by Carla Kelly
He was proudest of Kwihnai’s lance, practicing with Toshua and the others in the evenings. When they were nearly to Santa Maria, thinking Kwihnai had only loaned the weapon to him for the journey, Marco tried to return it through Toshua. The Comanche—his friend, his pabi—had backed his horse away, shaking his head.
“It is yours, my little brother. Keep Paloma safe with it always,” Toshua had said, including her in his gesture.
That had led to tears. Paloma no longer bothered to ask herself why her heart was heavy with tears for The People she had thought to hate and fear all her life.
As much as she knew she would miss The People, Paloma could not deny the great relief that covered her like a warm bath, when the towering Sangre de Cristos finally came into view. “Our mountains,” she said to Marco as he rode beside her. “Gracias a Dios.”
He rode beside her more and more now. She knew she had not complained, but she had noticed Eckapeta speaking to him more than once, and then stopping her talk when she came closer. They are worried about me, she thought, irritated with them both. I have said nothing and they are worried.
A day later, their escort, including Toshua and Eckapeta, left them without a word. She had awakened from a sound sleep to find Marco missing. When she crouched out of the tent, she looked around and cried out, “Where have they gone?”
He stood facing the east, tears on his face.
“Why did you not wake me?” she raged at him, then threw herself into his open arms.
“They told me not to,” he whispered into her hair. “They said it was best this way.”
“Why didn’t I hear them?” she asked, sad to her heart’s core.
“They’re Kwahadi,” he said with a shrug.
“You heard them,” she accused.
He had no answer for that.
The greatest difficulty came in approaching Santa Maria without alarming anyone or becoming victims themselves, since they wore the garb of The People. Marco solved it handily enough by traveling in a roundabout way to the fields of a friend of long standing.
“I will call his name and sing a Te Deum. Stay here and watch.”
Filled with misgivings, she did as he said. A hand to her forehead to shade her eyes, she watched distant figures in the field stand, gather close, and then run. “Please, please be right, Marco,” she whispered.
She watched, fearful, as Marco dismounted to face the approaching horsemen, picking their way slowly. Just as slowly, he set down his lance, removed the quiver from his back and stood there with his hands outstretched. “I am Marco Mondragón!” he shouted. “Your juez de campo, Juan Sandia, you horse-stealing old fornicator.” She closed her eyes in gratitude to hear laughter.
The riders were Don Juan Sandia and his son Diego, men she remembered from inoculations in February. Was it only February? How could that be, when her life had changed in every way? When the Sandias crowded close around him, everyone talking at once, Marco waved her in and the journey was over.
Marco told them all he could as they rode to Santa Maria in the protective center of the entire Sandia clan. “What month is it?” was his first question. He had to know before he would tell them anything. All of a sudden, the month mattered. Half-naked in a loin cloth, and he wanted—needed—to know the month. I am a bureaucrat, he thought, amused.
“Abril, mono,” Juan teased, taking liberties with the juez de campo because they were friends of long standing.
Everyone had something to say. Marco found himself missing the polite clearing of the throat in tipis. On the outskirts of Santa Maria, he held up his hand. “My friends, I promise I will call a meeting soon and tell everyone what happened. Now you tell me that Lieutenant Roybal is here again? Why is that?”
“Word has passed around that we have no juez. He’ll be glad to see you,” Juan replied.
Lieutenant Roybal was glad—overjoyed, in fact—grabbing Marco in an abrazo. He sat them both down, ready for a long story, which Marco overruled, after a look at Paloma.
“We are going home now,” he said firmly. “I will write you a detailed report in a day or two and bring it myself. I would ask two things of you: could you send someone to Señora Saltero’s to at least borrow a skirt and bodice for my wife? We daren’t ride any farther in these clothes. I can surely find clothes from someone in the garrison.”
At the mention of the dressmaker, Lieutenant Roybal’s face fell. “Alas, la viruela ….”
“Then it did fall upon Santa Maria,” Paloma said. “We could not tell, as we rode in.”
“It did, but few died, thanks to you and that doctor, Señor … Señor ….”
“Señor Antonio Gil,” Marco supplied. No need for them to know the complication that was Leo Flynn. “Such a brave man. He has decided to continue his work among the Kwahadi, building such bridges as our governor would be grateful to know about. But Señora Saltero?”
Again the sorrowful shake of the head, followed by a philosophical shrug. “I believe she was not inoculated.”
“That is true,” Paloma said, her voice soft. “She chose this and we understand. Could you send that same man to Aldonza Rivera? I believe our old friend, God rest her soul, said Aldonza would be the new dressmaker in Santa Maria.”
“I will.”
By the time the servant returned with a handsome skirt and bodice, Marco had been clothed in breeches and a shirt and doublet that nearly fit. They would get him home to the Double Cross, and he needed nothing more. While Paloma changed, the lieutenant told him about the others in Santa Maria who had survived the Dark Wind.
Marco had to ask. “You have not mentioned Rico the tinsmith, and his wife Luz.”
“They are fine!” Roybal leaned closer, ever the gentleman. “And wouldn’t you know that Señora Mendoza is increasing yet again?”
Inwardly, Marco heaved a sigh of relief, wishing he could tell Leo Flynn that even a pregnant woman might live through inoculation, and her baby, too. I cannot possibly be missing that difficult little man, he thought, startled. Well, maybe a little.
“So life goes on in Santa Maria.” Marco could have said something about the promise of the Kwahadi war chief never to raid the valley again. It could wait for the official report in a few days. And here was Paloma, looking like a Spanish lady again.
The lieutenant walked them to their waiting horses, grained and watered. He stopped with another frown. “Señora, you probably do not know, but there is sadness in your own family.”
“I have no family, other than this man of mine,” she said.
“Your cousin and your brother-in-law, Alonso Castellano.” He shook his head. “Such a sad thing. Both dead of la viruela. Rumor says that all their servants scattered before they drew their final breaths. I only just learned of it, but I will ride there tomorrow, because something must be done. There are records to be found. Ho there, señora.”
Marco grabbed Paloma when she sagged against him, holding her easily in his arms. He sat down with her on the bench by the horse trough, his arms tight around her, until she stirred and sat up.
“Such loss, such loss,” she whispered into his neck.
After that news, he did not trust her to ride alone. So it was that they shared the same saddle as they approached the Double Cross, the same way they had arrived a year and a half ago when Paloma Vega—the one The People now called Tatzinupi—arrived from Santa Fe. She had offered no objection then and she offered none now.
“Thanks be to God Omnipotent,” he said simply as they came slowly toward his gray-walled fortress, just the two of them with no outriders. He knew they need not fear the Kwahadi again, no matter how matters stood in the rest of the colony. That would go in his report to the governor, too. Valle del Sol was safe, no longer a target on the edge of Comanchería.
The gates swung wide at their approach, and there was old Emiliano, clapping his hands and capering about like a man half his age. His other servants came running. Marco handed down Paloma to willing hands, even as she
laughed, and protested, and tried to hug everyone at once. Trece, that expensive yellow dog, came out to prance back and forth and land finally in Paloma’s arms.
“Sancha is overfeeding you,” she said, then looked around, setting down the little yellow dog. “Where is Sancha?”
Marco held his breath, knowing that Felicia’s housekeeper had been inoculated years earlier. Still, other calamities could kill a person in this colony. Pray God, no.
Emiliano gave him a thoughtful look that said nothing of death. “She is busy in the kitchen.” He came closer. “Keep a hand on Señora Mondragón when you go in there, my lord.”
A question in his eyes, Marco did as his mayordomo said, taking his wife by the hand, then putting his arm around her waist as they walked slowly down the path through the kitchen garden, already sprouting green shoots. He knew Paloma would probably be weeding in the garden tomorrow, because she loved young, tender things.
He opened the door, ready to call out a greeting, when Sancha turned around. His knees suddenly grew weak in his borrowed breeches. Paloma gave a strangled cry and they somehow propped each other up.
Sancha held a baby in her arms, one even younger than the little niece of Kahúu. The child’s hair was brown, and not nearly as plentiful as a Kwahadi baby’s would be. Sancha smiled and held out the baby. “Not all died at Hacienda Castellano,” she said, with a certain grim determination. “Paloma, my sweet, meet your daughter.”
“One of us has to breathe,” said Marco, finally, to Paloma, who stood as if rooted to the tiles.
She took one deep breath, followed by another. “If I reach out, she will vanish.”
“Not this child,” Sancha told her with a laugh. “You should see her tug at the wet nurse’s nipple if her milk doesn’t flow fast enough! She is here to stay.”
Paloma looked at him as if wondering what to do. He saw the pain in her eyes and knew she was reliving her last look at the Kwahadi baby. Maybe she also saw some reassurance in his face, although God knows he was as astonished as she was. He gave her a little push forward.
She needed nothing more. Paloma held out both hands eagerly as Sancha placed the small bundle in them. With a gesture so tender that he could not help his exclamation, she touched the baby’s cheek with the back of her hand. She sat down at the kitchen table, that place where all business was carried on in the colony of New Mexico, and hugged the baby close, but not close enough to wake it. In another moment, she crooned to the child, her cousin from her cousin.
He smiled as the practical Paloma took over. She did what he had seen her do to the Kwahadi baby, one night, when she didn’t think he was watching. Her fingers so gentle, she carefully unwrapped the baby’s blanket—good God, their child now—and counted her toes and fingers. He had seen Felicia do that very thing to each twin, when she had recovered from the stupor of childbirth. Maybe that was how a mother established ownership, whether the child was of her body or not. He held his breath as Paloma leaned forward, breathing deep of that baby aroma he remembered. God was good just then in Valle de Sol, a place not even the king of Spain cared about, if he had ever even heard of it.
As he watched them, Sancha took his arm. She walked him into the corridor, sat him down and whispered what had happened.
“Their servants truly deserted them in their hour of death?” he whispered, appalled. “Even those who had no need to fear la viruela?”
“Even them. Only one woman remained as Maria Teresa, covered with smallpox, gave birth and died. She didn’t even tie off the cord properly, but wrapped the baby in a tablecloth and ran.”
“Here? Here, to this place Maria Teresa hated?”
Sancha nodded. “Jorge Maestas, the Castellanos’ nearest neighbor, found her and brought her here, because Maria Teresa—”
“What is this?”
Paloma stood in the doorway, her arms tight around her child. Marco moved over and she joined them.
“Señor Maestas sent a rider ahead and Emiliano met them on horseback,” Sancha continued.
“Good God,” Marco said. “No one has been back to the hacienda?”
She shook her head. “It is a death house. You cannot get a Tewa or Navajo near the place. Something must be done.” She looked at him with expectation.
“I will do it.” He remembered Lieutenant Roybal’s promise to visit the Castellano hacienda tomorrow, and knew he could not wait a day. “Send a servant to saddle Buciro.”
Paloma put a hand on his arm, but she spoke to Sancha. “Why here? Of all people and places my cousin hated ….” The baby stirred, and Paloma put her daughter to her shoulder in that tender spot.
“I do not understand it, Señora Mondragón, except that the woman said Señora Castellano called for you as she was dying. Over and over, they said.”
Paloma bowed her head and Marco pulled her close. “If only she had wanted me in life,” she said simply. She sat in silence, then remembered him with a kiss to his cheek, even though Sancha sat there. The Kwahadi had changed them forever.
“Go, Marco. Your family will be here when you return. Just remember that.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
In which Marco finds the star in the meadow by firelight
Marco had no plans to share this terrible ride with anyone on the Double Cross. The sky was still light and he feared no Indians in Valle now. He rode on faithful Buciro, enjoying the familiar feel of his patient friend. The gate closed behind him. When he was out of sight of the Double Cross, he reined in and waited.
“You knew I followed.”
“Toshua, I have been learning from masters for more than two moons. I will speak as we ride.”
He knew how the Kwahadi felt about restless spirits. They were riding at a near gallop now to a place filled with haunts. “If you don’t wish to come, pabi ….” He didn’t finish.
“What kind of a big brother would that make me?” If scorn were a living thing, Marco knew just then he would have seen Toshua flog it in front of him.
The gates hung wide and creaking. Marco crossed himself as they passed through them, feeling his insides churn. So much for his brave words. Only Toshua’s presence kept him from abandoning the whole desperate business, even if to hesitate one day meant that Lieutenant Roybal would arrive to do his duty. He dared not wait.
There was not an animal on the place, not a dog, cow, or chicken. Marco made himself think like a juez de campo, instead of a frightened man. In a few days he would send his men to round up what livestock might be nearby. Surely every animal had not vanished. There were reports to write, and changes to make, if need be, to protect the baby that he knew Paloma would never relinquish to her Santa Fe relatives. And that is how business is done here, he thought grimly. We are on the frontier in many ways and we must bend our rules.
At least the door to the main house was closed. He knew the stench would be overwhelming, but at least they would not find the work of wolves or coyotes inside. He tied his handkerchief over his mouth and nose, and held out the extra one he had brought along, certain Toshua would join him. Eying the handkerchief for a disdainful moment, the Kwahadi followed Marco’s lead.
“We will work fast. I have to get court and land documents from Alonso’s ranch office, and there is something else,” he said in a whisper, as though he feared the spirits crowded close to eavesdrop and spoil his plans. “Behind my saddle I tied two torches. Bring them, please. I will go to their bedchamber first.”
Marco took a final breath of good air and opened the door. The smell of death struck like a fist, thrusting him back outside, where he raised his handkerchief and vomited. He jumped when Toshua clapped his hand on his shoulder, steadying him.
When Marco’s hands quit shaking, he used his flint and steel to light the torches. Holding them high, they went inside. The breeze from the open door and the flickering lights threw shadows against the walls and made the saints painted on leather dance. Toshua gasped. Marco hurried to Alonso’s chamber.
His frie
nd lay there, already melting into his coverlet, his features unrecognizable from pox and mortification. Marco pointed to the curtains with a hand that shook. “Fire it,” he said.
While Toshua torched the curtain and then the bed, Marco threw open the carved chest, tossing clothing right and left. Nothing. The fire spread quicker than Marco had imagined it would. Toshua held out his hand from the doorway and pulled him through.
“Where is the wife? She did not lie with her husband?” Toshua asked.
“This was not a happy family,” Marco said. He thought of the Castellanos’ baby in Paloma’s arms now, a child that would know nothing but joy.
He opened the next door on a sight he knew would give him the shivers and heaves for a long time. Maria Teresa Moreno de Castellano lay there, legs spread, a woman who had given birth with her last breath. Maybe Paloma’s cousin truly had been braver than he knew. If only she had been kind.
In a voice he barely recognized as his own, Marco ordered Toshua to stay where he was. The Kwahadi ignored him, of course. Toshua yanked the rug from the floor and threw it over the ruined woman. Silent, except for hard breathing that betrayed his own terror, Toshua torched the bedding. He held out his hand for Marco, beckoning with impatient fingers. “Spirits are walking here,” he warned.
“Let them walk.” Marco went to Maria Teresa’s carved chest and threw it open. As the smoke thickened, he found a small cask, the kind to hold a lady’s jewels. The lid was open; someone had already rifled through it. Marco cursed the dreadful servants of these dreadful people and looked closer.
There it was, something no thief wanted. As the room seemed to swell with fire, he snatched up the necklace with a star and a V, a child’s necklace. He stuffed it into his doublet pocket and ran for the door.