“Do I just keep on the road ahead?” she asked, setting down her dog.
“Yes. In about two leagues, the Chama will join our constant friend, the Rio Bravo. A little farther on, you will see San Pedro, a monastery. Stop there. Perhaps someone will be traveling north and east and you can ask to go along.” The old man gathered his reins again. “Go with God, chiquita.”
Paloma continued her journey, Trece walking beside her. The afternoon was warm enough, the air filled with the heaviness of late summer weeds and grasses. The friendly lowing of cattle kept her company as she walked.
She was not alone on the road, not yet. As she walked through Española, she outpaced an old couple carrying a bag of grain between them, a mother with three stair-step children straggling behind, and a man with a cartload of apples. As she walked, unwilling to slow down, she haggled carefully for one apple and parted with another coin. For some reason, the vendor added two more apples, declaring he could never sell them because of worms. She bit into one and found only firm flesh. It seemed strange to her that the apple man didn’t know his produce, but she decided not to argue with generosity.
Gradually, her traveling companions dwindled. She watched a man—a long time on the road because of his wrinkled cape—arrive at his house, call out, and scoop two children into his arms. From the shade of a tree with golden leaves across the road, Paloma watched until he went inside, his wife on his arm now and his children skipping ahead carrying his leather satchel between them and arguing about it.
You’re wasting time, she reminded herself and whistled to Trece, who was nosing out a trail of one small animal or other—she hoped nothing larger than a rabbit. He was finding the road north a rich broth of scents more complex than those sniffed on a Santa Fe street.
As she strode through the waning afternoon, the dirt road belonged to her and Trece, still nosing along in front of her but slowing down. He flushed out the occasional bird, but had lost the energy to chase it. Paloma knew she would be carrying him soon.
She came to the confluence of the Chama with the Bravo and stood there a long moment, enjoying the sight even as she began to doubt. Beyond the fork of the Chama there were more mountains, all snow-covered and taller than the mountains around Santa Fe. She looked east to more mountains. Somewhere there was a pass and then God forbid, the threat of Comanches.
“You could turn back, Paloma,” she told herself out loud. Trece looked up at her and cocked his head, interested. “You could retrace your steps to Santa Fe, give your uncle that deep curtsy and enough apologies to satisfy his pride. He would probably storm and rage, but he would let you back into his house.” She looked south one last time.
“I will not turn back,” she said in a firm voice. “Adventures are not meant to be comfortable.”
She whistled to Trece again and followed the Chama.
Paloma had traveled nearly another hour when she heard a galloping horse behind her. She looked back, pleased, thinking it might be Don Marco Mondragón, but it was only a post rider, wearing the tunic with the red and yellow colors of the crown. Are you going to Valle del Sol? Paloma wondered, as she stepped to the edge of the road, picking up Trece so he would not find himself underfoot and trampled.
The rider checked his horse when he noticed her, and she drew farther into the shadows, not wanting to frighten his animal. To her surprise, he looked closely at her and then stopped. Paloma tightened her grip on her walking stick.
“You there!” he called as she tried to disappear into the fringe of wood behind her. “Is that your dog?”
She said nothing. She raised her walking stick and eyed him.
He laughed and pulled one leg from the stirrup and rested it across his saddle in that relaxed way of good riders.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” he said. “I have a wife and family near Velarde. I will be there tonight, if I push on. That is your dog?”
Paloma nodded, less wary, but not relinquishing her grip on the walking stick.
“Answers to the name Trece?”
“Yes, he does,” she said, the words surprised out of her. She came closer. “How do you know his name?”
“I carried that very dog with me from the monastery just over the hill. I carried him all the way to Santa Fe a few days ago and set him outside the house of one Felix Moreno, fiscal. How did you come by him, Miss?”
“Someone gave you Trece to take to Santa Fe?” she asked, dumbfounded. “Who?”
“Father Damiano,” he said promptly. “He told me to be sure the dog reached Santa Fe, because he didn’t have long enough legs to get himself there.” He laughed, which caused Trece to prick up his ears. “See? He knows me. Come here, boy.”
He dismounted and Trece promptly trotted across the road to him. “Good dog.” He gestured to Paloma. “I won’t bite, Miss.”
She came to the road, stooping to pet Trece, too.
“How is it that you have him?” the post rider asked. “Father Damiano didn’t give me any reason, but I gathered he didn’t want the dog to get lost. Is he your dog?”
“Not really,” she replied, mystified. “I used to work for Señor Moreno. I am on my way to Valle del Sol to return Trece to Don Marco Mondragón.”
“Valle del Sol?” The post rider removed his helmet and scratched his head. “I saw the juez pounding south like a madman as I headed north yesterday. What’s going on?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said. “You say San Pedro is just over the hill?”
“It is. I am riding there to change horses and continue to Velarde.” He put on his helmet and slid his boot into the stirrup. But then he stepped down and indicated that she come closer.
“I reckon you weigh very little. How about you ride in front of me and carry your dog? It’s not far to San Pedro, but it will be dark soon and you shouldn’t be on the road by yourself.”
Paloma considered all the reasons why she should not, then nodded. She let the post rider help her into the saddle and took Trece from him when he handed up the yellow dog. He swung onto the saddle behind her.
“A tight fit, but a short journey,” he said, his arms around her. “I ride this way with my children, now and then. Go ahead and lean back, Miss. I’m the king’s messenger and I don’t bite.”
Paloma did as he said, aware how tired she was, and even more, how hungry. She had already discovered one problem with impromptu adventures: they did not involve much food. No wonder people generally stayed put.
“I think Señor Mondragón will be disappointed not to find his yellow dog in Santa Fe,” he said as they rode along. “Will he be angry?”
“I have no idea,” Paloma said. “I doubt he is happy. The señor paid one peso for this wandering dog.”
The teamster whistled. “So much for a … what kind of dog is he?”
“He is a rare dog from the interior of China,” Paloma replied, perjuring her soul without a qualm, because, for some reason, it mattered to her that Marco Mondragón not be thought a fool. “He is worth far more than a peso,” she added, reasoning that if one lie was for a good cause, then tacking on another hardly mattered. She could sort out the finer points at confession.
She felt a twinge of guilt when the post rider nodded. “I can see that. Señor Mondragón raises sheep and cattle. A man with as much livestock as he possesses would want the best.”
She said nothing more, figuring she was already deep enough in probable chastisement in the confession booth, where she had to tack on the sin of stealing a few coins from her miserable uncle, and whatever else the Lord might think unseemly about her behavior of the past few days. Besides, the cabbage of the last day and a half still sat like Cain’s unwelcome offering on her stomach.
Paloma wasn’t sure what she expected of San Pedro, but it was probably not a high wall, with the church’s spire peeking over. The gate was still open, but several men in the habit of Franciscans stood there to close it. They had stopped when they heard the post rider.
“It looks like a fortress.”
The post rider gave a low laugh. “Señorita, you are now officially on the frontier.”
Chapter Eleven
In which Paloma Hears Father Damiano’s Confession and Suffers Delusions from Cabbage
Blushing furiously, one of the Franciscan fathers helped Palmona from the saddle. Women had no place in his ecclesiastical world. The post rider dismounted and headed immediately to a short priest with spectacles, a rare sight in New Mexico. The rider did most of the talking, while the priest nodded, then glanced at Paloma. All the while, Trece dashed between her and the post rider, circling around the patient horse, then dashing off again.
Paloma pressed her hand against her middle, longing for a necessary room and regretting each cabbage leaf of the last two days.
I will never eat cabbage again, she told herself.
With a wave, the post rider walked his horse through the gates and out of her sight. The little priest with the spectacles came toward her, a smile on his face.
“I am Father Damiano. And you are—”
“Paloma Vega, Father,” she said. She looked down at the yellow dog. “And this is Trece, but I think you already know that.”
He nodded, that smile playing around his lips. Paloma know she had never met a less repentant releaser of someone else’s dog.
“My child, I do believe you are an answer to prayer.”
“How would that be, Father Damiano?” she couldn’t help asking, even as her stomach rumbled and threatened. “Apparently I have brought back a dog that you set free. Now I need to find Don Marco Mondragón and return Trece. Is he here, or has be already left for Valle del Sol?”
“He’s in Santa Fe, looking for Trece.”
Paloma sighed and turned away, resolved to be through with adventures. She turned back and took a deep breath, which was a mistake, because the lump of cabbage trapped and gurgling somewhere in her insides gave a fearful groan. Plain speaking was required, she decided.
“Father, I have been eating nothing but cabbage for two days and if I don’t find a necessary soon, it will be …”
Without another moment wasted, he took her arm, walked her inside the fortress monastery and pointed to a small door. “For the ladies.”
Her face on fire, she hurried through the door.
Relief was a long time coming. “I can’t possibly go back and face that priest,” she said out loud, after some of the crisis had finally passed. Her stomach still writhed like it was struggling to escape.
Because her only other choice was to remain where she was for the rest of her life, she opened the door and went into the courtyard. To her relief, the courtyard was deserted, except for that one priest, the massive door secured against darkness and raiders. Trece—now on his back, being scratched by that priest—wasn’t going anywhere.
Traitor dog. Trece, you could have told me this was some great deception, I, who raised you, she thought, without much rancor because she did understand dogs, and her stomach still hurt.
“Better, my dear?” the priest asked, standing up and trying to reclaim his dignity, even though she had discerned his secret: that he knew where disloyal pups liked to be scratched.
She nodded, too shy to look at him.
“Drink this, little one,” he told her. “It will eventually dislodge the residue. Two days of cabbage, eh? I am not that brave.” Still not looking at him, Paloma took the small glass he handed her. She sniffed it, and her eyes watered. She would have handed it back, but he was a priest, after all, and she had been raised to obey the men in black and brown. She shuddered, drank and shuddered some more.
“It’s not bravery, father, it’s hunger,” she said bluntly. “Since I am going to Valle del Sol to return a dog and have only a few coins to do it, I have to be frugal. I may be two or three days in getting to such a place as Valle del Sol.” She frowned. “But now you tell me he is in Santa Fe? How can I return a dog that you released?”
It was the priest’s turn to look away, even though Paloma, suspicious now, thought he was merely hiding a grin that threatened to split his face in two. The moment passed and he regarded her with a kindly eye.
“My child, it is at least two weeks to Valle del Sol—a dangerous trip to attempt alone. Señor Mondragón will return from Santa Fe soon, I am certain. At that time, you can discuss del Sol with him.”
People in adventures do not cry, she reminded herself, as tears began to spill down her cheeks. She turned away and sat herself on the lip of a fountain, much as Marco Mondragón had done in her uncle’s courtyard. Just thinking of him made her sob out loud.
In a moment the priest sat beside her. Paloma thought she could swallow the rest of her tears, and she would have, if Father Damiano hadn’t put such a comforting arm around her.
“I’ve left a horrible home to return a dog set free on purpose, and I am sick of cabbage.”
He let her cry stormy tears, then, when she’d finished, handed her a handkerchief.
“Don Marco is only in Santa Fe, my dear,” he repeated. “He has to return to San Pedro to retrieve his sinful teamsters.” He chuckled again. “Now I must confess to you. Yes, I let that dog go on purpose with the post rider. I knew Trece would go right to you. My original plan was that Don Marco find you, as well.”
“Why, Father?” she asked. She blew her nose hard.
He shrugged. “For those purposes that a man will follow a charming young lady. I may be a priest but I am not dead.” He peered at her face. “And he was right about your eyes. They are so blue.”
Startled, Paloma opened her mouth to speak then closed it. Better to say nothing. Then she blurted out, “Father, I am only here to return a dog and one thing more.” She paused again, because it was brazen. Go ahead, Paloma, she told herself. You will never say it again. “I … I wanted to see Señor Mondragón’s light brown eyes one more time. You know, before he returns to del Sol.” She turned away, disappointed. “I suppose my adventure is over.”
“My child, I believe your adventure is only beginning. Light brown eyes?” the father asked.
“Surely you’ve noticed them,” she said quickly.
“I have not, my child,” Father Damiano replied. “I leave that to a young lady.” He gave her a little shake. “But now, do you think you could manage a soup of hominy and pork?”
“Meat?” she asked in surprise.
Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. The priest looked away, as though collecting himself.
“A tortilla will do,” she amended in haste. “And scraps for Trece, if you please. I really need to lie down after that, but I can wash dishes in the morning.”
“I think not,” he said gently. “You are a guest within our walls.”
The priest stood up and gestured for her to accompany him. In a few minutes she was seated in the kitchen behind a bowl of soup. She waited while Father Damiano blessed it, then devoted herself to a single-minded effort to empty that bowl of hominy and luscious pork. When the cook, an old servant slow on his feet, added a tortilla, Paloma sighed with pleasure. Trece, at her feet, was eating his own dinner and her stomach was full.
Finally, she pushed the bowl away, eyeing the portion she could not finish with regret. Father Damiano watched her with satisfaction on his own face. “I daren’t finish that, since what I just ate is still sitting on top of cabbage.” She folded her hands. “Father, I can work in your kitchen.”
“You’re our guest,” he repeated.
“I must work. I can’t return to Santa Fe. I took some coins from my uncle.” Paloma felt her face grow warm. “I should confess that.”
“I am inclined to call those coins wages.”
She glanced at the priest shyly, waiting for him to speak.
He did finally, after he looked at the cook, who inclined his head and shuffled from the room. “My daughter, do you know what happened to Don Marco’s family?”
“Not really.”
“He loved Felicia and the twins—two
fine sons. He left the hacienda one morning in a hot summer to inspect brands farther to the north. He returned two weeks later to find them dead and buried.”
“Poor man,” she said simply. “How does a man recover from that?”
The priest stood up and fingered the cross at his belt. “Some men drink, some men whore, and some men disappear inside themselves, which is what Marco Mondragón did. He applied himself to his duties, continued to take care of his cattle, sheep and servants.”
“Why has he not remarried? I hear it is a comfortable state for men.”
Father Damiano was silent for a long time, walking the length of the kitchen and back, as though trying to rationalize in his mind what he wanted to tell her. She understood his reluctance finally, and cleared her throat.
“Father, this is obviously a matter of the confessional. I should not have asked that question,” she said, her voice low.
“Just think about it,” he said. “You have a good mind, a shrewd one, if I may.”
She did think, running her hands over Trece’s warmth, seeing in her mind those light brown eyes and imagining them filled with tears. Her breath went out of her. “Does he think that if he left another wife while he went about his duties, he would return to find her dead? Oh, Father Damiano!”
He said nothing because she knew he couldn’t.
“That is unreasonable,” she said. “Such a thing might never happen again.” She crossed herself. “Or it could. Who of us knows the mind of God?”
“No one.”
She thought of her own life, not a long one yet, but a life with joy cut short at the sound of Comanches, an enemy who still rode through her dreams. “I have my own sorrows,” she began, and haltingly told the priest who sat beside her about the horrible day when her parents died and she was left in a burning hacienda. She told him of her life in the household of Felix Moreno and her own fears that her life there would never change, making her bitter.
She chose her words carefully. “I do not understand what has happened. I think I just want to return Trece to his new owner. Adventures are not very enjoyable, are they?”
Carla Kelly - [Spanish Brand 01] Page 8