“Both her parents are dead?”
“A Comanche raid on their hacienda.” Señor Moreno made a distasteful face, almost as if he blamed his late sister and brother-in-law for blundering in front of lances and scalping knives. “Paloma was eleven and small enough to hide under a bed, even though they burned the hacienda around her.” He shrugged the shrug of the truly put-upon. “What could I do but take her into my household? She came with a little money, but we have used that to raise her, so there is no dowry.”
Marco nearly said it, but stopped himself in time: If I was given the care of a niece who had survived such an ordeal, I would love her and treat her kindly and not touch a penny of her bride money. He hated himself again for merely nodding and trying to look sufficiently sorry for an orphan saddling her uncle with such a heavy load.
It must have worked, because Señor Moreno thought a moment longer, then slapped the table. “For you, Señor, and your good humor, one peso for the runt,” he laughed, “and no Paloma.”
“One peso is monstrous high, but I will pay it,” Marco said quietly, possessed now of the deepest longing to get far away from Señor Moreno. He reached in the leather money bag at his belt, the pouch destined to grow much larger, once he settled with the Jews for his wool clip and his broker for the cattle. He would spend the night, leave Trece for a few more days, then return for the wedding. He would take the dog and never return to the house of such a man. Marco pulled out the peso and set it on the desk.
Señor Moreno reached for it immediately, the pleasure on his face so evident that it caused Marco’s gorge to rise. He stood up, desperate now to put distance between himself and this poor excuse for an uncle.
Marco bowed. “Señor, if it is agreeable with you, I will stay the night and then be off, because I should be closer to my business dealings than your excellent house.” He swallowed hard at that lie. “I’ll leave Trece here and pick him up in a few days when I leave Santa Fe.”
Señor Moreno waved a playful, fat finger at him. “Very well. Perhaps I will charge you room and board for Trece, since he now belongs to you!”
God help him, Marco could not decide if he was serious. Without a word, he took out two cuartillos, placed them on the desk, bowed again and left the office to the sound of laughter from the horrible uncle of Paloma Vega.
He stood in the street for a long moment, breathing deep until his nausea passed. His horse still waited patiently for him. Obviously the household staff had not been informed that Don Marco Mondragón was to spend the night. Perhaps hosts in Valle del Sol were more polite. When guests came to his hacienda, horses were tended promptly.
He was standing by his horse, wondering what to do to get rid of the monumental stink of Señor Moreno, when the source of his indignation came into the street.
“Hasn’t my stable boy taken your horse?” the uncle of Paloma Vega asked. “I will have him whipped.”
It was perfectly obvious to Marco that his erstwhile host had never given the matter a thought until he saw him standing there, a country yokel who would pay one peso for a runt. “Pray do not chastise him, Señor,” Marco said, in what he hoped was his most firm juez de campo voice, the one that always got attention from ranchers whose brands he was inspecting.
“For you, then, I will not, since you have not taken offense at the stable boy’s great neglect,” Señor Moreno said. Marco’s ruse must have been effective. The man went on, “I want to invite you to the wedding in two days. Dinner is ready now, Señor. Do join us.”
I would rather eat the still warm carcass of a vulture, Marco thought. He managed a smile. “You are kind, Señor, but I do have another engagement right now. I will return later this evening, partake of your hospitality and then find other lodgings near the business district.”
“You will come to the wedding?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
With a small salute, he mounted his horse and rode away, grateful down to his spurs that beyond one small yellow dog, he would never have another connection with the household of Don Felix Moreno.
He returned hours later after dark, drunk and amazed that he could even find the Moreno house. He had almost—almost but not quite, thank God—found the services of a compliant female behind the tavern. The idea was appealing, and he wasn’t so drunk that the matter would not have been successful. What stopped him was what always stopped him: the thought of how disappointed Felicia would be. To his befuddlement—he knew he had drunk more than usual—what really stopped him this time was the memory of Paloma Vega stroking Trece’s fur. If he had bedded a puta—not that the matter would show on his face—somehow he would only be confirming what Paloma already knew about the cruelty of men. He discovered he couldn’t do that.
At the Moreno stable and after dipping his head in the water trough to bring back some semblance of sobriety, Marco summoned the stable boy. He sighed to see the child had a black eye and tossed him a handful of cuartillos when he led away his horse.
He stood a long time in the doorway to the courtyard, with no idea where he was to sleep. He sat down heavily on the edge of the fountain.
“Señor Mondragón?”
He looked around too quickly and couldn’t help his groan. As his eyes accustomed themselves, he saw two Paloma Vegas standing silent and watchful. He blinked. Only one Paloma Vega stood there now.
“I am a fool,” he said simply. “I am drunk and I have no idea where I am to sleep.”
She came closer. “I told my uncle I would wait up for you.”
He put his hand to his head. “You are far too kind. I have bought Trece, and you are far too kind.”
“He’ll make you a fine foot-warmer, Señor. Let me help you.”
He didn’t object when she pulled him to his feet, put her arm around his waist and walked him to the door of his room. She opened it with her other hand, released him, and gave him a firm push forward in the small of his back.
“I trust you can remove your own boots. Good night, Señor.” The door closed.
He wanted to tell her no, that she should help him, but he knew better. Felicia would have been so disappointed in him. He did get off one boot before he collapsed on the bed.
In the morning, to his chagrin and then his gratitude, his boots were off, his doublet unhooked and his pants unbuttoned. Someone far too kind had covered him with a blanket, and Trece was curled at his feet.
Chapter Four
In Which Paloma Confesses and Argues about Penance
The wedding of Don Alonso Castellano to Señorita Maria Teresa Garcia Moreno was noisy, expensive and soon enough over, to Paloma Vega’s relief, and also her chagrin, because it meant Trece was leaving and so was Don Marco Mondragón.
He had been kind enough to return a squirming Trece, tucked under his arm, to her in the kitchen the next morning. He seemed to know she would be there, even though she was the niece of the householder. It pained her to think that her uncle must have mentioned her circumstances to Señor Mondragón. Without the cook’s permission, she asked him to follow her into the patio.
Señor Mondragón didn’t want to look her in the eyes, and she understood. He set down Trece, who immediately began to run around her in small circles, his tongue out, eyes bright.
That was more than she could say for the rancher from del Sol, whose eyes were not bright. She could only imagine the state of his tongue, after what must have been a night of serious drinking.
“I do apologize,” he said finally. “You were kind.”
“Señor, one boot on and one boot off is no way to sleep,” she said, as she felt the rush of heat to her face. “I won’t have you think that all of us in the Moreno household are dead to duty.”
To her amusement, he tried to give her a little bow, which only made him groan and push his hand against his forehead. Paloma held her lips tight together to keep from laughing out loud, since she knew he was in pain. She decided that one pleasant use of poverty meant she would never know that sort of p
ain, induced by too much of the grape, grain or cactus. Besides that, she was still a lady, and her mother—God bless her memory—had raised her right until the Comanches came.
“Señor, follow me,” she said, knowing he was in no shape to do much else.
Trece at her heels, Paloma led him through the kitchen again and into the stables, where Trece’s mother and his siblings lolled about in a loose box by the horses. She idled there a moment, rendering herself deaf as Señor Mondragón was as quietly sick as he could be, leaning over a low barrier and liberally dousing a highly indignant setting hen.
When he finished, and obviously could not bring himself to look at her, she remembered the dishcloth she had tucked into her apron. She wetted it then calmly reached up to wipe his mouth, fold it, and press the cool dampness against the back of his neck. He took the cloth from her and pressed it next to his forehead with a small sigh.
“Thank you,” he said in a voice meeker than she could have credited from a man. “You are still far too kind.”
Since he didn’t seem to mind her management, Paloma reached up again to press on his shoulder until he sat on a closed feedbox. “Stay here,” she commanded, and returned to the kitchen for a cup of steaming, bitter chocolate generally reserved for Señor and Señora Moreno, and a hard roll, the stale kind generally reserved for her. She stared down the cook, saying merely, “He is a guest in this house.”
She returned to the stable, where Señor Mondragón still sat, a frown on his face that turned into a look of acute embarrassment when she handed him the cup and roll. She could tell she was troubling him because she had seen him at his worst this evening and morning, so she inclined her head again and told him she would leave him to his breakfast.
To her surprise, he set down the cup with a half-stifled groan and took her hand.
“I don’t usually get drunk,” he told her. “I come to Santa Fe once a year, conduct my business and return to del Sol.”
Thinking about the matter later, Paloma wasn’t sure why she then told him what she did. “Señor, you needn’t apologize to me,” she said. She gathered her courage and looked into his eyes because she liked their shade of lighter brown. She knew she would never see him again, because he only came to Santa Fe once a year. Maybe that fact made her bold. “You’ll feel better soon, and rejoice that you never have to trouble yourself with my uncle. I am the one who should be embarrassed for all of us. I hear he charged you an entire peso for Trece.” She couldn’t help that her voice faltered, because she loved the yellow dog. “I would have given him to you, because no one likes cold feet. Good day, Señor.”
It seemed best to drop a small curtsy there in the stable to a man three parts wasted and return to the kitchen, where she could work too hard and soon forget the way his light brown eyes clouded over at her words, as though his behavior should matter to a poor relation, whose duty was only to serve and be quiet.
Between her kitchen duties—more mending for Maria, placating her cousin as she stormed, cried and behaved in strange ways for someone who should be happy—Paloma didn’t see Señor Mondragón again that day. Her uncle told her that she would be in charge of Trece two more days. The rancher would return for the wedding and then take his dog and go east, toward Comanchería, a place she would have dreaded, had it been her home and not his.
She knew that would be the outcome, but she still found a moment in late afternoon when she was folding napkins and sheets in the linen closet to clasp her hands together. She prayed for nothing because she had no expectations. She just sat there until her mind cleared.
Trece warmed her feet that night.
The wedding came two days later, and it couldn’t have come a moment too soon, as troubled as she was by Maria’s silliness, which the whole nuptial business seemed only to have magnified. She was even more troubled by the hunted look that had come into the well-fleshed face of Señor Alonso Castellano. The eager look of the groom-to-be had been replaced by a hesitancy that made her wonder if he would cry off and flee east through mountain passes while he still could.
But no. The wedding had taken on a life of its own and events moved forward as they always did. Money had changed hands and the deed was as surely done as if the priest had already united them. Any man backing out now would lose his investment and his standing in a critical community.
It was with monumental relief that Paloma woke on the morning of the wedding, dressed in her other, slightly better dress, and briefly mourned over her worn-out shoes. Barefoot she would be. Once the wedding was over, perhaps Señora Moreno would return to normal and eventually think of her servants and niece. Shoes would be nice before winter set in, although not mandatory, as she had learned in prior years.
The relief came in the change of routine. The Morenos had ordered all their household to confession before the wedding. Señora Moreno had unbent so far as to allow her niece the privilege of standing in the back of San Francisco to watch her cousin marry. Paloma knew more kitchen duties would follow, but once done, there would be a few hours of respite—the Morenos’ begrudging wedding gift to a harried, hungry and overworked staff.
It began with confession for all, with the Morenos headed to San Francisco and their household servants to San Miguel, much humbler, but to Paloma Vega, much more dear. As she hurried along with the servants, Paloma had noticed Señor Mondragón’s return. A quick glance under lowered eyelids confirmed that he looked quite fine. Perhaps there had been no more hard-drinking visits to Santa Fe’s tavernas. He walked with his friend, Señor Castellano, hand on his shoulder, as the Morenos headed to San Francisco, where the confession was easier with a padded cushion to kneel upon.
Paloma waited her turn in the back of San Miguel’s nave, her heart light now, because she had seen Señor Mondragón. She wished for a moment that she had a small coin to light a candle for a man who was probably tired of cold feet at night. Instead she swallowed her tears at the imminent loss of Trece, knowing he was going where he would be treated kindly.
As she always did, she admired the little statue of San Miguel, he with the upraised sword, who had returned in such triumph to Santa Fe in 1692, with the reconquest of the colony. She breathed deep of incense and the fragrance of piñon pine until she was ready for her turn to kneel on the hard bench outside the latticed window.
She hoped it would be Father Eusebio, and it was. She couldn’t see him, of course—she would never have looked closely through the lattice—but she knew his lisp.
“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned,” Paloma whispered. “It has been three weeks since my last confession.”
Ah, the blessing of confession. Only Father Eusebio would know of her irritation with her cousin, who was behaving like a foolish girl when she should be so happy; her wish for shoes when the Morenos were too busy with wedding plans; her sorrow over the upcoming loss of Trece, even though he was going to a good home; her filching a handful of dried apples because she was hungry.
There. She was done. She wanted to suggest to Father Eusebio that he could drink a concoction of roots and berries for his sniffle, but it was not her place. Maybe Señora Moreno would let her make such a brew and take it to him later. All that sniffing in the confessional was bound to distract some of his more case-hardened parishioners who had greater burdens than she, Paloma Vega.
But she wasn’t done, not if she wanted to be truly honest. She hoped what she was about to say would not shock her dear priest. “One more thing, father,” she continued, as her face flamed. She had never said anything like this before. “I have lusted after a man.”
“Thou, theñorita?” came the voice through the lattice.
Her words tumbled out in an undignified rush. “He’s such a handsome man and he was embarrassed because he returned to the household of my uncle in a drunken state. I went to help him in the morning with a cold cloth, and God forgive me, I touched the back of his neck with my hand and really enjoyed it. I’m sorry, Father. He also bought my yellow dog, and I�
��m a little angry about that. Is it possible to lust after a man and be angry at him, too?”
“It probably ith, my dear,” lisped the voice. “Ahem, you would have to athk an older woman, perhapth one married.”
What an odd thing to say, Paloma thought, diverted for a moment. “He has wonderful light brown eyes,” she continued, getting it all off her chest. “I probably looked at them too long, for which I am heartily sorry.”
She wasn’t, really, but Father Eusebio didn’t need to know everything.
There was a long pause, which made her stomach churn. That last confession must have been a really bad one. Or not, for when Father Eusebio spoke, he surprised her with the penance of only one Hail Mary.
She must have heard him wrong. “Beg pardon, Father?” she asked, her voice still soft, even though his tiny penance rang in her brain like a gong. “Perhaps you did not hear my last confession. It must need more than one Hail Mary to absolve it. Three or four, at least. Maybe six. I have to be honest and confess that I still think he has fine brown eyes.”
“One Hail Mary, Paloma Vega, my dear child,” came his voice, with a noticeable quaver. “Don’t argue about penanthe.”
“Forgive me,” she whispered back. “Here I am trying to confess and I’m making it worse.”
Again the pause. Again that slight quaver that she might have thought was humor, if a priest could possibly find such a terrible sin funny. “My dear Paloma Vega, between you and me alone, I wish I had more thinners of your thtripe. Thay one Hail Mary and go with God. And don’t argue!”
She closed her eyes as he finished, surprising herself with tears and suddenly understanding confession as never before.
She said two Hail Marys before leaving San Miguel, just to be on the safe side. Señor Mondragón did have fine brown eyes, after all.
Chapter Five
Carla Kelly - [Spanish Brand 01] Page 3