Carla Kelly - [Spanish Brand 01]

by The Double Cross

  She whispered those very words, looking around to make sure no one had overheard her. She closed her eyes again, wishing for good people to serve, more food, and warm clothes. Even in her mind’s eye, her modest wishes were objects seen through a window of wavy glass, indistinct outlines. As she sat there in rare distress, practical reason triumphed and she bowed her head. Nothing was going to change, not ever, not for her. She could expect things, but that would be folly. It was time to pack away childish things and send them on a journey so they would not mock her.

  “If you have no expectations, you will not be disappointed, Paloma Vega,” she whispered again. “Say it until you believe it.”

  She missed Trece most at night in her narrow bed, missed his warmth on her feet. The room was tiny, but at least it was her own. Her other dress hung on a peg and there was a crucifix over her bed; that was all. Her cloak had finally worn out last spring and ended up lining the basket where Trece’s mama had given birth to her litter of thirteen. Tia Luisa had promised a new cloak, but all the tentative reminders in the past few weeks had only earned Paloma a slap. Maybe when Maria and her new husband finally left, Tia might remember her promises. Paloma didn’t think that she had sunk quite low enough to go to San Miguel and ask Father Eusebio if there might be a cloak someone had left for the poor.

  Not for the first time, Paloma Vega wished she were a man. She could stride out of the Moreno house and try her fortunes in the army, or maybe as a sheepherder. No one would demand this or that from her and no one would ever snatch her beloved yellow dog, even a kind man with light brown eyes.

  Finally she was too weary for profitless wishes. She drew her knees up close to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She hadn’t bothered brushing and braiding her hair tight that night. She had figured out two winters ago that when she left her hair long and loose, she was warmer at night.

  Since the room was chilly, she had decided against kneeling on the floor to pray. She could pray in her bed and confess that next week to Father Eusebio. Paloma edged toward slumber, thinking of food always, and how much a bowl of pork and hominy would warm her. Her last thought was of Father Eusebio. If he was still sniffing in his confessional booth when she paid her next visit, she would have to steal ingredients from the kitchen for a concoction to relieve him. Of course, that would mean more confession, and she was weary of apologizing to the Lord God Almighty.

  At least she was not having lustful thoughts about Señor Mondragón that required confession. All she wanted to do now was throttle him for taking her yellow dog.

  Everything changed the next morning. Trece returned and broke a dozen eggs.

  Tongue lolling out of his mouth and looking surprisingly hearty after what must have been an exhausting journey, the yellow dog was waiting patiently by the back door to the kitchen, the tradesmen’s entrance.

  Still carrying the eggs she had just bought from the blind egg lady in the street, Paloma stared at her pet. With a yelp, Trece leaped about her, knocking her off balance. She watched in horror as twelve eggs flew into the air and smashed on the hard-packed earth.

  “Fulana!”

  Paloma looked around, terrified, as her uncle came toward her and Trece, who licked eagerly at the mess of egg yolks and slimy whites. Before the little dog could dodge, Tio Felix struck him with the cane he used when his gout was bad. Again and again the cane flashed down on the dog, who was yelping now and trying to cower behind Paloma.

  With a cry of her own, she threw herself on top of Trece, which meant the blows fell on her. She turned to look at her uncle, begging him to stop, as he struck her face. The cane narrowly missed her eye and landed right beside it. She felt warmth on her face as blood flowed.

  Breathing hard, her uncle stared at her as though he had no idea who she was. Her hand to her face, Paloma stared back, then averted her gaze against the anger she saw, chilled to her very soul.

  “Uncle, this is the dog that Señor Mondragón paid one peso for. It is not one of his brothers. You have done a bad thing.”

  Without a word, Tio Felix grabbed Paloma by the arm, pinching the flesh until she cried out. He yanked her into the kitchen where he shoved her toward the cook.

  “Do something with her,” he shouted and stalked to the door. He turned to glare at Paloma. “I should shoot that mongrel and give that hick from del Sol his money back.”

  “Oh, Uncle, no,” she whispered.

  “And as for you,” he ran back to her and shook her until she cried out, “let me not see you for a few hours.”

  Looking the fool, he struggled to slam the heavy door, then gave it up for a bad business. He kicked the scullery maid then stormed from the room.

  White-faced, the cook handed her a damp rag. Paloma pressed it to her wounded cheek, holding it there, unsure what to do when the bleeding continued. After a few minutes in the silent kitchen, the bleeding slowed enough for Cook to pack some flour in the wound.

  “That will dry it out.” She turned back to the fireplace and stirred the hominy. “Sit down and tip your head back,” Cook ordered, her voice kind. “It’s not the end of the world.”

  But it was. As she sat there, wishing for the blood to stop, wondering where Trece was now, Paloma knew she had reached the end of her life in the Moreno household. Her fear gave way to enormous calm. She felt her apron pocket. The few cuartillos left over from her visit to the egg lady were still there, to be returned to Tio Felix. Not this time. She stood up carefully, leaning against the table until the little sparkles around her eyes disappeared.

  “Do you have a dry cloth?” she asked, surprised at her self-possession. “I am going to San Miguel, where the fathers help people with wounds.”

  “Your uncle will be displeased if you tell the fathers what he has done,” the cook warned, even as she handed Paloma a soft cloth, one of the linen napkins the family used.

  “I don’t care,” Paloma replied. She put the napkin to her face, pressing hard. She held out her other hand to the cook. “I fear you will get in trouble if this linen napkin is missing. Can you find something else?”

  “No,” the cook said, her eyes defiant now. “Go with God.”

  Paloma went quietly to her room, keeping the cloth to her face. With one hand, she peeled back her coarse sheet, too small for the bed, and put her other dress in the middle of it. She felt under the mattress for the one treasure remaining to her from her mother—a magnificent tortoise shell comb, the kind that great ladies used to anchor their masses of hair. Mama’s hair had been peeled from her scalp by the Comanches while she still lived. They had overlooked the comb somehow, possibly in their eagerness to drag her outside to share with the others. Paloma put it in her apron pocket next to the cuartillos.

  Wishing for shoes one more time, she slung the small bundle over her back. The hall was still deserted. Paloma Vega let herself quietly into the street, where the people of Santa Fe were going about their business, totally unaware of her turmoil and sudden resolve. She looked around and smiled with relief to see Trece by the corner of the house, his tail wagging, none the worse for wear, other than a welt next to his snout and a scarlet stain on the fur near his front leg. She knelt down, wincing at the increased throbbing in her face, and ran her fingers gently down his leg. All he did was lick at the bloody flour on her face, so she knew he felt better than she did.

  “Trece, we are going to Valle del Sol, wherever that is. I must return you.”

  Her first stop was San Miguel, where she asked the gatekeeper for Father Eusebio. The gatekeeper must have frightened the priest sufficiently, because he came running, his habit pulled up to reveal skinny legs. He stared at the ruin of her face. She watched in humiliation as his eyes widened then narrowed in a way that made her fearful for Tio Felix.

  “Please Father, can you stitch it to stop the bleeding?”

  He nodded and took her hand, hesitating when he noticed Señor Mondragón’s expensive yellow dog. “He returned to you, eh?”

  She
nodded, wincing at the sudden pain. “I am going to give him back.”

  She waited for Father Eusebio to remind her of her duty to her family, to warn her of the folly of such an undertaking, but he did nothing of the sort. “I think you thould,” he said. “Come now, let me thee what I can do.”

  With warm water, Father Eusebio washed the blood and flour away, while Trece looked on with interest. “Not tho bad,” the priest said as he concentrated on the damage done by an angry man over a mere dozen eggs.

  The wound required three stitches and all of Paloma’s resolve to keep from crying out. There were children in the next room, waiting their turn for medical ministration, and she did not wish to frighten them. Trece pressed close to her, aware of her distress.

  “There now,” the priest said as he pressed a tidy plaster over the wound. “Change that tomorrow, if you can. Do you have money?”

  She nodded. “A little, the rest of the egg money I should have returned to my uncle.” She patted her small bundle. “I have a tortoise shell comb that belonged to my mother, God rest her. I will take it to the Jew Street and sell it.” She looked at him shyly then, gathering together her pride one last time and then letting it go. “Do you have any shoes in the poor box?”

  Paloma looked away as the priest seemed to struggle within himself. Well, she would miss him, too.

  There weren’t any shoes, but there was a pair of sandals, the sort servants might wear in households kinder than the Moreno household, where bare feet was the rule. She accepted them gratefully. She didn’t ask for a cloak, but he found one anyway—a child’s garment that would serve well enough.

  “Bless me, Father,” she said, kneeling as Trece whined and tried to lick her face.

  He did as she asked. “When you find Theñor Mondragón, do what he thays.”

  “All I am doing is returning his dog,” she said quietly. “I will find some way to live.”

  She felt her first real fear as she left San Miguel. She stood still until it passed, then made her way to the Jew Street, where men with long beards and skullcaps bought and sold. Her mother’s comb commanded a smaller price than she would have imagined. She could have wished for more, but there would have been no point.

  She stopped at the door of his shop. “How long does it take to walk to Valle del Sol?”

  The Jew rubbed his chin, his eyes kind. “It is a long way. Perhaps you can find a supply wagon going north, where you might pay a small coin for a seat.” He hesitated. “It’s dangerous, there on the edge of Comanchería.”

  All I have are small coins, she thought ruefully, as she nodded and left his shop. She stood outside the Jew’s shop, waiting for her heart to stop its triphammer. Comanchería. O dios, am I brave enough?

  A small roll for her and some chicken scraps for Trece constituted breakfast. Keeping to the side of the road, she looked straight ahead and followed others, mostly Indios, heading north. She had no worry that her uncle would follow her. The cruelty in his eyes as the cane came down assured her that he would not follow.

  She walked until her feet were sore. She stopped by a wayside food stand, buying two tortillas for herself and more meat scraps for Trece, mourning every coin that left her apron pocket. No one said anything to her as she sat on the bench by the food stand. She tried to keep her face tipped down so no one could see her bandage, but she soon discovered that no one wanted to ask questions of someone with a yellow dog who was obviously running away.

  As she sat wondering what to do, two noisy carts rolled into view, pulled by donkeys. She looked at the first teamster, watching how he whipped the donkeys and swore great oaths that suggested he hadn’t been near a confessional in many years.

  The other man was older, and so were his two donkeys, but he didn’t shout at them. He led them to the water trough before he went inside for his own food. After he came out, Paloma dug deep inside for courage and approached him.

  “Sir, are you going east to Valle del Sol?”

  She said it quietly. In her mind, that simple question slid her from lady to peasant, because she had spoken to a man she did not know.

  The old man laughed, but it wasn’t a cruel laugh. “You’re jesting! No one goes to Valle del Sol alone. No one, and you should not try. I am going to Española. If you insist on such foolishness, you will come to a spot, a short way beyond that, where the Chama flows into the Bravo. Then you will turn east through the mountains.”

  “Could I ride with you as far as Española? I … I have a few coins.”

  “You had better keep them. It is a long way to del Sol. I hope you will change your mind about such a journey. Yes, you and your dog may ride with me. Hop in the back with the cabbages.” He looked at her closely, probably taking in her bandage, her shabby dress, and the too small cloak. “If you happen to eat a cabbage, I’ll never know.” He rubbed his chin. “If you should eat the side of beef in there intended for the King of Spain, I might be a little upset.”

  It was the sort of jest poor people make. No man as impoverished as the cabbage man had a side of beef. “I will leave the king’s beef alone,” she teased back.

  She lifted Trece into the wagon, climbing in after him and making herself comfortable among the produce. As she sat there, the rain began. “Trece, we are going to get wet,” she said. “This is what is known as an adventure.”

  Gathering her dog close, Paloma waited for the teamster to speak to his old donkeys and start the great wheels turning. Instead, she sighed with relief as the man pulled a canvas cover over his cabbages, tying it securely. “To protect that beef,” he told her.

  She put the bundle holding her other dress underneath her and pulled Trece close for warmth. She was dry, not too hungry yet, and tired. Closing her eyes, she felt weary but not as discouraged as that morning, which seemed so long ago.

  She slept, oblivious to the rain and the sound of a horseman pounding toward Santa Fe.

  Chapter Nine

  In Which Señor Mondragón Uses His Skills as a Juez de Campo

  Marco Mondragón had ridden in worse weather, but he felt some compassion for the old paisano hunched over his reins, high atop a wagonload of produce, whom he passed in his hurry to reach Santa Fe. “Go with God, old man,” he called out, sorry that his horse sprayed mud on the cart.

  There was room this time in the inn at Pojoaque so he stopped, mainly for his horse’s sake. A good ranchero would never tire his favorite beast, although he was sorely tempted. As it was, Marco tossed about for a long while, hoping that Paloma Vega would not find herself in trouble if Trece returned to her.

  He stared at the low ceiling, wondering how he would treat a niece suddenly thrust upon him after a Comanche raid. “I would pray for such a niece and treat her as my own,” he said to the ceiling. “What is the matter with some people?”

  The rain had stopped by morning. When the clouds lifted, he saw new snow on not-so-distant mountains. He hoped his sinful teamsters were hard at work for the good fathers of San Pedro. They hadn’t a moment to spare to get on the road again, bound for higher altitudes where the line of snow would already be lower.

  He arrived in Santa Fe in early afternoon, stabling his tired horse at the inn and seeking a room for himself. He walked to Felix Moreno’s house and knocked, half thinking—and maybe hoping, if he was honest—that the girl with the bright blue eyes would open the big door.

  Instead, it was a servant he had not seen before. Or perhaps he had. Servants all tended to look the same, a thought that made him wonder how good a master he really was.

  “Is your master at home?” he asked, speaking softly because she was young and looked so cowed already.

  He stood in the sala, his misgivings mounting, as precious time passed.

  “Señor Mondragón, you have come for your naughty yellow dog.”

  Marco knew the sound of falsehood. He had heard that cajoling tone from many a ranchero who harbored someone else’s cattle in his own corral, and sought to distract the juez de campo
with blandishments, if only for a few minutes.

  “I thought he might return here,” Marco said, turning around, pleased that he towered over the well-fed fiscal. “Better bring him to me. I promise to chain him to my wagon when we stop for the night.”

  Señor Moreno’s face fell. Or rather, his pudgy chins appeared to sag together in some approximation of distress that his harder eyes did not exhibit.

  “Señor, I cannot. That troublesome niece of mine has run away with him. Before she sneaked away in the night, dragging your howling dog with her, she robbed me of all the pesos in my strong chest!”

  Unlikely, Marco thought. I think you put your strong chest in bed with you, you miser. You probably hump your wife with one eye on that box. “Then why are you not heading a posse to find her? Señor Moreno, I don’t believe you. Paloma would not steal.”

  “You don’t know her,” the man said quickly, his company face gone. His eyes narrowed into slits and he stepped back. Marco could nearly hear the gears clanking and turning in the man’s mind. “Unless you do know her in carnal ways, when I thought you were trustworthy guest in my home. Deceiver! Maybe she has run away from you, afraid for herself more than your dog.”

  “You are evil,” Marco said, making no attempt to hide his own menace, which was genuine and growing greater each second he looked at the fiscal. He moved toward the little man, who backed up against a low table and sat on it. The table creaked.

  “May … maybe it was not pesos,” the man admitted, avoiding Marco’s glare. “Maybe it was reales, Señor, but it was my money. And my wretched niece is gone!”

  “I would flog you if I had a whip,” Marco said. He turned on his heel and left the sala.

  The householder shouted after him, brave now that the imminent threat was gone. “We know nothing in this house. Return here and you will be flogged, you hick from Valle del Sol!”