Daughter of Fortune (18 page)

“Diego, I would speak with you in the
sala
,”
Cristóbal said formally.

Diego shoved away his dinner and stood up. “Yes, of
course.”

“You can advise me.”

“Let us go.”

They left the room without a word to Maria. She
carried Diego's dishes to the sink and washed them. Erlinda came
into the room.

“Did you see Cristóbal?” she asked.

“Was he not superb? He is speaking to Diego in the
sala.
Diego is advising him in his courting.”

“I would almost risk perdition to listen at the
door, so let us put temptation behind us and get far away from this
place!”

She dried the dishes while Maria carried the dishpan
into the garden and let the water run slowly to the ground by the
tomatoes. She set the dishpan by the back door and walked to the
acequia.
Erlinda joined her with two towels and the
soap.

“It is dark enough and the guards have not yet
climbed to the roof. If we are in the water, it will keep us from
the keyhole!”

Laughing, Maria unbuttoned her dress and stepped out
of it. Shivering, she hurried out of her chemise and stepped into
the water. Erlinda followed, gasping as the water touched her skin.
She sank into the ditch. “Turn around, I will scrub your back,” she
said through chattering teeth.

Maria did as she was told. The rough soap felt good
on her skin.

She sighed. Erlinda flicked water at her and
laughed. “You scrub my back now.”

The cold soon drove them from the water. They
toweled off rapidly and pulled on their clothes. “Do you think
Cristóbal is through?” asked Erlinda, walking ahead of Maria toward
the house.

As if in answer, the back door banged open and
Cristóbal strode down the path. He was dressed in his everyday
clothes again. He said nothing to Erlinda as he passed her, but
stopped by Maria, who was hurrying to button her dress.

He made as if to speak, then took both her hands in
his. Without a word he kissed her hard on the mouth, released her
and ran to the stables. In shock, Maria saw him leave the stable on
horseback, take the fence in a graceful leap, and race north on the
road to Taos. She stood where she was, her feet rooted to the
ground, her hands to her lips.

Suddenly Diego stood in the doorway. “Maria, I would
speak with you,” he said. “Come into the
sala
.”

Numb, Maria wrapped her wet hair in the towel and
followed Diego into the
sala.
“Sit down.”

She sat. Diego faced her. “I do not know how to
begin, Maria.” He paused and unwound the towel on her head. “You
look silly with that on your hair.”

“But my hair is wet,” she protested.

He ignored her, removing the towel and draping it
over the back of his chair. A flush rose to his cheeks and he
looked away from her. “Cristóbal asked me for permission to marry
you.”

“You cannot be serious,” she said when she found the
words to speak.

“Of course I am serious. He says that since I have
appointed myself your guardian, I should speak for you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Need you ask? I told him no.”

When Maria said nothing, his tone softened. “Was I
wrong?”

“No, you were not wrong,’’ she whispered, and he
leaned closer to hear her. “No,” she said again. “I do not love
Cristóbal.”

He leaned back in his chair. “He accused me of
wanting you for myself. I told him that was ridiculous—you are like
one of my sisters —but he just laughed.”

Maria closed her eyes. Diego’s words lashed at her
heart, but she said nothing to him.

“I was hasty with him. I suggested that he go away
for a while to give himself time to think.” Diego got up, walked to
the middle of the room and leaned on the narrow table there, his
back to her. “If he still feels the same way, well, perhaps this
had better become a matter between you and Cristóbal. He is my
brother and I love him, but he is also half Indian and you are a
well-bred Spanish girl.” He turned around. “On the other hand,
Maria, you are fifteen. You have no dowry. You are a pretty thing,
and you have such dancing eyes ....”

He stopped, shaking his head and smiling. “I can
provide land for Cristóbal, though as an Indian he is not permitted
to own it in his own name, and he has always had a share in the
livestock, although I have never told him. Maybe you should think
about this. He will return in a month or so. Then you both must act
carefully and, above all, wisely.”

Maria rose and walked to the door. “But is this not
a matter for the heart?” she asked.

He came to her and leaned against the door. “I do
not know. I have never been in love,” he said, “and I know few
people who have, Maria. This kingdom has made us calculating. We
must plan our every move. To achieve certain aims, I must move in
certain directions. If I am to expand my herds, I need land nearby.
Lorenzo Nuñez has a daughter. She is young, but she will grow. When
she is old enough, I will declare myself to Señor Nuñez. He will
slap me on the back, call me a fine fellow, and we will seal the
matter between us with wine. Then he will tell his daughter. That
is how it is.”

“Let me leave, Diego,” she said, chilled to her
bones by his words. He moved away from the door, his hands at his
sides. “You do not approve, Maria?” he asked. His voice was devoid
of emotion. “We must survive in this harsh land.”

Maria opened the door. “That is what my sister said.
Are you no different than she?”

Her words had the force of a slap. Maria left the
room without another look at Diego. She went swiftly to her room
and sat silent before the altar. When the bell sounded for prayers
an hour later, she remained where she was.

Summer brought an uneasy peace to Maria. Life was
hard in the river colony of New Mexico, the land all-consuming.
There was little time for personal thoughts. There was only the
shocking blue of the cloudless sky, the red-brown earth the color
of an old wound, the purple mass of mountain and mesa, the brassy
yellow of the sun. There was only work.

A dozen times a day, Maria thought of Diego’s words.
This
Nuevo Mexico
was not a place for softness or romance.
And yet with each passing day, she fell deeper in love with Diego
Masferrer. He was an imperfect human being, even as she was,
struggling daily against the harshness of his surroundings and
losing. The drought deepened that summer and she watched him walk
his fields, measuring the height of the corn against his body with
his hands, kneeling by the
acequia
with desperate prayers.
It tore at her heart, but she had no consolation to offer him.

She turned to the saints of Las Invernadas, pleading
with them silently as she passed them daily in the halls, pausing
also to admire their lines and texture. Diego caught her at it one
morning. “So you like our holy ones here?” he commented, coming up
behind her as she ran her hand over San Isidro in the hallway.

They had not spoken alone since their confrontation
in the
sala.
She put her hands behind her back like a small
child, and he laughed. Maria relaxed at the easiness of his
laughter but she knew, with a hollow feeling that emptied her soul,
that her love was destined to go no further than her own heart.

“Truly, I did not mean to startle you,” he said.

“Well, you did.” The last person she expected
indoors was Diego Masferrer. He spent his days in the saddle,
overseeing his cattle and sheep. And with Cristóbal gone, his work
load had doubled.

He was dressed in his usual work clothes, his legs
from the waist to knee covered with the kilt-like leather apron all
the New Mexican rancheros wore. His calves from the ankles up were
wrapped with leather leggings that tied behind each knee. Then she
saw it. The scarf he usually wore around his head was held to his
forearm, which was covered with blood.

“What happened?” she asked, following him to the
kitchen.

“I would prefer not to say,” he began, “but I
suppose I must. I fell off Tirant and landed in a bed of cactus.”
His eyes smiled at her.

“I hardly think it something to joke about,” she
murmured, holding the door open for him.

“Oh, you do not? You should have heard Teruel, my
vaquero.
I am only grateful that Cristóbal is not here.” He
coughed and looked at his boots. “I didn’t mean to remind you. I
mean ...”

“Oh, Diego,” she interrupted, unconsciously using
his Christian name. “He is your brother, and I have driven him
away.”

“So he is,” he replied heavily. He sat down at the
table and stretched his arm out in front of him. “Well, I have come
on other matters. Can you find the turpentine and pincers?”

Maria hurried into the storeroom for the jug of
turpentine. She found the pliers and seated herself at the table
next to him. Diego turned to face her on the bench, crossing his
legs Indian-style and taking the pliers from her. He began pulling
out the thorny spicules, swearing under his breath.

When his hand became slippery with blood, Maria took
the pincers from him and pulled out thorns. Some were in so deep
that she had to press the skin down with a knife to reach them. “It
would seem to me, Señor,” she said, “that everything in this land
either bites or tastes bad.”

“I never thought of it that way,” he replied,
gritting his teeth.

“Of course you do not. This is your home.”

“Do you think I would not like your Mexico City,
Maria
chiquita
?
Ay, ten cuidado, hermana!
Have a
care!”

She paused while he wiped the blood off with his
shirttail. “No,” she reflected, “you probably would not. It would
be much too tame.” He closed his eyes as she dug away at his arm
again. “So you admire our saints, Maria?” he asked, changing the
subject. “Jesus, Maria, have a care! I must use this arm
again!”

“Sorry. You have to hold still. Yes, I admire your
saints. At first I thought they looked foreign, but the longer I am
here, the more they seem to fit.”

“Like you?”

“I could wish that, but who knows?” she countered,
dabbing at his arm with her apron.

He opened his eyes. “Hand me the pincers.”

“No. Just hold still.”

“Oh, very well, very well. There must be some
penance for falling off a horse.”

She smiled.

“About our saints,” he continued, straightening his
arm. “I am sure we are the only family upriver with a
santero.
After Father built this hacienda, the Apaches
burned it down. His Indians managed to drag out the carved chests
in the
sala,
and some of the chairs, but everything else
burned, including our Spanish saints. I remember Mama wailing about
that. Here, give me the pincers. You find a clean cloth.”

She got up and found a clean dishcloth, tearing it
in a long strip while Diego dug away at his arm, still talking. “So
Papa put Emiliano to work painting new saints. I scarcely remember
it. I’ve grown up with Emiliano’s saints. I know our neighbors
laugh at us, but where can you find Spanish saints? The supply
caravans come every other year, when they come at all.”

He held his arm out while Maria swabbed it with
turpentine. “
Sangre de Dios
, Maria!” he exclaimed, “Can you
not be more gentle?”

“You requested turpentine,” she said, and he
laughed. She wiped the skin and dried it with her apron. Holding
his right arm against her side, she began winding the strip of
dishcloth around it. “Tell me, why Emiliano?” she asked, pausing to
dab at the sweat on his forehead.

“Gracias, chiquita
,” he said. “I am relieved
you have humanity. Why Emiliano? He told Papa that before he was
converted to the True Faith he used to paint the
kachinas
in
the pueblo.”

“Kachinas? ”

“You will doubtless never see any. The priests have
destroyed them all. I suppose you could call them Pueblo gods.
Large masks, and also small figures, given to the young ones for
instruction.” He straightened out one layer of the cloth. “I think
Emiliano is my only Tesuque Indian who is really a true
believer.”

“But what can you mean?” Maria asked. “What about
the servants who come to family prayer every night?”

He shrugged. “My house servants are descendants of
the Mexican Indians my grandfather brought from Mexico, and I know
their allegiance. As for the others that come sometimes, my Pueblo
Indians, I cannot say.” He shifted on the bench. “It is just a
feeling, really, but in odd moments I wonder how deeply our ways
have penetrated in this, place. The priests destroy the
kivas
and burn the
kachinas
when they can find them,
but I wonder.”

Maria finished bandaging Diego’s arm, ripped the end
of the cloth with her teeth and tied a knot securely in place.

“Gracias, Maria chiquita
,” he said, getting
up. “If you and Teruel have finished laughing, I shall gather my
dignity around me once more and go back to work.”

“Before you go, Señor, have you heard from
Cristóbal?”

There, she had said it. He turned in the doorway.
“No, I have not. I was thinking of riding to Taos this week to
speak with him. It has been too long.”

And he was gone. Maria cleaned the pincers, wiped
off the table and replaced the jug in the storeroom.

That evening at dinner, Diego announced that he was
leaving for Taos in the morning.

“This is sudden, my brother,” Erlinda said, passing
him the bread.

He took a slice and buttered it. “I know. But I am
concerned about Cristóbal. It is time he came home.” He shook his
head. “We can never work out our differences if he is there and I
am here.”

He sat with his elbows on the table until Catarina
reminded him. Absently he took his elbows off the table and ate the
bread. “I will visit with our Uncle Robles, too, and see if he has
any horses to trade.”