Carla Kelly - [Spanish Brand 01] Page 9

  “Perhaps they could be, if shared,” the priest said.

  Paloma smiled. “Do you know something, Father? I like Señor Mondragón’s light brown eyes very well, especially the way they seem to sparkle when he mentions Valle del Sol.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “They do. I think that valley must be a wonderful place. I wanted to see it for myself.” She frowned then, and set Trece back at her feet. “It is probably just another valley, but I couldn’t stay in Santa Fe any longer and not know.” She sat up straighter. “I want to find out what life has in store for me, Paloma Vega. Father, what will make Marco Mondragón realize that he can ride away and return to a wife and children?”

  “Only the doing of it, and that takes enormous courage.”

  “I wish him well and hope he learns such a lesson, because he is a brave man. Otherwise,” she said softly. “I suppose we must leave the matter in God’s hands.” She laughed then. “And not in the hands of a meddling priest, for that is what you are! Shame on you, Father Damiano.”

  She had never spoken so plainly before, but she knew she was right. She saw it in the way he threw back his head and laughed.

  He sobered immediately, but there was nothing penitent about what he said next. “My dear Paloma Vega, you are brave enough for two. I predict that your adventure has only started.”

  She sat there in silence, feeling the war start up in her stomach between the cabbage and the pork. She pressed her middle. “That’s all well enough, Father, but I should never have eaten so much. Excuse me, please.”

  Paloma hurried back to the women’s necessary, staying there an uncomfortable time, red-faced from straining and even more from embarrassment. This was no way to carry out an adventure.

  She must have looked shaken when she came into the courtyard again. Father Damiano waited for her with another glass of that vile concoction. She drank it without a word, then gasped, “This must be the worst cure in the world.”

  “Or the most useless. I haven’t decided,” he replied. “In the middle of the night, it may require a dash for the necessary. Let me show you a shortcut from your room. Child, I can promise that you will feel better tomorrow, either way.”

  Trece at their heels, the priest showed her the shortcut, which involved a path through the chapel, empty now, but soon to be full, because the bell was tolling.

  “Let me show you to your room,” Father Damiano said, leading her down a long hall almost to the end. He opened the door on a cell much the size of her tiny room at her uncle’s house, with bed and crucifix. There was a bowl, pitcher and towel in one corner, but she paid the most attention to the brazier warming the room with piñon reduced to fragrant coals.

  “So nice,” she murmured. “Thank you, Father. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

  “Leave your dress outside the door. I believe we can make some improvements.”

  Paloma nodded, deciding there was no point in being embarrassed. Hadn’t he seen her make two scrambles to the necessary? She noticed her small bundle containing her other dress. “I have something to wear tomorrow,” she told him. “I left my sandals in the kitchen, but they don’t fit anyway.”

  “I noticed. Sit down, Paloma.”

  She did as he said, and was moved when he took a cloth from the basin, knelt and wiped her feet. “Blisters. I have a salve for that,” was all he said.

  “As long as I don’t have to drink it,” she said, which made him smile.

  When he finished, he left the room silently, followed by Trece. “Traitor dog,” Paloma said mildly, then yawned. She unbuttoned her dress and stepped out of it. She shed her ragged chemise, too, washing it in the basin and draping it over a stool by the brazier. It would have been immodest to set that outside the door.

  She crawled into bed, ready to be cold without Trece, but pleased to find a cloth-covered stone. She stretched out and sighed with pleasure. Maybe that was the strange thing about adventures: one turn and things were horrible, another turn and she had a warm rock at her feet. No telling what tomorrow would bring.

  “I must see her for myself, Father.”

  Paloma opened her eyes. The room was still dark, but she heard voices outside her door. She raised up on one elbow, careful to keep her blanket about her bare shoulders. She rubbed her stomach and winced, still suffering, but not enough to make a dash for the necessary. Besides, there were those voices. It didn’t sound like an argument, not really, just one determined voice.

  In a few moments, all was silence outside her door, except for receding footsteps. Paloma turned over and made herself comfortable, then sat up again, blinking her eyes in surprise, as the door opened.

  “Who … who … who?”

  “You sound like an owl, Paloma Vega. Are you all right?”

  What a relief. Señor Mondragón stood outlined in the dim candlelight from the hall.

  “My stomach aches, but I am well enough,” she said, shy and acutely aware that her chemise was drying by the brazier. “You probably shouldn’t come any closer, because I am bare.”

  Foolish girl, she should have known such an admission wasn’t calculated to stop a man, even one as honorable at del Sol’s brand inspector. He came closer, Trece at his heels now, and sat down on her bed. Unconsciously, she shifted her legs to accommodate him.

  “There’s blood on those sandals you wore,” he whispered. “I saw them in the kitchen.”

  “They don’t fit,” she whispered back, wondering why he should concern himself with her footwear. “Father Damiano said he has a salve for me.”

  What he did next did not surprise her, considering the late hour and his level of concern, which touched her even more than Father Damiano washing her blistered feet. He put his arms around her, his hands warm against her bare back. There wasn’t any place on the narrow bed for her arms to go except around him.

  His lips were close to her ear. “I hear you are having a trial over cabbages.”

  She chuckled, reassured now that he meant her no ill. A man intent on asking her about her digestion wasn’t planning mischief as a second course.

  Or was he? After he left, she thought about what he said, his arms still around her: “If it’s any consolation, Paloma Vega, terrible things happen when I eat cooked onions. You’ll serve them at your peril.”

  She wondered at that statement, which assumed so much, but his lips were in her hair then and she found it difficult to process information. She didn’t think he kissed her, but her mind was muddled and her stomach was starting to gurgle again.

  And then he was gone. When she woke up in the morning, she put it down to a cabbage dream. As she put on her dry chemise and reached for her other dress, Paloma vowed never to touch cabbage again, except in times of famine.

  Chapter Twelve

  In Which Marco Must Defeat Tradition

  The next morning Marco was fingering Paloma Vega’s sandals in the monastery kitchen when he heard someone clear her throat. He looked up, a smile on his face. Paloma held out her hand for her sandal. Ah, there it was, that shy glance before the second, unwavering look, almost as though she had to make sure of him before she went farther.

  I hope you like what you saw at first glance, he thought. I’m not a man a woman looks twice at. Except that Felicia once had; nothing else mattered. Without rising, he held out the sandal, making her come closer.

  “I could fix the strap, Paloma. Make it tighter,” he said as he handed her both sandals.

  “Would you? I’ve been barefoot for months.”

  She sat beside him on the bench now, wearing her second dress, which he recognized from her cousin’s wedding. She handed back the sandals and sat there with her hands folded in her lap, reminding him forcefully again of his mother, born in Spain, whose parents paid an enormous dowry to his father. She looked at him, her glance shy then straight on, and he realized why. He doubted she spoke to men often.

  “I will never eat cabbage again, because I had a strange dream
last night.”

  “Oh?”

  “I dreamed you came into my room and embraced me.”

  “I did. No dream, Paloma. I just wanted to make sure you really were there.”

  Her face turned rosy at that, and she smiled down at her folded hands. “I still won’t eat cabbage again, unless I’m desperate.” She looked at him, her voice more animated. “See here, Señor, you can trust a priest if he tells you a person is present.”

  He didn’t want to come up short in her eyes. “It’s a habit of my profession as brand inspector: I have to see with my own eyes. You’d be amazed how many rancheros think I believe them when they tell me they have so many cows with a particular brand. They know better now.”

  “I might believe them, if I saw honesty in their eyes,” she told him.

  “You can tell an honest man by looking in his eyes?” he teased, wondering where this was headed, but enjoying her mild repartee.

  “I saw it in yours when you captured Trece for me that first time,” she said softly.

  She took his breath away. “Thank you,” was all he could say.

  The kitchen was so quiet. Marco looked around in surprise, wondering where the old cook and his assistant had vanished. He thought they had been in the room when Paloma walked in so quietly on her bare feet. He looked down at her feet, saw the blisters, and remembered himself.

  “Father Damiano left a jar of salve here.” He picked it up. “Let me put some on your feet.”

  She could have said no; he was half expecting her to. Instead, she extended one foot and pulled up her dress slightly. He knelt beside her and dabbed on the salve, admiring the trimness of her ankle. She put out the other foot, and he did the same, application and admiration. He sat back on his haunches and looked up at her.

  She wore a look he had not seen in years, an expression of quiet certainty that said she actually thought he knew what he was doing. How many times had Felicia given him that same look, even when he was at his blundering worst? She seemed to know he could be better and was willing to wait until he was. That look touched his heart with little healing fingers. He sat on the bench again, more than slightly amazed.

  “Tell me something, Paloma. How far did you think Valle del Sol was when you started out from Santa Fe with Trece?”

  “A day or two.” She stared at her hands again.

  “When did you find out how far it was?”

  “The cabbage man told me. He said I would be weeks and weeks traveling and that snow was coming soon to the high valleys.” She hesitated and then he heard real fear in her voice. “He also mentioned Comanchería.”

  “Were you not tempted to turn back?” He had to know, because he suspected he was in the company of a woman far braver than any he had ever known.

  She gave him another familiar look, the one Felicia used when she wondered if his wits had gone wandering. Maybe all women—amend that to wives—had that look in their arsenal, the better to manage stupid men—amend that to husbands.

  “Turn back? Never! I had your dog that you had bought for an outrageous sum. Don Marco, what on earth were you thinking? Besides …” She stopped and frowned at her hands.

  “Besides what, Paloma? Better tell me.”

  “I wanted to see your light brown eyes one more time,” she said in a rush. “They’re such an interesting color.”

  And here he thought he knew women. He had been married to a fine one, but he was surprisingly ignorant. This shy girl, so ill-used by those who should have cherished her, was going to give him lessons, every day of his life that remained. He didn’t begin to deserve her, but he wanted to try.

  “Paloma.”

  He couldn’t think of anything more to say. They sat there silent and he remembered how it had been with Felicia. They had grown up on neighboring haciendas and he had always known she would be his wife. When he was eighteen and a man, he and his father had formally ridden to Hacienda Robles and made an offer for her hand. He didn’t even remember asking Felicia if that was what she wanted, because he had always known it was.

  Here was Paloma Vega. He wanted her, but this time he knew he had to ask. Or maybe she had already given him his answer by blurting out that she wanted to see his eyes—his honest eyes, according to her. At thirty-one years old, he was floundering for the first time over a woman.

  Marco did what any confused man would do: he avoided the issue. Earlier in the kitchen he had overheard Father Damiano tell the cook to prepare eggs and chorizo for Paloma Vega. In desperation he glanced at the fireplace, where a small pot hung. He went to it, sighing with relief to see the promised eggs and chorizo. Hominy porridge warmed nearby in another iron pot.

  “Eggs or hominy?” he asked, grateful that his words didn’t emerge in an adolescent squeak.

  “Both,” she said firmly. “Let me help.”

  Then she was beside him, her face still red with embarrassment, looking into the pot. She had picked up a plate and bowl from somewhere, and he found a ladle.

  “Stop me when you have enough,” he said, spooning hominy porridge into the bowl.

  “That’s enough.” She held out the plate and he portioned out eggs and chorizo.

  She took them to the table and he found tortillas basking under a cloth, moist and fragrant. He took some for her and a few for himself, even though he had eaten earlier with Father Damiano and the abbot. He joined her at the table, sitting next to her.

  Paloma crossed herself, prayed and began to eat. She ate steadily and gratefully, which spoke worlds about her lack of regular meals, if ever he had any doubt. Grateful, because she was half smiling as she ate. He thought it was an unconscious gesture, but her hand had curved a little around the plate. Someday, maybe in a year or two, if she still did that, he would have to yank the plate away and see what happened. He chuckled. Probably she would conk him with a spoon.

  There was a question in her eyes. He shook his head and kept smiling. “I feel good, Paloma,” he said. “That’s all.”

  When she finished, she puffed her cheeks out in a sigh that told him how full she was. “If I keep this up, I won’t even fit my one dress.”

  Good! He wanted to shout. I know a good dressmaker in del Sol; she’s a madwoman, but she can sew. Honestly, I’d rather not be able to span your waist with my hands. You’re too thin, Paloma Vega.

  He didn’t know what to say, where to begin, and then he remembered her mother’s tortoise shell comb. He took it from his doublet and handed it to her, watching her eyes as they softened. She didn’t have to say thank you; her eyes said it for her.

  Taking a deep breath of his own, he took it back from her and anchored it in her mass of hair. “There now. It’s back where it belongs. The Jew told me he was sorry he could not pay you more.”

  “I could tell it bothered him.”

  “You looked in his eyes, too?”

  She nodded. “I tell you I know how an honest man looks. Even a Jew.”

  “I saw the same thing, Paloma.”

  She cocked her head. “Then you lied to me earlier, when you said you told Father Damiano you had to see me asleep. You know he is honest. You can look in a ranchero’s eyes and know if he is trustworthy. Maybe I should be a juez de campo, too.”

  Paloma was teasing him. He was so delighted, he could have wriggled like a puppy.

  “You caught me,” he told her. “It’s an instinct, isn’t it?”

  They sat in silence, close together. He took a deep breath. “Paloma Vega, please marry me.”

  If he had held his breath as long as it took her to answer, he would have dropped dead on the floor. The longer her silence stretched out, the more his heart sank. She looked down at her hands, glanced at him, then returned her gaze to her fingers, that he saw were twisted white.

  “I wish I could, Señor Mondragón,” she said finally. “Oh, I do.”

  “Then why not?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet, not wanting her to bolt.

  “I have absolutely no dowry. Nothing at
all.” She looked at him, then away again, addressing the oven across the room. “My … my pride has taken a beating for years, but Señor, I cannot bend that far. I would break. Every good, honest man deserves a dowry, no matter how tiny. And you are better and more honest than most.”

  Breathe, Marco, breathe, he told himself. In and out. “Um, you could give me your mother’s comb.”

  “Señor, you just gave it to me.”

  “What about Trece?”

  “He belongs to you.”

  “He might, but why do I think that if you remain here and Trece goes with me, that he will break loose at the first opportunity and head right back to you?” I would, he thought. Oh, please, Paloma.

  “That is your problem. I have nothing, and I will not shame so fine a gentleman as you with my poverty.”

  He leaned his back against the table, happy at least that she had not inched away from him. Their shoulders were nearly touching. He moved a fraction closer until they touched, and she did not pull away.

  I have to think of something, he told himself. Before God and all the saints, there must be something.

  He stood up then, thoughtful now where he had been in agony only seconds before. “I need to think about this matter, Paloma,” he told her as he headed toward the outside door into the courtyard. He picked up her shoes from the floor. “I’ll fix your sandals while I think.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. She had bowed her head over her hands and her slim shoulders were starting to shake.

  Sandals in hand, he put his hands behind his back and walked the length of the porch. He turned a corner, where he came upon Father Damiano and Father Bartolomeo, gazing at him with eager eyes. He shook his head and walked on.

  “Stop right there,” the abbot ordered. He complied.

  “She won’t have me, abbot,” Marco said. “She had no dowry and she won’t shame me. Dios mio, why are women so stubborn?”

  It was probably the question of the ages, and he should have known better than to ask it of two celibate priests. Father Damiano and Father Bartolomeo looked at each other, puzzled. He sighed and continued his circuit of the courtyard. He paused as he passed the kitchen window, glancing in to see Paloma still sitting there, her face in her hands. Stubborn, stubborn woman, he thought, and continued his circuit. Felicia was not this stubborn; she did whatever he asked, without question.