The Double Cross
The Spanish Brand Series
by
Carla Kelly
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
Camel Press on Smashwords
Daughter of Fortune
Copyright © 2013 Carla Kelly
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Camel Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
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www.carlakellyauthor.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Brand and map by Nina Grover
The Double Cross
Copyright © 2013 by Carla Kelly
ISBN: 978-1-60381-945-9 (Trade Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-946-6 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013933172
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Produced in the United States of America
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To Jennifer Fielding and Jennifer McCord, two editors whose opinions I value. And thanks also to Catherine Treadgold, Camel Press editor-in-chief and publisher. It's a pleasure to work with all of you.
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Juez de campo
An official of the Spanish crown who inspects and registers all brands of cattle and sheep in his district, settles disputes, and keeps a watchful eye for livestock rustlers. In the absence of sufficient law enforcement on the frontier of 18th century New Mexico, a royal colony, he also investigates petty crimes.
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Chapter One
In which Don Marco Mondragón decides he needs a dog
Don Marco Mondragón, rancher and brand inspector for el Valle del Sol, had seldom done a rash thing in his life. True, he was only thirty-one years old, but thirty-one in 1780 in New Mexico was a better than average time on earth. His father—gone these ten years, God rest his soul—joked once that his dear son had been late in leaving the womb, “Probably debating the merits of a cold entry on a rainy night or a better arrival in two or three days when the sun was shining.”
Don Marco knew his relatives and others joked about the deliberate way he approached life in his valley, edged on three sides by mountains, with sun-filled plains to the east, toward Texas. The fact bothered him not at all, because he also knew who they turned to when there was a brand dispute, when rustlers made off with the widow Señora Baca’s best milk cow, or when some godless fulano snatched the Holy Infant from His outdoor manger during Advent in the highly fortified village of Santa María.
Not for nothing had Don Marco, brand inspector, memorized the district brand books. The slightest deviation was as obvious to him as if a child had drawn it on the kitchen wall in charcoal. Able to identify a fake brand at sight, Don Marco could locate the missing cattle almost before they had time to be missed. The Widow Baca’s cow? That was no challenge. Don Marco could recognize everyone’s boot and shoe prints for miles around. His simple announcement of that fact before early Mass had been enough to alarm the rustler into returning the cow in time for the next morning’s milking, along with the stolen milk from the day before.
Everyone in the valley knew Señora Chavez still mourned the death of her only son. On a hunch, Don Marco paid her a visit and suggested that it would be a kind thing—if she knew of the Holy Baby’s whereabouts—to clothe the Christ Child in something warmer, for his outdoor stay. The grieving mother took Marco’s quiet words to heart. Her own dear boy might be cold in his coffin, but not the Son of Maria, not if Señora Chavez could help it. Don Marco’s whispered words to Father Francisco had led to Señora Chavez’s duty each year to make that manger comfortable. She knitted the Baby a mohair blanket from yarn she spun from the wool of Angora goats, provided by Marco Mondragón.
Slow and steady had kept Don Marco Mondragón alive during periodic raids by Comanches, when more volatile men fired too early and too often from the roofs of their fortified haciendas. Better to wait, wait, wait until a warrior was almost close enough to smell. Fire then, and waste not one ball. Word got around. Not many Comanche risked the Mondragón hacienda, and now the valley was peaceful—well, as peaceful as a New Mexican valley could be.
It had not always been so. In 1680, Pueblo Indians had driven out their Spanish masters from the colony of New Mexico, forcing them to make the March of Death from Santa Fe to El Paso del Norte. After twelve years of nursing grievances, the Spanish had returned, Don Marco’s ancestors among them. Marco always reckoned that they were the hardy souls.
Since hardy souls seem to beget hardy souls, the Mondragóns had moved farther and farther east. Lured by a generous land grant to settle on the edge of danger, the Mondragóns finally stopped in del Sol. The valley—with its always flowing Rio Santa Maria, bitter, snowy winters, and grass so high that the cattle grew fat and lazy—became their mountain fortress. To the east was grazing land for cattle and sheep, and sad to say, Comanches. Such is life.
Don Marco worked hard on his own land and with his own cattle, and never begrudged anyone his time. He had been chosen as juez after his father quit the same title, due to his death, and he never flinched from fulfilling his civic duties.
Sadly, obedience to duty had led to the great sorrow of his life, but what mortal understands the workings of Deity? Not Don Marco Mandragón. He would never so presume, even when his heart broke. He had returned from a two-week brand inspection to find his dearly beloved wife and their twin boys dead of cholera. La cólera had raced through his corner of New Mexico as swiftly as a reaper, swathing a foul path that left others as broken as he was. His dear ones were already clay and deep in the earth when he returned to cry over their graves, and then mourn more silently by himself. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away, but why from him? Marco eventually took his anger to Father Damiano, who listened, cried with him, and gave him no more penance than a single Ave Maria for being so angry at God. “He has heard worse, my son,” was all the priest would say.
That had been eight years ago, and Don Marco had never found anyone to replace his wife. One didn’t replace such a woman easily. A lengthy visit to Father Damiano, now serving as assistant to the abbot of San Pedro monastery, had left him feeling less bruised, but still not inclined to seek a new wife. There was a reason even greater than his body’s longing for a woman’s comfort.
“Father, suppose I should ride away on another brand inspection and come home to death? God help me, I cannot,” he had said, full of that same hollow feeling from years earlier.
“Patience, my son,” was all the padre could offer and it was sound advice. Don Marco Mondragón was a patient man.
Now there was this matter of a dog, all because of Marco’s cold feet. Felicia had brought to their marriage Muñeca, a small dog, the worthless kind of dog that did nothing more than entertain lad
ies. Once the scorching heat of their nocturnal merrymaking had subsided into the comfortable routine of married love, Marco hadn’t minded the little dog’s presence, now and then, in the bed he shared with Felicia.
Even now, as he rode south with his neighbor Don Alonso Castellano, Marco smiled to remember the way Felicia would roll her marvelous dark eyes when he set the little dog outside their bedroom and closed the door. She knew what was coming, and had generally removed her nightgown before he came back to bed. Muñeca objected, but Felicia never did.
After Felicia’s shocking death, Marco still left Muñeca outside his bedroom door, at least until winter reminded him how cold his feet were, without his wife’s legs to rest them on. He had allowed Muñeca to return to his barren bed. She knew her duty and curled up at his feet.
But the problem with pets—his larger canines were not playthings, but work animals—is that they grow old and die. Her muzzle white, her eyes dim, Muñeca had gone the way of all the earth during summer. Now that autumn had tinged the quaking aspens and cottonwoods of the valley the color of new gold, winter was coming. In his careful way, Marco knew it would be simpler to find a new dog for his bed than a wife, and easier on his heart.
Early October was the best time to travel to Santa Fe. When winter set in, there would be no leaving the valley, because the passes to Santa Fe filled with snow. True, his servants could supply a hot rock for his feet, but another house dog would be nice. He was going to Santa Fe anyway. He always went in autumn to take his annual report to the governor, to find out if there were new laws—invariably there were—and to buy what few supplies his well-run hacienda did not furnish.
Marco had cattle to take to market, too, as well as the massive wool clip, packed tight into bundles and destined for the Indian weavers, who especially prized what he brought from his far off valley. The journey might last a month, or even five weeks, if the cattle were contrary.
Marco enjoyed the annual journey. He never spoke much to his servants and guards, who knew his routine. He could ride in silence, alone with his thoughts. The prospect beguiled him, until he began to fear he was turning into one of those hermit-martyrs of the early church who for years sat silently on poles, until their flesh grew to the pole and they could no longer come down even if they wanted to.
Because of that fear, he offered no objections when his neighbor Don Alonso Castellano suggested they ride together to Santa Fe. Strength in numbers always trumped any quibbles about the quality of the company. Alonso was a prosy fellow, but he always brought along his own small army to keep him safe. There were few secrets in the valley; Marco knew Don Alonso was on his way to marry Maria Teresa Moreno, the daughter of one of the governor’s accountants, or fiscales. In high summer, Don Alonso had gone to Santa Fe to make the match and secure a betrothal. The value of the marriage settlement had been discussed up and down the valley. Don Alonso was marrying into wealth, and he didn’t mind who knew it.
He had shown Don Marco a miniature of his betrothed, which led the brand inspector to suspect that lack of beauty could be compensated by a trunk of reales. Marco sat up a long time that night, recalling with a smile the more modest dowry Felicia had brought to their marriage, along with a lovely face, striking shape and kind nature.
As he prayed in his chapel before his departure, Marco had considered for one small moment that maybe he should find a wife in Santa Fe. The urge passed. A dog was cheaper, would keep his feet warm, and could be located with little exertion.
Face it, you are lazy, Marco told himself as he prayed for the king, for the viceroy in Mexico City, for the governor of their colony, for the general welfare of his servants, for the cattle, sheep and goats of del Sol in his official stewardship. Not one to ask out of turn, he did suggest to the Almighty that He look with favor on his efforts in Santa Fe, which would include registering his documents with the governor, selling his wool clip and cattle, and finding a suitable dog. That was enough for any man to ask.
The trip west through high mountain passes had offered no surprises, beyond one attempt by Navajos to frighten away some of his cattle. He and his men had rounded up his livestock again, retrieving other beeves that the Navajo raiders had stolen. Don Alonso swore with impatience, but, knowing other district’s brands as well as his own, Don Marco could not rest until those cattle were returned to their rightful owners.
“We have wasted two days in returning cattle!” Alonso exclaimed. “Let the ranchers find their own livestock.”
“I am a juez de campo,” Marco reminded his companion, ending the argument. “I must do this.”
In point of fact, any diversion proved more entertaining than listening to Don Alonso carry on about his almost-wife. Am I jealous? Marco asked himself in the third week, when his companion started over with the same tales. Am I bored? Would I be happier if Alonso Castellano dropped into a deep hole? Patience, Marco. Just remember that he will not be returning with you; he will have a bride to coax east to Comanchería. This thought nourished him through the final week of their journey, keeping him civil and sober, and ultimately grateful when the cattle were sold, the wool clip was in the experienced hands of the Jews, and Don Alonso was safely deposited on the doorstep of his future in-laws.
Marco would have ridden away with relief and a pure heart, if a yellow dog, all fluff and short legs, hadn’t come out of the Moreno house just then, followed by a young woman with lustrous brown hair, blue eyes, and—if he was still any judge of what went on under skirts—shapely legs. He sat there, gloved hands crossed on the saddle horn, watching them.
“Can you stop him, Señor?” she asked.
He was out of the saddle just as the yellow dog dodged around Don Alonso. It was an easy matter to scoop up the yellow dog and deposit him in the arms of the young woman with blue eyes.
“A su servicio,” he said politely.
He knew he was a blockhead to just stand there, but she had wonderful eyes. A quick glance at her shabby dress and bare feet told him all he needed to know about her status in the Moreno household, but still he admired her. A su servicio, indeed! From the top of her head to her bare feet, she looked like a servant, but something about her demeanor left him less than certain.
She favored him with another smile, then curtsied, and dog in arms, went back through the portal. Out of the corner of his eye, Marco noted that she remained within hearing distance, even though the dog struggled in her arms.
“You have your own dog trainer, Señor?” he commented to Alonso’s almost-father-in-law.
Señor Felix Moreno shrugged. “She is the daughter of my sister. Her parents died at El Paso and we have to feed her. She has her uses.”
Marco wondered if his friend Alonso was listening. If so, was he as chilled by the man’s words? This was no way to treat a close relative, especially when she stood nearby, listening. He glanced at Alonso, who gave no indication of hearing a word either of them had said. Marco smiled inwardly, remembering his own terror before and during his nuptials. Not after, though; he and Felicia at least knew each other, and were both pleased with what they knew and saw. Marco doubted Alonso had even seen his future wife before, despite having made his first visit that summer. That was how the business of matrimony was conducted in New Mexico.
I leave you to it, he thought. A bow was in order to Señor Moreno, which he performed. He put his foot in the stirrup and started to mount, when Señor Moreno stopped him.
“Señor, would you honor us with your presence and stay the night?”
Two minutes earlier, Marco would have offered an elaborate protest, which would have been equally protested. Soon everyone would be protesting politely, even though they all knew the eventual outcome. That was how the business of manners was conducted in New Mexico. Everyone knew the ritual. All Marco had to do was protest one more time. Don Felix would make one more offer of hospitality and Marco would be free to go his way, the potential host justified and assuaged.
Marco changed the script, per
haps surprising himself even more than Señor Moreno.
“I believe I will, Señor. Thank you for your hospitality. You are far too kind.”
He told himself it was because of the yellow dog.
Chapter Two
In Which Paloma Vega Looks Twice
Yes, you have to feed me, uncle, Paloma Vega thought, and I am more than just occasionally useful. She withdrew farther into the background. Her uncle always glowered when she reached for an extra apple or a mere tortilla, and she had a sudden urge to announce that bald fact to the man in the street. His quick glance in her direction when her uncle made his unkind jab—one of many she endured on a typical day in the Moreno household—was nourishment of a different sort. The stranger from Valle del Sol seemed almost chagrined that she should overhear such rudeness.
It hardly mattered, because she was suddenly diverted. In a lifetime of listening to polite refusal, equally polite insistence and that final refusal, Paloma Vega had never heard someone actually accept the ritual invitation. She looked more closely at the rider who had returned the dog to her. His cloak was of good material, his boots excellent, and he carried himself with a certain air. She didn’t think he had accepted the invitation because he had no money to pay for lodging.
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