She left the kitchen. He listened; soon, he heard the door to the chapel creak open. He observed Toshua, seated so quietly across from him. “I believe you meant well,” he said, unsure how to pick his way through this bog he had created. “I should never have said to you what I did about the Castellanos and that cursed brand.”
“They have cheated and double-crossed your woman,” the Comanche reminded him.
“They have,” Marco agreed. “I cannot prove it right now. Even if I could, what would Paloma think of me, if I exposed them? I doubt that Maria Castellano has any idea what evil her father has done.” He managed a small laugh. “I do not understand women, either, but I am not willing to risk losing the affection of this one.”
“That I do understand.” Toshua stood up. “Go kneel with her and rattle those beads and pray to someone who might or might not be paying any attention to you here in my land.”
“What will you do?” Marco asked.
“I will go to bed,” Toshua said, his lurking humor evident. “And I will make you no promises.”
As he walked down the hall toward the chapel, Marco knew that was all he could expect from a savage. He stopped outside the door and looked back, remembering the Comanches he had killed in his life, especially last year with Governor de Anza. Were we any less savage than they? he asked himself, struck by the thought. No one called him a savage, but there were times …
“Paloma, you are right,” he murmured as he opened the door. “None of us is wholly bad or wholly good.”
Chapter Thirty-one
In Which the Brand Inspector Knows Fear
Paloma sighed with relief when the door to the chapel opened. In a moment, her husband knelt beside her. She smelled his weariness. He should really be in bed, asleep after his long day. She didn’t want him to confess anything to her, but she knew him well enough now, and knew that he would.
She sat back on her heels, listening with her whole heart as Marco told her how he had complained to the Comanche about Maria Teresa’s rudeness to her that had cut him to the quick. He admitted that his own pride had suffered, and that he had spoken out of turn to someone who could not possibly understand. I am not your confessor, she wanted to tell him, before she understood she was precisely that. As the wife of a good man who was sometimes not so good, it was her duty to listen and absolve. She listened and absolved, knowing that it might be her turn for confession someday, over some other matter. That was what husbands and wives did, or so she thought. She was still new at marriage.
“What’s more, I cannot reprimand him. How would he understand me?” he said. “Did you notice how surprised he was when you said you felt sorry for that … that hechizera?”
“She is not a witch,” Paloma said firmly. “Unpleasant maybe, but not a witch.”
By now they were both sitting cross-legged on the hard tiles, facing each other, not paying particular attention to the deity.
“I probably disappointed Toshua,” Paloma said and started to laugh. She stopped soon enough, because Marco only managed a weak smile. “Don’t worry, my love.” She thought about what Father Damiano had told her in such confidence at San Pedro and forged ahead, placing her hands gently on his knee. “Don’t worry about me. I will always be here when you return.” She leaned forward to kiss him. “What I really didn’t like this evening was the panic in your eyes when you looked for me.”
He made an inarticulate sound in his throat and held out his arms for her. She was in them in a moment, holding him close.
“Father Damiano did not tell me about your great fear; I guessed it. Marco, I will ride with you to the ends of the earth if you require it, but maybe you just need to have a little faith.”
“It’s hard,” he said finally. “I thought I could do it today. I was only going to Alonso’s. I almost could not breathe as I flogged my horse home. You married a weakling.”
“I did not!” she declared emphatically. “I married a man who treasures women.” She kissed him again. “Let us leave it at that for now, shall we?”
She knew he was not satisfied with himself, not a man like Marco, who took his duties seriously. There may have been a puny garrison of soldiers billeted in Santa Maria at an undersized presidio, but the real authority of the crown resided in the juez de campo, a solitary man in a big land.
“How long have you been juez?” she asked.
“Ten years, since my father died and I turned twenty-one.”
She sighed. So much responsibility.
After she bullied him into smoked beef and chilies, she bullied him into the bathtub and scrubbed his back while she sang to him. Gradually, she felt the tense knots of his shoulder muscles relax. She poured in more hot water and left him to just sit there, his knees up in the tight space, his eyes closed. When she came back into their bedchamber with a dry towel warmed near the fireplace, he was nearly asleep. He offered no protest when she dried him off and pulled back the blankets so he could crawl into bed. He was asleep before she even started on her buttons.
He must have slept late, because the room was light when he woke up and looked around. He sniffed and smelled good things. Dressing quickly, he followed his nose, ready to apologize if it was really late, but more hopeful that Perla might be elsewhere, so he could fool around with the mistress of the household.
Alonso sat in his kitchen, shoveling in beans and cheese, and mopping it all up with Paloma’s tortillas, every bit as good as Perla’s. He looked up with a guilty expression to see Marco standing in the doorway. “I think I have eaten your breakfast,” he apologized. His hunger spoke volumes about how Maria Teresa managed her own kitchen.
“No, no,” Paloma scolded gently. “There is plenty more. My mother always had extra in her kitchen, in case someone stopped by.”
Alonso must have understood what she was really saying. He paused, mid-sop, and his cheeks reddened. “But probably not your Tia Luisa Moreno, eh?” he said quietly.
“No. I had a better example than Maria Teresa did,” Paloma replied, just as quiet. “Don’t worry, Alonso. You are always welcome in this kitchen. Sit down, husband. I should be able to find a moldy tortilla for you, and maybe some half-cooked beans. I’ll shake out any rocks.”
Marco smiled at her, and accepted hot chocolate. “Alonso. You’re early.”
“It’s nearly noon.”
“Then I trust I have not kept you waiting long.”
Reaching for his leather portfolio, his friend handed him a page that had been used for other writing and crossed through, paper being scarce. He pointed to the freshest ink, tapped it with his finger and waited.
Marco sipped his chocolate, then set down the cup and stared at the page. “What is this, Alonso?” he asked, in a voice he barely recognized as his own. “My cattle, too? And Jorge Maesta’s and Pepe Calderón’s?” he asked, recognizing the brands of two other nearby ranchers. “I knew I had lost one or two recently, but this is winter, when such things happen. What does this mean?”
Alonso’s head went down in shame. “After you rode away, I spoke to my herders. Maybe I was more forceful than usual. Maybe they had already heard of Maria Teresa’s … terror. Fernando Bustamante went to his knees, pleading for forgiveness.”
“For what?” Marco demanded.
“He had been running off livestock, one at a time, and hiding the cattle in that box canyon.” His expression hardened. “He thought he would build up his own herd at my expense! And my neighbors’ as well. When you sent the messenger earlier, saying you were coming, he panicked and slit their throats, knowing you would find the cattle, where I probably would not. He wanted to make it look like Comanches. Marco, I am so ashamed. Here is my tally.” With a shaking finger, he indicated the paper that Marco held.
“It wasn’t Indians?” Marco asked, as though he did not hear properly. He glanced at Paloma, who appeared equally astounded.
“It was only my servant,” Alonso said, in all humility now. “I have had him flogged. You may mete o
ut whatever additional justice he requires, even death.” He looked away. “I am still missing twenty more beeves, but Fernando has sworn on his mother’s grave that he had nothing to do with those.”
“How badly did you flog the man?” Marco asked.
“He won’t walk anytime soon.”
Marco heard Paloma’s little exclamation and watched her dart from the room, her hand to her mouth, probably feeling those stripes on her own back.
“Perhaps that is sufficient. Has he a wife and children?”
“He has. He cried and cried and said I do not pay him enough, so he had to steal from me,” Alonso exclaimed, indignant. “I have already assured him his children will become my slaves, because he owes all of us a great debt in cattle.”
“Perhaps you do not pay him enough,” Marco said, wondering—and not for the first time—how any servants of Spanish ranchers survived. “Don’t enslave his children, and that is an order. Go home, Alonso. I will inform Pepe and Jorge about their lost cattle. Just go home.”
“I would rather stay here,” his friend said simply. “My wife is in hysterics, barricaded in her room and vowing she will never come out until I have agreed to leave the valley.” He looked around, his eyes wistful, and Marco felt a surge of pity replace his anger. “Your home is peaceful. Please may I stay awhile?”
“No, my friend. You must find a way to her heart. You are bound to her by vows.” Marco spoke as gently as possible. His heart spilled over with gratitude for his own circumstances. His long drought was over; he feared his friend’s was only beginning. Hadn’t he just said her room, rather than our room?
Alonso nodded and left. Marco stared at the document in his hand, the brands so familiar to him. He had to quiz Toshua, because there must be more to this story. First he sought out Paloma.
The chapel was empty. He went into their bedroom to see her kneeling at their reclinatorio, her hands clasped in prayer. He did nothing more than rest his hand on her shoulder, which made her lean her cheek against his hand.
“Marco, do you ever want to gather up broken people and mend them?”
“Lately, all the time.”
Toshua was in Marco’s office. The Comanche had made the office his particular province, keeping the fire stoked, and the ashes cleared. Marco sat down at his desk and leaned back in his chair. Toshua watched him, his gaze unwavering and disconcerting. I will not look away first, Marco thought.
“Toshua, Alonso Castellano came here to tell me that one of his herders confessed to stealing those cattle. When he feared discovery, he slit their throats, in order to blame Comanches.” He leaned forward, his eyes still on the Indian’s. “Where are the cattle you rustled?”
Toshua looked away. “The twenty I spirited away are deeper in the little canyon just to the north of the box canyon. They are alive. I took those the first week after your woman was made so unhappy by that weakling and his foolish wife.” He smiled then. “I was going to steal more, but I watched that herder one night and left the rest of the thievery to him.”
Marco let out an exasperated breath. “Can you return them just as quietly?”
“You know I can.” He came closer, leaning his hip against the edge of the desk. “You knew I had not killed the cattle.”
“Of course. Do you think I am a fool?” Marco asked. “I doubt there is a Comanche alive who would ever destroy such a trading opportunity. Tell me: were you planning to drive them into Comanchería and use them to get back in good odor with your own band?”
Toshua shrugged. “I thought I might try, until your soft-hearted woman grew such big tears in her eyes over that worthless woman of Don Alonso’s. Those blue eyes must make it hard for you to rule her with any firmness.”
“I don’t rule her. I just love her,” Marco said. “You will return Alonso’s cattle?”
“It’s not a thing I am proud of, because the People do not return cattle,” Toshua retorted. “Kindly do not mention it again.”
Toshua left the office in all dignity, which meant Marco could have a quiet laugh in private. He stared at Alonso’s scrap of paper and transferred the information to two other sheets, one for Jorge and the other for Pepe. At least the Castellano’s thieving herdsman had been no respecter of persons; each of them had lost ten beeves to his avarice.
He glanced outside the window when he finished, watching high clouds scud across the sky, heading toward Comanchería and out across the plains of Texas. If he left now, he could deliver the documents to the ranchers and be home before Paloma even missed him. Or more to the point, before he missed her. He would show her he was a brave man and a faithful one, trusting God to keep her safe in his absence.
In charge of her emotions again, Paloma nodded at his plans and made him two sandwiches of beef left over from last night. She kissed him and waved goodbye.
Marco knew his neighbors. Jorge Maestas grumbled and glowered, calling down all manner of creative maledictions on the entire Castellano lineage, past, present and future. Pepe Calderón shrugged, called it the will of God, and urged Marco to spend the night, since the high clouds of afternoon had lowered ominously.
He shook his head and started home, watching the approaching storm over his shoulder. When the wind blew harder, he turned up his collar. When the snow pummeled him, he hunkered down in his saddle. When he could see nothing because of the swirling flakes that blew at him from all directions at once, Marco gave his horse his head and wondered how soundly Paloma would scold him for being an idiot.
He arrived home long after dark, his face sore from the hard bits of sleet that had flung themselves through the winter sky at men foolish enough to be out in a storm. He didn’t expect Paloma to fling open the door this time and rush out to meet him, because she was smarter than that. He curried his horse, then glanced at the office as he passed by on his way to his house.
He stopped. There was no light in the office, no smoke curling upward. He hoped Toshua had not decided to return Alonso’s missing cattle in the teeth of the storm.
When he opened the door to his home, no one ran to meet him. Panic rose in his chest like a partridge flushed from the brush. He took out his knife when he heard unearthly wailing from the kitchen.
He ran down the hall, calling Paloma’s name, and hurled himself into the kitchen.
Sancha crouched there, sobbing and tugging at her hair. His knife clattered to the floor and she looked up, then redoubled her wails. He willed his heart to beat again as he lifted her bodily to her feet and shook her.
“Why are you not at Hacienda Muñoz? Where is my darling?” he shouted.
Sancha sobbed in his arms. Desperate for answers, he wanted to shake her until she spoke, but he resisted. His arms went around her, holding her up, much as she had done eight years ago, when he returned to the Double Cross to find only death.
When her wails and moans turned into hiccups, he snatched a napkin from the table and held it to her ravaged face. She blew her nose and collected herself.
“Por favor, Sancha, por favor.”
She looked at him as though he was the ultimate final tribunal, the last stop before judgment and assignment to hell or heaven.
“Señor Muñoz ran away. I thought he was asleep, but the old man ran away,” she said, her voice so low he had to lean forward to hear. “We looked everywhere around the hacienda. We rode here, the guards and I, and told Paloma.” Sancha began to wail again.
“Stop it!”
She took a deep breath. “That savage said it wouldn’t be hard to find him, so they saddled up. He said they didn’t need guards, that he was enough.” She sobbed again, then stopped at the sight of Marco’s fierce glance. “The storm began an hour later, with snow blowing in all directions. What will we do?”
Tears in his eyes, Marco opened the door leading into the fallow kitchen garden. Snow crowded all the corners of the night sky, coming from everywhere and all points of the compass at the same time. He rested his forehead against the cold windowpane, remember
ing in an odd, disconnected way the stories of his grandfather husbanding those panes of glass through mountain passes to this valley. He calmly fought down all the despair in the universe and turned around.
“We will wait until the storm lifts, Sancha.”
“Can we trust that savage?”
“Have we any choice?”
Chapter Thirty-two
In Which a Warrior Fights and There Is Blood
The storm began after Toshua dismounted to look at the ground, squatting there and staring at something Paloma could not see. He looked at the darkening sky in some annoyance, as though it was little more than an inconvenience, like mosquitoes.
The sky frightened her, growing darker and darker long before nightfall. Ice chips, cutting her skin, tumbled out of the sky before the snow, driven almost horizontal by the wind that made her shiver and wish for the warmer cloak that the crazy seamstress in Santa Maria had promised to sew for her. She wanted to tell Toshua to turn back. Maybe Señor Muñoz had decided to call on a neighbor and hadn’t really wandered away, lost. She shook her head. He would never do that. She remembered his blank expression during a visit last week, when she mentioned the Roybals, and then the Obregons, his closest neighbors. “And who might they be?” he had snapped. “You chatter on about people I have never heard of.”
As she considered the matter, she thought again of the old priest at San Miguel who wandered in his mind like Señor Muñoz. There was a spring day she had managed to sneak away from the Moreno household, just to enjoy the sun as gentle as lotion and the new buds on the apple trees. She had found Father Cristóforo in the mission courtyard, his face to the sun. When she joined him there, two sun worshippers after a long winter, he spoke to her of his days at the University of Salamanca, the lectures he was attending, and his landlady who served sour cabbage soup three times a day.
Carla Kelly - [Spanish Brand 01] Page 27
