by Carla Kelly
“Paloma, she’s old and forgetful,” he reminded her. “Four kittens! She’ll be up all hours.”
“She’s a mother,” was his wife’s simple reply.
So it had proved. The Widow Chávez had been only too happy to take the babies into her house and nourish them. That was the last time that Christmas season anyone saw the Widow Chávez mourning her own son in the snow beside the belén.
Considering all that, if Paloma came with him to the garrison, Marco knew he would have an ally when the sergeant started to blather and apologize and blame the king of Spain for every wrong his pitiful cadre of soldiers suffered. And there would be the visiting lieutenant. Ay caray! Marco said as much to Toshua—their Comanche who would not leave—as he saddled his horse and then Paloma’s.
Toshua shook his head. “You’re growing soft, señor. What did you do before Paloma came?”
“I complained and went by myself.”
“Well then.” Toshua folded his arms. “She said she would knit me a pair of socks, too. Me, I have never worn socks, but you do not hear me complaining. I want socks.”
“You could be a little sympathetic, Toshua.”
“I doubt it.”
They left for Santa Maria, Paloma riding beside Marco and followed by a mule carrying a sack of yarn and other gifts for Luisa, as proud-stepping as if his wife had promised him socks for each of his four feet, too.
Toshua came next, riding behind, and then beside them, then ahead, always looking to the right and left, even as Marco did. His four guards looked as pleased as men could look. They knew they were escorting their master’s admirable wife to the hacienda of the Widow Gutierrez, where, while the ladies knitted, there would be wine and card games and gambling.
As much as he liked to ride with Paloma on the same mount, Marco had quickly discovered how pleasant it was to watch her control her own horse. She had a sure hand, even when the mare sidestepped a few times, shying from winter birds hunkered down in the brush along the trail.
“Did you ride with your father?” he asked her.
“Whenever he let me. He gave me my first horse when I was six.”
Marco knew the look in her eyes was the same one in his, when she had assured him she did not mind if he mentioned Felicia. Why is it that no one thinks we want to speak of our beloved dead? he asked himself, not for the first time.
His mentioning her father had given Paloma permission to ask a question of her own. “Marco, how did your sister’s husband die?” She glanced at Toshua, who rode farther ahead of them now, his lance across his lap.
“A sad story. It was a summer seventeen years ago when the Comanche moon never set. We were all forted up throughout Valle del Sol. One of Manuel’s best milk cows wandered away, and he went to find it, even though Luisa pleaded with him. He could see the cow tethered to a bush, just a stone’s throw from their walls, with no one in sight.”
“That means nothing,” Paloma said.
“Manuel knew that, too, but all he could see was the cow. When he was too close to the cow to back away, he saw the feet of the Comanche clinging to the cow on the other side. Then, Luisa said, there seemed to be indios everywhere.”
“She watched the whole thing?” Paloma asked, her voice low so Toshua could not hear.
“From the wall. They stripped Manuel, ripped off his privates, staked him over a low fire and cooked him for two days. They made him eat his own flesh.” He glanced at his wife’s pale face and leaned over to touch her hands. “He pleaded with Luisa to shoot him, and she did. She was carrying their younger son and went into labor that night.”
“We have all suffered,” Paloma said. She looked in Toshua’s direction. “But so has he. When will it end?”
He had no answer.
Santa Maria came in sight too soon to suit him, and maybe Paloma, too, if he correctly interpreted her little sigh as they came to the garrison, around which the village had been constructed. Neither of us wants to do what we have to, he thought. I could assure my lovely woman that she will have a good time at Luisa’s, but she will not believe me.
While his guards busied themselves and Toshua, too, looked away, Marco leaned over in the saddle and kissed Paloma. “We’ll ride for you in two days, Toshua and I.”
She kissed him back, her eyes merry. “It’s three days, my dearest. You can say that, but I will wager you another evening measuring you for a sweater that Toshua heads for Hacienda Gutierrez once you two ride home.”
“I doubt you will be any more successful with that sweater, if you lose! Be a good girl and knit socks.”
Chapter Two
In which there are uninvited guests
Another hour saw Paloma and her escorts safely to Hacienda Gutierrez. She surveyed it with a critical eye. The typical red-colored adobe and stout gate made her doubly grateful for Marco’s stone walls and guards on constant patrol. She thought of death’s visit here seventeen years ago and better understood her sister-in-law’s farseeing eyes. Could I do that? she asked herself. Could I shoot my husband to end his torture? Pray God it never comes to that. She looked around, hoping no one was watching, and crossed herself.
The gates swung open and there stood Luisa Gutierrez, her sister-in-law, her hands outstretched in welcome, even though the day was raw and snow threatened.
They kissed, and Luisa took Paloma by the hand as they hurried toward the hacienda. “You’re the last, my dear,” her sister-in-law said. “You live the farthest away. Everyone else is hard at work.” She laughed. “Well, no, not exactly. They are all gossiping.”
A servant opened the door, but Luisa hesitated, then shook her head slightly. The door closed on silent hinges. She turned to face Paloma.
“I have to tell you: your cousin Maria Teresa got wind of this gathering and invited herself. I don’t know how she heard about it.”
“I feared she might be here,” Paloma said, wanting to leave, wishing she could have stayed in Santa Maria with Marco.
“I never invited her, but since she came, I owe her the hospitality of the Gutierrez family,” Luisa told her.
“I understand, sister. At least I needn’t sit next to her.”
Luisa tapped on the door and it opened again. They walked inside, but Luisa hesitated once more, as if mulling over what she wanted to say.
“Go ahead.” Paloma heard laughter and many voices in the sala.
“She’s boasting that she is with child,” Luisa said, her face red. “I hope this doesn’t upset you.”
“I have seen her at church. Luisa, I would be foolish if I allowed that to upset me,” Paloma told her, wishing again that she could leave this place. She couldn’t help her sigh, just a small sigh that made Luisa frown, then kiss her forehead.
“I suppose Marco tells you to be patient, eh? My brother is so deliberate. He’s right, though.”
I know, Paloma thought, as she followed her sister-in-law into the sala, even though every part of her yearned to be elsewhere. Easy to say.
Maybe it was all those hard years in her aunt and uncle’s house in Santa Fe that made her want to turn away when every woman in the sala looked at her. Whatever confidence Paloma had already earned as the trusted wife of a landowner and officer of the crown seemed to dribble away. She hesitated in the doorway.
Luisa understood. She simply held out her hand and announced, “Paloma Vega de Mondragón. You all know my sister-in-law.”
Marco thinks you are brave, she reminded herself, as she gave the medium-sized elegant curtsey that Mama had taught her so long ago.
“Paloma, the sudden wife,” Maria Teresa Moreno de Castellano said. “My cousin.” She tittered behind her hand.
Paloma took a shallow breath and held it, afraid to look around. Marco thinks you are brave, she thought again, and looked up.
What she saw put the heart back into her breast and started it beating again. She saw smiling faces, kind ones, and generous hearts, as the two lovely Borrego sisters rose and each took her by the ha
nd, tugging her over to sit between them. Dazed, she heard other comments: “Oh, now, you must share!” and “We get a turn, too,” and gentle teases: “You Borregos did that because you know the Mondragón wool is the best and you’re going to snitch some,” and “Paloma, how did you snare the man every mother in del Sol sought for her daughter?”
“I had a yellow dog he wanted,” Paloma teased back, enjoying the laughter that followed. Obviously everyone in Valle del Sol had heard the story of the runt for which the juez de campo paid one whole peso. Rumor flew on mayfly’s wings in eastern New Mexico, apparently.
Paloma looked around the circle, recognizing the women she saw in church when she and Marco were able to make their way through the snow to la iglesia. Something else became immediately obvious—Maria Teresa sat on the edge of the circle, no one near her. Some odd force was at work here that Paloma didn’t understand, even though she felt grateful for it. She took a deeper breath and smiled.
“I have not managed a household before the Double Cross, but I have noticed that one of my husband’s stockings always seems to disappear between the bedchamber and the laundry room. Why is this? Is there some diablillo at work in Valle del Sol?”
The ladies laughed and returned to their knitting. Chaca Borrego declared that she would make three stockings for each match, from now on, because she had the same problem. The others smiled and nodded.
Her heart easier, Paloma took out her knitting needles and the mohair that she and Sancha had spun into yarn only a week ago. She had noticed that Marco was getting a corn on his little toe. Maybe extra-soft stockings would help, and maybe Maria Teresa would say nothing more.
When Maria cleared her throat quite loudly, the needles all stopped, then resumed their work as each woman in the circle ignored Paloma’s cousin. What is going on here? Paloma asked herself. She could have told the knitters that her cousin never allowed herself to be ignored. Paloma tensed because she feared what was coming. She would have given the earth to suddenly vanish and find herself back at the Double Cross kitchen.
Maria Teresa cleared her throat with even more volume. “I hope you all will give me lots of baby advice in the coming months,” she declared, then gave Paloma an arch glance. “Too bad everyone is not as blessed as I am.”
The knitters stopped again and the silence seemed to circle the room like a bad odor. She made me cry in Santa Fe, but I cannot let her make me cry in Valle del Sol, Paloma thought, wounded in the softest, most vulnerable part of her heart, that place where she had never let Maria Teresa touch her before.
She could barely bring herself to glance around the circle, but to her relief, she saw only horror followed by a firmness around mouths and a narrowing of eyes. She could also tell that no one knew what to say, how to respond to such rudeness. Paloma continued knitting, thinking how much her husband wanted children, even though she knew he would never tell her. She put down her knitting because her hands were starting to shake. Not for the world did Paloma want her own cousin to see how harshly her words harrowed her soul.
Consider this part of the adventure. Hadn’t Father Damiano told her that very thing in San Pedro? She thought of her bloody sandals tacked to the wall of the sala at the Double Cross, put there by her husband to remind him what bravery was, and how a woman would walk to a dangerous place just to return a yellow dog. Her dowry to him was courage; it was time to show some.
“It is a sorrow to me, Maria,” she said, her voice so calm that she surprised herself. “We hope and pray that we will be as blessed as you someday. We leave it in the hands of Our Lord.”
There now. She picked up her needles, and with steady hands, continued to knit her husband wonderful mohair stockings. It was as if everyone except Maria heaved a sigh of relief. Luisa herself started the conversation again, effectively shutting out another word from Maria Teresa, who sat there with a frown on her face, wondering what happened. Obviously she hadn’t yet figured out that she’d left her allies behind in Santa Fe—if indeed she had any there—and that Valle del Sol was different. If there was something more, Paloma didn’t know.
In a few minutes, Paloma chatted with the others, silently reminding herself that this was far from the worst day of her life. That had certainly been the day her entire family was tortured and then butchered by Comanche raiders. Compared to that day, Maria Teresa was a frog peeping by a pond, a rooster crowing at false dawn, a grasshopper sawing its hind legs. She took a deep breath, knowing that however this knitting marathon ended, she would go home to the finest man in Valle del Sol—something of hers that Maria Teresa could never have. She was content.
As he sat in Santa Maria’s garrison on the other side of a desk from Lieutenant Xavier Roybal—of His Serene Majesty’s forces in Santa Fe—Marco wondered whether Paloma could look in this man’s eyes and find the honest man.
He decided she could, if for no other reason than that the lieutenant was young and had not yet learned to disguise his emotions or his motives. Ah, Marco wasn’t being fair to his wife, who had enough skill in discernment to select the honest man among the politicians. Xavier Roybal was no challenge to her already considerable skills. The officer looked like the worried man he was.
While the lieutenant went through the formal motions of greeting that prefaced any visit by authority, Marco looked down at the wine in his goblet. It was a heady wine that Roybal must have brought with him. The usual garrison libation was sour and tasted like vinegar. Perhaps the young lieutenant had more experience with visiting far-flung garrisons than Marco gave him credit for. This obviously wasn’t his first such visita. He sipped and smiled.
“I amuse you, señor?” the lieutenant said, with just enough bite to assure Marco that if the man lived beyond his lieutenancy, he might learn to command.
“Amuse me? A little, I suppose,” Marco said, seeing that honest man he knew Paloma would see. “If you want to cut through the bureaucracy and just tell me what is on your mind, with no frills, I have no objection.”
Lieutenant Roybal gave him a genuine smile, the kind that showed most of his teeth, all of which appeared to be original. “We are of the same mind, Señor Mondragón. More wine?”
Marco shook his head.
“You might want more, after I have gone through the list I bring from Governor de Anza,” he said, which made Marco laugh.
“I know the governor well enough to ask that you skip any blandishments that protocol might deem necessary. What is on the governor’s mind?”
Lieutenant Roybal permitted himself a smile. “The governor told me you would ask that very question.” The smile left his face. “Grave times are ahead, señor.”
“I thought as much. Every autumn when I go to Santa Fe, the list of useless laws to obey gets longer and longer. That tells me that our Serene Majesty or perhaps the Council of the Indies wonder what to do with us.”
Roybal refilled his own cup. “Sí y no, señor. As you are aware, King Carlos has been backing the Americans against the British …”
“Ah. You aren’t calling them colonists now? That tells me something. What news?”
“Good news for them. Before I set out on this progreso, word came of an American victory at Yorktown in Virginia last autumn. The British remain in New York, but they are weaker.”
“Well, well, and what does that mean for us here in Nuevo Mexico?” Marco drained his cup after all, and held it out to his host.
“It means our king is hopeful of some benefit when a treaty is actually signed with … let me see … I believe they are calling it the United States of America.”
Marco nodded. “I would wager that our king has pulled all the troops he can into his possessions along the Gulf of Mexico, the better to cement his interests.”
The lieutenant gave him a look of respect, which made Marco add, “We aren’t rubes here on the edge of nowhere, lieutenant.”
Roybal blushed and looked suddenly younger. “I would never assume so.” He became more serious. “Then you know w
hat follows.”
Marco did. He sat back with a sigh. “I have feared for some time that the few troops on the edge of nowhere—here, for instance—will be withdrawn and sent east.”
“You would be right.”
Marco looked around at the room with its big desk, which should have been the office of a lieutenant, at least, perhaps a captain. It had been empty for years. The garrison’s highest ranking soldier was a sargento who spent most of his time a sodden drunk.
“You’re taking our miserable soldiers with you, lieutenant? Please do.”
Roybal winced; the charge had struck home. He was too honest to deny it. “They are as foul and useless a company as I have seen anywhere.” He clasped his hands together and looked Marco in the eye across the desk that separated them. “Everyone here in Santa Maria tells me that you are the law.”
“A juez de campo has that title, whenever there is no effective law present.” He leaned forward, too. “Lieutenant, there is no effective law here.”
Roybal sat back with a sigh, but he did not break eye contact. “I know. I will say that these troops are not being withdrawn yet, but soon. As you know far better than I, you in Valle del Sol are the last law until San Antonio de Bexar in Texas.” He asked, “Does that frighten you?”
“All the time, lieutenant. I have land, cattle, sheep, goats and a wife most dear, and—”
“Children?”
“Alas, no, or perhaps that is a good thing right now. Who can say?”
“When some other poor lieutenant or sergeant comes after me and takes these miserable troops, how will you manage?”
Marco drank deep and then smiled. “As we always have!” He stood up and went to the window, looking down at Toshua in the courtyard. The Comanche had situated himself as a cat in a room with several doors would. Toshua had found the vantage point from which to survey all entrances, looking from one to the other and back again, his hand light on his lance. Several soldiers stood inside their barracks at the window, not leaving the building. Toshua held them hostage without doing a thing.
