Marco and the Devil's Bargain (15 page)

* * *

He spoke for an hour, discounting the time she slept, even though Paloma had said she would not. Maybe it was a good thing he had caught her trying to get up, because she
was
tired. Paloma listened to his tale of an up and coming physician, back from acquiring a medical degree in a colony named Pennsylvania, setting up his practice in Savannah, a little town he thought she would like. “The ocean is beautiful there. Have you ever walked barefoot on sand and felt the waves lap at your feet?”

“
No. There isn't much water around here, if you haven't noticed.”

He leaned forward to ruffle her hair. He stopped, his hand almost on her head, when Toshua sat up.

He described how war came first to the northern colonies and then gradually seeped south like an ever-widening wound, setting families at odds with each other. “I thought I could keep out of the whole mess,” he told her. “Physicians can be neutral, I thought. I can tend to both sides, the British and the Americans, can't I?”

Poor, skinny little man
, Paloma thought. She stopped his narrative—she could see it was painful for him—and asked him to bring her something to eat. “I really want
biscoches
and maybe some wine. Tell her we need two glasses. Toshua?”

The Indian shook his head.

Antonio seemed grateful for the interruption and left the room quickly. Paloma sat up and looked at Toshua, who lay by the fire, his hands behind his head and a thoughtful look on his face.

“
What do you think?” she asked him.

He grunted. “I think it is impossible to be a person in the middle.”

Paloma nodded. She looked at the doorway and crawled to the end of her bed. “Have you ever seen Americans?” she asked him, keeping her voice low.

“
I have.”

“
Wh—what did you do to them?”

He didn't answer, which was all the answer she expected.

“
I remember this: There are many of them. Perhaps the little doctor is right,” he said finally.

“
I wonder.” She couldn't help herself then. She leaned closer. “Toshua, do you believe he is telling the truth?”

A slow shake of his head answered her question.

She heard footsteps in the hall and hurried under the covers again, just in time to see Antonio with a tray. He set it on the table and handed her the plate. She took two
biscoches
and told him to take some, himself. He did not argue.

“
Where was I?” he asked, even though Paloma was certain he remembered.

“
You were trying to stay out of trouble, which I don't think you managed to do.”

He shook his head and ate both
biscoches
, washing them down with the diluted wine. Paloma watched him, determined to tell Sancha to see that he had all he wanted to eat.

“
What happened?” Her prompt was as gentle as she could make it, even as she wondered at Toshua's slow shake of his head.

He took a deep breath. “Two British officers came to me, wanting inoculation.” He made a wry face. “Two big, healthy men. They were eating better than the rebels, I gather. I inoculated them both.” Another deep breath. “One lived and one died.”

“
My goodness. But you told them it was dangerous, didn't you?” Paloma asked.

“
Certainly.” He stood up and went to the fireplace, stepping around Toshua. He added several sticks of wood. “It's cold in here.”

“
No, it isn't,” Paloma said. “What happened then?”

“
Can't you guess?” he burst out. He shook his head, angry at himself, when she gasped in fright. “Sorry.” He sat down again. “The British were furious, certain I had caused the one death because I was sympathetic to the rebel cause. The Americans got wind of what had happened, and rumor spread that I caused that death on purpose because I was on
their
side. I was on no one's side. I was a doctor, for God's sake!”

“
All you were doing was your job,” Paloma said. She rubbed her arms. Maybe the room
was
cold. “Did the British hear that rumor?”

“
They did. Since they controlled Savannah, I was at their mercy.”

He lowered his voice, as if the bedroom of Marco Mondragón was filled with British sympathizers. “My housekeeper heard they were coming, so she warned me. I snatched up my medical satchel and whatever money I could find, and fled. Just ran out the back door and down the street, when soldiers were banging on the front door. It was that close.”

“
That's a relief,” Paloma said, her eyes on her hands, because looking at the little man's bleak face was beginning to sadden her.

He let out a harsh sound then—somewhere between a laugh and a growl—which made her flinch. “No relief for my housekeeper. The British,” he spit out the word, “tortured her and hanged her naked from the lamppost in front of my house, because she would tell them nothing. She didn't
know
anything!”

He put his head between his hands and sobbed, a fearful sound. Paloma felt the tears start in her eyes. She leaned close to him and touched his head. “
Pobrecito
,” she whispered.

He left the room then. Paloma pulled the blankets higher on her shoulder, because she shivered. “Where is Marco?” she asked Toshua.

“
He knew you were better, so he went to visit your foul cousin and her weakling husband.”

“
Why?”

Toshua sat up. “He has been traveling through the district, offering the
medico's
services.” He made a face. “He wants everyone to be sick and uncomfortable and mess their beds for a week, and then feel better. I do not understand your medicine. The Dark Wind blew over us, but we were still sick.”

“
I know. It's hard to understand.” She sighed. “I wish Marco were here.”

“
I can find him.”

“
No, you can stay in bed and behave yourself!”

He smiled at that. He put his hand to his forehead and knuckled his fingers, like a servant obeying her.

“
You're trying my patience,” she said, reminded of her older brother, dead these twelve years at the hands of men just like the Comanche on the pallet by the fire. Life was strange.

“
Did you notice?” he asked, when she thought he was asleep.

“
Notice what?”

“
When the little man cried, there were no tears.”

Paloma felt that same chill at his words, but exhaustion ruled her again. She closed her eyes and went to sleep immediately, worn out with such a sad story. When she woke, shadows lengthened across the bed and Antonio was seated by her again. Wordless, he put his hand to her forehead and nodded.

“
Cool.” Next, his fingers went to the pulse in her neck. “Regular.” He must have traveled through the kitchen, because he handed her a chicken leg. “Eat.”

She did, famished, even though she had polished off the rest of the
biscoches
. She glanced at Toshua, who had chicken, too.

“
I made my way south to what you call La Flórida,” he began, picking up his narrative. “It wasn't safe, either, because the British controlled a big fort there in Saint Augustine. Fort Saint Mark, they called it.”

“
Castillo de San Marcos,” Paloma said. “I have heard of it.”

“
I worked my way west, offering my services at little towns and plantations. The British controlled West Florida by then, so I moved on. Everyone always needs a physician. You know, like everyone always needs a blacksmith. I ended up in Natchitoches, Louisiana, French territory, but I was safe enough.”

His shoulders relaxed then, and the harsh lines of his face seemed to soften. Perhaps Louisiana had better memories.

“
Is that where you met your wife?” Paloma asked finally.

He nodded. He didn't speak for a long time, but Paloma was patient.

“
Catalina Maria Rosas, the daughter of a merchant in Natchitoches. He was Spanish, yes, but that far on the frontier, no one seemed so concerned about governments. I cured her father's piles and he invited me to dinner, in his gratitude. She was a pretty lady.” He looked at the wall, seeing through it. “I had a miniature painted of her, but I lost it, just like I have lost everything.”

He made to rise, but Paloma put up her hand to stop him. “Tell me, please.”

“
You want the rest of my story?” he asked, as if impatient with her. “You want to hear how we married, had a daughter, named her Pia Maria, and how I got greedy and tried to buy land, and ended up cheated and on the run again, because I can do nothing right?”

He was on his feet now and backing out the door. “That story?” he shouted at her as he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Paloma stared at the closed door, stunned at Antonio Gil's ferocity, sorrowful that it was all directed at himself. She looked at Toshua, who shook his head.

“
Yes, that story,” she said.

N
o one would ever hear it from him, but Marco couldn't help his own sigh of relief to be in the saddle again and away from death, contagion, and even recuperation. Good thing he was not ordained to be a physician. He pointed Buciro east and south toward the Castellano holdings, thinking that even some doctors—Antonio Gil came to mind—didn't appear overly joyful about their profession.

He looked back at the Double Cross, feeling crass and suddenly wishing he could save everyone. Paloma would have to find out sooner or later, but her little yellow dog—the one her foolish husband had paid a fortune for in Santa Fe—was masterless. Perhaps Andrés was too old to survive the rigors of inoculation. Poor Trece whined and sniffed at Andrés, Marco's
mayordomo,
as he lay so still in the chapel. How could anyone explain to a dog that the old, dear man who spoiled him was mere clay now and destined for the cemetery? It was hard enough for humans to understand that not everyone survived inoculation. Maybe Paloma would have a solution.

Paloma. He closed his eyes and crossed himself, relieved that she had survived. He wished she rode with him right now, even though he knew how much she dreaded visiting her reprehensible cousin Maria Teresa. Even now, he still felt the occasional worry that Paloma would somehow be gone or dead when he returned. He had left her in good health but grumpy this time, because she was tired of staying in bed. Grumpy, he could handle.

It especially chapped her thighs that Toshua was up and about again. Marco chuckled to himself. Try to stop a Comanche from doing whatever he wanted? Impossible. The greater surprise was that Sancha even asked Toshua to help her with some mundane kitchen duties, because Perla was still on her pallet in the chapel, and so was the little boy who helped with the cutting and dicing. Marco couldn't help but wince inwardly to see how good Toshua was at slicing things into small strips. He had never asked the man just what tortures he had administered to the unwary who had traveled through Kwahadi territory, and he knew he never would.

And how will I fare on the Llano?
he could not help asking himself. There was no way Paloma was going to accompany him and Antonio Gil, no matter what she thought. If it meant deception up to and including locking her in their bedroom until he was a day away, he would do it.
He
had made the stupid bargain with the Englishman or American or whatever he was, not Paloma. True, he had done it for her, but that was hardly the issue. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do for the treasure of his heart.

As he rode along, he did something he didn't usually do: he compared Felicia with Paloma. Marco could scarcely imagine two more different women in looks, temperament, body, and even mind. Felicia was the loveliest olive color, with snapping brown eyes and high cheekbones, betraying her Tewa side. Even before the twins came, she was abundantly shaped and enough to make a man sigh out loud, just to look at her fully clothed. And when she was bare?
O Dios
. She was kind, she was generous, and she could get angry enough at him to stand on his feet and poke him in the chest. Felicia never was interested in learning to read or write, but just recalling her lovely voice when she sang to the twins still brought tears to his eyes.

And here was Paloma, still too thin for his total personal taste, but so lovely to look at. She may have lacked Felicia's curves, but there was just enough of breast and hip to excite him in a deep sort of way that Felicia had never touched, if he was honest with himself. Light brown hair, blue eyes and freckles, especially on her shoulders, made her a rarity in his part of Nuevo Mexico. And
ay caramba!
how she had suffered last summer when they had gone riding, stripped, swam in the Santa Maria, made love and baked in the sun too long. Never again. She could read better than he could, and more and more, it was her lovely penmanship that entered brands and records into his ledgers for the governor.

That Paloma was brave, he had no doubt, even though she shrieked when she found mice in the grain stored in the horse barn and crossed herself every time she saw a bat. She had already endured the worst that life could throw at her, without becoming bitter. There was no one like her.