Paloma let her breath out slowly. Perhaps she had misunderstood. Could this be the man her cousin Maria was to marry in two days? She could barely hide her disappointment, not for any reason larger than the certainty that a man so handsome deserved someone better. Who, she had no idea, but someone better.
Maybe I am a wicked, wicked girl, Paloma thought. Tia Luisa says I am. But when had she ever believed a word from her aunt’s mouth? Still, this matrimonial business was making Paloma peevish, especially since she would be eighteen in four days and headed for the rusty side of womanhood, old and unwanted.
Her aunt and uncle had assured her from the day she entered their household—an orphan from El Paso del Norte downriver—that she could expect no dowry, no advantage and no future that would lead anywhere but to a convent or a menial position in their household. At the age of eleven, Paloma Vega learned that the milk of human kindness soured quickly in the Moreno jug.
But there are dogs here that need me, she reminded herself, drifting quietly into the background. She carried the yellow dog into the courtyard, where its mother and brethren waited. Their tongues lolled, and their eyes were bright and expectant in that way of dogs, the most optimistic creature Our Father had created, probably right after He fashioned Adam and before Eve.
“Behave yourself, Número Trece,” she admonished, setting him near his mother.
She would have sat there herself, enjoying the puppies Uno through Trece, but there was her cousin Maria, hissing at her through a darkened doorway. With a sigh, Paloma squared her shoulders. Soon you will be married and gone, she thought. Would that it were me.
Paloma saw her afternoon’s work in Maria’s hands: dresses to hem, seams to sew, and—horrors—probably ruffles to iron. She held out her arms.
“Could I do this work in the courtyard?” she asked. “Who knows how many more warm days we will have before—”
“Of course you may not!” Maria declared. “Papa is only just now inviting my future husband into the sala. Do you think I want him to glance through the window and see you sitting there with dogs and my mending?”
“Silly of me,” Paloma murmured. She started for the kitchen.
Maria reached out her hand to stop her. She leaned closer, and Paloma wanted to pull away. Maria’s rotten back molar, testimonial to too many sweets, was making itself known.
“Perhaps Papa will summon me into the sala to meet my betrothed. Or he might not, if the dowry business is still being decided.” She gave Paloma a little shake for emphasis. “Tell me, what does Don Alonso Castellano really look like? I have to know.”
Paloma thought about the matter. “There are two men in the street, cousin. One is tall with a paunch, and the other is tall without a paunch. They could both use a close shave. The one with the flat stomach has a dignified nose, high cheekbones and deep-set eyes of a curious, light shade of brown. The other one has a nose with a bump and eyes that poke out rather than in. Which one would you prefer?”
Paloma did not mention Señor Flat Stomach’s capable air and the little smile that played around his mouth when he rescued the yellow dog from the street. That may have been her imagination, anyway. She was certain about the eyes.
Maria gave her a push. “You are aggravating and I cannot wait to be relieved of your presence!”
From your lips to Blessed Isabella of Portugal, the saint of brides, Paloma thought. Two more days and you will be on your way to Valle del Sol.
“That is all I noticed, Maria,” she said with some dignity. She gathered up her cousin’s clothes and hurried to the sewing room, where the needles were stored. She sat down beside Tia Luisa’s seamstress, who was stitching the flounce on the wedding dress, her eyes red from too many late nights working under the insufficient light of poor quality candles.
Without a word, Paloma took the dress from the seamstress’s lap. “Go wash your eyes,” she whispered. “You’ll ruin them if you don’t, and my fingers are more nimble.”
If only for a few minutes, she would have the small room to herself, away from Maria’s tears and nerves. Paloma sat in silence as she hemmed, the thick walls insulating her from Tia Luisa’s rages against the butcher, who had nothing to offer but fly-blown meat; the milliner, who refused to finish her hat until the last-quarter bill was paid; and the iceman, who insisted there was not a sliver of ice left in all of the royal colony—not for the governor, not for the bishop, and certainly not for the wife of a fiscal, no matter how influential she thought herself.
Paloma hemmed quickly, expertly, happy to hand the finished dress over to the seamstress when she returned, her eyes still red, but her lips smelling of fortification stronger than water. Ah, yes, the woman had brought Paloma a reward for her consideration—a handful of grapes, her first food since breakfast.
The seamstress nodded her approval as Paloma ate. “There now. Hand me that dress with the ripped hem. Your cousin is a clumsy pig.”
They shared a chuckle before returning to their sewing. Once or twice, Paloma heard laughter from the sala, pleasant, assured masculine laughter that reminded her for a brief moment of her father, dead these seven years.
I hope that laughter comes from the man with the flat stomach, she thought. And I hope the one with the paunch will be Maria’s husband. He will weigh a lot on her wedding night. She put a hand to her lips to stifle her laughter. Perhaps Tia Luisa is right; I am wicked.
She sobered quickly. If it was the other man, he deserved better.
Paloma finished and hurried the clothing into the great trunks that her cousin’s personal maid was packing. The servant was in tears, which told Paloma that Maria must have just stormed through; she had been leaving human wreckage in her wake all week. Paloma touched the maid’s cheek and kissed the top of her head before leaving the room, hoping to avoid her own encounter with the bride from purgatory.
Shadows began to lengthen across the courtyard. Paloma knew she would be called any minute to help finish the evening meal, but she sank down in the grass by the fountain and whistled.
Trece must have been in the shade of the portal, behind the grape vines, because he responded instantly to the summons meant solely for him. Paloma whistled again, and he bounded through the grass. Right behind him came the man with the flat stomach, which made Paloma’s heart lift. If he were Maria’s intended, he would not be roaming free in the courtyard.
I am relieved for you, Señor, she thought. You have avoided a terrible fate.
She went to stand up, but the man gestured for her to remain where she was. He came toward her, seating himself on the lip of the fountain and laughing when Trece nearly bowled her over with all the enthusiasm of dogs who adore their humans.
“Señorita, I have often wished that I could truly be the person my dogs think I am,” he said, which made Paloma smile. “I am Don Marco Mondragón, from Valle del Sol, to the east.”
“Thank God!” she exclaimed.
He merely raised his eyebrows, which made her pink up.
Think before you speak, think before you speak, Paloma warned herself, then blurted, “Señor, I am merely relieved you are not Maria’s …” She stopped, embarrassed.
He surprised her then, maybe as much as he had surprised her uncle earlier. Don Marco leaned toward her and whispered. “I am relieved, too.”
It was easy then to hide behind Trece’s fluff and smother her laughter. “I should remember my manners,” she said, suddenly aware that she had never addressed a gentleman who was not a relative. Servants and priests didn’t count. “I … I am Paloma Vega.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Are you part of the wedding party?” she asked, still hiding behind Trece because she had no business asking questions. Señor Mondragón must be thinking she wouldn’t know good manners if they slapped her on the rump.
He didn’t seem bothered. He held out his hand to Trece, who bounded from Paloma to him. She watched, pleased that the gentleman knew where to scratch dogs.
“No. I merely journeyed with my friend—it is always safer to ride in a large company. He was bringing bridal gifts in his pack train, and I was bringing wool in mine and herding cattle.” He looked at her and seemed to read the question in her eyes that she was finally too polite to ask. “Señorita Vega, I am here about a yellow dog. This one, perhaps?”
Chapter Three
In Which Marco Mondragón Makes a Deal for the Yellow Dog
Marco knew he had said the wrong thing when the light went out of Paloma Vega’s lovely blue eyes. The yellow dog must be her favorite. He had made a mistake. Even worse was the knowledge that he could not make it better. He glanced at her expressive eyes and saw the damage was done, so he avoided looking in them again, concentrating instead on the dog. It was eager as most pups, ever hopeful but unaware that a change was coming.
You will like me, too, he silently promised the dog, even if I disappoint your mistress.
“W-why did you name him Trece?” he stammered, wanting to erase that look of disappointment.
It disturbed him that Paloma Vega couldn’t look him in the eye, either. He knew his eyes were nothing spectacular, just brown like those of nearly everything else he knew. He watched her, as she bowed her head over Trece, as if to smooth his puppy fur. When she raised her face to his again, her eyes glittered with unshed tears. When Felicia had done that, he’d been mush in her hands. But this was different. Paloma Vega was not Felicia and he wanted the dog.
“I named him Trece because he was the runt of the litter and his mama has only twelve teats, Señor,” she said. “When you are number thirteen, life can be hard.”
He could hardly bear to listen to her words. They were spoken so calmly, yet her eyes shone with her anguish. He realized this was a woman used to schooling her feelings. To show them must invite ridicule. His own brief glimpse of life in the Moreno household had already convinced him how necessary that skill must be to a powerless woman.
“You raised him by hand?”
“Sí, Señor, a little milk on a rag every few hours, then my finger, and then a small bowl.”
Despite her efforts, her struggle revealed itself in the way her teeth pulled in her lower lip—such lovely lips—and in her ragged breathing. He laid his hand on Trece, smoothing his fur, too. “And he follows you everywhere?”
Marco should never have asked that. Paloma Vega bowed her head over her dog and just nodded. He wasn’t sure how to redeem himself, but he wanted to try. O, Dios, how he wanted to try, but the words failed him, he who was accustomed to commanding. Felicia had been gone so long that he must have forgotten how to cajole a woman to his advantage. She cleared her throat, so he waited.
“Señor, there are other dogs in the litter, looking for homes.”
If she had struck him, her words could not have bit harder. What stung even more was that nothing in her voice pleaded. She was simply stating a fact, not demanding to know why, in the entire colony of New Mexico, he could not find another dog.
“I wanted a smaller dog because my feet are cold,” he said simply. There wasn’t any point in dissembling. “My wife Felicia has been dead these eight years. She had a lap dog, a silly ball of fur that she named Muñeca.”
He looked at her, but she was still concentrating on Trece’s fur, smoothing it with gentle hands. Felicia had touched their twins that same way. He plunged on, hoping for sympathy. “Muñeca went the way of all dogs last winter, and my feet are even colder.”
“Muñeca,” she repeated. Her voice was still that neutral tone that was beginning to distress him. “Do you have other dogs, Señor?”
Again, no recrimination. “Sí, but they are big dogs. They guard my sheep and cattle and patrol the top of my hacienda. If I had ever put Muñeca outside, they would have eaten her for a mid-morning snack.”
Startled, she looked up, her eyes still swimming, but not spilling onto her cheeks, thank the Lord. “Dios mio, do you think my cousin Maria knows about guards patrolling on rooftops?”
“I sincerely doubt it.” He had to grin then. “It is not something that a man from the east with marriage on his mind would ever discuss with a future wife from as soft a place as Santa Fe.” Suddenly he wanted to know. “Would, uh … would that deter you?”
He could have died with relief to hear her low laugh. “Of course not! I mean, Señor, look at you. You are alive and obviously have been so for many, many years.”
“Don’t pile on so many manys,” he said in protest, hoping he might hear that little laugh again. “I am only thirty-one.”
“My point precisely,” she said.
He knew it was a joke. Thank God he had not stepped on her heart so firmly that she could not tease a bit. And that laugh. She was skinny and her dress was dirty, but she had those fine eyes and a low laugh, one meant for him alone.
She sighed. “I suppose if you want Trece …” She stopped, and then her voice took on a hard-edged realism he never cared to hear coming from a woman. “Not that I have anything to say about the matter. He’s a good dog, Señor. Excuse me, please.”
Without another word, she thrust Trece into his hands and left the courtyard with considerable dignity. He tightened his grip when the pup started to whine, itching to follow.
Sin duda, it was a hollow victory. Marco looked at Trece, who was still trembling in his grip and staring after his mistress. I should be ashamed of myself, Marco thought, then justified himself with the cold comfort that sooner or later, she would have had to part with a charming dog like Trece to another owner.
The deed was done. He released Trece, who went immediately in search of Paloma Vega. Marco went to find Señor Moreno to finalize his deal before dinner called them away.
Señor Moreno was where Marco had left him, in the small room off the sala that constituted his office. Standing with him were his daughter, Maria Teresa, and Alonso. Marco waited in the doorway, watching with interest as the shy couple looked at each other, looked away, and then looked again. It amused him to see his friend visibly shaking, but the amusement vanished quickly because he knew, just knew, that foolish, unsuspecting Alonso had bought a pig in a poke. Anyone closely related to a family that would treat a niece as a servant was going to be disappointed. Marco also knew that Alonso might not believe him now, but would believe him soon enough.
The couple left the office after Maria knelt at her father’s feet and kissed his hand. When she rose, she held out her hand for Alonso in a sharp gesture. Marco watched his friend’s eyes, seeing the surprise there and the hesitation.
Don’t put your hand in hers, Marco thought. If you do, you’re committed. He let out a small sigh when Alonso did precisely that.
When she had him in her grasp, Maria towed Alonso to the courtyard, empty of dogs and Paloma Vega. Kitchen smells grew stronger and Marco know Paloma must be working there now. He probably had no more than a few minutes with Señor Felix Moreno, but how long would it take to make a deal for a yellow runt?
Señor Moreno ushered him into the office in the manner of a fellow who has just dropped a huge rock from his shoulder. This only confirmed Marco’s suspicion that the Moreno family had cast a wide net to del Sol because potential families in Santa Fe were much too wise to seek an alliance with the Morenos.
The kitchen smells intensified. A look at Señor Moreno’s majestic paunch told Marco he had very few minutes, so he did not waste time on preliminaries. It was only a dog, after all.
“Señor Moreno, in addition to your excellent hospitality”—he bowed and received a nod in reply—“I would like to take a little dog off your hands. I’m quite captured by your”—O Dios, he almost said niece—“little dog that Paloma Vega calls Trece. Could you part with this creature?”
Señor Moreno sniffed kitchen fragrance and wiped his hand across his mouth. “Of course. Take him. He is the runt.”
“I will pay you.”
“For a runt?”
The kitchen smells grew fainter. Someone must have closed a door, or perhaps
Señor Moreno’s natural greed had a foul odor that overpowered food. The fiscal held up his hand as he reconsidered. “Of course, Trece comes from a long line of noble canines. Perhaps he is descended from dogs that Hernán Cortes brought to Mexico in 1519. Yes, I believe he is.”
“Señor, I believe those dogs were mastiffs. They wore armor. Trece is too fluffy to have conquered the Aztecs.”
Perhaps after ridding himself of a burdensome daughter, Señor Moreno was in no mood to haggle. He cut right to the issue, eliminating the bargaining dear to every man of Spain, even those in the New World. “Perhaps so, but you want him, don’t you? My price is two pesos.”
Dios mio, Trece had gone from a worthless runt to an animal worth more than two good cows. No wonder Paloma Vega had to hide her feelings. Marco was not so successful, not if the greedy gleam in Señor Moreno’s eyes was any indicator.
The fiscal held up two pudgy fingers. “Dos pesos.”
“That’s a lot for a runt,” Don Marco replied, trying to pull his tattered dignity around his shoulders, he who could usually bargain with the best of men.
He had no idea what possessed him then, a cautious man. Was it kitchen smells, Paloma Vega, the yellow dog? “Throw in Paloma Vega and you have a deal,” he said.
When he realized what had just come out of his mouth, he nearly gasped at his monumental stupidity. Did I just ask that?
He must have. Señor Moreno stared at him for a long moment, then, to Marco’s relief, burst into loud, prolonged laughter.
Marco forced himself to laugh along, all the while wondering where his wits had gone wandering. “Well, you know, she is the trainer, and she appears to be a mere appendage to your household.” And then he hated himself. “Oh, Señor, you know we like a good joke in Valle del Sol.”
Señor Moreno nodded, stopped laughing and wiped his eyes. “Merciful saints, Señor Mondragón, you had me going for a moment!” He sighed the sigh of a man much put upon. “Such a burden on my household. Paloma was my late sister’s only surviving child, from El Paso del Norte.”
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