Daughter of Fortune by Carla Kelly Read Free Book Online

doubts growing, Maria pushed the insult aside.
“You say ‘was,’ Señor.”
    “Your sister is fortunately a widow, praise be to
God,” he said, no apology in his voice.
    “What are you saying?”
    “Did you not know? Ah, of course you did not know.
Don Felix was killed three months ago.”
    The familiar chill settled in her bones again. Even
Diego’s warmth could not take it away. “How did it happen?”
    “His own Indians slit his throat from ear to ear.
The general feeling in Santa Fe is that he richly deserved to
suffer more than he did.”
    “How can you say that, Señor?” she burst out.
    “Don Felix was a wretched man who beat his wife and
daughters and abused his Indians. He was also the town moneylender.
I think all of us owed him money.” He sighed. “Still owe it. The
wonder of it is that he did not die sooner, but indeed, the Lord’s
ways are mysterious. ”
    “Why were you all in such debt to him?”
    “Times have been rough here, chiquita . The
drought has burdened us for four years.” His tone hardened. “And do
not imagine that de Guzman’s death cancelled our debts. La
Viuda Guzman, your sister, sees to it that we are reminded
quarterly.”
    Maria could not think of anything to say, but
Diego’s good humor took over. “Never fear, Maria. Two years ago,
even before Felix went to his reward, Margarita told me how I could
wipe out my debt.”
    The lightness of his tone should have warned her.
“And how was that, Señor?” she asked.
    “I had only to wed and bed her eldest daughter, your
cousin Isabella.” He laughed out loud and spurred his horse
forward. “I chose not to take her advice.”
    She could not help but laugh. “This would be so
dreadful?”
    He leaned forward, his brown eyes twinkling into her
blue ones. “La Doña Isabella de Guzman has buck teeth and one eye
that wanders. I cannot believe you are related to her.”
    She was acutely aware of her dishevelment and
Diego’s nearness. She brushed at the dried mud on her arm and tried
to straighten her skirts. Diego’s arms tightened around her as he
slowed his horse to a walk again.
    “I truly did not mean to embarrass you, Maria,” he
said, “and do not fret over your appearance. My Erlinda would say
that miracles are performed in bathtubs!”
    She laughed because she knew he was trying to cheer
her, but then she was silent. Margarita was a widow. For the next
few miles she mulled over this new misfortune and concluded finally
that her sister would be more delighted than ever to see her. She
would turn to a relative for consolation. Surely it could be no
other way.
    The horsemen rode steadily toward the Sangre de
Cristo Mountains. As they passed a hacienda, two of the riders
waved to Diego and turned off. Maria watched them until they
disappeared within the brown adobe walls of the estancia.
    “What do they grow here?” she asked, looking at the
barren landscape.
    “Cattle. Sheep. Children. We are not precisely
covered with the wealth of the conquistadors here, chiquita .
”
    They did not pause for the nooning, but ate their
hardtack and jerky in the saddle, riding on into the afternoon.
Maria would have welcomed the opportunity to climb down from
Diego’s saddle and walk around, but the men were intent on reaching
Santa Fe with word of the Apache massacre.
    She leaned forward and shaded her eyes with her
hand. She could see nothing that resembled civilization. No
majestic cathedral, seat of a bishop. No zocalo, its
impressive space covered with the shops and stalls of merchants and
Indios engaged in the big and little commerce of Mexico. No elegant
homes fronting the streets with stark walls, opening into cool
interiors. No floating gardens as she remembered from Lake Texcoco.
There was nothing familiar, nothing of home here.
    The horses and riders continued their gradual climb
over an empty land, dotted here and there with distant estancias
that she did not see until Diego tapped her shoulder and pointed