looking at her.
“I have no dowry. No one will marry me. My own
sister has cast me off. I possess nothing. But I will work. I can
learn.”
“I do not like it,” he said finally.
“I do not ask you to like it,” she replied quickly.
“But it must be this way.”
“Why do I have the feeling that in spite of what I
say, you will follow your own mind?” he murmured, half to
himself.
“Because I must,” she declared, feeling an
unexpected stubbornness rising in her.
He stared down at the waters of the acequia, unmindful of his little sisters calling him downstream. Then he
sighed and threw up his hands. “What choice do you give me, Maria chiquita ? We will put you to work, but I do insist that you
live in the family quarters. This must be.”
“Very well.” She put out her hand. After a moment’s
hesitation, Diego shook it.
“I have never shaken on a bargain with a woman,” he
said.
“It will do you good, Señor,” she replied.
“I doubt it,” he said, smiling a little. He turned
his head toward her in sudden seriousness. “There is something you
can do for me, if you will.”
“Anything,” she replied.
He chuckled. “Come now, Maria, we do not know each
other well, but I know you have too much of a mind of your own to
make such a rash statement.”
“Anything within reason,” she amended.
“That is better. It is a simple thing. Be a friend
to my sister Erlinda.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “She came
back to us four months ago, a widow. She has never spoken about the
events of Marco’s death.” He paused and brushed a hand across his
eyes. “Dear Marco. How I loved him.” With a visible effort, Diego
continued. “I confess to you that I know little of the human heart,
but I do know one thing—pain goes away faster when it is spoken of,
when tears are shed. Help her, if you can.”
He held out his hand to her this time and she shook
it. “This could become a habit.” He gestured toward the house.
“Come then, Maria. If you will become a citizen of the river
kingdom, then I suppose you must work like the rest of us.”
Diego was as good as his word. He put Maria to work
in his household, instructing Erlinda, who argued with him in her
gentle fashion, to teach her the daily tasks of the hacienda, the
labor of his Mexican servants.
“These Indians are descendants of the Christian
Mexicanos my grandfather brought with him when he made the entrada with Oñate in 1598,” Diego explained. “Their work is
the labor of the house, and tasks requiring some skills.”
“What of the Indians in the field?” she asked.
“They are my Indians from Tesuque.”
“Your Indians?”
“Yes, my Indians,” he replied firmly. “They were
given by encomienda to my father’s father, and now their
work is mine.”
She should have been warned by the deepening lines
around his mouth and eyes that this was a touchy subject, but she
couldn’t stop herself. “Can you own them now? I thought that was
forbidden by the Council of the Indies.”
“They gave me their work.” His answer was short, the
lines more pronounced.
“But the Viceroy says you cannot do that anymore,
that the days of Indian allotment are long over.” Some demon was
driving her on. A year ago she would not have cared about anyone’s
Indians, but now, with her own status so radically altered, she had
new vision. “My own father got in tro—”
“Maria!” Diego was past the point of tolerance. “I
had no idea women were so interested in such matters. Here we own
Indians. Don’t think there hasn’t been trouble from the Church and
the governor.”
“I would think so,” she murmured.
He banged his hand on the table. “That is the way it
is here. You tell me how else to get Indians to work except to
force them, Maria Formidable, and I will try it!”
She dropped the subject, and Diego made an obvious
effort to control his temper. He folded his hands in front of him
and sat silent for a
“I have no dowry. No one will marry me. My own
sister has cast me off. I possess nothing. But I will work. I can
learn.”
“I do not like it,” he said finally.
“I do not ask you to like it,” she replied quickly.
“But it must be this way.”
“Why do I have the feeling that in spite of what I
say, you will follow your own mind?” he murmured, half to
himself.
“Because I must,” she declared, feeling an
unexpected stubbornness rising in her.
He stared down at the waters of the acequia, unmindful of his little sisters calling him downstream. Then he
sighed and threw up his hands. “What choice do you give me, Maria chiquita ? We will put you to work, but I do insist that you
live in the family quarters. This must be.”
“Very well.” She put out her hand. After a moment’s
hesitation, Diego shook it.
“I have never shaken on a bargain with a woman,” he
said.
“It will do you good, Señor,” she replied.
“I doubt it,” he said, smiling a little. He turned
his head toward her in sudden seriousness. “There is something you
can do for me, if you will.”
“Anything,” she replied.
He chuckled. “Come now, Maria, we do not know each
other well, but I know you have too much of a mind of your own to
make such a rash statement.”
“Anything within reason,” she amended.
“That is better. It is a simple thing. Be a friend
to my sister Erlinda.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “She came
back to us four months ago, a widow. She has never spoken about the
events of Marco’s death.” He paused and brushed a hand across his
eyes. “Dear Marco. How I loved him.” With a visible effort, Diego
continued. “I confess to you that I know little of the human heart,
but I do know one thing—pain goes away faster when it is spoken of,
when tears are shed. Help her, if you can.”
He held out his hand to her this time and she shook
it. “This could become a habit.” He gestured toward the house.
“Come then, Maria. If you will become a citizen of the river
kingdom, then I suppose you must work like the rest of us.”
Diego was as good as his word. He put Maria to work
in his household, instructing Erlinda, who argued with him in her
gentle fashion, to teach her the daily tasks of the hacienda, the
labor of his Mexican servants.
“These Indians are descendants of the Christian
Mexicanos my grandfather brought with him when he made the entrada with Oñate in 1598,” Diego explained. “Their work is
the labor of the house, and tasks requiring some skills.”
“What of the Indians in the field?” she asked.
“They are my Indians from Tesuque.”
“Your Indians?”
“Yes, my Indians,” he replied firmly. “They were
given by encomienda to my father’s father, and now their
work is mine.”
She should have been warned by the deepening lines
around his mouth and eyes that this was a touchy subject, but she
couldn’t stop herself. “Can you own them now? I thought that was
forbidden by the Council of the Indies.”
“They gave me their work.” His answer was short, the
lines more pronounced.
“But the Viceroy says you cannot do that anymore,
that the days of Indian allotment are long over.” Some demon was
driving her on. A year ago she would not have cared about anyone’s
Indians, but now, with her own status so radically altered, she had
new vision. “My own father got in tro—”
“Maria!” Diego was past the point of tolerance. “I
had no idea women were so interested in such matters. Here we own
Indians. Don’t think there hasn’t been trouble from the Church and
the governor.”
“I would think so,” she murmured.
He banged his hand on the table. “That is the way it
is here. You tell me how else to get Indians to work except to
force them, Maria Formidable, and I will try it!”
She dropped the subject, and Diego made an obvious
effort to control his temper. He folded his hands in front of him
and sat silent for a
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