by Carla Kelly
“Exactly. Over and done.” She thought about her uncle. “Sadly, some people never forget a wrong, Soli.”
“They are never happy?”
“Never, my love. Never.”
She glanced at Marco, who was beginning to doze off. Soledad, her eyes bright, put her hands up to catch the official correspondence dropping from his hands. She wrinkled her nose at Paloma, who wrinkled her nose back, pleased with her almost-daughter.
“You know your face will stick like that if you keep it up,” Paloma heard from the doorway, followed by an after-the-fact tap on the frame.
“Claudio!” Paloma said, as Marco stirred and looked around. “Come see our latest Mondragón!”
Her brother Claudio Vega came to her bed, kissed her forehead and nodded at Juan Luis, sound asleep.
“Good work, Sister,” he whispered. “I’ll be quiet so I don’t wake up this juez de campo who needs a shave and looks so undignified.”
Marco chuckled as Paloma patted her side of the bed, inviting her brother to sit down. Watching his dear face, which bore such a resemblance to their father’s, she wondered if she would ever tire of seeing the brother she had thought dead for so many years, married now and living on his own land grant close by.
“Paloma, you’re looking at me all sentimental,” he teased, as he touched her little one, smiling when Juanito’s hand grasped his little finger.
“Can’t help it,” she admitted. “I am surrounded by tender mercies.”
She asked after Graciela, who was getting closer to confinement with their own baby, and lay back to listen as her brother and husband, awake now, discussed new calves and the endless lambing going on now. The talk turned to a quick visit to Presidio Santa Maria. She closed her eyes with gratitude at the new life in her arms, and the family talk swirling around her.
She thought of her uncle Felix Moreno. No, Soledad. Some people are never happy. We are, though.
Chapter Four
In which Joaquim receives his own letter and wonders
It is a great pity that a man in power sometimes finds himself with less time to do what he wants. Or so El Teniente Joaquim Gasca, capitán of Presidio Santa Maria, had quickly discovered when his lieutenancy was restored last fall and the presidio at Santa Maria handed to him like the prize it wasn’t.
He complained to Marco, who assured him it wouldn’t hurt him to set a good example and spend less time mooning over women. Joaquim could have asked, “How would you manage without Paloma?” but he knew better. After their nearly foolhardy expedition to rid the world of Great Owl, Joaquim knew Marco’s heart. If ever a man deserved a comfortable, intelligent wife, it was Marco Mondragón.
“Your turn will come,” Marco had told him.
If Joaquim wanted to blame someone for his new status—he had gone from lowly private to commanding officer—he could point to Marco alone. After the death of Great Owl last fall, the juez de campo had insisted Joaquim accompany him on a quick trip to Santa Fe. Joining them also was Claudio Vega, Paloma’s long-lost brother, as a claimant to the open Castellano land grant vacated by the smallpox deaths of Alonso Castellano and his wife Maria Teresa.
Joaquim couldn’t help but be impressed with Marco Mondragón’s reception by Governor Juan Bautista de Anza. With admirable aplomb, Marco had set Great Owl’s scalp on the governor’s desk and leaned the renegade’s lance against the wall. When Marco finished his narrative, Joaquim found himself a lieutenant of the royal engineers again, and commanding officer of a faulty, shabby presidio in the worst part of New Mexico. He couldn’t have been more pleased.
He still was, mainly because Governor Anza gave him full rein, plus ten more troops, to turn the sow’s ear into a silk purse. Anza included a small bonus that Marco augmented without saying a word. The coins were enough to pay for materials to whitewash the inside of the presidio and burn sulfur to fumigate it. Daring him to object, Paloma had a Tewa servant weave a rug and two blankets for his spartan quarters. He hesitated over a similar rug in his office, wondering if it was military, but succumbed when she gave him her hard stare.
He mentioned that stare to Marco later, over wine in his quarters. “The first time she did that to me, I never again forgot to pick up my clothes from the bedroom floor,” Marco said and they laughed together.
I could use someone like Paloma in my life. The thought had been filtering through his brain all winter, as he trained his raw and stupid troops into something resembling soldiers. He did not envy Marco—not too much—because he knew that was folly. The more he saw Paloma and Marco together, the more he wanted a marriage like theirs, and not an endless cycle of women. That habit had only gotten him in trouble in garrisons from La Havana to St. Augustine to Mexico City, putting him at his lowest ebb ever, broken down to private and living in Santa Maria.
He had cemented himself firmly to his men by sitting down with them in the mess hall—unheard of in a commander—and telling them precisely what he intended. He assured the men who knew him from his earlier devil-may-care days that those times were over. He told the soldiers new to the presidio about his former life, minimizing none of his sins and misdemeanors. He told them they would train together and become the best presidio in all of Carlos the Third’s New World possessions.
He noted the men who shook their heads, and those who nodded them, which allowed him to focus on the skeptical. Joaquim was a Catalonian, and therefore too great a realist to suppose everyone would see things his way. He surprised himself. By the time the meadowlark was heard in Valle del Sol, a reminder of spring coming, he saw improvement.
He walked into the presidio’s courtyard, remembering with painful clarity his first glimpse of the shabby place. At the time, he had been forcefully reminded of how small the simple square fort was, with offices, barracks, mess hall, garrison chapel, storerooms, and artisan’s shops lining each interior wall.
The fort hadn’t grown any; it was still a miniscule display of Spanish might on the edge of the vastly more powerful Comanche domain. Even last year, it would not have surprised him if Indians had overwhelmed the presidio and Santa Maria and called it a job well done before noon.
Now he wasn’t so certain. His men were alert and able, steadily walking the terreplein as he knew Marco’s servants and personal guards did at the Double Cross. True, there were only two small cannon, but each was ready, and between the two of them could be aimed at any intruder. As the cannoneers said, at least they made a damned noisy impression.
He looked at the red and gold flag snapping in the stiff wind and felt a level of pride that had begun with Marco Mondragón’s ridiculously tiny but determined army of three—augmented by a handful of fierce Utes—that had set out to destroy Great Owl, renegade, troublemaker and all-around nasty man.
“We claim this in the name of Spain,” Joaquim said softly, and meant it.
Nodding to his men on duty, Joaquim strolled across the courtyard and up the stairs to the terreplein, that top deck where his men stood guard. He walked to the southwest bastion and looked toward the not-so-distant Sangre de Cristo mountains, towering and purple in the afternoon sun.
It was about time for him to visit the Double Cross, preferably near dinner, and see the newest Mondragón Lorenzo had mentioned. The thought happily coincided with the sight of two horsemen coming from that direction.
He watched as they materialized into Marco himself and Claudio Vega, Paloma’s brother. Both men carried lances, of course, and Marco had slung his bow over his shoulder as usual. Joaquim compared the sight before him to earlier, more perilous times, when no one dared travel alone or by twos. He wondered where Toshua was, and even Eckapeta, realizing how much he also liked them.
Someone—he couldn’t remember who—had told him, probably in jest, that Valle del Sol had a way of working on a needy person lacking friendship, or courage, or any number of admirable traits. He had scoffed at the time, but El Teniente Joaquim Gasca didn’t doubt it now. There was an empty spot in his heart
, but only there. He watched his friends approach with a feeling close to joy. The amazing part to him was that he still recognized the emotion.
He stood a while longer, elbows on the parapet, arms dangling over, so casual because there was no current danger. He watched his friends approach, then waved when they were close enough to see him. Clambering down the stairs, he stood by the slowly opening gate to receive them. One of his earliest orders had been to keep the gates closed always, and only to open them upon recognition or password.
Marco handed Joaquim his lance before he dismounted, the lance from old Kwihnai that Governor Anza had returned to him last fall. The juez de campo grasped his friend in a warm abrazo.
“Good news from my world, although I know you have already heard,” Marco said into his ear as he pummeled his back. “Paloma was brought to bed with another son. God has blessed us.”
Giving a friendly nod to Claudio Vega, Joaquim walked arm in arm with Marco as the three of them let the horses be led away and headed for his office.
Marco looked around appreciatively. “I obviously haven’t been here in a while,” the juez de campo said as he removed his cape. “And look here … Paloma’s rug!”
“You told me I had better accept it,” Joaquim reminded his guest.
“You are wise beyond your years,” Marco said, his eyes lively.
“Al contrario, amigo,” Joaquim said. “Sometimes I come in here early in the morning with bare feet, just because it feels good. Wine?”
Both his guests nodded, and he poured small amounts into three goblets, wine gifted to him from Santa Maria’s cobbler and occasional winemaker, who had a daughter of marriageable age.
Small talk seemed in order, so he turned his attention to Claudio. In Joaquim’s estimation, Paloma’s brother had changed this winter, too, from a suspicious, tight-lipped man who rode with horse thieves to a contented husband. Joaquim had attended Claudio’s wedding to Graciela Tafoya, the part-Ute former Comanche slave. The man’s eyes were calm now, his hair cut and combed, his entire demeanor relaxed. Joaquim thought again of Valle del Sol’s magic.
“And you, sir, I hear you have a house of your own, and cattle.”
Claudio glanced at his brother-in-law, and the look was most affectionate. “Indeed we do. The land grant is now in the Vega name, and I am again using the Star in the Meadow brand of our father—Paloma’s and mine.”
Joaquim nodded. “That is entirely as it should be,” he said politely, wondering why they had come.
He hadn’t long to wait. Marco reached into his doublet. “Here is the reason for our visit. Read it.”
Joaquim did, then handed it back. “You know I am a royal engineer, without much understanding of district policy. A seven-year audit is typical?”
“Most typical,” Marco said. “My records are up to date, with a few exceptions from some rancheros who never tell me the truth, and a pair of total idiots I will continue to ignore as long as I can.”
Joaquim chuckled at that. “Every district has them.”
“These two are more stupid than most,” Marco said. “As for the audit, I am a little surprised by the inclusion of the contador’s daughter. She sent us a separate letter announcing she could come, too.”
Joaquim reached behind him to his desk, where he found his own letter with the governor’s seal. “I received my own letter from Santa Fe regarding the audit. Apparently I am to have one soldier from the presidio sit with the contador and make sure you do not threaten or try to bribe him.”
Marco nodded, his expression merry. “Especially threats! I don’t know if the auditor will come here first, or to the Double Cross. We’re on the way, so we’ll likely see them before you do.”
“This extra note might surprise you.” Joaquim reached behind him again for a smaller letter. “It’s from … from la Señorita Catalina Maria Ygnacio. I don’t know what her game is.”
Marco read the note, frowned, then handed it back. “Paloma knows the auditor’s daughter, and something of the man’s history, which I will tell you before we leave this afternoon.” He tapped the letter in Joaquim’s hand. “This puts a new complexion on their visit, eh?”
“We’ll find out when the mountain passes between here and Santa Fe open and disgorge a contador and his daughter,” Joaquim said.
“Death threats, she says? Dios mio, this man is an accountant. Can you imagine anyone less likely to bring drama and death threats along with his quill pens and double entries?”
The men laughed at Marco’s joke. “And I thought living here on the edge of Comanchería was enough danger,” Claudio said and rolled his eyes. “At least we are not accountants, too!”
Chapter Five
In which Catalina worries, something she does well
As much as she loved her father, Catalina Ygnacio wondered how much longer she could continue to travel with him. She seemed to have no other prospects, so the answer brought no joy: forever.
Two weeks ago, the passes opened between Santa Fe and points farther east. That meant they’d had no choice but to go about the Crown’s business, even if it came with a threat. Catalina wondered if she had been wise to slip that little note in with the letter bound for the commanding officer of Santa Maria’s presidio, but it was too late to retrieve it. She was used to having her fears ignored or mocked, so she knew a skeptical look from El Teniente Gasca would roll off her back.
They had left Santa Fe in late March and endured two weeks of hard travel to arrive at this point, where they gazed upon a view of the sun-speckled valley wide open to distant Texas.
A view is only a view, though. For two weeks, she had watched the four-soldier escort, wondering which one would suddenly strike her father dead, once the audit was done, and kill her as well.
She discounted the coachman of the shabby carriage with the royal crest on the door, a silent mestizo who continually hummed the same five notes under his breath, when he wasn’t hawking and spitting through the spaces in his teeth. From sheer boredom she had tried to talk to him once, and got no response. “Tonto,” one of the soldiers told her, as he spun his forefinger beside his ear.
Each night when they made camp, she longed for them to get where they were going, even if it was to the edge of danger this time. Maybe someone would help them, she reasoned, then reminded herself that no one had ever helped them before.
By the time they finally left the last pass and enjoyed the sight of Valle del Sol spread out before them, Catalina knew as much about this particular juez de campo as she ever had. Their audits had introduced them to many brand inspectors, some coarse and ill-equipped, others organized and efficient. The one quality they all possessed was a vast disdain for her father, whose sad story must be known from Santa Fe to Alta California.
She expected nothing better from Señor Mondragón, but she couldn’t deny the more vulnerable part of herself that continued to hope. Maybe Papa knew of the man.
Papa merely shrugged. “All I know about Señor Mondragón is that some twelve years ago he succeeded his father as juez de campo and that he is efficient in his duties. Beyond that, he has done much to foster our current good relations with our noble friends, the Comanche.”
Papa had a surprising sense of humor, considering all he had been through. Noble, indeed.
She was silent, wondering about their reception, and steeling herself for the worst. She liked it best when she was ignored and allowed to work silently with Papa, checking his numbers because he had lost all confidence in himself. She could immerse herself in numbers and documents and for a moment forget their precarious lives. It wasn’t much to ask, and she did like numbers.
She sucked in her breath and gripped Papa’s arm when the corporal in charge of the escort waved the driver to stop. Maybe he hadn’t understood. Didn’t he know that Felix Moreno wanted the audit done before their deaths?
Papa opened the door. “Yes, corporal?” he asked, without a single quaver in his voice. Sometimes Papa was positively brav
e.
“We will be at the Double Cross soon. We could go on to the presidio and Santa Maria, but they are probably expecting us here,” the corporal said.
“Then we will remain here.”
Interested, despite her fear as they approached each new assignment, Catalina admired the solid stone walls. The guards who had been pacing as they approached had stopped, lances ready. She knew this was no place anyone, good or bad, would be able to approach unannounced, which reassured her.
She noticed a tall man standing next to a guard. He gestured to the corporal, who waved back. The gates opened and soon they were inside a spacious courtyard. As she watched, the tall man came down the stairway, a child riding on his hip. He came close to their dirty, shabby carriage and she saw his welcoming smile.
“Do you think he knows who we are?” she whispered to her father, who looked as surprised as she felt.
“I don’t know,” he whispered back.
The man opened the door and let down the step. Catalina admired his light brown eyes. The boy in his arms had similar eyes—father and son, no doubt.
“Welcome to the Double Cross,” he said. “I am Marco Mondragón and you must be Señor Ygnacio and … and ….”
“Catalina Ygnacio,” she said, in her most business-like voice.
“Oh, yes. The letter said there would be two of you for the audit,” he replied. He set down his son and pointed him in the direction of the hacienda. “Go to Mama.” He helped Papa from the carriage, then held his hand out for Catalina to step down. “Our house is your house,” he said most formally. These were words she had never heard before, coming from a man waiting to be audited, a man who surely knew of Papa’s past.
He spoke to the soldiers and gestured to an older man with a bunch of keys at his belt who must be the mayor domo. “Soldiers, Emilio will show you to the stable and the wagon yard, and then your quarters. Mind you, it’s nothing fancy, but you will be comfortable and the food is good.”
