Daughter of Fortune (31 page)

Diego stood there. “
Buenos dias, chiquita
,”
he whispered.

Her hands went to her hair again. “But, Señor, I am
not ....”

He took her hand and pulled her into the hall. His
eyes were deep brown in the early morning dimness of the
corridor.

“A woman’s crowning glory,” he murmured, his eyes on
her hair. “At least, in your case.”

The burn on his face was darker still against his
swarthiness. It looked hot to the touch. When he remained silent,
looking at her, she spoke. “Yes? Is there something you need,
Señor?”

He paused, as if to consider the question at length,
looking away when an unruly blush rose to her face.

“Not really. But I do have a proposal to make.” He
let go of her hand, and she looked at him. “It is a small thing,
really, but something I have been meaning to do. Indeed, I promised
Emiliano.”

She let out her breath. “And?” she prompted.

“I promised him I would take you to Tesuque. Would
not today be a fine day?”

“But you have so much to do. Surely I could go
alone.” She spoke quietly, her voice low, so as not to awaken the
sleeping sisters.

“Maria, I will always have too much to do.” He took
a deep breath and coughed. “But this place wearies me, and I would
go with you.”

The place wearied him? His livestock, his buildings,
his land wearied him? She did not believe him for a minute, but
suspected he wanted to find out what was going on at Tesuque.

When she was silent, he continued. “Two of the
horses have returned. I have set all my Indians to work on new
wagons.
Dios mio,
how can we harvest without wagons! But
never mind. I want to leave this place today, so I will take you to
Emiliano.”

“I will go with you,” she said, “but first I have
kitchen duties.”

“I have discovered something about duties,” he
commented, running his hand over the back of his head. “They are
always there when you return to them. No one runs off with them
while you are gone.”

“Very well, Señor,” she said, and he laughed.

“Come, let us go, Maria
chiquita
. Everything
will keep.”

She returned to her room and wound her hair in a
hurried knot on the top of her head, sticking the chestnut mass
here and there randomly with hairpins. She turned to slide her feet
in her slippers, then remembered that one of them was still
probably stuck to the mud in the bottom of the
acequia.
She
sighed and left the room on silent bare feet.

Diego met her in the still-dark kitchen. He held
something soft out to her. “Here,” he said, “try these on.” It was
a pair of Indian moccasins, velvet to the touch. “They are Apache.
We used to have an old Apache slave who made them for me when I was
younger. I think they will fit you.’’

Maria sat on the bench and pulled on one of the
moccasins. They were higher than Pueblo moccasins, reaching to her
knees. Diego knelt in front of’ her.

“See? You lace them up like so. Very good for
walking through brush. I will have our cobbler make you more shoes,
but I have put every man on the wagons right now and cannot spare
him.”

She pulled on the other moccasin and sat still as
Diego laced it up, his fingers working quickly in the dim room. “It
is hard to see in the darkness,” he said as he crossed the rawhide
laces back and forth. “Someday I would like to sleep till after
sunup.”

It was the closest thing to a complaint Maria had
ever heard from him. “Diego, you are tired,” she murmured.

He looked up at her, smiling at her use of his name.
“Not really. I will feel better after today.” He finished lacing
and rocked back on his heels, squatting Indian-style in front of
her. “I used to do things like this with Cristóbal. We would take a
couple of tortillas and spend the day fishing at the river. Or
making rabbit snares.”

Maria stood up, enjoying the feel of the soft
leather on her legs. “Where is Cristóbal?” she asked quietly. “Was
it he who brought the horses back?”

Diego shook his head. “I do not know where he is.”
He turned to the storeroom off the kitchen. “But tell me now, where
do my servants keep the cheese?”

He did not want to speak of his half-brother, so
Maria did not press him. She went to the pantry and found a slab of
cheese. Diego cut off two hunks with his dagger and wrapped them in
coarse cloth. He took a handful of tortillas and stuck them in his
shirt front.

Maria watched him. “I think you should leave a note,
Señor. Erlinda will wonder where I am,” she said as she watched
Diego wind his silk scarf around his hair and put on his flat
Andalusian hat, drawing the cords up under his chin.

“Very well,
chiquita
. We cannot have her
thinking that you became discouraged with the Masferrers and ran
off to your sister’s mercy.” He went across the hall to the
sala
and returned with paper, pen and ink. He wrote quickly,
propped the note against the large silver salt cellar that stood in
the middle of the table, and returned the writing materials to the
sala.
When he came back, he looked closely at Maria. “Do you
have a hat?”

She shook her head. “It cannot matter, really. I
have so many freckles by now that I have given up worrying about my
skin.”

He peered at her face in the rising light. “You have
never been tempted to count them all? It would be nice sport some
winter evening.”

“Señor,” she murmured, shy again. He laughed and
took her arm, pulling her after him into the kitchen garden.

He stopped suddenly, and she bumped into him. He
pointed toward the mountains. “Look how beautiful the sun is,
Maria. I never tire of my view.”

They crossed the footbridge. Diego walked over to
the burned rubble of the wagon shed and stood looking down at the
still-warm embers. He remained there a long time. Maria walked to
him and touched his arm lightly. He looked at her, remembering
where he was. They went to the stables. There were only two horses
in the corral.

“Praise God that Tirant came back,” said Diego,
leaning on the fence and watching his horse. “I will probably have
to go to Santa Fe and barter for more horses.”

“But did not the governor tell you to stay away from
Santa Fe?” Maria asked.

“Damn!” he exploded, striking the fence and causing
Tirant to shy away. “I forgot.” He climbed the fence and sat on the
top rail, looking at the empty stable. “Perhaps one of the other
rancheros around Tesuque will do a little horse-trading. We should
thank Our Father that the oxen were not lost, too.”

He sat in silence on the fence until his horse came
back to him, nuzzling his shirt front. Diego took out the roll of
tortillas, peeling one off and holding it out to Tirant. “That is
one of yours,
chiquita
,” he teased Maria, putting the others
back.

Maria smiled, leaning her arms on the railing.
How cheerful he is
, she thought,
and he has nothing to be
cheerful about
.

“What are you so pleased about?” Diego asked,
watching the smile playing about her lips.

“I was thinking. Remember the proverb—Fortune is
like bread, sometimes the whole loaf, sometimes none?”

He mounted Tirant. “And looking around you, what
would you say we have now?”

She thought a moment. “The whole loaf, Señor, the
whole loaf.”

He reached out and touched her cheek. Then he rode
Tirant into the stable, where he saddled the stallion and returned
to the fence. “Here,” he commanded, holding out his gloved hand.
“Climb to the top railing.”

She did as he ordered, careful to keep her dress
tucked around her legs. He took her around the waist, pulling her
into the saddle in front of him. They left the corral, Diego
leaning over to open and close the gate. They started at a slow
walk toward Tesuque. She could feel his warm breath on her ear.
Suddenly, he blew on her neck.

“Maria, your hair tickles my nose.”

“You could have saddled the other horse,” she said
sensibly.

“I did not say I was complaining,” he added, and
blew on the fine tendrils that curled around her neck.

She laughed.

“You don’t do that very often,” Diego said.

“Little is funny, Señor, these days.”

“But today we have the whole loaf, eh?”

As they watched, the sun rose over the Sangre de
Cristo Mountains. Maria shielded her eyes with her hand, and Diego
tipped his hat forward. “We will be there soon.”

They rode into the quiet morning. The air was clean
and the birds sang into the peaceful stillness. Diego hummed one of
the Indian songs that he sang to his sisters. Maria leaned against
him and settled her head in the hollow of his shoulder, feeling his
song more than hearing it, for his voice was low. She remembered
when they had ridden together away from the Apache massacre. How
long ago that seemed, yet it was no more than six months. Now it
was August. Time flowed through the days and nights like the river
beside which they rode. She closed her eyes. “Where did you learn
your songs?” she asked.

He shifted in the saddle. “From Cristóbal ’s mother.
She used to sing to him all the time when he was small. And when
she died, we learned from others.”

“Even Erlinda?”

“Certainly Erlinda. Although she would never admit
it, I suppose. But I think that if she had babies of her own, she
would sing the Pueblo songs, too. What will you sing to your small
ones?”

She shrugged. “I learned the lullabies that everyone
learns, but mostly no one sang in our house.”

“Ay, pobrecita
,” he said, his lips close to
her ear. “You may be the only person who ever came to our river
kingdom for an education!”

“What have I learned?” she teased in turn. She knew
she should sit straight, but Diego made a sturdy support.

He guided Tirant down into the river, reining in,
and allowed the horse to drink. “You tell me what you have
learned,” he said finally.

After they rode out of the water, Diego turned in
the saddle and looked behind him. “How low the water is! Why does
Our Father not hear our appeals for rain?”

“I have given up trying to fathom the ways of Our
Lord,” Maria said quietly.

Tesuque lay red and solid in the sunlight. The sky
was a breathtaking blue, and Maria delighted in the contrast of
colors, even as she tried to overlook the brown grass and wilting
cottonwoods. She smelled bread baking in the great ovens near the
pueblo, and listened to the clack of looms as the men wove their
beautiful blankets.

“Do you think they will ever change?” she asked.

“Never. Now and then they grow restless, but at
heart they are good Indians who have always lived this way. I do
not suppose a more peaceful tribe ever existed. Not like the
Apaches.”

“And still ...” she began, thinking of Popeh, and
the Indians dancing in the plaza.

“And still,” he echoed, and she knew she was right
about the real reason for their visit. “Perhaps Erlinda is right
when she says we Masferrers borrow tomorrow’s worries for
today.”

Diego handed Maria down, then dismounted, tying his
horse to a cottonwood tree. "And now let us find Emiliano.”

It was a simple matter to climb the ladder to the
terrace above. As they stood in the doorway of the
santero
workshop, Emiliano turned to greet them. He was sitting
cross-legged at the low table by the window where the light was
best, putting the final touches on a small
bulto
of San
José. He held it up to Diego.

“Your neighbor, the ranchero Alvaro Gutierrez, would
have me create something to encourage the crops and the weather.
Good day and God’s blessings on you, Señor, and on you, Maria. Have
you come to be a saintmaker?”

She took the small statue that he still held in his
outstretched hand. “I think so, Emiliano,” she said, turning the
bulto
over in her hands, admiring the staff of yucca
blossoms that the saintmaker had carved with intricate detail. The
arms of San José stood out stiffly from his wooden body. They were
hinged at the shoulders by small wooden pegs. Maria moved the arms
up and down. “As though he were blessing the fields,” she said,
handing the
bulto
back to its creator.

“Señor Gutierrez was adamant in his specifications.”
Emiliano set the figure down on his workbench. “This day, Maria,
shall we see if you have the eye of an artist? And you stay, too,
Señor. Perhaps we can talk. ”

“I will. Did you see our fire last night?”

“We all did. I must tell you, Señor, there were
those who cheered, and then danced. Danced all night, in fact, so
we have a sleeping pueblo this morning.”

Diego squatted on the hard-packed earth in front of
the saintmaker. “What do you make of it, Emiliano, old friend of my
father?”

“I cannot say, except that you are not as beloved as
you think you are.”

“Go on, Emiliano,” said Diego quietly when the
santero
hesitated. “You know that I am fair with my
Indians.”

“So there it is, Señor,” said the old man. “You have
said it. You are fair, probably fairer than any other ranchero in
this valley. You do not take the women, you do not abuse the men,
the children do not work long hours for you in the hot sun. Your
exchange of goods for services is fair. But you have said it
yourself—
my
Indians. You say it all the time. So do the
others. But we are not
your
Indians.”

Maria had never heard an Indian speak this way to
Diego Masferrer.

He glanced at her, then directed his attention to
Emiliano again. “What are you saying, Old One? If you are not mine,
whose Indians are you? Tell me that? I have a paper from King
Felipe himself to my grandfather, saying that whatever he found
here would be his. For seventy years it has been so. For seventy
years we have owned and protected you. ”