Daughter of Fortune (30 page)

Diego had already ordered his servants into two
lines, one to pass buckets of water to the flames, the other to
send the buckets back to the
acequia,
where they were
refilled and passed on again, almost thrown from hand to hand.

Diego and his
vaqueros
had let the horses out
of the stable next to the wagon shed. The animals milled around the
corral, whinnying and bumping into each other in their fright.
Diego knocked down part of the fence to let them out and, their
eyes rolling in terror, the horses streaked across the fields.

The flames from the wagon shed were fanning up a hot
wind. Maria shaded her eyes with her hand and ran closer, the
bucket knocking against her legs. The legacy of drought was all
around her as she listened to the parched timbers crackle and
watched them burst into flame spontaneously. The play of light on
dark held her in dreadful fascination as she stopped to watch.

Diego was forming another fire line, this one for
the roof of the stables. He climbed onto the roof as Maria squeezed
her way into the line, her eyes on him. He propped his feet against
the wooden poles that ran the length of the stables and leaned back
against the roof. Several Indians joined him, and they poured water
on the dry timbers of the roof, working to stay ahead of the flames
on the wagon shed that threatened to jump the gap and fire the
stables, too.

The men worked in silence, the only sound the
crackling of the flames and the roar of the fire as it billowed
upward, carried higher and higher by the fiery drafts of its own
creation. The heat nearly knocked Maria down. Sweat rolled off her
chin but she could not pause long enough in the fire chain to wipe
her face.

Diego called from the roof, his voice strained and
loud, ordering the Indians to take poles and knock down the walls
of the wagon shed. The walls were adobe, but the wooden-framed
windows burst into flame from the heat of the burning roof and the
wagons inside. Indians rushed forward with long poles, poking and
prodding at the walls.

Diego climbed higher on the stable roof until he was
straddling the peak. The Indians followed him, inching along, as
they dumped bucket after bucket of water on the timbers.

And then she saw Cristóbal climbing to the roof,
moving slowly toward Diego. He had appeared suddenly out of the
dark.

Cristóbal edged slowly along the roof. He paused
behind Diego and touched him on the shoulder. Diego glanced back,
motionless, waiting, for a long moment. Then he handed Cristóbal
the empty bucket. After another pause, Cristóbal took it, passing
it back along the line. Maria sighed and turned her attention once
more to the man next to her, who was shouting at her to speed
up.

The workers were soon able to force out enough adobe
bricks to bring the wagon shed roof down. It fell on the blazing
wagons with a whoosh that sent a cascade of flames and sparks
soaring even higher into the darkness. A shower of flaming wood
spread onto the stable roof, but the wood was soaked through and it
did not ignite, except in isolated patches, where the men hurried
to beat out the sparks with their bare hands.

Maria’s hands were blistered by the rough leather
straps of the buckets slapped from hand to hand. Her back ached
from bending forward to receive the full buckets, but she stayed in
the fire line until the wagon shed was a smoldering heap of
coals.

An hour later, the men climbed off the stable roof,
coming down slowly and awkwardly like old men. Diego and Cristóbal
were last. They leaned against the adobe wall of the stable, their
faces blackened by smoke. Diego took the last bucket handed to him
and drank out of it, coughing and spitting out the water. He handed
it to his brother.

The Indians put down their buckets and gathered
around the ruined shed. No one said anything as the men watched the
red embers flickering in the ashes. Maria set down her bucket and
wiped her face with her sleeve. Her throat was raw and hot and her
eyes ached. She rubbed them, then walked slowly toward the
stable.

Diego and Cristóbal were sitting on the ground,
leaning against the wall. Diego looked up at her and coughed. “I
thought I told you to stay with Erlinda.”

She shook her head. “No, Señor, you told me to tell
Erlinda to stay with your mother. ”

The words stuck in her throat, and she coughed until
her eyes watered. Diego got slowly to his feet and handed her the
bucket. She drank from it. The water was the only coolness in the
whole wagon yard.

“Maria,” Diego said carefully. She waited for his
anger to explode. “Maria, you are a mess,” he said softly.

She looked at him. His face was as black as his
hair. His homespun shirt was burned through in several places, and
even the leather of his breeches bore holes from the sparks. There
was an angry red streak on his cheek. On impulse, she reached out
and touched it. “Erlinda has some salve for that,” she said.

“Later,” he said. “I have to round up the horses.
”

“I will do that, brother,” spoke up Cristóbal. He
had been silent, watching them standing close together. “With a few
of your Indians.” Diego stared at him hard, but he continued. “I
can have them back by morning.”

Diego turned from Maria. “I suppose it is the least
you can do, my brother.”

The brothers faced each other. Cristóbal put out his
hand, but Diego shook it off.

“I saw the flames from Tesuque,” said Cristóbal.

Diego was silent.

“But you do not believe me,” Cristóbal
continued.

“Why should I, Cristóbal?” Diego asked. “Why should
I believe a man who hates me and all I stand for?”

Cristóbal said, “Why would I start such a fire,
Diego?”

“Perhaps someone told you to,” said Diego, his voice
old and tired. “I wonder if you have a mind of your own
anymore.”

Cristóbal lashed his hand across Diego’s face,
slamming him against the stable. Diego’s eyes rolled back in his
head as he slid down the wall.

“Don’t touch him, Maria,” Cristóbal shouted as Maria
darted forward. “If he gets up again, I will kill him.”

She stopped where she was, her eyes on
Cristóbal.

He did not see her. “He is like all the rest, my own
brother! He will not take the word of an Indian. Not even an Indian
he calls brother.”

Maria stood watching him. Cristóbal took her arm,
his touch gentle. She raised her face to his face.

“Come with me, Maria. It will not be safe here soon.
And do not ask me how I know. Just come with me. Perhaps—perhaps I
can protect you.” He was holding her with both hands now, his
fingers warm on her arm.

Maria looked down at Diego, who was beginning to
stir, then back to Cristóbal. “I cannot,” she said.

“Maria, you are the only particle of goodness in
this cruel place. Come with me.”

She tried to move away, but he held her. She leaned
forward then, resting her head against Cristóbal’s chest like a
tired child, and he encircled her with his arms. “Cristóbal, I
cannot leave Diego, not after all he has done for me.” She did not
add, “And I cannot go with you.” She loved Cristóbal, as a friend,
a brother, a Masferrer, but not as a lover.

Cristóbal released Maria and turned to his brother.
“I will find your horses,” Cristóbal spat out. “Let it be the last
deed I do for you, the last time I am ever
your
Indian.” He
turned to leave the wagon yard as silently as he had come, but
paused, looking back at his brother. “You are a curious man, Diego
mio
,” he said, his tone almost conversational. “You cannot
believe a gesture of honor in someone who is not Spanish.”

With a curse, he walked back and jerked Diego to his
feet, peering close into his eyes for a moment, then letting him go
with a grunt. “You will soon,” he said. With a nod to Maria, he
left the wagon yard. After a look at Diego, several Indians
followed him.

With a slow shake of his head, Diego staggered to
the fence and leaned against it. Maria joined him. Feeling
someone’s eyes on her, she turned to see Cristóbal still watching.
She raised her hand in farewell, and he was gone.

In silence she turned back to Diego. “You need to
put cool water on that, Señor.” She touched his bruised scalp
gently.

For a brief moment while her hand was searching
through his hair, he leaned against her shoulder with his eyes
closed. Then he straightened, putting his fingers to his head. “Say
nothing of this to Erlinda. She would only worry more.”

They stood close together, their shoulders touching.
“Does it matter that she worries?” murmured Maria. “Why can you not
share your troubles?”

His only answer was to turn away from her and start
toward the burned wagon shed. Maria remained by the fence as he
walked around the still-smoking shed, idly kicking dirt and mud
onto the embers. He went around the building twice, then walked
back to Maria, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“Pues, bueno
,” he said, as they started
slowly back toward the hacienda. “The harvest will be difficult
this year.” In an almost unconscious gesture he put his arm around
her shoulder, hugging her to him as they walked. She hesitated a
moment, thinking of everything her mother had ever taught her, then
put her arm around his waist, hooking her thumb into his sword
belt.

Halfway to the hacienda he stopped, standing still
to cough until Maria thought he would turn himself inside out. “Ay,
that smoke,” he finally gasped. “I feel as dirty on the inside as I
do on the outside.” He felt the back of his head again and
swore.

They started walking again, slowly, almost
leisurely, as if this were the end of an evening stroll out beyond
the
acequia.
“But do you know the worst part of this fire,
Maria?” he asked suddenly.

“What, Señor?”

“We really cannot leave this place now. The wagons
are all burned, and the only way out is on horseback—if Cristóbal
finds the horses. Do you think he will?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he gave his word,” she burst out. She faced
Diego, compelling him to stop. “And I do not believe Cristóbal
lies.”

Anger rose, then died in his eyes. He looked at the
ground. “Do you love him, Maria?”

She could not have heard him right.

“Do you?” he asked again, still looking at the
ground.

Her feelings were too complex for an answer. There
were many kinds of love. There was also the prospect of her
spinsterhood, since she had no dowry. “I was not raised to answer
such a forward question.”

“And I was not raised to ask it,” he said sharply,
looking at her. A slight smile, a caressing smile, crossed his
face. “But I am asking.”

Before she could answer, the kitchen door banged
open, and Erlinda and her sisters ran down the garden path. They
crossed the footbridge, the little ones flinging themselves at
Diego as he stood facing Maria. Erlinda stood watching them, a
thoughtful expression replacing the fear on her face.

“Mama is so worried, Diego
mio
,” Erlinda
said.

“I will be in. Tell her all is well.”

Erlinda went back inside, and Maria followed. She
was conscious again of her smoke-blackened face. She had lost a
shoe in the
acequia
and her dress was in ruins, scorched,
wet and muddy. She looked back at Luz and Catarina, who crowded
close to Diego.

“We were so afraid, Diego,” said Catarina, plucking
at his sleeve. “But Erlinda told us that all would be well. And it
is, is it not?”

“Yes, of course, sister,” Diego replied, his eyes on
Maria as she walked alone toward the kitchen.

Maria woke in the morning to the smell of smoke
hanging heavy in the room. Out of habit, she felt with her toe to
see if the sword was there. It was not, and she sighed.
Pues,
bueno
, she thought, curling her legs close to her body again
and snuggling against Luz. She closed her eyes again, then opened
them, determined this time not to oversleep. As the room lightened,
she could see the smoke in the room. The air was stifling. She
cleared her throat. It was sore from smoke.

She got out of bed and dressed quickly, pulling on
her remaining dress that had not been ruined by the fire, wincing
when the coarse material brushed against the burns on her arms. She
ached from the labor of the night before, from the constant motion
of bending and passing the buckets. Her hands were blistered and
painful to touch.

The room had no mirror. None of them did. Erlinda
said once that her father had not approved of mirror-gazing by his
daughters, and La Señora had no need of them. Maria ran her hands
over her face, feeling the small burned spots where cinders had
nicked her last night. In sudden panic she felt her hair, but she
could find no burned spots.

She brushed her hair, letting it fall around her
shoulders, turning her head this way and that to watch the effect
of her chestnut curls arranging themselves on her breast. She would
love to wear her hair down again, pulled back slightly to show her
ears, but Mama had never allowed her to show more than the tips of
her ears after she became a young lady, and besides, she had no
earrings to slip into her earlobes anymore. The solicitors had
taken them all, even the small gold hoops she wore as they had
spoken to her of chattels and goods and indebtedness and
compensation.

But how pretty her hair would look pulled back with
the pin that Papa had claimed was made from pearls found by Balboa
himself. The pin was gone, too, lost in the Indian attack on the
supply caravan.

Maria sighed. There was a soft knock at her door
and, after making sure that all her buttons were done up the front,
she opened it.