The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (16 page)

“They will not return soon,” the priest said. “They took what they
wanted. For now, it was food and horses. Next time it may be a direct attack on
the church or the fort. They take out their anger on Spaniards, I am afraid,
wanting us to all go back to Spain and leave the land as it was. They do not
understand that after almost two hundred years in this place, we will not be
going away.”

Carlito observed the adult conversation, comprehending only that the
elderly couple who had been so kind to them were gone now, forever.

The priest gathered his robes and mounted the sad little burro. “I must
go now, return to my church to say the evening Mass. Feel free to stay here if
you like, but I would recommend that you stand guard.”

He nudged the burro and started toward the city.

“What do you think?” Uncle Hernando asked Carlos. “Is it safe to stay
here or do we go back to the city also?”

Carlos stared at the hills around them. “It is at least five miles back
and darkness is coming fast.” His face took on a determined look. “Build up the
fire. Gather the wagons and animals close together. We will take watches during
the night. Two sleep and two remain on guard. It is dangerous, I know. We would
be overpowered. But, as the holy man said, the Indians already took what they
wanted from this home. They have moved on.”

Carlito gathered sticks and small branches for the fire and watched as
his uncles pulled food from their packs. They ate a simple supper of bread,
beans and jerky. The night was quiet and the animals settled peacefully at
their tethers. A half moon lit the landscape and the men realized they would
see anyone who approached, as long as they stayed diligent. Hernando and Carlos
agreed to take the first watch, and soon the others were asleep on their
blankets on the ground.

Carlito said a prayer for Señor and Señora Aragon, remembering what his
mother had told him about souls going to heaven. He remembered their evening
together a few weeks ago, wishing that tonight had been the same. Then he
thought of the carved box and the stories Señor Aragon had told about it. Where
was the box now? He crawled out of his nest of blankets.

Carlos saw him as he approached the fire. “Why are you up?” he
whispered, joining his son at the edge of the low embers.

“I need to check something.” Carlito stuck a twig into the fire,
setting the end of it aglow.

“
Hijo
, you need to—”

But Carlito had already taken his small torch and was running toward
Gloria’s kitchen door. The priest had barely closed it; at the boy’s touch it
swung inward. Moonlight from the one window showed the big items—Gloria’s
worktable lying on its side, a wooden bucket of water where she had left it
near her dishpan, the corner fireplace where she prepared meals in winter. His
flaming stick illuminated the details—broken dishes fallen from the shelves,
jars that had contained corn and beans but were empty now, a pool of something
dark on the floor. His breath caught but he refused to dwell on what that might
be.

“Carlito! Come back outside—now!” His father’s harsh whisper cut the
absolute stillness in the room.

“
Uno
momento
,” Carlito said, his eyes
darting back and forth.

On the floor, in a corner beneath the shelves where Gloria’s dishes had
once been stacked, he spotted the familiar lumpy shape. He rushed toward it,
feeling a stab as a shard pierced his foot. It did not stop him. He limped on,
being more mindful of the broken pottery, and picked up the wooden object.
Someone had opened it and, discovering that it contained nothing of real value,
had thrown it to the earthen floor. One of the hinges was broken; the lid hung
by the remaining bent one. He fitted the top back in place and stroked it
gently, as he might have done with an injured kitten.

“Carlito!” This time the whisper was more commanding.

“Coming, papá.” He cradled the box and picked up his little torch again.
The flame had burned nearly to his fingers and he tossed it to the ground the
moment he reached the outside air.

“What have you taken?” Carlos asked.

Carlito showed him. “Señor Aragon told such good stories about it. I
think he would not mind me having it now.”

There was certainly no one else who wanted the ugly, broken object;
both the Indians and the priest had left it behind. And the old couple had no
children to inherit it.

“Fine. You must watch out for it yourself. Now go to sleep—we have many
long days ahead of us.”

* * *

The newlyweds placed the last of their things into the cart which had
been his parents’ gift to them, along with the droopy-eared burro who pulled
it. Ramona turned to her mother, Carlito to his father, to say goodbye.

Beside her husband, Josephina Martinez wept softly. Her eldest son was
leaving and who knew when they might see each other again. Of all the children,
Carlito was the hardest to hold down. Josephina put on a smile for her new
daughter-in-law—did the girl truly know what she was getting into? Probably so.
The couple had known each other since childhood and Ramona had watched Carlito
leave on the yearly Camino Real journey six times already.

“Did we pack my paints?” Carlito asked his new wife, a concerned frown
crossing his face.

“Yes, my darling. All your supplies are safe in the wagon.”

He poked under the oiled cloth covering the cargo anyway until he felt
the reassuring bumps on the lid of the old box in which he stored his precious
pigments. Relieved, he offered Ramona a hand up to the cart’s seat and then
followed, taking up the reins and giving the old burro a slap while all
seventeen members of their families waved frantically.

Their goal before nightfall was to follow the old Camino northward for
a few miles beyond San Juan Pueblo to an area of natural hot springs, a place
Carlito had explored a few years ago. As an inquisitive fifteen-year-old he had
come upon the place, with its steaming pools of mineral-laden water and tall,
shady trees, thinking that he would one day paint pictures of this astounding
scenery and would make love to a woman on the soft ground under the
cottonwoods. At the time, he had not known this would be Ramona but thinking
about it now, as the cart carried them along, it could not have been otherwise.
He had loved her ever since the day his father’s caravan of traders had
returned from Mexico, the first of several times Carlito had made that journey.
Ramona’s raw emotion, her absolute joy at his safe return, had captured his
heart. It took him only eight more years to find the courage to propose
marriage. It took her only a moment to accept.

“So … Carlito, my dearest … do you still plan to paint my portrait one
day?”

He turned his eyes from the road and looked deeply into hers, dark chocolate
irises that matched his own. They would make beautiful babies together, he
realized.

“Yes. I absolutely will paint your portrait. I want to paint you in
every light, in every setting.” He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps in the
morning, on our blanket under the trees, when your skin is flush with love and
the warm air caresses you.”

A pink tinge rose under her pale brown skin and her eyes immediately
shifted toward her lap. Her mother had told her good girls do not have such
thoughts as she was having right now, good girls do not discuss intimate
details with men, not even their husbands. But Mamá did not consider that
Ramona and Carlito had been best of friends since they were twelve; she did not
know that they had already experimented with tentative touches and many kisses.
Tonight would only be the beginning of so many more delicious experiences.

Ramona looked back up into his face, meeting his gaze straight on. “My
wonderful, beautiful artist husband. How soon will we be there?”

He slapped the reins against the burro’s back again but the creature
was not to be hurried. One day he would receive a commission lucrative enough
to purchase them a fine carriage and a pair of strong horses and then they
would travel in style. And
much
faster.

“Patience, my love,” Ramona said, sensing his haste. She ran the tips
of her fingers over the light cloth covering his thigh. “Patience.”

The setting sun lit the western clouds with shades of orange and mauve
and brilliant pink as they turned toward the small enclave of trees where he
knew the hot pools were. While Ramona gathered wood for a fire, he quickly
staked the burro near a grassy patch and pulled out the straw-filled mattress
and blankets she and her mother had made as part of their household goods. The
clouds faded and dispersed and soon the Milky Way made a brilliant swath across
the black sky.

“There will be no rain tonight,” he said. “We shall sleep under the
stars.” He was practically trembling as he loosened the tie that secured her
blouse.

Her hands were quick and eager, and in moments their clothing had
fallen to the ground. The straw mattress crackled as they sank into its depth
and Ramona giggled. He stilled the sound by covering her mouth with his and the
giggle turned to a moan as he ran his hands from her shoulders to her buttocks.
Holding her gently he positioned himself and discovered that her body eagerly
awaited him. She let out a tiny cry and he was finished, his pent-up energy
released in a moment’s time. She lay beneath him, breathing hard and kissing
his face all at once.

“Is it always so quick?” she asked, a trace of disappointment on her
face.

“The next time, I promise you …”

She kissed him again.

He made good on the promise, twice more before the moon reached its
zenith and again at dawn’s first light.

“My mother never explained it
this
way.” Ramona laughed as
Carlito rolled to one elbow and brushed the hair back from her face. “Thank
goodness Graciela was willing to talk freely.”

The older sister who had married only a year earlier. Graciela was
already nursing her first child and the thought crossed Ramona’s mind that the
same situation could be a very distinct possibility for her. She tucked that
idea away. For now, she wanted Carlito to herself.

He had risen from their outdoor bed and wrapped her shawl around his
waist, reaching for his box of charcoal and a sheet of sketch paper.

“Do not move,” he said, pulling lines down the length of the page. “I
want to catch you exactly like this—your smile and that lazy look you have in
your eyes.”

She laughed with delight, holding her position, knowing her mother
would be scandalized if she knew how wantonly her daughter could behave.

“As long as this drawing is for your eyes only,” she said. “This is our
own very private moment together.”

“Moment? My darling, I want us to have a lifetime of these private
moments, exactly like this one.”

* * *

“Carlito—we are moving
again
?” Ramona felt the sway of
uncertainty. The baby in her arms sensed her anxiety and began to squall. A tug
at her skirt told her that little Miguel was hanging on tight, most likely with
his thumb in his mouth. And she’d missed her monthly cycle again, although
there had been no chance to inform Carlito of this.

“There is work in
Tejas
, a group of missionaries
and explorers have branched away from the Rio Grande Valley and are discovering
new places. There will be construction work and they will want art to beautify
the hundreds of churches they plan to build.”

It was always this way. Three years of marriage, soon to be three
babies, always somewhere new to explore. She was happy for him, truly, that he
had such a love of life and a thirst to learn more. But did he realize the
difficulties? Packing their belongings, leaving half of their household goods
behind each time and having to start over. The daily problems associated with
keeping the children fed, their clothing washed, treating their injuries along
the trail and praying every single night that no one became ill because there
was rarely a doctor in any of the tiny settlements and pueblos where they ended
up. She opened her mouth, intending to tell him.

The baby let out another long shriek and Carlito came to her side.
“Here, I will take him for a walk down to the stream. He always likes to watch
the water rush by.”

That had been Miguel, their water-watcher. Little Lorenzo always seemed
to have a stomach ailment.

“He’s hungry,” she said. “Take Miguel and I will get this one fed.”

Like a dog after a rabbit, her husband’s focus changed in a second and
he did as she suggested. She sank into the chair where she usually nursed the
baby, thankful that this landlord had provided a few simple furnishings. On an
easel near the window sat Carlito’s most recent painting, a view of the Taos
Indian Pueblo done from memory since he had only been there once, right after
their wedding. It was the week she had told him she was pregnant for the first
time. He’d been so overjoyed that he’d immediately stopped sketching the pueblo
and moved the family to a rented room in the nearby settlement that passed for
a town.