Read Online Daughter of Fortune by Carla Kelly - Free Book Online Page B

entered a low doorway and
Maria followed. She stopped in the doorway and dropped the hides,
her hand to her mouth.
    The room was alive with moving figures. She leaned
against the wall, her heart pounding so fast she feared it would
leap from her breast. She forced herself to peer closer to the
bobbing and swaying dancers. They were paintings on deerhide. The
dancing candlelight and the breeze from the cool night made them
appear to be in motion. She rubbed her eyes and brushed her hair
from her face.
    She recognized Miguel el Arcangel, with his wings
and sword. Over by the interior doorway stood San Jose, carrying
lilies that looked more like yucca blossoms. And there was Esteban
el Martir, pincushioned with arrows and looking heavenward. Several
Marias swayed in the evening breeze, each gently rocking a small
Indian baby with a halo. The figures were crude, so unlike the
magnificence of Mexico City’s religious paintings, but they had a
powerful presence.
    The old man watched her. The smile on his face was
almost hidden by his wrinkles, but his eyes were appreciative. “Do
you like my saints?”
    “Oh, yes,” she replied, tearing her eyes away from a
sweat-soaked Christ, his body red and drooping from his moving
cross, the agony of centuries reaching out to her in this New
Mexican pueblo.
    The old man brushed off the front of his homespun
shirt. “I am Emiliano, santero to Diego Masferrer. ”
    Saintmaker. She looked at him and smiled, extending
her hand. When he stared down at her hand, she wondered about the
propriety of offering her hand to an Indian, but there was
something about Emiliano that measured him as equal. Perhaps it was
his paintings.
    After a long pause, he took her hand, giving it one
brief shake.
    “I am Maria Espinosa de la Garza,” she said. “Thank
you for helping me.”
    He snorted. “You have helped me . If my old
woman were alive, she would have called that a lazy man’s load that
I carried. But it was too much.” He peered at her face in the dim
light. “Do you think I am too old?”
    It was a curious question. She looked around her at
the figures dancing in slow motion. There was San Antonio, he who
finds lost things. Her eyes filled with tears, and she struggled
against them. San Antonio, dear San Antonio. He would never
retrieve her losses. “No. You will never be really old, not so long
as you can make the saints dance. ”
    He smiled. “Only another artist would say such a
thing. Are you an artist?”
    She shook her head. “Oh, no. I cannot pretend such a
thing. But I like to paint.”
    He turned toward the door. “We shall see. But now,
let us go. You spoke of Diego Masferrer. Let me take you to Las
Invernadas.”
    “Where? ”
    “Las Invernadas. It is what he calls his hacienda
and lands. I will take you to him. ”
    They descended the ladder. “Is everyone asleep?” she
asked in a whisper.
    “Yes. It is late. Besides, no one bothers me. I come
and go as I please.”
    The dogs still roamed silently. Maria stayed close
to Emiliano. Without his burden he walked even faster. She
struggled to keep up with him. When he saw how she hurried and
noticed her limp, he slowed his pace.
    “It is yet another league,” Emiliano said, and she
sighed. He peered at her. “Señorita Espinosa de la Garza, you have
come this far. Keep walking!”
    Her head felt two sizes too large and her vision
seemed to sparkle around the edges. Her feet were a mass of
scratches, and she had left her broken shoe behind in the santero’s workshop, but she followed the old Indian
doggedly.
    After an hour of silent struggle, Maria saw Las
Invernadas. The hacienda was reddish adobe like the pueblo, but of
only one story, long and low in the moonlight. She saw men walking
slowly back and forth on the roof, ghostly visions in the waning
moon.
    “Guards,” said Emiliano. “They are there every
night. I will speak to them.”
    Maria’s old uneasiness returned. What right had she
to lay her troubles at Diego