by Win Blevins
She stood. So did they, Sam tardily.
“You must call me Doña Paloma,” she said. “We’ll all be friends.” But she was looking at Sam.
Walking back through the narrow streets, they talked about Doña Paloma. Sam had nothing to say. Flat Dog and Hannibal were full of admiration for her beauty, her low, husky voice, her intelligence, her business sense.
“Sounds like the girl for you,” Sam said to Hannibal, and heard the foolishness in his own voice.
“Me?” the Delaware said, chuckling.
Flat Dog pointed to his eyes. “Sam, he has a pair of these, but he doesn’t see.”
“It’s you she’s interested in,” Hannibal said to Sam.
Sam shivered, but could think of nothing to say to that.
SAM’S NERVES WERE tingling like a teenager’s, and that was making Paladin skittish. She pricked up her ears and turned them constantly, as though she might be able to hear what was wrong with her rider. Her hoofs slipped in the soft surface of the river road—this afternoon was warm and a winter thaw was on. She swished her tail edgily. Once she even stopped and turned her head, maybe wanting to go back. But she had horses to lead, and she knew the job. Sam rode in front of the herd, Coy beside him. Flat Dog and Sumner rode flank and Hannibal came along behind. They were accustomed to this work—they’d trekked a thousand miles with the loss of only one animal.
Now Sam shook the memories of that long trail out of his head and came back to his job. He turned Paladin sideways in the road and waved at the horses, turning them into the road onto the north side of the señora’s property. Hannibal pushed them from the far side, and Flat Dog herded them from behind.
Paloma Luna came out on a good-looking sorrel mare and helped herd the new horses back toward her band. She wore a skirt that was split for riding and big spurs. Across her shoulders, with artless grace, were tossed two colorful blankets.
Sam’s first thought was, She’s much too old.
And then he felt a flush of shame for what he’d been thinking.
Coy started a howl that came up short in a groan.
“Now. Would you like to take a tour of the rancho?”
They would.
It sat in a pleasant valley along the Santa Fe River. On broken land along the north side she grazed sheep, cattle, and goats and bred horses—“Trying to improve the line,” she said, “my personal effort.” On the south side of the stream she raised pigs, and chickens, grew fruit, and planted crops; she irrigated these fields out of the river via a madre acequia, mother ditch.
“We put this vineyard in,” she said. “In two more years we will have some grapes, and soon enough to produce wine, which we will make ourselves.”
A middle-aged man walked up, probably to see the strangers. “This is Antonio, my foreman.” She introduced everyone, which surprised Sam. “Antonio will produce the wine. He is proud of the vineyard, his project.”
Sam felt dazed—maybe it was the beautiful woman and her fine seat on her mare, or maybe the dazzling sun. Though he liked her elegant Spanish (she offered no English), he didn’t seem to understand half of what she said. He gathered that this ranch had come down through her family, and now that her husband was dead, she ran it, with the help of half a dozen Mexican-Indian families who lived in the casitas primitivas, rough houses, on the property.
“I will establish a blacksmith here,” she said, “and a wheelwright there. Along the creek we will build a mill. While my husband lived, the rancho did not progress. He was not interested in it. I love this land,” she said, “and I am a serious woman of business.”
As they rode back toward the main casa, the señora said, “What is this special thing that you want to show me?”
Hannibal grinned. “Watch. It takes a few minutes to set up.”
Quickly they cut willow branches along the river and improvised a ring. Then Sam took the saddle and bridle off Paladin. He stood in the center of the ring. “Señora,” Hannibal said, “if you will join Sam.” She did.
Sam whistled. Paladin came to him immediately. With hand signals he set her to cantering around the ring clockwise. At another signal she reversed direction. He called to her and she stopped and faced him. At another call she pranced sideways, and then back to where she started. When he motioned down with both hands and stepped behind the señora, Paladin walked to the lady and bowed.
The señora laughed and applauded, delighted as a girl.
Then Sam whistled, Coy jumped onto Paladin’s back, and around the ring the mare loped, the coyote standing up on her back.
“You are a magician!” said the señora. “Is Señor Flat Dog equally talented?”
“You bet,” said Sam.
“Then please train any of my horses, train all of them. They will bring fine prices, so I will pay you well. Handsomely.” She thought, hand in her chin. “Here is a proposal. Señor Flat Dog, you have a wife, two children.”
“One child his, one mine,” said Sam.
“Then you may live in one of my casitas. It is not occupied in the winter. You will be comfortable and close to your work.”
Sam and Flat agreed with their eyes. “Sounds fine,” said Flat Dog.
“The horses of mine you train, we will sell them just before you leave. Untrained, they are worth about two hundred fifty pesos. I will give you half of every peso above that amount.”
Sam shot a look of gratitude at his teacher. Hannibal winked at him.
They went into the courtyard, which enclosed a well and an horno, an outdoor oven. They sat, and a servant girl brought them hot chocolate and pan dulces, sugared breads.
Sam felt like an idiot. As they chatted, the widow looked at him constantly. “Your white hair,” she said, “on so young a man, it’s charming.” For a moment he thought she was going to reach out and touch it. Instead she turned away to the wall, looked over and said, “This is my flower garden and herb garden. It looks so sad in the middle of winter. But perhaps you will see it in the spring. I have transplanted the wildflowers of the region. They make rainbows of color.”
She hesitated. “Señor Morgan, Señor Flat Dog, may I show you your new home?”
It was thirty paces away and indistinguishable from the other casitas. “Perfectly fine,” Flat Dog said. “I will bring my family tomorrow.”
Sam looked at Flat Dog edgily. He often spoke as though Esperanza were his own daughter.
“Señor Morgan, Señor Hannibal said you are learning to read. My father owned some English books. He spoke the language, and he loved literature. Perhaps you would like to see them.”
Coy let out a squeal.
Sam nodded that he would like to see the books.
“You will find them in the cuarto de recibo. You may use them this afternoon,” she said, “and stay to supper with us if you like.”
Her gaze made it clear that Sam alone was the focus of the invitation.
“Thank you,” Sam mumbled.
A stable hand took Paladin.
“Good day, gentlemen.”
Paloma Luna turned toward the house, and Sam and Coy walked beside her.
Hannibal said to Flat Dog and Sumner said in English, “See what learning to read will get you?”
Sam thought he saw the señora suppress a smile—maybe she did speak English. Coy followed the two of them into the courtyard and the casa.
AT SUPPER PALOMA Luna smiled seldom. Sam wondered if she felt the sadness he felt, an undercurrent of melancholy that sounded in the heart of everyone who lost a spouse, and would never go away. He felt sure she did.
A gray-haired Mexican woman dished up the food and an attractive young woman served them. The señora introduced Sam to her servants—the cook was Juanita, the young woman Rosalita. Remembering his manners, Sam rose and said he was pleased to meet them. He caught a hint of a smile from the señora. “I don’t like it when people treat their helpers like they’re not people,” said Sam.
“Then you’ll be interested in Rosalita’s st
ory,” said the señora. “You Americans are informal. May I call you Sam?”
He nodded yes.
“Will you call me Paloma?”
He nodded again.
Dinner was shredded pork in a green chile sauce on corn tortillas, with beans on the side, and boiled carrots diced with onions, and goat cheese. “I’m sorry we don’t have fresh greens,” said the señora. “This country is so high and cold. But I love it. I love the starkness of the earth here, the way the rock sticks out like bones. I love the red earth. Especially I love the quality of the sunlight—this light, it’s like a diamond. When I was a child, my father took me to Chihuahua so that I could experience a real city. I saw light like this nowhere else, absolutely nowhere.”
Sam looked at her in silence. He wanted to feed Coy pork by hand but didn’t dare.
“My grandfather founded this rancho and named it after my grandmother, Paloma. In each generation the first daughter is named Paloma.”
Except that you are childless, Sam thought. The melancholy throbbed within him. He thought of Esperanza, who would spend the winter here with himself, Flat Dog, Julia, and her cousin Azul. He tried to take comfort in that.
“I said you would be interested in Rosalita’s story,” said Paloma. She glanced toward the kitchen. Rosalita and Juanita ate the same food at a small table, just through a wide entrance from the dining room.
“Do you know about the big trade caravans?”
“No.”
“We are a very remote province. The word ‘provincial’ barely begins to describe how far away we are and how little the government in Mexico cares about us. Everything we buy comes in big caravans all the way from Chihuahua, six hundred miles to the south, and is very expensive. My father and I traveled with one of the caravans. The road, El Camino Real, is the one that passes before my front gate.
“Chihuahua itself gets traders who come up from Ciudad Mexico through the mountains of central Mexico, where the mines are. The mines get vegetables, cattle, sheep, jerked meat—everything to eat, plus manufactured goods. Mining towns,” she said with a grimace. “The men think of nothing but digging fortunes out of the ground. They don’t even produce enough for themselves to eat.
“The traders do much business in Chihuahua, and a few come on to this small and insignificant place. They bring all the fine things we do not make for ourselves, delicate fabrics, shoes and boots, iron tools, copperware, pottery—all items manufactured, and some nice things, chocolate, sugar, tobacco, liquor, ink and paper.
“They take back what we have to offer—sheep, wool, salt, jerked meat, piñon nuts, Indian blankets, and the skins of beaver, buffalo, bear, and deer.”
“Piñon nuts?” said Sam, grinning.
“Yes, any kind of food. It is a poor arrangement for us. Our traders are always in debt because of it.” She sighed and looked toward the kitchen. The two women were cleaning pots and pans noisily and jabbering. “There is another, bigger item of trade. Slaves.”
“Slaves?” Sam thought of Sumner.
“Yes. The traders bring to us Mexican women and children taken by Indians from their villages in Sonora and Chihuahua. Our wealthy families buy them.”
Sam knew nothing of this.
“In return,” Paloma said bitterly, “we steal Indian women and children from the villages and rancherias of our Indios and send them to Mexico. Families are destroyed both here and there. It is the most profitable part of the trade on the Chihuahua Trail—by far the most. Raid a village, kill some of the men, take all the women and children you can get.” She breathed in and out. “Send Chihuahuans to this remote province, send Indians to Chihuahua.”
Sam felt slapped in the face. His father, Lew Morgan, had always said slavery was a curse.
“In former times the big caravans came only once every two years. Now, because the traffic is so rewarding, the slave traders come several times each year.”
“My friend Sumner was a slave,” said Sam.
She nodded.
“I hate that. I helped him get free.”
“It is barbaric,” Paloma agreed. “The blankets you see all over my house—beautiful, aren’t they? We call them slave blankets. Our wealthy families keep some of the Navajo women as slaves here, and they weave these blankets. I love them, but it makes me feel odd to buy them. I don’t know whether my purchase encourages slavery or whether it makes the lives of the woman here better.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do either.”
“Rosalita is a slave.”
Sam just stared at Paloma.
“I set her free. I bought her two years ago and told her she was welcome to stay here on the rancho and work for a wage, or to go anywhere she wanted.”
Suddenly Rosalita appeared at the table and put a small bowl in front of each of them. Sam looked carefully at her face, and she threw him a good smile. She didn’t look oppressed.
“This is flan,” Paloma said, “an egg custard with a sweet topping, sugar and butter melted together and burned a little. I am very fond of it.”
Sam tasted it and said, “Terrific.”
“With Rosalita this is not a fair arrangement. But it is the best I can do. As I have money to set more slaves free, I will.”
Feeling like the words soiled his tongue, Sam said, “How much does a slave cost?”
“For Rosalita I paid one thousand pesos in trade goods—blankets, corn, and wool. She is attractive, so she cost a little more than a usual twelve-year-old.” It was three or four months’ wages for an ordinary working St. Louis man. “Her cousin, a girl cousin, was sold for two horses and six bushels of corn. I will buy her when I can afford her, so they can be together.”
Sam tried to equate horses and corn to a human being. “Why doesn’t Rosalita leave?”
“She would want to go back to her village, her family. But how can she get there? With one of the caravans that brought her here? They would sell her as a slave. Walk alone for six hundred miles? A girl?”
“I don’t understand slavery at all.”
Paloma looked at him for a long time before speaking. “You have a certain innocence. It is one of your charms. May I show you the rest of the house?”
The kitchen had what she called a shepherd’s bed fireplace, something new to Sam. He’d sat in the cuarto de recibo, which seemed to mean room where you receive guests, but hadn’t noticed the pen and ink sketch of the casa made by her grandmother. He also hadn’t noticed the multitude of blankets, large ones on the floor, smaller ones on the sofas and chairs.
“Yes, slave blankets,” said Paloma.
“Thank you for letting me look at the books,” he said. She nodded. He’d looked at some verses in a collection of English poetry. Though they’d been too difficult for him, he liked to parse them out. He liked the sounds.
“Notice the stencils of birds on the walls,” Paloma said. The walls were plastered, white-washed adobe. “Palomas,” murmured the señora. “The technique is called tierra amarilla. I love it.”
He was enchanted. Her spirit was so intense, but she was utterly without guile, always direct.
“Now something special,” she said, “mi alcoba de dormir.” They went down a short hall and into a bedroom. A fire was burning in the small fireplace—Rosalita must have laid it. The room held a bureau, a vanity, a full-length mirror, and her high four-poster bed. She lit wall-mounted candles on each side of the bed, and two more candles on the vanity. The room took on a beautiful glow.
“Look at yourself in the mirror,” she said, smiling. It was a full-length mirror with an ornately carved frame. He picked Coy up, but the coyote showed no interest in his reflection. Paloma stood close to them, and they all smiled. Paloma stroked Coy’s head, and he nuzzled it into her hand. “You are handsome,” Paloma said.
Sam was lost for words.
The señora took Coy out of Sam’s arms and set him down. Then she turned back to Sam and kissed him fully on the mouth.
She took a step back, holding h
is gaze and her eyes holding the warm candlelight, and began to take off her dress.
THE NEXT DAY about noon, when they finally got out of bed, Coy whined desperately to be let out. They sat in the kitchen and drank coffee and ate sweet breads. Juanita worked at grinding corn, which Sam imagined was a never-ending job, and Rosalita cleaned the dining room. Sam felt a little uneasy, but the two servants acted like nothing was unusual.
Paloma saw the question in his face and said, “You are the first man to touch me since my husband died. I have been…in reserve for five years.”
They went outside and to the casita to check on Flat Dog and Julia. “You are settling in well?”
“Fine,” said Julia. It was one big room. Sam’s guess was that she was relieved to be in a house instead of a tipi.
Paloma looked around the part of the room used for cooking. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
Sam picked up Esperanza and Azul and twirled around with them in his arms. The infants cackled.
Paloma came and looked closely at Esperanza’s face. “She will be handsome, like her father. It would be perhaps better if she were beautiful.” They all smiled broadly, and Sam and Paloma walked back to the kitchen of the main casa.
“Juanita, I will cook supper. Take the afternoon with your family. Rosalita, go do whatever you like.”
Both women murmured “Gracias” and left immediately.
When they were alone, Paloma said, “Rosalita is being courted by one of the young men who works for me.” She stood, came to Sam, and cupped his face with one hand and kissed him lightly. “You are a beautiful man. The crook where your nose must have been broken, it only makes your face interesting.” She kissed him again. “Now I will start supper.”
Sam sat in the kitchen with her and watched. First she cut the kernels off an ear of dried Indian corn. “Chicos, we call these.” She covered them with water, and set them on the cooking stove to simmer. The fire in the stove was strong, and the cocina felt good, a warm radiance in a cold house in January.
Now she took meat from a box cooled by ice in the bottom and began to dice it. “Mutton,” she said. “This is a dish of the conquistadores.”