by Carla Kelly
Marco stood the watch, his eyes on the dearest wife a man could have and this new child of theirs, who had found his way into the Mondragón family. For now, his cradle would occupy a spot close to the corner fireplace. Perhaps Claudito and this newest arrival, small but a brother, could occupy the room across the hall recently vacated by Marco’s brother-in-law Claudio Vega and new wife Graciela. They were finally in residence on the old land grant belonging to Soledad’s father and mother, who had died of smallpox.
A house for Claudio and Graci had been started immediately, to replace the one he and Toshua had burned to the ground to avoid contagion. The mild winter meant construction went faster than usual, freeing up the bedchamber across the hall.
To think there had been a time when Marco had walked the halls of his house alone, groaning in grief and wondering if he would ever recover from the shocking loss of Felicia and the twins to cholera. Now his house overflowed with children. God is good, he thought, as he closed his eyes, too.
He woke before Paloma and slid out of bed carefully, determined not to interrupt her hard-earned slumber. The baby slept, too, so Marco picked him up, touched as Paloma’s fingers tightened around her son in what had to be a reflexive movement, because her eyes remained closed. He carried their baby to his cradle, the one Soledad had used first, and then Claudito, and laid him down.
Hands on hips, he stood there looking down at what he and Paloma had created. “Juan Luis,” he whispered. “For my little brother, gone these many years. Juanito.” He made the sign of the cross over the infant, then tiptoed to the reclinatorio, where he knelt and prayed. When he finished, he closed the door behind him and walked to the kitchen.
Her eyes bright with happiness, Perla la cocinera put before him well-frothed hot chocolate along with a bowl of mush and chilis, which she followed with anise bread slathered with butter.
Sancha and her husband Lorenzo came into the kitchen through the door that led to the kitchen garden.
“Fair morning, you two,” Marco said, feeling shy about the recent birth. Everyone in the earthy colony of New Mexico knew where babies came from, but he had never been one to brag about his obvious fertility.
Trust Lorenzo, that newly reformed horse thief—redeemed by Sancha’s love—to make mention. “Señor! Two sons now! Such prowess.” He laughed. “Sancha tells me that your first wife—God rest her—gave you twin sons. Has no one ever written una canción about the stallion of Valle del Sol?”
“Lorenzo, enough,” Marco said, grateful he and Paloma had told no one of his Kwahadi name, Big Man Down There. “We have been blessed and that is sufficient.”
Sancha gave her husband a good-natured shove while he laughed and tried to shield himself from her harmless blows. Marco watched them, pleased—and relieved—that Lorenzo had remained true to his promise not to thieve or steal anyone’s livestock. Even Emilio, Marco’s mayor domo, had to admit that the man had become an exemplary stockman.
He was useful in other ways, too. “Lorenzo, would you go to the presidio and see if there is any official mail for me?”
A year ago, Lorenzo wouldn’t have ventured near a presidio unless forced. Now his herder looked up and nodded. “I’ll go now,” he said and touched his finger to his forehead.
“Sancha, your husband is no longer a rascal,” Marco teased, after Lorenzo blew a kiss and left the kitchen. “I hope you still love him anyway.”
Sancha pinked up and shook her finger at him. They sat in mutual friendship, discussing the day’s plans, which included keeping little Soledad, four years old now, and Claudito, nine months younger, from disturbing their mother’s needed rest. “You let the children look, then I’ll keep Soli occupied,” Sancha said. “If you send Claudito to the horse barn, Emilio will do the same. What will you do?”
She knew him well, and had every right to ask. “Look in on my dear ones now and then, and try to clean up the mess that used to be my desk.”
“And try to stay awake yourself?” she asked gently. “Señor, if there is a better husband and father than you, I can’t imagine where he is to be found.”
God forgive him for allowing his emotions to be so close to the surface this day. Marco wiped his eyes and said nothing, which made Sancha get to her feet and touch his shoulder, a liberty she had only begun to take after the death of his first family. She gave him a little shake, then went about her duties.
Hearing his children speaking in loud whispers, he joined them in the hall in front of the closed door. He knelt beside them, Soledad—the daughter of his heart but actually his wife’s cousin—and Claudito, the child he and Paloma thought they would never have.
“Your mama had a baby early this morning.”
“A sister for me?” Soledad asked hopefully.
“Ah, no. Will another brother do?” he asked, pleased when her arm went around his neck. Por dios, he loved this child.
Soli gave him a wry look, which turned quite serious, because that was Soledad. “Next time it must be a sister for me.”
“There is never a guarantee, mija,” he said. “You will come to love this little Juan Luis.”
“He’ll play in the acequia with me and I’ll teach him stuff,” Claudito declared.
“We’ll give him a little time to be a baby before he does that,” Marco replied. He stood up and opened the door. “Be very quiet. Your mama is worn out because having babies isn’t easy.”
He took their hands and walked them to the bed, where Paloma was starting to open her eyes. How did she do it? He knew how tired she was, how she had clutched him during the delivery, and here she was, her smile as radiant as any he had ever seen. She patted the bed and Claudito, with Marco’s gentle caution, climbed carefully into her arms.
“Soli, you and Papa go to the cradle and see if your new brother is awake.”
He kept Soli’s hand in his until they reached the cradle. Soledad knelt by the cradle and looked into Juan Luis’s wide-open eyes.
“Hola, hermano,” she said softly as she touched his cheek. “You will like it here.”
Ay de mi! His traitor eyes! Marco hadn’t bothered to tuck in his shirt, so he used it to wipe away his tears and reflect on the reality that he was turning into a soft old man.
“Is he awake, my love?” Paloma asked.
“Yes, and probably hungry,” Marco said, pleased to have a task that he enjoyed. He picked up Juanito, breathed in that new-baby fragrance again and brought him to his mother, who was already unbuttoning her nightgown. In another moment, their son was nursing quietly while his brother and sister watched.
“Does he get lots and lots?” Soli asked.
Paloma nodded. “Lots and lots.” She touched Soledad’s hair. “Have Papa brush your hair and tie it back with a ribbon, then see if you can help Sancha today.” She tugged playfully on Claudito’s ear. “I imagine Papa will find something for you to do involving baby animals. He is good at that.”
Marco blew her a kiss as he led their little family from the bedroom. In the nick of time Sancha saved him by brushing and braiding Soli’s hair herself. Once the children were fed, he took Claudito to the horse barn, where Emilio had a bum lamb to feed.
Marco watched a moment, then went to his office next to the horse barn, the free-standing building that his friends Toshua and Eckapeta shared when they visited.
He stood in the doorway, missing his Comanche friends, who had been away most of the winter. Their sleeping bundles were stowed neatly by the fireplace, put there by Eckapeta, who was as tidy as Sancha, although he would never share this observation with his housekeeper.
Marco leaned against the doorframe, wondering when Eckapeta would appear. The Comanche woman knew roughly when Paloma was due, and Marco had witnessed her territoriality as far as Soli and Claudito were concerned.
“And what about you, Toshua?” he said out loud as he shut the door and sat at his desk. During a brief solo visit after Christmas, Eckapeta had told him that the Kwahadi and many Comanche triba
l leaders to the east had gathered in Palo Duro Canyon to discuss the idea of a treaty with the royal colony of New Mexico.
Marco leaned back in his chair and thought of the last five years when he and others on the frontier had done their cautious diplomatic paso doble, hoping for just that. Maybe this would be the year, maybe not.
He turned his attention to the paper on his desk. Within a minute, he rested his head on his arms and slept.
Chapter Three
In which the Mondragóns need to remember just who is listening
“Señor? Señor?”
Marco opened his eyes and sat up, his hand going immediately to his back. I want my own bed, he thought as he stood up and stretched and winced. “Entra, por favor,” he said.
Lorenzo crossed the threshold, but not before taking a careful look around to make sure no Comanches were in residence.
“You should be at peace with Toshua,” Marco replied, amused. “You cannot deny that he saved us last year when we attacked Great Owl with our minuscule army.”
“I will always check first,” the reformed horse thief said with a smile.
“I am expecting Eckapeta any time, though,” Marco told him. “She has a sixth sense about babies.”
“I’ll look out for her,” Lorenzo assured him.
“You’ll never see her,” Marco said and laughed. “Nor will I. I only hope she doesn’t embarrass me by sitting by the cradle some early morning in my very own bedroom, and I none the wiser. Do you have letters for me?”
Lorenzo handed over the battered pouch. “Lieutenant Gasca sends his greetings and congratulations on the birth of your son. Says he will be around soon to see for himself.”
Once he was alone again, Marco checked his timepiece, amazed that he had slept a major portion of the day away. He picked up his official correspondence and hurried from his office, his conscience smarting because he had promised Paloma he would check on her.
The kitchen was empty and a cosmic thumb and forefinger smacked his skull. He had promised Paloma she could rest. Where would the children be, but with her?
He opened their bedroom door quietly and peeked inside. All was quiet and orderly. Soli looked up from the end of their bed, where she sat cross-legged, playing with her dolls, and put her finger to her lips.
Pillows behind her, Paloma slept, with Claudito cuddled against her thigh, his eyes closed, too. Relieved, Marco glanced at the cradle to see Juan Luis bright-eyed and wide awake. Happy for a chance to hold the little one, he went to the cradle and picked up his son, who stared at him through crossed eyes. In another moment he was nestled in a tidy package against Marco’s chest.
Marco eased himself down on the floor at the end of the bed, close to Soli. “Thank you for watching everyone so diligently,” he whispered to the child who had captured his heart the moment he held her four years ago. “I look at Juan Luis and I look at you, and suddenly you seem so much older than you did yesterday, before Juanito came. Why is that?”
Soledad gave him an indulgent glance. “We are all growing up, Papa.”
“Don’t grow up too fast.”
Content to sit there holding his newest child, he thought of his own childhood, so much of it spent in terror of Comanches and Apaches. He recalled long nights under the chapel floor, waiting for the Comanche Moon to set. And here sat Soledad, knowing little of such terror, although she had spent a few nights below ground herself.
He looked down at his son, who continued to regard him as though memorizing his face. “Ojalá, mijo, you will never know such days,” he whispered.
Paloma woke slowly, her leg extra warm where her son Claudito still nestled in slumber. She raised up slightly to see Soli, and then her husband’s broad shoulders as father and daughter chatted together. A glance toward the empty cradle told her precisely in whose capable arms her son was cuddled. Her womb contracted painfully, but she knew the ache would pass, as would the soreness between her legs, since babies came out the same way they went in.
She touched her breasts, which were already beginning to swell. By tomorrow, she would be engorged with milk, and Juan Luis would get the surprise of his young life. She would be milky and sticky, and not the wife of any man’s dreams, except Marco never said that. “I love you however,” he said simply, the first time they made love after Claudito, and her milk came in at a most inopportune time. She smiled at the memory, grateful for a flexible man. She could probably even get him to change a diaper.
“Marco, is he wet? The diapers are in the chest by the cradle.”
Her husband looked over his shoulder. “So is my shirt, but I didn’t want to bother him.”
He kissed Jan Luis on the top of his head before laying him down next to Soledad. The diapering followed, promptly and professionally, all the time her breasts began to yearn for the infant. In another moment Juanito latched onto her nipple.
Marco lay beside her, sharing her pillow, as Claudito slumbered on and Soledad returned to her dolls. “I was going to spend only a few minutes in my office, but I slept half the day away,” he confessed. “Some champion I am!”
“You were awake all night, too,” Paloma pointed out.
Marco took off his wet shirt and found a dry one. He came back to bed with his correspondence, which he rested on his chest as he lay down. Picking up a letter with a heavy seal, he snapped it.
“From our esteemed governor,” he told her, and held it open. He read quickly. “He is wondering if I know anything about the Comanches gathering to discuss peace.”
“Eckapeta will tell us when she arrives,” Paloma said. “She will be here soon.”
“Tonight?” he asked, putting the letter aside.
“Would you be surprised?” she questioned in turn.
He shook his head and went to the next letter, this one with a seal she was more familiar with, even though it still made prickles run down her back. She had seen this seal often enough in her uncle’s house in Santa Fe.
“It is from el contador principal, your favorite uncle.” As he read, he swore under his breath. “Flowery words! And here at the bottom, as I expected, the seven-year audit.”
She put Juanito to her shoulder for a burp. “I recall curses and a cuff or two from my uncle during the days when he was organizing his minions to make those audits. Every year, different ones went to different districts.”
“It’s our turn. He is sending Fernando Ygnacio.”
Back went Juanito to the other breast. “Wake up, little man,” she crooned, flicking the bottom of his feet with gentle fingers. “Don’t fail me now. Ah, there.”
Her husband was still looking at the letter. “Odd. He doesn’t call him Don Fernando, or even Señor Fernando, just … Fernando.” He folded the letter and searched through the remaining messages until he came to another one with the same seal. “Here is a letter from Señor Ygnacio himself. Or is it?” He read the letter. “No, it is from his daughter, Catalina, stating that she will accompany her father, and that she requires no special favors.”
Paloma’s eyes had started to close. At the mention of Catalina, she opened them. “Let me see that,” she said, and took the letter from him before he could hand it over. “ ‘I will accompany my father, as I have through many audits. All I ask is a place to sleep that is safe.’” She handed back the letter. “Marco, I know her.”
“Good or bad?”
Paloma shrugged. “Hard to tell, but I can say this: Señor Ygnacio is a meek little man dogged by years of misfortune.” She sighed. “His daughter has been forced to bear it with him.”
“You have met her?”
Paloma was silent, remembering a shy girl a little older than her. “Only once, and we were never introduced. She was quiet and my cousins Teresa and Tomasa were rude.”
“Why?”
“A few weeks earlier, my uncle announced that Mexico City was sending him a miserable felon who had served five years in prison for accounting errors he never could explain,” Paloma said. She lay
back, trying to recall the details from a time long ago. “When his prison term ended, he was ordered to Santa Fe to work for the rest of his life.”
“One would think five years in prison would be enough.”
“Not when you misplace government money, or so the story went,” Paloma told him. “Poor man! He came to the house to present a paper of some sort to my uncle. Uncle sent Catalina into the courtyard where his daughters were sitting.” She closed her eyes, remembering. “I watched from the shadow as they teased her about her father. Danced around her and poked her. Poor thing. I wanted to do something, but we know how little power I had in that household.”
“Yet another reason to wish your uncle to perdition,” Marco said.
“Perdition? Where is that?”
Paloma looked down to see Soledad watching them. “Little ears,” she whispered to Marco, then held out her hand to Soli, who came closer. “It is a bad place for people who are unkind to others,” she told her cousin, the granddaughter of Felix Moreno, the worst man she knew.
“Mama, you look so sad.”
“I have never liked watching bullies hurt people who have committed no offense,” Paloma said.
“You know bad people?” Soli asked in surprise.
“Very few, and they are far away,” she replied, grateful again that Marco had made certain her uncle would never know that Soledad was the surviving child of his daughter Teresa. She rested her hand on Marco’s knee. “All the people I know in Valle del Sol are good.”
“Sometimes I am not kind to Claudito,” Soledad admitted. “I won’t go to perdition, will I?”
Oh, heavens, Paloma thought. We must be more careful. “When Claudito tries your patience, what do we do?”
“I sit quietly in the sala,” Soledad said, “and you remind me to be kind.”
“When Claudito is unkind to you?”
“He sits in the sala, and you remind him,” Soli told her with a smile, “and then we forget and play together.”
