Daughter of Fortune (27 page)

Maria’s palms were wet. She kissed Luz’ hair and
twined her fingers in the dark curls, covering the child’s ears
with her hands. Luz burrowed into her lap like a small animal
seeking shelter.

The Indians all moved closer. Maria closed her eyes,
her mind leaping back to the burning caravan, the circling
vultures, the terrible carnage.

Cristóbal stood facing his brother. They were very
close to each other, but Diego would not back away. They stood boot
to toe in the silent plaza.

Father Pio spoke. “They have been dancing since
early morning after you left, Señor Masferrer.”

Diego did not turn around. Still staring at his
brother, he addressed the priest. “And where are the soldiers
garrisoned here? Two of them? What of them?”

“I do not know, my son.”

“I will tell you where they are, Diego,” said
Cristóbal. “They fled.”

“Cristóbal , you know this is forbidden,” said
Diego.

“These are my people,” Cristóbal replied. “We are
dancing for rain.”

“Only God brings rain,” countered Diego.

Cristóbal laughed and spoke in Tewa to the Indians
crowding around them. They hooted and banged their drums. Luz
whimpered again. “Hush,
querida
,” Maria said.

Cristóbal leaned even closer to his brother. “God
and Mary have done us no good, my little brother.”

“I am not your little brother, Cristóbal,” snapped
Diego, breaking off each word. “You go too far, son of my
father.”

“I do not go far enough, Diego. We will dance if we
choose.”

“You will not,” said Diego. “It is an abomination
before God and the saints, and it is forbidden. I would remind you
of that.” The Indians moved about restlessly, whispering to one
another.

Diego stepped away from his brother and walked alone
into the center of the pueblo’s square. He spoke in Tewa, his voice
firm, his tone reasonable. Maria looked toward Father Pio. “Father,
what does he say?”

“He tells them to remember whose Indians they are,
and to go to their homes.”

Diego stood where he was. Then Cristóbal was beside
him, speaking to the dancers. The Indians left the plaza, quickly
climbing the ladders into the pueblo. In seconds, the square was
deserted.

Cristóbal turned to his brother. “They go only
because I tell them to.”

“Be not so sure, Cristóbal,” Diego replied, turning
on his heel and striding back toward his horse. “I will speak to
you later.”

“We have nothing to say, Diego.”

“You owe me an accounting,” said Diego, his voice
rising.

“An accounting!” shouted Cristóbal. “For what? For
the sheep and the cattle I cannot have? For the horse that is not
my own? For the woman you keep from me? I owe you nothing. I am not
your Indian!” He raised his hand to strike Diego. The Indians in
the pueblo had come out to the terraces again and were watching in
eerie silence.

Diego stood where he was, his feet wide apart in the
sand of the plaza. “Strike me and you are a corpse, Cristóbal,” he
said.

Cristóbal’s hand remained upraised for another long
moment, then he lowered it to his side and turned on his heel. He
looked around suddenly, and Diego started, in spite of himself.
“There is a time coming, Diego! A time when the angels of your
heaven will turn their backs on you.”

“And how is this?” asked Diego, his voice
steady.

“You will see, my brother, you will see.” Cristóbal
disappeared into the gloom of the pueblo.

When he had gone, Diego heaved a sigh and walked to
the wagon. Maria pulled Catarina up to the seat and brushed off her
dress. “You made me miss the best part!” the child scolded, even as
her hands trembled.

“Hush, Catarina,” Diego said. “Maria only wanted to
protect you. Come, Luz, come. It is over now.”

Maria sat back on the wagon seat with Luz still in
her lap. As the little girl began to cry, Maria rocked her back and
forth, her hands still entwined in the curly black hair. Absently,
Diego picked the straw off Luz’ serge dress, his hand shaking like
Catarina’s. Maria looked away, the fear in her growing greater. It
was as Cristóbal said, they had much to fear.

“Father Pio,” said Diego, “what has been happening
here?’’

The father pressed his hands together. “It has been
a terrible day,” he began. Diego smiled faintly and nodded. “Truly
a dreadful day,” continued the priest, unable to interpret Diego’s
expression.

“You were not harmed?” asked the ranchero.

“No. Never,” the priest assured. “They are my little
flock. They would never raise a hand to me. They are as little
children.”

“I wonder,” Diego mused, ruffling Luz’s hair. His
hand touched Maria’s.

“Indeed they are, Señor,” continued Father Pio.
“They are upset, as we all are, by the continued drought. And there
have been disturbing elements in the pueblo of late. But he is gone
now.”

“Who?” asked Diego quickly.

“I do not know his name. A large Indian, quite black
of face, with curious light eyes. To look into them—ah, it is hard
to tear one’s glance away. But he is gone now, and I think all will
be well, especially if you do not go to Santa Fe again soon.”

“Our governor expressed the same hope to me only
this afternoon,” Diego said, then hesitated. “But I will not bore
you with the details now. I fear you would require a confession,
one I am not yet ready to give.”

Erlinda reached inside the wagon and handed Father
Pio the package from Governor Otermin. “Are you sure you would not
rather stay with us a few days, Father?” she asked.

He accepted the small package with a smile and a
shake of his head. “No, no, my child. I am quite safe here.”

“Very well then, Father,” said Diego, “we will
continue our journey. ”

“Go with God, my son,” replied the father, making
the sign of the cross. “Come to see me when you can make that
confession.”

“In time, in time,” replied Diego, mounting his
horse and taking a last good look around. He laughed then, the
sound echoing in the deserted plaza. “Be of cheer, Father. There
are always other sins.”

Erlinda sat facing Maria in the wagon. As they
approached the hacienda she leaned forward and touched Maria
lightly on the knee. “Remember what I said this morning, Maria. My
brother and sisters need your special care.”

When they drew up to the hacienda, Diego sprang from
his horse and raced into the house. Maria glanced around the
property. There were no guards.

La Señora sat in the darkening hall, an old sword
resting in her lap. Diego knelt by her side. “Mama, what is
it?”

She groped for his hands and held them tight within
her own. “Drums, Diego. I have been listening to them all
afternoon.”

“It is over now, Mama,” he said, then looked around
suddenly. “But what of my servants? Is no one here?”

“No one, my son. Only I.”

Diego leaped to his feet and turned toward the main
hall. “Juvenal!” he shouted. “Pablo! Endalecio! Come at once!”

There was only silence. He looked back at his
mother. “What has happened?”

“I have heard no servants,” she replied, reaching
for Diego’s hands again. “And yet there was one, someone I do not
know. Large. Striding through the rooms, as only a big man can. He
came into my room.”

“Dios mio,
Mama
,” Erlinda breathed,
sitting down close to her mother on the bench, her face white. “Who
was it?”

“I do not know. He did not speak. I could only hear
his breathing. He walked around my room. I heard him walking around
all the rooms. As if ...’’ She paused, raising her hand in a
helpless gesture. “As if he were measuring the place for his
own.”

Diego drew his sword and walked through all the
rooms of the hacienda. Maria sat down on the earthen ledge where
she had sat on her first night at Las Invernadas, holding Luz and
Catarina close to her. Even Catarina was silent for once, her eyes
big, one finger in her mouth.

After what seemed like hours, Diego returned, his
sword sheathed again. “There is no one here now.”

But even as he spoke, they heard voices coming from
the direction of the kitchen. Without a word, Diego slapped his
dagger in Maria’s hand, wrapping her fingers around the handle.

“Use it if you have to,” he whispered, his lips
close to her ear. He took off his boots and pulled his sword
slowly, silently from the sheath again. Then he was gone, his feet
noiseless on the dirt floor.

Maria followed him to the archway where the hall
branched off toward the kitchen. She stood in the shadows with her
back against the wall, watching him go and feeling an emptiness
that made her practically hollow. Erlinda thrust Catarina and Luz
behind her as she crouched by the front door. La Señora’s hands
tightened around the sword in her lap, and her lips moved in
prayer.

Maria gripped Diego’s knife. The handle was
well-worn and smooth in her hands. She held the knife with both
hands raised to chest level. Luz began to cry again, a thin wailing
sound, full of all the fear in the world. Maria wanted to go to
her, to comfort her, but she dared not move.

There was a rustle of clothing. Maria stiffened and
grasped the knife tighter. She heard loud voices now, coming toward
them. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows.

The voices stopped in surprise at her sudden
appearance. Then she heard Diego’s words. “It is well, Maria,
Erlinda. Mama, be at peace. The men are back. Are you all right,
Maria?” She sagged against the wall and dropped the knife. She
could only nod, still leaning against the wall. Cold all over, she
hugged her arms to her body and looked at Diego. Their eyes met and
held for several seconds. “Thank you, Maria,” was all he said.

Erlinda and her sisters rushed to Diego, who put his
arms around them. “Where was everyone?” Erlinda asked.

Diego gestured to the men behind him. “They were
tricked out of the hacienda, perhaps by that someone Mama heard.
They said they went in pursuit of him.” He glanced at his men. “We
will talk in the morning.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “Never
again will this hacienda be left unguarded, not for a moment.”

The men bowed to him and left, speaking softly among
themselves. “Where are the women?” La Señora asked as Diego took
the sword off her lap and leaned it against the wall.

“They fled when the men ran to chase whoever—or
whatever—was in the rooms. They are coming back now. My men do not
know what they saw. Someone large, someone black.” Diego glanced
quickly at Maria. “I suppose by morning it will have sprouted wings
and grown a tail. Who is to say? Hush now, Luz, I am here.”

I am here. The quiet words were loud in Maria’s
ears.
How we depend on him.
She looked at La Señora, who
still sat with her hands folded in her lap.
It is a wonder that
Diego can bear all that we put on him
.

“And now, Maria, if you will take Luz and Catarina
to their room and help them change for dinner, we will get on with
things. Go now. I will help my mother.”

But Luz would not let go of her brother. As Erlinda
helped her mother, Diego picked up the child and followed Maria and
Catarina down the dark hall. Outside the door to their room, Diego
paused with his hand on the latch. “Would you have used that knife,
Maria?”

“I think so—yes—why do you ask?”

“I just wondered.” He shouldered the door open and
went into the room, sitting on the bed with Luz in his arms while
Maria lit the branch of candlesticks by the altar. “Erlinda would
not have used the knife, or so I think. But you would?”

Maria looked beyond Diego to the saint on the wall,
its inward smile calming her. “When I came here, even before I left
Santa Fe,” she said, choosing her words with care, “I told myself
that I would live.” She stopped, looking down at Diego. “I could
not give up easily. Not now.”

“I called you
La Afortunada
—the lucky
one—then, did I not?” Diego said, his eyes on her face. “I have
wondered—perhaps we all have—if you are our gift from God.” He
paused and looked down at his little sister resting in his arms. “I
treasure the care you take of my sisters, and the love you have for
my mother. For them, I thank you.”

He said no more, but sat Luz on her bed and left the
room. Maria closed the door after him and leaned against it. He had
thanked her for her kindness to his women, but he said nothing of
himself, or of the words he had spoken in the governor’s
office.

Perhaps I should have stayed with my sister
,
she thought, looking at Luz and then helping her off with her
travel-stained dress. But she knew she could not stay with her
sister. She did not belong there, not as a sister or as a
servant.

“Where do I belong, Catarina?” she murmured out
loud, going to the chest and helping the older sister pull out
another dress.

“Here, of course, where we love you,” Catarina
replied, almost brusque in her appraisal of a question that really
needed no answer.

Her words startled Maria, who did not realize she
had spoken out loud. “Do you really?” she asked in surprise.

But Catarina would say no more. She blushed and
smiled at Maria.

Such shy people we are
, Maria thought.
We
never say what we think or feel
. As she buttoned up Luz’s
dress, she hummed an Indian tune she remembered Diego singing that
morning. On impulse, she kissed Luz on the top of her head. Luz
looked around in surprise, the same pink glow covering her
delighted face.

Dinner was a silent meal. Luz and Catarina were
unusually quiet, eating without having to be reminded by Erlinda to
chew with their mouths closed or to use their napkins. Diego rose
more than once and went to the kitchen window. The shutters were
still open and he listened to the night sounds that ordinarily
never would have caused him to leave the table. Erlinda watched
him, her eyes big, her fingers tight around her fork. She only
pushed the food around her silver plate, toying with it until she
felt Maria’s eyes on her. She put down her fork. “I am not hungry
tonight, Maria.”