by Carla Kelly
She knew she dared not bargain with the Virgin Mary or promise the Lord that she would never ask for anything else, because she already asked for nothing, except for a child. She had so much—a loving husband, a beautiful home, food, warmth, clothing. It was more than she ever thought would be hers. She closed her eyes tighter and pressed her lips even tighter, remembering that eternity of lying scrunched into the corner under her mother’s bed, terrified almost to the point of madness, as death ruled her peaceful home and slammed down her parents. She remembered wanting desperately for everything to be exactly the same as it had been earlier that morning, except that she knew it never would be again.
She whispered the Ave over and over until her mind calmed, until she could reflect on that long-ago day with a certain detachment, and not horror. She considered what it was that had kept her from crawling out and surrendering herself to the Comanches. Something had kept her where she was, even when the building caught fire and flames crackled in the vigas high overhead. She had heard no voice, no miraculous reprieve from a saint or Padre Eternal Himself, who obviously had bigger fish to fry elsewhere, even as her entire world crumbled. What was it?
To her infinite relief, she felt it again, kneeling there in the darkness of the chapel, lit by one tiny flame. Paloma watched the flame, small and bravely burning. Truly, there was not a baby inside her yet, but there was something else, some bit of strength that she knew, just knew, was powerful enough to rule her universe. Where it came from, she had no clue. It had always been there, even in her deepest despair. It burned there now; maybe she had just forgotten.
With a shuddering sigh, she rocked back on her heels, then bowed forward until her forehead pressed against the cold tiles. “Gracias,” she whispered into the floor, and kissed the tile. No prayers to the Virgin were futile. If anyone understood babies, longing, and courage, it must be Holy Mary, Mother of God.
When she sat up, she knew she was not alone. She knew it was Toshua, and for the first time, she felt nothing but relief. When her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, she saw him sitting, Comanche-fashion, almost close enough to touch. Without a word, she moved over and sat the same way beside him. She leaned against his shoulder, which made him take a sudden deep breath.
They sat there in silence, Paloma knowing she would have to speak first, because he was a shy man. She cleared her throat.
“I was feeling sad because I do not have a baby inside me.” There, she had said it to someone besides Marco. “I came here to think about the matter. Why are you here?”
“Because you are here.”
She glanced at him in surprise. “But you … you sleep in Marco’s office.”
She felt him nod. “I also wander this Double Cross at night, checking if all is well.” He nudged her shoulder. “All was not well.”
“But the guards—don’t they see you?”
“No one sees me unless I want them to.”
There was nothing of braggadocio in his words; it was a statement of fact, so she nodded. “You wanted me to see you now? Why?”
“So you will know you are not alone.”
She was silent, just leaning against this man who was her protector in more ways, perhaps, than she would ever know. To her deep satisfaction, his arm slowly went around her shoulder.
“Call me pabi.”
“Pavee?”
“Close enough.”
“What does it mean?”
“Older brother. You need one now, I think. Will I do?”
Paloma had thought she was through with tears. Apparently she was wrong.
Chapter Eighteen
In which three travelers begin a winter trip with a man they don’t trust
Marco knew Paloma had left their bed, and he thought he knew why. He also reckoned she might want to be alone with herself. He lay there in his suddenly empty bed, wondering if he could explain to this blessed woman that somehow, in a way he could not understand either, there was room in his heart for both of his beloved wives.
He wondered what he would find in the kitchen when he finally got up, dressed and went there: Paloma sad, or Paloma happy?
What he found was neither, but better. She sat at the table sorting beans while Sancha, trailed closely by Trece, moved from fireplace to table, preparing breakfast. Still weaker from her inoculation than anyone cared to see, Perla the cook sat close to the fire, huddled in her shawl.
When he came in, Paloma looked up and smiled at him. That was all. She probably knew he was headed for the horse barn, his usual destination before breakfast, because she didn’t pat the bench beside her. She just smiled at him in a most serene way. There was suddenly less of the new bride about her, and more of the matron. It was the smile of someone made newly confident—by what, he did not know. It touched his heart in comforting ways.
He rested his hand on her shoulder, throwing caution to the winds to run his thumb up and down her neck, which made her head turn toward his hand. To his further amazement, even though servants watched and they did come from a reticent society, she kissed his hand. O cielo! Too much of this and his head would swell so large that even turning sideways wouldn’t get him through most doors.
Toshua waited for him in the horse barn, looking as though he had something to say, which made this morning even more unusual. Still, there was that Indian hesitation, so Marco spoke first.
“Did you talk Paloma out of coming to the Staked Plains with us?”
“I didn’t even try, señor.”
“What then?”
“I adopted your wife this morning in the chapel. She is my little sister and I am her brother.”
Marco just stared at him, which made Toshua smile. “I did. Told her she could call me pabi. This makes me her older brother. She misses one named Claudio.” He sighed. “I cannot replace him, but she still needs an older brother.”
“She has a husband, I would remind you,” Marco said.
“Brothers are different and she needs one,” Toshua insisted with some finality, which told Marco the matter was taken care of and needed no more commentary.
Marco sat down on the grain bin, gesturing to Toshua to join him. “Was she sad there?”
“Very much sad. She cried, and then she stopped crying, and sat back. It was dark—she didn’t know I was there—but I could see a little lift to her shoulders. Then she leaned forward to the floor and kissed it. I did not understand, but it was not my business to question her.”
“She is sad because we have no children.” There, he had admitted it to someone besides Paloma.
“She told me.”
“Dios, really?”
Toshua nodded. “That was when I adopted her. I am her pabi, her older brother. Your wife’s troubles are mine, too, now.” He took a long look at Marco. “Now I am adopting you. You are tami, my little brother.”
Marco thought of his own little brother who had died of inoculation so long ago. Marco nodded. “I accept, pabi.” Maybe he needed an older brother, too.
Marco knew he was short tempered and troublesome as they prepared to leave, and could not understand Paloma’s serenity. Didn’t she understand how dangerous this was, she, who knew the worst that Comanches could do? On their last night at the Double Cross, as they prepared for sleep, he asked her.
“Why should I fear? It would be worse to never see you again,” she told him, her lips against his cheek as she spoke. “It’s that simple. Don’t complicate things, Marco. You do that sometimes, you know.”
Paloma was right; that had ended the argument.
That afternoon, he had spent a long moment in the horse barn with Buciro, his favorite mount, but an elderly gent. “Don’t give me sad eyes,” he whispered to Buciro. “I know you would carry me to the ends of the earth, but better not to the Staked Plains.”
He and Toshua had decided on two pack horses for the two tents, rope, ammunition and probably more carne seca con gris than anyone wanted to eat. “Pemmican, pemmican,” he said, trying out
the Indian word that Antonio Gil had used. Listening carefully to Perla’s instructions as she still sat by the fireplace, Paloma and Sancha ground the dried beef, added dried tomatoes and spices, then doused the whole thing in beef fat. They hadn’t really needed Perla’s instructions, but both women knew the old cook had to feel useful.
Since tortillas would never keep, the little doctor had talked them into what he called “hardtack,” consisting of nothing more than flour, water, and a little salt. “It never goes bad,” he assured them as he demonstrated, wrists deep in flour.
“Hardtack,” Marco repeated in the horse barn. “Hardtack.” He would have to listen to Antonio carefully, to learn how to pronounce his rrs without rolling them. The sound was harsh to his ears.
The men weren’t so particular, but Paloma insisted upon a change of clothing for herself. Blushing, she asked Marco for a leather pouch for her monthly supplies. He found one for her, and earned himself a slap on the head when he suggested she label it, so no man would open it by mistake. They ended up laughing about it. One thing led to another, and dinner was late, that last night.
Their usual gathering in the chapel before bed was as solemn as those nights he remembered from his childhood, when the Comanche Moon had risen and he and his brother and sister slept in the hollowed out space under the chapel floor. Everyone crowded into the chapel this night, even his Navajo beekeeper, who was skeptical about religion. One more time, Marco went over his instructions slowly and carefully. He hadn’t bothered to write them down, because no one could read. After the last Ave Maria, he did take Sancha aside and hand her a folded sheet of paper.
“If only Paloma returns, burn this,” he whispered to his housekeeper. “If neither of us returns, see that my sister gets it.”
Sancha took the folded paper with its wax seal, a question in her eyes that she was too polite to ask.
“In this, I am deeding my land grant to my younger nephew. His brother will inherit his father’s land, and Julio will receive mine.”
Sancha made a face, crossed herself and tried to hand it back, as though the document burned her fingers. “Master, I cannot even bear such a thought.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her close, as he would his mother. “My dear lady, we must be realistic.”
From the shelter of his arms, she nodded. “Better you kill that doctor than do as he asks. God will not hold you accountable to a devil’s bargain!”
“If I did that, how could I face that same God some day?” he whispered back, then kissed her cheek. “I will do my best to stay alive, and keep Paloma alive, too.”
Marco stared all his fears in the face and rode east in the morning with his dearest Paloma, a doctor he did not trust, and a Comanche he needed more than words could express—his older brother. He wasn’t sure that Toshua would have consented to return to the Texas plains where he had been cast away by his own people, if Paloma were not along. In fact, he doubted it.
They left after the sun rose, snow falling lightly. He led both pack horses, docile creatures that probably didn’t even need a lead. Paloma rode beside him, pretty in her new warm cloak and precise in her posture, as efficient in her side saddle as she was anywhere else. Again, he silently thanked her long-dead parents for teaching her to ride so many years ago. Toshua ranged around from side to side as he always did, alert. The little doctor frowned with the concerted effort of a man who might ride well enough, but would never be easy in the saddle.
True, they rode into danger, but Marco couldn’t help but feel his heart lift to be in the saddle for a long trip. Winter usually confined him to the Double Cross, and he didn’t mind, not really. The last year and a half had been a wonderful time to use winter as an excuse to go nowhere and devote his free time to Paloma. I have turned into a lazy lover, he thought, with no remorse. Better to be a husband having a hard time prying the mattress from his back than to repeat those horrible eight years when the space beside him on that mattress was cold and empty.
Marco couldn’t deny the pleasure of a good ride. When Toshua got within earshot, he gestured him over. “Remember that time a year ago when Paloma and I rode to Santa Fe and you were supposed to stay behind where it was safe?” he asked.
The Comanche laughed. “How did you know?”
“You’re not the only smart man on the Double Cross.” Marco leaned across his saddle. “But tell me, pabi: how did you hide from us after the fork in the Chama and the Bravo?”
“I turned back at the fork. You didn’t need me the rest of the way.” He turned so serious then. “But I will stay with my brother and sister now, no matter what.”
February was no time to leave the shelter of the mountains and head across the plains, but a promise was a promise. They rode steadily, with no complaint from Paloma. She never complained. Why would this ride be different? How bright her eyes were! Marco could have sworn she was enjoying the freedom of the open spaces, too.
“Tell me, husband, why is it called ‘the Staked Plains’?”
“I have heard that in the days of Coronado, the conquistador planted stakes within eye-view of each other, so he would not get lost,” Marco said. “There is a sameness you will start to notice tomorrow.”
Antonio squared around to look at Marco. “Señor, I have seen the view of these plains from the east. That is a sight.”
“True,” Toshua said. “I hear that when you travel from where the sun rises, you face a high wall, an estaca. Right, little man?”
“We would call it a ‘cliff’ in English.”
“Cleef, cleef,” Marco repeated.
“Close. It goes for miles and miles.”
“Think of it as a stockade,” Marco told Paloma, “una estaca.”
“How much of it have you seen?” she asked.
He wished he could be wise and all-knowing. He also knew it was impossible to fool this woman. “Only what we see now, my dearest.”
She swallowed and gave him such a look then, fear followed by calm determination. He imagined she had looked just like that when she had stared at the mountains between her and the man whose yellow dog she was trying to return.
He felt his own pulse pick up speed, and he began to breathe faster. Everything from now on was new to him. He had spent his life on this bit of plain, tucked against the more familiar mountains. He wanted to grab Paloma’s bridle and turn around. The only thing that stopped him was the look she gave him just then, as if she understood his sudden terror and his fervent wish to protect her.
She angled her horse closer to his until they were almost knee to knee, and she stayed that way through the long afternoon.
Paloma already knew one consequence of that great plain. When she had to make water, all she could do was gesture for them to turn around. He knew how modest she was about her functions, and how this mortified her. “Not even a bush,” she grumbled, when she finished. By the same token, she looked the other way when it was their turn. Hopefully, it would be dark when they had to squat. If not, well, that was the journey.
They made their puny camp smack in the open plain, an act that went against everything Marco knew about Comanchería. There was no alternative, not with miles of emptiness all around them. Marco’s small fire of brush and dried buffalo dung struggled against the wind, even though the snow had stopped and bone-rattling cold clamped down. Paloma retreated to their tent, once he and Toshua set it up.
He and the other men stood by the fire, pretending to warm their hands. “Let me tell you now, if it gets too cold on this journey, we will be four in one tent, the better to stay warm,” Marco said.
“I’m supposed to cozy up to that Indian?” Antonio said.
“It would be better than freezing to death, médico.”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you? Then you could turn right around and go home.”
Marco rolled his eyes. He remembered a night by the fire with Father Damiano at the monastery where the Chama joins the Bravo—the spectacled priest telli
ng him about pilgrims who complained about everything. “It’s like this, dear boy,” Damiano had said as they toasted cheese. “In each group of pilgrims that comes to this monastery, I look at them and wonder which one is the complainer. It never fails.”
“Which one, indeed,” he said out loud, which earned him a glare from Antonio Gil. He walked beyond the limit of the fire—if one could call it a fire—made sure the wind was blowing right and unbuttoned his breeches in the dark. He looked down at his barely visible stream, probably the warmest thing around.
To his horror, a hand reached out for that same warmth. Marco leaped back, shoving his member into his pants, his heart pounding. As he stared in fright, a naked man covered in pox flopped into the dampness he had left.
Chapter Nineteen
In which the travelers see what Antonio knows
“Stay in the tent, Paloma!” Marco shouted as he staggered into the feeble firelight again. He gestured to Toshua, who came immediately to his side. Wishing his hand didn’t shake, Marco pointed into the darkness.
Toshua walked to the same spot. Same reaction. He leaped back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Marco took another deep breath and came closer. He just looked at Toshua, and the two of them walked into the darkness to kneel by the figure lying there face down. Tentatively, Marco put his hand on the man’s ruined neck, finding a pulse so puny he had to hold his hand there longer than he wanted, to be certain.
“He’s still alive,” he said. “Help me.”
They both hesitated, then gently, with hands under armpits, dragged the man into the light and turned him over.
“Nurmurnah,” Toshua said.
By now, Antonio had joined them, his face registering all his disgust at the sight of the Comanche. Her eyes wide, Paloma looked through the tent flap.