Marco and the Devil's Bargain (39 page)

She thought there might be contempt in the warriors' eyes, but she saw nothing of the kind. Eckapeta told her later, as she brushed Paloma's hair—her hairbrush fascinated the woman—that The People would tell stories for a long time about the woman who was brave enough to challenge the Dark Wind with two cuts, and who had stood above her man with a branding iron, ready to swing at them.

“
Anyone would have done those things,” she said, which made Eckapeta tug her hair and laugh.

Paloma couldn't help but admire Marco, every bit as dignified in the saddle as the Kwahadi. She even thought her modest husband was a little bit proud of his Kwahadi scar. The days were warm now and he had tucked away the trade blanket he had worn on his shoulders, during the last gasp of winter in the canyon. He had also put away his Spanish boots, because as a parting gift, one of Kwihnai's wives had made him a pair of moccasins that fit.

He was proudest of Kwihnai's lance, practicing with Toshua and the others in the evenings. When they were nearly to Santa Maria, thinking Kwihnai had only loaned the weapon to him for the journey, Marco tried to return it through Toshua. The Comanche—his friend, his
pabi
—had backed his horse away, shaking his head.

“
It is yours, my little brother. Keep Paloma safe with it always,” Toshua had said, including her in his gesture.

That had led to tears. Paloma no longer bothered to ask herself why her heart was heavy with tears for The People she had thought to hate and fear all her life.

As much as she knew she would miss The People, Paloma could not deny the great relief that covered her like a warm bath, when the towering Sangre de Cristos finally came into view. “Our mountains,” she said to Marco as he rode beside her. “
Gracias a Dios
.”

He rode beside her more and more now. She knew she had not complained, but she had noticed Eckapeta speaking to him more than once, and then stopping her talk when she came closer.
They are worried about me
, she thought, irritated with them both.
I have said nothing and they are worried
.

A day later, their escort, including Toshua and Eckapeta, left them without a word. She had awakened from a sound sleep to find Marco missing. When she crouched out of the tent, she looked around and cried out, “Where have they gone?”

He stood facing the east, tears on his face.

“
Why did you not wake me?” she raged at him, then threw herself into his open arms.

“
They told me not to,” he whispered into her hair. “They said it was best this way.”

“
Why didn't I hear them?” she asked, sad to her heart's core.

“
They're Kwahadi,” he said with a shrug.

“
You heard them,” she accused.

He had no answer for that.

The greatest difficulty came in approaching Santa Maria without alarming anyone or becoming victims themselves, since they wore the garb of The People. Marco solved it handily enough by traveling in a roundabout way to the fields of a friend of long standing.

“
I will call his name and sing a
Te Deum
. Stay here and watch.”

Filled with misgivings, she did as he said. A hand to her forehead to shade her eyes, she watched distant figures in the field stand, gather close, and then run. “Please, please be right, Marco,” she whispered.

She watched, fearful, as Marco dismounted to face the approaching horsemen, picking their way slowly. Just as slowly, he set down his lance, removed the quiver from his back and stood there with his hands outstretched. “I am Marco Mondragón!” he shouted. “Your
juez de campo,
Juan Sandia, you horse-stealing old fornicator.” She closed her eyes in gratitude to hear laughter.

The riders were Don Juan Sandia and his son Diego, men she remembered from inoculations in February. Was it only February? How could that be, when her life had changed in every way? When the Sandias crowded close around him, everyone talking at once, Marco waved her in and the journey was over.

Marco told them all he could as they rode to Santa Maria in the protective center of the entire Sandia clan. “What month is it?” was his first question. He had to know before he would tell them anything. All of a sudden, the month mattered. Half-naked in a loin cloth, and he wanted—needed—to know the month.
I am a bureaucrat
, he thought, amused.

“
Abril, mono
,” Juan teased, taking liberties with the
juez de campo
because they were friends of long standing.

Everyone had something to say. Marco found himself missing the polite clearing of the throat in tipis. On the outskirts of Santa Maria, he held up his hand. “My friends, I promise I will call a meeting soon and tell everyone what happened. Now you tell me that Lieutenant Roybal is here again? Why is that?”

“
Word has passed around that we have no
juez
. He'll be glad to see you,” Juan replied.

Lieutenant Roybal
was
glad—overjoyed, in fact—grabbing Marco in an
abrazo
. He sat them both down, ready for a long story, which Marco overruled, after a look at Paloma.

“
We are going home now,” he said firmly. “I will write you a detailed report in a day or two and bring it myself. I would ask two things of you: could you send someone to Señora Saltero's to at least borrow a skirt and bodice for my wife? We daren't ride any farther in these clothes. I can surely find clothes from someone in the garrison.”

At the mention of the dressmaker, Lieutenant Roybal's face fell. “Alas,
la viruela
….”

“
Then it did fall upon Santa Maria,” Paloma said. “We could not tell, as we rode in.”

“
It did, but few died, thanks to you and that doctor, Señor … Señor ….”

“
Señor Antonio Gil,” Marco supplied. No need for them to know the complication that was Leo Flynn. “Such a brave man. He has decided to continue his work among the Kwahadi, building such bridges as our governor would be grateful to know about. But Señora Saltero?”

Again the sorrowful shake of the head, followed by a philosophical shrug. “I believe she was not inoculated.”

“
That is true,” Paloma said, her voice soft. “She chose this and we understand. Could you send that same man to Aldonza Rivera? I believe our old friend, God rest her soul, said Aldonza would be the new dressmaker in Santa Maria.”

“
I will.”

By the time the servant returned with a handsome skirt and bodice, Marco had been clothed in breeches and a shirt and doublet that nearly fit. They would get him home to the Double Cross, and he needed nothing more. While Paloma changed, the lieutenant told him about the others in Santa Maria who had survived the Dark Wind.

Marco had to ask. “You have not mentioned Rico the tinsmith, and his wife Luz.”

“
They are fine!” Roybal leaned closer, ever the gentleman. “And wouldn't you know that Señora Mendoza is increasing yet again?”

Inwardly, Marco heaved a sigh of relief, wishing he could tell Leo Flynn that even a pregnant woman might live through inoculation, and her baby, too.
I cannot possibly be missing that difficult little man
, he thought, startled.
Well, maybe a little
.

“
So life goes on in Santa Maria.” Marco could have said something about the promise of the Kwahadi war chief never to raid the valley again. It could wait for the official report in a few days. And here was Paloma, looking like a Spanish lady again.

The lieutenant walked them to their waiting horses, grained and watered. He stopped with another frown. “Señora, you probably do not know, but there is sadness in your own family.”

“
I have no family, other than this man of mine,” she said.

“
Your cousin and your brother-in-law, Alonso Castellano.” He shook his head. “Such a sad thing. Both dead of
la viruela
. Rumor says that all their servants scattered before they drew their final breaths. I only just learned of it, but I will ride there tomorrow, because something must be done. There are records to be found. Ho there, señora.”

Marco grabbed Paloma when she sagged against him, holding her easily in his arms. He sat down with her on the bench by the horse trough, his arms tight around her, until she stirred and sat up.

“
Such loss, such loss,” she whispered into his neck.

After that news, he did not trust her to ride alone. So it was that they shared the same saddle as they approached the Double Cross, the same way they had arrived a year and a half ago when Paloma Vega—the one The People now called Tatzinupi—arrived from Santa Fe. She had offered no objection then and she offered none now.

“
Thanks be to God Omnipotent,” he said simply as they came slowly toward his gray-walled fortress, just the two of them with no outriders. He knew they need not fear the Kwahadi again, no matter how matters stood in the rest of the colony. That would go in his report to the governor, too. Valle del Sol was safe, no longer a target on the edge of Comanchería.

The gates swung wide at their approach, and there was old Emiliano, clapping his hands and capering about like a man half his age. His other servants came running. Marco handed down Paloma to willing hands, even as she laughed, and protested, and tried to hug everyone at once. Trece, that expensive yellow dog, came out to prance back and forth and land finally in Paloma's arms.

“
Sancha is overfeeding you,” she said, then looked around, setting down the little yellow dog. “Where is Sancha?”

Marco held his breath, knowing that Felicia's housekeeper had been inoculated years earlier. Still, other calamities could kill a person in this colony. Pray God, no.

Emiliano gave him a thoughtful look that said nothing of death. “She is busy in the kitchen.” He came closer. “Keep a hand on Señora Mondragón when you go in there, my lord.”

A question in his eyes, Marco did as his
mayordomo
said, taking his wife by the hand, then putting his arm around her waist as they walked slowly down the path through the kitchen garden, already sprouting green shoots. He knew Paloma would probably be weeding in the garden tomorrow, because she loved young, tender things.

He opened the door, ready to call out a greeting, when Sancha turned around. His knees suddenly grew weak in his borrowed breeches. Paloma gave a strangled cry and they somehow propped each other up.

Sancha held a baby in her arms, one even younger than the little niece of Kahúu. The child's hair was brown, and not nearly as plentiful as a Kwahadi baby's would be. Sancha smiled and held out the baby. “Not all died at Hacienda Castellano,” she said, with a certain grim determination. “Paloma, my sweet, meet your daughter.”

“
One of us has to breathe,” said Marco, finally, to Paloma, who stood as if rooted to the tiles.

She took one deep breath, followed by another. “If I reach out, she will vanish.”

“
Not this child,” Sancha told her with a laugh. “You should see her tug at the wet nurse's nipple if her milk doesn't flow fast enough! She is here to stay.”

Paloma looked at him as if wondering what to do. He saw the pain in her eyes and knew she was reliving her last look at the Kwahadi baby. Maybe she also saw some reassurance in his face, although God knows he was as astonished as she was. He gave her a little push forward.

She needed nothing more. Paloma held out both hands eagerly as Sancha placed the small bundle in them. With a gesture so tender that he could not help his exclamation, she touched the baby's cheek with the back of her hand. She sat down at the kitchen table, that place where all business was carried on in the colony of New Mexico, and hugged the baby close, but not close enough to wake it. In another moment, she crooned to the child, her cousin from her cousin.

He smiled as the practical Paloma took over. She did what he had seen her do to the Kwahadi baby, one night, when she didn't think he was watching. Her fingers so gentle, she carefully unwrapped the baby's blanket—good God,
their
child now—and counted her toes and fingers. He had seen Felicia do that very thing to each twin, when she had recovered from the stupor of childbirth. Maybe that was how a mother established ownership, whether the child was of her body or not. He held his breath as Paloma leaned forward, breathing deep of that baby aroma he remembered. God was good just then in Valle de Sol, a place not even the king of Spain cared about, if he had ever even heard of it.

As he watched them, Sancha took his arm. She walked him into the corridor, sat him down and whispered what had happened.

“
Their servants truly deserted them in their hour of death?” he whispered, appalled. “Even those who had no need to fear
la viruela
?”

“
Even them. Only one woman remained as Maria Teresa, covered with smallpox, gave birth and died. She didn't even tie off the cord properly, but wrapped the baby in a tablecloth and ran.”

“
Here
? Here, to this place Maria Teresa hated?”

Sancha nodded. “Jorge Maestas, the Castellanos' nearest neighbor, found her and brought her here, because Maria Teresa—”