Paloma and the Horse Traders (3 page)

One day. Two days. On the third day, Paloma
woke up and looked automatically for her husband lying beside her.
Instead, she saw a pretty little miss with eyes as blue as her own.
Paloma held out her arms and drew Soledad close.

“
You miss him, too,
mi hija
?”
she asked.

Soli nodded, but she did not cry this time. She
was already learning the hard lessons of life on the edge of
Comanchería. Paloma cuddled her close and waited for the next
family member to pad down the hall. Soon Claudio rested against her
other side. Paloma sang them a lullaby that her mother had sung to
her, one barely remembered. Some of the words may have been wrong,
because it was in the
idioma
of the Canary Islands, where
Mama’s own mother had been born.

The tune always soothed Paloma’s heart, and
today was no exception. Her breasts were full and she thought about
nursing Claudio, except that Eckapeta had told her it was time to
wean her son, now that another baby was on the way. Claudio had
been drinking from a cup for several months now, so cutting him off
completely was more of a trial for Paloma, who relished the comfort
of a baby at her breast. Some months from now, she would feel that
tug on her nipple again, the sudden rush of milk, and the
satisfaction of nursing another Mondragón.

She looked at her son, admiring his sweeping
Marco eyelashes and light brown eyes. His nose probably wouldn’t be
as long as his father’s, but he had the same dimple in his right
cheek and the same long fingers. The only trait of her family she
saw in Claudio was his downturned lips, which reminded her of
another Claudio, the uncle her baby would never know, dead so long
ago near El Paso.

Her eyes went to the odd-shaped hide on the
wall where she and Marco had pressed her family brand, the Star in
the Meadow, after he had found it in the cave in Palo Duro
Cañón—iron evidence of the Comanche raid that had ruined her
life.

She kissed Claudio and then Soli. Ruined? No.
She understood now how something terrible was occasionally the
gateway to something better.
I would never have met your father,
had I not suffered such loss
, she thought, looking from her son
to her small cousin.
Blessed be the holy name of Our
Lord
.

“
Where is Papa?” Soli
asked.

Paloma smiled, pleased as each day seemed to
bring more language to her cousin’s child.

“
Papa is probably nearly to Taos. He
is going to buy a team of horses to pull a carriage.”

“
Why?”

The eternal why of children. Paloma considered
a satisfactory answer. “He wants us to be comfortable if we visit
your Aunt Luisa, or go to Santa Maria.”

Amazing that less than three years ago, the
idea of her going anywhere without many guards was unheard of. As
it was, Paloma couldn’t remember when last they had taken a full
complement of armed riders to Santa Maria. Maybe peace really had
come to Valle del Sol.

Her answer must have satisfied the two-year-old
mind. Soli nodded and snuggled closer to Paloma. Her eyes closed,
and soon she felt warm and heavy.

“
Papa,” Claudio said with a
sigh.

My sentiments exactly
, Paloma thought.
When both children slept again, Paloma eased herself out of bed and
dressed. She walked to the chapel, relishing the quiet time to pray
for Marco and Toshua’s safety as well as their own protection in
this district so far away from Spanish power, or what remained of
it. She rested her hands on her belly and prayed for the new
child.

She spent a longer time in the storeroom off
the kitchen, pleased to see the fruit of summer’s labors in bins
and barrels, and the
ristras
of chili peppers hanging in
ropes from the rafters. She sniffed the boxed rows of gleaming
candles, then backed away, queasy from the odor of tallow. The
beeswax candles smelled more fragrant, but even those upset her
stomach.

She must have looked a little fine-drawn when
she came into the kitchen and nodded to Sancha. The housekeeper
appraised her, then reached for the cracker box. Silent, her eyes
lively, Sancha handed her several
biscoches
, then followed
them with water still cool from the
olla
on the shady back
porch.

“
Four months of this before I feel
better,” Paloma said with a sigh.

“
Such is the lot of women,” the
housekeeper reminded her. “What will we do today?”

The crackers worked their magic and her stomach
settled. Paloma looked around the well-ordered kitchen, where all
business was conducted in the family. She breathed the fragrance of
apples and quince. Nothing pressed on her mind today, so she took
another sip of water, content, except that Marco was not
there.

“
I believe Eckapeta and I will take
the young ones to the river. Could you prepare us a little
almuerzo
?”

* * *

Marco and Toshua arrived in Taos after a long
three days of traveling, made more comfortable for Marco by
discarding leather breeches and linen shirt for his doeskin
loincloth. Toshua trapped three rabbits, fat from feasting on the
bounty nature offered as autumn approached. Even Paloma’s
posole
wasn’t as good as rabbit bits toasted on a stick over
a
piñon
campfire.

Or so he told himself. Marco would have given
it all up for restful sleep in his own bed with Paloma beside him.
Only three days and he missed the wife of his heart. No doubt he
was softening into middle age.

Even Toshua remarked on his companion’s long
silences. The Kwahadi removed his own rabbit tidbits from the
stick, set them on his tin plate, and sprinkled salt on the meat,
just a little pink the way he liked it. “Friend, a man cannot spend
all his time in the company of women,” he commented, sitting back
on his haunches.

“
I believe this man could,” Marco
said. “I sleep better in Paloma’s arms.”

“
Then there is no hope for you,”
Toshua replied, with just the hint of a smile. “Even now, when she
is soon to be puking in the morning, and not exactly eager for your
embraces?”

You won’t hear it from me that she remains
eager
, Marco thought. “Even now,” he said, salting his own
rabbit. He wondered how much to say, how to explain an uneasiness
he didn’t understand. It was a feeling above and beyond his usual
fears, born years ago when he had come home to find Felicia and
their twins dead of cholera. This was different.

How, he could not have said, beyond a pricking
of the caution he had learned through a lifetime of living on the
edge of danger. Some sense above the other senses warned him of
danger, and he had ignored it, in his eagerness to find a team of
horses and maybe get away for a few days from the grind of
work.

And so he worried. What was supposed to be a
carefree journey to Taos in the casual company of a friend had
turned into wormwood and ash. All he wanted to do was go
home.

Now they were in Taos, with the great annual
fair spread out before them. Marco had donned his clothes again
before they arrived, and he had made his visit to Governor de Anza,
a particular friend. They had chatted for a few minutes about
change and turmoil and Indian dangers before the governor had been
called away to open the trade fair.

Marco had watched, uneasy, as de Anza spoke the
usual words, both conciliatory and adamant, to the various Indian
nations assembled. Wearing his most elaborate uniform and preceded
by an official bearing the royal mace, de Anza offered ten days of
unlimited commerce, after reminding the Indians of the Truce of
God, which must not be disturbed, on pain of disbarment from future
trading opportunities.

“
You must honor the Truce of God and
trade in peace with your enemies,” the governor had intoned. “If
you do not, Taos will be forever closed to you and you will not
trade your hides, pelts, and horses for metal, knives, and blankets
to keep you warm. You men, raise your arms and swear
it!”

White and Indian swore their allegiance to the
truce which would last from that day for ten days. They swore also
to leave peaceably and not lie in wait to ambush. “Go then, and
enjoy this time,” Governor de Anza shouted. “God bless us
all.”

A priest—obviously new to the colony because he
looked so frightened—blessed the assembly, swung a little incense
around and shook some holy water, then retreated to the
thick-walled church. A great shout rose up as the fair
opened.

With some pride—Paloma would scold him if she
knew—Marco couldn’t overlook the deference given to him and Toshua,
whose exploits on the frontier were well-known. He and his strange
friend walked past displays of silver and turquoise jewelry spread
on blankets, knives of fine workmanship, and metal pots that
Eckapeta would love to take to her friends camping on the Llano
Estacado.

Though miserable, he put on a proud face for
friends and acquaintances. He wanted to see the stone walls of the
Double Cross. He wanted to see Paloma standing in the doorway with
their children beside her, maybe even both in her arms, because she
was a fond mother. He didn’t belong here, and he felt Taos closing
in on him.

He stopped in front of a pottery display.
Toshua stopped, too.

“
Friend, let us go home at first
light,” Marco said quietly. “We can get horses later.”

Toshua gave him such a look—not one of disgust
or irritation, but understanding.
He knows I am troubled
,
Marco thought with relief.
He isn’t going to question
me
.

“
Toshua, something isn’t right. Do
you feel it?”

“
I do.”

In
which a carefree afternoon is less so

P
aloma knew where she wanted
to take their outdoor lunch. Months earlier, she had suggested to
Marco that it was time for their little ones to play by Rio Santa
Maria, where shallow waters created the ford. Trouble was, with
summer and sheep, cattle and crops, there had been no time.

Eckapeta knew the spot and nodded her approval,
as Perla packed bread and cheese in a cloth sack. She added dried
plums and bits of peeled cactus to the basket. With a smile, Sancha
gave Paloma a small crock filled with goat’s milk and a smaller
sack of cheese. “Marco tells me you are eating for two again,” she
whispered, as she made a little sign of the cross on Paloma’s
forehead.

Just the thought of an excursion, no matter how
modest, vanquished Paloma’s queasy stomach and lightened her mind,
taken up with worry for her husband. “Remember how we promised
ourselves in May that we would do this very thing?” she asked
Eckapeta, as they walked to the horse barn, swinging Soledad
between them. “
Mira
, here is August.” She laughed. “Pray I
do not imagine one hundred tasks I should be doing today, as soon
as we are out of sight of the
rancho
.”

“
Would you wish yourself single,
starving, and under the thumb of your uncle in Santa
Fe?”

“
You know I would not!”

Paloma stood still while Eckapeta lifted her
small son into the cradleboard already on her back, the one that
Eckapeta had brought back from Palo Duro last winter.

As the Indian woman steadied her, Paloma put
foot to stirrup and swung herself and her son onto the back of her
quiet mare. The saddle was Comanche, too, and comfortable. She had
thought about dressing in her Comanche deerskin, with its
convenient, thigh-high slits for riding, but reasoned that there
were no men along, so no one would stare if she raised her skirt
high.

No man around except Emilio, who merely rolled
his eyes, then handed up Soledad to sit snugly in front of
Eckapeta. Telling them to keep an eye on the sun’s passage, he
walked back through the open gates, the little yellow dog in his
arms. After Andrés’ sad death caused by smallpox inoculation two
years ago, the dog had turned his loyalty to the new
mayor
domo
.

Paloma looked back at the Double Cross. It had
taken several years for her to grasp that what was Marco’s was
hers, too. She waved to the guard, who patrolled the ledge along
the high wall, then turned her attention to the fields, where late
corn still grew. The barley had been cut, along with what little
wheat Marco had planted—just enough for their own use.

The sheep and their growing lambs grazed under
the watchful care of two shepherds and their black and white dogs.
The mature sheep had been shorn in May, their wool clips packed
into bales and stored, ready for the Santa Fe market in the fall.
Another season was turning, leading to winter, when bitter cold,
wind, and snow would scour the harsh landscape.

No fears, though, because Paloma knew she would
be warm and safe inside the walls of the Double Cross, kept there
in comfort by the dearest man in her entire universe. She would
knit and sew, and tend their children, and rest, so another baby
could grow. In love already with this child she could not see, she
patted her belly.

Eckapeta’s chuckle told Paloma that her dear
friend had seen the gesture. “Am I silly?” Paloma asked, suddenly
shy.