Carla Kelly - [Spanish Brand 01] Page 11

  She nudged him back. “And no cooked onions for you, eh?”

  She finished the posole, smiling to see the cook tip a little of it into a bowl for Trece, who kept moving from her feet to Marco’s and back again.

  Marco cleared his throat and she gave him her attention. “Before I left Santa Fe to find you—”

  “Trece?” she asked, interrupting.

  “No, to find you. I will admit that now,” he replied. “Before I left, I went to a favorite official of mine in the governor’s palace and asked him to ask his juez de campo to discreetly look into your uncle’s cattle and land doings.” He shrugged. “I don’t know if anything will come of it, but I fear you have been greatly wronged and cheated. Whether anyone can prove it remains the question.”

  Paloma nodded. “Until that time, my sandals will have to suffice for a dowry.”

  “Any land and cattle of yours can never take the place of what you gave me this morning,” he said, his voice firm. “Paloma, I already have land and cattle. What I didn’t have was a potent reminder of your kind of courage.”

  “But you are already a brave man.”

  “I can be braver,” he said simply.

  There was nothing she could add to that.

  “All I want to achieve with any possible investigation of your uncle is vindication for you.” Their shoulders were touching, so she felt his chuckle more than heard it. “And I wouldn’t mind shaking him up a little. Such a bad man.”

  She would have been content to sit beside him all evening, but he had to see to his teamsters, making sure all the panniers were ready for his mules in the morning, and other necessities for the journey prepared. Paloma went down the narrow hall to her room, pleased that Trece had followed her almost-husband to the corral. Where you will probably be underfoot, she thought with a smile.

  The smile left her face and tears filled her eyes as she opened the door and saw the pile of clothing on her cot. Scarcely believing her good fortune, she went closer, holding up a dark green dress of wool, warm and substantial, and then another in black—the color worn by matrons, which is what she would become tomorrow. She fingered two large aprons of the kind that covered the whole dress, an actual petticoat—she couldn’t even remember her last one—and two chemises, delicate and soft.

  On the floor was a pair of moccasins and two pairs of black wool socks.

  “Those are my socks,” Marco said.

  She turned around to see him standing in the doorway.

  “I can spare them,” he told her, in answer to her inquiring look. It appeared he could already read her mind. “I always keep back a lot of spun yarn each year. When we’re home, you can knit yourself some socks that fit.”

  She looked at the moccasins. She sat down on the bed, her legs unable to hold her. “Marco, of all that happened on the day my family died, this one detail I remember most vividly. I hid under that bed and watched moccasins walking back and forth through the room. It seemed like hours. Could I just wear the socks and not the moccasins?”

  “They’re Tewa moccasins, my heart, not Comanche. There’s a difference. I want you to wear them because the days are growing colder. When we reach del Sol, I’ll take you to my cobbler.”

  “I will wear them, if you will lace them for me,” she said finally.

  “Every morning, without fail,” he told her.

  He hesitated then. Even in the low light of the room, she saw his uncertainty and gave him room to speak.

  “Paloma, ours is a strange sort of union, I think,” he said at last.

  She gave him her full attention, thinking back through the years to those moments she watched her mother listen to her father, her hands clasped in front of her. Paloma did the same thing. He must have noticed the gesture because he smiled. Was it familiar to him from his life with Felicia?

  “Perhaps we need to get to know each other better. It’s going to be two weeks and more of travel with no privacy. I won’t make any demands on you, such as will be my right, after tomorrow morning. And you have rights, too.”

  “I thought I did. Thank you.” She said it with dignity, then changed the moment with a small laugh. “You should know something, though; it’s your right to know, even if it was part of my confession to Father Eusebio in San Miguel.”

  “I would never ask to know of anything between you and a priest,” he said quickly but with firmness. “That will never be my right.”

  “This might merely interest you then.” She took her own deep breath. “For the first time, I confessed lustful thoughts to him. When I … when you came back to my uncle’s house so drunk, I gave you that cloth and really enjoyed touching the back of your neck.”

  Marco smiled. Though he tried to keep his voice serious, he failed utterly, in her opinion. “These are weighty admissions, Paloma. I have my own confession: I made more than a few glances at your ankles. They’re quite fine.”

  “No privacy on this journey to del Sol?”

  “None whatever. Goodnight, Paloma and God’s blessings on you, even if you are a rascal.”

  “So are you.”

  He nodded, agreeable to that, closing her door and leaving her free to just sit there and marvel at how her luck had turned after a drought of so many years.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In Which Travelers Keep Their Feet Warm

  As the teamsters loaded the mules early next morning, Father Damiano married Paloma Maria Cecilia Vega Moreno, daughter of the former capitán general of El Paso del Norte and his Spanish-born wife, to Marco Mondragón Sanchez, rancher, brand inspector and occasional fulano. Trece whined outside the chapel door, but even Father Damiano had his limits.

  Paloma wore her new green wool dress, and a breathtakingly beautiful white lace mantilla that usually formed part of the religious clothing reserved for Santa Maria herself, who presided in statue form from her special niche in the Lady Chapel. Four times a year, and for special feast days the Mother of the Christ Child received a change of clothing. The abbot thought Nuestra Señora would have no problems sharing her mantilla with a pretty bride who possessed nothing much except extraordinary courage, determination and grit, much like Our Lady Herself.

  The Tewa women who had made her clothing so quickly insisted upon arranging Paloma’s brown hair. When they finished, her hair was woven in an attractive Pueblo pattern, with her mother’s tortoise shell comb in place. Our Lady’s mantilla finished Paloma’s bridal attire, giving her impressive height.

  Paloma knew there was little point in searching for a mirror in a monastery, the training ground for future priests and monks. There weren’t even any windows with glass in them, so far north. One glance at her almost-husband’s face told her everything she needed to know, and it was as good as a mirror.

  “I wish your mother could see you,” he said, as he held out his arm for her and they walked into the chapel together.

  Perhaps she can, if God is merciful, Paloma thought, as they knelt. I believe He is.

  Intent on this amazing and wholly unexpected thing that was happening to her, Paloma probably would have remained dry-eyed if Marco had not presented her with a ring decorated with tiny blue flowers. As she had waited in his store for the Jew to price her mother’s comb, she had admired that very ring. He couldn’t have known.

  “Forget me nots,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear, as he slid it onto her finger. The ring was only a little too large. “I’ll wrap it with yarn from Mondragón wool, so it will fit better.”

  While Marco was supervising the final loading of the mules, Paloma changed into the snug bodice made of linen, and the brown wool skirt. She folded the white mantilla carefully, making a sign of the cross with each fold, then carried it back to the Lady Chapel, where she put it in the inlaid chest. She stayed a moment on her knees in the chapel, hands clasped together, grateful.

  When she returned to the main hall, Father Damiano was waiting, a dark brown cloak over his arm. He handed it to her. “The ladies of the pueblo
finished this last night,” he said. “They have another gift, too.” He laid a small woven blanket in bright colors across the cloak on her arm. “This is for your first child.”

  Paloma felt her face grow warm as she caressed the little blanket. “Will you tell them thank you for me?” she asked. “I trust my … my husband has been generous with them.”

  “And then some,” the priest said. He gestured for her to walk beside him.

  He was silent for the length of the hall, which gave Paloma time to summon enough courage to look at him.

  “Father, what is it you wish to tell me? I know there is something more.”

  “Only this, my child, and it may prove to be your greatest challenge, as the new wife of Señor Mondragón. He is a brave man and you could not have found a better provider if you had tripped over him in the marketplace.”

  Paloma smiled at that, already feeling a certain dignity to be the wife of a man who overpaid Tewa Indian women, spent a fortune for the small dog walking beside her now, and worked with his servants.

  “I know that already, Father. What else?”

  It seemed to her ears that Father Damiano chose his words with unusual care. “You already know his greatest fear.”

  Paloma nodded. “Poor man. Thank God he found the courage to marry me.”

  “It took him eight years,” Father Damiano told her. “I suspect he did it because he loves you more than he fears death.”

  She mused over his words as they walked along in silence.

  “Father, it may be that I will have to accompany him on his duties, at least until he can assure himself that I am going to live.”

  “That is what concerns me. It may take time.”

  “It may. I have the time, if he does,” she said, her voice soft.

  There was nothing more to say. Priest and bride walked into the courtyard. The late morning sun was warm on her back. She probably would not need her new cloak today. Clouds gathered to the west, but for now, it was enough to enjoy the sun on her face. “Life is made up of small things, Father,” she said, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the sun. “I promise you I will take life little by little and encourage the juez to do likewise.”

  “I believe you will, my child,” the priest told her. “Kneel and I will bless you, and then you and I had better go to the corral.”

  Her heart was full as he made a small sign of the cross on her forehead and blessed her to be fruitful and multiply, urging her to fill her husband’s heart and life with the joy that had been missing for too long. He blessed her with dignity beyond her years, and added something else that made her smile: “Paloma, may God make you as useful to the juez de campo as to your husband and lord.”

  When he finished, Father Damiano helped her to her feet and kissed her brow. To her further surprise, he pressed his forehead against hers for a brief moment, which brought sudden tears to her eyes. Her own father had done that on the last morning he rode out to the cattle with his sons.

  At the sound of firm footsteps she already recognized as her husband’s, Paloma looked around. “Tell me something, father, because I suspect a conspiracy. Did the abbot sentence Marco’s teamsters to hard labor just to keep them here and give him time?” She leaned close. “They are not such bad men.”

  “You have a certain instinct,” Father Damiano said, impressed, and her heart warmed to the praise. “I believe Marco would do well to rely on your services as a juez.”

  They laughed together, because the idea was fanciful.

  Paloma grew serious quickly. “You have always had his best interests at heart, haven’t you?”

  He nodded. “You are kind not to call us busybodies,” he whispered in turn. “Perhaps you are already as wise as your own brand inspector.”

  “I will be, if he needs me to ride with him until he is easy in his heart,” she said simply, then turned her face toward her husband, who stood at the open gate.

  Father Damiano took her by the hand and led her to Marco. He placed her hand in her husband’s, much as her own father would have done, had he survived the Comanches.

  “Take your sweet wife to Valle del Sol, Señor Mondragón,” he said most formally. “Bring her back now and then, so we can see with our own eyes that you are treating our daughter well.”

  Marco inclined his head toward the priest, understanding at once the role Father Damiano had assumed. “I will, most gracious father-in-law,” he said. “I will treat your daughter well.” He gave her such a protective glance then. “I will keep her safe.”

  Teamsters, horses, mules and wagons, the caravan of Marco Mondragón traveled into an autumn afternoon still warm in that teasing way of changeable weather. As he rode beside the wagon where Paloma sat, he admired her arms bare from the elbow down, visible in the half sleeve of her linen basque. He thought of the milk cows on his ranch and the cream and butter. He would make a pact with his cook that they begin a campaign to put more flesh on those handsome bones.

  The idea made him warm in that area of his body that had seldom been exercised of late. He touched spurs to his horse and rode toward the head of the procession, turning his thoughts to more mundane topics than his wife’s handsome bones. Hadn’t he so much as promised her that he would not expect any marital exertions until they knew each other better? Marco, sometimes you are a fool, he thought mildly. She did say she lusted after you, and then you had to get so righteous. Meh.

  He smiled to hear her laughter down the line. He had asked his mayordomo to sit with Paloma on the wide wagon seat, mainly because the old man who had served his own father so well would answer any questions she had about the ranch. Also, from the way he was stumping around this morning, Andrés’ rheumatism was signaling a change in the weather, and the wagon would be more comfortable

  Marco glanced back at his new wife, who smiled at him before returning her attention to Andrés, talkative old fellow. It pleased him to know that his wife would be easy with the house servants and work alongside them, much as he did with his field servants.

  He stopped the caravan an hour later at a copse of piñon pine and underbrush. It was a good place to relieve themselves. He helped Paloma from the wagon and whispered to her to go into the brush for her private needs. The teamsters, eyes to the front, went to the other side of the wagons to do their business. He wished he could have given Paloma more privacy, but that was the journey.

  He knew she would never say anything, but Marco thought she might be hungry. When she returned, brushing down her dress, he handed her two apples from the food wagon. She accepted with no hesitation.

  “Just tell me when you are hungry,” he said.

  Her face clouded over. “I am always hungry. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be full,” she told him.

  “Then you should say something, my heart.”

  She shook her head. “I am not used to asking for things.”

  He picked her up and lifted her into the wagon, holding her close for a moment to whisper in her ear, “Ask for whatever you want from now on, wife.”

  She surprised him by kissing his cheek quickly before she grasped the wagon seat and pulled herself onto it.

  Pleased, he went back to the wagon for a strip of carne seca. “Chew on this, too, then,” he told her, touched at the light in her eyes.

  The clouds finally reached them as they rode steadily into the afternoon, bringing cooler, and then chilly air. “Autumn is here,” he said out loud to himself, looking back at his wife, who was rubbing her arms. He rode back to her wagon, gesturing to the young driver sitting next to Andrés to stop.

  “Better get your cloak, Paloma,” he told her. “It’s going to blow soon, and maybe snow.”

  She did as he said, crawling nimbly inside the wagon, now that it was stopped. With as few possessions as she owned, it took no time to find her new cloak.

  It was snowing in earnest when they stopped for the night. Paloma had hunched herself into a compact figure, hood up, arms tucked inside her cloak n
ow, her face serious, maybe because her jaw was clenched against the chill.

  Despite the snow, his servants built a fire. Paloma stood before it a long time, careful not to get too close, but her face reflected her enjoyment of the warmth. His journey cook, another old retainer of his father’s, produced a pot of beans from the other wagon and a stack of monastery-made tortillas. After a short while, the beans bubbled and the tortillas regained their moist warmth. More carne seca completed the meal, rounded off with apples.

  Sitting next to his wife, Marco watched her eat. He enjoyed the gusto with which she sopped up all the bean juice in her earthenware bowl and chased each black bean around until the bowl was empty.

  “More?” he asked.

  She nodded, still shy about food. “Just another tortilla.”

  “With honey?”

  She nodded again, leaning against his shoulder as she watched him dribble honey onto two tortillas and roll them tight, handing her one and eating the other himself. Her sigh of satisfaction went right to his heart. Still she leaned against him, shivering until he put his arm around her and then his cloak, too. In a few minutes she relaxed. He thought she slept, shivering now and then.

  “Andrés, do you think we will be able to continue our journey in the morning?” he asked, keeping his voice low so Paloma would not hear.

  “If God is merciful,” the Indian said, smiling at Paloma in the way he probably smiled at his grandchildren. “This one does not complain.”

  “I doubt she ever will.”

  “Then you are a lucky man.”

  I am lucky, he thought later, as he helped Paloma, half asleep, into the tight space in the wagon between the apple keg, cornmeal and rough wooden box containing her precious clothes. He tucked a pillow under her head and covered her with a blanket. When they had stopped for the noon meal that day, he had been amused to see her inside the wagon with the box open, just looking at the clothes he had paid the Tewa women to sew, touching the fabric.

  “You’ll be warm enough here,” he told her. The snow was falling heavier now, the wet snow of autumn the sometime broke branches of trees that had not yet discarded all their leaves. It would be followed in the weeks ahead by dry snow that squeaked underfoot in the deep cold.