The Star in the Meadow (The Spanish Brand Book 4)

by Carla Kelly

  Señor Mondragón turned to Papa. “Now let us find you what is surely a softer bed than that carriage.” He regarded the ramshackle conveyance with some disdain. “One would think Governor Anza capable of providing better transportation.”

  I am certain he is, Catalina thought, but Señor Moreno prefers humiliating arrangements. “Señor Moreno, chief contador, makes these arrangements,” Catalina told him.

  She nearly smiled at his wry expression and wondered if word had got out about how unpleasant the man could be.

  “Señor Moreno? I should have known,” Señor Mondragón replied. “In that case, I am surprised he did not make you ride a hobby horse.”

  Catalina laughed out loud, which startled Papa. Had it been that long since she had laughed in his presence?

  A menacing man much like a pirate came from one of the large outbuildings and took their luggage from the back of the carriage.

  “Thank you, Lorenzo,” their host said. “Just set them in the hall.”

  Señor Mondragón must have noticed her expression. He gestured toward the man’s retreating back. “Lorenzo was a horse thief and a scoundrel. He married Sancha, my housekeeper. I trust him now. In fact, I will send him for El Teniente Gasca. We have been expecting you.” He called back the rough-looking fellow, who headed right for the horse barn.

  Kindly anticipating that Papa would be stiff from all that time knocking about in a carriage, Señor Mondragón walked them slowly toward the house. He pointed out a small building standing by itself between what he said was the horse barn and the house. “My office,” he said. “We will conduct the audit there, where you will be more comfortable. I’ll move in a table so you can spread out my records easily.”

  Catalina glanced at her father, who stared back at her. She could almost hear him thinking, When did anyone care about our comfort? She blushed because Señor Mondragón must have seen the look that passed between them. He made no comment, choosing instead to talk about the length of the winter and the coming of spring. Hadn’t they heard a meadowlark only yesterday?

  Señor Mondragón deferred to an older woman with keys at her waist who met them at the door. “Sancha, please take Señor Ygnacio to his room, and I will take Señorita Ygnacio to meet my wife. We will eat in about an hour, so you may rest.”

  There was no mistaking Papa’s bewildered look as Sancha led him down the hall. Señor Mondragón tapped on the door on the opposite side of the hall. “Paloma? Would you like to renew an acquaintance?”

  What was Señor Mondragón talking about? Catalina followed him into a whitewashed room with colorful rugs and a massive Spanish wardrobe that seemed to fill half of one wall. The corner fireplace gave off welcome warmth, certainly for the benefit of the woman and baby seated close by.

  “I fed him within an inch of his life, Marco,” the woman said to her escort.

  Charmed, Catalina watched as the juez de campo, a powerful man in any district, claimed his son and patted his back, obviously in expectation of a burp, which wasn’t long in coming. A few more pats, another burp, and Señor Mondragón, like a well-seasoned father, settled his son in the cradle. It was homely duty she never expected from a man, and it charmed her.

  He gestured toward the sleeping infant, and Catalina saw all the pride and love on his face. “Our son, Juan Luis. He is two weeks old.”

  He put his hand lightly on the woman’s shoulder. By instinct it seemed, she inclined her cheek toward his hand. Catalina could have sighed with the loveliness of it, but she was long past such sentimentality.

  “Señorita Ygnacio, let me introduce my wife, la Señora Paloma Vega y Mondragón.”

  Catalina turned her attention to the young woman in the chair, with her light brown hair and blue eyes lively with recognition, and wondered for only a few moments just where she had seen her before. It wasn’t a pleasant memory—so few of her memories were pleasant—but ten years dropped away like a window struck by a hammer.

  “I remember a courtyard and the contador’s daughters teasing me about my father,” Catalina said finally, the words coming out easier than she would have thought possible. How was it she could speak so freely with near-strangers? “You were there, too, weren’t you, standing in the shadow, rubbing your arms.”

  Paloma Vega nodded. “I was there.”

  “I wondered why you didn’t come to my aid,” Catalina said quietly, unsure of herself, but compelled by some imp to say something.

  “It would have been worse for me later,” Paloma replied, her voice equally soft. She patted the chair beside her. “Sit with me.”

  Catalina sat and looked from Paloma to her husband, whose eyes were watchful. She could tell he would not allow anyone to slight his wife, not that she had any such plans. As she recalled the long-ago incident, Catalina did not remember there being any animosity in Paloma’s eyes. There was certainly none now.

  “I’ve sent Lorenzo for El Teniente Gasca,” Señor Mondragón said. “It’s not far, and he wants to hear your story. That way you need tell it only once.”

  Catalina’s head went up. “I sent you a note, and I sent him one also, but it was different. He probably thinks I am crazy.”

  “Don’t underestimate Joaquim Gasca,” the juez told her, then turned to his wife. “My love, you should probably show our guest the chamber we have arranged for her.” His face filled with apology. “We’re crowded here, what with little ones, but we manage. Paloma?”

  Paloma stood up carefully, with Marco’s hand at her elbow. She wrinkled her nose at Catalina, who nearly smiled at the woman’s charm. “This baby business! I am perfectly sound, Marco.”

  “I can give you a hand up if I feel like it,” her husband replied, “and I do.”

  Paloma led the way down the hall, past the guest room. Catalina paused there and tapped lightly on the door. When no one answered, she peeked inside to see her father sound asleep.

  “It is a long journey from Santa Fe,” Catalina whispered to Paloma.

  “Would you believe I thought I could make that trip in a mere few days and return a foolish pup to that man back there with the light brown eyes?” Paloma said as they continued walking. “I’ll tell you the story some day. Here we are.”

  Paloma opened the door on a room both tiny and furnished with meticulous care. The colorful rag rug matched the one in Paloma’s bedroom. There was a plump pillow at the head of the bed and no one had skimped on a mattress. Catalina suddenly wanted to lie down, too.

  “I think Marco is making mental plans to enlarge our hacienda,” Paloma said. “Hopefully this summer they will turn into physical plans.” She opened the door wider and ushered Catalina inside. “At night, a servant will move in a charcoal brazier, so you will have to leave the door ajar to be safe from bad fumes.”

  “It’s a lovely room,” Catalina said, and meant it, thinking of the mean little spots allotted her because she insisted on going on Papa’s audits with him. “I’ll just lie down for a few minutes.”

  “Someone will tap on your door before supper,” Paloma said. She touched Catalina’s arm. “I am glad you are here. I have thought of you through the years, and truly, I wanted to help you that day.” She shook her head. “They could be so mean.”

  Catalina nodded, happy for such a gentle reminder that matters weren’t always as they seemed. Through the years, she had forgotten that.

  After Paloma left the room, Catalina sighed and took off her shoes. She was about to unbutton her skirt when she heard a gasp in the hall.

  Startled, she opened the door and peeked out to see Paloma Vega in the tight embrace of an Indian woman. Catalina held her breath in fear until she heard laughter from both women. She closed her door, thought a moment, and threw the bolt as quietly as she could.

  “What kind of a place is this?” she asked herself.

  Chapter Six

  In which El Teniente Gasca decides to end any nonsense

  Although Lorenzo assured him Señor Mondragón said his own arrival at
the Double Cross could wait until tomorrow morning if he was busy, Joaquim Gasca’s careful nature insisted he ride back with the herder.

  Not that he believed a word of the frantic letter some overwrought daughter of a disgraced man had sent ahead. Better he show up tonight and put his own official stamp on whatever silliness this was. Besides, there was a new baby to admire, and maybe, for just the smallest moment—too small even for a careful husband to observe—he might pretend he was the lucky father.

  Lately, he had been mulling over his matrimonial prospects and coming up short. If only there were a woman for him—not a once a week, occasional woman, but a woman who would stay around and scold and argue and see some good in a threadbare man. Fixing a garrison was one thing; changing a life was another.

  El Teniente Gasca notified his trustworthy sargento that he was in charge until tomorrow at least and selected one volunteer from among his privates to accompany him to the Double Cross. Everyone wanted to go, mainly because of the good food found there. The selection made itself, when he walked to the stables and found one determined fellow saddling his horse for him. Joaquim never argued with initiative; he had seen too little of it in himself.

  Dusk was settling over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains when the two soldiers arrived at the Double Cross. The guards on Marco’s parapet strained to see who wanted admission, until the quietly spoken saint’s name “Santiago” told them the riders were colonials, using the centuries-old password of Christians.

  Emilio himself greeted Joaquim and pointed to the gate that led through the kitchen garden. Joaquim sent his private with Emilio and the horses and walked through the kitchen garden, which looked to have been newly plowed if not yet planted.

  A tap on the door brought Sancha to stand before him and grasp his hand. He kissed her fingers, which made her laugh, and found himself among friends. He looked first for Paloma and frowned when he did not see her. Marco caught his glance and seemed to understand his first concern.

  “We wore her out and she is dining in our bedchamber with a handsome young fellow named Juan Luis,” Marco said. “Both are well. Sit, friend, and eat. I’ll take you to them later.”

  He did, accepting the bowls passed his way and piling a plate, too. He reached for the bread handed to him by a woman he had not seen before, likely the author of the ridiculous note. A small older man with what appeared to be a perpetual worry line between his eyes sat next to her. Their clothing branded them as city dwellers and they looked exhausted. Joaquim smiled to himself; that first trip through the passes from Santa Fe could do that to a person.

  “Pardon my country manners,” Marco said, and indicated the woman. “This is Señorita Ygnacio, and her father, Señor Ygnacio, here for the audit. This is El Teniente Joaquim Gasca, commander of the presidio.”

  “We will need to talk about this audit, won’t we?” Joaquim said, surprised when Señorita Ygnacio nodded instead of the auditor.

  “Eat first,” Marco said.

  He did, enjoying every mouthful. The Ygnacios ate silently, their eyes on their plates, as if unused to the reception they had found at the Double Cross. A glance at Sancha from Marco produced two dishes of flan, which Marco accepted.

  “Marco, this handsome young fellow named Juan Luis is already eating flan?” Joaquim teased, as his friend went to the door.

  “There is another friend in the room, one you will like to hear from, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “She could hardly stay away from a Mondragón baby. It would be easier for her to gut and skin you, if she felt like it,” Marco replied, and left the room with dessert.

  Joaquim couldn’t overlook the gasp from Señorita Ygnacio. So Eckapeta was here, too? Hopefully she brought news with her. “Bravo,” Joaquim said under his breath, and turned his attention to the flan.

  “Bravo?”

  Joaquim looked up at the woman, noting her fear. “Things are different here on the frontier, señorita,” he said formally. “We have some Comanche friends and we treasure them.”

  He laughed inwardly at her skeptical expression and wondered how long she would last on a frontier.

  She startled him by skewering him with a look of her own that equaled his in skepticism. This woman had clearly never suffered a fool gladly in her life, no matter how precarious her own standing. And how could that standing be high, considering her habit of sending panicky notes?

  No sense in wasting anyone’s time. “Señorita Ygnacio, you and I and the juez have a lot to talk about. When he returns, you’ll explain the note you sent to me.”

  “Daughter, you didn’t!” her father said.

  “I did, Papa,” she said calmly, as if she was used to managing him, but in a kindly manner, which impressed Joaquim. Perhaps he should alter his first impression of her. “Maybe someone will help us.”

  Help them? Joaquim wondered again what sort of people these were, and addressed her one more time.

  “We don’t turn away people here in the valley,” he said, raising that first quivering mouthful of flan, “nether do we send hysterical little notes. When the juez returns, we’ll discuss this.”

  He concentrated on Perla la cocinera’s divine dessert, at the same time glancing at the lady across the table from him, disconcerted to find that she was watching him, too.

  They regarded each other, brown eyes assessing brown eyes, Joaquim certain he was coming up short. He admired her flawless white skin, whiter even than Paloma’s, and her remarkable control, even though he had referred to her “hysterical” notes. He looked away first, and then back. She was no beauty, but there was something about her dignity that caught his attention. He saw no animosity in her expression, only sadness, as though she knew already that no one in Valle del Sol would hear her out.

  Thank God Marco returned to the kitchen, all smiles, the kind host. The only problem was that Marco the kind host was also a most discerning man. His smile faded as he sensed the tension, then gave Joaquim the slightest warning—the smallest shake of his head. How did that damned juez know that he, Joaquim el teniente, had been less than polite? Ah well. Joaquim knew he could apologize later.

  Marco stood there, regarding them. “We have a matter to discuss,” he told them in his polite but adamant way. “Paloma will make me sleep in the sala if she is not included, so if you do not mind the informality, may we adjourn to my bedchamber?”

  “Is the Comanche woman there?” Señorita Ygnacio said quickly, and Joaquim heard her fear.

  “She is, and you will be most polite to her,” Marco said, in his special way. “You needn’t be afraid.” He chuckled, and Joaquim understood the humor. “That is, unless you make a sudden move to threaten Paloma or Juan Luis.”

  “I would never!” Señorita Ygnacio had the good grace to smile. “I see how things are.”

  “Good! Follow me, please.”

  Joaquim watched with more sympathy now as Señorita Ygnacio helped her father to his feet, her arm around his shoulders.

  Señor Ygnacio hesitated at the door to his guest room and spoke quietly to his daughter. She nodded, and turned to Marco.

  “Señor, he is tired.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I know,” she said, “but I can tell you anything you need to know. Please.”

  Marco considered the matter, then nodded. He opened the door to the guest room and Señorita Ygnacio took her father inside.

  “I do not think I have ever seen such a broken man,” Marco whispered to Joaquim. “What mischief has our favorite contador Felix Moreno been party to?”

  Chapter Seven

  In which Catalina pleads their case and everyone listens except the baby

  “Papa, I do not know if we are among friends at long last, or more enemies,” Catalina whispered to her father, as she helped him lie down. She removed his shoes and covered him. “The lieutenant is belligerent, but that might be all show. I cannot tell.”

  “Hija, you are good at discerning,” her father said. H
is eyes closed and he turned over the problem to her, as he always did.

  She stayed beside his bed a moment more, wishing she had a champion. Just once, someone to defend her; just once wasn’t too much to ask. Then she had to be honest and ask herself if she would recognize that sort of kindness. I honestly do not know, she thought, as she joined the others.

  A glance at the lieutenant told her he had certainly never been in the Mondragón’s bedroom before. He looked around, as she had done, perhaps admiring the marvelous wardrobe that must have come from Spain, who knew how long ago.

  Hands on hips, he spoke to Señor Mondragón. “How did that ever arrive here in one piece?”

  “Family legend claims that many bribes were involved, and not a few prayers. But here is the reason we assemble in my bedroom.” Señor Mondragón nodded to the Comanche woman Catalina had seen in the hall earlier with Paloma Vega. “Dear friend, you must share a little. Thank you.”

  The Indian held up the baby in her arms, and Marco made his claim. He held out his son to the lieutenant, who nodded, and looked from the child to Paloma, who lay back in the bed beaming at them all.

  “Looks like you, Paloma,” El Teniente said, and gave her a little bow. “Well done.”

  Marco kissed his sleeping son, then handed the baby back to the Indian woman. “Eckapeta, here you are. We knew you wouldn’t stay away long.” He motioned to the lieutenant, and the men moved the chairs by the fireplace closer to the bed.

  “Señorita, you sit here, please,” he said, and she did as he asked. “Joaquim, this one is for you.” Señor Mondragón sat down in his bed next to his wife, and she shifted slightly to share the pillows. “Señorita, forgive our vast informality. I do not usually interview people in such a casual way, but you understand us.”

  “I do,” Catalina assured him, as she wondered at the catch in her throat. “You ask yourself what kind of crackpot female would write you frightening notes before something as ordinary and boring as an audit.”