by Carla Kelly
He had a hunch. “How long have you been doing your father’s audits?”
She gasped as though he had kicked the air out of her, but no matter. She had no business standing there, not really.
“Since I was fifteen,” she replied, her voice small now, devoid of confidence. “He … he came out of prison and was sentenced immediately to Santa Fe. You should have seen how his hands shook. I never asked him what happened in prison.”
“Just as well,” Joaquim replied, thinking of other skeletal men released from prison, blinking in bright light and shrinking from ordinary sounds. “Could he function in his office without you?” He made an impatient gesture. “For God’s sake, come in and sit down. This might be important.”
She did as he said. She was barefoot, and she kept her legs primly together. He knew how cold the tile was.
“He probably could function, but he relies totally on me.”
She sounded even younger, as though she didn’t want to be relied on, didn’t want any part of this steaming dish of offal fate seemed to have handed her with a spoon.
“Papa always brings home his work from the office, and I check his numbers.”
“Are they right?”
“Yes, but he has no confidence. If I tell him I am busy and can’t check them, he starts to shake.”
Good God, what a shadow of a man, Joaquim thought, disgusted. “If you and he were to disappear over here so close to Comanchería, no one would question it, would they?”
She shook her head. “No one.”
“And … what was his name?”
“Miguel Valencia?”
“Miguel Valencia will become the colony’s newest auditor.”
“He will. Teniente, I do not want to die here.”
She spoke with some firmness, which made him admire her courage. She had been shouldering big burdens far too long.
“Do you even want to return to Santa Fe?” he asked.
“Not really, but mostly I do not want to be dead,” she told him, which made him smile.
He thought for a long moment, considering her presence. He knew her feet were cold, because she started putting one foot on top of the other, then switching feet. They were two lonely people in a happy home, and he suddenly didn’t feel so lonely. No telling how she felt, but he could still make her a promise.
“Consider this, Señorita Ygnacio,” he said. “You now have three advocates in Valle del Sol. Perhaps four. I will be your friend, and so will the Mondragóns. Eckapeta, if you would allow her.”
“She frightens me,” Señorita Ygnacio said, and he heard her uncertainty.
“Me, too, but she is my friend,” he told her. “No one is going to hurt you, harm you, yell at you, or belittle you here. No one ever does. When the audit ends, we’ll get you safely back to Santa Fe or wherever you want to go, within reason.” He held out his hand. “Here is my bond and word.”
Her handshake was surprisingly firm, even though he didn’t think she had even touched a man to shake his hand. She was desperate for help of a kind he had never provided before. She just wanted a friend.
She rose and went to the door, but stopped there and turned around to face him. Ten minutes ago he would have just been impatient. For some reason, he wanted to hear her thoughts.
“Teniente, you said you were in Mexico City when my father went to prison. What were you doing there? Comanchería seems a long way from Mexico.”
“Indeed it is,” he told her, not embarrassed to speak the truth. “I was a royal engineer, sent from La Havana Cuba to rebuild a barracks.”
He could nearly see her surprise. “Then why …” she stopped, obviously realizing how blatant her question was going to sound.
He could help. “Why am I here?”
“Well, yes. It’s not polite of me—”
“Señorita Ygnacio, I got very lucky,” he said softly, and meant every word.
“I can’t believe you,” she replied, and he heard all the doubt in her voice, poor thing. She had no idea yet that her own fortunes had turned, none whatsoever. Pues, bien, it had taken him time, too.
“Go to bed, señorita,” he said, “but leave yourself open to the idea that you might be lucky, too.”
She said nothing. In a moment she was gone.
Chapter Nine
In which the boring, dull audit might begin. Or not.
Catalina Ygnacio woke to two children staring at her. Foggy with sleep, she stared back, then tried something new and radical that her conversation with El Teniente Gasca hinted at. She smiled; these children were not the enemy.
“We have a little brother, and I wanted a sister,” the girl said with a sigh.
“He’s really quite handsome,” Catalina said. Trying something else, she patted the mattress. To her gratification, the girl climbed up and lay down next to her. The little boy followed, and soon they were crowded close together in a bed designed for one person of lean dimensions.
The only way to keep everyone in the bed was to put one child on each side and put her arms around them. They cuddled close, which told her they were welcome in their mother and father’s bed. In another place she might have resented their good fortune and turned sour, but not today. She cuddled back and closed her eyes.
“I have a pony,” the girl announced.
“No, you don’t,” the younger boy stated firmly.
“You’re envious, Claudito.”
“Am not! You’re telling a tale and you know what Mama says about that,” said the boy, not inclined to back down. Catalina tried hard not to smile at the quarrel. She could hear a familiar firmness in Claudito’s reply suggesting that he was his father’s son.
“Señorita Ygnacio? I am so sorry.”
The sun was up and streaming in the window. Catalina opened her eyes to see Paloma bending over her, eyes full of apology for her children, who glared at each other.
“Don’t be,” Catalina replied. “We all got warm together. And please, call me Catalina.”
“Catalina you are, and I am Paloma.”
“Mama, Soledad is telling stories again. She says she has a pony.”
Paloma sighed. “Dearest Soli, what has Papa said about story-telling?”
“That I shouldn’t do it,” the little girl whispered.
It was none of Catalina’s business, this little mother-daughter exchange, but Catalina sat up. “I know a lot of stories,” she said. “The kind that won’t get you in trouble.”
The girl clapped her hands, her own misdemeanor obviously forgotten. “Could I tell those kinds of stories, Mama?”
“I believe you could,” Paloma said. She touched the little girl’s cheek and reached over Catalina to touch her son. “You two are wanted in the kitchen for breakfast.” She clapped her hands. “Right now, because churros don’t keep well.”
The little girl gasped and leaped from bed, tugging her brother and urging him to follow her lead.
Catalina watched with interest—she knew so little about children—as the small Mondragóns did as they were told. She had to hide a smile as Paloma called her daughter back and reminded her to fold her hands in front of her waist like a lady and walk down the hall.
“It lasts about ten paces,” Paloma said. “Just listen. Ah, yes, there she goes. Soledad loves churros.” She sighed. “Poor Soledad! She seems to need more attention than I can give her lately, what with a new baby.”
“Some of my stories are quite fanciful,” Catalina said, already thinking of where to begin.
“So are Soli’s,” Paloma replied, and they both laughed.
Instead of leaving, Paloma sat down on the bed, her hand to her stomach, which Catalina suspected was more ample than usual. The woman was not long from childbearing. Paloma’s eyes followed her glance.
“I press on it and press on it, like the midwife advised, but it seems to be taking longer than last time to shrink,” Paloma said. “I ask Marco if he minds. He laughs and says I am finally about where he likes me.”
She interpreted Catalina’s questioning face correctly. “Ay de mi, I was so thin when I came here,” she said. “Thin and angry. Well, no, not angry. Maybe I was angry before I met Marco. Or was I confused? I know I was sad at the turn my life had taken.” She extended her hand toward Catalina. “As you are now, Catalina Ygnacio?”
Catalina tried to feel offended. She sat there in silence, because she did not know how to respond to Paloma’s candor. She swallowed and felt an unfamiliar prickle behind her eyes. This would never do. She had told herself ten years ago when they set out on their exile to Santa Fe that there were no more tears left to cry, not when Papa needed her.
Paloma said nothing, only looked at her with such kindness that Catalina had to swallow again and again. If only her hostess hadn’t reached out both hands to her and pulled her close with more strength than Catalina would have suspected …. She let her tears fall.
“You’ve really been carrying too big a load,” Paloma said in that matter-of-fact way Catalina was coming to treasure, after a mere day in her company. “Marco and I talked about this last night, when Juan Luis woke us up. We agreed that you reminded us of each other, a few years ago.”
Catalina sobbed harder. She tried to pull away but Paloma held her closer.
“My papa needs me,” Catalina sobbed.
“No, he doesn’t. Marco is showing him around the Double Cross right now,” Paloma said, her voice so soothing that Catalina could only breathe deep and enjoy the warmth of the woman’s embrace. “They were even laughing about something when I saw them last by the acequia.”
I cannot keep crying, Catalina told herself, and willed an end to tears. She couldn’t do a thing about the closeness of Paloma’s embrace, and didn’t try. “My father never laughs.”
“He was doing an excellent imitation of it when I looked outside,” Paloma told her. “When you feel better, come to the kitchen and you can have breakfast. I doubt there will be any churros left.”
“But the audit is supposed to begin today,” Catalina said. “There is much to do.”
“Not really,” Paloma said with a shrug. “El Teniente Gasca had to go back to the presidio. Marco gave him many leaflets to sort out among his soldiers. They’ll take them around to the townsfolk who have livestock, and out into the country.”
“Why?” Catalina asked. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose with the handkerchief Paloma handed over without a comment. “Surely the juez de campo has already accounted for each animal.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh! I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“I know you didn’t,” Paloma said. “My husband does his job quite thoroughly, but not everyone is honest. Marco has noticed that some people need a friendly reminder. He gives them another chance.” Paloma stood up and touched Catalina’s head. “Everyone gets a second chance here. Take your time.”
“But ….”
Paloma laughed and touched her head again, giving her a friendly push this time. “This isn’t Santa Fe! Things move slower. We can move fast when we need to. Before Joaquim went back to the presidio, he and Marco crafted a wonderful letter to the governor that was a testimonial to vagueness. They signed it and sealed it.”
“The soldiers?” Catalina asked, unable to keep the fear from her voice.
“On their way to the presidio to fetch rations for the return trip. El Teniente gave them the letter for the governor and stressed the need to return to Santa Fe quickly. Two of our presidio soldiers will escort them as far as the Dolorosa Pass in the Sangre de Cristos. No one will turn around and come back. Be easy about that.”
Catalina let out a shuddering sigh. “I can’t tell you what that means to me.”
“Just remember what I said about second chances.” Paloma went to the door. “I know I hear Juan Luis.” She hefted her right breast. “If he squeaks, I flow. We can talk later in my room. The door is always unlatched.”
Amazed, Catalina lay back in bed, the handkerchief pressed to her face. It smelled wonderfully of sage and rosemary. She was warm and comfortable and her father was occupied. She tried to think of any time in recent memory when she had felt this way, and couldn’t.
Dressing quickly, she walked down the hall to Paloma’s room and tapped lightly on the door.
“Do come in,” Paloma said. “I’m being held captive by an eating monster.”
Catalina laughed and came inside, enjoying again the pleasant fragrance of rosemary and sage. Paloma lay there with her eyes closed, a smile on her lips, as Juan Luis suckled. She opened her eyes and patted the bed. Catalina sat.
“There was a time we doubted I would ever be fruitful,” her hostess said in her frank way. “I was so thin and I never had monthlies.” She smiled down at her son, who had detached himself and lay there in what looked like a milk stupor. Milk still dripped from her nipple, and he took a lick now and then, which made Catalina cover her hand with her mouth and laugh softly.
“This is the messy time, I have discovered,” Paloma said, as she covered up and lifted the sleeping baby to her shoulder. “In a week or so this child and I will come to a meeting of the minds. He’ll get more efficient, and I will be tidier.”
“And so life goes on at the Double Cross.”
Catalina looked around to see Señor Mondragón leaning against the doorframe, his eyes on his wife. Paloma blew him a kiss as Juan Luis burped, then handed him their son for a return to his cradle.
When the juez de campo came back to the bed and sat, Catalina stood up in sudden alarm. “Where is my father?”
Señor Mondragón raised a hand to slow her down. “He’s in my office, looking over a monumental stack of paper, and smiling like a good Spaniard.” He rubbed his hands together. “We do love our red tape, don’t we?”
“But I should be there to help,” Catalina insisted.
He waved her down. “He’s fine. I have a wonderful table I use for audits, with lines painted on it to segment into years. My father, juez de campo before me, built it especially for audits. He’s sorting the stacks into each allotted space.”
“Did … did he ask for me?”
“No. He has it under control, Señorita Ygnacio.”
“She’s Catalina to us now, my love,” Paloma said.
“Ah! Excellent. Then I am Marco. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Who could not smile at that? Still, she couldn’t give up so easily. “He always needs my help.”
“I don’t doubt that for a moment,” Marco told her, his light-brown eyes so kind. “He tells me you are a maestra with numbers. He also confided that you work too hard, so we agreed he would organize the papers and let you enjoy a quiet morning with my wife.”
Catalina looked from the husband to the wife, wondering what conspiracy was afoot here. She thought again of what Joaquim Gasca had told her last night, how he had gone from royal engineer to private, and had the good fortune—that was good fortune?—to be cast into outer darkness in Valle del Sol. She felt her heartbeat slow down as calm returned. She breathed deeply again of the combined fragrances of piñon from the fireplace, rosemary and sage perhaps from the sheets, a milky odor from Paloma’s abundance, and campfire and leather and something else from Marco that she could not identify. Maybe it was his hair oil.
Feeling her shoulders relax, she looked down at her hands, suddenly aware that although they were usually balled into fists, that wasn’t the case now. “I really have nothing to do today?” she asked.
Both Mondragóns shook their heads.
“Good,” she said, and meant it.
Marco stood up. He kissed the top of his wife’s head while she pursed her lips and kissed the air. How does a person get so lucky? she asked herself. Could it ever happen to me?
“I’ll be in the horse barn with Claudito, if you need me,” he said from the doorway. “Soledad is helping Sancha plant beans in the kitchen garden.”
“Is Eckapeta still here?” Paloma asked.
I hope not, Catalina thoug
ht, then felt her cheeks grow warm. Obviously these kindly people loved that Comanche woman.
“She left early, before Señor Ygnacio and I had breakfast. She said something about finding Toshua and telling him of the letter.”
And who is Toshua? Catalina asked herself. Please, please, not another Comanche.
“It might stir the other Kwahadi to action,” Paloma said. “They already spent all winter talking about a treaty.”
“You know they love to talk,” Marco reminded Paloma. “I almost suspect they will want Governor Anza to come to them. You know, to see how brave he is.” He sighed, as if thinking of earlier doings she knew nothing of.
Catalina sucked in her breath, and both Mondragóns gave her their attention. Again, that placating gesture from Marco. “Catalina, we have friends in strange places out here beyond the frontier. Better dust off your cradleboard, wife,” he said to Paloma. “We might be riding east this summer, and taking along our latest addition.”
Catalina looked at Paloma for a sign of fear and saw only calm.
“And I am doing nothing today,” Catalina whispered after he was gone.
Paloma winked at her and they laughed together.
What with this and that, the audit of the Valle del Sol District, Royal Colony of New Mexico, in the domain of Carlos Rey Tres didn’t begin until the entire week had elapsed. “This and that” used to bother Joaquim Gasca. Excessive aguardiente and females might have distracted him for too many years, but they never entirely squelched the engineer’s part of his brain that cried out for order. He couldn’t understand why Marco felt no urgency about the audit.
“The escort never seemed suspicious to me,” Joaquim had told Marco, when he brought leaflets to the presidio for the soldiers to deliver for the audit. “Do you suppose Señor Ygnacio is completely crazy?”
“He might be, but his daughter isn’t,” Marco assured Joaquim. “You should watch her start to relax now, and unbend a little.”
“Paloma magic?”
“Of course,” Marco agreed, either generously overlooking that hint of wistfulness that Joaquim couldn’t quite camouflage with bluster, or unaware of it, because Marco knew he was the sole king of Paloma’s heart, damn the man.
