Apparently they would not. Maria Teresa ignored him, her small eyes fixed on her cousin’s face, which had gone a shade of pale not found in New Mexico too often. Marco knew he could never look that pale. Marco eased his arm around Paloma’s waist, dismayed to feel her trembling, where she had stood up to Pepita Camargo so bravely.
“Come into my kitchen,” Marco said.
They dismounted and stalked into the kitchen. Maria Teresa looked around, displeasure written large on her face. “We do business in the sala,” she said pointedly.
We do not, Marco thought. “Would you care for some …”
Maria Teresa dismissed him with a gesture, which made Alonso gasp. She turned to Paloma and her eyes narrowed.
“I told Alonso it could not possibly be true, but here you are, cousin,” Maria said, with no preamble. “My father—your loving uncle!—said you stole from him and ran away.”
“Really, Maria,” Alonso murmured, his face red. “We don’t know—”
“I believe you are referring to the change from the egg money that my wife used to see her on her way north to return a dog—the dog for which her loving uncle overcharged me,” Marco replied, keeping his voice level because now his wife’s arm was around his waist.
“Is that what Paloma told you?” Maria’s voice seemed to rise an octave. “And you believed her?”
“Maria! This is our district’s juez,” Alonso hissed at his wife. “We might need him someday!”
Maria just sniffed. “Do your business, Alonso, and don’t bumble this time.”
By now, Don Alonso’s face was an alarming shade of red. Marco looked at this friend from his childhood, dismayed because the man would not meet his gaze. He felt a sudden rush of pity at Alonso’s bleak prospect of a lifetime with Maria Teresa Moreno.
“What is your business with me today?” Marco asked, amazed at his own calm, when he wanted to throw them out of his kitchen and turn them over the Señor Muñoz and his henhouse. He would have to congratulate Paloma on her forbearance in remaining in the Moreno household as long as she did.
“Th-this is a Moreno b-b-b-brand that you should register under my brand,” Alonso stammered, holding out a much-creased document. “It came with her dowry.”
Marco took it, not bothering to open the document. “Very well.” He knew he should be polite, but the reason why escaped him. He tried again, because, after all, he did belong to a polite race. “If you would care for some hot chocolate …”
Alonso opened his mouth, but Maria was already heading toward the door.
“Perhaps some other time, Alonso,” he said. When you are alone, or better yet, a widower, he wanted to mutter under his breath.
Alonso nodded, and ran after his wife, who was already out the door and shouting for an outrider to help her mount. The gates opened, and before they closed again, Marco heard the argument begin. He looked at his wife. “Paloma, I can’t even believe that you are related to that hechizera.”
“Think of all the tales she will spread around Santa Maria,” Paloma said, her voice sounding so bleak. She turned her face into his sleeve.
“Once anyone spends any time at all with her, they will not believe them.”
He took her hand and started her in the direction of his office, but stopped when the gates opened again. “We’re busier than a Santa Fe marketplace today,” he muttered, not in the mood for any more business beyond sitting Paloma on his lap and kissing the tears he saw glistening in her eyes.
He turned back to see his sinful teamsters, Andrés at their head, arriving with his wagons and goods from Santa Fe. Trece sat on Andrés’ lap. He practically quivered with the delight of seeing Paloma again. “This is more like it, my heart,” he told Paloma. “Our expensive dog is through traveling.”
Andrés beckoned his wife closer and held out Trece to her. She took the little yellow dog and buried her face in his fur, hugging the creature, who wriggled and tried to lick her everywhere at once. Andrés looked behind him and shook his head.
“Poor Alonso,” Andrés said, as he dismounted with a groan. “She was slapping him with the reins.” He came closer to Marco. “You did much better at the same house in Santa Fe. Perhaps it was a miracle.” Andrés crossed himself.
Marco nodded. He walked with his wife to the kitchen door. “Will you tend to Toshua? He is probably hungry.”
Paloma nodded, not looking at him. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently brought her around to face him. He laughed when Trece licked him, too. “Paloma, don’t waste another minute’s thought on your cousin.”
“I do not want shame to come to you, husband, because of my family,” she said simply.
“How could it?” he asked, just as quiet. He looked around at his sinful teamsters, Andrés, and others of his household who had fled when Pepita Camargo set up the initial racket. “Are you aware—oh, I can tell you are not—just how many defenders you already have at the Double Cross?”
One look into her fine eyes told him that she was not convinced. He did something he had never done before, not even with Felicia, because he was from a reticent race, those of Spain. He took her in his arms and held her close, then kissed her on the mouth, right there in front of everyone who worked for him. “Go help Toshua now,” he whispered, when his lips had barely taken their leave of hers. “I’ll send in an archer.”
Paloma started toward the kitchen, but stopped when Trece began to squirm in her arms. She set him down, and the little yellow dog raced back to Andrés, who chuckled and picked him up.
“So that is how the wind blows now?” she chided, amused. “Trece, you are faithless. Take good care of him, Andrés. Your master doesn’t particularly need him now.” She couldn’t help smiling as Marco blushed.
She went into the kitchen. Sancha had been standing by the kitchen window, lips tight, arms crossed, disapproval etched on every plane. Paloma sighed. I will never measure up now, she thought. Whatever favor she had gained by gathering eggs for that prickly woman had been undone by her cousin Maria Teresa.
Or not. “Some of my relatives are horrid, too,” Sancha said. She picked up a slice of bread with steam rising from it, still warm from the horno. She slathered butter on it and handed it to Paloma. “Here. You deserve a sweet, but I do not have any right now.”
Her voice was gruff, but that was Sancha, Paloma decided. She took the bread, her mouth watering. “Dios mio, this is so good.” She sat down and ate, licking at the butter as it started down her chin. She savored the texture. “Do you add cornmeal to your bread? I like the little crunch.”
Sancha nodded, her eyes bright, even as she tried to be offhand and casual with Paloma’s compliment. “It’s nothing fancy.”
“It’s just right,” Paloma assured her. “Do you think … would you butter another slice for Toshua?”
The stubborn look returned, but not with any serious conviction, to Paloma’s relief. “I hate to cast pearls before swine,” the housekeeper said, even as she buttered another slice, the bread not too thick and the butter not so plentiful.
“Sit a moment, Sancha,” Paloma said, patting the bench beside her. As the housekeeper listened, she told Sancha of the henhouse, the odor, the rotten eggs, and the Comanche starving and desperate for even one of those old eggs. “He ate the whole rotten thing, shell and all,” Paloma concluded. “We can give him bread and mush and eggs.”
She left Sancha there, looking thoughtful, and went to the storeroom. She took the only key on the leather tie around her waist and fit it into the lock. I should wait for the archer, she thought, but opened the door anyway.
When her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, she knew she should not have opened the door. The Comanche’s pallet was empty. Heart beating faster, she listened until she heard someone breathing right beside her. Flattened against the wall, the Comanche stood nearly touching her shoulder. With one shove, she knew he could be out the door and into the kitchen, where Perla had an array of knives gleaming on the table
.
She couldn’t think of anything to say. She knew screaming would make it worse. She waited.
“You should be more careful,” the Comanche said. “I heard Pepita Camargo’s voice, even in here. If you had been Pepita, you would be dead now.”
“Would you hurt me?” she asked, when she thought she could speak without all the terror in the world showing in her voice.
“You saved my life yesterday,” he replied, not answering her, but maybe telling her everything she ever needed to know about Toshua the Comanche. “I am hungry.”
He was leaning on her shoulder now, still too weak to stand upright. Probably even Pepita Camargo could have thrashed him. Paloma let him lean against her. He clutched the towel around his middle. Without a word, she knotted the towel to the side.
“There now. Just lean on me and I will help you into the kitchen, where Sancha has hot bread and butter.”
He offered no objections when she draped his arm around her shoulder to support him. They walked slowly into the kitchen, to Sancha’s astonishment. Perla la cocinera grabbed a knife and backed herself into a corner. The archer coming through the door pulled out his knife, ready to throw it.
Without thinking, Paloma stepped in front of the Comanche, shielding him from the guard’s knife. She helped Toshua sit down. “He’s hungry. Here now. When you finish this, there is more.”
He ate silently, economically, not wasting a bite and taking everything she offered him. After a long moment, Perla put down the knife and returned her attention to the bubbling posole. The guard hurried from the kitchen. Paloma was aware of Perla’s little glances, and so was Toshua. He whispered, “What would she do if I got up suddenly?”
“Probably clang you with a pot.”
She thought he smiled. Her attention went to the door then, because Marco stood there, the guard right behind him.
“You should have waited for my guard,” Marco said, his words clipped, the lines around his mouth more pronounced. He sat down across from her, his eyes only on the Comanche.
“I know.” She smiled her thanks to Sancha, who handed her a bowl of posole. She set it in front of Toshua. “I was foolish.”
Marco’s silence told her she had angered him. Palma reached across the table and touched his hand. He ignored her touch and looked at the Comanche, studying him.
“I don’t like keeping you in a storeroom with no windows, but I do not trust you with a fire for either light or warmth,” he said finally. “Is there a word of honor among your people?”
Toshua shook his head.
“I can never trust you then?”
“Why would a Spaniard trust me?” Toshua returned Marco’s stare, then must have felt he had made his point. He turned his attention to the posole.
“Maybe this Spaniard agrees with his wife, that you did not steal your master’s boots.”
Marco’s glance had not wavered from the Comanche. Now Paloma saw a measuring look in his eyes, the eyes of a juez and not just a husband.
Toshua ate a few more spoonfuls of Perla’s meaty posole, then put down his spoon. “I did not steal the boots. I would never.”
“And you say you have no honor?”
“I say I have no use for boots, Señor.”
It was said with a degree of conviction and a hint of lurking humor. Paloma heard it, and she knew Marco did, too, because he was not slow.
“You realize that if we find the culprit, I must return you to Señor Muñoz, because you are his property.”
“You can try, Señor.”
Marco smiled at that. “I suppose I can.” He leaned forward, his whole attention on the Comanche. “Let me do this: until we solve this little riddle, you may roam free at the Double Cross and—”
Perla gasped and dropped a glass to the tile floor, where it died immediately.
Marco glanced around. “And abide by one rule: you will be my wife’s protector, when I am not here. Swear to me.”
Paloma stared at her husband, who would not look at her, then at Toshua, whose whole attention was focused on Marco. As she looked from one to the other, the knot in her stomach grew smaller.
Toshua shook his head slowly. “There is no need to swear to you. She has saved my life twice now, from the henhouse and from your guard and his knife. There is no word for honor or oath among my people; we do not need it.”
Marco nodded. “I am trusting you with what is most dear to me.”
“I know.” Toshua returned his attention to the food, but looked at Marco again. “Your wife stepped between me and the guard with the knife. Do you realize what a prize she is?”
“I do.”
“If I had thought to harm you earlier, I could have, but not after she stepped in front of me.”
“That’s good to know.” Marco got up from the table. He patted Paloma’s shoulder. “Bring him to my office when he is through.” He looked closer at her. “You eat something, too.”
She took his hand. “I’m sorry I worried you.”
He kissed her cheek and left the kitchen.
Toshua sat still while she applied more udder cream to his ravaged neck, flinching when he flinched. When she finished, she beckoned Sancha closer.
“Do we have something he can wear?”
“Ask him what he wore at Señor Muñoz’s hacienda,” the housekeeper said, her eyes on Toshua, who regarded her calmly.
“I understand what you are saying, so speak to me,” he said patiently. “I just had a breechcloth. I was always cold.”
“Sancha, see if you can find some trousers and a shirt.”
The housekeeper looked doubtful. “No one on the Double Cross is that thin.”
“Then find a belt, too.”
Sancha did, setting the clothes on the kitchen table. Toshua promptly rose to his feet and dropped the towel, which made Sancha gasp, and Perla turn away with a chuckle.
Trousers in his hand, Toshua frowned at them. “They haven’t seen a man’s strength before?” he asked Paloma.
“Probably not in the kitchen,” she replied, her own face rosy. “Turn around and put on the trousers, Toshua.”
He shrugged, as though the whole matter mystified him, but did as she asked. Paloma showed him how to attach the belt, and then buttoned the shirt, when he seemed not to know what to do with buttons. After she finished, he unbuttoned two of the wooden fasteners and rebuttoned them, nodding his approval.
Paloma put a poncho around his shoulders. “I don’t have any shoes or moccasins for you,” she said.
“I ate my moccasins in the henhouse,” he told her. “Never mind.”
Putting on her own cloak, she walked him to Marco’s office through the lightly falling snow, mindful that everyone in the courtyard was watching them—the archers with arrows nocked against their bows, the guards by the gate with their hands on their swords. She glanced at Toshua, who seemed amused.
“Señora, my father once told me never to come near this hacienda,” he said. “’Everyone is armed and watchful,’ he said. ‘Find easier turkeys to pluck.’ And I did.”
Turkeys to pluck, Paloma thought. My own family. She gave herself a mental shake and opened the door to Marco’s office.
Her husband looked up from the desk. He pointed to a stool by the fireplace, and then to the Comanche, who sat down. Paloma sat in Felicia’s chair by his desk and picked up her knitting again. She had finished Felicia’s slippers for their husband and was knitting a shawl for herself. The homely task soothed her almost as much as the palpable presence of her husband.
“Where will we keep this Comanche?” she asked.
“We’ll think of something.”
She nodded and returned to her knitting. She glanced now and then at Toshua, who was leaning against the fireplace, his eyes closed, exhausted.
“He would be dead now, if you had not found him,” Marco said, following the direction of her gaze.
“If we cannot find the boots, we will have done him no favor,” she said.
<
br /> He frowned and turned his attention against to the scraps of parchment on his desk. “More places to visit, more complaints to resolve,” he said, speaking largely to himself. “If it snows hard enough tonight, I’ll be able to put off those visits and just stay in bed with you.”
Paloma laughed softly, hopeful that Toshua really was asleep, and not listening. “Rascal!”
He gave her such a look. “Aren’t you interested, too?”
Her face flamed hot, and he just smiled. “Very well, then! Let us hope for snow.” He picked up a folded document and opened it. “And here we have a brand from your lovely cousin. Did you know the fiscal dealt in cattle?”
“I would have thought the closest he ever came to cattle was stepping on a cow flop after herders drove their livestock through the square.” She chuckled. “He did that once, and I got my ears boxed because I laughed.”
Marco held up the parchment, turning it this way and that. “I’ve never seen a brand quite like this one. Here is a star, and is this a V? Take a look.”
Curious, Paloma put down her knitting and stood beside him, looking at the parchment, her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes widened and she gasped, clutching him tighter. Toshua looked up, alert.
She couldn’t help herself. She started to drop to her knees, but Marco grabbed her and pulled her onto his lap.
“Dios, Paloma! What?”
She turned her face into his shirt. “That is my father and mother’s brand! How can it be Maria Teresa’s now?”
Chapter Twenty-three
In Which Marco Fails at Least One Constituent
Marco held his wife tighter, his lips in her hair as she sobbed. He looked at the brand again, the star and the V.
“Estrella,” he whispered. “Your mother’s name?”
Paloma nodded. “Estrella Maria Jesusa.”
He gave her his handkerchief. “And the V for Vega?”
She shook her head, saying nothing until her tears subsided. She blew her nose vigorously, and tried to sit up, but he gently put his hand against her head and kept her where she was. With a sigh, she settled in.
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