Marco and the Devil's Bargain (16 page)

Could she sing those achingly beautiful lullabies to their children? He might never know, and that was a sorrow, no matter how he tried to put a cheerful face on it every twenty-eight days, when he found her in tears. Maybe when he and the physician were riding on the Llano Estacado, he could ask the man about such a dilemma. It wasn't a subject to broach when anyone else was around.

Did he love one wife more than the other? Was it something a man widowed and married again could ever understand? No philosopher or saint could have explained to him how it was possible to love so much twice. Possibly this was God's most tender mercy, but he was no theologian.

Such idle musings served to get him to the Castellano hacienda without dwelling on the frosty welcome, if one could even call it a welcome, from his former friend Alonso and Maria Teresa. January was the month when he delivered the 1782 forms to fill out, enumerating all the calves, lambs, kids, piglets, and foals as they came. The crown wasn't much interested in chickens. He knew everyone lied because no one wanted to pay that much tax, but these were the forms he took to Santa Fe every autumn. He was pretty certain that the governor's
fiscales
added a certain percentage to each calf, lamb and foal list, considering human nature.

He had taken Paloma with him in December to visit Pedro Cárdenas, who wanted to register a new brand. She was better at drawing than he was, but even more to the point, the Cárdenas family never heated their bedchambers; he was tired of being cold when he went alone, and Paloma had kept him warm.

Thinking of her particular warmth reminded him of the little yellow dog again, so sorrowful because the man who spoiled him was dead. Marco thought of birds he found dead on cold winter mornings, and calves born too soon, and loved ones cold in clay.
No wonder we New Mexicans carve such bloody crucifixes of the Christ
, he thought.
We are wedded to death.

Last Sunday, when he finally did not fear for Paloma's life, he had taken Antonio to Mass with him in Santa Maria. With Father Francisco's approval, he had stood up, drawing Antonio up with him, to tell the other parishioners about the danger coming their way. His friends and neighbors had chuckled behind their hands as Antonio's accent grated on their ears; no one was laughing when he finished.

Marco could only leave it up them to decide whether or not to risk inoculation, but when the Mass ended, more than half of the congregation put their names or X's on the paper he carried. The Castellanos were not among them. Alonso had started forward, but Maria Teresa had yanked him back. They had left in a hurry, before Marco could discuss the matter with them. Perhaps he would have a chance to try again, he reasoned, as he swung himself from the saddle. He nodded to his outriders to take their horses to the barn, where Alonso's
mayordomo
might grudgingly provide skimpy amounts of grain.

He knew better than to expect any kind of welcome from Alonso and Maria Teresa. At his own hacienda, and others that he visited, the door would already be open, with the master of the house waiting with open arms to give him a friendly
abrazo
and a kiss on each cheek, if the man happened to be a relative. Since their wives were cousins, Marco could have expected such kisses, but he knew better than to look for affection. He sighed and knocked on the door, already dreading what was to come.

He had waited a long, long time in the cold before the door finally swung open. He smiled at the little maid, who just looked worried.

“
Señor Castellano?” he asked.

She pointed to the
sala
and darted away before he could hand her his cloak and hat. Dropping them in a pile by the front door, he took a deep breath and entered the
sala
. Both of the Castellanos stood before him in front of the fireplace, effectively blocking any stray warmth that might have taken off the January chill. Marco wished he had kept his cloak on.

No smile. No mulled wine or hot chocolate. No
biscoches
. No idle chatter. Just the two of them frowning at him, almost threatening him to utter anything resembling a pleasantry. He tried anyway.

“
Lovely to see you both in good health,” he began, with a little bow.

They stared. Marco gave an inward sigh and drew himself up to his official height. He took out the form with its royal stamp and handed it to Alonso.

“
Just the usual, my friend,” he said, and then more formally, because he was the
juez de campo
, after all, “To be filled out as appropriate throughout this year of Our Lord 1782 and returned to me by next September.”

There was nothing more to say, but he knew he had to try once more. He chose a kinder tone. “My dears, I wish you would reconsider the opportunity to be inoculated.”

He addressed Alonso, noting the wistful look the rancher gave him. He also knew Alonso was a weak man who would dance to Maria Teresa's tune. “With your wife's consent, perhaps
you
could be inoculated. Alonso, you could stay with us during the procedure, and Maria Teresa and your child-to-be would never be endangered.”

“
Out of the question,” Maria Teresa snapped. “He would never leave me for such a thing.”

“
Before God and all the saints, he should. Even
one
of you inoculated would be better than no one,” Marco argued. “And if some of your servants would follow suit, you would all be much safer.”

Alonso opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

“
Please, Alonso. Any one of us could stay here with your wife, so she is not alone, while you are inoculated and quarantined from her in a safe place.”

“
I cannot,” Alonso replied, his voice dull.

Might as well try
, Marco thought, stiffening his own spine, in the face of Señora Castellano's bitter-eyed intractability. Amazing how a woman like that could dismay even a
juez
. He tried to choose his words carefully, knowing even before he started, that what he said would be touchy, at the very least.

“
You could be inoculated, too, Maria.” He held up his hand when she started to speak, and miracles of miracles, she remained silent. “I know, I know! This could very well endanger the child you carry. Or it might not.
El médico
told me that he does not know, either.”

“
Not another word,
juez
,” she said, daring him.

“
I will speak,” he said, each word distinct. “It is a terrible risk. The alternative is worse. Yes, you could lose this child if you are inoculated. Antonio Gil just doesn't know.” He held up his hand, knowing in his heart that he would never again be invited onto Alonso's land. “You also know that you are capable of bearing another child. Please, Maria Teresa, at least consider it.”

Her voice was high and tight when she spoke. “Did your wife send you to give me this message?”

Marco stared back, startled. “She … she doesn't even know I am here.”

“
Liar.”

He turned away, stunned at the anger than welled inside him. He forced down his angry words, wishing with all his heart that he could just scoop up Alonso and drag him away from this viper. He breathed in and out, but he could not bring himself to turn around.

“
Señora, I know that what I have suggested goes against everything that we believe in our Holy Church. You can complain to Father Francisco about me all you want. But let me tell you: I am a realist and this is a hard land. Good day to you both and God protect you, because I cannot.”

Marco stalked to the door and flung it open, and then he could not help himself. He turned around and glared at the two of them, fixing his gaze finally on Maria Teresa. It gave him a sick sort of pleasure—he knew he would regret it almost immediately—to see her actually quail before his glance.

“
And you! You and your family have robbed my wife of her land, her cattle, and her dear mother's brand. Mistreated Paloma and robbed her, and I cannot do a thing about it.”

He slammed the door after him, tears in his eyes, then bowed his head in shame as he heard Alonso's wife laugh and laugh.

F
urious at himself for letting that wretch of a woman play him like a guitar, Marco shouted for his guards. In minutes they were mounted and ready to ride, even though the wind had picked up and snow filled the afternoon sky. Ducking through the open door of the horse barn, he watched Alonso hurry toward him. Marco waited, unwilling to stay one more minute on this land, so great was his shame at allowing himself to be goaded by that
hechizera
. He was supposed to be a
juez de campo
, a wise man.

He stared ahead, not even willing to look at the man on foot.

“
Don't come back here ever again,” Alonso mumbled.

“
I won't,” Marco snapped, his eyes on the gate. “I will send someone else in the fall to retrieve that document I gave you. I will send others to handle any business of the crown I might have with you.”

“
You have cast aspersions you cannot prove upon the whole Moreno family.”

“
It's the truth, Alonso,” he said, finally looking his former friend in the eyes. “Your wife's father somehow acquired a brand that belongs to Paloma Vega, and her land near El Paso del Norte, after the death of her family in a Comanche raid. She was but eleven years old and had not an advocate in the world. Eleven, Alonso, eleven.”

“
You have no proof,” Alonso replied, his tone less certain.

“
You are correct,” Marco agreed. “I stand by my accusation, though.”

“
Go!”

Marco wheeled Buciro around and gestured to his outriders to precede him. He followed, sick at heart at his own foolishness. Any yet …. Before he passed through the gate, he looked back at Alonso.

“
Tell me something. Among your wife's jewels and trinkets, have you ever seen a little star and a V on a chain? A child's necklace?”

The look on Alonso's face told Marco everything he needed to know. “That's what I thought.”

Alonso surprised him them. With a glance back at the hacienda, he walked to the gate. He put his hand on Buciro, patting Marco's horse in an absentminded way. “I would be your friend again, Marco. Perhaps when
la viruela
has passed, we can discuss this brand.”

“
If you survive,” Marco said. Maybe brutal words would sink in; a
juez
could hope.

“
Yes, if we survive. I would be your friend again,” Alonso repeated.

“
And I, yours,” Marco said, reaching down to touch Alonso's shoulder. “
Vaya con Dios
.”

“
Y tu
.” Alonso backed away from Buciro and held up his hand, after another glance at his house.

Relieved—after all, who likes to lose a friend?—Marco rode through the gate, his head high.

His dignity lasted until he was out of sight of the hacienda. He blew out his cheeks and slumped in his saddle, which made his outriders frown and look at each other, uneasy. He managed a weak smile and a joke. “Sometimes I do not shine in this
juez de campo
business,” he said to the nearest man.

“
If I may, señor, I have heard that no one shines, who comes from the Castellano holdings,” the man said, looking at Marco with some sympathy. He laughed. “Maybe you should receive a commendation from the governor for not murdering them both.”

Marco managed a chuckle, because it was expected of him. “You have it, Pablo. Perhaps I
did
show remarkable restraint.”

He didn't get home a moment too soon. The Castellano holdings were not quite a league away from his own, but Marco felt the growing reality that the only thing that was going to make his debacle of a visit even slightly palatable was his wife's sympathy. Maybe she could kiss away the hurt to a man's pride, like a mother with a child.

When they arrived at the Double Cross, he didn't argue when his men told him they would curry his horse, Buciro. “Only this time, and
gracias
,” he said as he hurried to his house.

Kitchen smells could wait. He tossed his cloak and hat on a bench in the hall and hurried into their bedchamber. Paloma sat there with her knitting, which she put aside at once. She held out her hand to him, and he saw that she was pale and fine-drawn in that way of someone recuperating, leaning back against her pillow and his. Her eyes were on his face, and they were full of concern.

“
Paloma, I blundered so badly with the Castellanos. What I said!
O Dios mio
.”

“
Take off your boots,” she said as she patted the space beside her and raised the blanket.

He did as she said, tossing his belt and knife after the boots. Without a word, he lay down beside her and rested his head in her lap. He closed his eyes, home again.

“
Your ears are cold, my lord,” she told him quite formally, the way she always spoke when she was ready to scold him for some infraction or other. Her mild admonition turned into a gentle croon when he started to cry. She put her hand over his ears as though to shelter him from the sound of his own failure, if that's what it was. Heaven knows
she
had never measured up in Maria Teresa's eyes.