by Carla Kelly
Marco watched them as they stopped, conversed briefly, then turned around. “What is it, friends?” he asked as they came closer again.
Toshua put his hands with their dried blood on them gently on each side of Marco’s neck. “You have done a great thing here, my brother.” He laughed and released Marco. “Oh, the governor will get all the credit when those men who talk about what happened get hold of the story.”
“Historians, do you mean?” Paloma asked, joining them in the center of the courtyard.
“Is that what they are called?” Toshua asked. He looked from one to the other. “There is something I wish to do for you.”
“We were wondering that same thing for you. For your part in all this effort to find peace, I cannot offer you land, because it’s already yours, anyway,” Marco said.
Toshua gave a snort of disgust. “No one but you would ever admit it.”
“I have some gold. I have silver. Fine saddles.” Marco shrugged. “None of it is good enough for a true friend of the colony.”
“I have a better idea,” Toshua said as he drew out his knife.
Eckapeta did the same. Startled, Marco stepped in front of Paloma.
“Do you trust me, Marco Mondragón?” Toshua asked.
Did he trust this Comanche? Marco thought through the last tumultuous five years. He said nothing, but he blushed and moved until he was beside Paloma and not protecting her. “It was instinct,” he said, by way of apology. “You know we live with danger.”
“And a good reaction,” Eckapeta said. “If you hadn’t done that, I probably would have slapped you silly, or blacked your other eye. Guard this precious jewel of yours.”
As Marco watched, his eyes wide, Eckapeta nicked her wrist until it bled. She handed her knife to Paloma, who stepped forward, this brave wife of his, and did the same to her wrist. Toshua was next, and then Marco cut his wrist. In silence they pressed all four bleeding wounds together.
He felt no shame at his sudden tears, because all four of them wept.
“If you ever, ever, have need of us for anything, only come to the sacred canyon,” Toshua said.
“I echo the same thing for you,” Marco told him. “Please don’t leave us now.”
“Just for a while,” Toshua said. He looked at his wife with an expression suspiciously like admiration and love. “You think I could keep this one away from her grandchildren and daughter?”
Paloma threw herself into Eckapeta’s arms and clung to her, and then Toshua. Marco joined them, not wanting the embrace to ever end.
“I can’t let them leave,” Paloma whispered as the Comanche couple walked to the office.
“I can’t either, my love, but they will be back.” Marco replied. “Let’s go to bed.”
Marco stood for a moment, looking down at his children in their own beds. Pray God they would not remember nights like this one that were burned into his brain from his much more dangerous childhood. Tomorrow it would be back to the acequia for more water play while their mama watched, Juanito at her side. He would compose that letter to the governor. He decided to ask Joaquim Gasca himself to deliver it, accompanied by his new wife. A summertime trip through the passes to Santa Fe should give the newly married couple time to know each other better.
It worked for me and my lady, even in winter, he thought, watching Paloma take off her dress in their bedchamber. He smiled to see her stand by the bed a moment, as if debating whether to bother with a nightgown. His smile deepened as she shrugged her shoulders and crawled into bed naked.
He joined her in the same state of nature. Beyond the likely unnecessary comment that he adored her—she already knew—their lovemaking was silent and thorough. He knew this woman well: every curve of her; the feel of her hands pressing down on him, welcoming him inside; the way she tossed her head restlessly when her climax approached; her sigh of satisfaction when it ended.
“I have had enough excitement for a lifetime,” Paloma said as she pulled up the coverlet against New Mexico’s evening coolness. “I don’t need any more adventures.” She snuggled close to him. He kissed her hair, ready to sleep because she had worn him out so pleasantly.
As he composed himself for sleep, another thought shouldered its way into his brain, clamoring for attention, now that he had answered the demands of both his body and his wife’s.
“Wake up, Paloma.”
She muttered something unintelligible and swatted at his hand on her breast.
“No, really. I have something for you.”
She laughed without opening her eyes. “You already gave it to me, you scoundrel.”
She squeaked and sat up when he dragged the blanket off her. Going to the saddlebags still lying on the floor from his return home several days ago, he rummaged around in them. He came back to bed as she was pulling the blanket up and darting irritated glances his way.
“Here.” He held out red dancing shoes. “How many years have I promised these?”
His wife sucked in her breath and put her hands to her mouth. Almost seeming to doubt they were real, she reached out to touch one shoe and then the other. “My goodness, you finally did it. I thought it was just a joke,” she said as she took the shoes from his hands. “When did you do this?”
“When Toshua and I rode through Santa Maria on our way north, I left your foot imprint with the cobbler,” Marco said. “I’ve had that paper in my saddlebags for years.”
Sitting up in bed, she put on the lovely shoes, their heels higher than she usually wore. She slid to the edge of the bed and stood up, tapping the heels on the cold tile and listening to the staccato sound.
He lay back in bed and watched her do a little tapatio, one hand holding her full breasts so they would not jiggle, the other extended as if grasping the hem of a non-existent dress. Ideally, another woman should dance with her, since the church frowned on a man and woman dancing together. Maybe this fall at their harvest fiesta, he would not scandalize too many of his servants and guests if he danced with her.
She was a far cry from the glum woman who had left with the auditor’s daughter, or the exhausted, thin, but triumphant woman who had returned, or the woman who had exacted her own vengeance just this afternoon. She was his wife, in good times and bad, and especially now when she danced naked in the moonlight.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
In which justice, sometimes fickle, is sweet, indeed
Marco Mondragón’s lengthy letter to Governor Juan Bautista de Anza, plus the seven-year audit, went on their way in two weeks, following the well attended wedding of El Teniente Joaquim Gasca to Catalina Maria Ygnacio. Marco was convinced the large crowd was there to be absolutely certain the former womanizer and all-around scoundrel contracted legal and lasting vows with a lady they had already come to respect.
The village carriage maker had greatly improved the comfort of the auditor’s shabby carriage by adding a real bed, much to the amusement of the gente of Santa Maria, who were reticent like most people of Spain, but earthy enough to know the value of a good bed.
Señor Ygnacio, comfortably installed in a combination house and office on Santa Maria’s plaza, waved off his beloved daughter and son-in-law with kisses and tears. Marco and Paloma assured La Señora Ygnacio y Gasca they would visit him often.
The Gascas were already too involved in each other to notice a Comanche couple following at a discreet distance behind. “At least as far as the second pass,” Marco had instructed Toshua.
The newlyweds returned six weeks later, as eastern New Mexico cooled down and its farmers began the harvest. Marco left the cornfield to escort the couple to the Double Cross, gates open wide, for their joyful welcome from Paloma Vega, who had a kiss for each of them and two for her own husband, just because.
They talked and laughed over dinner and Soledad exerted all her power to get a story from La Señora Gasca. The lady obliged, telling them of a rancher’s spoiled daughter in the colony of New Spain who turned into a horned toad because she w
ould not help her mother.
“Would nothing free her?” Soli had to know.
“Only un beso from a comandante of a presidio in far distant New Mexico,” Catalina assured her, after a glance at such a comandante. Soledad squealed when Joaquim Gasca planted a kiss on her forehead.
While the women got the little ones to bed, Marco and Joaquim took a stroll on the terreplein, stopping to drape their arms over the parapet and look across the great plain stretching into distant Texas.
“Governor Anza told me most privately something I was to pass on to you, Marco,” Joaquim said.
“I hope I did not overstep my puny authority to keep Señor Ygnacio here for his indeterminate sentence,” Marco said, unable to disguise his personal contempt for lawyers and unwarranted punishment of a natural scapegoat like Señor Ygnacio, with his quiet ways.
“Not at all, friend,” Joaquim replied. “He applauded your decision and happily washed his hands of the matter. We can expect no further trouble from lawyers.” He turned from his view of the prairie and faced Marco. “This concerns Paloma’s miserable uncle.”
“Who keeps popping up and surviving, where someone far more honest—your father-in-law, for example—sinks,” Marco groused.
“Not in this case, God be praised,” Joaquim replied. “It turns out that Governor Anza has been suspicious of Felix Moreno for some time. In fact—you’ll like this—he planted Miguel Valencia as a suitor for Tomasa Moreno so he could learn more about our friend Felix.”
“No!”
“Oh yes. The fool told his supposed future son-in-law about his plans to have Señor Ygnacio killed because he thought the auditor knew too much about his own dipping into government resources. Miguel told the governor, who sent the driver—the one who died at Pedro’s hands—to protect Señor Ygnacio from anything untoward.”
“And we know how that went,” Marco said drily.
“It gets better,” Joaquim continued. Even in the dim light of early evening, Marco saw how El Teniente’s eyes gleamed. “He told me that years ago, you had approached the juez de campo of the Santa Fe district about making some discreet inquiries into Señor Moreno’s possible involvement in a land grant belonging to his poor sister’s husband.”
“Paloma’s parents,” Marco said. “I had nearly forgotten about that conversation. Don’t stop now!”
“Santa Fe’s juez handed off his suspicions to the juez of the El Paso district.” He laughed. “You know how slowly things move in this new world of ours, but by God, they move. The El Paso official dug deep. The deed had been misfiled for years, perhaps on purpose by a less-than-scrupulous predecessor. He found a deed of transfer for that land to one Felix Moreno, contador principal of Santa Fe.”
“Just what we thought,” Marco said.
“Damn the man, Marco, but in the deed transfer, he swore there were no survivors of that Comanche raid—”
“While his niece, now my lovely wife, was living under his own roof!” Marco exclaimed.
“Swore on the holy name of the Virgin Herself,” Joaquim finished, then stood there in triumph. “As we speak, the man is on his way to Mexico City in chains, to answer for his various misdeeds. I don’t expect a favorable outcome for him.”
There it was, confirmation and vindication at last. Marco nodded and stared out at the big sky before him, wondering why he felt so hollow inside. He had yearned for this moment for years, and here it was.
“I can’t believe I feel sorry for the man, but I do,” he said at last. “Why?”
Joaquim turned again to look out across the parapet, their shoulders touching. “Maybe because you are a far better man than Felix Moreno,” he said, sounding like he was thinking out loud. “Maybe because your life and Paloma’s are much richer than if no Comanche raid that turned Paloma and her brother Claudio into paupers and wanderers had ever taken place.”
“Perhaps,” Marco said. “Who can understand the workings of God?” He crossed himself and started for the stairs. “I had better tell Paloma.” He looked back. “I suppose our governor would like to know what Paloma and Claudio intend to do with that land which is now theirs again?”
“He would. A letter from Paloma and Claudio will suffice.”
Thoughtful, Marco went down the stairs slowly. He walked around the courtyard, past the flowing, whispering acequia, and past the quarters of his servants, which meant stopping to chat and discuss again his plan to provide new homes outside the protecting walls of the Double Cross. He stopped outside his office, wondering what he should tell Toshua and Eckapeta. Were they even there or had they struck out for the Staked Plains?
It surprised him not at all when Toshua came to the door. Marco had long given up trying to understand how his great good friend could hear mouse-quiet footsteps. He told him what Joaquim had just said. Toshua grunted, nodded, and pressed his forehead against Marco’s.
“Paloma will do the right thing, my friend,” he said, then went back into the office.
Paloma was reclining in bed, eyes closed, face dreamy, as Juanito nursed. Standing in the doorway, Marco watched his woman and his son, grateful beyond human speech for them and their other children. He thought of Paloma’s little vision and knew good things were still to come.
As he sat down beside her, she opened her eyes, reached for his hand, and kissed it. He looked away, unable to stop his tears at such a submissive gesture. “Some days I deserve that; some days I don’t,” he said softly, not willing to wake up Juanito. “I still regret I was not here to find you.”
“And I needed to save myself,” his wife said in turn. “Forgive and forget?”
“Done, señora,” he replied, then told her everything Joaquim had told him about her uncle.
He watched her face for reaction, for visible anger, but all he saw was the same sorrow he had felt. He kissed her hand this time.
“Let’s go visit Claudio and Graciela tomorrow,” he said. “I know he’s busy, but this shouldn’t wait. Besides, Soledad has been nagging me for another visit to see their cousins again soon.”
Nodding in agreement, Paloma handed Juanito to him for a burp. She buttoned her nightgown then folded her arms around her upraised knees. “My first thought is for the land to go to the Franciscan fathers in that district. They found me and took me in.”
“Your second thought?” Juanito’s burp was followed by a sigh and a snuggle closer to Marco’s neck that turned him into mush.
“Why not deed it to Lorenzo and Sancha?” she asked. “She has been so faithful in her service to you and Felicia, and then to me. And you must admit Lorenzo knows livestock.”
“Yes, he does, mine and everyone else’s!” Marco said, amused. “But he has served us well this past year, and I sense honest reformation, especially if Sancha is there to supervise him. Would you also deed the brand?”
He thought he knew what she would say, and she did not disappoint him. “No, not our brand. It is registered to and remains with Claudio. We can honor our parents right here in New Mexico. Lorenzo will want his own brand.”
Bless your dear heart, he thought. “Let’s see what Claudio says tomorrow.”
“Whatever my brother decides, I will acquiesce,” Paloma said. “He is the eldest and I am but a younger sister.”
“And my entire life, universe, and galaxy,” Marco said.
“As you are mine,” his universe and galaxy said quietly.
He put Juanito into his cradle, made the sign of the cross over him as he did over each of his children every night, and over his wife. He lay down next to her, his arm pillowing her neck.
“In his letter, the governor agreed with those terms I suggested to Ecueracapa in the canyon, and added a few of his own,” he said. “He wants us to represent him at Casa de Palo in November and encourage the leaders to come to Santa Fe next February or March to sign a treaty.”
“Peace at last?” his drowsy wife asked.
“I believe so. We can invite Governor Anza to visit us in the spri
ng, and see our life here on the edge of danger. I know it is too much to ask, but wouldn’t it be fun to have the treaty signed here?”
No reply. Marco heard his wife’s deep breathing, and closed his eyes, thinking of peace and more children, petty quarrels between his constituents to settle, and squabbles over water, land, and livestock—the crosses to bear of a juez de campo. His heart full, he asked God Omnipotent who ruled His universe to continue granting him wisdom to lead his family and protect those who depended on him.
He glanced down at Paloma, she who had borne so much, and who had thought, years ago now, to bring him a little yellow dog through dangerous passes and snow-covered trails, just because she wanted to see the man with the light brown eyes again.
He looked at the red shoes on the little table by her side of their bed. He would dance with her at the harvest fiesta. He wasn’t much of a dancer, but he didn’t think she would mind.
They had forgotten to close the shutters again. Marco thought about getting up to do it, but that required more exertion than he felt necessary. Looking out the barred window, he watched the moon begin its descent. He prayed for God Omnipotent to bless King Carlos in distant Spain. A pity His Highness would never visit this choice spot in his kingdom, a place maybe not so wealthy as the mines of Mexico, but a place dear to those who lived there.
And now, peace. A juez de campo could not ask for more than that. Marco Mondragón closed his light-brown eyes and inclined his head toward his wife’s. He knew the children would bounce in early, and a man approaching middle age needed all the rest he could get.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
In which all things meet in one great whole
The next morning, Marco could barely contain his pride as he rode out of the Double Cross with his wife and children. Soledad sat before him on the saddle and Claudito in front of Paloma, with strict orders not to wiggle about. Juanito slept in the Comanche cradleboard on her back.
