by Marsha Ward
“You forgot to call me ‘Mamá’,” said the woman, hiding a yawn behind her hand. “Until I met with the lawyer, I did not realize we were so poor that we could not afford to keep Lupe,” she added, arching her dark brows. “We will have to conserve until matters improve, so for the time being, you will wash the clothes and linen, and I will watch that Rafaela does not waste any food as she cooks.”
“My papá would not want me to do the wash always,” the girl protested, shaking her shoulder to dislodge a thick braid of black hair that rested upon it. “He said I must learn to keep a household, but I also must remember to be a lady.”
“Then your papá should have left more money to me and not so much to the beggars on the street,” the woman answered in a sharp tone. “You will do as you are told, chica.”
Amparo drew herself up proudly, rapidly blinking her dark brown eyes. “My papá was a great man to give money to the poor. He said we did not need much, and he was looking forward to receiving his reward for good deeds in Heaven, once he arrived there.”
“And for his stupid deeds, I have to suffer.” Catarina folded her arms across the front of her white blouse.
Amparo bit her lip. “My papá was not stupid. And it will not injure us to suffer in life.” She looked at the woman for a moment, then resumed her labors.
The woman drew in a noisy breath. “If you like to suffer, then we will do so,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “We will not buy cream for the coffee, and no more sugar.”
Before Amparo could protest, the iron knocker boomed against the front door six times. The sound filled the courtyard with echoes. The girl stopped scrubbing and looked up. “Shall I see who is at the door?”
Catarina shook her head. “Keep working. I will go.” The woman moved in the direction of the front hallway, and Amparo went back to her work.
As she worked, she heard a murmur of voices at the front door. When it stopped, Catarina came back across the courtyard toward the laundry basin. Her mouth was brittle with a smile of satisfaction as she slowly fanned a folded sheet of paper before her face.
“Well, chica, perhaps I will have cream and sugar after all.”
Amparo raised her arms from the washbasin and dropped a skirt into the rinse tub. “What is that?”
Catarina regarded the girl with a cold look in her narrowed eyes. She tapped the paper against the open palm of one hand.
Why does she hate me so much, Holy Mother? Amparo asked silently.
Presently the woman spoke. “It is a way out of our difficulties, chica.” She turned away.
“What do you mean?”
Catarina cocked her head, then slowly pivoted on her high-heeled shoes. The smile on her lips sent a chill up Amparo’s neck, and she felt a prickle at her scalp. The woman held the paper high. “If you must know, this is your salvation.”
The girl took two steps forward, then stood stiffly beside the washbasin as Catarina came toward her, looked her over, then circled behind Amparo, trailing her free hand along the girl’s shoulders.
Amparo shuddered at her touch.
“When your papá had the poor taste to die, I asked my friend Señor Fuentes for his assistance.” Now Catarina was again in front of Amparo, her carefully rouged upper lip curling as she tilted Amparo’s chin upward with two fingers. “He saw you in the marketplace one day, and suggested that there is one good solution to my struggles.”
The woman turned Amparo’s head from side to side with her hand. “I am sure now that he was right.” Catarina loosed the girl’s face and tapped the paper. “Señor Fuentes received this communication yesterday. There is a man, a young man, who lives in the Territory of Colorado.” She paused, again arching a brow. “He is seeking a wife.”
“You are going to remarry?”
“No. It is not I who shall be a bride.” Her thin lips twisted toward a smile, and her eyes went hard as she gloated.
“¡Ave María, Madre de Dios!” Amparo whispered as comprehension froze her face. Her body went rigid, her hands in midair.
“You are to meet him in a small village known as Leones on the twenty-sixth day of October. Señor Fuentes is making arrangements for your jornada.”
“My journey?” Amparo’s hands dropped to her sides.
“Yes.” Catarina consulted the paper. “In the mission church you will marry the man, one Julio Rodríguez y Guzmán. In a few days, he will make a fine settlement on you. I, of course, will see to the disposition of the money.”
“Vaya, mi mamá,” said the girl, almost whispering. She swallowed, trying to wet her arid throat. “It is too soon to talk of marriage. I am not seventeen for two more weeks. I know nothing of men.” Virgen Santísima, intercede for me now in this time of trial.
“You’ve gone pale, chica. You do not appreciate our wonderful news?”
Amparo shook her head to clear it, then took a deep breath to settle herself.
“I suppose you do not want to go to the man? You would rather stay here and starve?” The woman laughed as Amparo shook her head again. “You need not worry, chica. It is very simple to please a man.”
Catarina approached Amparo and, taking her by the hand, drew her out into the middle of the courtyard. She tilted her head and looked at the girl.
“First, you will undress, so that he may appreciate your charms.” Catarina’s voice was low, seductive. “Do not look so shocked, chica. After all, you will be married. He will touch you.” The woman caressed Amparo’s cheek, and the girl shrank from her. Catarina laughed and drew her handkerchief from her pocket. “He will probably kiss you. Then he will take you to the bed, and you will lie down, perhaps upon silken sheets and pillows.” The woman trailed the scrap of silk across Amparo’s hand. “That will be pleasant upon your skin.” Catarina gave a bark of a laugh, and waved one hand in the air matter-of-factly. “Then he will do what he will do. You will pretend that you like it.”
Amparo lowered her head, attempting to hide her horrified face. After a moment, she looked up to find the woman appraising her.
“Will you like it?” Catarina smiled on one side of her mouth. “Will you like it when he touches you, strokes you, when he makes you a woman?” She laughed. “No, I do not suppose that a timorous child like you will appreciate the pleasures your bridegroom will bring to you.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Of course, it is possible that he will not be gentle. No matter. I will have cream in my coffee, and you will be the mistress of a large rancho. Make an heir for the man quickly, chica.” She turned away dismissively.
Amparo drew a quick breath. She took another, then angry words burst from her mouth. “You are selling me to this stranger! You are selling me like a...whore!”
Catarina gasped, turned, and struck Amparo across the face. The girl fell to the tile floor, hitting her arm against a large carved chest. She hunched her shoulders, clasped the injured arm against her chest with her other hand. Her eyes were tearless. Santa María, I will not cry.
“It is impossible to help you, chica. You appreciate nothing. Nothing!”
“You cannot make me do this hateful thing,” Amparo cried out, her back braced against the chest.
“Evil, willful girl, if it takes a stick to teach you, that is how you will learn to be obedient.”
“I will not do this,” Amparo whispered.
“Ungrateful child! Because of your thoughtless, selfish deviltry, your papá will weep in Purgatory forevermore!” The woman swept from the room, skirts rustling.
Forever in Purgatory? It cannot be so! Amparo fell forward onto the cold floor before the shrine. Blessed Virgin, tell me my papá is safely in Heaven!
~~~
Sunset blazed orange and gold across the pale blue rim of the western sky as Amparo paused at the edge of the plaza. She adjusted her white lace shawl to cover her black hair before she ascended the stone steps leading to the portals of the whitewashed church. Waves of heat rising from the stonework shimmered in the air like silken veils barring the way
between her and sanctuary. Her feet, girdled by leather sandals, felt shriveled and gritty, as though they were baked by the afternoon air. The oppression of the day’s oven-like temperature would soon abate with the coming of the night, but what could relieve the oppression in her heart?
O mi papá. What have I done? Have I truly kept your soul in Purgatory? It must not be! Holy Virgin, show me how to send my papá to heaven!
The girl climbed the steps, passed through the large open doors of the church and stopped in the welcome cool of the hall to dip her finger into the waiting font of holy water. The moisture caressed her finger as she made the sign of the cross, whispering the words that accompanied the action. She moved forward between the rows of wooden pews into the church, trying to gather peace to her from under the vaulted ceiling above her head. She put out her left hand and grasped the back of the nearest pew, sank to her right knee before the Host, then arose and slipped into a pew on her right.
Her knees found depressions in the hard leather cushion of the kneeler as she bowed her head, pulled her mother’s rosary from her pocket, and whispered the “Our Father.” At the end of her prayer, as the hush of the place surrounded her, her soul cried out: Blessed Mary, my papá was so good, so kind to all. Surely his soul will have ascended to Heaven by now? Oh, Holy Mother, can my little wish to stay in Santa Fe be so evil?
Half a dozen people knelt in the half-light of the church, although evening mass would not be celebrated for another hour. Amparo leaned back into the pew, worn smooth by the sliding action of hundreds of worshipers over the years. She pulled the ends of her shawl tightly across her chest, as though she were attempting to draw a cloak of privacy around herself.
After a while, her hands began to twitch from tension, and she stretched them out in front of her, opening them wide. Her beads clicked against the missal box attached to the back of the pew, and her hand closed on the nearest book. She drew it toward her, enfolded it against her breast. Her head bowed, she sank forward onto her knees once more.
Then the idea came, the offering she must make, the sacrifice she must suffer to show God her intention.
Amparo rose and placed the missal back in the box. She moved quickly across the center aisle and into the left-hand row of pews, heading toward the side aisle. Her sandaled feet slip slapped on the bare stone walkway as she moved past the confession boxes toward the front of the church where a small chapel branched off to the left.
She stopped before a large wrought iron stand containing both lit and unlit vigil candles, and dropped a small coin into the offering box before she lighted the wick of a candle on the front row. As its light flickered heavenward she slipped into the side chapel to kneel at a rail before which a metal latticework grille protected the painted plaster statue of the Virgin Mother.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee,” she said, gazing up at the haunting sadness on the face of the Madonna and wondering if the same sadness was reflected on her own. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.”
Amparo looked at her hands, tightly woven around the rosary and resting on the rail. Then she looked upon the Lady’s face once more. The moment had come. The vow must be spoken.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, I have no money to buy an indulgence so that my dear papá may ascend from Purgatory into Heaven,” she whispered. “To show Our Lord how much I love Him, to show my complete devotion, dearest Lady, I offer up a vow. It is this: I will obey the woman in her plan. I will go to the Territory of Colorado, and I will marry the stranger.”
Amparo paused to take a shuddering breath. Then she continued. “This is my intention, the desire of my heart, to please Our Lord Jesus enough that He will take my papá to His bosom.” Her head bowed until it touched her thumbs, and she waited for a moment, hearing the pounding of her pulse in her ears. “Blessed Virgin, let your prayers ascend to God that He may hear my petition.”
Amparo stretched out her arms in supplication to the figure of Our Lady, and she remained in that position, listening to the rustle of the wax candles burning behind her, to the click of rosary beads being told among the pews.
It seemed a very long time later that her soul found strength enough to raise her body from her knees.
Blessed Mother, I must go now. There is much to do. The woman says it is arranged that I leave in two days. Do not forget me, Blessed Virgin! Do not forget my petition, and my sacrifice!
Amparo crept with slow steps from the church, harboring a small joy in one corner of her heart because she was leaving obedience as a sacrifice upon the altar. The rest of her heart was full of unease at the thought of going into a world of strangers, like the one awaiting her in Colorado.
Chapter Three
James felt a shudder cross his frame. Pa was still talking. “Are you of a mind to tell me where you’re bound?”
Bound? Pa’s words kicked dirt over some of the fire of James’s rage, and he swallowed hard. Where was he bound? What could he do? A list of his skills ran past his mind—farmer, stock raiser, horse breaker, soldier—
“I don’t reckon there’s call for an infantryman anywhere about.” James bit his lip at voicing his absurd thought.
“Not likely.” Rod waited for a moment before he continued. “What’s your plan?”
“I’ll . . .” James looked around the enclosure, then raised his chin and exhaled. “I’ll dig out Uncle Jonathan’s mine.”
Rod was silent again for a time. He sniffed once. “It was a rich hole before it fell in on him.” He rubbed his beard again. “I’ll lend you a dollar or two to get you on your way. Take the sorrel and the mule and the mining gear.”
James looked at his hands. The nineteen-year-old palms were callused from years of work. The fingers were large and squared off at the tips. Worker’s hands. Hard work would help. He curled the hands into fists. “I’ll take the animals and the gear, but I won’t take your coin. I’ll work my way north.” James glanced up. Pa looks like I took a strap to him. He swallowed again. “Tell Ma I’ll miss her.” His voice seemed caught in his throat.
“Say your own good byes,” Rod said in a voice that was tight with emotion.
“No. It’ll spoil the party for her.”
James bent, picked up his rope, and coiled it. Then he turned his back on his father, pushed the gate open, and started for the log corral beyond the main cabin, bleakness filling his belly. Ellen was gone, yoked to Carl. Ellen, with her blooming red hair and the dusting of freckles on her nose; with her crooked smile and merry laugh—ripped from him like a piece of flesh by the foreign words of a Spanish priest. The world lost its brightness as he trudged through the dust.
To his left across a creek was a small cabin—home to his oldest brother Rulon, his wife Mary, and their two babies—and to his right stood the main cabin that housed his father and mother and the children younger than himself. He went behind the bigger log house to the corral, and stooped to get under the top pole of the fence that enclosed several grazing horses.
James whistled to a light reddish brown colored horse. It continued to crop grass, although its ears swiveled in his direction. He glanced at the sun; its rays shed no warmth on him today, and he shivered as he made a loop in his rope and pitched it toward the neck of the sorrel horse.
The loop soared over the horse’s head and settled squarely on its shoulders. James walked up the rope toward the animal, talking to it in a soothing tone. He led it through the gate to the nearby shed and saddled up. When James mounted, the sorrel bucked a few times, but he rode out the kinks in the animal, then turned it toward the big shed his father called the stable.
He roused the mule from its slumber and put a pack frame on its back. In one corner of the shed lay the mining equipment four of the Owen men had brought back from a rubble filled hole at Central City that had claimed the life of Ma’s brother.
I never had no mind
to go digging in the earth, James thought, squinting at the pick, shovel, and pans. Mining sure wasn’t lucky for Uncle Jonathan. He approached the pile of equipment and gave it a kick. But then, I reckon my luck ran out today. He blew out his breath between pursed lips.
James kicked the equipment again, and figured it would take two weeks of hard riding—no, it would be more like a month, working his way—to get to Central City, northwest of Denver City. And when he got there.... I’ll have to hire out to a miner until I get a grubstake together.
James loaded the tools onto the pack saddle and tied them in place. He raided the cook shack for a handful of dried meat strips and a few hard corn dodgers. With the mule’s lead rope in his hand, he mounted, and kicked the horse toward his unfinished cabin.
A few moments later, the sight of two log walls standing head high, and two others up to his hip deepened James’s gloom. After working full days at his father’s place, he had labored by lantern light to fashion a home for Ellen Bates, but she had slipped from his grasp like quick silver chased across a tabletop.
“Tarnation!” he growled as he looked at the shell of the house that now represented a future that would not be. He slid from the saddle, tied the horse and mule, and ducked under the suspended wagon sheet that roofed his bed and belongings.
James changed his clothes, rolled his bedding, and packed his personal goods into the leather carryall he’d toted during the war. He stepped through the doorway, carrying the war bag and bedding. He stopped beside a mound of logs piled up against the wall and ran his hand over the length of one he’d peeled for use inside the house. Even though the color of the wood was bleaching from bright yellow tan to gray, the piece still had a silky smooth surface that reminded him of the one time he had held Ellen in his arms and kissed her.
She had stood alone on the prairie early one morning near the end of their journey, staring as the first light of dawn revealed a mountain peak in the distant west. Pike’s Peak, it was called, and Ellen was first to spot it as she stood apart from the wagons, the wind whipping her skirt, and her hair streaming loose over her shoulder. She stretched out her arms to the mountain as though she meant to embrace it.
