Paloma and the Horse Traders

by Carla Kelly

  “I always do what Marco says, when he sounds like that,” Paloma told him.

  “Since when, my love?” Marco teased.

  Claudio looked from one to the other. The tears welling in his eyes rolled down his dirty cheeks, leaving tracks. “Paloma, you’re happy, aren’t you?”

  She nodded, and felt her own tears. “Never happier,” she wailed, which set off little Claudio again.

  “So am I,” Marco told her brother. He took a more careful hold on Claudio, his arm around the man’s waist.

  “I still stink,” he said.

  “I don’t care. I think your little sister will let us borrow her private bathhouse tomorrow. Whether you like it or not, the hair and beard are going away.”

  “I’d like that,” Claudio said in a soft voice.

  Paloma held little Claudio close to her in one arm, and Soledad in the other. She watched her husband and brother slowly cross the hall. Even from that distance, she saw the relief on Claudio’s face when he lay down again.

  Sancha peeked into the room, eyes wide and fearful, with Graciela behind her. Paloma motioned them in and explained what had just happened. The story sounded strange, even to her ears. She knew Claudio was dead, but here he was. God is good, she thought, hoping with every fiber of her being that her long-dead parents were somehow granted a glimpse of their son and daughter in each other’s arms again, after a long and terrible time.

  “Shh, shh, little one,” she crooned to Claudito. In a few moments his tears stopped. He rubbed his eyes and cuddled close, still upset at this sudden turmoil in his orderly world.

  Soledad burrowed close, too, but soon she tugged on her eyelashes. In another moment, she felt heavy against Paloma’s belly. A finger to her lips, Sancha picked up Soli and carried her to her bed. The housekeeper commandeered Claudio next. His protest ended in a yawn, and then he slept. Paloma closed the door and darted across the hall.

  Marco had found two more pillows to prop up Claudio, whose face—seen through his tangle of beard—appeared drained of all color. Whether they could blame the wound or the shock of their reunion she couldn’t say, but she would have wagered her own skin was just as pale.

  Weakly, Claudio patted the bed and Paloma made herself comfortable there. Marco pulled up a stool. The three of them just stared at one another, until Marco began to smile.

  “It was the song?” he asked, tears filling his eyes again. “Paloma, you don’t even sing that lullaby very much. What if you hadn’t sung it tonight?”

  She crossed herself, not wanting to contemplate the idea of them going their separate ways, unknown to each other. It could have happened so easily, because of Claudio’s shame at his repugnant odor and dishevelment, and his desire to be anywhere but in the house of gentle folk. You could have left in a few days, and I never would have known, she thought, aghast at the idea. She reached out to touch his feet.

  “Would we have known each other?” she asked finally.

  “Hard to say,” Claudio said after his own long silence. “You were a skinny little girl of eleven.”

  “I knew you were dead,” she began, desperate for his story but aware of his exhaustion. “I knew it! How did this happen? I mean, after … after it all ended—a day after, because Mama pushed me under the bed and told me not to move—I went to the edge of the field, and there you were. I remember your cloak, red and black striped, that Mama wove.”

  He shook his head. “The man you saw was Jesús Perez. Remember the morning? It was cool out. He was shivering, and I threw my cloak over his shoulders.”

  She did remember, remembered how she stuffed her hand in her mouth and bit down so she would not cry out to see her father sliced open with his insides outside. And there was little Rafael lying next to him, eyes wide and staring, reaching for Papa, his fingers making deep troughs in the soft ground, his scalp gone.

  “I looked for you, saw the cloak, and had my answer,” she whispered. “I was too afraid to stay there.”

  Marco was too far away. All it took was one glance, and he climbed on the bed, too, holding her between his upraised knees, his arms tight around her.

  “How did you alone survive?” she asked her brother. “It was God’s mercy.”

  He shook his head slowly. “God wasn’t anywhere near us that morning.”

  Paloma leaned toward Claudio, taking comfort from Marco’s arms around her. “He was closer than we knew,” she whispered. “We’re still alive.”

  He gave her a skeptical look, then sighed and leaned back carefully, turning slightly to protect his wounded shoulder. “It was an ordinary, everyday morning,” he began. “And then—how do Comanches do that?—they came from nowhere and we were surrounded. No sound. One moment they weren’t there, and the next moment they were riding alongside us, not even in a hurry, just biding their time, because they knew they had us.”

  Paloma shivered. “It was that way at the house. I was in Mama’s room, and the next thing I knew, she was pushing me under her bed, as quiet and calm as you please. They came into the house on horseback.”

  He reached for her hand, suddenly much younger, as though telling this terrible story had thrust him back through years of blood, sorrow, and opportunities unfulfilled. “Our parents did the best they could, Paloma,” he said. “When the attack started, Papa pushed me off my horse, which took fright, reared, and fell down.”

  Claudio passed a shaking hand in front of his face, and he had started to sweat. Marco got up, dipped a cloth in water, and handed it to Paloma, who gently wiped the greasy sheen from his forehead and upper lip.

  “The last thing Papa did was whisper to me, ‘Crawl under. Hold still.’ He had used his own lance to stab my horse dead, and it poured blood over me.” Claudio shook his head, disbelief in his eyes. “Now he had no weapon for himself, but he saved my life. I did as he said and lay still.”

  “Papa would do that,” Paloma said through her tears.

  “I heard everything going on around me, horses and people screaming, the Comanches singing. Did … did you see Papa?”

  Paloma nodded, unable to speak.

  “I’m sorry. Rafael, too?”

  “I didn’t go into the field. I was too afraid,” she said.

  “I’m glad you didn’t, little sister,” Claudio said. “Whe … when it was quiet, I heard the raiders ripping off sca ….”

  “No, Claudio,” Marco said firmly. “We know.”

  Claudio looked at Paloma. “I couldn’t do anything, Sister, you can see that, can’t you?”

  “More clearly than you can imagine,” she said. “If you had done anything, that would have been one more death that Papa didn’t want. Did they leave then?”

  “I’m not certain. I could feel the hoof beats of many horses around me, and then there were fewer. They were probably heading toward the hacienda.”

  Paloma nodded.

  “The rest remained in the field, going from horse to horse, taking off saddles and bridles.” Claudio’s eyes were twin pools of terror now, as he remembered. “I had managed to dig myself a little breathing hole under my horse. “I held my breath and went completely limp.”

  He stopped, closed his eyes, and let the tears fall. Paloma wiped his face again, crooning to him as she would to comfort her brother’s little namesake. Marco got off the bed again to find and pour a small glass of the aguardiente they saved for special occasions and toothache. To Paloma’s surprise—Marco never drank—he knocked back a glass first, shook his head in surprise at its strength, then poured another one for Claudio.

  Claudio swallowed and sighed with relief. Paloma wondered how many nights he needed just such a restorative. “A raider yanked off my horse’s saddle, and then I could just feel him standing there, staring down at my legs and torso.” He reached for her hand this time. “Paloma, I wanted to scream and scream and never stop, but I just held my breath.”

  She let her breath out slowly, realizing she had been holding it, too.

  “O Dios, he s
tuck his lance in my side! Pinned me right to the ground, then put his foot on my back to pull it out.”

  Paloma burst into tears. Marco put his hand on her neck and pulled her even closer. Perhaps driven by instinct, he put his hand on her belly to protect their unborn child from the ferocity of this story. He held her close and then reached out and held Claudio to them both.

  “I know I jerked as he pulled it out. I couldn’t help myself!” Claudio said when he could speak. “All I can imagine is that the Indian thought he was causing the movement with his lance.” He let out his breath in a whoosh. “Then I was alone in the field. They left as suddenly as they came.”

  “That’s the way of The People,” Marco said. “I am amazed that any of us are alive in Comanchería. You just stayed there, didn’t you? But you were bleeding.”

  “I packed my side with dirt. Didn’t know what else to do. It caused a terrible infection later. Not sure how I survived that, either.” Claudio separated himself from their embrace. He touched Paloma’s cheek, flicking at the tears on her face. “I could see the hacienda in the distance, on fire. I saw servants running from the burning building.” He closed his eyes tight. “Oh, what they did to the servants!”

  “I saw them later,” Paloma said. She glanced at Marco. “You can ask my husband. Sometimes, even now … nightmares.” She gave her husband a long look, almost as if seeing him for the first time. “He lets me know I am not alone.”

  “You just stayed under the bed, Little Sister? Even when they fired the house?”

  Paloma nodded. “I obeyed Mama.”

  “It burned down! I watched it!”

  Paloma turned her face into Marco’s shirt, her anguish so real, thinking now that Claudio might have been watching. This is one of those things that does not bear thinking about, she told herself. He was so close, but I did not know it. She pressed her face into Marco’s shirt, breathing deep of his particular fragrance. If anything had happened differently, she would not have met this dear man who was the whole world to her now. She also knew she could never admit as much to Claudio.

  “It didn’t burn down completely. The vigas fell just so onto the bed when the ceiling collapsed, and then it began to rain, if you remember. Those beams kept the ceiling from caving in on the bed.”

  He nodded. “So you stayed there another day?”

  “I did. I crawled out ….” She took a deep breath, and another, as Marco’s hand tightened on her belly. “I saw Mama. Oh, Claudio!”

  “Don’t think of it,” Marco whispered to her. “Your mother was not suffering then. It was all over by the time you saw her mortal clay.”

  “I know, my love,” Paloma said. She put her hand over his. “Claudio, I couldn’t find a shovel to bury her and her little one.” Hot tears fell on her hand again. “I found a spoon and I dug and dug until I could at least cover them with a layer of dirt.”

  She felt Marco shake. “You never told me that,” he whispered.

  “It’s too hard to even think about,” she said quietly.

  “I never saw the dirt, or I swear before all the saints I would have searched for you,” Claudio said.

  “How could you have known?” she said sensibly. “You probably thought the raiders had carried me off.”

  “I did. You were only eleven, a useful age for a slave like … like ….” Claudio looked at the door, where Graciela crouched, listening. “Like her.”

  “Where did you go?” Paloma asked, wanting other images to chase away the one of her mother, violated and disfigured, and still clutching the unborn baby ripped from her body.

  Claudio did not hesitate to continue his narrative. He must not have wanted that image in his mind, either. “When I could stand upright, I started walking to the Borregos’ estancia. I thought west was safer than east. What a fool I was!” he said bitterly. “It was burned, too, and full of death. I ended up crawling then. I fell into an empty acequia. That is where the horse traders found me a day later.”

  He lay back, exhausted. “The rest of my story will keep for another day. What about you, Sister?”

  “I started walking south toward El Paso, but there were soldiers coming by then, and I didn’t have to walk far,” she said. “They took me to the Franciscans, and a few months later I was in Santa Fe with our uncle, Felix Moreno.”

  “That’s a relief,” he said.

  No, it wasn’t, she thought, but you don’t have to know any more now. “My story will keep, too,” Paloma told him. “You need to sleep.”

  “After this?” he asked, “How can I?” Even as he spoke, his eyes closed.

  She touched his cheek, eager to see him with the beard gone and hair trimmed. She wondered if she would find the brother she remembered under all the layers of dirt and time and sad experience.

  “He was teaching me to dance,” she told Marco, as they stood close to the bed, looking down at her sleeping brother. “He was sixteen, and Papa and Señor Borrego were already talking about a wedding to unite the two estancias.” She crossed herself. “Rosamaria Borrego was never seen again.” She grabbed Marco’s shirt, pulling him closer. “Husband, why do we live in this place that the King of Spain doesn’t even care about?”

  He wrapped her in a fierce embrace. “I am here because this land is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh, as much as you are! If I could not watch the sun rise each morning to the east,” he shook his head, “I don’t know what I would do. You still love me, don’t you?”

  Silly man.

  After checking on their sleeping children, Paloma sent Graciela to bed on her pallet in the alcove of the children’s room, a neat area curtained off and private, a small place of her own. When she returned to her bedchamber, Marco was kneeling on the reclinatorio, his eyes closed in prayer. She came up behind him, leaned against him, and put her hands on his bowed head, giving him her own loving benediction. He relaxed, and she felt the tension leave his body.

  In bed, they burrowed close together, Paloma grateful for his arms around her.

  “I’ll never sleep tonight,” she declared.

  He laughed softly. “Yes, you will.”

  “How do we bear this?” she asked, desperate to know.

  “The same way I bore the death of Felicia and the twins, and the way you bore your own torment in the household of your uncle in Santa Fe.” He’d replied promptly, which told her that Marco Mondragón—widowed and sad, then happy again—had given the matter considerable thought throughout the years. “We finally have no choice but to leave it in the hands of God. If we keep struggling, we become bitter. If we resign ourselves to His gracious will, life goes on.”

  “Which way has Claudio chosen?”

  “Time will tell.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  In which soap and water begin the cure

  Paloma woke up hours later, not certain what had roused her. She listened for the children, but heard nothing. She moved slowly out of Marco’s slack embrace and sat on the edge of their bed.

  Before she stood up, her husband tugged at her nightgown. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I just want to see him,” she whispered.

  He rested his hand on her back, then gave her a little push. “Go, then.” He gave a low laugh. “I’m surprised you waited this long.”

  Paloma blew him a kiss and tiptoed into the hall. She peeked into Claudio’s room, blinking in the low light. The bed was empty. She stood briefly in shocked surprise, wondering if she had imagined the whole experience.

  She looked into the hall. There he stood, looking back at her, but leaning heavily on the carved chest from Spain. The way he stood, hunched over and stooped, reminded her of a predatory bird. She put her hand to her throat.

  “You gave me quite a start, Claudio,” she whispered.

  “I heard someone,” he whispered back. “Thought I saw him. Not a tall man. I think it is that Comanche.”

  “Toshua,” she said. “I wouldn’t doubt it.” She crossed the hall and took Cla
udio by the arm. “We’re never quite sure how he does it, but he walks these halls at night, especially if he is uneasy.”

  “You’re not afraid that he will murder us all?”

  “I used to be,” she said honestly. “He terrified me. I kept saving his life, though, and he would never harm me now. Back to bed, Claudio?”

  He shook his head. “I dream when I sleep. Always.”

  “I can give you another sleeping draught.”

  “No. I’d rather just sit somewhere and stare at you.”

  And I, you, Paloma thought. Silently, she draped his good arm over her shoulders and led him into the sala. She sat him down on the most comfortable bench, the one with the mohair blanket and pillow where Marco liked to rest, if ever he found a free moment. That was a rare event, indeed, with two little ones always eager to sit on him and demand stories or songs.

  She heard Claudio’s sigh of relief, and knew she should have just marched him back to bed. But he was still her big brother, and she would continue to defer to him.

  “There now. Let me show you something.”

  She built a fire first. Soon the soothing fragrance of piñon made the weirdness of the time and circumstances seem almost normal, just another day. She lifted her old, bloodstained sandals from their nail on the wall, and took the Vega’s Star in the Meadow brand down, too. She pulled up a stool to the bench where Claudio lay watching her.

  He listened, eyes partly open, as she told him of her life in Tio Felix’s horrible household, and how Marco Mondragón, a widower, had arrived, paid a king’s ransom for a yellow dog to keep his feet warm in bed, and changed her life forever.

  “The dog kept running back to me. I had to return that silly yellow dog, don’t you see,” she said, and laughed softly when he smiled for the first time. “Maybe I was a little bit in love. Oh, bother it, I was a lot in love!”

  That was enough confession to a big brother. He didn’t need to know how haltingly she had confessed to Father Eusebio that for the first time in her life she was guilty of lust. Claudio only had to watch them together for a few days to understand this greatest gift of her life.