Carla Kelly - [Spanish Brand 01]

by The Double Cross

  He stopped and raised his face to the sky, knowing that if there was any point to this, he had to tuck his beloved wife into his heart and ask her kindly to stay there. It had taken him eight years—eight years!—but today he knew there was room for two wives in his generous heart. He continued his circuit.

  Father Damiano and Father Bartolomeo were no longer in sight. He hoped they had retired to the chapel to pray for him and Paloma. He smiled to see Trece come into the courtyard. He whined first at the door to the kitchen, where his mistress sobbed, then came to him, tail between his legs. Marco squatted to rub his ears. “I guess you know a poor second choice when you sniff one, eh, Trece?” he murmured.

  He picked up Paloma’s sandals and continued, Trece trailing along behind now. Marco halted, his heart in his mouth, when the kitchen door opened. Her face pale, Paloma came toward him, pausing first to pet her dog, who whined and yipped around her, much as Marco, just as miserable, wanted to do.

  She came to him next, her hands folded in front of her. “Señor Mondragón, I could cut my hair and sell it. Would that be enough for a dowry?”

  He sighed with relief, praising the Lord in his heart. She would never have made such an offer if she hadn’t wanted this marriage to happen. But no, he couldn’t have her do that, not and be honest with himself. He shook his head.

  “No, Paloma. I like your beautiful hair on your head. I noticed late last night that it’s even more impressive down around your shoulders. Please don’t cut it. Where would you put your mother’s comb, if your hair was gone?”

  “It will grow,” she said, emphasizing each word. “You are stubborn, too.” She turned on her heel and left him.

  He smiled at her retreating figure, assessing the womanly sway of her hips and finding it entirely to his liking. With enough eggs, chorizo, hominy, pork, turkey, venison, beef, mutton, tortillas, and flan on Sundays, he would like that sway even more. He knew that he was close to winning, even though he had not yet solved the problem. She still needed a dowry, something she could give him that was uniquely hers. Something she could point to with pride in the years to come, and know that no other woman could have given her husband what she brought to their marriage. He put her sandals behind his back and walked to the fountain.

  He examined her sandals, frowning over the dark brown splotches on the foot bed and the thongs he could tighten easily enough. He could wash off the blood and make them serviceable for a few more leagues. Too bad he knew he would find no women’s shoes in a monastery. Staring at Paloma Vega’s sandals, taken from a poor box in San Miguel, he could have slapped his head at his own idiocy. He felt the tears start in his eyes again, but not in frustration this time, because he suddenly knew he had won.

  He knocked on the door of the kitchen. He thought he heard a mumbled “Enter,” but he was coming in anyway. Best to be formal now, because he knew what he wanted. “Señorita Vega, since there is no papa and no go-between, you will have to hear this from me. Kindly give me all your attention.”

  She looked at him, startled, her eyes wary now, but not so hopeless. She nodded.

  He held out her sandals. “I am claiming your sandals as your dowry.”

  “You have moths in your head.”

  He was an experienced husband. Her comment was most unloverlike, to be sure, but it was already wifely.

  “Not one moth, Paloma, my heart.” He glanced at her, gleeful to see the tears start in her eyes at his endearment. Oh, he could do this. “Your sandals. I intend to hang them in my—our—sala in Valle del Sol, certainly a little lower than the crucifix, but not much lower, because they mean almost as much to me.”

  She didn’t say anything this time. Her honest eyes were boring into his, seeking for that same honesty he knew was there, but which could only grow more obvious, the longer he was husband to this wife. “Explain yourself, Señor,” she said, giving him permission to continue.

  “You were willing to walk and walk on bloody feet to return a foolish dog to me to keep my feet warm. You had no idea where del Sol was when you started out, except that it was near Comanchería, a place that terrifies you.”

  She nodded, her eyes ever so serious.

  “You can see the snow coming lower and lower down the mountains, same as me. You had a few coins in your apron and you were going to walk until you dropped, to the most dangerous place in the colony, if you had to, to return a runt.”

  He sank to his knees then, not because it seemed like a good idea when wooing a stubborn woman, but because his legs would not hold him. “I’m going to look at those sandals every day if I have to, and do my best to be the husband, father, rancher, and juez that someone as wonderful, brave and stubborn as you are deserves. Your sandals, Paloma. Give them to me. I never met such a brave woman as you.”

  She stood up, went to him, took the sandals from his outstretched hand and gave them back to him. “Done, my lord,” she said. He staggered to his feet, reaching for her, but she backed away, her hand raised imperiously to hold him off.

  As he watched, his mouth open, she lowered herself into the most impressive curtsy he had ever seen, her forehead nearly touching the floor. He had never even imagined such a graceful gesture. It was fit for the king of Spain, but he was no king of Spain. This magnificent, regal display of humility was for him alone, Marco Mondragón, her promised husband.

  She rose out of the curtsy as gracefully as she went into it, holding out her hand to him then throwing herself into his open arms, clutching as much of him as she could gather. He didn’t waste time trying to kiss her; he just held her.

  Paloma Vega kept him at arm’s length then, looking into his eyes, then pulled him close, rose up, and whispered into his ear.

  “Mama said I would only have to do that once.”

  He laughed so hard that she put her hand over his mouth to hush him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In Which Marco and Paloma Obey and Sinful Teamsters Are Released from Bondage

  Paloma stayed in the kitchen while Marco went in search of Father Damiano and Father Bartolomeo, who by chance—they would never spy—were standing just outside the door. Or perhaps she was overly suspicious; life in the Moreno household could do that to a person.

  Quite possibly we have been managed by masters, my dearest, she thought, as Marco, his face a delight to look at, returned so soon.

  As she knelt with Marco there in the kitchen to receive a raft of impulsive blessings, she knew there was no calculation in the joy writ large on Father Damiano’s face, in particular. And hers obviously. When he helped her to her feet, Marco whispered. “If you smile that big all the time, you might crack your face, my love.”

  And then it was brass tacks at the kitchen table, where she suspected all important matters would be covered, once she reached Marco’s hacienda.

  “We want to marry tomorrow morning,” Marco said, holding her hand. “Fathers, you know we cannot wait or there will be too much snow and we won’t reach del Sol this season. There is no time for banns.”

  I would wish for a dress, Paloma thought, but knew she would never ask, since there seemed to be a more important matter.

  “How old are you?” Marco asked her.

  Well, he had to know sometime. “I am just turned eighteen,” she said with regret, wincing at how old she knew that sounded.

  Her advanced years seemed to shock him not at all. “I am thirty-one,” he told her with a shrug. “Paloma, eighteen is young.”

  “Not here,” she reminded him, but he wasn’t listening. He had turned his attention back to the priest, even as he took her hand under the table and rested it rather high up on his thigh. She pinched him and he moved it lower, but only slightly.

  She wasn’t listening, either.

  “Paloma, Paloma, where’s your mind?” Father Bartolomeo was asking gently. “The first obstacle is your status. You are an orphan?”

  “It’s not the first obstacle, Father,” she replied, her voice just as soft. She increas
ed the pressure on Marco’s leg. “It’s only the last one. I am grateful you cannot imagine my life before …” She glanced at Marco’s dear face. “Yes, I am an orphan from El Paso del Rio del Norte.”

  “Your father?”

  She took a deep breath. This would probably startle her almost-husband, but what could she do? It was the truth. “He was the capitán general of El Paso.”

  “Dios mio,” Marco said under his breath. “Even more shame should be heaped upon your uncle.”

  “I recall the circumstances,” Father Bartolomeo said, after a moment in thought. “The raid in 1772. Not only your hacienda but several others were put to the torch by Comanches.” He frowned. “How is it that none of your father’s wealth of cattle and land came to you? I doubt the Comanches took all the livestock. Even if they did, the land remains.”

  “You would have to ask my uncle,” she said. “I was eleven. What did I know about land and cattle? Mama …” She faltered, but for the first time she was not alone in terrible memories, not if Marco’s pressure on her hand was any indication. She swallowed. “Mama shoved me deep under a bed and I stayed there while … while … everyone died and the hacienda burned.” She leaned against his shoulder. “I waited two days under the bed. I was alone when I came out and I walked to El Paso.” She looked down at her feet. “I was barefoot then, too.” She looked up at the abbot. “Yes, I am an orphan.”

  Father Bartolomeo nodded, the concern evident in his eyes, and also a sort of lurking humor that warmed Paloma. “I am going to declare you my ward in chancery. I will so attest in a document that will be sent to Santa Fe, where it will make its ponderous way to Mexico City. Maybe in nine months or a year, it will arrive there.” He chuckled, glancing at Father Damiano. “Give it at least three months, where the archbishop will countersign and return the document to Santa Fe, another nine months. Depending on the season, it may be a month or two before it arrives back on my desk. Permission granted to marry.”

  Paloma felt her heart drop to her bare toes. “So long?”

  “We’re not waiting three years to marry.”

  She looked at Marco, surprised at his clipped words and decidedly militant tone. I am now in such good hands, she thought in relief.

  Father Bartolomeo put his hand to his heart. “Señor Mondragón, I would never suggest a three-year wait.” He smiled at them both, then wagged his finger at the juez de campo. “Marco, Marco, are you forgetting how we do things upriver? Paloma, you have become a distraction to one of my favorite men, if you have made him forget how business is done here. Paloma, are you so certain you want to hitch your wagon to such a fulano?”

  “I do,” she replied, smiling in the fulano’s direction. “But please: I do not understand how business is done here.”

  She heard the breath go out of her almost-husband. His chuckle was self-deprecating. “I am not a fool, gracias a dios.” He turned toward her. “Here is what this abbot will do: he will send that document testifying you are his ward in chancery. He will ask permission for you to be married to a handsome fellow from Valle del Sol, who has cattle and sheep and a responsible position on the frontier. That would be me. Widower, landowner, handsome fellow with light brown eyes”—Paloma felt her face flame at that—“and taxpayer.”

  “And long-winded fulano,” she teased.

  Marco gestured to the conspirator-priests. “Fathers, she already talks to me as though we were married.”

  Father Bartolomeo picked up the narrative. “Either I or Father Damiano here, an unabashed romantic, will marry you tomorrow morning. When the document allowing permission finally arrives, I daresay you will have a baby or two.” He laughed. “Father Damiano, they can both blush—even our widower, landowner and taxpayer. When this outdated document giving permission arrives, I will hold it over my head and say, Obedezco pero no cumplo—I obey but I cannot comply ...”

  “Because you have already married us years before,” Paloma concluded. “That is how business is done here?”

  “And has been since 1610, my love,” Marco said. “I do the obedezco, too, when I get permission regarding some issue of brand inspection that I have already solved and settled years before. If we waited for permission to do anything here on the upper river, there would probably be one lonely bachelor and a cow or two. Maybe a chicken.”

  Paloma laughed and leaned against Marco again. “This will be a legal wedding?”

  “In the eyes of Spain and Holy Church,” the abbot told her, “three years from now. In the eyes of God, tomorrow morning, my dear one, and His all-seeing eyes count more.”

  “Obedezco,” she said softly. “I obey.”

  She shouldn’t have worried about a dress. Once Marco came back from signing a document to send on its way to the archbishop in Mexico City, he took her hand and walked her outside the open gates to the nearby pueblo, where three woman sat sewing.

  “After I left your room last night, I picked up that dress you left outside the door,” he explained. “Father Damiano told me where to take it this morning. These women have taken it apart and are making you two more dresses. They’ll be plain, but they’ll be warm. Oh, a cloak, too. Maybe a skirt, if there is time.”

  “You’re good to me,” she said simply.

  He smiled at her solemn face. “That’s how it’s done. Didn’t your Mama tell you? Once your family—you—paid the dowry, it was my part to furnish clothing.”

  “Did you do that for Felicia?” she asked, wondering how he would feel about mentioning his dead wife.

  The smile he gave her was her answer. It was the relieved smile of someone given permission to bring up a subject dear to him. “I certainly did—dresses, scarves, shoes, cloaks.” He stopped. “Do you mind if I mention her now and then?”

  Paloma shook her head. “She was your wife and you loved her. I am just happy that you waited all those years for …” she gave him a smile of her own, “for a yellow dog to warm your feet.”

  “There will be more dresses and shoes that fit, once we reach del Sol,” he told her. “For now, this is the best I can do.” He turned his attention to the seamstresses. “Ladies, this is my wife—or she will be, tomorrow.”

  She blushed. Marco squatted by the women for a moment, speaking to them in a language she did not know. Rising to his feet, he took her arm again. “They’ll be done by evening.” He leaned closer. “I asked them to make you a chemise or two, as well. Is there anything else you wish, of a personal nature?”

  “Shoes,” she said. “But that would be impossible on short notice.”

  “Alas, it is,” he agreed, “but I have a solution, if you don’t mind wearing moccasins. I’ll loan you a pair of socks, as well. You’ll be in the wagon for most of the journey, unless you want to share my saddle with me.”

  “I might like that,” she told him shyly.

  “I might like that, too,” he said, equally shy. “My horse is strong and you don’t weigh much.”

  Paloma thought a moment as they strolled toward the monastery again. “You gave the women of the pueblo my dress this morning, before I had even agreed to anything?”

  He nodded, looked away and smiled into some distance she couldn’t see. “I did. Should I do my own obedezco over that?”

  “No. You were right.”

  In the afternoon, Marco went to the fields with Father Damiano to watch his sinful teamsters finish burning the stubble there and preparing the land for a long winter’s sleep. Paloma watched him from the rampart of the monastery, amused to see him pitching in to help after a few minutes. His laughter and that of his men drifted toward her on the wind, along with the smell of the burn. She liked what it told her of how he worked with his servants, and it suggested how he would want her to work with his house servants.

  “I can do that,” she said into the same breeze that blew from the fields. “I will treat no one the way I was treated. Never.”

  The afternoon before Paloma’s wedding provided the first hours of leisure she had kn
own since arriving in her uncle’s house years ago. Now it was heaven on earth to kneel and pray in the chapel, and then just sit there on one of the few chairs by the door, contemplating the mystery within. All those prayers of relief, until I was beginning to think they would never be answered, she thought. The Lord’s ways are mysterious.

  Marco joined her later in the afternoon, kneeling to pray as she had done. She remained quietly where she was, admiring the set of his capable shoulders. So many burdens had been placed on them. She vowed she would not be another. She went to the front of the chapel and knelt beside him to add her prayers to his. When he finished, he covered her clasped hands with his, and her heart was full.

  Dinner was simple fare again. Because she was a woman, she waited until the priests, novices and other men had finished their meal in the refectory. She would have eaten then—heaven knows she was hungry—but she found it pleasant to help the cooks, obviously kin to the women of the pueblo so diligently sewing for her. Even though she did not speak their tongue, in a few minutes they were laughing together as they slapped tortillas and cooked them on the familiar griddle. By the time Marco and Father Damiano joined them in the kitchen, there was a warm pile of tortillas ready.

  Marco sat beside her at the table. As she ate wonderful posole, thick, red and meaty, and dipped tortillas, Paloma caught him watching her.

  “I probably shouldn’t eat so much, but it is so good,” she told him.

  “You should eat more,” was his reply as he handed her another tortilla and took one for himself, adding a line of honey and rolling it tight. “I will do my best for you on this journey, but it will be mostly dried meat.” He nudged her shoulder. “No cabbage.”