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

by Carla Kelly

  They ambled along in no hurry. The harvest was nearly done, all the little creatures birthed and baaing, bleating, or bawling. Hopefully rain would come soon to this parched land, but no one had a guarantee. Marco figured their odds of good weather for crops had increased monumentally when Paloma yanked Roque Durán’s nasty wig off the statue of San Isidro, patron saint of farmers. Marching it out to the burn pit, she told Gaspar to stand there and watch it until it was totally consumed.

  “Let’s take the little ones to the river tomorrow and let them splash,” Paloma suggested as they rode along.

  “Papa, you’ve been promising to teach me to swim,” Soledad reminded him.

  “I have, haven’t I?” Marco replied. “Let’s do it.”

  He sent an appreciative glance Paloma’s way, always ready to admire her legs when she wore the thigh-high split garb of the People, this latest dress a gift from Kwihnai’s wives. She wore her hair in one fat braid down her back, just the way he liked it. Tonight he would brush it for her, which invariably led to much more.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Big Man,” she said, angling her horse closer to Buciro.

  “I have no doubt, Tatzinupi,” he said. “Takes one to know one.”

  She smiled at her Comanche name, but the smile turned wistful, and he thought she was remembering her parents. He reached across the shortened space between them and touched her bare knee.

  “Somehow I am certain they understand that all has turned out well for you and Claudio,” he said. “I feel it.”

  “I used to ask you that over and over, wanting you to tell me if they knew of our happiness and our children,” she said, wonder in her voice. “I don’t anymore. Why is that?”

  “You know it to be true,” he told her.

  She nodded, then rode a little to one side, wanting some alone time, as much as a mother carrying two children on her horse can expect. She dabbed at her eyes, then straightened up and squared her shoulders, her posture erect and her manner dignified.

  If only they could see you, my love, he thought. Please, God, let it be so, even if only a glimpse.

  He had sent a rider ahead yesterday evening to warn Claudio what was coming his way. When they arrived at Estancia Vega, the gate was open in welcome and Claudio stood there, Cecilia dancing around and eager to see her cousins. Daughter of Graciela and an unknown Comanche, she and Soledad were already fast friends. In no time Soli and Claudito had vacated the parental horses and Marco was helping Paloma dismount.

  Paloma kissed her brother’s cheek and grabbed him in a warm abrazo. “I’m sorry there was no opportunity to speak to you and Graci at Joaquim Gasca’s wedding,” she said. “We’ve been busy; you’ve been busy.”

  “Haven’t we? Come inside, you two. We have wine for us and milk for the children, biscoches for everyone and a beefsteak for your eye, Marco.”

  “It is long since healed,” Marco said. He laughed, which gave Claudio permission to at least smile, even though he apologized again.

  “No me importa, hermano,” Marco said. “You have a champion there, Paloma. If I mistreat you, he’ll punch me again.”

  Laughing together, they walked toward the house. Marco was pleased with what Claudio and Graciela had done with the raw adobe dwelling they had built in quick time over the winter. Flowers bloomed in earthenware bowls, and there by the front door was a carved bear, symbol of Graci’s Ute nation, although some of the Bear People had moved farther west toward the setting sun.

  Graciela herself sat in a chair in their sala, Rafael nursing. Paloma kissed the newest arrival among them, then sat down beside her sister-in-law and opened her deerskin bodice, too.

  “Two beautiful mothers,” Claudio said, and Marco heard all the love, satisfaction, and pride in a man who last year would never have said anything remotely sentimental. “Lorenzo told me all you went through at Río Napestle and after. I’m truly sorry I added to your burden.”

  “I’ve thought about this, Claudio,” Marco said. “You did not add to my burden. You were my conscience.”

  “I don’t understand,” Claudio replied.

  “I don’t either, really, except your passionate demonstration of what I owed your sister reminded me what I also owe this colony.” He patted Claudio’s arm. “Leave it at that and speak of it no more.”

  Paloma put Juanito to her shoulder. “Claudio, what are we to do with Papa’s land?”

  Claudio nudged Marco’s shoulder. “My sister is somewhere in her twenties—I never can remember where—but she sounds the same as when she was little and skinny and already had her mind made up.”

  “I do not!” Paloma protested, then had the grace to turn a bit rosy, to Marco’s delight. “Maybe I do, but it’s a good idea.”

  Claudio sat down beside his wife and indicated the other end of Paloma’s bench to Marco. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Deed the land to Sancha and Lorenzo,” she said with no preamble. “Lorenzo and his brother kept you alive, and Sancha has been a most loyal servant.” She tried to look dignified, but Marco saw the intensity in her eyes. “Tell me what you think.”

  “Graci, if ever you needed proof that Paloma and I are brother and sister, you have it now,” Claudio said to his wife. “We were wondering this morning what you would think if I proposed the same thing.”

  Marco watched his wife’s expressive face pass through stages of delight and introspection, followed by a single tear down her cheek, and then another. He flicked them away with his finger, and she clung to his hand.

  “The brand stays with me,” Claudio said, his voice so tender, as if he spoke of a living being.

  In a way it was; Marco knew that better than either of them. Through the years he had recorded many a brand for the tough citizens of the Valle del Sol District. He knew the price paid for each brand far exceeded any monetary amount derived from the sale of cattle and sheep. There had been years when the brand might well have been dipped in blood, as settlers struggled to stay alive in a place both inhospitable and beguiling in turn, a place not easy on friend or enemy. These brands of my district are nearly sacred to me, Marco wanted to say out loud, but he refrained. Holy Church would probably frown on such a statement. He would keep that to himself, or maybe tell Paloma.

  He could say one thing. “I have learned a valuable lesson in these past few months that I probably should have figured out sooner,” he said.

  “That your brother-in-law has a wicked jab?” Claudio teased.

  “That, too,” Marco told him. He put his arm around Paloma. “My love, when I was taking our son from mother to mother, when I was relying so heavily on sweet Señor Ygnacio to watch our children, when Emilio told me not to worry about the planting …” he stopped, unable to go on.

  Paloma patted his knee, her expression kind.

  He took a deep breath. “What a fool I was to think that nothing mattered in my life except the discharge of my responsibility to every servant, guard, herder, and artisan on the Double Cross. They were my stewardship.”

  Paloma was already nodding. Trust his wife to have figured this out much sooner. “All these years, I had no idea they were watching out for me. Toshua and Eckapeta, too.” He took another breath, and another. “And I was their stewardship. I was never alone, was I? Even in those darkest days. Never.”

  Paloma turned her face into his shoulder and he held her close until Juanito squeaked in protest. Everyone laughed, breaking the moment, or perhaps making it sweeter. He could think about that some time.

  It could keep. Marco Mondragón, juez de campo of the Valle del Sol District, rancher, farmer, father, husband, and all-around idiot at times, breathed deep of the aroma of piñon from the small fireplace in the corner. He noticed the inside of the fireplace was already black with resin from many fires this winter and spring. Piñon would always mean New Mexico, and struggle, and home: his colony’s refiner’s fire.

  He kissed the top of Paloma’s head, anticipating brushing her hair tonight and fe
eling blessed beyond measure, his cup full.

  * * *

  A well-known veteran of the romance writing field, Carla Kelly is the author of thirty-seven novels and three non-fiction works, as well as numerous short stories and articles for various publications. She is the recipient of two RITA Awards from Romance Writers of America for Best Regency of the Year; two Spur Awards from Western Writers of America; three Whitney Awards, 2011, 2012, and 2014; and a Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times.

  Carla’s interest in historical fiction is a byproduct of her lifelong study of history. She’s held a variety of jobs, including public relations work for major hospitals and hospices, feature writer and columnist for a North Dakota daily newspaper, and ranger in the National Park Service (her favorite job) at Fort Laramie National Historic Site and Fort Union Trading Post National Historic Site. She has worked for the North Dakota Historical Society as a contract researcher.

  Interest in the Napoleonic Wars at sea led to a recent series of novels about the British Channel Fleet during that conflict. Of late, Carla has written two novels set in southeast Wyoming in 1910 that focus on her Mormon background and her interest in ranching.

  You can find Carla on the Web at:

  www.CarlaKellyAuthor.com.