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

by Carla Kelly

  “It irritates me, but I am going to give my special, supreme curtsy to two lunatics who should be locked up,” Paloma whispered to Catalina, who towed her relentlessly through a weedy garden, past another gate, and into the main corridor of a house so full of filth that even Catalina stopped her headlong rush to stare.

  Catalina looked around, eyes wide. “What is this place?” She jumped back. “Dios, what did I just step in?”

  “You might think about a curtsy, too, Catalina,” Paloma said as she stared at mounds of dirty clothes, bits of food in festering mounds, and something both slimy and furry that made her shudder. “We have no other weapon.”

  “What a poor weapon,” Catalina said.

  “We can do this together,” Paloma said. “Together.” She raised their interlocked hands. “We are neither of us alone now. Lead on, friend.”

  Paloma saw all the fear on the servant’s face. “Don’t worry, Gaspar,” she said. “We will not let you take any blame for what happens next.”

  She had no idea what was going to happen next, only that the servant pointed toward the end of the corridor. There seemed to be no other servants, unless the rest were so cowed they had fled in terror at the unexpected sight of two women moving with considerable purpose.

  Gaspar paused before a closed door. Raising his hand to knock, he hesitated.

  Not waiting for Gaspar, who appeared to be a beat behind everything, Catalina opened the door and tugged Paloma in with her. She stepped back at the odor and the filth, but Paloma pushed her forward, ready to do whatever was necessary to let them leave this place so she could find her baby and get home to Marco.

  Two men sprawled next to each other on a pile of rags. Paloma looked closer and decided it was another mound of dirty clothes. Did they never wash their garments? Bottles lay everywhere, some empty, some tipped over and dribbling wine onto the floor. Somewhere in the room she thought she heard a dog growl, until she realized one of the men had made the sound deep in his throat. Miguel and Roque Durán glared back at her and squinted, as though what little light came in from the hall was too much, so early in the day.

  “Who let these silly females out?” one of them asked, in a voice rusty with disuse or ill use. Paloma suspected both. “I will whip you, Gaspar!” said the other.

  Paloma nudged the astounded Catalina to move closer. Twins. She looked from one unshaved face to the other and wondered how people could let themselves go so deep into ruin, and why.

  Now or never. Paloma lowered herself into her magnificent curtsy that had impressed Marco because he loved her, and startled Kwihnai the Comanche because it was so unexpected. What the Durán twins chose to make of her she had no idea, as she gracefully sank toward the floor until her forehead nearly touched tile that hadn’t been cleaned in years.

  She came up just as elegantly, knowing it mattered somehow that the Durán brothers think her magnificent. She held out her hand and moved forward. “Pray do not blame Gaspar, my lords,” she said. “We were impetuous and wanted to see where we were. It isn’t often that either of us is taken somewhere with bags over our heads.”

  The brothers looked at each other, then at Gaspar, who stood to the side and slightly behind Paloma.

  “You were supposed to fetch the auditor,” one of them thundered, or he would have thundered, if he had spoken more than a sober sentence or two in ages. His words tumbled out like acrobats needing exercise. “You bring us two silly females?”

  Catalina gasped and started forward, her hands in tight fists. Paloma grabbed her when one of the Durán brothers tried to leap up, staggered at the sudden exertion, and reached for a Comanche lance propped against the scabby wall behind him. Paloma held her breath as he overset himself and sat down with a thump, his hands white-knuckled around the lance.

  Paloma’s heart hammered in her breast. “Alas, we were in the carriage instead of the auditor, and Gaspar did not know.” She gave a slightly above medium-sized curtsy. “You should know who we are, now that we are your guests: I am Señora Paloma Vega y Mondragón, wife of your juez de campo. This is Señorita Catalina Ygnacio, daughter of the auditor.”

  Catalina managed a credible curtsy of her own. “Charmed, I am certain,” she murmured.

  The twins looked at each other. Both blinked, and both regarded Paloma and then Catalina, their eyes almost moving together. They even gasped in unison, and frowned together. Paloma felt a shiver start at the back of her neck and travel the length of her spine at this odd brotherhood.

  “Wh-which of you is Roque and which of you is Manuel?” she asked. “How is it that we have never met?”

  “I am Roque,” the man holding the lance said. “This is Miguel. Can you tell us apart?” Both twins laughed, and Paloma felt her shivers deepen.

  “No, indeed. How is it that I have lived here for several years now and never met you gentlemen?” she asked again.

  “We don’t pay taxes,” Miguel said proudly. “Your husband knows this. He sends us silly forms about livestock and money due, and we just pitch them into our bookroom.”

  “Everyone pays taxes,” Paloma said gently, wondering how to humor these strange creatures. “No one likes to, but we do it anyway.”

  “We don’t! We don’t have to!” they declared in unison.

  They looked at each other and laughed. Paloma wondered if they were testing each other’s mood. “After you,” Miguel—or was it Roque?—said to the other.

  “We sent this simpleton to abduct the auditor,” Miguel said—or at least, the man without the lance, if that was Miguel. “How hard is it to catch an old man?”

  Paloma felt Catalina stiffen again and patted her arm. She held her breath when Catalina stepped forward, then relaxed, because her friend was a fast learner.

  “If you say you never pay taxes, why would you abduct an auditor?” Catalina asked. “Why not just ignore him, which you seem to have been doing?”

  Miguel started to shiver, and Roque put his arm around his twin in a protective gesture. “Because this broadside frightened us, and we do not like to be afraid,” Roque said. “Mondragón hadn’t sent us one in years, and now this … this piece of Satan’s handiwork shows up.” He shook the broadside at Paloma. “Your husband plagues our lives!”

  “May I ask, what did you plan to do with the auditor?” Paloma asked.

  Again they looked at each other. Roque, still holding the lance, shook his head. “We must have had an idea, but now I am not certain.”

  “We might just keep him a while, then turn him loose into Comanchería,” Miguel suggested.

  “Or we could kill him and feed him to our hogs,” Roque said. He elbowed his twin. “Didn’t we do that to someone once?”

  “Dios mio! Remind me not to eat pork here,” Catalina murmured.

  Paloma took a step forward and nearly laughed when Roque and Miguel both gasped and leaned back. Roque held out the lance and took a few jabs. Paloma prudently came no closer.

  “How long do you plan to keep us?” she asked.

  “Until we think of something,” Miguel replied, indignant and then puzzled in turn. “We might think of something someday.” He laughed and Roque joined in, his laugh identical.

  How do I handle these idiots? Paloma asked herself. She thought of her new baby, and her husband frantic with worry and searching everywhere for them, not to mention Soledad and Claudito sobbing themselves to sleep every night.

  Don’t show your fear, she thought, as she took a deep breath—regretted that immediately—and sat down gracefully on the reeking mound of clothing. She watched as the twins drew back farther and wondered who was more frightened of whom.

  “Here is what we will do,” Paloma said, clasping her hands tight together so they would not shake. “I will cook for you and make wonderful tortillas, and posole, and flan, provided you have eggs and butter. You mentioned your hogs ….” She heard Catalina draw in her own breath. “I can make you such a stew. Oh, and bread hot from the horno. Butter and honey dri
pping from it.” She heard Roque and Miguel sigh in unison and wipe their mouths.

  Roque suddenly laughed out loud. “You will do all that? Why should we ever let you go?”

  “We can worry about that little detail later,” Paloma said, speaking in her most soothing voice, as she would when Soledad needed cajoling or Claudito pouted. “You can lock us in that hut every night, and let us out in the morning. We will need a blanket each, however, because the nights are still chilly.”

  She paused and looked at Catalina, who came closer and sat down beside her. Roque glared at her, as though she had interrupted his dreams of glorious food.

  “And what can you do, besides look like a thin stick?” Miguel asked, then laughed at his own wit.

  “I can straighten out your accounts and your books of finance and teach you how to never fear an auditor again.”

  Silence, then loud laughter, as though the court jester of King Carlos himself had pranced around and told the funniest joke ever heard in the court of Spain. The brothers held each other and laughed until they had to wipe their eyes.

  Paloma held her breath as Catalina rose to her full height and pointed at one man and then the other. “You will be ….”

  Paloma held her breath, praying for her friend not to upset whatever mood had been created by talk of good food, clearly a novelty here. “Please,” she whispered, “I must see my children again.”

  Catalina held out her hands so gracefully to the strange men. “You will be amazed what I can do in your office. There will be order and understanding.” She held up a single finger. “When we have finished each day, and before you lock me up, I will tell you such stories as you have never heard before.”

  Paloma saw for a brief moment how the brothers differed, Roque with an expression of extreme skepticism, and Miguel wide-eyed and eager like her own children. Catalina must have noticed, too, because she gave her attention to Miguel.

  “Stories about fairies and princesses, and evil brujos, and brave knights like you two. I have a story for every occasion.” She folded her arms. “Only if you let Paloma cook and let me bring some order to your affairs.”

  Paloma held her breath as the twins looked at each other. She waited for words to pass back and forth, but they were silent, staring into each other’s eyes. Discuss it! she yearned to plead, in the silence that somehow filled the noisome room. Should she kneel and beg? Should she sob for her family?

  The silence ended when Roque set aside his lance. After another look at his brother, he nodded. “You can cook, and you can organize that room,” he said, sounding firm and almost thoughtful. “One of us will watch each of you at all times. After the stories, back you will go into the shed.” He patted his waist, where Paloma noticed a bunch of keys. “Gaspar!” he shouted, then laughed when Paloma jerked in fright.

  “S-s-señor?” the witless man whispered.

  Paloma looked around to see Gaspar on his hands and knees, his eyes wide, his lips tight. Pobrecito, she thought. Pobrecito.

  Roque patted his keys again. “I will give you my keys to let them in and out, but you will return them immediately.”

  Gaspar nodded, and slowly sat back on his haunches. He leaned forward again and touched his forehead to the tile. Paloma’s heart went out to him as he prostrated himself. He might have been a petitioner to King Carlos himself.

  Roque pointed at her. “You, now. I will have your solemn word or we go no farther.”

  Without a word, she prostrated herself next to Gaspar, as silent tears of shame coursed down his thin cheeks. “You see how we live,” he whispered.

  Then Catalina lay on her other side, eyes closed.

  Roque clapped his hands. “Good for you! Spanish ladies would never go against their word.” He tugged Paloma to her feet and pushed her toward the door. “Cook something good,” he declared, with an unspoken or else in his voice. He yanked Catalina to her feet next. “And you, you skinny one, astound me in the bookroom.” He rubbed his hands. “And then a story.”

  * * *

  Joaquim Gasca had long ago perfected the art of sleeping in the saddle. After a day of fruitless searching, he longed to close his eyes and let his horse do the work.

  But there was Eckapeta, her frown deepening with every hour that passed, eyes darting everywhere for some sign of their dear ones that had eluded them. Nothing.

  Their dear ones. You really aren’t all that skinny, Catalina, Joaquim thought. And perhaps it is true that I need someone to manage me, and maybe love me a little. He opened his eyes, unsure if he was a smarter man yet, or still a smart man in the making. Paloma or Marco could tell him.

  And why did he have to think of Paloma, sweet wife and mother probably destroying herself with worry over her baby. He had promised Marco they would find the women, and not to worry about going with Toshua to talk of peace, after years of cruel war. Brave he might be (if he was), Joaquim knew he could not bear to see Marco’s agony if he and Toshua returned with news of peace, to find none on the Double Cross. I will resign my commission and leave this colony, he thought. How could I remain, a greater failure than ever before?

  “Where are they, Eckapeta?” he asked.

  “Before the rain, we could have found them. Now, I do not know,” she said, avoiding his eyes, hers on the distant hill, perhaps wishing the women to materialize. Who knew what Eckapeta thought?

  Quietly, he turned his horse around, dreading to face Soledad and Claudito without their mother, but unable to think of anywhere else to look. What would Señor Ygnacio think, when just the two of them rode through the gates? Would the man who knew only misfortune become the face he, Joaquim Gasca, saw when he looked in the mirror? God forbid.

  He thought of Claudio and sighed. Each night the good man had met them at the Double Cross, wanting to know if they had succeeded. And each night, Paloma’s brother rode home, his shoulders slumped and head down.

  “We need a stroke of good luck, Eckapeta,” he said, when she bowed to the inevitable and turned her horse, too, to ride beside him.

  The Comanche woman reached out and touched his arm. “We will ride out again tomorrow, and the day after.”

  “But will we find them?” he asked.

  “They are brave and smart,” she replied, with no hesitation. “If we cannot find them, they must save themselves.”

  “That’s no answer!”

  “Do you have a better one?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  In which the price of peace is high

  They made the journey to Río Napestle in two days instead of the usual four, riding at an easy pace but not stopping for anything. Each man had a sack of dried meat slung over his shoulder. Marco discovered loincloths made passing water while in the saddle simple.

  “When we arrive at Casa de Palo, my friend, someone will probably count coup on you,” Toshua said. “They might come at you with knives or big rocks.”

  Marco wondered for the hundredth time since their journey began just why he was riding beside this reassuring man, when he should be home searching for his wife.

  “Better you just duck,” Toshua told him. “The Kwahadi know you, of course, but the Yamparika and Yupes, maybe not so much.”

  Marco tried to swallow his own misery, knowing that once committed on this journey, he could never change his mind; Toshua would not let him. Truly, he would have been a fool not to hear what Toshua was really saying. Yamparika and Yupe, too? He thought of many quiet conversations with Governor Anza, and the letters between them, where he had promised to do all in his power as an officer of the crown to bring Comanches to peace, something no citizen in New Mexico had ever seen and scarcely imagined.

  Every step Buciro took toward the river that all Spaniards avoided and away from wherever his wife was now hidden was a knife slicing his heart into strange shapes.

  He tried not to weep, but the thought of her somewhere, hoping every moment for him to rescue her while he rode away took a toll so great that he finally reined i
n his horse, dismounted, leaned against Buciro, and sobbed. He dropped to his knees and then pressed his face against the ground, weeping because he felt so helpless. All the years of happiness with Felicia, followed by years of loneliness so great that he nearly put an end to himself, and then years of more happiness and children and now this.

  Marco sat up, ashamed of his unmanly tears when he rode with a man who would never humiliate himself with such a display of cowardice. Embarrassed, he glanced around, hoping like a fool that Toshua had kept riding and wasn’t aware of his New Mexican friend’s disintegration. What he saw made him gasp.

  Toshua knelt beside his own horse. He had slashed both his forearms with a knife that lay beside him. Blood ran down his arms and pooled on the ground. As Marco watched, Toshua raised his bloody arms and chanted something that bore no resemblance to a death song. He appeared to be supplicating some god of his own.

  “Toshua …” he began, not knowing what to say. “Toshua.”

  His friend looked at him, then down at the knife. With a quick gesture that flicked his blood on Marco, he threw the knife, which landed close to Marco’s leg.

  Without a word, Marco picked up the slippery knife and sliced his own forearms. He felt no pain at first, because his heart’s pain was greater. He watched his blood drip to the ground and soak in. He seemed to be viewing the scene from a great distance, as though he was the all-seeing eye of God and not some pitiful man trying to get through a life filled with danger and heartache.

  “Why dare I think I am special?” he asked out loud, but soft. “I am nothing.”

  With a detached air now, he watched his blood drip until the flow lessened and then stopped. Some sense told him he had done what he could; now God knew the full measure of his despair and his willingness to attempt anything, even this treaty. Some things were simply greater than a man’s own family. This was one of them.

  He sat in silence, as his heart seemed to rise in his chest again, back where it belonged, to keep beating because his work was far from over.