Carla Kelly - [Spanish Brand 01] Page 5

  Father Damiano surprised him then. The priest sat a long time, his fingers in Trece’s fur, too. “I do not have an answer for you, my son,” he said at last.

  That was unsatisfactory and not what he expected from a wise man who knew everything. “Man to man now, what would you do, father?” he asked, after a long silence of his own. “You know I am not an impetuous fellow. I look at the problem, weigh everything and then make a decision.”

  “Decisions for others’ well-being,” the father answered quickly. “When have you suited yourself recently?”

  “I bought a dog because my feet were cold.”

  Father Damiano smiled at that. “So you did. What would I do? If I were a juez de campo who was honest and trustworthy almost to a fault, I would probably return to Santa Fe and the household of Felix Moreno, that poor excuse for an uncle. I would offer to marry the blue-eyed, barefoot girl with no prospects, no dowry and minus one dog.”

  Marco stared at him, his mouth open.

  Father Damiano shrugged, a half smile playing around his lips. “You asked me; I told you.” He became a priest then, his face serious. “Señor Mondragón, at the risk of causing you embarrassment, you are an exemplary, brave man, much like your father before you. Before you grow old, alone, there is one thing more you need to do. It will require special courage that you lack right now. You will have to function solely on faith.”

  Marco sighed and bowed his head over Trece. “I think I know what you are going to say,” he whispered, his heart almost breaking as it had not broken in years.

  Father Damiano’s hand went to Marco’s shoulder. “You need to learn that if you ride away from your hacienda in the execution of your duties, when you return, a blue-eyed wife and her yellow dog will be alive and waiting for you. Probably children, too, eventually. The only way to learn that is to do it.”

  Dios help him, he cried again, the second time in two days. So much for bravery. Father Damiano did nothing more than increase the pressure of his hand on his shoulder.

  “All I want right now is a good night’s sleep,” Marco said finally, when he could speak again without sobbing. “Trece whines and I toss and turn.” He sighed. “And now I am whining. Forgive me, Father Damiano.”

  The good father gave him a pat on the back and became very much a priest then. “Kneel, my son, and let me pray for you.”

  A loyal son of Holy Church, Marco immediately fell to his knees. Wretched, his eyes closed, he listened as Father Damiano did nothing more than ask the Lord God Almighty to clear his mind and grant him a good night’s sleep, as he had to travel far tomorrow through dangerous country. He made no mention of Paloma Vega. He only petitioned the Lord for sleep.

  Marco felt his mind ease as Father Damiano made a small sign of the cross on his forehead.

  “All right then, let us help the Lord with this petition,” he said briskly, after Marco rose to his feet. “You say Trece whines all night, keeps you awake and you toss and turn? The bed in your room is soft enough for general purposes. A piñon fire is burning in there right now, so your feet should be warm. Let me take Trece and tie him by Andrés. I would feel remiss if I let you leave here on the morrow with a groggy mind. That’s no way to travel safely into mountain passes.”

  “Very well, Father,” Marco replied, grateful he made no more mention of the sorest dread of his life and the reason he knew he would never take another wife. How did the priest know? But Father Damiano was not through.

  “As for the other matter, patience, my son. Come, Trece. You can keep those wretched, sinful teamsters company tonight.”

  Father Damiano was right; the bed was soft enough for general purposes. The piñon fire had burned to coals and the chill was gone from the cold stones. He stripped and crawled between the sheets, pleased to find a warm rock wrapped in a towel at the foot of the bed. All he craved was sleep, and the Lord was merciful.

  When he woke finally, he knew the hour was late, even though the room had no windows. He let the knowledge come gently, lying there warm in his bed, disinclined to move. Like a tongue rubbing a sore tooth, he allowed the memory of other mornings like this with Felicia to wash over him, mornings when he lay naked in bed with his wife, her head cradled on his arm. Sometimes she was alone with him, her hand starting to move across his body in that practiced way of a wife who knew what pleased her man.

  Other times, and these equally sweet, there would be one twin or the other suckling at her ample breast. He savored again in his mind the milky smell and the soft sounds of one of his sons taking nourishment from his wonderful mother. Marco smiled in the dark now, the memory no longer a tongue on a sore tooth, but something to be treasured and recalled from time to time. He sat up, suddenly purposeful. If they pushed on immediately, they would make San Juan Pueblo before nightfall, where the beds were not so soft. Or they might push on and camp under the stars. It was safe enough in the autumn, with Indians seeking warmth and shelter, too, and less inclined to fight.

  Still, there was no hurry to return home, not really. His fields were burned and the ditches cleaned. His diligent servants had been drying vegetables and curing meat until the aroma of the storerooms could bring saliva to the mouth of a man who wasn’t particularly hungry. His remaining cattle and sheep were safely penned against the coming snows that might make them drift. He had a few more brand inspection trips, but they were close enough not to dread. Everything was in order in the hacienda of Marco Mondragón.

  But there was no urgency to return quickly—no wife eager to refresh him and be refreshed herself before listening to his adventures in the big city, curled in his arms, her bare legs tangled with his. No children waiting impatiently to show him what they had done during his absence and looking expectantly at his saddlebags, wondering what he had brought them. His hacienda would be tidy, clean, swept and smelling of cooking odors, but there would be only a modest welcome from his servants. They liked him, to be sure, but they did not adore him, like Felicia and the twins. No rush at all to be home.

  Still, a man of responsibility could not lie naked in bed forever. Marco washed, dressed and walked the familiar halls of San Pedro to the corrales, where he found a glum lot of teamsters and the abbot himself, Father Bartolomeo. Marco could understand the serious looks. He always felt a little less brave when stared down by the abbot.

  “God’s good morning to you, Father,” he said politely.

  “And to you, my son,” came the answer, but the words held a little edge.

  “Is there something the matter?” he asked. “I hope my teamsters have behaved themselves,” Marco said.

  That was all the opening that the abbot required. “Don Marco, upon occasion, I take the opportunity to listen to confession. While I would never repeat what was told to me by your teamsters yesterday evening, I have to tell you that I have seldom heard from a more debauched group of miserable sinners.”

  “Oh,” Marco said, at a loss. His face flushed, mainly because he had confessed his own night of steady drinking to another, far more lenient priest with a lisp. “I trust you supplied sufficient penance to make their repentance significant.”

  “That is the matter about which we need to talk, my son. I have sentenced them to four days of burning the monastery’s fields and clearing out the ditches. Miserable sinners.”

  Marco blinked. “But, Abbot, we are traveling toward mountain passes …”

  The abbot merely held up his hand to stop Marco’s words. “You will, in four days’ time, and not one hour sooner.” He gestured to his field master. “Take away these wretched specimens and put them to work!”

  When his teamsters had hurried after the monk, rakes and shovels in hand, Father Bartolomeo indicated Father Damiano, his second in command. When he spoke, his voice was kinder. “Don Marco, Father Damiano has something to tell you.” The abbot made a slight bow and left the corral.

  Marco watched him go with a rueful smile. It would not hurt his teamsters, especially those with wives and child
ren waiting in del Sol, to work off their debaucheries. Still, four days to cool his heels in San Pedro? “What is it, Father?”

  “My dear Marco, I regret to tell you that your yellow dog has run away. Andrés and I thought he was tied securely, but we were mistaken. That little rascal has fled the monastery. He’s—”

  “Going back to Santa Fe,” Marco finished.

  Chapter Seven

  In Which Father Damiano Makes Confession and Does Not Argue about Penance

  Father Bartolomeo, the abbot of San Pedro, slid back the little door and exposed the grill in the confession booth. “Father Damiano, I must wonder what requires confession at this unusual time.”

  Father Damiano smiled, feeling not at all repentant. He knew his abbot well, but sins need to be confessed, even this one—or these two, to put a finer point on the matter. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been twenty-four hours since my last confession.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, it was two sins—one of omission and one of commission.”

  He heard a stomach rumble behind the screen, and then his abbot spoke. “Well, my son? Mass and breakfast are before us, and you know we have a busy day, preparing for winter. Don Marco is pacing up and down in the courtyard and talking to himself. What two sins have you committed that require confession? You are too old to shock me. Get about it quickly.”

  “Last night I tied up a yellow dog next to Andrés, Don Marco’s mayor domo. Before I even left the corral, that wicked Andrés had untied the dog and opened the gate so he could run away.”

  It was early. Perhaps Father Bartolomeo needed a moment more than usual to comprehend the gravity of the situation. The abbot’s comment came after deliberation. “You are telling me that you watched another man release his master’s property, and you did nothing to stop him?”

  “Precisely.”

  Father Damiano listened for it, a chuckle deep from somewhere in the abbot’s considerable paunch. Or it could have been another rumbling from the gut.

  “Don Marco Mondragón paid an entire peso for a little runt of a yellow dog.”

  “Un peso? For a runt? Imbecile.”

  Father Damiano waited for the pause, then the thoughtful words from his abbot.

  “Señor Mondragón, a shrewd man, would never pay that ridiculous sum for a runt.”

  “He did, though, Father Bartolomeo.” Father Damiano sighed heavily, knowing his abbot must see right through his false repentance. “And I have allowed another man—someone Don Marco trusts—to rob him of his expensive runt. It was a shocking omission on my part.”

  “Shame on you, Damiano,” the abbot said, with no sting behind the words. “Where will this runt go?”

  “Right back to his first love, a blue-eyed girl in Santa Fe.”

  “And what will Señor Mondragón do?”

  “Find the dog, I hope.”

  Again the long silence, and now the unmistakable rumble of a chuckle. “This is a heavy wrongdoing—to be complicit in separating a good man from his expensive chattel, on the mere hope that this dog will find Santa Fe through darkness and distance, coyotes and Indios.” He paused. “That is your sin of omission? Now tell me about your sin of commission. I hope it is a better story.”

  “It might be. I stopped the yellow dog before he could actually bolt.”

  “Say on.”

  “It just so happened that the post rider was riding south to Santa Fe. He stops at our monastery, as you know, where we allow him to change horses and have a hot meal.”

  “Ah, yes. And?”

  “And I gave him Trece to carry to Santa Fe,” Father Damiano confessed. “After all, Trece is only a small yellow runt and very expensive. Suppose he should not reach Santa Fe, and his blue-eyed mistress? I wanted to speed an earnest dog about his business. Did not San Francisco himself adjure us to be kind to animals?”

  “He did, but I cannot think Francisco wanted us to press our noses into other’s personal affairs.”

  Another long pause, but Father Damiano was patient.

  “Your penance, Father Damiano, will be to kneel in the chapel and think about some kindness we can do Don Marco, when he returns, with or without his … dog. Don’t argue with me. I know you prefer to be with your books, but this is serious.”

  “I would never argue over penance, abbot.”

  Father Damiano waited for his superior to slide the window back across the grill. It was time to robe for Mass, but still he sat there.

  “Abbot?”

  “I should perhaps make a confession to you, Father Damiano, since you are my chief assistant in this monastery. You know that I heard confession last night from those wretched sinners that Don Marco calls teamsters.”

  “And very bad they were, since you sentenced them to four days’ penance burning the fields.”

  “Ah, yes, but you know, dear friend, I have heard worse stories of drinking, whoring and general debauchery in Santa Fe.”

  “I would imagine you have. You have been a long time in this colony, as have I.”

  “Indeed. I confess it: I watched you give Trece to the post rider. I am keeping those sinners here for four days, which should allow Don Marco time to return to Santa Fe and find his, uh, expensive yellow dog.”

  “If he will go, Abbot. We cannot force the human heart.”

  “Damiano, we can try.”

  The abbot still sat there. Finally, “Should we light a candle or two for Señor Mondragón? Perhaps make him our special intention at Mass?”

  “My very thought, too.”

  “Damiano, you are a scoundrel.”

  “I know, Father Bartolomeo. If I may, so are you.”

  The window slid shut and the abbot came out of the little booth. It was only a few steps to the door, which he opened and stood there listening.

  “I don’t hear anyone talking to himself,” Father Bartolomeo said. He crossed himself, folded his hands across his comfortable girth and closed his eyes. In a few minutes, they heard a horse galloping south on the road to Santa Fe.

  The abbot opened his eyes with an expression close to triumph, but not quite, because he was still a humble man. “Father Damiano, one peso is a lot to pay for a runt. I would have been disappointed if a man as smart as Marco Mondragón did not try to find it.”

  The two priests smiled at each other. Suddenly, Father Damiano felt his eyes well with tears. “There is much at stake here, my friend.”

  “I know,” the abbot said quietly. “A good man’s heart.”

  Chapter Eight

  In Which a Runaway Returns to Santa Fe and Suffers Consequences

  After two days of listening to Maria Teresa Moreno de Castellano’s tears, Paloma Vega was heartily weary of her cousin and tired of all the Morenos.

  Her face swollen with crying, Maria had waylaid her the very next morning after the wedding as Paloma hurried to froth her uncle’s chocolate in the kitchen. Maria whined like the spoiled child she was and plucked at Paloma’s sleeve for attention.

  “Before God, no one told me it would be like this!” her cousin had sobbed. “He’s heavy and ugly and oh, his breath!”

  Paloma turned her head as politely as she could, wondering to herself if poor Alonso Castellano had enjoyed his first whiff of his new wife’s molar. “I suppose you must give it time,” she said, pouring the frothed chocolate into her uncle’s silver cup. “People seem to keep getting married, and some of them even smile about it.”

  Maria’s only reply was a shudder as she left the kitchen, probably in search of someone else to pour out her troubles to. Cook returned, shaking her head. With a satisfied smile of her own, she leaned close to Paloma. “That one is destined to never know how much fun a husband can be.”

  Neither am I, Paloma thought. She carried her uncle’s breakfast to him in his small office off the sala, where he sat with a blanket around his shoulders because he was too cheap to light a fire in the charcoal brazier. He was already cursing the bills from the wedding. She arranged his break
fast, listening to his angry commentary about the cost of weddings in general and stupid sons-in-law in particular, and when oh when would the man take Maria to del Sol?

  I think it must be a lovely valley, Paloma thought as she nodded in places where needed, and commented when her uncle probably required a si or no. She escaped the room as soon as she politely could, dropping the simple curtsy that her dear mother had taught her years ago, when they lived on a ranch near El Paso. She still remembered her mama saying, “When you are fourteen or fifteen, there will be suitors.”

  Two days after the curtsy lessons, the Comanches came, even more ferocious than the Apaches. Now she was nearly eighteen and too old for suitors. Paloma rested her back against the cool adobe wall, wishing for a moment to sit in the courtyard with grass underfoot and Trece ... no, not Trece ever again. A trip down the hall to Tia Luisa’s bedroom to inquire what she wished for breakfast would mean listening to more complaints; that could wait. A trip back to the kitchen meant nodding and shaking her head to Cook’s commentary on the family she served, New Mexico in general, and her ugly husband in particular.

  When did I become the sounding board in this household? Paloma asked herself, supremely dissatisfied with a man who would buy her dog for so much money and then actually take him away, even as she knew she was more dissatisfied with herself. She was spooling out her days with an aunt and uncle who never suspected she had dreams of her own.

  They weren’t extravagant dreams; a mere handful of years in the Moreno household had cured her of that. She looked at her bare toes. Lately all she wanted was a pair of shoes. She closed her eyes, trying to think of a wonderful dream. It was a small one, but it made her smile: I want to see Marco Mondragón and his light brown eyes one more time.