by Carla Kelly
She couldn’t help but shiver while Marco took her hand.
“You’ll be safe and warm in our bed and I will watch over you,” he told her. “Toshua, too.” When he spoke to the physician, he used his voice of command, the one that everyone in Valle del Sol obeyed. “When you have finished on the Double Cross, we will see how many of our neighbors you can inoculate.”
“What about Señora Gutierrez here?”
“Luisa will take care of her sons.” He still held Paloma’s hand, so he tugged her to her feet. “Come, my dear. You and I will ride the same horse, and the physician will ride yours. Gather what belongings you possess, Antonio Gil. We’re leaving as soon as possible.”
Toshua left the room as quietly as he had entered it. Paloma smiled at the way he held up his arm and stared at the bandage.
“I wonder what he thinks it will do,” she said to Marco, then sighed. “I suppose the same thing had occurred to me.”
She was silent as the physician capped the tin, gathered his tiny instrument in the napkin, and left the room.
Marco released her. “I will take Señor Gil to your horse and come back for you. Gather your things, my love.” He smiled. “And are there stockings?”
“Certainly there are,” she assured him, striving for her normal tone. “Even a pair for Toshua.”
To think I came here to knit stockings and gossip, Paloma thought as she gathered her satchel and the stockings. Finding Luisa sitting with her sons, she knelt and kissed her hand as a good sister-in-law should.
“We will be the lucky ones,” Luisa whispered, touching her forehead to Paloma’s.
She returned to the bedroom she had shared with Marco and lay down, looking at her arm and wondering. “What goes on in there?” she asked no one in particular. Not for the first time she wondered what business went on below her skin. Was there a nook or cranny that kept her from conceiving? It was the dearest wish of her heart to know. Obviously her heart and her loins weren’t on speaking terms. And now she was going to get smallpox. Just the thought made her shudder.
When Marco returned, he lay down beside her and gathered her close.
“You know Luisa will scold you for lying on her bed with your boots and spurs on,” she teased.
“We’ll be on our way before she notices,” he replied with a little laugh. He sat up and ran his hands over her body, with a light pinch here and there. “I don’t know, Paloma. When we came to del Sol more than a year ago, we shared a horse and you were much skinnier. It’s going to be a tight fit.”
She thumped him, which made him wince—to her mind, far more dramatically than the thump warranted.
“You are heartless! Up you get.”
Marco didn’t mind the tight fit. He enveloped her in his cloak and she settled into his arms as she always did, with a tiny sigh of contentment that never failed to touch his heart. They chatted idly for a few minutes; then her comments came at wider and wider intervals until she slept.
The physician rode beside him, no great shakes in the saddle, but then, Antonio Gil wasn’t a Spaniard. What was he? Time to find out.
“Why are you here in Nuevo Mexico?” he asked. “Where did you come from?”
“Do I have to tell you anything?”
“As a matter of fact, you do,” Marco replied. Staying affable required an effort. He was tired of this man already. “This is my district and I am juez de campo. It’s perfectly within my power to torture you for answers, or maybe just because I want to, then send you to prison in Santa Fe. Let me ask again: where are you from? And don’t tell me East Texas.”
He watched the little man shrink inside himself and felt uncomfortable playing the bully. This was obviously a man who had been sorely used. If he had been in the rough company of traders for many months, there was no telling what they had done to him. He sought for a kinder tone.
“Come, come, if we are to be traveling companions in the Llano—even though it is the most stupid scheme you could have concocted—I deserve some answers.”
Gil nodded, but with no visible enthusiasm. Either he didn’t understand the jibe, or he knew it was true on some level. Marco reconsidered. Perhaps it wasn’t the stupidest thing the man beside him had ever dreamed up. You haven’t told a truth in such a long time that you wouldn’t recognize one, he thought, uneasy.
“I am from the colony of Georgia, on the Atlantic Ocean. Have you heard of it?”
Why did the man always rub him the wrong way? “We’re not entirely ignorant here in Nuevo Mexico,” Marco replied. “Georgia is a buffer colony between the Carolinas and the colony of La Flórida, which I believe the British control right now.” Might as well give the man a little more news. “According to a lieutenant passing through Santa Maria, the British were defeated at a place called Yorktown. Maybe your Georgia will be a state soon, and your country independent.”
If he had thought the news would spark an enthusiastic response, there was none. Obviously this fellow was no patriot. He wanted to ask him more, but something about the set of the man’s mouth told him that he, Marco, the juez who could demand almost anything of his district, was only allowed a question or two at a time, and he had reached his limit. Perhaps he would allow a comment.
“If your colonies are to become states soon, when you find your daughter, you can return there in safety.”
Antonio only turned bleak eyes on Marco, as if wondering what he was talking about. Though probably younger than Marco, he looked worn out.
Suddenly Marco understood. He had felt much the same after Felicia and the twins’ death: getting from one day to the next took all the energy he possessed. Until he met Paloma—a meeting that had happened so much by chance—he was no better than the little man in borrowed clothes, riding a borrowed horse, with a grandiose plan that only a desperate man would attempt. He leaned toward him, overlooking the way Antonio shied back.
“We will find your daughter.”
Chapter Eleven
In which Antonio revives his bedside manner
Darkness came early. They rode through stout gates just as the light faded entirely. So long facing into the wind, Anthony’s horse—Paloma’s, actually—perked up, and with dainty, mincing steps took him directly into a horse barn. The earthy odors and sudden protection from the wind relieved his heart, or at least what remained of it. He couldn’t help smiling at Paloma’s loud yawn from the depths of her warm cocoon on her husband’s lap. Marco bent his head close to hers and she giggled. My Lord, they are childish, Anthony thought, but he knew it was envy.
He dismounted with a groan and looked around, impressed with the solidity of the buildings and the height of the palisade, made of stone and not adobe. Everything appeared as capable as Marco Mondragón himself. Maybe the dying trader had steered him into a safe pasture, after all. And maybe I could have pushed a little dirt over his body, Anthony thought.
He smiled to himself, remembering Paloma’s words about becoming a better person the longer he was around them. He knew it was folly. The only thing that kept a man alive was cunning.
Arm in arm, the Mondragóns moved toward the hacienda, with Toshua walking beside them, not behind. Anthony smiled to see how he kept his bandaged arm carefully held with his other arm. Perhaps he feared the whole thing would fall off, if untended.
Señor Mondragón turned to make certain he was part of their group and gestured Anthony nearer. They walked through what was probably a kitchen garden and into the kitchen itself, bypassing what he assumed was the more formal entrance.
The fragrance emanating from the kitchen was both warm and welcoming. Although he probably would have committed lewd acts just for the pleasure of eating a homely roast of beef and Yorkshire pudding—or even lowly spoonbread, a Carolina delicacy—Anthony took a deep lungful of chilies and pork. He sniffed something else, turkey, and let out an exclamation of pleasure, which made the juez gesture toward the table. He needed no formal invitation to sit down.
Silent, he paused w
hile Señor Mondragón made the sign of the cross over the meal on the table; then he fell on the food like the famished man he was. As he ate, he noticed Paloma watching him, sadness in her eyes.
“My love, we should have seen that he had something to eat before we left your sister’s house,” she told her husband. She passed a cloth-covered plate. “Tortillas?”
Toshua finished first. He smacked his lips and belched, then nodded to the Mondragóns. When he stood up, Paloma held out other plate of tortillas and the Comanche took it. He nodded his thanks, then left through the door they had entered.
“Where does he stay?” Anthony asked.
“He likes my husband’s office by the horse barn,” Paloma said as she took a tortilla and swiped it around her empty bowl, snagging the last tiny bits of meat.
Stupefied with food, Antonio sat in silence. Paloma finished her meal and watched her husband, who was talking to a woman with her own bunch of keys at her waist, possibly a housekeeper. Another woman with flour on her hands listened. Their faces serious, they nodded, then left the kitchen, one heading outside and the other through an interior door.
“To the sala, my dearest,” the juez said. “You come as well, señor.”
Anthony followed them to a larger room, where a fire already glowed in the corner fireplace. Paloma lighted a straw from the fire and lit the candles in their sconces.
Anthony admired the room, which looked little used. In Georgia, the Gill house boasted a far grander salon, with chairs and a table from England and wallpaper made of leather. Still, that salon did not possess anything as ornate as the cabinet with delicate carving around the top, all painted red and green with gilt outlines. It must have come from Spain.
He glanced at the crucifix and then what looked like sandals hanging below it. Curious, he went closer, then looked at his hosts for an explanation. Paloma turned away, her face rosy, but Señor Mondragón come to his side.
“My wife’s sandals.”
Puzzled, Anthony peered closer. “Is that dried blood on the footbed?”
“Yes. It is a long story, but she was trying to return a yellow pup to me, and was ready to walk from Santa Fe to here to deliver it.” Señor Mondragón touched the sandals with the sort of deference that some Spaniards probably reserved for relics of the church. “I like to be reminded of bravery, living as we do on the edge of Comanchería. Have a seat, señor.”
Anthony sat on the adobe outcropping attached to the walls—built-in benches with cushions. Paloma spoke to her husband and he nodded. She left the room. When she returned, he saw that she had traded her riding boots for moccasins. She sat next to him on one of the two chairs in the room, tucking her legs under her in a childlike, endearing way. He saw her for what she was: a young wife with responsibilities, but still playful. The two chairs represented a certain subtle power that the Spaniards excelled in.
No one spoke. He could tell from Señor Mondragón’s expression that he must be weighing something. When the room began to fill up with servants, Anthony knew what it was. He wished suddenly that he had on a good suit of clothes that fit, and that he could have found a barber somewhere in this region of open spaces. He was about to be introduced as a useful man of some importance to these people who lived on the edge of danger. For the first time in several tense years, it mattered to him what they thought.
When the room was full, the juez de campo wasted not a moment. “My dears, we are about to be visited by a most unwelcome guest—la viruela.”
Several servants gasped. One woman burst into tears. Paloma knelt by her side and took her hand, telling Anthony worlds about the relationship the Mondragóns enjoyed with those who served them.
When the low voices were silent and Paloma was seated beside him once more, Mondragón raised his hand and continued. “We are most fortunate that this man, Señor Antonio Gil, is a médico with the power and ability to inoculate those of you who have not already been inoculated or who have not already survived la viruela.”
The look of fear was replaced by a soft, “Ahhh,” which made Anthony smile a little. All eyes turned his way. For the first time in a long while, he wished he truly was the man they thought he was. But even as shabby as he looked, no one seemed skeptical. He heard none of the titters or saw any of the arch glances that had been burned into his brain following his last encounter with the English, who thought everyone inoculated would live until they learned otherwise. Better to head this off right now.
Marco beat him to it. He held up his hand and all were silent again. “My dears, as wonderful as is the promise of a life free of la viruela, the cure sometimes demands a high price. A few of you may remember that my younger brother, Tomás, died of the inoculation when he was four years old. Life is uncertain and we all take our chances. Never forget that, please.”
The servants turned to Anthony again. He saw calculating looks, worried frowns, and even sympathy, as though El Padre Celestial had given Antonio Gil a heavy burden not of his choosing. He did something then that he had not done in years: he looked at each face—all of them unknown to him at this moment—and reminded himself that they were all his patients. The knowledge rendered him silent for a long moment.
“I will do my best,” he told them at last. “Señor Mondragón, when do we begin?”
“My love, it appears you caught Antonio off guard. Why is that, I wonder?” Paloma asked Marco as they prepared for bed an hour later.
Half in and half out of his breeches, he sat on their bed. She came to his side and kissed his head. “This is going to be hardest for you,” she told him, her lips close to his ear.
“You’re the one with the bandage,” he said, sliding off his breeches.
She folded them neatly and placed them on top of the chest. “You and Sancha and others who are already safe will have to tend to us.”
“In the morning while Antonio inoculates everyone, I will make a list of who will tend whom, during these next few weeks.” He smiled at her. “I’m a juez de campo. You know we love our lists. Come back here.”
His tidy brain—the one that loved lists—told him that at some point, surely, their lovemaking would settle into routine. A year and several months had passed since their marriage, but that hadn’t happened yet. Logically, he knew that the giddiness and sheer delight would move into something calmer, but so far Paloma Vega remained a great adventure. He felt something different this time in her sexual fervor, and it saddened him. She seemed to be extracting every scintilla of pleasure, as though this would be her last opportunity. He knew that the white bandage on her arm was working on her brain, trying to convince her that not everyone survived inoculation. He wanted to reassure her, but he was no diviner.
“We don’t know what lies ahead, my love,” he said finally, when she had settled herself against him, skin on skin, warm and heavy. “I could ask you not to worry about the outcome, but words are cheap.”
Paloma sighed and made little circles of the hairs on his chest. “I want to be brave and not disgrace you. Suppose my bowels lose control? Suppose I rave like a lunatic? Or stink and sweat?”
He put his leg over her. “And suppose I live to be really old, and you have to take care of me when I lose control and rave?”
He didn’t say anything else. In another moment, he felt her silent laughter. “Go ahead, tell me I’m the silly one, to borrow all this trouble,” she said, her voice gruff.
In answer, he kissed her head. “Go to sleep, my heart. You’re only a little bit silly.”
The inoculations went smoothly, and Marco made his list. To keep Paloma busy, he instructed her and the women to make up pallets in the chapel, the largest room in the hacienda, once the benches had been moved into the interior courtyard and covered with canvas to protect them from newly falling snow. Ten pallets. Toshua said he wanted to remain in Marco’s office, and Paloma would be in their chamber.
The next day, Paloma, Sancha, and Perla la cocinera, sporting her own bandage, cooked pots of cornme
al mush to store outside in the kitchen garden, where the cold would preserve it until needed. Mush would be easy to heat again and eat, when everyone was too busy tending the sick. They soaked and reconstituted dried apples, which they mashed with honey and cinnamon.
Another day passed and Marco tried, without her knowing, to watch Paloma for the symptoms that Antonio Gil described: aches, fever, sore throat, exhaustion, and a certain looseness of the mind or anxiety that heralded the arrival of the most dreaded disease in all hemispheres. He also watched Antonio, who looked fine-drawn and worn, still suffering the effects of starvation and abuse at the hands of traders.
“I was fair game,” Antonio told them one night, as they sat around the kitchen table. “A curse here, a kick there. ‘Let’s make the Englishman’s life a living hell.’ ”
“Englishman?” Paloma asked. “I thought you were American.”
The doctor seemed confused for a moment. “It is hard to say what we are. Perhaps Americans now.” He chuckled, but it was not a pleasant sound. “My living hell changed when a mule kicked one of the fouler men and I splinted his broken leg.” He shrugged. “They saw I had a skill they needed, but why did I bother? He was dead of the pox in a month.”
Marco saw the sympathy on his wife’s face. She had suffered her own mistreatment at the hands of relatives who should have cherished her. “I used to make myself small in a corner of the kitchen and pretend I was invisible,” she said.
Antonio nodded in understanding. “It never worked, though, did it?”
A rueful shake of her head, then for a moment the two of them stared into the distance. Paloma looked at the doctor, hesitating. “You splinted his broken leg because he was in pain, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” he replied, but Marco heard all the doubt in his voice, as though he were merely humoring Paloma.
