concluded. He knew that among the traders, it had been a sign of weakness to let his desperation show on his face. He thought the Mondragóns were susceptible to bare pleading. “You have so much, señores. I have so little.”
Paloma nodded. “You may do what you will to my neck now. I hope it will not hurt.”
A safe topic again. Anthony sighed inwardly; he understood scabs. He motioned Señor Mondragón to move, and he did, but not far. The juez stood beside the bed, his eyes intent on the process. For a brief moment, Anthony held his bistoury in the flame of the fireplace, then walked back to them, waving the little instrument in the air to cool it.
Paloma eyed the blade with some trepidation and leaned back when he approached her.
“Come now! You’re the lady with her sandals tacked on the wall in the sala,” he said.
“That wasn’t so hard,” she replied, her eyes still on the bistoury. “I was astoundingly in love with this man with light brown eyes.”
Anthony glanced at that man and smiled to see him blush. He gave him a moment to kneel beside the bed and whisper in Paloma’s ear.
“Well, I was,” she whispered back, her voice gruff. “Still am.” She took a deep breath and sat forward, turning her head to expose her neck and its line of scabs.
Deftly, Anthony pressed the sharp blade against the edge of the scab and popped it onto the cloth in his hand. One more and two more, and the thing was done.
“There, now. I didn’t hurt you,” he told his patient. “Hold still another moment. I’d like some of that ooze, too.”
She shuddered, and Marco laughed, which earned him a hard stare from his wife. When he had extracted all the runny matter he wanted, Anthony folded a small square of linen and dribbled some wine on it. He handed it to Marco, who diligently dabbed at the red spots on Paloma’s neck until the oozing stopped.
“Very good.” Anthony closed the tin container and tossed the linen squares in the fire. He pointed an admonitory finger at his patient. “One more day and night in bed with no exertion, then your life will be your own again, Señora Mondragón. I now declare you immune from la viruela for as long as you live.”
Tears came to her eyes, and she reached for the hand of that husband who laughed at her, twining her fingers through his. Anthony glanced at him and looked away. The juez wasn’t doing any better at schooling his own feelings. What a bunch of crybabies; the Spanish were like that.
He held up two fingers. “Two days from now, con su permiso, juez, I will take your wife—and probably Toshua, because he will insist—and inoculate all of Santa Maria who signed your paper.”
“I will go, too.”
When darkness came, the Mondragóns lay in bed, Paloma’s nightgown more north than south.
“You heard the médico, dear husband: a day and a night with no exertion.”
“Is this exertion?”
“Perhaps not.”
He whispered in her ear. She laughed softly and wrapped her legs around him.
“Only once, because I am still recuperating.”
Later, Marco closed his eyes, soothed into that comforting sort of relief that making love to his excellent wife gave him. He held her close. “I meant it, dearest, every word. Someday we will name our son Claudio.”
He felt her silent sigh and clapped his arm tighter around her, giving her a shake. “Have a little more faith, Paloma, just a little.”
He felt her nod against his shoulder. “Do twins run in the Mondragón family?”
“No. They ran in Felicia’s family. You and I will eventually have babies one at a time.”
Feeling the sudden dampness on his shoulder, he swallowed the boulder in his throat. “Just a little faith,” he whispered.
Chapter Sixteen
In which people have their reasons
Two days later, the sun shone but gave off no warmth as the four of them, plus their ever-present outriders, rode to Santa Maria. Paloma took a deep breath of the frosty air, wondering how long the sensation would last of relief and reprieve from sickness and death. In her heart, she knew she owed the little médico a debt she could never repay, even if he was a scoundrel and she wasn’t entirely certain she would ever trust him.
They had come from the funeral for Andrés, partly Catholic and partly Tewa. As he lay dying, the old man had told Sancha specifically that he wanted only prayers from his master, the juez. After the trip to the family burying ground—Paloma watched Marco’s eyes linger on the three graves most dear to him there—the others had divided up the old retainer’s possessions, Tewa fashion, telling stories and joking. When all that was left was Trece, Sancha stepped forward. She looked around as though daring anyone to stop her, and picked up the little dog.
; “He is a valuable dog, Sancha,” Marco teased. “Probably from the court of the emperor of China, considering how much I paid for him.”
“He will eat well in my kitchen, señor,” was all she said. Trece licked her ear as she carried him to that kitchen.
Without wasting another moment, they mounted and rode to Santa Maria, Paloma happy to be in the saddle. She noticed her husband watching her carefully, worried for her. And there was Toshua, glancing at her now and then, too. Did a woman need so many protectors? At least the médico appeared unconcerned about her health. She watched him, instead, understanding him for what he was: a man who cared for nobody except himself. For the first time, Paloma wondered why he was so intent upon finding Pia Maria. She made a small sign of the cross on her chest, taking back such a wicked thought. Certainly he cared for his child; why else would he be here?
“Are you feeling good?” Marco asked, leaning toward her.
Heavens, the man must have seen something sour in her expression, with such a wicked idea. “I am fine, dearest,” she assured him. “I just had the strangest thought.”
“Care to share it?”
She shook her head. “You’d think I had cotton wadding for brains.”
“Don’t you?” he joked. “You married me,” which made her gasp and prod him with her quirt.
Dear God, it feels good to tease and be teased, she thought, as she put spurs to her horse and chased Marco across the wintry landscape. It also relieved her not to have to express her strange thoughts about Antonio Gil.
By the time they arrived in Santa Maria, snow was falling and Paloma was hungry. Maybe Marco was hungry, too, because he led their little group directly to Santa Maria, their church. She knew he had sent riders ahead to let Father Francisco know they were coming for the inoculations and would be staying in the church’s humble answer to a guesthouse. A warm fire would be welcome, Paloma told herself, maybe even more welcome than tortillas.
Father Francisco met them at the side door, his hands tucked economically into his long sleeves, his face serious. His expression didn’t change when Marco asked if their rooms in the guesthouse were ready, but he did gesture them off their horses and into the stables.
When their horses were curried and grained, he handed Marco the key to the little house that connected to what passed for a rectory, in such a small town. “There is room for you all, except the Indian will have to sleep in the barn,” he said, which earned a grunt of satisfaction from Toshua, who had told Paloma earlier that was what he planned to do, anyway.
“When you are settled, Señor Mondragón, come to the rectory, please,” the priest said, and turned on his heel.
Paloma looked at her husband. “That was not the warmest welcome in the history of our polite society,” she said, trying to tease.
He turned the key in the lock and ushered her inside, Antonio following. “No, it was not. I have a feeling I know why.” His put his arm around her shoulders. “Last year, Toshua told me he would have been happy to kill your cousin for me. Like a fool, I ignored him.”
She gaped at him. “What in the world ….”
After motioning Antonio toward his room and seeing him inside, Marco pulled her into their little chamber and shut the door. “The Castellanos probably rushed here as fast as they could to tell the priest that I had urged her to be inoculated, even if it meant losing her child. She will have told our priest that I encouraged her to commit a mortal sin.”
“Dear God,” she whispered.
The room had nothing more than a bed with a crucifix above the headboard, a charcoal brazier, cold now, and a reclinatorio for the penitent. His arm still around her, Marco sank down on the bed. “Madre de Dios, how did it come to this?” he asked. “All I have tried to do is serve these people, my friends—”
“You don’t have to face this alone,” she told him. “I will come with you.”
“You needn’t be there,” he said, with no conviction.
She didn’t bother to reply, but stood up and pulled him to his feet. “March, señor.”
Easy to be tough; harder to knock and stand in front of Father Francisco’s closed door for an inordinate length of time, behavior that struck her as rude.
The door finally opened. His face a study in discomfort, Father Francisco ushered them in. He hesitated to let in Paloma, but she pretended not to notice.
“Where my husband goes, I go,” she said, her head high.
They seated themselves in front of the priest’s desk. He looked at Marco a long time, his glance wavering before Marco’s, troubled.
“Let me help you, Father,” Marco said, as kindly as he could. “The Castellanos came to you to tattle that I had encouraged her to be inoculated against la viruela, even if there was a danger from inoculation that she could lose the child she carries.”
Father Francisco’s relief was almost palpable. “Yes, that is what they did. Marco, Marco, how could you say such a thing?”
“Truly, Father, our little médico is not certain that would be the result. He doesn’t know! Before Christ, he is also fully aware of what he asks.” Marco shook his head. “You know me, Father. I am not a man to go against any teachings of our Catholic faith.”
Father Francisco sighed and stood up, pacing two steps forward and two steps back in his tiny office. He stopped and held out his hands. “What can we do, if la viruela visits us? Some will die anyway.”
“But not as many! And truly, it may not even visit us, but I fear it will. Antonio Gil has seen its ravages across Texas.” Marco stood up, too. “Father, I will encourage inoculation among all the people on my list. If women who are with child ask us, what do we tell them?”
Father Francisco clapped his hands together in frustration. “Tell them, oh, tell them what you told the Castellanos, but do not encourage such women to be inoculated! Holy Church cannot tolerate that.” He pointed his finger at the juez. “And you would be in danger of excommunication, and worse, if the news traveled to Santa Fe and the bishop.”
His words hung in the air. Paloma held her breath, full of new fear. How had it come to this? Does my cousin hate us so much? she asked herself, appalled.
“I will do as you say, Father,” Marco said finally. He knelt. “Bless me, please.”
Tears in his eyes, Father Francisco did as he asked. When he finished, he kissed Marco’s forehead. “You have been placed in a bad position, but I do not know what we would do without you, señor. It must be that you have to do our dirty work.” He clapped his hands again, but quietly this time, as if he wanted to change the subject and clear the air. “And now, please join me for our noon meal, the médico, too.”
Paloma took Marco’s hand as they walked back to get Antonio. She leaned against his arm, saying nothing. “All I really want to do is raise my cattle and sheep, live in peace and love you,” he whispered, staring straight ahead. “Is the burden of juez de campo too much?”
She had no answer for him, stung because he had been forced to agree to Antonio Gil’s devil’s bargain in the first place. A lesser man would ignore it, but she knew she had not married a lesser man. Her cousin Maria Teresa had done that.
Marco did his best to maintain normal conversation over la comida del mediodía, grateful that Paloma kept up a steady commentary with the priest. Father Francisco’s words had stung far more than the old man knew. Marco sat back—which made Paloma give him a startled glance—and considered the matter, remembering a time when a rancher, long dead now, had raked his own father, juez before him, over the coals for some misdemeanor or other. When the man left, still full of righteous indignation, Papa had only shrugged. “That’s what it is to be juez de campo, mi hijo. Don’t let anyone talk you into tackling such a thankless burden. You know better.”
If only I hadn’t had such a good example, dear Papa, he thought.
Antonio had been darting him quizzical glances. Once the meal was over and they began their rounds to the homes that had requested inoculation, Marco explain
ed to the doctor just what had happened at the Castellanos and why the priest had talked to him in private. All he received in return for his explanation was a shake of the head, and “You Catholics,” from Antonio, who was probably a total heretic, or worse, a Methodist.
Supplying balm to Marco’s sore heart, they were well-received in Santa Maria, with entire families submitting to inoculation. There were frowns and tears, but it helped that Paloma was willing to hold the little ones on her lap and cuddle them while Antonio did his work. Even old Emilio Blanco, the blacksmith, had no objection when she held his hand. He blushed, but he did not draw away. While Antonio bandaged, Marco looked at his list and paired the patients with those who would help them while they suffered.
“I have to admire your lists,” Antonio said as they passed the house of Señora Carmen Saltero, the mad seamstress. “You’re a better bureaucrat than most.”
“Is that a compliment or not?” Marco protested, but not with any vehemence.
“A compliment. Wait now, is this house on your list or not?”
Marco had stopped to face Señora Saltero’s house. “It is not, but I want to try once more.” He touched Paloma’s arm. “And I have a gift for you here.”
His wife smiled at him, her eyes lively. “Something for me? Is there an occasion?”
“Do I need one?” he asked in turn, remembering what old Andrés had said a year ago, about Paloma not being a woman who would ever make demands. He was right; too bad Andrés was not alive for Marco to remind him of his observation. “Perhaps there is an occasion. Let’s stop.”
Señora Saltero met them at the door with a smile wreathing her already wrinkled face and a tape measure around her neck. “Come, come,” she said, ushering them inside to warmth and the fragrance of cinnamon.
Marco watched the doctor as they stepped into the sala, where Carmen Saltero kept her collection of ladies’ mannequins, life-sized and grouped in cliques, as though they spoke to one another. Eyes wide, Antonio leaped back and swore in English, so no one was offended.