“Put them on my legs, husband. Your expensive yellow dog follows Andrés everywhere and I don’t mind.”
They slept as the moon rose.
Epilogue
When the leaves began to turn color, Father Damiano knew it was only a matter of time before Marco and Paloma Mondragón came to San Pedro by the Rio Chama, seeking shelter for the night. After all, a juez de campo had records to take to Santa Fe each year, where they would be stacked with reports from other districts and probably ignored. Such was the business of the crown. More than that, Father Damiano hoped the Mondragóns might tell him of their year on the frontier. He could decide for himself whether a marriage made in comparative haste had proved wise.
Hand in hand, they came into his office, kneeling for his blessing. He gave it with pleasure, delighted to watch them exchange glances that told him volumes about lovers, comrades and true partners.
Marco had sent Father Damiano a letter in early summer, explaining the mystery of old Joaquin Muñoz, a pair of boots and a Comanche. The brand inspector had asked the priest to keep his ear to the ground over any attempt to have him removed from his office of juez de campo. Father Damiano was pleased to assure the man that nothing of the sort had happened.
“What of Señor Muñoz?” Father Damiano asked. “Is he with you?”
“Alas, no,” Marco replied with a shake of his head. “He died a month ago. Pepita vows he perished from a broken heart, since we had to remove him from his land.”
“She may be right,” Paloma chimed in, the sadness in her eyes unmistakable. “Still, we could not leave him on his hacienda.”
“What of the Comanche?”
“As far as it is possible for a Comanche to promise anything, he promised me he would remain on the Double Cross during our visit to Santa Fe,” Marco said. “It is safer for him.”
“He remained unwillingly,” Paloma said. “He thinks he is my protector.” She leaned her head against Marco’s arm. “I don’t need two protectors. I still wish he would fade into the Texas plains, but who can reason with a Comanche?”
After Marco excused himself to help the teamsters stow the year’s wool clip for the night, Paloma lingered behind. She was quiet still, but with an air of confidence about her now that touched the priest. He could not profess any great personal knowledge of women, but she had the demeanor of a wife well-loved, the mistress of a household, the other half of an officer of the crown.
They already knew of his own sorrow; Father Bartolomeo had gone the way of all flesh that winter. With an ache in his heart, Damiano wished he could have told his great old friend that their prayers for this well-matched couple had not been in vain.
Paloma had more to tell him, speaking quietly, her head down. She spoke of her yearning for a child, but such a gift seemed not to be part of God’s plan. Damiano blessed her to be fruitful, promising Paloma he would remember her little petition in all his prayers.
“Marco tells me I am too impatient, but I know this is his desire,” Paloma said. After hugging him, she went to the door and added, “There is so much land, and we need sons.” Her expression grew wistful. “It’s more than that. I just want a baby. Do I ask too much?”
“No, my child,” Damiano assured her. “All in God’s time. We know He likes to do things His way, not ours.”
Officiating as the new abbot of San Pedro, Damiano blessed them again before they left for Santa Fe. They laughed when he confessed he was already looking forward to their return visit in a few weeks, when there might be more time to talk. In the unspoken part of his blessing, he included his own request from the beloved wife of Marco Mondragón. She did not ask too much; he knew she never would.
Father Damiano stood a long time at the open gates of San Pedro, watching the Mondragóns until they were out of sight. He chuckled to see Andrés bringing up the rear, a yellow dog carried in his own pouch that hung from the mayordomo’s saddle.
When he turned to go through the gates, he caught a glimpse of a horseman, one staying well back from the trail in the cottonwoods and willows along the river. The man rode a spirited horse and he look like an Indio. Father Damiano was the first to admit that his eyes were weak, even with spectacles. How could he be certain?
* * * *
A well-known veteran of the romance writing field, Carla Kelly is the author of twenty-nine novels and four non-fiction works, as well as numerous short stories and articles for various publications. She is the recipient of two RITA Awards from Romance Writers of America for Best Regency of the Year; two Spur Awards from Western Writers of America; a Whitney Award for Best Romance Fiction, 2011; and a Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times.
Carla’s interest in historical fiction is a byproduct of her lifelong interest in history. She has a BA in Latin American History from Brigham Young University and an MA in Indian Wars History from University of Louisiana-Monroe. She’s held a variety of jobs, including public relations work for major hospitals and hospices, feature writer and columnist for a North Dakota daily newspaper, and ranger in the National Park Service (her favorite job) at Fort Laramie National Historic Site and Fort Union Trading Post National Historic Site. She has worked for the North Dakota Historical Society as a contract researcher. Interest in the Napoleonic Wars at sea led to a recent series of novels about the British Channel Fleet during that conflict.
Of late, Carla has written two novels set in southeast Wyoming in 1910 that focus on her Mormon background and her interest in ranching.
You can find Carla online at www.carlakellyauthor.com.
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