Once A Wolf (14 page)

her with coffee, which she was drinking as if she sat at ease in her morning room at Greyburn. It

was as if nothing had happened between them.

"Are you ready to leave?" he asked tersely.

"Good morning," she said with exaggerated courtesy. "I've been up for some time."

"So have I." He noticed that someone—Asunci6n, undoubtedly—had replaced his soiled shirt

with a clean one. He put it on and tied his sash. There'd be gossip soon enough about his failure

to share his "wife's" bed, even if Asuncion herself kept quiet. He wouldn't be here to listen.

"We ride west," he said, "to the village of Los Milagros."

"For another bestowal of your largesse?"

He was not in the mood to trade barbs with her today. The old woman had given him an excuse

for action, and it was exactly what he needed. He finished dressing and escorted Rowena from

the room. Without explaining his purpose, he warmly thanked Don Pablo and Asuncion for their

hospitality, left the children each with a coin, and kissed the eager daughters on their smooth

cheeks. His men, accustomed to sudden departures, had the horses saddled and ready.

To her credit, Rowena hung back to thank the Valdez family and the villagers who'd stopped by

on their way to work in the fields and pastures.

Asuncion presented her with a straw hat to shade her fair skin, and after a moment Rowena

opened her saddlebags and drew out her ivory-handled hairbrush. Asuncion's daughters were

delighted with the gift. Rowena had done surprisingly well here. Nevertheless, it was fortunate

that she spoke no Spanish.

He shrugged away his idle thoughts and leaped into the saddle. Mateo helped Rowena to

mount. Sim appeared from whatever lonely den he'd spent the night in, and they rode west to

the shouted farewells of the people.

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It was not long before they reached Los Milagros. How the old woman had come to know of the

trouble here, Tomás could only guess. The reason for concern was obvious as soon as his band

rounded the mesa that bounded the village to the east.

The girl was surely no more than seventeen years of age. She was small and delicate, with dark

hair unruly about her face and feet bare on the rocky path. The men who drove her could have

been folk from any local village. Their faces were twisted with hatred. They'd already hurt the

girl, and they were not finished with her yet.

But they hadn't reckoned on Tomás.

He gestured his men to retreat. They dismounted out of sight of the village and the men on the

path.

"What is going on?" Rowena demanded after Mateo had helped her down. "Who are those

people?"

Tomás took her arm and led her to a place where they could observe the path. "An old woman

in Rito Pequeño told me there was trouble in this town. Do you see that girl?"

"Of course." She shaded her eyes. Her voice tightened. "What are they doing to her?"

"They say she is a bruja, a witch. Such women are feared. This one is being driven from her

village."

"A witch? She's just a child!" Rowena started out from cover, oblivious to danger. Tomás pulled

her back.

"Yes. But the terror of brujeria, witchcraft, is strong among many people. Brujas are said to

cause the evil eye and take the forms of animals. It is not unknown for witches to be put to

death."

Rowena turned such a fierce look on him that he was caught between surprise and admiration.

"And do you intend to do anything to stop this?"

In answer he began to shed his clothes, watching her expression run the gamut of outrage,

alarm, and gradual realization. She turned her back on him quickly, but he could hear her

breath grow faster and deeper. Once, he was certain, she glanced his way just before he

stripped the last bit of clothing from his body.

He would have liked to savor the small victory, especially after last night. But that would have

to wait. Closing his eyes, he let the Change come. His body grew light as air, formless, at one

with the earth and sky… and shifted. The potency of a wild hunter's heart pumped through his

veins. The transformation was an instant of sheer ecstasy, and he let the wolf take him.

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This was freedom. This was the ability to live life in the moment as no man ever could. But his

human mind remained to guide him, and he knew his purpose.

He burst from cover and charged directly for the men and their captive.

Numb with pain and despair, Felícita did not know at first why her tormenters were shouting.

She lifted her gaze from her bruised and dusty feet. A sleek shape, dark brown and black, was

running toward her. It might have been a dog, except that it was much too big and too fast and

its teeth were bared in a grin no dog had ever worn.

Once, long ago, she had seen a wolf. They were not common now, even in the mountains. She

thought that this must be un lobo, even so. She should have been afraid.

The men were afraid. One of them yelled a warning. Another tried to point his old pistol and

then dropped it in panic. The other three, armed only with the switches they'd used to beat her

from the village, had sense enough to run.

Felícita stood very still. The wolf ran past her, chasing the men as they scattered. The warm

morning breeze touched her neck where the switches had cut her bare skin above the neckline

of her camisa. If the wolf killed her, at least it would be quick.

But when he came back for her, he was no longer running. He approached at a trot, long-

limbed and relaxed, with his tongue lolling just like a dog's.

His eyes were different from any animal's she'd ever seen. He sat down directly in front of her,

speaking with those strange eyes as men spoke with their mouths—or their souls. She tried to

answer, but no sound would come out.

The wolf whined in his throat. He touched her fingertips with his warm, moist nose and started

down the path the way he had come.

He wanted her to follow: She could feel that in him the way she felt things in people. She was

too weary for surprise. If she could but think. Her mind was cloudy after days of fear and

isolation. For as long as she could remember, her uncle had always told her what to do. The

men in the village must have been waiting for Tio's death, so that they could make her go away.

Only she had nowhere to go.

The wolf paused and looked back, head cocked. From behind him came a figure—a woman,

pale, and dressed like a fine lady from the city, walking very straight in her tight clothes.

She wasn't afraid of the wolf. She passed him by without a glance and came straight to Felícita.

"Poor child," she said. "Come with me."

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The language was not Felícita's, but she knew it. Tio had taught her the Anglo tongue, so that

one day she could go among the people in the cities and earn money as she did in the village.

There were many more people in the city, Tio said, who would pay much when they learned of

her powers.

Powers. That was what he called her ability to see into the hearts of others. People came to Los

Milagros—people who had heard of the girl who could tell fortunes just by looking at a man or

woman. Most were villagers, sometimes outsiders like this lady, though never so grand. She

would look into their souls and tell Tio of their desires and fears, and he put these things into

words and gave them stories to make them happy.

She hadn't thought there was anything wrong in making people happy. She hadn't understood

that people were also afraid of the things she knew. Afraid enough to want to hurt what they

feared.

Tio hadn't explained that part of it. He had kept her sheltered, protected, like the carving of a

saint in an alcove.

The foreign woman knelt awkwardly and touched her arm. "Do you understand me? Come.

You'll be safe."

El lobo stood at her side like a tame demon, adding his silent plea to hers. Perhaps the pale lady

was a real bruja, just as in the stories. If she was, it didn't really matter. Felícita was already

damned.

She let the pale lady take her hand and lead her down the path and around the bend where it

passed Mesa Baja. The wolf disappeared as if by magic. Men were waiting with horses in the

shade of an alamo. They stared at her, but they weren't afraid. The lady made her sit down

under the tree and offered water from a metal bottle.

After a while, when her mouth was less dry and the lady had bathed her face with a clean cloth

soaked in the water, a man came to join them. He was tall, and very handsome. Felícita

flinched, but he shook his head and dropped down onto his haunches a safe distance away.

"How is she?" he asked in ingles.

"She is in shock, I think. They hit her." The lady's voice was angry, but the anger was not for

Felícita. "She must be properly cared for."

"Naturalmente. She seems to trust you."

"She needs a woman to care for her. Ask her if she speaks English."

"Hablas ingles?" he asked Felícita.

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She stared at him, unable to answer. She couldn't seem to make words come anymore, in any

language. Her throat closed up even when she thought about it.

" I am Tomás," he said gently in Spanish. "Can you speak?"

Somehow he had guessed. She shook her head and tried to ignore him. If she could just pretend

she was alone in her own little casa, where no one could ever find her…

It was too late. No matter how much grief it brought, she couldn't stop the knowing. Already

she began to see into his heart.

But there was a change this time from all the times before. Tio had kept a wall around her, to

guard her soul as much as her body—an invisible wall as strong as the thickest adobe. None of

the other seekers who had come to the casa could touch her through that wall. Their feelings

and the images they made in her mind were remote, impersonal, a play she watched from a

distance. Until the men of the village had come for her, the ones who called her bruja, and

drowned her in their hatred.

This Tomás did not make her afraid. He was completely unlike the villagers she'd known all her

life. He was like…

Like the pale lady. They were the same, yet not.

She let the images form. This Tomás… was a blaze of summer sunlight bright enough to hide the

storm clouds waiting over the horizon. Most people would never think to look beyond the

brightness and warmth. But no… the sun came up exactly the same every day. Tomás was a

flickering candle that might shift direction or go out in an instant. He might pretend, but he was

afraid to be the sun.

The lady pulled at Felícita just as strongly. She was a cactus growing on the hill, prickly on the

outside and standing alone. If one was patient, one could find the fruit she hid with her spines,

and the beautiful flowers that came each spring. But she would not see herself that way,

because she thought she belonged in a fine garden where all the flowers grew in rows and

never strayed from their places. She was a caged wild bird that was afraid to fly.

Not a bird. A wolf, like the wolf that had saved Felícita. A wolf that would not accept its own

shadow.

Felícita covered her face with her hands. Tio's walls had crumbled to dust. The pictures and

emotions in Felícitas mind were too strong, too clear, too personal: sun, candle, cactus, bird,

wolf; need, fear, sorrow, secrets…

"I believe she cannot speak," Tomás said. "She understands Spanish at least, but—"

"She must understand kindness," the lady said, en ingles. She set her hand on Felícita's

shoulder. "My name is Rowena. I'd like to be your friend, and help you."

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Tomás scooted closer. "Were you alone in the village, muchacha?" he said in Spanish.

Felícita nodded, still too numb for grief.

"There was no one to help you?"

She shook her head.

Tomás sighed and glanced at Rowena. "The old woman who told me of the girl is a distant

relative. She said that there was an uncle in the village. He must be gone, or this would not

have happened."

"I should hope not." She stroked Felícita's hair. "What of this woman in Rito Pequeño? Could

she take the child in?"

Felícita tried to cry out. Tomás looked at her searchingly.

"It would not be wise," he said. "Rumors of this will spread quickly. Others might come after

her."

"Because of some ridiculous belief that she is a witch?"

"Is it so ridiculous in a world that holds our kind?"

The lady frowned. "She is not—"

"Not one of us, no. But she is—" he cocked his head, "unusual."

"All the more reason to pity her."