by Carla Kelly
“I cannot,” Marco repeated. “There is too much at stake right here.”
More silence. Toshua broke the stare first. He looked down at the table, then slowly nodded. “The People need to hear from a Spaniard. They need to hear what the governor would want in return for peace. You could tell me before I leave soon, and I will pass along your words. It won’t mean as much, but it is better than nothing.”
She felt Marco flinch against the flat sound of Toshua’s voice, he who was ordinarily so expressive in his colorful and occasionally accurate Spanish. “I will do that, my brother,” Marco said quietly. “I will promise right now to go with you at another time. Let us walk by the water.”
Without another word, Toshua handed Claudito to her and both men rose and left the house. Paloma got up, too, Claudito in her arms. She went to the window and watched them stroll along the acequia, gesturing and talking.
“Eckapeta, I am holding Marco back,” she whispered into her son’s neck.
Chapter Eleven
In which two drunken idiots are determined to avoid the audit
Gaspar, longtime and frequently abused servant of Roque and Miguel Durán, knew better than to leave the impressive-looking broadside in the room the brothers called their “office.” Why they called it that made no sense to him, because the brothers never worked in there. He had seen them open the door and chuck in a document or sheaf of papers, then close it quickly and laugh. Gaspar had a great fear of spiders, and imagined a whole colony of them in that room, multiplying and plotting something sinister.
He wished he could read. The broadside looked important, with letters and curlicues and even a waxed seal with two crosses. Roque Durán had tried to teach him to read once, but that had only led to blows.
Gaspar waited outside the closed door, wondering how wasted with aguardiente they were this afternoon. He stared hard at the broadside and nearly turned back to the kitchen, where he could use the paper for fire-starting.
The seal stopped him. This just might be important. He knocked on the door.
Nothing. After pressing his ear against the door, he knocked again. He heard loud, wet snoring, which meant both brothers were in their usual drunken state. He could sneak into the room and leave the broadside in a conspicuous place.
He opened the door slowly and found himself staring into the wide-open eyes of Miguel Durán. As frightening as that was, at least he was not Roque.
“Yes, what?” Miguel demanded. He belched and Gaspar smelled the fumes from the doorway. For the hundredth time, he wondered how different this vile place would have been if either brother had married. Perhaps they had tried, but nothing had ever come of any wooing. Probably the women of Valle del Sol were too smart.
“A … a soldado brought this.” Gaspar held out the broadside at arm’s length. “I thought it might be important.”
“You thought,” Miguel muttered. “Since when do you think?”
Gaspar hung his head, silent, while his master laughed.
With more bodily noise, Miguel leaned forward and grabbed the broadside. He sank back against the odorous cushions, read it, then jabbed his sleeping brother. Gaspar stepped back, unwilling to be around Roque when he woke up.
With a groan of his own, Roque sat up and looked at the sheet of paper his brother thrust under his nose. He paled noticeably, and Gaspar saw fear in the man’s wasted face. The servant stayed where he was, silent in the doorway. He knew from hard experience that a sudden move might remind his masters he was there.
Roque put down the broadside. “This is serious.”
Miguel nodded, his eyes troubled. “Think of all the years we have not been forthcoming to either Marco Mondragón or his father before him …” his voice trailed off, and he looked around.
Gaspar knew Señor Mondragón as a distant powerful figure, the man who counted livestock and registered brands, and assessed his masters’ herds and flocks for taxes. The brothers never spoke his name without an accompanying curse.
“Here’s what I would do,” Roque shouted suddenly. “Abduct the auditor and … and ….” Slumping down against the adobe ledge he sat on, he reached for the green glass bottle and drank until wine ran down the corners of his mouth. “I’d keep him for two weeks, or maybe three, or until they give up the audit and go away.”
Gaspar knew he wasn’t a smart fellow. Hadn’t the brothers been telling him that for years? Even so, he saw the foolishness of Roque’s idea and wondered just how many more bottles of mescal and wine it would take to ruin his masters’ brains forever. You don’t kidnap auditors and expect the problem to go away; even fools like Gaspar knew that.
Miguel took a swig from the same bottle and laughed. “Brilliant! We’ll keep him here in that old hut, the one that still has a lock and key. Maybe we could send a threatening letter, or even kill him and blame Comanches. Bam! End of audit.”
The brothers laughed. Gaspar made the mistake of coughing. Their heads swiveled as one and they stared at him. The servant felt his heart race; he knew that look. They couldn’t abduct an officer of the crown—it was the kind of harebrained idea that ordinary men quickly waved aside, once they were sober.
Trouble was, the twins were seldom sober. Maybe they did owe taxes to the government, since their office was an untidy stew of mouse turds, spiders, and mildew. They were afraid of this audit.
He tried to make himself small in the doorway and even took a step back. But no, Roque motioned him closer.
“Sh-sh-should I get you more wine?” Gaspar stammered, telling himself to show no fear.
Moving fast for a drunk, Roque grabbed Gaspar and yanked him into the sala, forcing him to squat there on the floor.
“You have an old cousin at the Double Cross, do you not?” Miguel asked. He focused hard eyes on Gaspar, who wanted to crawl away and hide.
“Perla, la cocinera,” Gaspar whispered.
The brothers looked at each other and grinned in an odd unison that made the hairs on his arms prickle. “You will go to the Double Cross,” Roque said, after another glance at his twin. “Miguel, for what reason? Someone will ask.”
“Let me think,” Miguel said, silent so long that Gaspar began to hope. But no, he snapped his fingers. “Simple! Tell your cousin we need a cook and we’ll … we’ll pay her ten reales a year more than whatever Señor Mondragón pays.”
“Ten reales!” Roque asked in stupefied amazement. “We can’t afford that.”
Gaspar looked from one brother to the other. Other idiotic ideas had been strangled at birth, once the two masters started arguing, making him hopeful again. Let this insanity die, he thought.
Miguel slapped his brother, a wakeup tap to the cheek. “We’re not paying her anything! We want Gaspar to look around the Double Cross. You know, see if the auditor has a routine that we can interfere with.”
Roque belched, which Miguel seemed to take as approval.
“I knew you would agree,” Miguel said, turning his attention to Gaspar. “Go there. Stay a day or two. Look around.”
Just agree, Gaspar told himself. They will see the foolishness of this by the time I return. Maybe.
He hesitated too long. Out slammed Miguel’s booted foot again for another blow to Gaspar’s ribs. He curled up tight, hoping for the best, expecting the worst. Two more blows and then quiet, as the snoring drunks leaned against each other.
Gaspar hoped some sense would have returned to his masters by morning, but no. He served them their usual breakfast of burned bread and nearly cooked cornmeal, praying they would have forgotten yesterday’s lunacy.
“Take the donkey and ride to the Double Cross,” Miguel ordered. “Don’t return until you know the auditor’s habits.”
What could he do but throw a blanket over Máximo’s bony back and leave? At least the day was mild, with the softness of spring after a winter of shivering from the cold because the twins never allowed much heat anywhere except their own rooms; hunger, because the Duráns thought their servants
and slaves could live on air. Strange they never noticed how few servants were left.
The farther he rode, the better Gaspar felt. The sun warmed his back, which was almost as bony as the donkey’s. Once off the blighted Durán holdings, he noticed bunch grass and tender shoots of sprouted greenery, first herald of spring. Taking pity on Máximo, he dismounted and led his donkey from patch to patch, thinking how simple it would be to treat animals and people better.
He felt braver, too, deciding to tell the brothers firmly with no misunderstanding that he would no longer work for them. He knew he would forfeit his yearly wage, so small as to be barely noticed. He tried to think what it would be like to serve someone, anyone, without fear, and couldn’t. Maybe he was as stupid as the Duráns told him he was. How could he tell?
Gaspar reached the Double Cross when shadows began to lengthen across the western edge of Valle del Sol. He had been there only twice before, but everyone in the valley knew the Mondragóns, envying the security of their holdings and the fertility of the sometimes-contrary New Mexican soil.
The gates opened to him with a wave of his hand and the words, “Coming to see Perla, la cocinera.” An old man followed by a silly-looking yellow dog met him at the horse barn and instructed him where to stable his donkey. The old fellow grunted his displeasure at the sight of bony Máximo.
“I come from the Durán estancia,” Gaspar said, apologetic and embarrassed. “I came to visit my cousin, Perla.”
“That explains the donkey,” the man said. Perhaps figuring it wasn’t Gaspar’s fault he worked for terrible men, he loosened up. “I will send a small boy for Perla.”
Ashamed of his poor animal, Gaspar tended Máximo, who quickly fell to gobbling far better hay than he usually ate. When Gaspar looked up, his cousin Perla stood in the doorway of the horse barn, her arms folded, as if wondering what he wanted.
He gave her a kiss on the cheek, which seemed to satisfy the old fellow that Perla really was his cousin. Perhaps Perla felt she had been too skeptical. She unfolded her arms and kissed him in return.
Even Gaspar knew she would smell a rat if he blurted out that his masters wanted to hire her away from the Mondragóns, so he looked around the courtyard. He immediately noticed a beat-up carriage with a fading red and yellow royal seal on the door.
“Visitors?” he inquired, hoping to sound interested and not desperate to know.
Perla gave him a swift glance, then softened a little. How often did she get relatives as visitors? “It’s the seven-year audit, primo,” she said. “The governor sent us a meek little fellow who will never inherit the earth.” She crossed herself. “His daughter came, too. She and my mistress have struck up a friendship.”
“That’s nice,” he said, as they walked toward the house. He admired the hanging baskets of flowers spilling over along the portal. A little girl rocked a cradle and sang to herself. He knew this was how people should really live. “Is the auditor working here?”
“Yes, in the master’s office,” Perla said, pointing with her lips.
“Does he stay in there all day?” he asked, hoping it sounded like small talk.
Perla stared at him, and Gaspar suspected he had gone too far.
He shrugged. “Just curious. Nothing ever happens where I live.” He didn’t dare look at her, afraid she would see his desperation.
There they stood, until Perla must have decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Lately, every afternoon after siesta, he and that addled driver take a ride into the countryside.”
Gaspar heard Perla’s voice soften. “Poor man. From what Señora Mondragón tells Sancha, and what she passes on to me, he’s led a miserable life.”
Gaspar made a sympathetic sound, hoping she would continue.
Trust Perla to do that, once she had found a subject and an audience. “Señor Mondragón encouraged him to get out a bit. I think it’s sweet.”
“After siesta?” he asked, and vowed to ask no more, afraid to awake her suspicion.
“Yes, for about an hour. Then he works until dinner.”
Perla led him into the kitchen where he began to salivate, because everything smelled so good, from the posole bubbling in its iron pot to what looked like a hunk of beef, turned on a spit by a small child.
His cousin put her hands on her hips. Gaspar held his breath, wondering what was coming next.
“Gaspar, why are you here?”
Perhaps he was a better actor than he knew, or maybe he was more of a deceiver than he ever suspected, which didn’t soothe Gaspar’s immortal soul. “Cousin, you won’t believe what my masters want!” he declared with a laugh and a rueful shake of his head. “They want you to cook for them.”
Perla laughed so hard she had to sit down. “You can’t be serious!” she said finally. “Only an idiot would leave the Mondragóns.” She looked at him in sudden sympathy, which told Gaspar she had some idea of the meanness of his life on the Durán estancia. “I trust my refusal will not lead to a beating for you,” she said. “Here, let me feed you some of this beef. Maybe I should send you back with queso for your awful masters. You know, so they do not take my rejection out on you.”
Gaspar nodded, relieved her suspicion seemed to have vanished. She was a simple soul, same as he. He knew of her devotion to the Mondragóns, and he envied her.
“I hate working for the Duráns,” he blurted out. “They are mean and drunk most of the time. Do you think … could I ever work here?”
“We can ask,” Perla said.
Her kind expression made him feel worse. What kind of a cousin comes to spy and tell lies? Apparently his kind. Pray God that nothing more of the Duráns would rub off on him.
To his relief, Perla invited him to stay the night. Maybe one thing or another could keep him here. He could manage to ride out at the same time as the auditor, and see for himself what the man did. With luck, the Duráns might have forgotten any sinister schemes before he returned.
He could hope, anyway, since hope was the salary of a man poor in wages, character, and courage.
Chapter Twelve
In which Marco makes a not-so-pleasant decision
With serious misgivings, Marco said adios to his friend Toshua and stood by the gate until he was out of sight, heading north toward Rio Napestle, a place that haunted all Spaniards. He wasted not a moment in rationalizing his decision to stay put.
Never a lazy man, he found it harder every year to throw off winter’s lethargy and plunge into spring, that busy time when calves and lambs came into the world—usually during a storm—and when corn and wheat needed to be in the ground at precisely the right time. Valle del Sol was a wonderful place to live, but only when its citizens knew when to plant, and how to plant, to take advantage of every bit of moisture the soil possessed. This was a dry place. King Carlos might not know it, but his subjects did.
Marco could blame Paloma for making it harder for him to move into action. He could also blame his advancing years. A man of thirty-four in the colony of New Mexico had reached middle age. Better to blame Paloma, because this wasn’t the kind of blame that made anyone unhappy. He could blame her for being the wife of his heart and soul, a pleasant sort of blame that only made him smile and want to spend another hour close to her in bed, savoring her warmth and that sweet milky smell that he found oddly enchanting.
After his whispered words with Toshua three days ago, he knew Paloma deserved his special attention. That alone made his decision to stay the proper one. His heart had won this mental coin toss, even though his more logical brain nagged him about his duty to his colony and securing its much-desired peace.
Dissatisfied with himself, he leaned back in his chair and looked around his office, pleased at least that Señor Ygnacio knew precisely what he was doing. The little man was out right now for what had turned into his daily ride in the decrepit carriage Felix Moreno had foisted on him. To assuage his own guilty conscience at ignoring Toshua’s plea, Marco toyed with the idea of having Sant
a Maria’s wagon maker spruce up the decrepit vehicle before the Ygnacios departed for Santa Fe. Too bad the accountant would be heading back to more trouble and maltreatment, if he returned at all.
He mulled over the strange death threat and wondered—not for the first time—what sort of game Felix Moreno played as contador principal. Joaquim Gasca said that his two troopers had followed the four soldados for two days and found nothing amiss. Marco then considered the driver who remained here at the Double Cross. He seemed to be what Catalina had told them, a man no more than a halfwit who obeyed orders. Who else was supposed to eliminate the auditor? Perhaps the Ygnacios had misheard the original threat, brought to them by a lowly custodian.
“Ay de mi,” he muttered under his breath. He had a bigger concern, one much closer to his heart. True, Toshua had called the matter to his attention that Paloma was simply not thriving. He knew that after she returned Juanito to his cradle following his early-morning feeding, she let herself out of the house to sit in silence on the porch.
He asked to join her once, but she shook her head, and in her kindly way told him she enjoyed the solitude. What could he say? Toshua had told him to let her be.
He finally worked up the nerve to mention something to Sancha, who admitted she worried about her mistress, too.
“There is probably no good time to birth a baby,” his housekeeper had said only that morning, when he had found her alone in the kitchen and unburdened his heart to her, as he had done years earlier, after his first family died. “Spring is such a busy time of year and she feels she cannot rest or shirk her duties.” She hesitated.
“Go on. Speak,” he said, not one to shirk even bad news.
“Sometimes this happens after babies are born,” Sancha told him, choosing her words carefully. “A cloud descends.”
“How long does it stay?” he asked.
“A week or two. A month.” Sancha shrugged. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it.
