Marco and the Devil's Bargain by Carla Kelly Page B

reminding.
    â€œ You have my permission,” the juez said. “Who do you think is going to look after you two, as la viruela runs its course?”
    Like most white men, Anthony had come to believe the myth that Indians had no feelings. And after seeing what Comanches had done to Catalina, he would have been the first to confirm that myth. This was different; these people were different. The Indian gave a small sigh that thankfully served to cover his own. What kind of people were these? Likely he would have leisure to explore the matter as the disease played out.
    They all looked at him expectantly. He told Paloma to sit down on her bed and decide where she wanted the inoculation.
    She looked at her husband. “Did you say yours was on your arm?”
    He rolled up his left sleeve and turned his arm so she could see the scar on the inside of his upper arm. She touched it.
    â€œ I thought that was an arrow wound.”
    He laughed, a low sound probably not intended for anyone’s ears but his wife’s, but there they all stood. “We’ve never taken an exact census of my scars, Paloma.”
    She grinned at him and rolled up her own left sleeve, pointing to her forearm. “If I have to watch so I can inoculate Toshua, it had better be a convenient place.”
    As she sat completely still on the edge of the bed, Anthony spoke to a servant hovering in the hallway. He brought in a little table, pulled it up to the bed, and picked up a stool another servant had brought into the room. Before Anthony could do anything, Señor Mondragón gestured for him to stand aside while he picked Paloma up and sat down on the bed, holding her on his lap. She let out an enormous sigh and leaned against him. Anthony envied them for one irrational moment, until he reminded himself that nothing in life was fair. Mooning around wasn’t getting him one step closer to Pia Maria. Ask any American. Time was money.

Chapter Ten
In which Paloma and Toshua receive a medical education
    â€œ R est your arm on the table, Señora Mondragón.”
    â€œ Paloma,” she whispered, “just Paloma.” Her voice was hoarse and she hated to show her terror, but she did as he directed.
    Noticing that she hunched over because she sat higher than the table, Marco spread his legs and settled her between them. “Better?” he asked, his voice close to her ear.
    She nodded, her eyes on the tin container that the médico pulled from the shirt Luisa had given him. This could kill me , she thought, and leaned back against Marco, by instinct wanting to distance herself from the poison. His bulk reassured her, reminding her that only this morning they had made love on this same bed. He knew her so well.
    Paloma recognized the linen napkin he spread on the table, one of Luisa’s. This is no banquet , she told herself irrationally. She glanced at Toshua, wondering how he was digesting this. He leaned over the doctor’s shoulder. Antonio frowned at him, but did not have the courage to say anything.
    â€œ Just sit next to Marco,” she told him.
    â€œ I should not do that. It is your private place,” he said in protest.
    Paloma blushed. “Not here at Luisa’s. Sit.”
    He did as she said. He grunted as Antonio Gil took out a small tool that looked like a tiny fork with three tines.
    â€œ It’s wicked sharp,” the physician said, speaking in a conversational tone now, reminding her of Father Eusebio back in Santa Fe at San Miguel. Several times she had escaped from her aunt’s grasp long enough to accompany the priest to some of the huts in his parish of Analco. He washed grit and gooey matter from children’s eyes while she held their hands. She could not imagine two men less alike, and yet they both were healers.
    â€œ I’m just going to scrape this for one inch, but hardly below the surface. Hold still now. Steady her arm, señor.”
    Marco did as Antonio