Marco and the Devil's Bargain

by Carla Kelly

  Draw it out and make him suffer, Anthony thought. You know you don’t like him any more than the others. “La viruela is going to kill your wife.”

  Anthony may have overplayed his hand. He hadn’t thought the juez would move so fast, and with his knife drawn. Anthony hadn’t even heard it leave its sheath, but there it was, the point against his throat. He held his breath.

  “Damn you, Señor Gil,” Mondragón said, his voice practically quivering in his anxiety. His hand, however, was rock steady. “Tell me why I should not push in this blade and silence you?”

  “Because I am a physician, un médico.”

  The knife clattered to the floor, and the juez sank back into his chair with a noticeable whoof of the leather cushion. He passed a shaking hand in front of his eyes. Anthony rubbed the spot where the blade had left a nick.

  He watched Mondragón, interested to know this man, and how he could play him. He knew the juez was not stupid. There it was—the relief gone, the bleakness back.

  “What good can you possibly do my darling? Can you cure la viruela when it strikes? I doubt it supremely. No one can.”

  “I cannot,” Anthony agreed. This had to be good, and he took his time. “What I can do is prevent it. I scraped some scabs from that trader. Over there in that tin box. I can inoculate your wife.”

  The air went out of Marco Mondragón in a whoof, as it had gone out of the chair. “Thanks be to God,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “How soon?”

  Anthony slapped down his last card, the winning card. “As soon as you promise me you will take me to that canyon so I can find my daughter.”

  Silence. Anthony knew he was being weighed and found seriously wanting. The shame of it might have bothered him two years ago, but nothing bothered him after seeing Catalina Gill crammed onto a Comanche lance, probably while she was still alive, the iron tip coming out of her skull. He matched him stare for stare.

  “There is no honor in you, is there?” Mondragón said finally.

  “None whatsoever.”

  “If I do not agree, you will withhold treatment.”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Damn you.”

  “I assure you that has already been taken care of. Take it or leave it. If you think to try the inoculation yourself, you will kill her.”

  The juez flinched. He picked up his knife, fingered the blade and sheathed it. “I have no choice.”

  “I see none. I want Pia Maria. I will do anything to find her.”

  Anthony saw the defeat in Mondragón’s eyes, also contempt that made his blood run in chunks. Obviously the Spanish had made contempt a fine art, more than the British who had driven him from Georgia. Maybe it was the light brown eyes that made the juez look so sinister. Anthony doubted Paloma ever saw that expression.

  “Suppose you inoculate my wife for certain, and Toshua most probably, and my servants, and I change my mind after they are protected?”

  Anthony had to give the juez credit. The man knew he had lost at the same time he had won his wife’s life, but he wasn’t going down without a struggle. Better now to flatter him a bit, if flattery it was. Probably it was just the truth, something Anthony had not considered for a long time. He had kicked truth aside on the Texas plains.

  “Change your mind?” Anthony asked. “How can you? You are an honest man who would never go back on his word.”

  Another sigh, followed by a wry sort of smile or grimace. “You’ve trapped me.”

  “I was hoping to.”

  The juez stood up. He sheathed his knife and turned toward the door. His hand on the latch, he looked back. “Let me understand you better, since we are to be partners in a game so dangerous my courage almost fails me. You could have inoculated those traders, couldn’t you?”

  “Yes, once I had some live pox. By the time we reached the Clear Fork of the Brazos, I could have harvested scabs aplenty from dead Comanches.” He shuddered. “They lined the banks, half in and half out of the water they thought would give them relief.”

  “Don’t you doctors take an oath that compels you to treat the sick?”

  “I hated those men and they mistreated me.”

  Mondragón nodded. “I can almost understand that. There are men I dislike, too. But you took an oath. You would also withhold inoculation from my dear wife, who never would harm you?’

  “Most certainly, unless you oblige me, as you will now.”

  “You’re a monster and a discredit to your profession.”

  Anthony did not flinch. “I am, indeed. I am a father and I will find my daughter.”

  With no hesitation, the juez de campo held out his hand to seal Anthony’s devil’s bargain. “You have my word, you bastard. When do we begin?”

  Chapter Eight

  In which Paloma and Marco realize they have married idiots

  Paloma braced herself to show a cheerful face to her husband when he came from the room of the stranger, Anthony Gill. She would tell him, if he hadn’t already thought of it, to bar the Double Cross from any strangers and perhaps keep her safe that way. She could remind him that la viruela might not even reach their district. She could put a smiling face on the matter and tease him about borrowing trouble from tomorrow.

  Her smile vanished even as she saw the latch going up. She could not fool this man who knew her inside and out, this man who seemed to breathe in rhythm with her. All she could do was stand there like the Spanish matron she was now, her head up, her hands clasped at her waist, wondering what would happen to her, and wondering how this good man could possibly cope with another death—hers this time.

  The door opened. She thought she knew him, but there was such a look in his eyes. His mouth was set in what she feared was rage so barely contained that she took an involuntary step back. What on earth had Anthony Gill told him? She hesitated, then held out her hand to Marco.

  He must have noticed her hesitation, because he calmed himself, even as she watched. He took her hand and it trembled in hers.

  “What, my love? Surely there is nothing worse that Señor Gil could have told you than what we already know is coming our way.”

  Alert now, wary even, she watched his expression change into precisely that look of false good will that she had been thinking of practicing on him. This would never do. She grasped his hand and tugged him down the hall into Luisa Gutierrez’s sala, which she knew was empty now, all the knitters gone. He did not resist as she towed him along, a little woman dragging a tall man who put up no resistance. Good thing the governor could not see his juez de campo now.

  She closed the door behind them and sat down on the earthen bench that was part of the inner adobe wall. She patted the spot beside her. When he sat down, she took his hand and clutched it to her breast. “What is it, Marco?”

  He tried to smile, then obviously gave it up as a bad business. She could almost see him thinking something through; she knew him that well.

  “I have very good news, my love. That man”—he nearly spit out the word, then collected himself with great effort—“that man is a physician. He has the capacity to inoculate you, and he will.”

  Paloma closed her eyes and felt herself melt like butter, so great was her relief. “Gracias a Dios,” she murmured, and touched her forehead to his shoulder. She opened her eyes and looked at him again, mystified by the expression of vast disquietude. Surely he should be happy at this news. True, inoculations themselves could be dangerous, but that was a chance everyone took. There must be more.

  “What else?” she asked.

  “Nothing else,” he said too quickly. “We’ll take him with us and see how many of our people, Toshua included, will agree to inoculation. We’ll probably have to wait here a day while he inoculates my nephews, but then—”

  She put her fingers to his lips, stopping the flow of words. “What else?” she asked again.

  “Nothing else.”

  “Don’t you dare lie to me!” She hadn’t meant her words to come out w
ith such force. He winced, and Paloma knew he had never heard that tone of voice from her before. Well, too bad. He was not telling her what was written so clearly in his eyes and in the way his hands still trembled. “Not to me, Marco. Not ever to me.”

  He leaned back against the wall, something he seldom did, this man who sat so straight, as though he were always in the saddle. He banged his head gently against the wall with increasing force until, horrified, she put her hand behind his head to cushion the blows. He stopped.

  “What is he making you do?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  She shook him. “If you don’t tell me the truth right now, you can … you can sleep in the sala when we get home. I didn’t marry a liar, and I certainly didn’t marry a coward!”

  He winced and put his hand over hers. “Paloma, you have a grip. Suppose I have a bald spot now?”

  She let go, then deliberately stood up and sat on his lap, straddling him so he had no choice but to look her in the eyes. “Well?”

  Her presumptuous action in a place not remotely close to their own bedroom startled him, a man of typical Spanish dignity and some rectitude. Maybe that was what he needed, Paloma reasoned, to yank him out of his peculiar state of mind. He blushed like the newlywed he wasn’t. “I am not as brave as you are, Paloma Vega. We already know that. It’s not my bloody sandals hanging in our sala.”

  She sat back, hoping no one would come into the sala and see them like this, but less worried about propriety than she would have thought possible. She willed herself to sound conversational now, in light of his obvious distress.

  “I’m staying here just like this until you tell me the truth. You think I cannot manage whatever you have to tell me? I watched my mother and my unborn brother die by degrees as I hid under her bed and tried not to scream. God help me, I could not look away. What can you possibly tell me that I cannot face?”

  He made no effort to coax her into a less compromising position. His hands went to her bare thighs and finally stopped shaking.

  “Are you so certain?” he asked, challenging her in his own turn. “It is this: in order for that, that excuse for a physician to do what he swore to do as a man of healing ….” He stopped and took several deep breaths. Paloma slid off his lap, tugged down her dress, and seated herself beside him now, her eyes intent on his.

  “In exchange for your inoculation, I am to take that man onto the Staked Plains among the Comanche, our sworn enemy, to find his kidnapped daughter.”

  She just naturally went into his open arms. This was the man she knew. “How did you think you could ever hide that from me?” she scolded, but gently. “When you tipped your sombrero and rode east onto the Staked Plains ….” She took a deep breath and his grip on her tightened. “When you did that, did you think I might not notice?”

  “You married an idiot, Paloma,” he said, with something resembling his usual humor. “I could have warned you, but I didn’t want to. I wanted you to marry this idiot.”

  She willed herself calm. “This is simply solved, husband,” she said. “I will not be inoculated. He will have no power over you then.”

  For a long, long moment, he said nothing, just cuddled her close and kissed her ear. “This is puzzling, indeed, wife of my heart, body, mind, and soul. Shh. Shh. I did not know I had married an idiot. This is news to me of a startling nature. You will be inoculated if I have to tie you to our bed, sit on you, and not let you up until that foul physician finishes. Do not argue with me. In this I will not be moved.”

  What could she say? She knew he meant it. She took an equally long time to answer him, choosing her words just as carefully, because there was no telling if a man as stupid as he was would understand. “It appears we are both idiots. I will go along with this supreme silliness on your part only—and I mean only—if I accompany you onto the Staked Plains, too. Toshua and I. We will help that man of no character whatsoever find his daughter.”

  “I won’t consider it,” he said quickly. “You will not accompany me to the Llano Estacado.”

  “Then I will not be inoculated. If I die, you can remarry, and maybe your next wife will give you children.”

  Marco gasped and Paloma knew she had gone too far. She was the bigger fool. She knew it when he grabbed her hair in turn and yanked on it, as though to call her to her senses. When he spoke, it was in that low, passionate tone he reserved for lovemaking, only he was not wheedling or coaxing in a playful way. Her heart pounded in her throat as she suddenly grasped just how ferocious love could be.

  “Understand this once and for all, my love, because I will not say it again. I did not marry you to get children. I married you because I love you. I will always love you, whether we are blessed with children or not. Don’t say anything like that ever again.” He let go of her hair and gathered her close.

  “I won’t,” Paloma promised, her words muffled in his chest. “But I will go with you.”

  “Nothing terrifies you more than Comanches,” he reminded her.

  There now, the roughness was gone from his voice, but not the passion. She knew he was considering his own demands, this man who had been pummeled sorely by a physician, this man who wasn’t used to being pummeled by anyone.

  “One thing terrifies me more, my love—the thought of you without me and me without you. We are in this together. If we die, we die. Didn’t Father Damiano say something about that when he married us?”

  “I don’t remember. All I could think of was how pretty you were in that green dress and white mantilla.” He reached under her skirt and pinched the inside of her thigh. “And maybe other things.”

  “You realize you are hopeless.”

  “I know. Very well. I just made the devil’s bargain with a bad man. I’ll make a better one now with a good woman.”

  Dios, remind me to make every moment count with Paloma Vega, became Marco’s unspoken prayer for the day they remained at his sister’s hacienda. Luisa’s sons offered no objection to their inoculation, but Marco did not allow any more until Anthony Gill assured him that there was plenty of live pox in the small tin for him to inoculate all of Luisa’s servants who were not already immune to the pox, and then Paloma and all the servants of the Double Cross household.

  Even though he knew she would not go back on her word, once given, Marco was dismayed when Paloma shook her head at Antonio Gil’s summons to join him with Luisa and her sons. She went down the hall on silent feet and Marco listened for the door to Luisa’s chapel to open and close.

  Hands in his pockets, the physician watched her, then shrugged, turning away. Marco wanted to throttle him for his lack of empathy.

  Marco eyed the small tin in his hand, and a little three-tined tool that resembled a fork. “That tin cannot hold enough live pox to do all you say.”

  “It does. Trust me.”

  “I don’t trust you at all.”

  Antonio shrugged again. “Have it your own way, then. Once these inoculations have produced pox, I will have new scabs to harvest. I can inoculate all of Santa Maria. Watch me.”

  Marco nodded. “Inoculate Paloma right now, after you finish with my nephews. I’ll be able to get her home, won’t I?”

  “Certainly, provided you can coax her out of the chapel.” Once more, the physician looked in the direction Paloma had gone. “I used to believe in God,” he said, more to himself than Marco.

  Since she had burned all his rags, Luisa had given the tattered man clothes that had belonged to Ramon, her husband dead these seventeen years. The clothes didn’t fit; Ramon had been a man of substance, and Antonio Gil had been starved for a long time.

  Still, they were well-cut clothes, and the thin little man seemed to stand a bit taller. To Marco’s skeptical eyes, Antonio Gil almost looked like what he claimed he was.

  “The incubation period for smallpox is about ten days,” he was saying, as he nodded to Juan and Tonio to pull up their sleeves to the shoulder. “For some reason, inoculation usually brings on the sy
mptoms in five days. You can easily get Paloma home and I will come with you.”

  “And those symptoms are …” Marco began. “I was young when this was done to me and I do not remember.”

  “A pain in the head, aching bones, nausea, fever,” he recited. “The eruptions begin on the third or fourth day of symptoms and the scabs follow. With good luck the matter is resolved and the scabs drop off after a week. It is longer with a real case of smallpox. No one knows quite why.”

  Marco’s nephews eyed the little man with identical expressions of terror and distrust. He almost smiled when his sister sat between them on the bench, the three of them crowded close together, as though they were much younger. She put an arm around each son, her expression brave, she who had been through so much.

  “No one who hasn’t been inoculated comes in this room now,” Antonio said, screwing off the cap. “Who goes first?”

  Chapter Nine

  In which Paloma is more persuasive than she realizes

  Paloma wasn’t ready to see him when Marco opened the door to the chapel. He knelt beside her on the cold tiles, as he did so often in their own chapel. Her eyes closed, she breathed in the familiar odor of his body.

  “I would rather do this thing on the Double Cross,” she said, when he rocked back on his heels and held out his hand to her.

  “Señor Gil says it must be now, since he has uncapped the pox. We’ll leave for home when he is done. He is coming with us. He just inoculated my nephews and the servants who have never been so treated, or already survived an encounter with la viruela.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “Nor do I.”

  Paloma saw how hard it was for him to be so helpless. She touched his cheek, and he instinctively turned his head to kiss her palm.

  “No matter how we feel about this man, I am depending on you to convince Toshua to be inoculated,” he said.

  She couldn’t help the tears that welled in her eyes suddenly, tears that had nothing to do with the smallpox. “Marco, I hurt Toshua’s feelings when I refused to leave with him yesterday. How can I convince him to do something he probably doesn’t understand?”