Other Writings

About Tin Soldier

2006-12-30T23:32:00.001-06:00

In an America of scarce and expensive fossil fuels, unstable government, and seemingly endless resource wars, former street punk Donovan Sloan deserts his National Guard unit—an act punishable by death. He wanders onto a farm in an overlooked valley of the desert Southwest, where Amalia Channing and her sister Carina Cunningham are living a hardscrabble existence, bitter over the loss of the easy urban lifestyle they enjoyed before the collapse of the oil economy.

Against their better instincts, the women take Donovan in and he struggles to adapt to honest farm life. But his old lifestyle of drinking, gambling and petty thievery is a constant temptation. When he falls in love with the object of a federal spy's affections, the fate of his rescuers and their neighbors depends on whether he can for once in his life, put the needs of others ahead of his own.

Tin Soldier - Book One, Chapter One

2006-12-29T10:52:00.003-06:00

It was the bells that first alerted her to the presence of the stranger—goat’s bells jangling, the sound carrying clearly through the desert night. Amalia barely heard. She bent her head over her book and continued reading aloud. "When I came home from this journey, I contemplated with great pleasure the fruitfulness of that valley, and the pleasantness of the situation; the security from storms. . ."

There it was again, clearer this time. She looked up, Defoe forgotten. Her eyes, too tired for someone only in her forties, met those of her younger sister Carina, and they shared an unspoken question. Was it a coyote, or something more dangerous?

Before either of them could speak, they heard the bells again, this time accompanied by the frantic braying of a donkey. Amalia jumped to her feet, dumping her knitting to the floor, and turned off the battery-powered lamp. Carina reached in the dark for the oil lantern and lit it with a battered lighter she kept in her pocket. "I’ll be out in a minute," she whispered.

Amalia grabbed her shotgun and stepped outside. She looked around and nervously ran a hand through her short, fading hair. The night was clear and the waning moon gave plenty of light to see by, but after the luxury of an electric light, her eyes needed to adjust to the night. The goats had calmed down, but now she heard a commotion from the chicken coop. Maybe it was just a coyote, after all. She slipped the safety off her gun and started walking in the direction of the sound.

She covered the distance with the fast, sure strides of a much younger woman, one accustomed to walking everywhere, but before she could enter the chicken run, a shadow emerged from the open door of the coop. Amalia sucked in her breath. This was no coyote. She raised the gun. "Drop it and stay where you are."

The figure gasped in surprise and dropped the squawking chicken. He made a slight motion but didn’t run or speak.

"Who are you? Come here where I can see you!"

The shadow swayed slightly.

"I said come here," Amalia repeated. "If you think I'm scared to shoot a man, you're wrong."

At a sound behind her, Amalia wheeled about in panic. Did the thief have a partner? No, it was only Carina, long pale hair flying, pistol drawn, running to join her. Amalia turned back to her prisoner, only to find him gone—loping toward the creek with an odd limping gait, gasping for breath with every step. Amalia cursed and took off after him. A man who knew she had chickens, goats, and a donkey was not a man she could let get away.

She didn’t have far to run. The man stumbled over a clump of weeds and fell with a wrenching scream that would’ve made a gentler person than Amalia cringe. She trotted over with a snort of satisfaction and leveled the gun at his chest. "Don’t even think of trying anything, you son of bitch."

The man nodded, gasping as if too close to the brink of death to try any tricks. He attempted to speak, but only a dry rasping noise escaped his lips. He tried to cough, but the effort seemed to cause him pain because he gave a little cry and collapsed in a tearless whimper.

Carina caught up to them, bringing the lantern, and she held it up so they could get a better look. The stranger didn’t appear dangerous. He young and lanky, of indeterminate race, not bad looking but pale underneath his toffee-colored skin. He flinched at the light. "Please help me."

Carina, always quick with her sympathy, took a step closer. "Look," she said. "He’s bleeding."

Amalia was less impressed by the blood than by his clothes. "Good. Maybe he'll bleed to death and save us the trouble of shooting him. Can’t you see he’s wearing a Guard uniform? I bet he's not alone. The bastards are here to rob us."

"No," the man gasped. "I’m alone. I swear."

It was all the same to Amalia. "Then we need to kill you so you don’t go back and lead them here." She had relaxed her grip on the shotgun, but now she leveled it at his chest.

"Amalia, no. He’s harmless."

"Harmless as a snake."

The man squirmed. "I’m a deserter. They’ll kill me if I go back. Why would I betray you?"

"He’s right," Carina said. "There’s no need to kill him."

"You believe him?" Amalia was incredulous. "Even if he's telling the truth, what are we supposed to do? Maybe he won’t go back and tell the Guard, but he’ll tell someone, sooner or later. I don’t like this either, but it has to be done."

The man struggled to his knees. "Please. If you’re going to kill me, at least help me stand so I can die like a man. And could I maybe have a drink of water first? I’ve been in the desert three days and had no water since yesterday. I don’t want to die thirsty."

Carina turned on Amalia. "We can’t do this." She set the safety on her pistol and shoved it into the waistband of her pants. "Is this how we were raised to treat people?"

"We were raised in another time, Carina."

"Well, these are pretty bad times if we can’t give a drink of water to a man who is hurt. Things aren't so bad we can’t at least clean his wounds."

"I’d be grateful forever if you helped me." The man turned pleading eyes on Amalia. "I can help you with your farm. You won’t be sorry."

"We don’t need any help around here. We don’t need anyone."

"That’s just not true." Carina kicked the ground in exasperation. "You know, maybe if someone had treated your husband with kindness when he deserted--"

Amalia sucked in her breath.

"If someone had taken care of him, maybe. . ."

"Shut up!" Amalia now looked as likely to shoot Carina as the stranger. "How can you compare. . . oh, just shut up!"

"Fine. Go on and shoot him, then. What do I care?" She set the lantern on the ground. "You’ll need this so you can see to dig the grave. I’m sure you'd have wanted someone to do as much for Alan." She affected a toss of her head and stalked off into the darkness.

Amalia turned back to her captive. She was quivering and breathing as heavily as if she had been running. Her palms were wet—too wet to get a good grip on the trigger. She stared deep into the man’s eyes, then turned away in disgust. "Wait here," she said. "I’ll go find you something you can use as a crutch."

* * *

Rescue is a tactile thing. Donovan knew without opening his eyes that he was safe. Everything from the soft pillows and mattress to the fresh-smelling sheet and the steady breeze on his cheek told him that he had found not just refuge but luxury. He hardly dared open his eyes for fear it would turn out to be a dream, but the rumble of his stomach and the soft tearing sound nearby told him that this was no fevered illusion. Slowly he opened his eyes. His gaze fell upon a woman, her smooth blonde hair drawn into a knot at the nape of her neck. She sat in a chair at the side of the bed, her head bent over a basket from which she took clumps of wool and tugged them into little puffs, hence the soft sound he had heard. This task seemed to completely absorb her, but she must have sensed she was being watched because she looked up.

"Hello, stranger." She set her work basket on the floor and put a cool hand on his forehead. "How are you feeling?"

Donovan tried to answer but found his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The woman took a glass off a nearby table and helped him sit up. He tried not to cry out from the pain in his ribs and shoulder, instead focusing on the glass she held to his lips. He sucked at the liquid greedily, even though it tasted strange, both sweet and salty with an odd grassy flavor he couldn't place.

"Enough." The woman pulled the glass away. "Let's make sure you hold this down okay before you have any more." She eased him back onto the pillows. "How are you feeling?" she asked again.

"Thirsty. Hungry."

"Does anything hurt?"

"Everything."

"What's your name?"

"Donovan."

"I'm Carina. Do you know where you are? Do you remember how you got here?"

"I'm at a house in the desert. A place with a creek. I walked a long way from the main road to get here."

"Why didn't you stay on the road?"

"They would've found me. They would've shot me for stealing their truck and deserting."

"You nearly died anyway." Carina pulled back the sheet and examined his bandages.

"At least in the desert I stood a chance. I got lucky."

"Lucky my sister Amalia didn't shoot you. Lucky you didn't displace one of these broken ribs and puncture an organ. Lucky that the infected gunshot wound in your shoulder didn't gangrene, and lucky you didn't bleed to death from the cut on your leg. It looks more recent than the other wounds. What happened?"

"A stupid accident after the truck ran out of gas."

She fussed with the ends of the bandage binding his rib cage. "Well, you were very lucky. How's your stomach feeling? Any pain? Nausea?"

Donovan shook his head. "Does this mean you'll give me something to eat?"

"Yes, but no solid food today. And if you feel at all sick, let me know." She went into another room and came back with extra pillows. With a bit of effort on her part and a lot of gasping and pain on his, she got him into a sitting position, resting against the mound of pillows. She handed him the glass he had been drinking out of before. "Think you can manage it yourself this time?"

Donovan took it gingerly and lifted it to his lips. Carina smiled. "I'll get you something to eat."

He drained the glass and let it fall into his lap, then he looked around. The room was small, its plastered walls nearly bare of decoration. Through a window framed by blue curtains he could see a shady courtyard, and another window offered a view of scrubland and distant mountains. Bookcases lined an entire wall, and in the far corner a tabby slept curled on an upholstered chair. Beside the bed was a table with an oil lamp, a book and a surprise luxury-- a small electric fan. This and not the open window was the source of the steady breeze he had been enjoying. Donovan smiled, not sure how he had come to merit such an indulgence.

A wonderful smell suddenly riveted his attention— a tempting aroma of chicken and garlic. His stomach growled so violently he worried it might leap out of his body and he put a hand on his belly to quiet it. He had been groggy before, but now he was fully awake, straining for the sound of Carina's footsteps. He didn't have long to wait. Carina stepped briskly into the room carrying a tray. "I hope you're hungry."

"I'm so hungry I could eat your cat."

"I don't recommend you try it. She's probably stronger than you right now." Carina set the tray on the nightstand. "You're going to have to let me feed you. I don't think you're ready to handle a spoon." Donovan submitted to the indignity of being fed with as little self-consciousness as a baby bird. He couldn't make out what he was eating, but it seemed to be some kind of gruel flavored with chicken stock and garlic. He was so hungry it could've been mud and he would have been grateful. When he finished, he was given the added treat of a cup of cool herbal tea, slightly sour and sweetened with honey. He could handle the cup on his own and Carina watched as he sucked it down.

"You'll probably start feeling sleepy in a few minutes. I put some things in there that should help you rest."

Donovan handed back the cup and lay back against the pillows with a sigh. "I don't think I need any drugs to help me sleep. You've been very kind. I don't think I can ever do enough to repay you."

Carina placed a hand on his forehead. "Don't think about that right now. I'm going to do some work around the house, but if you need me, just call."

Donovan nodded and started to say something, but the effect of the tea and warm food was overwhelming. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

* * *

"You gave him some of the bouillon?"

Donovan recognized the voice and tensed under the covers. The women were in the next room and probably couldn't see him, but he kept his eyes closed and remained still, just in case.

"Well, yes," said Carina in reasonable tones. "What would you have had me do? He shouldn't have solid food yet, so I couldn't use the dried meat. Should I have killed a chicken and made soup from it instead?"

"Of course not," said Amalia. "You cure chickens, you don’t kill them. It's just that it's so hard to get bouillon. There's never any in town, so we have to be careful with it."

"I think I know that as well as you do. Don't worry, he won’t need much. I made an atole for him and he kept it down okay. He'll be on solid food soon."

"I just wish it were someone else's food he was eating."

"Don't be stingy. He'll be a big help to us once he's well. You know we can't run this place alone. It was hard enough after Dad died. And now without Mom. . .” Her voice trailed off. "And there's no telling when Miles will be discharged, so we can use the help."

"Right now he's no help at all. He's just a drain on our food sources and a lot of extra work for you."

"I don't mind."

"Of course you don't," Amalia said. "But while you're in here giving this guy alcohol rubdowns for his fever, I'm out in the fields alone."

"It won't be forever. His fever was down today and I think he can help us soon with indoor things like cleaning and carding that wool I got from the Petersons. He can sort beans for cooking, he can make corn ristras, bundle herbs for drying. . ."

Amalia mumbled something that Donovan couldn't make out.

"Let's not argue," Carina said. "You agreed to help me with his bandages."

Donovan tried to mimic the deep regular breathing of sleep as the women entered the room, then he opened his eyes and smiled sleepily. "What time is it?"

"Time to change your bandages and move you around a bit," Carina said. She pulled off the sheet and helped him sit up. She ran her hands along his ribcage with a light, firm touch and seemed satisfied. "Any change to how you feel? You haven’t tried to get up, have you?"

Donovan shook his head.

"Let’s have you sit all the way up and put your feet on the floor. I can get a better look at this shoulder that way, and there's no reason for you not to move around so long as you're careful."

Sitting all the way up and turning around took more effort than just sitting up enough to eat. Donovan cringed and leaned heavily on Carina, but finally he was sitting up straight, feet planted on the floor. He would’ve sighed with relief if it hadn’t hurt so much.

Carina picked at the bandage on his shoulder, frowning at the amount of blood and fluid that had seeped through. She asked Amalia for a pair of scissors. With a few quick snips, the bandage fell in ribbons to the floor and Carina examined the oozing hole in his shoulder. "How long ago were you shot?"

"About two weeks before I deserted."

"Amalia, hand me the little flashlight."

Donovan raised his eyebrows in surprise when he saw the flashlight, but said nothing as Carina used it to peer at the hole more closely.

"Do you know if they got the bullet out?"

"What?" Donovan’s mind had been elsewhere.

"The bullet. Did they remove it, or do you think it might still be in there?"

"I think they got it. I really don’t know. I bled a lot and passed out. When I woke up, I was all bandaged up and lying in the ward. I assume they took it out."

"It isn’t healing well, if they did. I poked around while you were unconscious, but maybe I need to look again."

"Maybe it's just that he hasn't given the wound a chance to heal," Amalia suggested. "Deserting his base, running around the desert, stealing chickens, and getting dehydrated isn't exactly a recipe for quick recovery."

"I hope that's all it is," Carina agreed. She met Donovan’s eyes. "You've had your autoimmune vaccination, right? No exposure to any weird new diseases that you know of-- LVV, Toronto Flu, any of that?"

"I’ve had the Emerging Virus series and the doctors say there’s been no new strains since 2039."

"The Guard hasn’t updated its vaccine regimen in three years?"

"They give us our boosters. We don’t need anything else for domestic service."

Carina murmured skeptically and returned her attention to the open wound. "I hate to stitch this up when it's still draining, but. . .well, let's just clean it and cover it again and see what it does in the next twenty-four hours. If it doesn't look any better tomorrow we may want to do a bit of exploratory."

Amalia nodded as if this were a reasonable decision and handed her a bottle of fluid with a long thin straw at the top. "You better hold onto something," she told Donovan. "No one ever likes what she's about to do."

"It's not so bad," Carina said. "It's just saline. Weak salt solution. It'll feel uncomfortable, but it won't hurt as bad as anything you've already been through."

Carina was right that the sensation was not so much painful as odd and uncomfortable. He tried not to squirm, although he found the sight of blood and pus running down his arm more disturbing than the actual procedure. Amalia wiped the dripping mess with a towel. "I don't like the look of this."

"Me either." Carina took the bloody towel and sniffed it, then wrinkled her nose in distaste. "This is going to require some aggressive action if it's not better by tomorrow."

Amalia handed her another wound-flushing bottle, this one filled with a brownish substance. Carina fixed Donovan with a steady look. "This one will hurt. I'm not kidding. But there's no way around it, so just do your best to be still and it'll be over in a few seconds."

"Hold my hand," Amalia told him.

Donovan did as he was told and gripped her hand so hard he wondered that her bones didn't crack. He closed his eyes, sucking in deep ragged breaths, too distracted by the pain in his shoulder to notice the duller pain in his ribs. But as Carina had promised, it was over quickly and then she was pressing a cloth against his shoulder. "It's okay," she said. "We're done, except for a bit of ointment, and I promise it won't hurt. It's got some herbs in it that will numb the pain.

She took a little jar from Amalia as she talked and scooped out a bit of odd-smelling jelly, then rubbed it around and partly inside the bullet hole. As she had promised, it took the knife edge off the pain, leaving only a dull ache. Then Carina and Amalia bandaged him, one woman holding a thick pad over his shoulder while the other tied it in place with strips of cloth. Finally Carina stepped back and examined her work. "I wish I could be more optimistic about that shoulder," she said, speaking as much to herself as to anyone else. "There were no red streaks, though, so maybe it's not as bad as it looks."

She turned to Amalia. "Let's wash up and do his leg now, then we can think about lunch."

The gash on the leg was long and deep, criss-crossed neatly with black stitches. Donovan was startled. "How did those get there?"

"You spent your first two days alternating between delirium and unconsciousness. Trust me, you didn't feel a thing."

Donovan pondered this as Carina examined the gash, cleaned the outside of it and slathered it with ointment. "It's pretty warm," she remarked as she reached for the roll of cotton bandaging. "I guess I need to keep a close watch on this one, too."

Soon Carina had him bandaged again and she seemed relieved to be finished. "Thank you," Donovan said. "I had no idea I would be so much trouble."

"Oh, it's no trouble," Carina said, but Amalia raised her eyebrows and began putting the medicines and instruments back onto a tray.

"I guess I'm lucky I ended up at a doctor's house."

Carina started. "I’m not a doctor. My husband is, though." When a flicker of worry crossed his face, she added, "I'm a veterinarian. Not quite the same, but I know what I'm doing." She pointed to the jars and bottles Amalia was gathering onto the tray. "Our mother was a very accomplished herbalist. She could cure almost anything."

"Except herself," Amalia said. She picked up the tray and headed out of the room. "Let's wash up and eat. I’m hungry and I’m sure you are, too."

Carina stared after her. "Mom caught a strange fever last winter," she explained. "Nothing we did seemed to help. It's been hard for my sister."

"It can't have been easy for you, either."

"No, but I still have a husband. He was drafted a long time ago, but he'll come home some day and we have big plans." Carina shook herself a little. "But that's enough about me. We need to be thinking about lunch."

Donovan nodded and made motions as if he would lie down. Carina helped ease him onto the pillows. "We'll bring you something to eat in a few minutes."

She picked up the soiled bandages from the floor and made her way toward the door. Donovan's voice stopped her. "Carina?"

"Yes?"

"I'd like to help out a little." He tried to think how to say it without sounding like he had been listening to their earlier conversation. "If you've got any kind of work that a guy could do lying in bed, I'd be really privileged if you'd let me do it."

* * *

After a lunch of posole and a cup of Carina’s herbal tea, Carina set her workbasket of laundered fleece by the side of the bed and gave Donovan a demonstration of how to tease the wool for carding by pulling each lock apart and picking out stray debris. It was simple enough, and Donovan got to work. He cleaned wool for half an hour before the tea, tedium and general weakness of his body caught up with him and he fell asleep. When he awoke the sun was low in the sky and he could smell food in the kitchen. He guessed they were having posole again, but there was another smell too, that he couldn’t place. It was pleasant, and he got back to work on the wool, hoping he might finish before dinner and charm an extra portion.

He had teased all but the last three locks when Carina came to check on him. Her eyes lit up with pleasure at the sight of the fluffy cloud of wool ready for carding. "This is great. I looked in on you earlier and you were asleep, so I didn’t think you’d finish before dark."

"I don't want you to think I’m lazy."

"Why would I think that?" Carina and Donovan each took one of the two remaining locks of wool and fluffed them out.

"I’ll be better soon, and then I can pay you back for everything you’ve done for me."

Carina gathered the cleaned wool into the workbasket. "You should be thinking about getting healthy again. Then if you think you owe us anything, we can work something out." She started toward the door.

"Aren’t you going to show me what to do with that next?"

Carina hesitated, resting the basket on her hip. "Let’s see how you’re feeling after dinner. I don’t want you doing too much, and carding might make you use that shoulder. You should rest."

"This kind of work is restful."

"I guess it is. It sure beats working out in the fields." She set the basket on the chair and started toward the kitchen. "I’ll show you how to card it after dinner. It’s something you can do without a lot of light, so it’s a good evening chore."

Dinner was posole again, but it was good, and Donovan didn’t mind. The broth was thicker than the soups he had been given at the mess hall and had plenty of hominy, vegetables and bits of chicken. He wondered where the women got such good food. Surely they didn’t grow or raise everything on their little farm, just the two of them. They must be hoarders. That was why Amalia was so suspicious of him. The flashlight and the little battery-powered fan by his bed explained it all. They probably had a stash somewhere of food, medicine, batteries and who knew what else. Maybe they even had gold. No wonder they feared the Guard. Guardsmen would take everything.

Donovan's thoughts were interrupted by Carina entering the room, accompanied by the pleasant smell he had noticed earlier. He examined the bowl she set in front of him.

"What's this?"

"Apples."

"These aren't like any apples I've ever seen. What did you put in them?"

"Cinnamon."

"What's that?"

"A spice. It used to be very common."

So they hoarded spices. If they had a lot, they were rich. "I see," Donovan said, digging into his apples with enthusiasm.

"We trade for spices sometimes," Carina said quickly. "Being a veterinarian is a big advantage in the country."

"So there are other farms out here?"

"A few farms, a church, a small mill, a couple towns and a reservation are all within a few days' travel, but we don't leave often, now that Mother is gone. I haven't been to town to trade or collect my ration books in months."

"And you can make a go of things, without your ration books?"

Carina twisted her hands. "This time of year, when things are growing, it's not so hard. Especially if we can trade or get some work."

"What do you usually trade? When you can, of course."

"Fruits and vegetables, in season. Preserves. Goat cheese. Eggs. Alfalfa. We don't raise sheep but we trade for wool with some of our neighbors here in the valley. Then we make yarn and knit socks and sweaters to sell. If we need something that will bring in a little more money, we might trade a picture, a piece of old jewelry, some of Mom's herbal remedies or a pair of Dad's old shoes." She shrugged. "We trade what we have, like everyone else."

"I see," Donovan said again. He could tell by the way Carina was darting her eyes about the room that they had more than she was telling. This was a good place to make friends and lie low. He flashed Carina his most disarming smile. "This is the best dessert I've ever had. If there's any you don't know what to do with, I'll try to help you with it."

Carina took the empty bowl. "You really shouldn't have any more. I'm trying not to overtax your system, since you were without food for several days." At Donovan's pleading look, she relented. "I'll give you a little more, but that's it. And I'll bring your tea, too."

After Donovan had his second bowl of apples and a cup of tea, he felt warm and almost too full to do anything but sleep. But he had promised Carina he would work, and he wanted her to trust him, so he let her teach him the simple task of brushing the cleaned wool between spiked wooden paddles and rolling the straightened fibers for spinning. As the sun went down and the room darkened, he heard scuffling in the other room. Carina, who had been mending a sock, jumped up. "Amalia," she called. "Let's do that in here tonight." She laid down her work and left the room.

A few minutes later, Carina was back, her sister following with a brass lamp in her hands and a book and some knitting under her arm. Amalia set these items on the nightstand while Carina pulled up a second chair. "When Amalia and I left the city and came to live out here with our parents, the family agreed that each person could have one luxury. Amalia's choice was books."

"It's something I can share," Amalia added, switching on the electric lamp. She cast a wary eye on Donovan while Carina pulled the curtains closed.

"What did you choose, Carina?" Donovan asked, pretending that the bright electric lamp was not in any way remarkable.

Amalia answered for her. "She chose her vanity."

"That's not a nice way of putting it."

"But you admit it's true."

"I suppose so." She turned to Donovan. "I use my allowance for lotions, perfume and things like that, rather than always make my own. I've kept a few nice dresses instead of cutting them up for quilts or trading them in town, and I still have a bit of costume jewelry, although I only wear it for special occasions."

"Which is every holiday she can remember," Amalia said, "Plus a few she makes up."

Carina settled herself into a chair and picked up her darning. "So what? When Miles returns--"

"Yes, I know," Amalia said. "Everything is going to be wonderful when Miles comes home." Her tone was softened by the affectionate glance she cast her sister's way. She flipped open her book. "At least my indulgence can be shared."

"We're reading Robinson Crusoe," Carina said. "We hope you enjoy it."

"Tough luck if you don't." Amalia set a heavy marker on the book to hold the pages open, picked up her knitting, and began reading where she had left off the previous night. "Being glad I was alive, without the least reflection upon the distinguished goodness of the hand which had preserved me. . ."

Donovan leaned back against the pillows, carding wool mindlessly while he listened to the words.

"As soon as I saw but a prospect of living and that I should not starve and perish for hunger, all the sense of my affliction wore off; and I began to be very easy, applied myself to the works proper for my preservation and supply. . ."

The sound of her voice was soothing, the scene peaceful and luxurious beyond anything he had ever known. The comfortable bed, the bright pure light, the simple steady rhythm of easy tasks and the indulgence of being read to seemed like a dream.

"And if nothing happens without His knowledge, He knows that I am here, and am in this dreadful condition; and if nothing happens without His appointment, He has appointed all this to befall me," Amalia read.

Donovan's head began to nod. He tried to keep his eyes open, but in spite of his wish to continue, the paddles slipped out of his hands. Before he could will himself awake, he was asleep.

* * *

He was awakened the next morning by Amalia bringing him his breakfast. She helped him sit up and set a tray of scrambled eggs with goat cheese and a side of baked beans in front of him. Then she handed him a cup of herbal tea and a glass of an unknown orange liquid with an efficient air that was not exactly surly, but was not particularly friendly, either. "Carina can't be here this morning. She had to go look at a horse on the reservation."

Donovan tried to conceal his disappointment. "That's good, isn't it? It means she'll make a trade, right?"

"Maybe." Amalia opened the curtains. Meanwhile the tabby cat slunk into the room and leaped onto the bed. Donovan gave her a bit of egg.

"I wouldn't bother feeding that little beggar. She gets enough to eat catching mice and lizards."

"I don't mind. It's worth sacrificing a bit of food to make a friend."

Amalia turned to leave. "No wonder you and Carina have so much to talk about. You're cut out of the same cloth."

Donovan scratched the cat's ears with one hand and ate with the other, pretending not to notice that Amalia had left the room. "Is it true what she said? Are you just scamming me to get an easy meal?" The cat purred and butted his hand in answer. Donovan gave her another bit of egg, then finished his breakfast and set the plate aside for her to lick clean. Next he tasted the contents of the glass. The liquid was both sweet and sour, and he wasn't sure if he liked it, but a deeper part of his body seemed to crave it and before he realized, he had drained the glass. By now his medicinal tea had cooled enough to drink and he was sipping it when Amalia returned. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of the cat licking the plate and removed the dirty dishes in silence. When she returned a few minutes later, she was carrying the tray of medical supplies. "Time to have a look under those bandages," she said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Donovan didn't dare question her qualifications, and he found Amalia's hands surprisingly gentle as she removed the bandage on his shoulder. She examined the wound and seemed satisfied with what she saw. "It might be getting a little better. At least it's no worse." She moved over to the medicine tray. "I'm going to flush it with iodine again, since that seemed to help yesterday. I won't be able to hold your hand this time.” Donovan braced himself for the pain, which mercifully didn't last long. When she was through, Amalia daubed some ointment and tied on a fresh bandage.

When she unwrapped his leg, however, her eyes narrowed in genuine concern. "This isn't good. It's red, and it's too warm." She frowned at the swollen gash. "I think we need to open this up, wash it out and let it drain, but Carina is the one who has experience with that sort of thing and without her here. . ."

"When will she be back?"

"Tomorrow or the day after if it's a straightforward case. If it's something more serious or if there's other paying work out there, she might be gone for awhile."

"Can we get a message to her?"

"Phones out here quit working years ago. I would have to send someone, and there's no one to send." She selected a pair of small scissors from the tray of medical instruments. "I'll cut a couple of those stitches and maybe that will be enough to let the leg drain without it bleeding too much. You've lost enough blood as it is." Before Donovan could question her judgment, she snipped two stitches open. A thick greenish pus oozed out and Amalia dabbed it with a rag soaked in iodine. "This isn't good at all."

"Should we open it the rest of the way up? I’m not afraid of it bleeding a little."

"Let's see how it does like this. In the meantime I'll see what I can find around here to boost your immune system."

Donovan watched her rub ointment onto his leg and re-bandage it. "What can I do to help today?"

Amalia stopped rolling the remains of a length of clean bandage. "There's a lot to be done, but not if you can't get around. I don't want you on your feet if that leg is getting worse."

"Maybe moving around will help. Get the blood moving."

"That still doesn't mean you're ready for farm work."

"Isn't there something I could do around the house? Something that wouldn't involve a lot of standing, like fixing something?"

Amalia considered. "Think you could fix a sewing machine?"

* * *

Donovan bent over the old treadle sewing machine, trying to understand why the needle wouldn't move. It didn't help that he had only the vaguest idea how the machine was supposed to work in the first place. It was at least a hundred and fifty years old. But Amalia had explained what was supposed to happen when the machine worked correctly— the foot treadle turned the belt, which somehow caused the needle to move up and down. As Donovan peered at the primitive mechanics he knew it had to be a very simple problem. It could be as basic as something stuck in one of the gears, so he checked that first.

Luckily Amalia had a box of spare parts. Was there anything this family hadn't hoarded? Antibiotics, apparently. Donovan resisted the urge to rub his throbbing leg. Amalia had given him an extra dose of echinacea and was trying some colloidal silver as well, but from the way the leg was feeling, it didn't seem to be doing much good. As a veterinarian, maybe Carina could get some antibiotics somewhere. He hoped she would be back before things got worse.

There it was— a tiny gear with a missing tooth. Having a strong flashlight really helped. Donovan selected a few tools and began removing parts so he could get to the broken gear. He laid the pieces out in the order they had to be replaced, just as he had learned in the Guard. Fixing things was something he had done a lot of during his service and while it wasn't one of Donovan's natural talents, it was something he had become competent at with training. There. It was a simple matter of removing a clip and replacing one wheel with another. Maybe Amalia would be impressed.

He put the machine back together, then worked the treadle slowly with his good foot. Obligingly, the needle dipped and rose. The next step would be to try sewing a test piece, but Donovan didn't know how to sew. Using the table for support, he pulled himself to his feet and stood listening for any sound that might indicate where Amalia was. Hearing nothing, he picked up the walking stick she had given him, hobbled to the kitchen, and peered out the screen door toward the fields and animal pens. There was no sign of her, but that didn't mean much. She could be inside the barn or on the other side of the house. She could be at the creek, or anywhere. He couldn't wander around looking for her. Not with this bad leg. Getting out of bed had been a bad idea. He felt worse rather than better.

He was making his way toward his bedroom when a photograph in the hallway caught his eye. It was a family portrait of a kind Donovan had often seen in the homes he raided with the Guard. The man in the picture was round-faced and genial, the woman blonde and smiling in a pink dress that struck Donovan as too clean and fancy for any time much past 2012. Standing between the two grownups was a tall boy in his early teens with a determined set to his jaw, and in front of their parents were two blue-eyed girls, golden hair flowing over their shoulders like melted butter. The younger girl looked a lot like the woman who had gone out on the veterinary call this morning, but it was the older girl, perhaps seven, who Donovan found more interesting. How did this chubby-cheeked girl with the radiant smile grow into the hard-eyed woman who would have just as soon shot him the other night? Donovan stared at the photo, trying to understand who his rescuers were, but the throbbing in his leg reminded him of more important matters. He needed to get off his feet.

* * *

In spite of the pain, Donovan managed to doze off. Amalia woke him up for lunch, offering him a plate of tortillas, beans, and squash. She also brought him a glass of water and a cup containing an herbal concoction. She helped him sit, but narrowed her eyes in suspicion when he gasped in raw pain as the bed tray grazed his thigh. "It's worse."

It was a statement, not a question.

"I'll do what I can," she said, waving a hand in a gesture of futility. "But I have no experience with infections. I'll just be guessing."

"It'll be okay," Donovan said, as much to reassure himself as her.

"I suppose I could go to the Petersons and see if they could spare someone to find Carina. They have a granddaughter who's a sensible sort and could ride out to the reservation. Or maybe one of them could come here and mind you while I go."

"I'm sure it's okay. It's probably just one of those things that gets worse before it gets better." He toyed with his beans.

"Well, you won't get better without food, so eat and be sure to drink everything in both those glasses." Her tone was short, almost angry. "I have to go irrigate one of the fields. It's pretty far from the house, so if there's anything you need, ask for it now."

Donovan shook his head.

"I'll be back in about an hour to dose you again with whatever I can find that makes sense. We'll do that every hour. Maybe by tonight I'll have a better idea what to do if we don't like what we see."

* * *

By dinner time Donovan was feverish and had no appetite. "Eat it anyway," Amalia insisted as he stirred his soup with a complete lack of interest. "I killed a chicken to make that for you, so you're going to eat it, even if I have to spoon it down your throat."

Even in his fevered state Donovan could make out a hint of real worry underneath her tough attitude, but nothing in his body urged him to eat. It was only the vague understanding that Amalia had done a remarkable thing in killing one of their precious chickens that made him finish the bowl.

"You better keep it down," Amalia said, as she took the empty dishes away. She handed him a glass. "I added something to help you sleep this time."

"What about the bandages? Shouldn't we. . ."

"Not right now. Carina always says it's not good to go changing them all the time." She ran a hand over Donovan's bandaged shoulder, then his leg. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but the nervous working of her jaw gave her away. "You still feel warm. If this doesn't look okay in the morning. . ."

"What will we do?" Donovan handed back the glass and lay back against the pillows, feeling dizzy.

Amalia's long silence said more than her response. "Something." She left and returned a few minutes later with a heavy blanket. "Mother used to believe that if you heated a sick person up enough, it would make their fever break." She tucked the thick folds around him. "If it becomes unbearable, push it off, but try to put up with it. If we can get you sweating, maybe your fever will go away."

Donovan mumbled something noncommittal. Amalia had dosed his tea well. She left the room and he soon fell into fevered dreams.

* * *

He dreamed he was in the city again, back in the big brick house, once a mansion, once a high-priced architect's office, now the squalid home of the Malthusian Exiles. They were a gang that had its start as a band of impoverished university students who were unwanted by the military draft and too poor to continue their studies or buy tickets home. The gang's character had changed over the years and now it was just a ragged collection of moonshine distillers and drug dealers. Everyone in the city knew the Malthusians dealt in illegal substances, but the Guard and what few city cops still worked a beat had bigger things to worry about and generally left them alone.

In his dream, the large rambling house was much as he remembered it: dark, dirty, with odd bits of old finery, such as a stained glass window and a mahogany dining table. Strangely, he dreamed there was a painting of flowers hanging in a common room. Somehow Donovan knew that the painting had once been considered valuable. As he wandered from room to room, stepping over the bodies of people sleeping off the effects of home-brewed liquor and smuggled heroin, he realized the entire house was decorated in such paintings— pictures of fruit, pictures of women in long dresses, and pictures of horses jumping over hedges. Suddenly his sister was at his side, gesturing in annoyance at the paintings and complaining that they didn't help anyone. Then they were standing in a room with charred and blackened walls, the ceiling gone and open to the sky. Somehow he knew that the fire had been his fault. His sister slapped him. "You burn the house down and steal nothing but pretty pictures. What good are you?" Now Donovan remembered that it was he who had stolen the paintings and hung them in the hallways. He told his sister he would do better and steal something good, something they could eat, but she slapped him again. "It's too late. You'll only join the Guard and burn the house down again, after robbing us blind." When he looked around again, he was wearing his Guard uniform and standing on the mahogany table, surrounded by flames.

He opened his eyes, drenched in sweat, and shoved the blanket to the floor.

The next morning, Amalia came in with her medical tray to find Donovan nearly incoherent with fever. She could barely keep him still while she cut away the bandage on his swollen leg. What she saw when she removed the sticky, smelly bandage made her gasp. She hurried away and when she returned she was carrying a bottle and a piece of cotton cloth. "I'm sorry," she said, as she wet the cloth and pressed it over his nose and mouth. "Breathe. I'm sorry, but you have to breathe." Donovan gasped against the damp cloth and struggled for a moment, then lay still.

Tin Soldier - Book One, Chapter Two

2006-12-28T10:57:00.003-06:00

Donovan wasn't sure how long he spent in feverish dreams. Sometimes he was a child running through city streets and sometimes he was with the Guard putting down a food riot or raiding a rich man's home. Sometimes he dreamed he was wandering the desert. There were moments of pain, when it seemed people were cutting and poking him. Other times he imagined an old woman sat by his side, murmuring to herself as she counted off the rows on her knitting. Through it all, hands held various drinks to his lips, some sweet, some bitter, some simply foul.

Finally there came a day when the lights didn't jump and shimmer, and noises weren't always one room over. A vague sweet smell hung in the air, accompanied by a soft rustling that made him open his eyes slowly, wary of what he might see. It was Amalia, stripping the shucks from ears of corn and making ristras by the light of an oil lamp. Donovan was aware that time had passed, but wasn't sure how much. "Hi. I've been out of it awhile, I guess."

Amalia dropped the knotted ears of corn and placed the back of a hand on his forehead. Her eyebrows flickered but she gave no other sign of emotion. "You're fever is gone. Are you really conscious this time or are you going to start babbling again about shooting hoarders?"

Donovan sank into the pillows. "Sorry. I had the strangest dreams."

"You sure did." She tossed her half-string of corn into a basket with the unshucked ears. "I'll get Carina. She'll be glad to know her patient is coherent again."

It was a long while before Donovan heard Carina's light footsteps in the hall. She burst into the room, carrying an electric lantern which she set on the table by the oil lamp, brightening the area by the bed, but making the shadows in the corners even darker and crazier than they had been before. “Are you back with us now?"

"I guess so," he answered as she pulled down the quilt and ran her hands over his bandaged shoulder, then over his thigh.

Carina sat in Amalia's vacated chair. "Do you have any idea how sick you were? Your wounds got infected. Septicemia set in. Blood poisoning. Left untreated, it would've killed you."

"What did you do?"

"I traded for some antibiotics from the reservation. They can sometimes get things the towns can't, and as a veterinarian, I'm allowed to buy or barter for medicines, when they're available."

"Thank you. I know you could've traded for something a lot more valuable."

"What's more valuable than a friend and farm hand?"

He smiled shyly. "I don't know how good I'll be at farming."

"It takes a long time to really understand your land and animals, but Amalia and I will teach you. That is, if you still want to learn."

"I do," Donovan said, picking at the quilt. "Amalia would probably prefer I not bother her, though."

"I wouldn't be too sure of anything with her. That tough girl act is how she keeps from getting hurt again. Just because she doesn't want you to get close doesn't mean she doesn't care. She saved your life."

Donovan frowned. "I thought you did. You're the one who got the medicine."

"Yes, but it was Amalia who made sure you didn't die before I got home. She cleaned your wounds and came to the reservation to find me. Grandma Peterson stayed with you."

"The old lady? I thought she was part of my dream."

"She might as well be. She spends most of her time in a back room on the Peterson ranch, knitting and making candles with the wax from their honeycombs, but Amalia talked her into coming over here. First time the poor thing has been off the Peterson ranch in over a year."

"I guess Amalia can be persuasive when she wants to be."

"You sound skeptical, but she's very talented. There was a time when she would've had a great future."

"So why—"

"So many things changed when the oil got expensive. I guess you've always lived like this, so how would you know?" She stood and stretched. "But here I am talking about serious things when you need to be resting. I’ll get you some water and your medicine."

"What about food?" Donovan hadn't realized he was hungry, but now that he said it, his stomach rumbled.

"Are you hungry? That's a good sign. I'll fix you something to eat."

"Thank you. And if Amalia is out there, tell her--"

"No. I think she'd rather believe you don't know what she did for you."

"I don't understand."

"She doesn't like getting credit for doing the right thing. Trust me on this, okay?"

* * *

This time, Donovan didn't try to rush his recovery. He couldn't have even if he wanted to, between Carina's gentle voice urging him to rest and Amalia's cool reminders that if he got sick again she was turning him out into the desert where he could figure things out on his own. He spent a lot of time in bed knotting corn into ristras for drying, carding wool, working the drop spindle and even learning to knit a little, although he did it badly and the winter scarf he made for himself was such a bedraggled-looking thing that Carina could barely suppress her giggles.

Sometimes when the women were out of the house, he went exploring. He found Carina's bedroom, fancifully decorated with mirrors, fans and pictures. She had paintings of birds and horses, and the photos of Carina with her animals were too numerous to count. It seemed she had spent her entire life caring for things that were feathered or four-legged.

As near as Donovan could tell, the women had grown up with something approximating twentieth century luxuries. He had already figured out they were well-educated and his discovery of Carina’s school yearbooks confirmed it. The books were poorly made, but full of photographs of an urban school and the teenage students who went there. The inside covers contained the scribbled sentiments of Carina's classmates, as well as some jokes about rabbits. On an inside page for the Urban Ranching and Agriculture Club, Carina as club president posed with rabbits and guinea pigs in her lap.

It took longer for him to find anything of equal interest in Amalia's room, which looked at first as impersonal as Donovan's, only with a lot more books.

He was about to give up on her room as a source of information when he discovered a sketch pad and pencils in the bottom of a drawer, along with some scarves, ribbons, dried flowers and a few stuffed animals. He opened the sketch book and found it full of town and farm scenes, including animals and people who he recognized from some of Carina's photographs. Donovan was no connoisseur of art, but he knew skill when he saw it.

More intriguing than the sketch book were the things he found at the back of her closet. He started by examining Amalia's work clothes-- sturdy, serviceable pants and shirts, all neatly mended, but behind them were dresses in bright colors and fine material. None of this was very different from what he had found in Carina's closet, but it was so strange that Amalia could have ever been like her sister that Donovan sat down to try to piece the two images of her together in his mind.

When he resumed his snooping, he found a rusting file cabinet at the back of the closet. Inside were stacks of letters bound in ribbon, and photographs arranged in books for viewing. With no prospect that the owner of all this treasure would be back soon, he gathered as much as he could and limped to the bed. The photo albums contained not only pictures of Amalia's childhood, but photos of her parents and people farther back in time who were presumably grandparents and great-grandparents. Some pictures were so old they were only shades of gray.

Next he picked up one of the letters and opened it. It was from Amalia's husband, Alan. Donovan was trying to puzzle out the handwriting and having no easy time of it when a light step at the door made him look up with a start.

"What are you doing?" Carina asked, more surprised than angry.

Donovan scrambled to fold the letter. "I was just curious."

Carina pursed her lips and scooped up everything on the bed with a swiftness that startled him. "Well, you should've asked. We don't spy on each other in this family."

"I'm sorry."

There was a rustling and banging from the closet as Carina put everything back into the filing cabinet. "You're lucky it's me who caught you. Amalia would've been furious."

"I know."

"Then why did you do it? If you think you're going to find something valuable in this room, good luck."

"No, I swear." Donovan got to his feet. "Believe anything else you want, but not that. It's just that I wondered, you know."

"About what?"

"About you. And her."

Carina seemed taken aback. "What's to wonder?"

"Who you are, where you came from… Why you never mention the brother in some of those photos."

The diversion worked. "We'd rather forget him if we could."

"Was he killed in the war?"

"No. He's a high-ranking officer leading the war. He could've arranged exemptions for Alan and Miles, but he didn't. The bastard won't even arrange a stockpiling certificate for us. He says he doesn't like our attitude about the war." She turned toward the doorway, indicating with a jerk of her chin that he should follow. "You are never to speak Evan's name in this house, and if you have other questions, ask me. Got it?" Carina shook her head in frustration. "With as much work as there is to do around here, you must have a pretty active imagination to have anything left over for curiosity."

* * *

Donovan settled down after that. He accepted Carina's warning and set himself to work with a renewed vigor, as if making up for lost time. In the heat of late August he limped around the kitchen on his improvised cane, helping cut melon rinds for pickling and pulling the spines out of prickly pear cactus for salads. As the weather cooled he tried to master the art of feeding the cast iron stove, which seemed to burn either red-hot or barely at all unless it received exactly the right amount of fuel and its many doors and flues were set just so. Then it was time to cut pumpkins and apples for drying. Some of these were strung like corn and hung on the sunny front porch until they were ready for storage. Others were blanched and dried on big screens or else boiled and canned. Red chiles were brought in from the fields, bundled into ristras and hung to dry from hooks on the patio. Soon the porch and drying shed were full to bursting, and the jars of preserves multiplied in the pantry like colorful, oversized jewels.

All of this was new to Donovan, who had never given much thought to food, which always came from stores, homes, civil distribution points and the street vendors he stole from as a kid. In the Guard, food was the mess hall's problem. It struck him as amazing that in a society where most people couldn't be sure where their next meal was coming from, he could still be so ignorant of how it was grown and preserved.

"So you've got to make this last all winter?" he asked Carina one day as they set a screen of sliced pumpkin to dry in the sun.

"We'll supplement it with milk, eggs, maybe a bit of meat and a few things from our next run to town, but yes."

"You're going to town?"

"One of us has to. It's been a long time because it's hard for one of us run this place alone, even if only for a little while. But with winter coming, we need to make a few trades and see what we can get with our ration coupons."

"How do you get your ration books all the way out here?"

"We have a system," she said, heading back into the house and gathering the pumpkin seeds for cleaning and salting. "We have them sent to a friend's address in town, where they sometimes have postal delivery. We have an understanding. She can have one of the books as long as she holds the other for us. It's worked pretty well so far."

"She's never tried to steal the other book?"

"Why would she? She's a friend."

"This is all so different from what I'm used to. People are nicer here."

"Maybe so," Carina said, "But that doesn't mean there aren't rules. Things can turn ugly when you don't play right."

* * *

Although Donovan's ribs healed quickly, his shoulder retained a painful catch when he moved his arm a certain way. Carina said the problem might be permanent. "The shoulder is one of the body's most complicated joints, you know."

More worrisome than the shoulder was the injured leg. The women had cut away some gangrened muscle, and although he could get around okay, the leg wasn't as strong as the other. The result was a limp that wasn't so obvious when he was rested, but became more pronounced as the day went on.

"It might get better over time," Carina told him. "The body has an amazing capacity to rebuild."

"Think of it as your ticket out of ever being picked up on the street as a possible draft candidate," Amalia told him.

"Why would I be wandering a street?"

"We're thinking you could help us by doing supply runs in town," Carina said, meeting Amalia's eyes briefly, then looking away. She had been pouring apple sauce into canning jars while Donovan sorted dried pumpkin seeds, but now she came to where he was working at the kitchen table. "We could do a lot more trade if it didn't always mean one of us going alone while the other stayed home. So we thought—"

"You thought," Amalia interrupted.

"We agreed," Carina said, with another glance at her sister, "That you would go to town with Amalia next week and see how we do things there. Then maybe we could send you regularly. . ."

"What town is this you keep talking about? I don't know that I want to go anywhere I might be recognized or picked up. A limp won't stop them, you know. They need people for desk jobs, too. If they pick me up and find out I'm a deserter—"

"Yes, we know," Carina said. "But it really would help if we had a man to do our trading. There can be gangs on the roads. We have to wait until some of the other people in the valley need to make a town run, so we can go in caravan, and sometimes that's not convenient. A man, even if he's traveling alone, is much safer than a woman." She stole a glance at her sister. "Although of course no one with any sense would tangle with Amalia."

"And it’s not a good idea to leave just one person back here on the farm," Amalia added. "What if there were an emergency, or if raiders came?"

"Macrina isn't such a big town, really," Carina hurried on. "So you don't need to worry about being noticed. It's off the main road and has never been a target for much government interference. It was always a poor town, and the Feds don't bother with poor people."

"Then why trade there, if the town is poor?"

"Because the government is run by idiots," Amalia said scornfully. "Once everyone in these valleys figured out there wasn't any federal presence in Macrina to rob them blind, they all started going there. It's become a good market town."

"And don't worry. We can disguise you a little; make you look like no one they would want for their army, just in case anyone is scouting for recruits or deserters."

"Well," said Donovan uncertainly. "If trading is the way I can help you the most, I guess I can give it a try."

* * *

A few days later, while Amalia was in a shed sorting scrap metal and weighing its value as trade, Carina sought out Donovan where he was spreading compost on what would be their bean field in the spring. "I've got something for you," she said with a funny light in her eyes. "Don't worry about walking the fences when you're done with this field. Just wash up good and find me. I'll be with the animals."

Donovan didn't bother to ask which animals, because with Carina there was never any telling. She might say she was going to spend the afternoon trimming the goats' hooves only to be found mixing a new udder cream or walking a fence line, looking for a missing guinea hen, the goats forgotten. There wasn't much point in pinning Carina to a schedule. She did what needed doing in her own way, her own time. Under her care the animals produced so well that Donovan had noticed a sort of reluctance on Amalia's part to criticize any of Carina's other failings as a homesteader.

He finished composting the small field, returned the equipment to the barn, rubbed the jenny down and turned it loose in the paddock. He went to the garden to take a shower in one of the two stalls set up under bins that warmed the water in the sun, then put on some clean clothes and set off in search of Carina. He selected the goat paddock as a likely place, leaning heavily on his walking stick as he went down the path. He tried to hide the fact that he still tired easily, but it showed up in his limp, like a conscience that wouldn't let him tell a lie.

He didn't find Carina at the goat pen, although he saw evidence that she had been there in the form of a full water trough and several placid goats feeding from an overflowing hay bin. The jennet named Goneril stood nearby, watching the scene with sleepy eyes. Carina had told him donkeys were good guard animals, but on a day like today, he wondered just how much truth there was to this assertion. Goneril didn't look alert enough to notice a predator if it walked under her nose.

He found another jennet, this one named Cordelia, alone in a separate paddock on the other side of the barn. She had been favoring a foreleg as recently as three weeks ago and Carina was keeping her away from the others to prevent reinjury. Cordelia was a friendly creature who craved companionship, and Donovan thought the solitude a little cruel as she trotted up to him for a rub and a handful of weeds.

The only place left for Carina to be was the chicken coop, and sure enough that's where he found her, mending a small hole in the fence of the ranging area. She worked steadily, but still found time to coo and chat with the curious hens that had gathered to investigate the proceedings. It was the rustle in the flock and not the sound of Donovan's footsteps that drew her attention. She set down her tools and sat back on her heels. "I hope you didn't have any trouble finding me."

"Not too many places you can be."

Carina sighed and looked a little glum. "It’s too bad, isn’t it? I want to add some sheep, a horse or two and maybe a few alpacas, but Amalia says we've got as much as we can handle as it is. I suppose she's right."

"What's an alpaca?"

"What kind of education are they giving in the cities these days? They're kind of like a small sheep with a long neck. Their wool is good for weaving winter clothes and blankets. They come from South America. You know where that is, right?"

"Of course," Donovan said, proud to show off the knowledge of military history that he had gotten in the Guard. "That's where Venezuela is, where we sent our troops to get more oil in 2012. Only they didn't have as much as they said they did, and they set the wells on fire so we couldn't get any of it. It was a big loss."

Carina looked at him curiously. "Yes, the loss of life in that country was tremendous. But you probably mean the loss of the oil, right?" Before he could answer she shrugged. "It's okay. You were taught what's important now, and oil is precious. It's life that's cheap. Give me a second to finish this fence and we can go to the barn together. I've got something for you." She bent back over the fence, twisting a new piece of wire in place with a pair of needle-nose pliers.

"Need any help?"

"No, it's a very small hole, strictly a one-person job." She tinkered a few minutes more, then sat back and gathered her tools. "I'm done now." She cast a fond look at the chickens as she stood up. "Be good, chickies. You won't be going anywhere now."

* * *

In the barn, Carina handed Donovan a strange looking contraption of steel and leather bands. "What is this?" he asked.

"It's a leg brace. A very old fashioned one, but it will do the job."

"But my leg is getting better, isn't it?"

"This isn't for you to wear around here. It's for when you go to town."

Donovan caught her meaning. "To make informers think I'm worse off than I really am."

"That, and to make sure you don't walk too normally. Just to be on the safe side, I was thinking we might also put a tack in your shoe."

"What?"

"You know, put a tack in there so you won't be tempted to put your full weight on that leg."

"I don't think I'll need that kind of reminder. I'm a deserter, remember? The last thing in the world I want is to get picked up."

"Well," Carina said, "Things happen, we get distracted." The look in his eyes made her pause. "Okay, you know best on that one. But do try the brace on. If it doesn't fit, I'll need to adjust it."

"Where did you get this thing?" he asked as he buckled the straps of the hinged device onto his leg. "I hope it doesn't feel as barbaric as it looks."

"It probably will. That's the point." Carina helped adjust a strap near his ankle. "I got it when I was on the reservation. It's old and had been in there in a barn for years along with a lot of other stuff no one used. They didn't mind giving it to me, and I was able to fix it with some old harness leather." She stepped back to admire her handiwork. "Well, you certainly look handicapped."

Donovan took a lurching step forward. "I feel it, too."

"Walk up and down the barn a little. See if maybe this is something you can get used to."

Donovan dragged himself out of the tack room and went lurching and thumping across the dusty floor. At the end of the row of stalls he turned around. "It's definitely stiff and heavy enough that I won't be caught walking anything like normal."

"Great. Maybe we can skip the tack in your shoe, then."

"Uh, yeah. I think so." Donovan reached down to adjust a strap. "And maybe we can oil this hinge a little, too."

"And make it easier for you to walk? No way."

"But I have enough trouble getting around as it is. I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but don't you think it's a little much?"

Carina pursed her lips. "We’ve got a few days to make any final decisions. But in the meantime, won't you please practice with it a little for my sake?"

* * *

It was still dark when Carina, the early-riser, woke Amalia and Donovan for their trip to Macrina. While Carina made breakfast and prepared some food for the road, Donovan and Amalia did the morning chores and packed last-minute items into the wagon. As they came into the kitchen and sat down to plates of eggs, beans and cornbread, Donovan scanned Carina's face for signs of anxiety but found none.

"You're not worried about being here all alone with no one but Grandma Peterson for company?"

Carina sipped her cup of half-coffee, made with chicory, dandelion and burnt corn to make the coffee go farther. "I don't mind. I'm probably more anxious about you two and the Petersons heading into open country. I'm glad you're going together. It's safer that way."

"We've never seen anyone dangerous on the road to Macrina," Amalia reminded her. "But with the troubles they’ve had on some of the other roads, I suppose it’s only a matter of time. I'm glad to have Grandpa Peterson along. He's still a good shot even if he moves a little slow these days."

"Well, I'm a good shot too," Donovan said. "Anyone trying to raid our wagons will wish they hadn't."

Carina smiled at his little show of bravado. "I'll be waiting when you return. I'm looking forward to having some decent coffee."

Amalia agreed. "If there's none at the store or at market, I'll pay a visit to Don Andrés, the mule breeder. I think he nearly always has coffee. It's one of his favorite forms of payment."

"Tell him I'll pay him a house call, if it comes to that," Carina said. "I know he's got someone closer, but. . ."

"You know I will." Amalia finished off her eggs and sopped the chile sauce with a tortilla. "We can work something out with him. He's good folks." She was about to say something else when she suddenly sat up, listening. "I bet that's the Petersons. They're early."

Donovan watched her grab a lantern and head toward the gate. "You know," he said, turning back toward Carina, "About that brace. . ."

"Oh no," Carina set down her fork in exasperation. "I thought we had agreed on that. As a deserter, I would think you'd jump at anything that would make you safer."

"But you yourself said there hadn't been military in Macrina in nearly a decade."

"That doesn't mean they won't come back someday. You were in the Guard. You know that."

"What I know is that the Guard is chronically short of fuel and they go where they think they have the best chances of getting what they need. Some little town in the mountains where they've never had much luck before isn't on their agenda."

Carina stood and began clearing the table. "What about informers? You never know who's a spy. Besides, we had an agreement. You'll take the brace, you'll wear it in town, and we can decide afterwards if you think Amalia and I are being too cautious." She met his eyes over the stack of dirty plates. "You did agree to this arrangement, remember?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"But nothing. We keep our commitments in this family." She set the dishes in the sink and began working the pump handle on the sink. "Let's not argue. It's going to be a lovely day for driving through the country with friends. So go outside and say hello to everyone. They're waiting."

Tin Soldier - Book One, Chapter Three

2006-12-27T14:20:00.002-06:00

The trading party consisted of Grandpa Peterson, his widowed daughter Melinda Nuñez, Melinda's ten year old daughter Diana, and a one-eyed former Marine who everyone called Gonzales. They headed west across the valley toward the foothills, traveling an old asphalt road now covered in hard-packed earth from years of blowing dust. Everyone was polite to Donovan the first day, but not particularly warm. He tried to pretend it didn't bother him, but on the second evening he tagged after Amalia when she went to collect kindling for the fire. "Am I doing something wrong?"

Amalia stooped to examine a bit of tumbleweed. "Why would you think something's wrong?"

"It seems no one likes me.”

"We're cautious people. No one knows anything about you except that you've been in the Guard, which isn't encouraging. It'll take them awhile to learn to trust you. You've got to be patient."

"But isn't there anything—"

"No." Amalia turned away and resumed her search for firewood. "There are some things you can't charm or rush."

* * *

In spite of her cool words, Amalia must have said something on his behalf because that evening Gonzales made a point of sitting next to him when they gathered around the fire for dinner. "How're you liking our camp food?" he asked. "Ain't like one of Carina's home-cooked meals, is it?"

"Carina's a good cook," Donovan agreed. "But this will do all right." He sopped a bit of tortilla in the fat left on his plate from their meal of skewered jackrabbit.

"It sure beats the crap they served us in the service, don't it?"

"That's not saying much, is it?"

"No, I guess not." Gonzales launched into a tale about a bivouac in the tar sands of Alberta, where they had nothing to eat but what they could salvage from the Chinese and Canadian troops they had routed. "Most of it wasn't no good because what they couldn't take with them they set on fire." He chewed a bit of dried pumpkin and chased it with a swig of watered homebrew. "We tried shooting a few birds, but they were so small all we got was feathers." He turned to Diana. "You should've seen the drumsticks on one of them little things. No more meat than a piñon nut." He patted his stomach and gazed into the fire. "Even a bad day in our little valley is heaven on earth compared to some of what's out there. Wouldn't you say?" He fixed Donovan with his one eye.

"I've been in some spots that I thought were good, but nothing like this."

"I won't die for their oil," Gonzales went on. "But I'll gladly die for this land."

"Sure enough," Peterson agreed. He poured himself some homebrew and passed the bottle to his daughter who twitched her lips and passed it to Amalia.

"The land is everything," Amalia agreed, pouring a healthy shot into her cup. "We can't live without it, so we might as well be ready to die defending it."

"I'll kill anyone who tries to take it!" Diana piped up.

"And a good shot like you, I have no doubt of it," Peterson said. "You take after your grandpa, don't you?"

Melinda edged closer to her daughter. "Such talk. You're a good little hunter, but you don't want to be too much of a tomboy. The boys won't like you."

"There's no boys, anyway," Diana pointed out. "They grow up and have to run away, or else get drafted."

"It won't be like that forever," Gonzales told her.

"And you'll be wanting a husband," Peterson added.

"Not from the boys in our valley."

"From Macrina, then?" Amalia asked. "You'll disappoint your mother if you move away."

Diana considered this. "Maybe I won't marry at all. Or maybe when I grow up I'll marry Donovan."

Before Donovan could react, Gonzales slapped him on the back, laughing. Picking up the cue he threw his head back and laughed, too.

"What's so funny?" Diana demanded, but even her mother was laughing, and the girl was left to wonder just what everyone found so amusing.

* * *

Early the next morning they found themselves on a crest overlooking a valley. Below them was a cluster of drab little buildings with people, animals and even a few motor vehicles moving about the dusty streets. In spite of his concerns, Donovan had been looking forward to a taste of his old city life. Amalia caught the disappointment on his face. "Come on, now. We told you it wasn't much, didn't we?"

"Yes, I guess you did."

"It's busier than it looks," she assured him. "This is one of the back roads. Other people coming to market take the south road if they can, because it's easier and they can approach in the dark and be all set up before the market opens. We have to wait until there's a little light because this trail is so steep. But it’s safer from a chance meeting with Feds or raiders."

They were walking alongside the cart so as not to overtax their team on the rough terrain. When they got to where the road turned sharply downward, Amalia halted the jennies and pulled a yellow scarf on a stick from the back of the wagon. With a bit of wire, she affixed it upright so it fluttered in the breeze. Donovan looked around and found everyone doing the same thing, raising yellow flags on their wagons or attaching scraps of yellow fabric to their saddles. "What's this about?"

"It's one of the ways we let the townspeople know we're not here to raid. There'll be a checkpoint at the base of the mountain, where they'll confirm that we're not trying to trick them, but at a distance, this is how we make sure we look friendly." Amalia climbed onto the wagon seat. "You want to ride or walk?"

"I'll walk for now."

"Don't worry, the town isn't as dull as it looks," Melinda said, coming up behind Donovan on her pony while her daughter readied their cart for the descent into town. "They can't pretty it up, you know. If they look like they're doing well, someone will be along to make trouble."

"There's a little life in this old place, just you wait and see," Gonzales called to him from behind Diana's cart. "I'll take you to a bar I know and introduce you to a pretty girl or two."

"Don't encourage him." Amalia called back. She and the donkey cart were well down the trail now but voices carried clearly on the mountain air.

"Not to mention there's children around," Melinda added.

"I'm not a child, Mama," Diana said, slapping the reins across the back of her donkeys as she began the descent. "You think I don't know about bars and whores?"

Melinda sputtered while Gonzales and Grandpa Peterson laughed. Peterson pulled his cart up to Melinda and murmured reassuring words to her while the others went on ahead.

Donovan, disconcerted by the fuss he had started, changed his mind about walking and tried to catch up with Amalia, but he had strapped his leg into the brace that morning and it slowed him down. He found himself struggling beside Diana's cart.

"Want a ride?" She tugged on the reins with one hand and pulled the brake to a full stop. "Get in. It don't make no difference to the team on the downhill, as long as I don't get careless with the brake."

Donovan scrambled onto the seat beside her. The girl released the brake ever so slightly and they started down again. "So where are we going once we're in town? I understand there's a market."

"A big one, with long benches that go up on each side."

"Benches that go up? You mean a stadium?"

"It's a market. I don't know if there's a fancy Guard word for it."

"Stadium isn't a fancy Guard word. It just means a place where they used to play sports, kick balls around and things like that."

Diana furrowed her brow. "Why would they need such a big place for something like that? Me and some of the valley kids play ball games when we get together for parties, but we don't need a special place for it."

"I've been told they used to have big groups of people who practiced their games until they were good enough that other people would come and spend all afternoon watching them. That's what the benches are for. Sometimes the players were so good people would pay them."

"Pay them money? Just to kick a ball around?"

"That's what I've been told."

Diana giggled. "You're making that up."

"No, I'm not."

"Well, someone must've told you a story because no way would anyone pay kids money just to kick a ball."

"They paid grownups to do it, not kids. And they gave them special clothes, too, so they would all look the same."

"What?" Diana fell over her reins screeching with laughter. Her donkeys flattened their ears in annoyance and Melinda maneuvered her horse down the path, curious to know what the fuss was about.

"What's so funny up there?"

"Donovan says--" Diana gasped for breath. "He says the market at Macrina— that men used to—"

"I told her it sounded like an old sports stadium," Donovan cut in. "She thought the idea was funny."

Melinda pursed her lips. "It used to be the high school football field, but I've never known them to use it for that. The school didn't have enough students for a team when I was a kid and there wasn't enough fuel to bus anyone over for a game, anyway. I only know about it from my father."

Diana swiveled around on her seat, leaving the donkeys to find their own way. "So it's true? They used to pay men to play ball games at our market?"

"Watch your team, Diana," Melinda cautioned. "No, the Macrina high school had a student team. They were teenage boys and they weren't paid anything. But there were big national teams and if you were a good student player, you could maybe get paid to play on one of the big teams when you grew up. Your grandfather says those men made a lot of money."

"Just to play a game? They didn't actually grow or raise anything?"

"No, they just played their game and people paid money to watch them."

"But that's crazy."

"We would be crazy if we did it," Donovan said. "But people were rich then."

"Well, we're going to sell all our stuff at market. Then we'll be rich, too."

"Are you going to buy a ball team with your money?" Donovan teased.

Diana tossed her head. "That would be stupid." The wagon lurched over a rock and she clucked at the donkeys. "When I get some money, I’m going to buy a mule."

* * *

They hadn't been on the valley floor for long before they came upon some men who appeared to be mending the road. They paused at their work in curious attitudes, as if the approaching party was the most important thing they had seen all day. In a field off to one side, two boys who had been poking sticks at a cooking fire rose slowly and watched the wagons, their bodies tense and faces unreadable. It seemed as if everyone was holding his breath. This was no ordinary road crew.

Amalia and Gonzales had been at the head of the party but now they dropped back and let Peterson draw his cart forward. As he approached the road workers he raised a hand in greeting. "Buenos días, vecinos," he called. "It’s Jules Peterson y mis amigos de Valle Redondo."

The oldest of the crew straightened and tipped back his hat, "Come a little closer, amigo, it's hard to recognize anyone with the sun behind him. Is that really you, Jules?"

Peterson clucked to his team. Once the men were close enough to recognize each other, the road worker's face lit up in a grin and he dropped his heavy shovel. "Óye, Peterson! Long time, friend!"

Peterson jerked on the reins and his mules shuffled to a stop. "Good to see you, too, Espinoza. We've got some stuff to trade today, if you've got folks who are interested."

"Claro, of course we're interested." Espinoza tried to peer into Peterson's wagon but the goods were covered with a tarp. His eyes scanned the rest of the party. "Three wagons, eh? Not so many, but you'll do good business just the same."

Now that everyone seemed reassured, Gonzales came trotting up on his buckskin. He touched his hat brim and nodded toward Espinoza, then turned his attention to the other men, who had been gathering around their leader. "Óyen, hombres, what're things like these days? Any news? You know we don't hear nothing in the country."

The men exchanged sharp glances, but only Espinoza spoke. "Same old, as far as we know. We don't get much news either. Everyone who comes here is in from the country to trade, just like you. They don't know nothing about the war or the government."

"No Guard sightings?" Melinda asked. "No tax collectors?"

"No, Señora," the man said with a shrug. "Our courier from the post office in Jonasville comes almost every week, and there's probably a spy or two, but we can't do nothing about that."

"Of course not," Gonzales said, the expression on his face suggesting he didn't agree with Espinoza at all.

"So are there any new rules we need to know?" Peterson asked. "I haven't been here since May and I don't think anyone else. . ." he looked at the members of his party for confirmation.

Espinoza frowned and turned to the other members of his group. "Anything new since spring, amigos?"

"Just that Miss Janie's getting a little forgetful," one man piped up. "If you lodge any of your animals with her while you're here, get her to write you a receipt every time either one of you does something. There've been a few problems with people disagreeing on what got done and what's been paid for."

"Good advice for anytime." Peterson straightened up and twitched the reins. One of his mules stomped a hoof. "I guess we better get going, then. It'll take us a little while to set up and we'd like to make a few sales before the sun goes down."

"I'm going to trade for some cash and visit the Tortuga Rosa," Gonzales added with a grin. "I could stand for some good liquor, and a little female company to enjoy it with."

"You'll find everything just like you're expecting it." Espinoza stepped back from the road and his men did the same, dragging their carts and phony road-mending equipment with them. The boys who had been watching the scene from the side of the road moved back toward their fire, still darting wary glances at the trading party.

Peterson, Amalia and Diana called to their teams and the wagons jerked forward with a creak of harnesses and shuffling of hooves in the dust. Gonzales trotted toward the head of the group while Melinda dropped back to bring up the rear.

Donovan, now sitting next to Amalia in her wagon, waited until they were out of earshot, then leaned close. "Clever checkpoint, but how were they going to get word to the town if we weren't what we appeared to be?"

"I think they have a radio or a telegraph setup or something," Amalia said, stiffening at Donovan's nearness but not moving away, either. "Those kids you saw by the fire? Their job is to run and get word to the town about danger while the men cause as much delay as possible."

"When I was in the Guard, there were some places that booby-trapped the entrances to their town or ranch. It doesn't look like they do that here."

"I don't know. If they have a plan other than to delay, hide the stuff and look poor, they aren't talking. I don't blame them. You can never be completely sure who's a spy, or who may go turncoat someday."

They were passing houses now— dirty, tumbledown buildings with peeling paint, cracked walls and weeds in the yards. A few ragged children emerged out of doorways and courtyard gates, and stood at the side of the road to watch the wagons pass. They observed the proceedings in silence, but their eyes were alert.

"They're sizing us up," Amalia said. "They'll be here again when we leave and will beg for money. Right now they figure we probably don't have any, so they'll leave us alone."

"It's hard to believe much trade goes on here. Everyone seems so poor."

"That's the way they like it to look." They were coming closer to the center of town now, and while the houses were fewer, they were larger and had once been of better quality. "A lot of these homes are chameleons," Amalia said. "On the outside they look like they're falling apart, but they're actually quite nice on the inside."

"Looks like they don't mind keeping the church looking good," Donovan said as they came upon a tall adobe structure with freshly painted plaster all the way up to its bell tower. A little shrine out front contained a brightly painted statue of the Virgin Mary and was bedecked in paper flowers.

"The authorities expect Catholics to do that. It would be a red flag if they let the church fall apart. The government would know they're up to something."

"I guess you're right. Everywhere I went in the Guard, the churches were better taken care of than the homes. We always saw it as a sign the local people weren't going to be a lot of trouble, if they cared about religion so much."

"It's the opiate of the masses."

"The what?"

Amalia shrugged. "Just an old saying. Religion is a good way to keep the people quiet. Make them afraid God will punish them if they don't follow the rules. They're supposed to stay quiet and wait for their reward in Heaven."

"Are you religious?"

"You mean in a church way? We went to church a little when I was a kid. We were Presbyterians. Protestants," she added, seeing the puzzled look on his face. "But I never liked being told how to think. I spent a lot of time reading and it made me ask questions."

"We didn't have any real sort of religion where I grew up," Donovan said. "People in the gangs were into the symbols, though. They wore crosses, prayed to saints, that sort of thing. But they made up most of their saints— dead gang leaders and family members, you know. I've done a little of it myself. It seems more real than a church god."

"When God is so cruel and far away, it makes better sense to pray to someone who you're sure really cares.” She turned the wagon onto a broader, busier street. They were now on the town's main thoroughfare, flanked on either side by shops, some open for business, but many boarded up and charred from a long-ago fire.

Horses, carts and bicycles moved up and down the street, churning up dust where there had once been asphalt. People walked down mud-brick sidewalks as if on important business, ducking in and out of shops, stopping to tip a street musician or examine the wares of a vendor. There were quite a few of these vendors. They had set up on sidewalks and driveways, selling wares as diverse as fresh apples, straw hats, treasured family heirlooms and hot snacks.

"These guys are mostly locals," Amalia explained. "They often use the same spot over and over. It's free to set up on the street like this, but there's no security and you might get harassed if you're not a townie, which is why we prefer the main market, even though we have to pay for a spot."

The smell of grilling meat from a sidewalk vendor reminded Donovan that they hadn't eaten since their spartan breakfast of dried apples and parched-corn brew that passed for coffee. When a little girl, clad only in a man’s dirty shirt long enough to pass for a dress, dashed up to their cart shouting "Pepitas!" and waving a little bag, he put a hand on Amalia's arm and asked her to stop.

"Like we don't have perfectly good pumpkin seeds of our own to sell."

"But they're way back there in the wagon somewhere, and this little girl…"

"Was probably made up by her mother to look more like a beggar than she really is. I wouldn't be surprised if she gets three squares and has a comfortable bed to sleep in at night."

Donovan eyed the little girl critically. She stared at him with huge brown eyes, shuffled her bare feet and held out the bag again. "Pepitas."

He dug in his pocket where he still carried a little money from when he was in the Guard. "How much?"

"Cinco." She held up her other hand, displaying all five fingers, in case her point wasn't clear.

Donovan handed her a nickel. She snatched it from his fingers, gave him the little bag of roasted pumpkin seeds, then dashed back to a ramshackle stand in an old driveway where two other children— an older boy and a girl just barely out of diapers, had been watching. "Thank you," Donovan called after her.

Amalia started the team again. "You go buying from every kid that's selling something, there's no point coming to market. We're here to sell as much as we can and spend as little as possible, otherwise we might as well have stayed home."

"It's just a snack," said Donovan in reasonable tones. He opened the bag and popped a few in his mouth. "They're pretty good, too. At a nickel, they're a bargain. Want some?"

Amalia shook her head, but held out her hand and let Donovan fill it with chile-roasted pepitas. "They're good," she agreed. "But salty." She looked around at the other street vendors. "I'll lay you odds they've got a father or some kind of older relative out here selling drinks."

"Everyone's got an ulterior motive in your world, don't they?"

"Don't they in yours?"

He considered, briefly distracted by a motorized scooter that sputtered past them exhaling the distinctive scent of old cooking oil. He wiped a little dust from his face. "No," he said. "Not everyone's got something up their sleeve. They're just trying to survive, like we are. In general, people have been pretty nice to me, and the ones who have tried to scam me, well, it’s nothing personal, wouldn't you say?"

"I'll say that's a generous way of looking at it."

Donovan was about to elaborate on his thoughts when a man approached their cart wearing a wooden box full of drink bottles strapped around his neck. "Refrescas!" he shouted. "Cold drinks! You thirsty? I got cold water, cold apple juice, cerveza. . ."

Amalia sneaked a look at Donovan, barely restraining a laugh. "I told you this would happen. I wouldn't be surprised if this was that little girl's uncle. Didn't I tell you?"

Donovan grinned. "Yes, I guess you did."

* * *

The market was in the town's high school football field, just as Melinda had said. There was a broad gate for vendors and a smaller one for those who wished to browse or buy. Shoppers could come and go as they pleased, free of charge. But a stooped little man in a straw hat stopped the trading party at the vendor gate. "How many tables you going to be wanting?"

"Well," Peterson said, looking at Melinda and Amalia's carts as he considered. "Me and my daughter will each need one. Amalia?"

"I can make do with one," Amalia said.

"So that's three. Gonzales?"

Gonzales patted the bulging packs strapped to his buckskin's haunches. "I was thinking I'd just rent a quarter space in the bleachers for today and tomorrow."

The man in the straw hat nodded. "North side bleachers are open, first ten rows." Behind him was a polished wooden board with a map of the stadium painted on it and little numbered holes for each section a vendor could rent. Some of the holes had colored pegs in them, indicating that someone was assigned to that spot. "Let's see. . ." He ran down a list of available spaces and explained the pricing system. "That's if you're paying up front, of course. Add a nickel to everything if you want to pay at the end of each day instead."

"Two-thirty West sounds good to me." Gonzales dug in his pocket and produced some coins.

"It's a deal," the old man said. He took the money, counted it into a cash box and handed him a worn wooden coin that said 2-30W. "Put that in your pocket in case anyone questions you. Return it tomorrow afternoon when you leave." He handed him a little bracelet of red and yellow wool. "Here's your Tuesday bracelet. Be sure and return it tomorrow and exchange it for your Wednesday bracelet or you may get fined."

Once Gonzales had everything he needed, Peterson, Melinda and Amalia went through a similar procedure to get tables on the field, which was the main market area. When everyone had a colored bracelet for the day, they were allowed to drive through the gate and find their assigned spots.

While Gonzales headed toward the bleachers, Amalia, Donovan and the Petersons found their tables, third row in, on the twenty yard line. "It's not ideal," Amalia said, "But we'll make it work."

Already most of the field was full. Around him Donovan saw signs, banners and brightly colored tablecloths set out to attract passersby. It was still early in the morning, but already shoppers were working the aisles, checking the wares at each booth, comparing merchandise and haggling over prices. It had been a long time since he had seen such an abundance of goods in one place, available to whoever could afford them. It was such a distraction that Donovan could barely concentrate on the business of unloading the wagon.

Diana was struggling to stay focused too, and finally Amalia sent Donovan over to the Petersons’ table to fetch her. "Why don't you two make the rounds and find out what prices are like today? That way we'll have some idea what to charge."

This was the opportunity they had been hoping for, and they didn't wait to be asked twice. Melinda barely had time to call for Diana to stick close to Donovan and be back in thirty minutes before they were lost in the maze of tables.

"Do you know where we should go first?" Donovan asked, moving clumsily because of the heavy brace.

"It's a little different every time. Most vendors don't get the same spot over and over, so you have to go back and forth. Eventually you'll see everything and then you can decide what to go back and buy."

"Sounds like you've got a system."

"I do." She trotted over to the nearest stall-- a long table covered with a lace tablecloth. The display consisted mainly of books and small items of crystal, silver and china. The white-haired lady gave a tight smile as Donovan joined Diana in examining her family heirlooms. Donovan had seen her type before and knew she was torn between needing to make a sale while dreading to part with her treasures. Even decades after the century of abundance had come crashing down, people still clung to the remnants-- a frosted crystal cat, a porcelain bowl painted with green shamrocks, a book of color photographs of Paris, a silver bracelet.

"Do you like jewelry?" the woman asked Diana, pushing a heart-shaped silver box toward her. "This will keep your things nice."

Diana shook her head. "I like horses."

"I see." The woman looked through her books for a moment, producing a big brown book. It was obviously quite old, with wear on the edges of its cover and the stamped gold lettering almost worn away. She opened it to show page after page of color prints on thick creamy paper. "All the major horse breeds. The text gives you history and description of the breed, and of course you get some very nice pictures."

Diana took the book and examined the pages reverently.

"Twenty dollars," the woman said.

"Oh, that's too much."

"We could discuss. I don't have to have cash. I'll accept food, ration coupons, tools or seeds."

Diana handed back the book. "No, my family only just got here. I'm just looking today."

"I'll be here tomorrow, too. Please come back. I can hold the book for you, if you like."

"No," the girl said. "I can't promise anything without talking to my mom and I don't want to keep you from making a sale."

As they wandered away, Donovan smiled at her. "That's a pretty grown up attitude you've got. I could tell you liked that book."

"She probably won't sell it to anyone else today and I probably won't be able to buy it, anyway." She tried to sound philosophical. "It's not like we've got that kind of money to spend on books. My family needs a new horse bridle, salt, shoes, canning jars, and some canned foods like what we can't grow for ourselves. Only if we do really well can I think about buying something just because I like it."

"It seems too bad you can't have something for fun now and then." They merged into the stream of shoppers and headed toward the next table.

"I can have something fun. It just has to be useful, too." They were in front of a table that had wool for sale in various forms -- raw wool, undyed yarn, spun yarn and cloth in various vegetable-dyed colors and a few finished products such as hats, mittens, scarves and blankets. Remembering the instructions Amalia had given them, Diana was suddenly all business. She examined a pair of mittens and some orange yarn as if intending to buy. "How much?" she asked, pointing to an undyed skein.

"Two dollars."

"Two dollars? That's a lot. How about a dollar and a quarter?"

They haggled for a few minutes. The young woman at the table finally refused to go lower than a dollar sixty and Diana said she would let her mother know. She and Donovan wandered away, pretending to be deep in thought. Once they were out of earshot, Diana said, "That's more than they were charging last time. If everyone's prices are that high, we'll make some good sales today."

"Are you going to buy that book, then?"

"No." She shook her head. "I'm saving up for a mule."

* * *

When they got back to their tables, fifteen minutes later than they had promised, Diana and Donovan had checked the going rates for wool, dried apples, chiles, eggs, seeds, socks and used clothing. Donovan had also managed to lift a wallet, although he had done it so cleverly that Diana hadn't noticed. It was nice to have a little money in his pocket again.

"You've done some good work," Peterson told them, after Diana finished rattling off her mental tally of the day's prices. "So did you get a feel for how things operate around here?" he asked, turning to Donovan.

"Yes, sir. It looks like there's a bit of a black market going on, in addition to the regular trade, but most of these folks seem to be honest."

"I've learned not to question where some of these people get their stuff. Best just to be glad there's still a place where a person can buy a working flashlight battery, fertilizer, or a bit of kerosene without needing fifty different types of credentials saying you're allowed to do it."

"It's a pretty clean and well-organized place. I've seen markets in other towns that were dirty and not very safe."

The old man smiled. "Yes, everyone has to pay a fee to sell here, but it's worth it. They use the money to pay people to keep it orderly. They have men go through and make sure nothing is happening that shouldn’t. Maybe you saw one of them-- the guys in the red and blue vests? No? Well, you'll see one soon enough. They don't check into the origins of what anyone is selling. That would be bad for business. But they do make sure there's no stealing going on. Just honest trade. Steal or cheat a customer and you'll be kicked out."

"Good idea." He would have to be careful if he picked any more pockets.

"It's what our government used to do," Peterson continued. "In fact, that used to be the whole reason we had a government, but now. . ."

"Dad," Melinda broke in. "Are you going to finish helping set up or are you just going stand there talking about the old times?"

Peterson turned around in mock indignation. "Young lady, you need to indulge me. I'm in my dotage."

"I have a feeling that excuse won't work for me," Donovan said. He walked the few steps to Amalia's table and found her struggling with an overhead rack that had become unstable under the weight of strings of dried chiles, apples, squashes and a few items of fancy clothing. "Do you want me to hold that?" he asked, seeing her struggling to hold a pole and simultaneously wrap a length of twine around it.

"No," she said. "You take the twine and the knife. I've got the pole. Tie it to the ring on the tabletop, then twice on the table leg— low and high."

Donovan did as she directed, then did the same on the other side. The rack still seemed shaky, so they stacked a couple sacks of animal feed and ears of dried corn against the poles. When they were done, he stepped out in front of the stand to take in the effect. Amalia had spread a colorful Indian blanket over the table and arranged jars of pumpkin seeds and various types of pickles and preserves along with some goat cheeses, small tools and utensils and a few pairs of hand-knitted socks.

Underneath the table were baskets and boxes of what Amalia called "back stock," with an ironic little smile. "I only set out one or two of each of the things we brought. There's not enough room to display it all and why would I? One jar of pickled nopales looks just like any other. If someone wants to buy one, we offer to sell them two. When they buy our display item, we set out a fresh one. It keeps our display uncluttered. You want to make it easy for people to see what you have to offer."

"Sounds like you're pretty good at this."

"It's not my calling, but I've learned to do it well enough."

She went on to explain her pricing strategy and Donovan gave her a few tips based on the prices he and Diana had collected. As they were talking, customers started wandering up, checking out what they had to sell and asking questions.

Before he knew it he found himself negotiating the sale of strings of chiles, sacks of dried corn and jars of Carina's applesauce. Some of the customers had cash to spend and Donovan, with his years on the street, fell into an easy negotiating style, but many customers wanted to make trades and this was trickier.

"Do we need aspirin and cough drops?"

"Only if they're in sealed boxes and at least a year from the expiration date."

"Are we interested in strawberry seeds?"

"Who's the seller? No, I don't know him. We've never tried strawberries, so if they don't come up, I'll have no way of knowing if they didn't sprout because of us or because the seeds were no good."

"How about soap?"

"Oh, yes. As long as it's not lavender-scented. Carina hates lavender."

"What about piñones?"

"No, we've got plenty at home. But ask her if she's got some salt, spices or jerky to trade."

It took the better part of the day, but by sunset Donovan felt he was beginning to get a sense of how the local barter economy worked, and what kinds of things Amalia and Carina needed for the farm. Some things surprised him, like the way Amalia turned down a perfectly good opportunity to trade some chiles for a battery, but then bartered a pair of socks for canned pears and a CD of an old rock band.

"I don't know that I'm ever going to learn to do this on my own," he told her as they were shutting things down for the evening. "Sometimes you make trades that seem a little strange."

"You mean like the Rolling Stones CD?" Amalia asked with a slightly guilty smile. "That was just a sentimental impulse-- my grandmother used to listen to their songs, and they were a favorite of her mother. Don't let it confuse you. Our main goal is to get things that we can't make for ourselves or barter from our neighbors. If you stick to that principle, you won't go wrong."

They covered the remaining wares on their table with a blanket and were taking the items off their overhead rack and storing them under the table when Melinda came up. She had been absent for the past hour, but Donovan had scarcely noticed. "I staked us out a camping spot," she announced. "Diana is over there now with our carts. I turned the animals out to pasture at Cortina's and told him we'd bring yours along shortly."

"Cortina's is kind of far," Amalia observed.

"Well, they said Janie is getting a little loopy, and Klein's is full."

"I knew we should've tried to get here by Monday."

"No point worrying about it now. Are you done here?"

"I suppose so." Amalia looked over at Donovan. "You've been wearing that brace all day. You up for walking, or should I drive the cart over here and pick you up?"

"I can walk," he said, although she was right to ask. He was tired and the bands were starting to chafe through his pants.

They set off toward the end field, where the horses and carts had been tethered for the day under a tarp. Together Amalia and Melinda got the animals harnessed and hitched to the wagon and Melinda gave instructions on how to find their campsite.

"So I guess there's some kind of guard for the night?" Donovan asked as they made their way toward where the campfires were already dotting the old soccer field.

"Yes, it's included with our fee. There's never been an incident, although of course we take the most valuable and portable things with us, like cash, batteries, jewelry and the like. Anyone can be tempted, especially if it's something that fits easily into a pocket"

"Do they charge for the campground, too?"

"Not yet, although there are rumors that they might start after the first of the year."

"I guess the safety makes it a bargain."

"Most of us think so. That's the reason we come here. There's another town about an equal distance away from our valley. It's called Higdon. It's actually a little bigger and the road is easier because it's mostly flat, but they don't do anything to protect their merchants, so even some of the Higdon folks would rather come here. Our only fear is that Macrina will become too big one day and start to attract attention."

"And what will everyone do if that happens? If the Feds move in, I mean?"

"I don't know, but we'll figure something out. We're resourceful."

* * *

It didn't take long for Amalia and Donovan to set up camp. Once they had things in order, Amalia announced she was going to take the jennies to the Cortinas. "Do you want to come along?" she asked Donovan. "We may have to do some walking on the way back if we can't hitch a ride, but I plan to stop at Mother Reyes' house on the way out and get my ration book. She lives in one of those chameleon houses I told you about and you might find it interesting."

Although his leg was aching and he had been looking forward to a rest in front of the campfire followed by an early night's sleep, curiosity got the better of him. He hoisted himself off the wooden box he had been using as a stool and joined Amalia in unharnessing the jennies and saddling them to ride. Getting into the saddle was tricky, and he wasn't a good rider even without the brace. but at least the animals were short and slow, unlike Gonzales' frisky buckskin, which he hadn't seen since morning.

"Where's Gonzales?" he asked as they threaded their way out of the campsite.

"No telling, but I have a pretty good idea. I sometimes wonder if the only reason he comes to town is so he can visit the bars and whores."

"So he wasn't joking this morning on the trail?"

"No. and it's a shame. There's some nice young women in the valley who would like to marry a guy with Gonzales' prospects-- his mother has a lot of land and isn’t expected to live much longer. Gonzales will be a rich man by local standards, but instead of developing his property or at least doing basic maintenance, he goes off to town and raises hell every time he gets a little ahead. He won't ever find himself a wife among the local girls if he keeps behaving like that, and he'll need a wife if he's going to run that place like it needs to be run."

"Maybe he's just not cut out to be a rancher."

"No, he loves the land and has quite a knack for it when he applies himself. It's the war that did it to him. He hasn't been the same since the Alberta campaign."

"I've seen fighting get to a lot of people. Even some guys who seemed pretty tough."

"It doesn't seem to have gotten to you."

"Yes it did," Donovan said, a little surprised at the sudden intimacy of their conversation. "That’s why I left. And I'm sure it wasn't nearly as bad as Alberta, although raiding your own countrymen is bad enough."

"You couldn't take it any more?"

"It was that. But there was also a girl. A fellow soldier. She was shot during a raid. Several of us were. She didn't make it."

"The bullet in your shoulder."

"Yes. The man was only defending what he had spent his life trying to hold onto for himself and his family. I started to figure that out, with all the time I had to think and be pissed off in the hospital. If I had a wife and kids, I would've hoarded for them, too. It's crazy what they made us do. We take a vow to protect this country and its people, but instead we kill them and kill ourselves trying to do it."

"Well, you survived and got out. In time, maybe you can try to put a few things right."

"I don't know about that. I'm not the sort to join one of the rebel groups or anything. I want out of the game altogether. They take the young ones, street kids like me with nothing going for them. They give us our first regular meals, new clothes, give us a little education--"

"Indoctrination, more like. Propaganda."

"I guess. They tell us that we're making things like they used to be back in the old days, a more equal society…"

"An interesting lie, because this is where equality is."

"Maybe you're right. Out here it looks like your efforts amount to something."

"We've got our problems too," Amalia cautioned. "But that's just life. We can't make every little problem go away, because in the end, it's we who are the problem."

They were approaching the end of the road and merging with a busier street, dimly lit with solar street lights that had been absorbing the sun's power all day. A few shops were still open for business, lit from within by lanterns and oil lamps. People wandered the sidewalks, some of them going into the stores, some just peering in the dirty windows. Somewhere a street musician was playing a harmonica. A few children ran shrieking down the sidewalk, a rangy mutt loping beside them. At the end of the block a man in white was quoting the Bible, shouting his apocalyptic message to passersby. He pointed at a nicely dressed young couple and screamed "Sinners!" but the girl giggled and the boy hurried her away. A man in an embossed leather vest with a badge strode up to the street preacher and said a few words to him. Meanwhile a horse trotted along pulling a light trap carrying a neatly dressed family. A trio of scooters zipped past, going the other way in a cloud of dust and the smell of coal diesel.

"It looks like there's a bit of a night life around here," Donovan remarked as they passed an adobe building that seemed to be of enormous interest to some of the street crowd. One sniff of the air, redolent of grilled meats, spices and baking bread, explained everything. "It’s a restaurant!"

"I told you this town wasn't as sleepy as it looked."

They continued for a few blocks, then turned onto a residential street. Most of the houses were dark, with only a few lights glowing softly from dirty windows and weed-blown courtyards. It was peaceful after the relative bustle of the main drag, but there was something close and mysterious about it, too. The houses were ramshackle, the lights faint and few, the trees too twisted against the darkening sky to make anything about this dirt road with its weedy and crumbling sidewalks feel homelike. Without any streetlights, shadows darkened and elongated across the road, and by the time they had passed the third house, the darkness had engulfed nearly everything in their path. It was with relief that Donovan sensed more than saw Amalia turn Goneril in the direction of a gate, hardly distinguishable from the others with its splintering wooden posts. They walked their animals into a dusty courtyard of cracked and missing tiles, almost artistic in its placement of broken planters and dead potted trees.

Amalia swung herself down from her jenny, tossed the reins over a post and helped Donovan off his mount. His brace squeaked as he followed Amalia to the door of the seemingly deserted house. Amalia jerked a string by the side of the door and from somewhere inside, a bell jangled. There was no response at first, then they heard light, tapping footsteps. There was a scrabble at the door as someone fumbled with the locks, then the door opened a crack.

"Who is it?"

Amalia's lips curled down in annoyance. "It's me, Magda. Amalia Channing."

The door opened a little and Donovan could see a pale face rimmed with a mass of dark hair. "Who's the man with you?"

"His name is Donovan Sloan. He's a friend."

"And how do I know that?"

"Because I'm telling you so. For Christ's sake, let us in. What the hell is that you have on? And where's your grandmother?"

The door swung open to reveal a young woman, perhaps in her teens and certainly not older than twenty, standing in the dim light of an oil lamp, dressed in a stiff red gown of some kind of fancy shimmering material, her neck and arms dripping with gold chains and charms. The dress was too tight for her pudgy body, but she wore it as though the bulges and straining seams were the height of fashion. She stood back to let Amalia and Donovan enter, pouting her full, stained lips and glaring from under kohl-blackened lids. "My grandmother is resting," she said. "She wasn't expecting you. It's been so long she was beginning to think the raiders got you." She turned an imperious gaze upon Donovan. "Maybe they have."

"Cut the crap," Amalia said. "All we want is to see Mother Reyes, get my ration books and go. Your grandmother is still alive, right? You haven't suffocated her with a pillow or anything so you can get your inheritance a few years early?"

Magda widened her eyes in mock horror as she shut the heavy door behind them, so many rings glittering on her fingers that it seemed remarkable she could lift her hands. "I don't know how you can say such a thing. I guess being out there in the country without a husband dries you up and makes you bitter." Without waiting for a return comment, she led the way across the tiled floor, wobbling a bit in her stilettos, to another heavy door, this one of finely carved and polished oak set in a freshly plastered wall decorated at the top in a blue design that looked vaguely native. "Come on," she said. "You can see for yourself how well I care for Nana."

They walked into a sitting room so bright with electric lamps and so clean and richly furnished that one didn't notice at first that it was small. The plastered walls were decorated with the same blue trim they had seen in the previous room and the ceiling was free of smoke and soot stains, even though there was a fire blazing in a rounded fireplace in one corner. Paintings and Indian rugs of unusually bright colors and high quality hung on the walls, and thick-pile woven rugs of a strange design lay scattered over the tiled floor. The dark wood and leather furniture looked too stiff to be more than decorative, but in a concession to comfort, there was an extra rug and a mound of plush tasseled pillows in front of the fireplace. Perched on one of the pillows was a tiny wren of a girl who watched the strangers with glittering eyes.

"Hello, Cruz," Amalia said. Her words were affectionate, even if her tone was not. "You've grown so big since I last saw you. You're almost all grown up, aren't you?"

The girl rose warily and brushed down the skirt of her ruffled dress. Like Magda, she was weighted down with jewelry. She stared silently at Amalia for a moment, then fixed her gaze on Donovan. "Who are you?"

"He's Mrs. Channing's bodyguard," Magda said, crossing the room in quick strides and opening another door. "He's here to make sure Nana doesn’t short Mrs. Channing any of her ration coupons because you know they're terribly poor out there in the country, without a thing to eat but tumbleweeds and cow manure."

"Oh, for God's sake," Amalia sighed, following her into a hallway with Donovan close behind. She looked for a moment as though she would say more, but seemed to think better of it.

They walked past a few closed doors, finally coming to one near the end of the hall. Magda opened it after a perfunctory rap. "Nana," she said. "It's that friend of yours." The way she spat the word "friend," she could've been talking about rats. "And she seems to have brought a friend of her own with her."

Amalia and Donovan stepped into a bright little room full of blond wood furniture and decorated with old photos and religious pictures. In the bed, looking lost amid the white sheets and colorful quilts, was a white-haired old woman, frail and wan, but with startling blue eyes that lit up at the sight of her guests. "Amalia!" she said, pushing herself up in bed and holding out her gnarled hands. "Come here, dear. I've been so worried."

Amalia took the woman's hands in her own for a moment, but then gave the woman a hug instead. "Mother Reyes, it's so good to see you."

"Good to see you too, mi hijita. Stand back and let me have a look at you."

Amalia submitted to the old woman's clucks and nods as she took in her short hair, boots, heavy work pants, and checked cotton shirt stained with the dirt and sweat of a day working the market. "You still dress and cut your hair too much like a man, I see."

A haughty sniff from the doorway indicated Magda's approval of this remark.

"But you look strong and healthy. You get enough to eat?"

"Yes, Mama."

"Then you won't need your ration books," Magda grumbled.

The older women ignored her. "Do you still read?" Mother Reyes asked.

"Yes, I'm reading Robinson Crusoe with Carina, and the Bible every night before I go to sleep."

This last surprised Donovan and it must have shown on his face because both women turned toward him. "And who is this nice-looking young man?"

Amalia motioned him forward. "This is Donovan Sloan. He works on our farm now."

Mother Reyes took one of Donovan's hands. "I'm glad to know the girls have a little help. A farm is too much work without a man."

"He can't be much help with that thing on his leg," murmured a voice from the doorway.

"He manages just fine," Amalia said. Her eyes met the old woman's and flashed her a wink so quick that Donovan would've thought he was imagining it if he hadn't caught the slight change in Mother Reyes' tone when she answered.

"I bet he does," she said. Before Magda could make another caustic remark from the doorway, Mother Reyes looked at her. "Magda, dear, why don't you leave me and my friends to talk a bit. I'm sure your daughter could use a little company. You should never leave a child alone with a fire."

Magda pouted. "Cruz is fine. And besides, Laura is out there. Somewhere." She turned on one of her sharp heels and flounced away. Amalia shut the bedroom door behind her. "So how are you really?" she asked, settling herself into a chair beside the bed. "I can't believe you've put up with her attitude for so long. I thought she would've run away by now, or that you would've kicked her out for the sake of your own sanity."

The old woman put a cautionary finger to her lips and motioned for Donovan to pull up a chair. "Let's talk softly. I don't put it past her to listen at the door."

Amalia took one of Mother Reyes' hands in her own. "Can't you find someone else to take care of you? I know you can afford to pay."

"Yes, that I can. And I do. Laura still does most of the cooking and cleaning. Magda doesn't do much at all except go through my closets and jewelry boxes, trying to wear everything at once."

"Will Kevin not take her back, then? You don't need so much anger and negativity around here."

"Kevin doesn't need it either, I'm afraid." Mother Reyes sighed. "And I can hardly turn my daughter's only child out into the street. She and my great-granddaughter are all I have left."

"You have friends, Mama. Friends can be just as good as family."

Mother Reyes winked at Donovan. "Doesn't that sound more like something Carina would say?"

"It sure does." When Amalia bit her lip in annoyance he added by way of explanation, "She's feeling happy. It was a good day at the market."

Mother Reyes patted Amalia's hands. "We need more good days for you, then. You used to be such a chipper little thing when you were a girl."

"Okay, okay…"

Sensing her embarrassment, the woman changed the subject. "So how is your sister? I have a couple letters from Miles for her."

"Oh, she'll like that."

"She's doing well, then?"

"Yes, of course. Going out on veterinary calls and enjoying raising the animals, as always. She's pestering me to trade for an alpaca."

"Why don't you?"

While Amalia and Mother Reyes talked a little about farm animals and economic matters, Donovan looked around the small bedroom, paying attention this time to the little things—the rosary and glass of water on the nightstand, the lace runner on the dresser and the little bottles and framed photos that were arranged on top of it. The photos were of a man in the stiff-looking suit and tie of long ago, a pretty, laughing young woman, a black-haired little girl with a mischievous smile, and a fuzzy snapshot of two young mothers with their children. This was the picture Donovan wanted to look at more closely, and he stood up.

"Amalia's mother and I were great friends," Mother Reyes said, seeing what had caught his interest. "And so were our girls."

"My parents had a summer home just outside of town," Amalia said. Her tone was oddly clipped, as if each word carried a price. "We came here every year during school vacations. Our parents wanted us to get used to the land in case the worst happened. Regina was our best friend and was Magda's mother."

Donovan nodded. Asking what had happened to Regina seemed like dangerous territory. "Your family doesn't have a house in town any more."

"No. My father sold it when the war with Iran began."

"A smart move," Mother Reyes added. "Things were so crazy here for awhile. Soldiers, shortages, riots…"

"We were hardly immune," Amalia reminded her. "Since we still had to come to town for supplies."

"Of course." Mother Reyes patted Amalia's arm and Donovan remembered that Carina had said their father died in a food riot. "But I still think you were better off where you were. At least your family and your livelihood weren't in daily danger, and that was what your father wanted."

"Yes," Amalia said in a tone that sounded unconvinced. She stretched her arms overhead and pretended to yawn. "Well, I hate to cut this short, Mama, but we're pasturing out at Cortina's tonight and we need to get out there while there's still a chance we can hitch a ride back into town."

"Your letters and ration books are where they always are, love." The woman fumbled with the drawer of her nightstand. Amalia reached over to help. Inside she found a stack of envelopes clipped together and marked with her name. She flipped through them, pulled out the ration books and did a cursory check for missing coupons.

"I'm sorry my granddaughter is so greedy and has been giving you a hard time tonight," Mother Reyes said.

"It's a tough world out there," Amalia said in a tone that didn't match the generosity of her words.

"Not for her, it isn't. I give her everything she needs, and more. The world may be mean, but that doesn't mean she should be. I've told her. . ."

Amalia's face softened and she gave Mother Reyes a hug. "Don't worry about it, Mama. I'm way too old to care what a teenager thinks of me."

"Well. . ." Mother Reyes looked away, ashamed nonetheless.

"I’m more worried about you than about her," Amalia went on. "Are you getting everything you need? I wanted to bring you something tonight but I had no idea what you might want."

"You're so sweet to offer," Mother Reyes said, clutching Amalia's hand. "But I know how hard you work and your mother would haunt me from her grave if I took anything more from you. She'll probably haunt me anyway for letting Magda keep Carina's ration books. I should be giving them to the church to help feed the poor."

"Well, as Regina's comadres, we promised to help look after Magda if anything should happen. You know that."

"Like that little ingrate needs your help. Some days I'm tempted to cut her off entirely, let her see what the world is like when you don't have Grandma and generous comadres to pay for every little whim."

"That's between you and her." Amalia kissed Mother Reyes on her thin cheek. "We've got to get going."

"Of course. Will I see you again soon? Next month's market, maybe?"
Amalia exchanged guilty glances with Donovan. "Well, we thought we might send Donovan alone next time," she admitted. "That is, if the weather holds and it doesn't snow."

The old woman turned and flashed her blue eyes on Donovan. "If you come, you'll be just as welcome in my home as Amalia and Carina have always been." She fumbled for his hand.

Donovan started to shake her hand, but then gave her frail body a quick embrace instead. "Thank you, Mother Reyes. I'm looking forward to seeing you again."

"And I'm looking forward to seeing you too, young man. Take care of my girls for me, you hear?"

* * *

The road out of town was lit only by a few dim stars on this hazy night. Amalia pulled a small battery-powered light out of her donkey's saddlebag and stuck it through a loop on the animal's bridle that until now Donovan hadn't been able to guess the purpose of. This provided a little shaky light on the path ahead of them. As they rode quietly through the town's outskirts Amalia was silent and Donovan was reluctant to intrude on her private thoughts.

Cortina's place was a ranch on the west side of town that had sufficient pasturage that the owner had built a small ostelery. Tonight one of his sons was minding the operation. Although Martin didn't know Amalia and Donovan by sight, Melinda had described them, so he was waiting. "You Ms. Channing? I didn't expect you so late." He took hold of the bridle so Amalia could dismount.

She swung a leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground stiffly. "We had to make a stop along the way and it took longer than we thought."

"Ain't that the way of it?" The man handed off the jenny to a little boy, then went to help Donovan. "You'll be wanting a rubdown and pasture tonight for these animals," he said. "Anything else? Oats? Alfalfa?"

"No, pasture is enough. And they can stay in the pasture all day tomorrow with maybe a bit of alfalfa around suppertime. Check for harness sores, check their hooves for stones, the usual sorts of things. We'll probably leave day after tomorrow."

While the boy took the animals away to be curried, Martin made a few notes and calculations on a piece of ledger paper. After examining it, Amalia nodded and handed him some coins. "Any wagons heading back toward the market that you know of?"

The man shook his head, his eyes darting skeptically toward Donovan's brace. "I'm sure if you wait long enough, someone will come by."

They waited at the gate for several minutes before Amalia turned on her flashlight. "Come on," she said. "We can't wait here all night and we'll probably encounter someone along the way." She cast a doubtful look at his leg. "You can still walk a little, can't you?"

"Sure," Donovan said, although he was anything but certain he could hold up the entire way. Luckily after only a quarter of a mile they found a man on the side of the road, digging a stone out of the hoof of one of his mules. He was just climbing back onto the wagon seat when Amalia and Donovan came upon him.

"I can take you into town," the man offered. "But not to the market itself, and only if my mule don't start limping again. I don't want to be unfriendly but. . ."

"Of course not," Amalia said, helping Donovan onto the seat. "We wouldn't feel right asking you to go out of your way. And we wouldn't want to add to the load of an animal that's hurt."

The man flapped the reins and clucked to his team. The mules pulled against the traces and the wagon jerked forward. Two miles later, he dropped them off in the center of town and went on his creaking way. "Come on," Amalia told Donovan with a tug at his sleeve, but Donovan hesitated, sniffing the air. He was hungry and this time his stomach wouldn't be denied.

"Why don't we get us a bite to eat at that restaurant? My treat." When he saw the hesitation in Amalia's eyes he added, "We haven't eaten since lunch. What are we going to do? Go back to camp and wake everyone up cooking?"

"I had thought we'd just eat whatever leftovers there were, plus maybe some of the dried or canned goods."

"When we can eat a hot meal in a restaurant instead?"

"We're here to make money, not spend it."

"I've got a little cash of my own. Let me treat you. It's the least I can do after all that you've done for me."

Amalia shook her head. "If you want to go in and get something, that's your business. I'll wait out here."

Donovan's stomach growled. This was not an acceptable answer. He grabbed Amalia's hand. "When was the last time a man asked you out to dinner?"

Amalia was so surprised by this tactic that she had no answer ready.

"That's what I thought. Come on, then." Donovan put a hand on the back of her waist and guided her toward the scent of cooking food. And this time Amalia was too stunned to do anything but go along.

* * *

From outside, the restaurant was an unpromising lump of badly plastered and crumbling adobe, but it was nicer on the inside, with tiled floors, fresh paint, and some warped and fading prints of famous paintings by way of decoration. The place was dim and smoky, with most of the light coming from flickering wall sconces, and oil lamps on the mismatched tables. Chairs wobbled on the uneven floor, and dishes, glasses and silverware seemed to have come from any source the proprietor could find. Although it was all clean, nothing matched anything else. The patrons were as mismatched as the décor, with most in casual, if not outright dirty, workaday garb while others were dressed in the finery of decades past, out for a celebratory meal.

Amalia and Donovan found a place to sit, and a teenage girl in a faded dress and clean apron approached their table. She announced the evening's menu, which was dictated by what was available that day. With the offerings limited, they made up their minds on the spot and ordered a carafe of the strong local wine for good measure. As they sipped their first glasses, Donovan tried to keep his conversation directed toward questions he had about the workings of the market and their plans for the rest of their stay in town, but by the time their entrees arrived and they were pouring their second glasses of wine, he was feeling bolder, although not so bold as to ask any direct questions about her and Carina. He cast about for the nearest safe topic. "Tell me about Magda. How did a sweet old lady like Mother Reyes end up with someone as mean as her for a grandchild?"

"No one really knows. Back when my parents were growing up, they would've probably given her a pill for it." Amalia wrapped a bit of quail in a scrap of tortilla. "She got all her notions about life from her grandmother's photo albums and whatever things had been saved in closets and jewelry boxes. She wants to be rich."

"That's silly. No one is rich. No one who is honest, at least."

"That doesn't matter to her, and it doesn't help that her parents and grandparents were better off than a lot of their neighbors. It just gave her notions. Like all sensible people, her family has always pretended to be poor, but Magda wants to show off."

"Where did Mother Reyes get the money to support these ideas of hers?"

"I'm afraid it wasn't all good. Her husband ran a bank in town. It went under during the bank runs that followed the mortgage loan collapse, but some say he worked out a deal with his parent bank, which was one of the big multinationals." She shrugged and turned back to her meal. "It would explain a lot, since he seemed to be doing better after the crash than before. He died peacefully in his sleep a few years ago."

"Lucky guy."

"Yes, he was lucky, but his daughter wasn't. Regina was my best friend, and her husband had a ranch. Regina wasn’t one for country life, so they lived in town most of the year. They got word one night that their foreman had armed the ranch hands and declared the property his own. They rode out with the loyal hand who had come to warn them and the loyal hand shot them in the desert just a little ways east of town."

"And no one did anything about it?"

"What could anyone do? Things were still pretty chaotic at the time. As you can see, it’s better now. Unlike some people, the citizens of Macrina organized themselves, once they realized they could no longer count on the government."

Donovan considered this, moving some of the food around on his plate with his fork. "They seem to have done a good job of it. I guess that was just a lie they told us in the Guard, that ordinary citizens can’t be counted on to work together for the common good. That’s how they justify going after hoarders, you know.”

“I know. But how do they think the United States came together in the first place, if not by average people? The Feds are destroying this country, but we’ve found a way to manage, just like the old pioneers. Maybe someday we’ll even be able to get regular gasoline again.” At the skeptical look in Donovan’s eyes, she added, “Why not? We couldn’t get coffee and chocolate for several years, but the Macrina market has those now.”

Donovan's eyebrows went up. "You’re kidding. Chocolate?"

"Sometimes. If you can pay for it, of course."

"Do you think they have any here?" Before she could answer, Donovan waved the waitress over. "Do you have anything chocolate?"

"We have butter cake with chocolate icing. But there's only one piece left. We've got plenty of apple pie--"

"No, we want chocolate. Bring the cake."

The girl left and Amalia stared. "That's going to be very expensive.”

"Nothing is too good for the woman who saved my life."

Amalia pursed her lips. "I don't know what you're talking about. It was all Carina's doing. I'd just as soon have shot you, or don't you remember?"

"I remember lots of things."

Amalia sat back in her chair and folded her arms. She pretended great interest in the doings of the diners around her until the waitress brought the cake, set it in front of her and hurried away. Amalia stared at the dessert as if uncertain what to do next.

Donovan had never seen her flustered. "Go on. Don't tell me I've wasted my money."

"Only if you have some, too." She pushed the plate toward the center of the table and waited until he had picked up his fork before tucking into the dessert. "This was a good idea," she admitted. "Don't tell Carina, but I do get tired of honey and apples all the time."

"One wouldn't know it."

"There's no point complaining or wishing for things."

"You're right there's no point in complaining, but wishing? There's no reason to go on living if you're not wishing for something."

Amalia started to shake her head, but when she looked at Donovan again her lips twisted into a wistful smile. "You have no idea how much time I spent wishing," she said. "Until I realized that it only got me into trouble. A person can't take. . . well, there's just no use in. . ."

"I know," Donovan said. He reached across the table to take her hand, but she pulled it away. "So," he said, as if nothing had happened, "We were talking before about Magda. I wonder, do you think she'll let me in to see Mother Reyes if I come to town alone? You’ll want me to pick up the ration book, right?"

Amalia pushed the empty dessert plate to one side. "I honestly don't know what Magda will do. When Carina and I talked about having you come to town for us, we thought she would have run off again by now or that Mother Reyes would've been able to answer her own door. This puts things in a different light."

"Maybe I should bring some chocolate with me, wear fancy clothes and pretend to be rich."

"Yes," Amalia said, "She can probably be bribed."

"Give her an old necklace, a pair of earrings…"

"A silk scarf and some bangles…"

"And lipstick. Don't forget the lipstick!"

Amalia suppressed a giggle. "Well," she said, "You’re obviously resourceful. You'll figure out a way."

The waitress brought them their check, and after puzzling over it for a moment, Donovan laid a few coins on the table. Then he stood up and pulled back Amalia’s chair for her, taking her arm and leading her out the door. "Yes," he said, "I will figure out a way. You should trust me."

As they left the restaurant, the chivalrous hand on Amalia’s elbow somehow came to be clasping hers, something they both pretended not to notice as they walked the dark, narrow street back to camp, and as Amalia climbed into her bedroll to sleep, she noted that the earlier haze had vanished and the stars in the clear night sky seemed especially bright and promising.

Tin Soldier - Book One, Chapter Four

2006-12-26T00:43:00.000-06:00

Donovan was woken by a rustle of tent flaps, crackling of cooking fires and clatter of pans, as early risers began preparing for the day, murmuring to each other in the chilly darkness before dawn. He stretched inside his bedroll, rolled over and glanced toward the fire. Amalia was already up, filling the coffeepot with real coffee and exchanging whispers with Melinda, who was breaking eggs into a skillet.

He got to his feet and wandered over, grateful for the fire's warmth.

"Good morning," Amalia said. A pair of earrings that had been set out on the Indian blanket for sale the day before glittered in her ears, but her attitude was as commonsense as always. "I'm glad you're up. I was thinking it would be nice to have a little cream for the coffee this morning, but Peterson is out getting more wood for the fire and we hate to wake Diana up so early. No point trying to rouse Gonzales because he's probably hung over. Do you mind?"

"Of course not." Donovan had only just sat down, but stood up again, suppressing a sigh. "I need to bandage my leg up before I put that brace on again, though. I've got raw spots everywhere."

"We've got bandages and ointment in the first aid kit," Melinda said.

"Where's that?"

Amalia set the coffee to boil and stood up. "I'll show you." She led him to a small chest near the tent. The tent was supposed to be for Diana, but she preferred to sleep under the stars like the grownups, so Gonzales was using it instead. Amalia dug through the chest and produced a roll of bandages, some pins and a jar of ointment. "Do you need. . ." she looked at his leg, as if she would help as she had with his injuries of the summer, but then she pressed the items into his hands and said, "Don't take too long. Remember, we have real coffee this morning."

Puzzled by her nervousness, Donovan went inside the tent, trying not to disturb Gonzales. This proved unnecessary since he was sleeping the deep unwakeable sleep of a man just in from a wild night on the town. Donovan tried to ignore the reek of alcohol as he removed his pants, which had stuck to his chafe wounds in the night and were now spotted with blood. The ointment took away some of the pain and once he had wound bandages around the chafed areas and put on a fresh pair of pants, the brace seemed more bearable than the previous day. Why hadn't he thought to do this before?

When he returned to the fire, he found Diana wrapped in a blanket and sitting on a wooden box blinking sleepily at the flames. The expression on her face was so innocent that he put a hand on her head. "Good morning, sweetheart. You ready to earn that mule today?"

"Hm," she said with a sleepy half-smile.

"She's ready for some breakfast, is what she is," Melinda said, handing the girl a plate of eggs.

"Thank you," she murmured as she forked a bit of egg into her mouth.

"Did you ladies still want me to find you some cream?"

"Oh," Amalia said, taking the coffeepot off the fire, "Only if someone else really needs it. I thought it would be nice, but it's a little late now. We’ll make sure to trade for some today instead."

"I'd as soon we didn't spend the money," Melinda said, scooping eggs onto a few more plates and passing them around. "I never could learn to like coffee with cream.”

"I like cream in my coffee when I'm in a certain type of mood," Amalia said as she poured coffee into mugs and handed them out, including to Diana, who took hers eagerly.

"What kind of mood is that?" Donovan asked.

Amalia ducked her head and turned away, muttering something vague about how being in town brought back memories.

"I could use a few less memories, myself," Melinda said, sitting down beside her daughter and starting on her eggs. "This was where they picked Estéban up on a supply run. He was forty-five years old and fat, but they drafted him anyway, and I haven't seen or heard from him since. My poor little girl doesn't even remember her daddy."

"I ain't no poor little girl," Diana protested.

Donovan shot Amalia a worried look. "I thought you said the feds don't come through here."

"It's been eight years since the last time.”

"Yes," Melinda sniffed. "I think after their last drafting run they took a look at my aging husband and the others like him and figured this was the bottom of the barrel. No point coming back here."

Donovan sipped his coffee, only partly reassured. "I would think they could be back any time, then," he said. "To get the young men who were just children eight years ago."

Melinda and Amalia exchanged glances. "I think they would've been back by now, if that were the case," Melinda said.

"And the town has a good warning system," Amalia reminded him.

"All the more reason to keep this brace on, I guess," Donovan sighed. "Maybe it wasn't such a crazy idea, after all."

Everyone ate in silence as the sounds of the camp coming to life continued around them. When they were finished, they put their empty plates in a basket which Diana took to the communal washtubs. Amalia put out the fire and Melinda set a plate of food and cup of coffee in the warm ashes for her father's breakfast. After they finished tidying the campsite and Diana had returned with the clean dishes, they gathered their coins and small valuables and started walking with the other vendors toward the market. The sun was just starting to gild a few wispy clouds in the sky. It was a promising sign of a good day.

* * *

Morning sales were brisk. Carina's remaining pickles and preserves sold out, as did the socks. By midday they had done well enough that Amalia thought it was time to start buying things for the farm. During a lull in traffic past their booth, she handed Donovan a shopping list.

"Could you read it to me?" he asked with some embarrassment.

"Can't you read my handwriting?"

"Not very well."

Amalia frowned at him curiously but seemed happy to lean in close, point to each word and read it aloud. "On these bigger items, like the fertilizer and the wheat flour," she said, "You just want to make the deal. Make sure they'll be at camp tonight or back here at market in the morning and we'll collect then, when we have our cart and animals. Get a chit for any deal you make, and a receipt if you make a down payment."

"What if I can't find some of these things, or if I can't get good quality?"

"Then we'll have to buy in town on our way out. Be sure to use federal money or offer to trade wherever possible. We try to keep hard currency, like silver, for later."

Donovan was satisfied with these instructions and after pocketing the money and ration books, he moved off into the crowd of shoppers. He found his childhood street smarts returning as he went about his mission, teasing, flattering, sassing and bullying as the situation seemed to warrant, until he got the price he wanted. When he got hungry he indulged himself with a piece of sausage sold by an old woman with a strange accent he couldn't place. He listened to a musician for awhile and tossed a coin into his cup. He bargained for some kerosene and a new water filter to be delivered to their campsite later in the evening, and he found good deals on yeast, oats, lard and sugar. He picked another pocket.

He wandered into the bleachers, checking out the offerings of the smaller vendors. At length he ended up at Gonzales' spot, where in spite of his bloodshot eyes, the man was set up neatly and talking a good line. Once his customer had moved on, Donovan sat down. "How are things going?"

"Business is booming, man." Gonzales grinned like a well-fed cat. "I'm going to make out like a bandit today. That means the party will be good tonight."

"You mean it wasn't last night?"

"Tonight will be better. You want to come along?"

"Where are you going?"

"Tortuga Rosa. It's a bar on the outskirts of town. Just an old warehouse, nothing fancy. Cheap drinks. Cheaper women." He laughed and gave Donovan a playful punch on the shoulder. "Come on, hombre, how long's it been, anyway? A man's got needs, right?"

"Well," Donovan said, "I suppose I could join you for a drink."

"Sure, man. Just a drink, maybe dance with a pretty girl or two. That brace won't slow you down much, and just about every man there is old, crippled or faking it, so you won't stand out. And you don't have to spend a lot of money to have some fun. I bet it's been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Yes," Donovan admitted. "It's been pretty damn long, now that you mention it."

* * *

Gonzales and Donovan didn't stay to eat dinner but started toward town as soon as they had concluded their deals for the day. Melinda gave them disapproving looks, but she took what was left of the money and ration books and promised to give them to Amalia when she returned from her errands. "I hope you don't plan to be out late," Melinda said, glaring more at Donovan than Gonzales, who she considered a hopeless case.

"I'm just tagging along to see more of the town and have a real beer, if I can find one. I'll be back early."

Once they got to the main drag, Gonzales hailed a bicycle rickshaw and they were treated to a swift, bouncy ride down the dusty street, then through a few increasingly dismal side streets until they found themselves in a sort of suburban slum of ramshackle huts, abandoned cars and broken mobile homes. Not even weeds seemed willing to grow in this barren moonscape where the hard-packed earth was scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding rock. Scraggly chickens and a few lean mutts poked among the trash at the margins of rusting fences. Dirty children ran up to the rickshaw with their hands out, clamoring for coins. A few sullen men sat in the doorways of their shacks, drinking uncertain homebrews out of old bottles and staring vacantly as the rickshaw clattered past. From inside one of the hovels, a baby shrieked.

After a few more bends in the road, Donovan saw a sprawling concrete block of a building, silhouetted against the darkening sky. It had been designed to mimic native adobe but was now just a cheap architectural abandonment. The exterior glittered with sickly pink lights hung on long strings draped over the walls and around two big windows facing what was left of an asphalt parking lot. Bicycles, horses and a wagon were tied to posts in front and there were a few electric and coal diesel scooters as well. All of these were guarded by two big men with shotguns who strode back and forth casting suspicious looks on anyone who tried to approach a mode of transport without showing a chit to the greasy-haired teenager who was keeping tabs. As their rickshaw pulled into the driveway, they could already hear the crash of frenetic music, vaguely Tejano with a native drumbeat and something else going on that Donovan couldn't place.

"So what do you think?" Gonzales asked as he tipped the driver.

Donovan looked around, excited to find himself in a place where something was happening, after so long in the country. He stepped around a young man who even at this early hour was on his knees puking into a patch of yellow weeds. "I think this will work."

They pushed their way through the knot of men hovering around the doorway and entered a large open space that in spite of the promise of the lights at the windows, was dimly lit and of questionable cleanliness. To their right stretched a long bar backed by shelves of bottles of all description, although Donovan knew from experience that most of the bottles probably contained the same thing--local rotgut being passed off as imported liquor.

Scattered around the bar were a few tables where men played cards or engaged in animated discussions with each other and whores, most of whom seemed to be local Hispanic and Indian girls with dusky skin, dark curls, bloody lipstick and brightly colored dresses. On the other side of the room were several pool tables, their felt surfaces in varying states of patching and repair. This area was more brightly lit than the bar and was full of men and garishly painted women tossing back drinks and taking shots at the colored balls, laughing or cursing as the balls ran up against the seams in the poorly repaired felt.

Toward the back was the doorway to the dance hall and Donovan could see people moving around to the chaotic thumping of the music. A rangy redhead stalked out of the room and looked around, sullenly sizing up the crowd. Underneath her heavy makeup, her skin was waxy, tinged with blue around her eyes, collarbone, and the slender joints of her wrists, as if she were bruised. The dim light reflected off the spangles of her dress, only partially disguising its poor cut and drooping hem. She walked over to the bar, found a spot near the bartender's well and said a few words. The bartender, a short dark man with a hook nose, nodded and poured her a double shot.

Clutching her drink, she leaned against a blank spot on the wall, surveying the room from the rim of her glass as she sucked down the harsh brown liquor. Three men, made bold by the local moonshine, approached her, drawn by her unusual coloring and the flame of her waist-length hair, even though her face was too angular, her manner too desultory to be attractive.

Gonzales noticed Donovan wasn't following him to the bar and stopped to see what he was looking at. "She's a strange one," he said. "I noticed her here last night."

"Did you get anywhere with her?" Donovan asked, pretending to turn his interest to his drink options.

"I didn't even try." Gonzales put a foot up on the brass rail and motioned the bartender over. "Bourbon," he said. "House is fine. And whatever he wants." He made a motion with his head to indicate Donovan.

"How about some scotch.”

"You got it." The bartender took a couple more orders and began racking up glassware.

"The scotch is probably the same as the bourbon," Gonzales pointed out. "All of it likely distilled last week from some local farmer's cornfield."

"Yeah, but you got to ask, you know. You never know when you might get lucky." Without intending to, Donovan found his gaze wandering back to the redhead, who was still talking to the men, forcing a smile and sucking on her whiskey with determination.

The look wasn't lost on Gonzales. "If getting lucky is what you're after, I wouldn't bother with her."

"Why? Is she not what I think she is?"

Their drinks arrived and Gonzales tossed the bartender a silver coin. "Oh, she's a whore, all right," he said, taking a gulp of his home-distilled bourbon and grimacing. "And if you like them with an attitude, I guess she's the one for you. But me, I can't do it if they don't seem to want it. I mean, I know none of them do this for kicks, but if they can't at least pretend they like me a little. . ."

"I hear you," Donovan said. "I’m not really interested in her. Just curious. She doesn't fit in."

"I know that's right." Gonzales looked around the room. "But hey, it's too early to be thinking about the girls. They'll be here all night and we ain't even got started yet." He spotted what he was looking for and gave Donovan a grin. "I see there's a game going on over there," he pointed. "You up for some poker?"

* * *

Four hours later Donovan raked a pile of coins toward him while the other men at the table glowered in disgust. "Don't turn your back on this one on the way home," one of them told Gonzales. "He could be planning to murder you in your sleep and you'd never know it."

"And no one would suspect him, either," the other man grunted. "Not even if they found your blood on his hands."

"Hey, why all the talk when all I did was win a couple card games?" Donovan protested. He turned to one of the pretty girls who had been hovering ever since he started winning, and he handed her a few coins. "Here, honey, get us all another round and be sure to get something for you and your friend." As he said this, he slapped the other girl's hands away from his stash. She had been trying to pull something on him all night and it was getting old. He turned back to the group. "One more game, guys? Win it back?"

The strangers exchanged glances, but it was Gonzales who pushed his chair away from the table. "Count me out, friend. I've been trying to win it back for quite awhile and look where it got me. The only money I got left is for liquor and girls, and I ain't giving you a chance at taking that, too."

The other men took their cue from Gonzales and also declined to play any further. After they got their drinks, one disappeared into the dance hall while the other wandered over to the pool tables to see if he would have better luck there. Gonzales pulled one of the girls onto his lap. "I had no idea you were a sharp,” he told Donovan.

"A sharp? No, I was just lucky tonight."

"Uh-huh." Gonzales agreed in a way that made it clear he didn't agree at all. "Be careful," he said. "Just 'cause this ain't the city don't mean there's no dangerous characters. And this ain't like in the service either, where there's a CO to keep a man in line if he loses it. This is no-man's land, and if you pull a trick on the wrong guy, there's no telling where it will end."

Donovan forced a smile. "I like to think I'm a pretty good judge of character, but I'll be more careful, like you say."

Gonzales tossed back the rest of his drink and stood up, still clutching the girl. "So how about it?" he asked her. "You got a room here?"

The girl nodded, but her gaze was on Donovan and the mound of silver coins and federal bills he was scooping into his pockets. Donovan caught her glance and shook his head, so she turned back to Gonzales. "Sure, I got a room.”

As Gonzales and the girl walked away, the other girl looked at him expectantly, but Donovan had other things on his mind and craned his neck looking for the redhead. It had been awhile since he had seen her last. "Maybe later," he told the little Hispana. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a silver quarter. "If I'm interested later, I'll find you."

The girl tossed her black curls and walked to another table of card-players where maybe she could do better. Donovan stood and looked around the room. It was unlikely the redhead had left the club, although if she was unaffiliated with the house, it was a possibility. More likely she was in the dance hall.

He walked into the dark room, waiting for his senses to adjust to the dim light and loud music. The brace hindered his ability to move through the crowd, so he stayed near the wall, scanning the room as well as he could. The girl he was looking for was not among the twirling and gyrating dancers. He kept moving, but she wasn't among the people standing at the bar, or one of the ones sitting on the battered sofas watching the dancing. He was about to give up when he noticed a doorway leading to an even darker room. He had a feeling he knew what went on here, but it was worth a try.

He approached the doorway and peered inside. It was a tiny place, perhaps an office in better times, hazy with sweet-smelling smoke and lit by a dirty oil lamp. The room seemed populated by shadows, all of them engaged in smoking, snorting or injecting things. Before he could get his bearings, a tall man in the shiny, green-tinged remnants of a tuxedo came up to him. "We take silver or gold," he said in a pleasant tone that managed to convey the idea that silver and gold were not only the patron's best choice of payment but the only choice. "What do you like?"

Donovan was crafting a response when he saw her. Pale and ethereal, she sat on the floor on the opposite side of the room, staring at nothing with such an expression of vulnerability on her face that he was moved like he had been when he first saw her. "I came to get her,” Donovan said.

"Good. She just takes up space and never spends more than a dollar on her damn cheap huffers."

Donovan passed into the room and lowered himself as best he could onto the floor beside the redhead, who looked at him with a poorly disguised lack of curiosity. "Hey," he said, "What's your name?"

"Valerie."

Donovan tried to scoot a little closer, the deathly pallor of her skin seeming to beg for the warmth of his own brown and healthy body. "That's a pretty name. Is it your real name, or just the one you go by?"

"What's it to you?" She turned away, as if hoping this would discourage him, and picked up a paper bag. She held it to her face, inhaling deeply.

Donovan put a hand on her shoulder. "Honey… Valerie, please don't do that."

"Why should you give a damn? You want to fuck me? It'll be twenty dollars. In silver."

"That's pretty steep," Donovan said.

She nodded in satisfaction and took another hit off her bag.

"I didn't search all over this place to buy you for an hour. I want to talk to you."

"Yeah, right. What are you, a fed?"

"No. I just think you're interesting."

"You don't even know me."

"I know you don't belong here." They sat in silence a few minutes before Donovan spoke again. "So what's in the bag?"

Valerie raised her eyebrows as if it were a foolish question. "Around here they call it a roadrunner. A little paint, a little coal diesel." She held the bag toward him in a ghostly parody of some childhood memory about sharing.

"I don't do that sort of thing. I do plenty of other things I shouldn't, so there need to be a few I don't. That way I'll have a chance of squaring things later with the Lord."

"I don't want to hear anything about the Lord," Valerie said. "It's because of him I'm in this place."

"I don't know that I'd go blaming God for my troubles."

"Well, I blame him for mine. I used to be a good girl. A good Christian girl." She held Donovan's gaze to make sure he understood this point. "My family had a small place in the mountains and it was a hard life, but we managed okay. But then my father died and it was just my sick mother and us four girls. We sold our stock and seed for medicine and were left with nothing."

Donovan took one of her slender hands. "I'm sorry."

"There was nothing to do but look for work. My oldest sister left saying she was going to join the Guard and send us money, but we never heard from her again." Valerie started to raise the bag to her face again, but Donovan's hand on her wrist stopped her. "So that left three of us to figure out some other way of making money. We had no skills and lived so far from everything. None of us could find work we could do that earned any real money except. . .” she waved a hand. "This. So we drew lots. I lost." She wrenched her hand from Donovan's grasp and inhaled again from the bag.

"Earning your bread, no matter how you have to do it, isn't going to kill you, but that stuff will.”

"I don't care. I'm as good as dead anyway. My mother and sisters take my money, but they don't talk to me. Not like I'm one of them. I'm just the whore who gives them money so they can keep living on their mountain being good Christians."

Seeing that the man in the tuxedo was glaring at them, Donovan stood up. "Come on." He reached a hand down and helped Valerie to her feet. He put an arm around her waist and guided her back into the noisy dance hall. "Is there someplace we can go? Somewhere a little quieter?"

Valerie looked at him a long moment, swaying from inhalants, moonshine and high heeled shoes that pinched her toes. Then she took his hand and led him around the perimeter of the dance floor to a door he hadn't noticed earlier. Beyond was a dim tunnel of doors. Valerie led him to a room at the end of the hallway. "This one's mine," she said, as she opened the door onto a tiny closet of a room, bare of decoration other than a few crumpled dresses on the floor in a corner.

"This wasn't what I meant."

"Hey, you said you just wanted to talk, right?" She shut the door behind them, stepped out of her shoes and flung herself on the bed. "If you meant what you said, it shouldn't matter where we are." She closed her eyes. "So talk."

Donovan did. Since there was no other furniture, he sat on the edge of the bed and told her of his adventures as a street kid in the city. He played with the tattered hem of her skirt while she told him of life on her mountain. He lay down next to her and wrapped a lock of her strange orange hair around his hand as he told her about farm life with Amalia and Carina. He said little about his days in the Guard, but she seemed to understand the need to keep a secret and didn't press him about the gaps in his story any more than he pressed her about the missing parts of hers. When finally it seemed there was no more to say, he leaned over and kissed her.

"It's not really twenty dollars," she said.

"I know."

"I just say that when I'm tired and I want to make a man go away."

"I kind of figured that."

"You don't have to pay me anything. I like you."

"Maybe I want to give you something, because I like you, too."

When Donovan left an hour later, Valerie was asleep and he had left under her pillow a ration book he had lifted earlier in the night, and a small gold piece worth considerably more than twenty dollars.

* * *

A clatter of pans and kettles roused him from a deep slumber. The thin walls of the tent where he had collapsed with Gonzales were no protection from the racket of breakfast being made. Wooden chests opened and slammed shut. Spoons pounded furiously against the sides of bowls. Pot lids clanged into place. Each sound felt like a blow to the head, like part of some larger plan to turn this terrible headache into agony.

He groaned, rolled over and tried putting his pillow over his head, but that was no good because now he couldn't breathe. And now that he was awake enough to think in a limping sort of way, it occurred to him that maybe all the noise of breakfast-making really did have some sort of motive behind it. Hadn't Melinda and Amalia been quieter all the other mornings they had camped? Surely it didn't require this much noise.

He sat up and pressed his face with the palms of his hands, wondering what time it was and how long he had slept. There was no light coming in through the walls of the tent, but he guessed dawn was not far off. In that case he had slept maybe, what, three hours? He looked at Gonzales, still snoring and oblivious to the commotion. He had a vague memory of Gonzales being a lot more drunk than he himself had been, singing and shouting during the rickshaw ride back into town and stumbling into seemingly everybody's campsite but his own. He had even gone into the wrong tent, waking a group of children and causing a big headache for Donovan as he tried to get the man into his own camp, against his protests that he knew where it was and "didn't need no help from no thieving card sharp."

Well, that headache was nothing like this one. How long had it been since he had been in the habit of drinking? Too long, his head and queasy stomach told him as he swayed to his feet. He needed coffee and some greasy eggs. He stumbled out of the tent and made his way to the campfire where Amalia and Melinda crouched together near the flames, keeping an eye on breakfast. They were quiet now, seeming to have run out of ways to make noise. They looked up as he approached, but said nothing. "Good morning," he mumbled, sitting down on one of the boxes that passed for seats near the fire.

Melinda raised her eyebrows but didn't return his greeting, instead bending back over her skillet of eggs. Amalia had been keeping an eye on the coffeepot, but now she scowled and walked away in an unrealistic imitation of having other matters to attend to. Donovan looked around, hoping Peterson or Diana could help break the atmosphere of feminine disapproval, but they were gone, their bedding neatly rolled and staged near the tent.

"Where did Diana and your father go?" he asked Melinda.

She had taken the skillet out of the fire, but kept stirring so she wouldn't have to look at him. "They went to get the animals."

Donovan remembered now that today was their last trading day, the day they would complete the bigger deals they had made and pick up any last items they needed in the town’s shops. Tonight they would be sleeping in the desert again, just their little group, alone under the stars. Suddenly Donovan longed to get back to the simple rhythms of country life. It would be good to get away from this ugly place.

Melinda spooned some eggs onto a plate and set the covered skillet into some warm ashes nearby. Then she removed the coffeepot from the grill over the fire and poured herself a cup. She must have heard Donovan's stomach growl because she gave him a pointed look. "Serve yourself. There's no waitress today."

Donovan moved stiffly as he fixed himself a plate and poured a cup of Amalia's strong coffee. He ate in silence, feeling like Melinda was analyzing his every move. Just when he was beginning to think he would suffocate under her disapproval, a jangle of harness and creaking of wheels announced the return of Peterson and Diana. They were each driving a cart, with Gonazales' horse, Melinda's pony, and Amalia's jennets tethered behind. Diana pulled her team to a stop, shrieked "Breakfast!" and hopped down off the box. Melinda pressed a plate and cup into her hands, and the girl fell to eating like a starving animal.

"Don't gobble your food, Diana.”

"It's all right," Peterson said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "That's a fine girl you got there, you know."

"She'd be a bit finer if she minded her manners."

"Mind them for what? For afternoon tea at some fancy New York restaurant, buried under the rubble these past twenty years?" He tousled Diana's hair. "She's a growing girl who did a man's work this morning, so let her eat."

"Yes," Melinda said, "I suppose my poor baby is hungry, having to do work that should've been done by a man." She glared at Donovan as she said this, and he hoped she meant to include Gonzales in her condemnation of the useless men of their party.

"Speaking of men," Peterson said, attempting to ignore his daughter's poorly disguised hostility, "Where's Gonzales? Don't tell me he's still sleeping."

"He is." Melinda sipped her coffee, regal in her righteousness.

"Well," the old man scratched the back of his neck. "I hate to do it to the guy, but I guess I’m going to have to wake him up."

Diana jumped up. "Let me!" Before anyone could stop her, she darted over to the tent, opened the flap and poked her head inside. Loudly and off tune she began singing:

Que linda esta mañana
En que vengo a saludarte
Venimos todos con gusto
Y placer a felicitarte!

From inside the tent, the others could hear a shuffling, and then a mumbled, "Madre de Dios, mi hijita, cállate!"

Diana choked back a giggle and launched into the next verse.

"Cállate, Diana! Shut up!"

The girl squealed as a sock hit her in the face. She jumped back from the open tent and ran to hide behind her mother.

Gonzales lumbered out of the tent and looked around. "Damn! It's still dark out." He looked at Diana. "That sun ain't coming up for another hour."

"And there's a lot of work to be done before it does," Peterson said. "We brought your horse around for you."

"There's plenty of eggs," Donovan added. "Have some. And some coffee. You'll feel better."

Muttering under his breath that nothing was going to make him feel better, and how people got no business singing the Mañanitas song at such an ungodly hour, Gonzales stumbled toward the fire, and with shaking hands, poured himself a cup of coffee.

Melinda eyed him coldly, then turned her attention to her daughter. "What on earth was that you were singing?"

"Mañanitas," she replied, moving toward her abandoned coffee cup now that it seemed she would escape any punishment from Gonzales. "It's a song I learned from some of the kids in the market. It's like Happy Birthday."

"Only it ain't my birthday, kid." Gonazles sat down and stared dumbly into his cup.

"Behave yourself," Peterson said, "Or I'll send her to your house to sing it again when it is."

"I need that like a hole in the head. Where's those eggs?"

Sullenly, Melinda ladled a spoonful onto a plate and handed it to him.

"That's it?"

"You want more, you can get it yourself."

Gonzales ate his breakfast without further complaint. Peterson accepted a plate from his daughter and sat down, too. Everyone was finishing breakfast and coffee when Amalia returned. "The Sinclairs will be by with the oats in about an hour," she said. "And I heard there's good prices on baking soda, toothbrushes and work boots in the shops, so maybe we can stop at a couple places on our way out and see what they've got."

"Have something to eat, dear," Melinda said. But Amalia shook her head at the offer of eggs, and found only dribbles when she upended the coffeepot over her cup. She shrugged and began putting things into boxes and baskets for the trip home. Melinda jumped to help. "Why don't I do this while you make deliveries?”

Donovan stood up, trying to pretend his head wasn't pounding. "How about I take care of the deliveries so you can stay here and wait for the oats?"

"Okay," Amalia said without looking him in the eye. She turned away and went to harness the team. Donovan went after her, but found himself unsure what to say. She worked with the animals silently, the air so dense with her disapproval that it was almost a visible thing.

"You're mad at me," Donovan said.

Amalia tugged at a harness strap. "I have no right to be."

"But you are."

"Yes."

Donovan considered. "I guess I just don't see why."

"After the long conversation we had about not wasting money and how I hate people who carry on like Gonzales, you wonder why I'm disappointed in you?"

"Disappointed in me?" Donovan started to shake his head, but it hurt too much. "Don't talk down to me. I'm a soldier, not some ignorant yokel. How I spend my free time is my choice and my business."

"I guess that's why I'm disappointed," Amalia said, still refusing to look at him. "I thought you were smart enough to find more productive uses for your time than hanging around the bars."

"I don't have to justify myself to you."

"Of course you don't." Amalia checked the harness straps one last time. "I think that's what disappoints me most of all." She rubbed Regan's muzzle and clucked at Goneril. "So how long do you think it will take to make your deliveries? There's a lot to do today and we'd like to be on the road by noon."

Donovan wasn't feeling well enough to change mental gears this quickly. "I don't think it will take very long. Maybe I can do a pickup or two and just make the rounds."

"That's kind of what I had in mind."

"And then we break camp, hit the stores and go home?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'm ready to leave this place."

Tin Soldier - Book One, Chapter Five

2006-12-25T10:38:00.002-06:00

It was a pleasure to crest the hill and wind down the valley road, the little farm growing larger amid the scrub and fallow fields, the narrow ribbon of the creek shining silver in the afternoon light. Goneril and Regan seemed to know they were almost home and held their heads high, sniffing the air and pulling the cart with such enthusiasm that Amalia had to keep a firm hand on the reins to prevent them from breaking into an eager trot.

The party pulled into the driveway as Carina, who must have been watching all day, dashed from the barn to greet them. Grandma Peterson poked her head out the kitchen door and tottered her way into the group, grinning. She sent Diana to fetch her bags and climbed up onto the buckboard with surprising agility.

Gonzales and the Petersons didn't stay long, in spite of Carina's friendly offer of tea and a snack.

"No, mi hijita," Peterson said. "We need to go see how things are getting along at the ranch. We hired two of the Torres brood to mind the place, and they’ve probably let the bees escape and the sheep wander into the arroyo by now."

"And my mamá is waiting, bless her heart," Gonzales chimed in. "She still thinks I'm a boy who can't hardly take care of himself. At her age, there's no point in trying to tell her different."

As the party trailed away in a cloud of dust, Carina rubbed the jennets' noses, and an uncertain look passed between her and her sister. "We might as well," Carina said.

Amalia pressed her lips together and started taking things out of the wagon. Donovan stepped forward to help. "Why don't you unload and let us carry the things inside?" Amalia told him.

If this arrangement struck Donovan as odd, he gave no sign, and began staging coffee, flour, oats, lard, and canned goods near the kitchen door. When everything was out of the wagon and still no sign of Amalia and Carina, he paused. It was clear they were nervous about something and Donovan guessed they didn't want him knowing the location of the secret storeroom he knew they must have. With an innocent air, he loaded his arms with tins of baking soda and sacks of salt and headed inside.

He found no one in the kitchen and his footsteps clattered on the linoleum. Somewhere he heard a faint murmur of feminine voices, but couldn't make out the source. Since he knew the house well by this point, the only place their storeroom could be was a basement of some kind. The question was how one got to it. Silently, he moved to the kitchen table and set his items down. He waited again, straining for a sound.

There it was.

He stepped into the hallway and saw that the door to the linen closet was open. Inside was a dark hole where the floor should have been. He crouched and listened. He couldn't make out the words, but Amalia's angry tone and Carina's soothing murmurs made him wonder if they were talking about him. He went back outside and brought in a few more foodstuffs, making sure to stomp loudly on the kitchen floor, but only as far as the table and then back out again. That should put an end to their worries that he would raid their stash. There would be time enough to find out what they had.

When Carina came outside again, she found him pulling woolen pelts out of the cart. "Those go in the barn."

Donovan slid the wool back into the cart. "Good. They stink."

"That's why we don't bring them in the house until we've washed them." She tugged on Goneril's bridle. "Why don't you come out to the barn and help me finish unloading? Then we can curry these big babies and let them in the pasture with their little goat friends." She looked Goneril in the eye. "Do you miss your friends? Are you glad to be home?"

"They sure moved like they were glad to be coming home once we were back in the valley.”

"They can smell when they're almost home. They rely on all their senses, unlike us."

"They know a good thing when they've got it," Donovan agreed.

"Also unlike us." Carina gave him a serious look. "You do know when you've got things pretty good, right?"

"Yes." He ducked his head. Her meaning was obvious.

"Then I guess we don't have to say any more about it." Carina rubbed the jenny's nose as if Donovan's foibles in town were already forgotten. "I'm sure glad to have my sweet babies home. You've had quite an adventure, haven't you?"

* * *

If Carina was happy with Amalia and Donovan's trades, she was even happier to have her jennets home. For several days after their return, she could be found in the paddock or the barn, talking to her animals, inspecting hooves and ears, checking coats for ticks and sores, oiling the harness and making liberal use of the currycomb. "What would you have done if I'd brought you the alpaca you keep asking for?" Amalia teased.

"You wouldn't see me at all, which would leave you to do your own cooking," Carina answered. "But at least the cooking is easy right now, with all the goodies you brought from town. You did really well."

They were in the barn and Amalia pretended great interest in the condition of a harness hook.

Her shift in mood wasn't lost on Carina. "Donovan is pretty good at trading."

"Yes. He's quite the charmer."

Carina rubbed vigorously at a stiff patch of leather. "We shouldn't send him anywhere with Gonzales any more. He needs a more steady influence. He's pretty young."

"That's true, even if it's not exactly what I meant."

"There's more?"

Amalia sighed. "Just that he's quite the charmer."

Suddenly everything was clear. "He's got a good heart. I doubt he would ever mean to hurt anyone or lead them on."

"Of course not. But those grasshopper types who never think about the consequences of their behavior. . ."

"It's a problem, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Carina put down her rag. "As long as we don't take him too seriously," she said, "I don’t think we have to stop enjoying his company. He works hard and he means no harm."

Amalia blushed and turned away. "That's not what I meant at all. I just don't want him causing trouble for any of our friends or trading partners. He's going to pull a trick on the wrong person some day and get shot for it, and I won't be the least bit sorry."

Carina smiled to herself as Amalia walked outside, then she picked up her rag and returned to her work.

* * *

The brisk blue skies and golden poplars of November worked their magic on Donovan. After his adventures in Macrina, the simplicity of plants, wells, fences and animals was invigorating. He found himself humming old tunes as he went about his work cleaning milking equipment, drying fall herbs and vegetables, mending fences and checking the traps. What had he ever liked about urban life? Sometimes he and Carina would hitch one of the jennies to a cart and trade with the valley neighbors, exchanging squashes, beans and different types of hay. Who could've guessed there could be so many varieties of all these things? But no, an acorn squash was not a pumpkin, a pinto bean was not a black bean and alfalfa was too rich for daily feed and must be traded for brome and timothy.

It was all new and surprisingly interesting.

Under Amalia's direction, he re-plastered one of the low adobe walls on the property. He trapped a rabbit for Carina to make into a stew. He refurbished an old truck wheel for one of the carts. He helped wash raw wool and learned how to keep it from felting in hot water. One afternoon he built a hammock in the garden with some rope he found in a shed. The sisters had a grand time trying to find a way they could both enjoy it without being tipped into the fallow cabbage bed. In the evenings when Carina turned on the electric light so Amalia could read to them, he struggled with his knitting, trying to extend his ramshackle scarf into an even more questionable afghan. Well, it didn't have to look good to keep him warm. When he needed a break from counting stitches, he enjoyed the peaceful domestic scene— the two women, one reading from a novel called Vanity Fair, the other mending a shirt or working the drop spindle while the tabby dozed in a nearby chair or a friendly lap. It was all very cozy and comforting.

* * *

"So," Carina said one morning over cornmeal pancakes flavored with some of the Petersons' honey, "What are we going to do about Thanksgiving?"

"What do you mean, what are we going to do about it?" Amalia asked. "It'll come, regardless."

"You know what I mean."

"I don't see why we have to do anything different from any other day. If we're not thankful the rest of the year, we're not going to make up for it with just one dinner."

"That's not the point, and you know it." Carina pondered. "What can we do this year? Cornmeal stuffing, obviously, but. . . oh, I hate to kill one of the chickens, and no one around here raises turkeys."

"Will quail do?" Donovan asked. "I'm not so good with a bow and arrow, but if you've got enough ammo, I can shoot some. I see coveys out there all the time."
Carina nodded. "Yes, I think quail would do. And there's that can of cranberries you got in Macrina. . ."

"I'm curious to try those. I didn't know what they were but Diana said I should take them."

"Diana is a clever girl. She'll make someone a terrific wife one day."

"That's if she wants to marry at all," Amalia said. "She'd probably be better off if she didn't, given her prospects around here. But then, she did express an interest in Donovan."

"Oh did she?" Carina gave him a wicked smile. "When's the date?"

"Sometime after she reaches puberty, I would think.”

"Speaking of the Petersons," Amalia cut in, "Do you want to invite them? They've done us several favors this year."

Carina brightened. "That's a good idea." She turned to Donovan. "How good are you with a shotgun? We'll need a lot of those quail if we're going to invite your little girlfriend and her family."

"I can get as many as you need. They're all over the place. Nothing's too good for my girlfriend."

Amalia rolled her eyes. "I'll see if I can get us some potatoes," she said, changing the subject. "We had no luck in town, which was odd, but the McKnights usually have some."

"I haven't had a potato in awhile," Carina said. "I wonder how their animals are doing?"

"I’m sure they wouldn't mind a friendly house call." Amalia stood up. "I guess that settles it. I'll go to the Peterson's tomorrow and invite them."

* * *

"Have you ever hunted quail?" Amalia asked, watching as Donovan inspected the shotgun.

"I've hunted game before."

"But have you hunted quail? And without a dog?"

Carina was nearby, sorting through her father's hunting gear. "Gonzales has a good pointer," she said. "Maybe we—"

"No." Amalia's voice was firm.

Donovan sighed. "I haven't ever hunted quail, with or without a dog."

Carina had found what she was looking for— a canvas bag that would hold as many as a dozen birds. She looked at Amalia. "Maybe you should go with him. He won't get as many, and he might even lose some, if he tries to do it alone."

"He can throw rocks to flush them out," Amalia said. "He'll just have to make sure he finds them if he hits them."

"Maybe we should just kill a couple chickens."

Donovan took the bag out of Carina's hands and looked it over. "I shouldn't have much trouble finding the dead quail," he said. "There's not so much ground cover as all that."

"And where do you think your going to find them, if not where the ground cover is thickest?" Amalia wanted to know.

"I've seen them. I know where they hang out."

Carina put a hand on Amalia's arm before she could say more. "Let him see how he does. If he can't get enough quail, we'll go with chicken. It won’t be the end of the world."

* * *

Donovan went out at dawn the next day and by noon had only managed to kill one bird and it was so full of shot that it was useless as food. Although he knew that the proper technique was to shoot the bird’s head off, so as to not get shot in the meat, it was easier said than done when a cloud of quail rose unexpectedly before him and he had to get off a shot as best he could. Discouraged and embarrassed, he sought out Carina in the kitchen, where she was stirring a pot of curds.

"It's okay," she reassured him. "They really are hard to get without a dog."

"It isn't that I'm not a good shot, but by the time you find them, flush them out and aim. . ."

"I know."

"And there were at least two others I'm pretty sure I hit, but I couldn't find them once they dropped."

"I know."

"I guess that's why they say to use a dog."

Seeing that his hands were empty, Carina handed him a strainer lined with a clean cloth. "Hold this over the empty pan. More experienced hunters than you have needed a dog to hunt quail. We'll have Amalia kill a chicken or two."

"I hate for us to have to do that." He watched as Carina poured the remaining curds into the strainer, the whey streaming through to the pot below. "Is there no place we can get a turkey? I haven't had one in years and I'd be happy to pay for it."

"The only people I know who raise any sort of birds besides chickens are the weirdos at the God's Candidates compound. We don't have any dealings with them and you in particular wouldn't be welcome."

"Why not? Everyone wants money and mine is as good as anyone else's."

"Not to them." Carina picked up the ends of the cloth and began twisting it, squeezing out the whey. "They're Aryan supremacists and would shoot you on sight."

Donovan laughed. "White supremacists? Out here in Mexican and Indian territory?"

"We didn't always have people like that out here. They turned that way when the economy went bad and they felt like they had to blame someone." Carina set the tightly wrapped cloth of curds on a plate and tied it with twine. "They're totally self-sufficient, as far as anyone has been able to figure out. They're also overrun with kids, since breeding seems to be part of their plan. They probably think they can supplant the native population with their own home-grown one. They're absolutely nuts, and that's why we don't have any dealings with them, even though Amalia and I could probably trade with them if we wanted to."

"They're the only ones you know of who raise turkeys?"

"I'm afraid so."

"So where are they, if you don't mind my asking."

Carina looked at him sharply. "Why do you care? I'm telling you, they're crazy. Dangerous-crazy. You don't want to go there."

"How can I avoid them if I don't know where they are?"

"You won't run into them if you stay around here. Were you planning on going somewhere?"

Their eyes met, and Donovan looked away first. He handed Carina the empty strainer.

"I was just curious."

* * *

That afternoon Donovan went out again with the shotgun, but had no luck and was gone until almost dusk. He came in as Amalia and Carina were sitting down to dinner and slid into his spot at the table as though his late arrival was unremarkable.

The women looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Amalia was the first to speak. "I could've used your help this afternoon. We were going to work on the door to the big box stable."

"I must've forgotten." He ladled sweet corn onto his plate.

"Did you get any more quail?" Carina asked.

He shook his head and reached for the beans. "I might head out again in the morning. I think I'm close to getting the hang of it."

Carina and Amalia looked at each other again, but it was Amalia who had words at the ready. "I think you'd do better to spend your time helping around here instead of wasting another day trying to figure out how to kill small birds that aren't worth the trouble."

"She's right," Carina said. "Your skill will get better over time. It would make more sense to practice over the course of the year and plan on having quail next Thanksgiving."

"Well, maybe I'll get a rabbit or two. I still want to head out early, before the sun's up."

"I guess that's reasonable. . ." Carina began.

"Oh, please. That's not reasonable at all." Amalia turned on him. "Are you up to something? All of a sudden you've got the hunting bug and it looks pretty strange to me."

"I'm not up to anything," he said, stirring his corn into his beans before reaching for a tortilla. "I don't see why you’re so suspicious just because I want to provide my friends with a nice Thanksgiving dinner."

"A rabbit dinner?" Amalia looked skeptical.

"Why not, since I'm having such bad luck with the quail? It'll save you having to kill any of your chickens, won't it?"

Amalia sat back in her chair, arms folded across her chest.

Carina frowned. "I guess you can give it a try. I don't think rabbit is very traditional, but—"

"I want to help. It's not like I'm any good with cooking or decorating. This is what I can do. Isn't Thanksgiving about being thankful for what you have? We can be grateful for rabbits, can't we?"

"I guess I don't need any help with anything in the morning. . ."

"Well, I do," Amalia said, but the look of quiet resignation on Carina's face checked her. "Fine. Get some rabbits. But that's it. After lunch, you're helping me with that box stall."

* * *

Donovan was out the door early. Even Carina, who rarely slept long enough to wake by the palest streak of sunlight, found him gone when she padded into the kitchen to stir up the fire and set a pot of coffee to boil. She began gathering a few things to make breakfast, only to find that the remaining tortillas from dinner were gone. She had planned to scramble them with eggs and chiles, but now they were missing. So was half a pan of cornbread, and the hard-boiled eggs and dried apples. She immediately suspected Donovan, but it was too much food for someone who only planned to be out hunting until lunchtime. He had taken enough food for a whole day or even two days, but that was ridiculous, wasn't it?

Uncertain what to do, she paced the floor, occasionally peering out the window. Thinking maybe things would seem different in a little while, she heated the skillet, added a bit of oil and broke some eggs. As she prepared breakfast, she pondered what to say to her sister. Had Donovan gone somewhere? He hadn't left for good, had he? Surely not. Where would he go? A Guard deserter with a weak leg and only a day's worth of food couldn't get far, could he? Then she remembered the gun and the money he had supposedly won in the poker game. How much money did he have? She wasn't sure, but he wouldn't get far on foot. Not unless. . .

She dropped the spatula. She had the presence of mind to move the skillet onto a cool spot on the stove, then ran out the door, grabbing a poncho off a peg on her way out.

The moon was still up and the sun was just starting to cast a glow over the horizon, so she didn't need a lantern. She ran unimpeded, house shoes flapping against her heels, all the way to the paddock where she threw herself against a fence rail and peered into the gloom. The goats trotted over right away, but she wasn't worried about them. A shadow in the middle distance raised its head, big ears pointed skyward as if picking out morning stars.

Where were the others?

She ducked between the fence railings and pushed her way through the herd, soiling her slippers but scarcely noticing as she scanned the paddock. There she was, over at the far end of the field, tugging at a weed.

But there was no sign of Cordelia. Carina's heart raced in panic. Then she remembered that she had put her in the barn for the night because the bad hoof had been bothering her again. Not even troubling to rub a kid's ears in passing, she hurried to the barn, cold and nearly frantic. She swung the heavy door open and ducked inside, glad to be out of the wind, except that here inside the barn everything was dark. There was a lantern on a peg near the unused stall, and matches somewhere nearby if she could find them. She should've brought a light with her.

She felt her way toward where she knew the barn lantern should be. The dark was oppressive, pressing against her like a physical thing. Where was that lantern? A sharp crack suddenly echoed across the room like a gunshot. Startled, Carina whirled about, but could see nothing. She held her breath, straining her senses to isolate the sound. Everything seemed strange with the darkness close upon her like this.

The sound rang out again and Carina's shoulders slumped in relief. It was only the stamp of a hoof, followed by a noisy exhalation and jangle of halter rings. Carina smiled. Cuing off the sound, she shuffled her way toward it in the dark. "Hey, baby," she said, finding the animal by warmth and scent. She patted the jenny's neck. "You scared me. I bet I scared you too, coming in all alone without a light. Shame on me."

She cooed and patted Cordelia for a few minutes, then with a sigh, leaned her whole body against the sturdy little animal. "So what do you think? Where could he have gone? He'll come back, won't he?"

* * *

Carina avoided her sister at lunchtime in the hope Donovan would return in time for dinner and keep her from having to endure Amalia's speculation on the matter. Dinner couldn't be put off forever, though, and as the sun went down, she fed and watered the stock, put the Cordelia back in the barn after being allowed the run of the paddock for the afternoon, then washed and went inside.

She was startled to find Amalia in the kitchen, tending a pot of beans that had been simmering most of the day. "Where've you been?" she asked. "You and Donovan both made yourselves pretty scarce, for all that talk about being willing to help me today."

"I'm sorry." Carina peered into the pot. Maybe if she didn't offer an explanation, she could put off the moment when she would be asked for one. "How about you sit down and rest?"

"Where is Donovan? And where were you?"

"I was around." She added a bit of dried chile to the soup. "The goats kept me busy, and I'm trying a new poultice on Cordelia. I made it using that turmeric we found when we were in the cellar putting the market goods away. It's probably too old to still be much good, but I figured it couldn't do any harm, and. . ."

"Where's Donovan?"

Carina hesitated. "I don't know." She stirred the soup in slow figure eights.

"What do you mean you don't know? Is he still out hunting rabbits?" Amalia looked toward the kitchen window, frowning. "It's almost dark, and he never takes this long."

"I don't think he went rabbit hunting.”

"What makes you say that?"

Carina told her about the missing food. "He packed enough for a day or so, but the odd thing is he left on foot. All the animals are here. He knows he can't get to town on foot, carrying all that food and water, too."

Amalia flung herself into a chair. "Did he take one of the guns? He can stretch his food by hunting, and he can buy or steal an animal to ride."

This hadn't occurred to Carina. "Should we ask the neighbors?"

Amalia shook her head. "If he'd done something like that here in the valley, we'd have heard about it by now."

"Horse thieves are always news, aren't they?"

"If we went asking around and then it turned out he was innocent. . ."

"We'd feel bad for giving him a reputation he didn't deserve." Carina went to the cabinet, took out two bowls and ladled the soup without bothering to taste it. She handed a bowl to her sister, remembered they had no spoons, retrieved some from a kitchen drawer and sat down. Instead of eating, though, she stirred her bowl of beans and broth, watching the steam rising from it. "I don't suppose there's a chance he planned on coming back at dinnertime and managed to hurt himself out there? Maybe he was just extra hungry this morning. Or maybe he wanted the cornbread to bait a snare."

"Doesn't sound likely to me," Amalia said. "But I know how we can find out. Let's see if he took his money with him."

"I hate to snoop."

"We'll do it anyway." Amalia stood up, dinner forgotten, and headed down the hallway.

Donovan hadn't done much to make the room his own. It was the same clean, spare room he had recuperated in, the only changes being the clothes hanging on pegs on the wall, his attempt at knitting draped over a chair, and an extra pair of boots lying in the middle of the floor.

"Seems like he would've taken some of these extra clothes, or at least the boots if he wasn't coming back," Carina mused.

Together they searched the room, but didn't turn up any coins. "If he left any money behind," Amalia finally said, "It's not in here."

The two women stared at each other, uncertain what to do next. Finally Amalia shrugged in a show of unconcern that didn't fool Carina for a minute. "He'll either come back, or he won't. We still have to eat and run this place." She pushed past her sister and returned to the kitchen. She sat down at the table, confronted once again by the bowl of soup. This time, she forced herself to taste it.

Carina sat across from her and resumed stirring. "How is it?"

"Cold. Not enough salt."

"The soup on the stove is still hot. We could—"

"It doesn't matter."

* * *

Carina awoke in the pre-dawn hour and couldn't go back to sleep. She got up and went into the kitchen where she was startled to find Amalia at the kitchen table, reading by the light of an oil lamp. She looked up when Carina entered the room, the fine lines around her eyes unusually distinct in the uncertain light.

"You're up early," Carina said.

"No, I'm up late."

Carina filled the coffee pot. "He won't come home just because you're waiting up all night for him."

"That's not why I'm doing it." Amalia shut the heavy book. "I was worried he might've sent someone to raid us. I couldn't sleep, not knowing if we were safe."

"Of course.” Carina stole a glance around the room but saw no evidence of the binoculars or a gun. What she did see though, was a glass on the table, still almost a quarter full of tea-colored whiskey.

"I don't see how you were able to sleep," Amalia went on. "Knowing that we might be in danger, knowing that something could've happened—"

"Well, I figured you were probably handling things," Carina lied. "It's not like I slept well. I kept waking up and finally decided there wasn't much point to keep on trying." She reached into the cupboard. "Will you want some coffee?"

"Sure. Were you going to make breakfast, too?"

Carina shrugged.

"It's okay if you're not hungry," Amalia said. "Maybe I'll just have some more of that soup from last night."

"I can make us a proper breakfast," Carina said without enthusiasm.

"A proper breakfast is whatever we say it is."

"In that case, how about I make us some cornbread to go with it?"

"If you insist." Amalia opened her book again. A few minutes later, Carina was still standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, staring out the window. Amalia sighed and went over to her. "Honestly, love," she said, putting an arm around her sister's shoulders. "The cornbread doesn't matter."

* * *

Later in the day, the women sat on the porch listlessly hulling pecans from a batch they had traded for from a neighbor along the creek. It was tedious work, made more so by the chill November air that stiffened their fingers, but the house seemed stifling today. They cracked the dark wooden shells and tossed the meats into a bowl, keeping an eye out for any change to the horizon. Toward mid-afternoon, Amalia's eyes fixed on a distant point and she paused in her work. "Looks like a little bit of dust toward the mountain road.”

Carina squinted into the distance. "Could be anything."

"I guess it could."

They went back to their work. The dust cloud grew larger.

"Should we be worried?" Carina asked.

"I don't think so. Seems to be only one person and raiders usually travel in groups." Nevertheless, Amalia went inside and got a shotgun.

"Why don't you get the binoculars, too?"

"Haven't seen them."

"Maybe Donovan took them."

"Maybe." Amalia settled back in her chair but didn't resume shelling nuts. Instead she watched the dust cloud, moving to the edge of the porch to get a better view.

"It's got to be him,” Carina said.

"Where would he have gotten a horse?"

"He could've gotten it anywhere, but I'm sure it's him."

The two women hurried down the path to the road. To be on the safe side, Amalia kept the shotgun with her, but kept the safety on.

As soon as the rider noticed the two figures standing at the gate, he kicked the horse into a canter. Hollering and holding on for dear life, Donovan swooped the Peterson's little mare between the gateposts and down the garden path, pulling up sharply by the kitchen door. He turned around in the saddle, breathless and excited as the women ran up to him.

"Donovan! We're so glad—"

"Where the hell have you been?"

Donovan dismounted and stood before them, dusty and beaming. "I had to run an errand." While the women sputtered and asked questions, he pulled a heavy pack off his saddle and held it out to Carina.

"What is it?"

"Open it up and look."

Amalia scowled. "Why don't you just tell us what it is?"

Donovan rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. "It's your Thanksgiving turkey."

* * *

That evening as Donovan slept, the women whispered in Carina's room.

"That's some story he told," Amalia said. "I don't believe it for a minute."

"I'm sure the part about Diana lending him the mare is true."

"I didn't mean that. I hope the poor girl doesn't get in trouble over it."

"I checked the horse good and sent it back with a bag of oats. I believe Donovan paid some money, too. That should smooth things over."

"I don't know why you would try to cover for him."

"I was covering for Diana, but like it or not, Donovan is family, and we have to start thinking of him that way."

"I'm not used to having family members who steal."

Carina sighed. "The turkey.”

"Yes, that damn turkey. I don't care what his convoluted story is, there's no way he paid money for it."

"Well, I know it's wrong of me, and if he stole it from anyone else I'd be angry, but look at who he got it from. Those God's Candidates folks are scary."

"That doesn't make it right to steal from them."

"They shot that Indian boy a few years back, remember? All he wanted was a drink of water and directions to the main road."

"So they're mean, evil people. Two wrongs—"

"Stop your moralizing. I didn't say I felt good about it."

"But you'll cook that turkey anyway."

"I can't let it go to waste." Carina fixed her sister with a sly smile. "If I suggested we throw it on the compost pile, you'd pitch a fit. You don't like waste any more than I do. What's your real issue? Maybe you're just disappointed he's not what you thought he might be?"

"What do you mean?"

"He told me about the fun you two had at the restaurant in Macrina. I think it turned your head a little."

"Don't be silly. He's what, fifteen years younger than me?"

"So? It's been a long time. Maybe you should have a little fun. It doesn't have to be serious."

Amalia stood up. "I can see this conversation is going nowhere."

"Okay. Just don't give him a hard time about the turkey. It's a good one, no matter how he got it."

Amalia started toward her room, then on a whim peeked in on Donovan. He lay sprawled across the bed, still in his dusty clothes, looking like nothing could wake him.

She folded her arms and leaned against the door frame. He was so impossibly young. How could someone who looked so innocent be a thief? Could one even trust a face like that? She stepped into the room and pulled a quilt over him.

Tin Soldier - Book One, Chapter Six

2006-12-24T10:49:00.000-06:00

The day dawned cold and gray, and by mid-morning, a heavy sleet began to fall, making outdoor work impossible. Carina had been waiting for just such a day. "Let's work up some herbs," she suggested to Amalia. "We're running low on a few things and they'll make the house smell good."

"Got to have the house smelling good," Amalia said. "But yeah, I was thinking it would be a good day for that. Maybe some mullein and sage?"

"We've also got that aspen bark."

"Okay. And how about some chamomile? You're running low on hair rinse."

"If I am, it's because someone else around here is using it too." Carina fixed her sister with a look that made her blush. "How about I do the chamomile while you work up the other stuff?"

While Carina stoked the kitchen stove and began boiling jars and bottles, Amalia and Donovan put on hats and leather ponchos and went out to the drying shed. The scent of so many herbs in one small room was disorienting, but Amalia seemed immune to it and got straight to business. From a wooden chest she pulled a few plastic tubs which seemed to Donovan the height of luxury and prosperity. Amalia cautioned him not to get the herbs mixed up in the same bin and turned her attention to finding the items she needed. By the light of their strongest electric lantern, Amalia began selecting from the dried weeds and flowers hanging in bunches on the wall and from the ceiling. She told him a little about their properties as she handed them to him.

"You know a lot about this stuff," Donovan said as he sealed the tops of the bins against the sleet outside.

"Not really. I don't think I'll ever be able to match my mother. She knew this stuff better than anyone I've ever met. People used to ask her for advice, and we did a good business in medicinals while she was alive."

"She sounds like an interesting woman."

Amalia examined a bundle of coriander hanging from a nail. "She tried to teach me and Carina her business, but Carina was more interested in what potions she could use to worm her animals and prevent hoof rot, and I just didn't have the same talent for it."

"You must've learned something. You saved my life."

"Antibiotics and a fast horse saved your life. Even so, nothing makes you feel more inadequate than being unable to save your own mother."

"Maybe there was nothing anyone could've done."

"No. I'm sure there was something, if only I could've found it. The earth heals its own."

Donovan considered debating this point, but thought better of it. "I know you did the best you could."

"My best and Carina's best weren't good enough." Amalia looked around one last time, then tucked a basket of aspen bark under her poncho. "Come on. Even at the slow pace she works, Carina must've gotten those bottles sterilized by now."

* * *

By afternoon the kitchen was strewn with herbs and bottles. While Donovan worked at the kitchen table with the mortar and pestle, Amalia measured strong grain alcohol into bottles and Carina stood over a steaming pot on the stove. A distant jangle of bells caught their attention and Carina moved to the kitchen window, while Amalia ran toward the front of the house. Donovan’s first instinct was to grab a gun, but something in the women's attitude told him he didn’t need it.

Amalia hurried back to the kitchen. "It's Alvi! Get your shoes!"

Carina clapped like a little girl. "It feels like he’s been gone forever! I wonder how he made it through in this weather."

"I'm sure he's used to it, and a good thing. I've got a pair of boots that need his attention."

"Who is Alvi?" Donovan asked, tagging after the women as they ran toward their bedrooms.

"He's a peddler," Carina said. "And he repairs shoes."

Donovan peeked out the window to see a dark man in wild, colorful clothes pulling up by the gate. He was driving two large donkeys hitched to a gypsy wagon emblazoned with yellow letters and jingling madly with bells. Donovan tried to read the side of the cart, but the looped and scrolled letters spelled out words that were unfamiliar to him: Alvi: Zapatero, Vendedor de Comidas Finas, Nociónes y Más."

Carina pushed past him in her heavy blue cloak. She ran down the front steps and over to the cart where the man grinned and swooped off his little fedora, impervious to the cold and sleet.

"Alvi, it's been so long. Where have you been?"

Alvi held his hat over his heart. "I have been all over the world looking for the very best merchandise to tempt my beautiful Carina and her gracious sister."

Carina glanced toward the cart, her face glowing with anticipation, but then her gaze fell on the donkeys, ears drooping, their bodies bedraggled and cold. "I think the first thing we need to do is get your animals clean and bedded down, because you aren't going to continue on in this weather."

"Alvi and his famous all-weather burros go everywhere, in all kinds of weather." He darted a glance toward his team. "But if my lovely hostess insists, I'm sure Caudillo and Patrón would enjoy a visit to your warm barn."

"I do insist." Carina grabbed a bridle and led them past the house, stopping near the low wall by the mulberry tree to back the wagon into a favorable spot and unhitch the team. Then while Carina continued to the barn to rub down the animals, Alvi started setting things in order, lowering a set of steps to the wagon door and rummaging inside until the little gypsy cart rocked back and forth as if possessed.

Donovan nearly collided with Amalia as she came out of her bedroom, a pair of work boots in each hand. "Where'd he go?"

"Carina parked him around back. She's off to the barn right now to bed down the donkeys."

"Good, then maybe he'll do my shoes first." She threw on a leather poncho, pulled up the hood and hurried out.

This left Donovan alone in the kitchen. The only boots he had were his Guard boots and a pair that he had bought in town the month before. Neither was in need of repair, and he had seen peddlers before. After straightening the kitchen and covering anything that looked like it might need protection against the omnipresent desert dust, he put on a jacket and went to the barn to help Carina.

He found her currying the animals and talking to them in a tone as affectionate as if they were her own, singing snippets of song and speaking rhymes and nonsense as she rubbed them down. "Need any help?" he asked.

"Could you start cleaning the harness?" She pointed to a mound of wet leather straps.

Donovan had no love for cleaning tack, but grabbed a rag and went to work. "So tell me again who this guy is."

"He goes by Alvi, but he says his full name is Alvaro Zapata, El Zapatero." Carina giggled. "It's a joke. Zapato means shoe; zapatero is a cobbler."

"Isn't that clever."

"Don't be sarcastic. I've never believed it's his real name."

"What do you think it is, then?"

"Oh, who knows? Something Middle Eastern, probably. Ali, maybe?"

Donovan jerked in surprise. "You're letting a terrorist spy camp here for the night?"

"He's not a terrorist or a spy. He was born in this country, and so were his parents and grandparents. He's as patriotic as the rest of us."

"That's why he goes by a phony name, then."

"No." Carina paused while rubbing a flank. "It's probably because he figures people who don't know any better will make accusations for no other reason than his heritage." She began brushing again in sure, circular strokes. "So he pretends to be Hispano. I don't think he fools anyone for very long, certainly not the real Hispanos, but it's long enough for people to see that he's as harmless as the rest of us."

Donovan held a loose buckle up to the light, frowning. "And you're going to let this guy stay here tonight?"

"Why not? He's stayed here before." She stopped currying. "Amalia and I have known him for years, since he first started this circuit with a single donkey and a little open wagon covered with a tarp. He took up peddling about the same time we moved out here, so it's like we've grown up together."

Donovan mumbled something and resumed his work.

"I think you're jealous!" Carina said in wonderment, putting down her currycomb.

"Why would you think that?"

"You've gotten used to being the only man around here."

"I'm still the only man around here. He's leaving tomorrow and I'm staying."

"Maybe he'll stay longer."

"Maybe he will, but he'll leave eventually."

Carina returned to the donkeys and picked up a brush. "Give him a chance," she said. "You'll really like him once you get to know him."

* * *

Dinner that evening was a hilarious affair, with Alvi and Carina exchanging flirtations and Amalia joining in, offering sarcastic commentary as they dined on a strange casserole Donovan had never had before, made of flat noodles, cheese and tomato sauce.

"Where did you ever find lasagna noodles and pomodoro sauce?" Amalia asked for what must have been the third time. "Don't tell me again you went to Italy. I really want to know."

"But I did go to Italy, my sweet." Alvi took a sip of wine. "My brave Caudillo and Patrón are excellent swimmers and pulled me and my wagon all the way." He turned to Carina. "It was a very hazardous trip, bonita. I fought off sharks and pirates and braved two hurricanes to bring you the very best in international cuisine. I was even kidnapped and held hostage aboard a ghost ship."

"Must've been the ghost of our global economy," Amalia remarked.

"It was." Alvi said. "But I am here to single-handedly restore our global village to its former glory. You ladies will have strawberries in wintertime and ice cream in summer, Egyptian cotton for your bed sheets and Chinese silk for your dresses. We will all live like royalty once again."

"What about the oil?" Donovan asked. "Maybe Patrón and Caudillo could help lay a new pipeline."

"Even better," Alvi said, "They will walk treadmills to create electricity. We will have no more use for anyone's oil."

Carina smiled dreamily. "No more use for oil would mean an end to the wars. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Everyone at the table nodded and the conversation took a more serious turn. "What do you hear about the wars?" Amalia asked. "We hear so little out here in the country, and in Macrina they won't talk because they're afraid any little bit of bad news will hurt business."

Alvi reached for a piece of bread-- Carina had made real wheat bread for the occasion, not her usual cornbread. He broke off a piece, dabbed a bit of goat butter on it and considered. "We are still at war with China over the oil in Siberia, but you probably knew that much."

"I doubt that one will end in our lifetime," Amalia said.

"There was some kind of setback, though." Alvi chewed thoughtfully, trying to remember. "There was another big earthquake in Japan, bigger than the Tokyo Temblor of '32, and soldiers had to be pulled off the front to put down riots at on the main island. Hokkaido is definitely gone. Japan decided to let them secede without a fight."

"What else?" Carina asked. "Anything new in South America?"

Alvi reached across the table and squeezed Carina's hand. "Yes, I know that is where your dear Miles is." He considered. "We have secured some new resources in Paraguay, of all places, but there have been a lot of casualties from guerillas. Not to worry, though," he said, seeing Carina's frown of concern. "The rebels attack the men guarding the new pipeline, not the regular troops and certainly not the men who only do medicine and supplies. I'm sure your husband is safe."

"Paraguay is a long way to transport oil by pipeline," Amalia remarked. "It's land-locked. Do you know which country they're taking it through so they can ship it out?"

Alvi held up his hands in confusion. "I have no idea. I'm a peddler, not a geographer."

"Maybe your donkeys know," Donovan said with poorly disguised sarcasm. "Since they seem to be so good at everything else."

"Maybe they do." Alvi met Donovan's eyes, then offered a placating smile. "They are much smarter than I am. It is only through their strong legs, good sense and Carina's love of animals that I have the good fortune to have such generous friends as I do tonight."

Donovan suddenly felt ashamed of himself. Alvi talked like a snake oil salesman, but there was nothing malicious about him.

"So is that all the news?" Amalia asked. "Doesn't sound like much."

"Well," Alvi shrugged. "All bad news is much the same. Someone tried to shoot the president a few months ago, but didn’t succeed. Too bad. There was a hurricane in North Carolina over the summer, and another in what's left of Florida. There was an explosion that damaged the Port of Baton Rouge, but it wasn't nuclear and they say they'll have the port facilities back to one hundred percent by summer." Alvi thought a moment. "The president tried to suspend the Supreme Court a few months ago, after their ruling on the Texas secession case, but—"

"The what?" Amalia asked.

"Texas seceded?" Carina leaned forward. "We didn't hear about that."

"I thought everyone knew," Alvi said. "Yes, they voted to secede and there is already fighting along the border with Louisiana and Arkansas."

Amalia turned to Carina. "I wonder if the fighting will affect us. The feds might decide to move troops through here to seal the state border."

"Maybe they'll bring Miles' unit up from South America to do medical," Carina said hopefully.

"But then," Amalia said, "Maybe they'll just let West Texas go. Unless they've found a way to rejuvenate those old oil fields, who in their right mind would want it?"

"Don’t laugh," Alvi cautioned her. "After you've tried the Angus beef jerky I acquired outside Odessa, you will wish you had never said a bad word about Texas."

"We don't get Angus out here," Donovan said. "I'll buy some, if the ladies won't."

"It's a deal, my friend. Come to my little house after dinner and we will talk."

"Speaking of after dinner," Carina began gathering empty plates. "Alvi brought us something special for dessert." She went into the kitchen and reappeared a few moments later. In her hands she carried a carved wooden bowl that had been in the family for generations, and in the bowl, more rare than gold, was a pyramid of ripe tangerines.

* * *

The snow had stopped but the steps to Alvi's caravan were still coated with a sheen of ice when Donovan knocked on his door. Alvi answered, no longer wearing his colorful gypsy attire, but dressed in soft gray pants and a sweater. With his tousled hair sticking up in all directions, he looked like a boy playing campout.

The wagon was more spacious than it appeared from the outside. Shelves full of goods lined the walls, and a board on a hinge could be swung down to serve as desk or workbench. Sturdy wicker chests ran along the perimeter, and colorful cloth, trinkets, shoes and specialty foods were set out like jewels on display. Light came from wall sconces that Donovan supposed were wired to the solar panel he had seen on the roof. The wagon was heated by a brazier that Alvi had filled from the kitchen stove after dinner.

"Nice place you have."

"It's home." Alvi gestured around the tiny room. "Please take your time. I don't sleep well, so I'm always up late."

As Donovan examined some of the cans and jars, he noticed the man had dropped his exuberant air and salesman's patter. "I think I just want some of the beef jerky. I don't even know what some of these other things are."

Alvi had started to sit down, but now came closer. "Those are olives," he said, pointing. "Sort of like pickles, but with the texture of a mushroom." He grinned when Donovan made a face. "They're an acquired taste, but very good."

"I'll take your word for it."

He pointed to a tin with a scene of horses and snow. "Maple syrup, all the way from Maine."

"Didn't Maine secede?"

"Yes," Alvi said. "That actually makes their syrup easier to get. The feds won't let them go because they want the timber, so there's a war up there. The soldiers send maple syrup home and the army makes sure it doesn't get stolen on the way. They don't want men to defect because their families aren't being taken care of, you know. Turncoats are always a danger in a civil war."

"Is there a true civil war going on?" Donovan asked. "I mean, across the nation? Or is it just a few local rebellions?"

The peddler pulled a couple of folding stools from pegs on the wall and took a bottle of whiskey out of one of the wicker chests. "Have a seat," he said, grabbing glasses from one of the display shelves. "I didn't want the ladies to hear it because I know how hard it is for them to keep their spirits up, but there's no reason you shouldn't know what's going on."

Donovan pulled up a stool and accepted a glass of whiskey. “This is good. Where do you get it?"

"Don't make me reveal my secrets. My sources are how I make my living."

"So what kind of news have you been hearing?"

"They say someone detonated a nuke in Washington," Alvi said. "I've heard a lot of different stories on who did it, but it really doesn't matter. The dead were mostly civilians, not government people. Everyone important is hiding now and no one's really sure if they're still alive, dead, or sick from radiation poisoning."

"So who's running things?"

"We think the elected officials are, from a bunker somewhere, but there's no way to be sure." Alvi shrugged. "Some people say the feds set off the nuke themselves so they could go into hiding and not have to answer to the people. Regardless of which story is right, it's likely we're living under a dictatorship."

"How has this impacted the wars?"

"Not much. The wars pretty much run themselves any more."

"Even the civil war? What about Texas?"

Alvi scowled. "I don't know why the feds are bothering with Texas. Three years of drought across the South have damaged their crops, the aquifers are running dry, they still haven't recovered from the hurricane that damaged their only remaining deep-water port, and the ordinary civilians are too busy squaring off by race and religion for them to do much in the way of nation-building. I say let them go. They'll be back in a few years when they realize can't make it alone. But some people say that's why they did it— seceded, you know. There's a philosophy these days that secession will end the race riots by forcing people to work together to fight the common federal enemy."

"It's a bad way to make people get along. Wars kill people and damage the land."

Alvi reached for the whiskey bottle and topped off their glasses. "Well, they went and did it, regardless of what we think about it." He capped the bottle and sat back. "I'm telling everyone not to be surprised if they send some units through the countryside looking for recruits to fight in Texas."

"You mean to kidnap and draft people." Donovan pondered this information. "That's going to be tough on me."

"Yes, you're a deserter, aren't you?"

"Is there nothing the girls don't tell you?"

"I doubt it," Alvi said, taking the question more seriously than it was intended. "I was naive when I got into this business. I knew nothing except that there was an old man who did well in this region and had died. Carina, Amalia and their parents treated me kindly. In fact, my first summer as a peddler was spent on this farm while my burro healed from an injury. They treated me like family and I will always be in their debt." He fixed Donovan with a steady eye. "There is nothing I wouldn't do for them, you understand?"

"They saved my life. I understand perfectly."

Alvi took another sip of whiskey. "Then you know why they sometimes tell me a little more than they should. Their secrets, and yours too, are completely safe with me."

The two men nursed their drinks. Outside, an owl called from the mulberry tree. "So how are you avoiding the draft?" Donovan asked. "You look like the kind of guy the Guard would pick up without hesitating."

Alvi grinned. "I'm older than I look, but thank you for the compliment. I'm 4-F and have the letters to prove it." He patted his chest. "I wear them on me at all times."

"No way." Donovan's eyes widened. "I’m more 4-F than you, and they'd take me off the street in a minute."

"It's all about who you know. You don't really think the big guys care who wins the war, do you?" Alvi took a gulp of his whiskey and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "They're in it for the money. Supply them with what they're really after and they don't care if you fight their stupid war or not."

Donovan could scarcely contain his excitement. "What do those papers cost?"

"They're very expensive."

"I can pay. If I can't pay now, I can get the money."

"I don't do credit, not on this type of deal. Nothing personal, it's just that everything is so uncertain and I have to pay cash up front. If I come back in six months and you're gone. . .well, you know how it is."

"Tell me how much the papers cost, and in six months I'll have the money."

Alvi leaned back and quoted a number. "In gold," he added.

Donovan drew in his breath. "I can get it. But can you do it on a down payment? I can give you two thirds now and the rest when you bring the papers on your next trip through."

Alvi considered. "I wouldn't normally agree to such a thing for someone I just met, but I suppose you're like family now. I can spot you the balance until I return." He stood and held out a hand. "It's a deal, friend."

They shook hands and Alvi settled back onto his stool. Donovan suddenly felt relieved, as if he already had the papers in his hand. Only six more months and he would be out of danger forever. The thought of what he could do with his freedom made him smile.

"I see this has made you happy. Or is it just the whiskey?" Alvi topped off their glasses again.

"The whiskey helps, but knowing I'll have papers soon. . . I had no reason to think I'd ever get such lucky break."

"If you don't give up hope, your lucky day eventually comes."

Donovan tossed back the rest of his whiskey and stretched his arms overhead. "I'm starting to believe that maybe it does."

* * *

In spite of the women's entreaties that he stay through Christmas, Alvi insisted on leaving. "There are deals to make and people along the road waiting for me," he told them. "I would be selfish to spend my time in the company of two beautiful women while my friends across this lovely land expired for lack of silk scarves and calamata paste."

"But. . ." Carina looked at the low gray clouds. "The weather. . ."

"Means nothing to me. I am one with the storm and the desert wind."

Amalia had taken a sip of coffee, but now she choked. She started to shake his hand, but gave him a hug instead. "Maybe you should be like the desert wind and come around more often."

"Of course, my dear." He glanced at Donovan, standing by the low garden wall. "Your new friend has asked a special commission of me, so I won't delay any more than is strictly necessary."

Both women gave Donovan a puzzled look, but he made a motion as if to say he would tell them later. Now it was Carina's turn to throw her arms around the peddler's neck. "Be safe out there, okay? And if you hear anything. . ."

"Corazón," he said, taking both her hands in his, "If I hear so much as a rumor I will have Patrón and Caudillo gallop all the way here so I can give you the news."

Carina ducked her head. "Thank you." She hugged him again.

Donovan shook Alvi's hand. He had given him all his gold that morning and much of his silver, leaving only enough to buy into a poker game next time he was in Macrina. He prayed it was the right call. "See you this summer."

"You will," Alvi assured him. "And you won't be sorry."

While the women exchanged curious looks, the peddler climbed onto the seat of his wagon. Donovan half-expected him to make a flowery speech of some kind, but instead he seemed genuinely sad. "Adiós, my friends. We will meet again soon."

Tin Soldier - Book One, Chapter Seven

2006-12-23T10:56:00.002-06:00

It was almost Christmas and Carina was excited. From out of chests and drawers, she produced a carved nativity scene, wreaths of willow branches with red ribbon bows, and candles scented with bayberry. She hung Christmas stockings on the wall near the heating stove in the living room, and from under her bed she brought out a box of small dried gourds, painted with Christmas scenes. She fixed Amalia with a serious look. "You'll let me hang these this year, won't you?"

Amalia rolled her eyes. "If you must."

"I think I must."

"How come Amalia doesn't like these?" Donovan asked after she had walked away.

"She likes them well enough. They just bring back memories, and she's always been a little shy about showing her work."

"She made them?" Donovan inspected one of the painted gourds more carefully.

"It was a project she and Mother undertook on our first Christmas after we moved here for good. Amalia has a real talent for artistic things." Carina's eyebrows flickered in annoyance. "I think she should do things like this to sell, or maybe specialize in fancy needlework projects. People are starved for pretty things, and it's easier than hoeing, but she won't hear of it."

"I wonder why."

"Too many deaths and too much hard work, I suppose."

Their next project was to make Christmas cookies. Amalia protested that they were a waste of sugar, butter and good wheat flour, but Carina found her star and bell-shaped cookie cutters and wouldn't be deterred.

Over dinner that night Carina looked hesitantly at her sister as she picked at a quesadilla. "I was thinking," she said. "It might be nice to go to Mass this year."

Amalia looked at her in disbelief. "We haven't been to Mass in years. Why now?"

"It just seems like a nice thing to do. Get out and see a few of the neighbors, give thanks and all that."

"We can give thanks right here."

"Sing carols."

"You don't want to hear our valley neighbors try to sing, and we've got batteries for the CD player. We can play carols here."

"You know that's not the point. There's just something about going to Mass on Christmas day."

"I'll go with you," Donovan said. "I didn't think you were Catholic, though."

"We're not," Amalia said. "She just likes churches. They give her an excuse to dress up."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"How about you two go do Mass and when you get home I'll have some wassail waiting. That way you can't say I’m never festive."

Carina beamed. "Okay. We'll do presents, too."

Donovan was surprised when Amalia nodded as if she was expecting this. He had thought he was the only one who remembered Christmas presents, since neither woman had mentioned it previously.

Carina turned to Donovan. "I'll find something nice you can wear to church. It'll be fun. You'll see."

* * *

The sun had not yet stained the sky pink when Donovan hitched Goneril to the two-wheeled trap, hung a couple of lanterns and brought it around. He was wearing a dark wool suit, a slightly faded blue shirt, and a silk tie, all of which made him feel very elegant. Luckily it was not a terribly cold morning. He would've hated to cover such decadently useless clothes with a serviceable jacket or poncho.

The kitchen door opened and Carina hurried over in a flounced blue dress with spangles at the hem. She had tied rags in her hair the night before and now it hung in long loose curls, bright against the fading blue velvet of her cloak. She hiked up her skirt and climbed onto the seat.

Donovan slapped the reins on Goneril's back. There was a sturdy wool blanket on the back of the seat and Carina arranged it so that it covered her clothes, including the cape. "You'll want to wrap up," she told Donovan. "Most of the time we don't notice how much dust we get on ourselves, but today. . ."

Donovan stopped the cart and did as he was told, then clucked to Goneril again.

"You're pretty excited, for just going to church.”

"I don't get out much," Carina reminded him. "If we could make a living in town, I'd move there in a second."

"As a veterinarian and an herbalist, I bet you'd do well."

"Macrina already has a veterinarian," Carina said. "Higdon has one, too. Until a couple years ago, the reservation also had one. I can't go moving in on someone else's turf. They wouldn't like it and there wouldn't be enough business to go around."

"I see." Donovan set the brake as they started down a hill. "I suppose it's not much different if you want to set up shop as an herbalist?"

"There are amateur herbalists like me and Amalia everywhere. My mother maybe could've done it because she was an expert and had a license. But not us."

"I guess you wouldn't want to go very far from here looking for work?"

"This is the land we know. Besides, with the mail so uncertain I want to stay where Miles can find me when he gets discharged."

"Maybe when he comes back?"

Carina shook her head. "I'm established here. Miles will come home and we'll have a doctor in the valley again. The wars will end and new people will come out here to live, or will come out of hiding and return to the homes they once had. Babies will be born. People will invest in land and businesses." She smiled, her eyes full of confidence. "It can only get better, can't it?"

The sun had risen and was gleaming off the stained glass windows of the little adobe church as they drew near. Donovan was surprised at the number of people arriving, some on horseback, some in carts or traps like their own. A few were even on foot. "I had no idea there would be so many people."

"The valley isn't as deserted as it looks, is it?" Carina smiled. "Some of them come a long way for holiday Mass. This church serves a large area."

There were no places to tie their jennet, all sign posts, fence posts and other improvised hitching spots having been taken away over the years by people seeking scrap or building materials, so Carina put the hobbles on Goneril. "I don't like having to do that to her," she said. "I know how she hates it."

"She'll get over it. It's not like we'll be here long."

"It's Catholic Mass," Carina reminded him. "We could be here all day." She took Donovan's arm. "Or at least it will feel that way. But let's go inside and see who's here."

The church was neat and freshly whitewashed, lit with oil lamps and candles. People milled about the entryway in their best winter clothes, some of which were indeed very fine, while others were merely clean, well-mended and neatly pressed. Donovan could hardly follow the thread of any one conversation for the way everyone drifted back and forth between English and Spanish. Before he could become exasperated, he and Gonzales recognized each other in the crowd. Gonzales waved and pushed his way through, leading a frail little woman with a dowager's hump and a hopeful look in her milky eyes. He greeted Carina first and pulled his mother forward. "Mamá, you remember Carina Cunningham, the veterinarian."

The woman reached out, straining to see through the clouds of her cataracts. "Of course I do."

Carina grabbed her outstretched hands. "Nice to see you, Señora. Te miras bien."

The old woman smiled at the compliment. "You know better than to lie to an anciana like me." She coughed into a handkerchief. "Maybe in the spring I'll shake this thing."

"Ask your son to look for some horehound next time he's in Macrina."

"My boy looks for whores in Macrina, not horehound."

Donovan was so startled by this feisty remark that he was unprepared when Gonzales changed the subject by introducing him. "Donovan lives with Carina and Amalia, and helps out on their farm.”

"Oh, good," the woman said, clutching at Donovan's hands. "We need more good men in this valley. The war has carried them all off and when they come back, they’re like my worthless son. You be good to those girls, and the Lord will bless you."

"I'll do my best. And I'm sure your son is better than you think."

"I'll be the judge of that." She reached for Gonzales' arm again. "Take me to a pew. I need a little time with my thoughts before the service starts."

Carina took Donovan around the room, making introductions. He met the Mallory family, a young couple with a brood of active children, impossible to count because they were constantly in motion. He met the Bustos girls, all five of them in pants and fancy boots, hard-eyed and toughened by their life alone on their deceased father's sheep ranch. He met a weathered man who spoke in a flat tone and refused to meet his eyes. Carina whispered that he was autistic and had held the position of church groundskeeper ever since he was found abandoned on the steps as a boy.

"Are the Petersons here?" Donovan asked, looking around.

"I doubt it. They're so Lutheran that it hurts." She tugged his sleeve. "Let's go find a place to sit. There'll be more time to visit later."

Donovan followed her lead, dabbing his fingers in the holy water and crossing himself as she did as they went into the nave. They hadn't been seated long when a woman in a red wool dress with gold buttons sat down next to Carina. "How are you, dear? It seems I hardly ever see you any more."

"Things are going well, Emma. And you?"

She gave a little shrug. "About as well as can be expected."

While Emma and Carina got caught up, Donovan looked around. In a pew on the other side of the aisle he noticed a crowd of children and their elderly relatives gazing toward the altar, entranced by the bisque santa in her crèche, dressed in white robes and lace. A few women in the front pew seemed equally captivated, gazing at her lovingly as they murmured over their rosaries, but most of the people filing into the pews were intent only on each other, shaking hands, greeting old friends and exchanging news. With so much work to be done and so much distance between the larger ranches, the times when people could get together were too precious to be wasted in piety.

As the sun began to light the rose window, a few weather-beaten men in black suits walked up the aisle, guiding the stragglers to their seats. A woman in a green velvet shift began playing the piano, and this appeared to be the signal the congregation had been waiting for because everyone fell silent as the young priest came up the aisle in his flowing robes, preceded by an altar boy in a yellowing cassock trimmed in lace.

Carina whispered in Donovan's ear. "The priest is Joaquin Estrada. His parents are pretty important in the valley. He was able to dodge the draft."

Donovan nodded in understanding. It had been a big joke in the streets of his youth that if you wanted to be sure of never having to fight, become religious. He knew a few boys who had tried it, going from church to temple, willing to preach anyone's faith if it would keep them out of the war or allow them to spend their army days blessing wounded and dying soldiers behind the lines. So many new religions had sprung up to accommodate these men that the feds had put a stop to it by drafting any religious who didn't have an established church of his own. Not any church would do. Its congregation had to prove a history going back to at least 2012, otherwise, a priest, rabbi or imam was just as draftable as the next guy.

"He's lucky to have gotten a church so young," Donovan whispered to Carina. "I hear some of the old-timers won't step down. They think the young ones don't take it seriously."

Emma leaned toward them with the air of a curious bird. "He wouldn't have got this one, except Father Waltrip died a couple years ago. They say it was a hunting accident. It was a little suspicious, if you ask me."

"Yes,” Carina agreed. “It did look odd. The timing, the circumstances. . ."

The music stopped and the three sat back in their seats with the air of guilty schoolchildren. Joaquin, who didn't look old enough to be styled "Father," was waving to a pretty young woman on the front pew. She held a baby in her lap and was moving the baby's arm so that it could wave, too. A sudden crash made the young priest spin around. The altar boy had managed to knock over the goblet of sacrificial wine. "Estúpido!" Joaquin hissed, loud enough for everyone on the first few rows to hear. "Get some more, pendejo!" He turned back to the congregation and smiled sheepishly. His large gray eyes scanned the room before falling on the young woman and baby again. He waved. They waved back. He held up his right hand and made the sign of the cross over the congregation. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen."

* * *

Donovan had cause to remember Carina's words about the length of Catholic Masses. It seemed to go on forever— the kneeling, the rising, the responses he didn't know and wasn't prepared for. The sermon about the Christ child started off well enough with some readings from the Bible, but devolved quickly into a long ramble about the joys of parenthood, punctuated by little waves and affectionate glances at the woman and baby in the front pew. Even Carina, who adored children in much the same way she loved animals, was disgusted.

"Sometimes I swear they should've kept that rule about priests not marrying," she muttered to no one in particular.

Emma nodded. "Or at the very least teach them the difference between Baby Jesus and their own brats."

"Did he even go to seminary?" Carina asked. "Or did the family just set him up and that was the end of it?"

"He went away for a couple years," Emma whispered back. "They say he was at seminary, but who knows?"

The young man dropped the communion wafer while intoning, "This is my body. . ."

"Which is dropped on the floor and stepped on for you," Emma muttered while Carina suppressed a giggle. Both women skipped communion.

* * *

When it was over and the congregation dismissed, they filed into the sunlight of the warming December day. Donovan took a deep breath and admired the cloudless sky. "Sure is beautiful."

"Yes," Carina said. "It would've been nice to have had a white Christmas, but this is so pretty I don't think I care."

"A shame the service wasn't any better," Emma sniffed. "I had hoped Joaquin would be a little more serious about it once he got settled in."

"He's still young," Carina said. "He'll get better."

"It's easy for you to be patient. You're not Catholic."

While Carina visited with the valley farmers, Donovan walked around the property. The grounds were neatly tended with rock beds and native plants. Already Donovan had learned enough to distinguish nopal, yucca and the drought-resistant vine that produced a stinking gourd. Behind the church lay a fallow vegetable garden and a low adobe building, whether house, school or some other type of official structure he couldn't be sure.

A trail wound past the house and up a dusty hill. Curious, he followed it past more fields, all lying fallow for the winter. The trail dipped and rose again, curving past another adobe building and up to the crest of a low mesa. It was hard going for Donovan with his weak leg, but finally he reached the top, breathing hard. He looked at the desert landscape all around and then stopped short, noticing the wall and iron gate. He was almost as surprised the gate hadn't been stolen for scrap, as he was by what lay beyond. This was the local cemetery.

He put his face against the bars, gazing in wonderment at the long rows of neat headstones and crosses, many decorated with votives, homemade paper flowers or winter greenery. The stones seemed to spring of their own accord out of the land, backdropped by the string of mesas that formed one of the boundaries separating the valley from the rest of the world. The wind swept down off the range, fluttering the ribbons of the decorations and stirring up clouds of pale dust that swirled across the graves.

At the sound of a footstep, he turned around. Carina stood wrapped in her faded cloak, regarding him with an indecipherable expression. "Do you want to go in?"

Donovan hadn't been considering it, but hesitated to say so. He tugged at the gate and said, "It's locked," as if that settled the matter.

She motioned for him to follow her. "The other gate is always open."

She led him to a smaller gate farther down the wall and it creaked open with a sound that echoed in lonely waves that carried on the wind. Inside, the ground was packed hard as stone, covered with a light film of dust and punctuated by a few hardy weeds. They walked the rows of graves in silence, stopping every now and then to examine a decoration or read a name. The nicest stones were from the early years of the century. They were polished, deeply carved, and had flowers or trees inscribed as part of their motif, along with fading photographs behind glass. The earliest stones were worn nearly smooth by the constantly-blowing dust, and the most recent ones were poorly made and already chipping or fading. Some of the new graves had only wooden slabs with names scratched into them, and a few were marked only by an outline of stones and a wooden cross with no names at all to identify the dead.

Donovan turned to Carina, an unspoken question in his eyes.

She led him to a plot outlined with rocks, and pointed to a long double headstone. It was a handsomely carved and polished piece of granite, but contained only names, no dates. "They bought it long ago, when their money was still worth something. Maybe someday we'll be able to find someone to add the dates."

"At least their names will be remembered," he said, taking her hand. He thought it odd that the grave was bare while so many of the others were covered with offerings. Now that he considered the matter, he had never known either woman to go to the cemetery. "I'd be happy to drive you here to decorate, if you like."

Carina pulled her hand away. "I don’t like to think of them as something in the ground. Let's go back." Clutching the velvet wrap against her body, she started toward the gate.

Donovan hung back for a moment, then followed. Outside the gate, she waited, head down, face obscured in the shadow of her hood. He held out his arm and she took it without a word.

They were halfway down the hill before she spoke. "If I didn't know Miles was coming back some day. . ."

"You'd be strong, just the same.”

"No, I wouldn't. Amalia would, but I wouldn't be able to stand one more death."

Donovan chose his next words carefully. "Things happen, you know. Unexpected things. And we have to-"

"No." She let go his arm and hugged herself, shaking her head so hard the hood fell back and her curls tumbled across her shoulders. "Bad things can't happen all the time."

"You're right," Donovan said, putting an arm around her. "Good things happen, too. I guess I just never had any faith to lose, let alone any to try and hang on to." They were at the base of the hill and he guided her across the yard toward the wagon. "Finding your farm was the best luck I ever had, but it looked like the worst luck possible at the time. I guess I'm trying to say not to take it all so hard. Things have a way of working themselves out."

"Of course they do. My husband is coming home and we're going to start a medical clinic. Things will get easier."

"Aren't they a little easier now?" Donovan asked, slightly hurt. "I know I'm still learning, but I sort of hoped I was helping a little."

Carina's face broke into a smile. "Of course you're a help. You're one of the best things that's happened to us in a long time, too.”

He gave her a quick hug and offered her a hand into the cart.

Carina gathered her spangled skirt, then hesitated. "I don't suppose," she said, "That you've learned how to manage those hobbles?"

Donovan glanced at Goneril's legs, still in their leather braces. Working around the feet of an animal that could kill with a single kick made him nervous. It seemed like a foolish way to die. "I think I can manage it.”

He put Carina into the wagon and she sat back and closed her eyes. "Good," she sighed. "Funny how sometimes you don't realize how tired you really are."

* * *

They got back to the farm at mid-afternoon and Carina insisted on helping rub the donkeys down. They stopped by the goat paddock before heading to the house, and the visit seemed to perk her up and banish all remaining traces of her dark mood. They hadn't reached the kitchen garden when a sharp, sweet smell made them pause and sniff the air appreciatively.

"Oh, good," Carina said. "Amalia made wassail like she promised."

"What is that?"

"Hot spiced apple cider," Carina said. "It's almost too warm for it today, but we'll enjoy it just the same."

They came in through the kitchen door, stopping in the entryway to shake the dust off their clothes. When they came into the kitchen, the smell of rich food overwhelmed them. The pot of wassail simmered on the stove, a few dark loaves of a cake-like bread sat cooling on a rack, and underneath all the sweet smells was another scent, that of real food cooking. Carina couldn't help herself and peeked inside the stove's warming reservoir. "Tamales! Amalia hasn't made tamales in so long. She must've planned this for days, or at least since last night, to have gotten the corn husks soaked."

"Where is Amalia, by the way?"

She wasn't in the living room, but they found another surprise— a small plastic Christmas tree. It was old and bedraggled, but with ribbons tied on its branches and a few shiny chains and ornaments, it hardly seemed to matter. Scattered around it were a few gifts, some wrapped in bits of bright cloth and others in old paper, hand-decorated with dabs of red and green paint. It all looked so festive that Carina went running down the hall to find her sister.

From one of the bedrooms, Donovan could hear their voices, Carina's happy and excited, Amalia's more sedate, embarrassed at the fuss. After a few minutes the two women came into the living room, each carrying more packages. Amalia was so pleased at the effect of her cooking and decorating that she almost forgot to be cool to Donovan. "How was church?" she asked with a little downward curve of her lips and dancing look in her eyes that suggested she had already guessed at the fiasco of the Mass.

"I've never been to Catholic church," Donovan said. "I had nothing to compare it to, and I have a feeling that was a good thing."

"That Joaquin. . ." Carina said.

"Complete disaster?"

"Well, it was entertaining, at least."

While the women talked, Donovan went to his room to get the gifts he had bought in Macrina on a market run he had made earlier in the month. He had paid extra to have them wrapped in real Christmas paper, but as he brought them into the living room, he couldn't help feeling like there was something artificial about them that didn't hold up well against the women's more sincere efforts in cloth and paint. Nevertheless they gushed over the wrapping paper as if it were foreign riches.

"Where did you get that?"

"I haven't seen Christmas paper in ages."

"It must've cost you a fortune. You shouldn't have done it."

"I'm going to be real careful with mine," Carina said. "I won't tear it a bit, and then I can use it again next year."

"Yes," Amalia said. "I suppose if we reuse it a few times, that makes the cost work out, more or less. She looked at Donovan. "You shouldn't have done it, though."

"I wanted to get you something nice."

"But the paper?" Carina smoothed an angel on a blue background. "It's the thought that counts, not the gift, and certainly not the packaging."

"Well, I did it," Donovan said. "And there's no point discussing it now."

The gifts the women gave Donovan were simple, mostly homemade things— sweaters, a cap, socks. They also gave him a nice pair of leather work gloves that he felt certain they had bought from Alvi. The women’s gifts to each other were in a similar vein—items they had made or repaired on the others’ behalf. Among these items there seemed to be no surprises because they giggled and teased each other like they had known all along what they were getting, and didn’t mind a bit. But Amalia had also bought Carina a special gift—a watch. “So you can quit saying you lost track of time out there in the goat pens."

"Oh, I don’t think it’ll do much good for that,” she said, admiring it on her wrist. “I wouldn’t want to wear such a nice thing where I could lose it. Not after the way I lost my last one.” She gave Amalia a mischievous look. “Your clever plan has failed.”

"Give it back, then. Maybe I could use a new watch, myself.”

Donovan broke into their playful bickering. “Aren’t you going to open what I got you?”

Guiltily, they tugged at the colorful wrapping, using their nails to break the cellophane tape.

There were amber earrings and a necklace for Amalia, who liked to wear shades of brown and yellow. Carina, who always went about in blue, got a bracelet of silver and turquoise beads and a silver hair clip decorated with a turquoise bird. And each woman got a small box of chocolate.

The women looked at their gifts in silence. Finally Amalia spoke. "This is too much. You shouldn't spend your money on us this way."

"Not even if I want to?"

Both women dropped their heads, ashamed of themselves. Carina moved first, throwing her arms around Donovan's neck and kissing him. "Thank you. I'm sorry I have such bad manners." She kissed him again.

"I guess I've got bad manners, too." Amalia came over and did the same, then stepped back and smiled self-consciously. "You'll have to forgive us. We're out of the habit of getting presents from a man."

"Or from anyone except each other," Carina added. "We hardly remember what we're supposed to do."

"I think you're just supposed to say thank you," Donovan said.

Tin Soldier - Book One, Chapter Eight

2006-12-22T11:05:00.002-06:00

Donovan stood alone in the kitchen, warming his hands over the stove as the coffee boiled. He glanced toward the window where a light snow was falling; tiny flakes driven on the winter wind. It wasn't sticking, and the sky to the west was clearing. The road to Macrina would be clear and he could go to town, even if it meant nearly freezing. In spite of the heat coming out of the stove, he shivered.

His heavy wool jacket lay across a kitchen chair and he picked it up and held it in front of the oven door, turning it this way and that to warm it before slipping his arms into the sleeves. It was almost too warm, and a good thing, since there would be no heat in the barn. He put on his scarf, hat and gloves, and poured a cup of coffee. That should keep the cold at bay.

He picked up the solar lantern, turned it on and slipped out the kitchen door. Ice crystals collected in the folds of his clothes and dropped into his coffee. The cold stiffened his leg and made it ache. Would it ever be like it had been before? Carina said not, but a man could hope.

He entered the barn through the side door, set down his coffee and lit the barn lanterns. Now that he had some light, he could sip his rapidly cooling coffee and take his time examining the wagon. He had meant to load it the day before but Carina had needed his help with the livestock and Amalia ended up doing it alone.

He pulled back the tarp and checked the supplies-- feed for the donkeys, a spare harness, a few tools, a saddle in case he needed to do any riding, water, a tent. The trade goods were bundled in as well- wool yarn, socks, old clothes, preserves, pickles, eggs, and cheese. There were jars of filtered honey and honeycomb, left over from last season, which he would sell on behalf of the Petersons. The cart was also weighted down with scrap metal that Amalia wanted him to trade for extra shoes for the jennies, since there wasn't a forge in the valley. Carina had asked him to get Goneril re-shod while he was at it. She didn't like the way she had been shod the month before, although Donovan couldn’t see what the problem was, and it obviously wasn't something serious enough to keep her from pulling the wagon.

He checked that everything was packed properly— heaviest items over the front wheels, breakables surrounded by softer items such as wool and sacks of feed. It all seemed in order, except for the spot where he would stash the food he would eat on the trip. He was pulling the tarp back into place when the side door creaked open and Amalia came in, bundled in a heavy cloak and dusted with snow. "Don't you trust my packing skills?"

"Of course I do." He pulled the tarp taut. "I just like to see where everything is so I can find it later. I felt bad you had to do it all alone."

"Carina couldn't have handled that goat on her own, and I didn't mind. It's not like there's a lot of other work to be done in January." She frowned at the worn canvas. "I don't know if I trust this tarp in the snow. I know it's not sticking, and you should be fine on the way to town, but it might be different on the way back. Weather changes fast." She went into the tack room. "We'll double up, just in case the weather turns. You’re too confident of your luck. It’s going to get you in trouble some day.”

Donovan followed close on her heels. "I wish you'd quit saying things like that. What have I ever done to you and your sister to make you feel like you can pass judgment on me?"

"Let's just say you make some deals in town that are a little too good." She opened a wooden chest.

"What's so wrong with that? I'm helping, aren't I?"

"I think you know what I'm trying to say, so don't act innocent."

"I make that extra money from playing poker," Donovan said, drawing himself up straight. "What’s it to you, anyway? I bring back more stuff than you could ever get on your own, and you know it."

Amalia straightened up, a dusty bundle of canvas in her hands. "There's no doubt you've been good to us, but at what cost?"

Donovan shook his head. "There is no cost. No cost to you, no cost to me." He tried to take the tarp from her hands, but she pulled away and walked to the cart, unfolding it and shaking out the creases. Donovan grabbed one end of the canvas and together they began fastening it on top of the first. The double layer would provide extra protection from the wind-driven snow and protect their goods should the snow turn to rain. "Why can't you accept a little good fortune now and then?"

Amalia stared at him across the wagon, her eyes deep and serious in the gloom. "How are we supposed to sleep at night when you're gone, knowing you're up to things that could be dangerous? Pick the wrong pocket, cheat the wrong man at cards, or on a trade. . . and now you're going out there all alone, taking risks with our goods and animals. What are we supposed to do while we're waiting, not knowing what's happening out there?"

Donovan looked at his feet, embarrassed into silence. Finally he looked at her again, equally serious. "Come here so I can talk to you."

She shook her head.

He walked over and stopped just inches away. "You'll do what you've always done. I'm not fifteen. I'll take good care of your things, and I can certainly take care of myself." Wishing he could reassure her, he moved closer and rested his cheek against her hair. She stiffened but didn't move away.

They stood that way for only a minute, but it seemed much longer, until Donovan began to sense a change in her. He moved so he could see her face, and was startled when she kissed him—a hungry, heated kiss, as if she had been contemplating this move for a long time. She pressed against him with the bold and sensuous way of a young woman with all her dreams still ahead of her. He started to return her kisses out of kindness, but was surprised to find himself genuinely aroused. Then suddenly she pulled away.

"Don't you ever--"

Donovan laughed. "You were the one who--"

"That's not the point."

"Isn't it? Well, it's not like there's a point to anything else we do."

"You don't get it at all." Scowling, she headed toward the door. "Don't come anywhere near me!" She made sure to slam the door behind her.

Donovan stomped back to the cart in confusion, slammed a hand against it, and slumped against one of the high wooden sides. By the time he had recovered his thoughts and felt like he could face the peaceful domesticity of the kitchen again, he found only Carina with her curious but inscrutable glances. Amalia was nowhere to be found.

* * *

In spite of the cold, he was glad to get on the road. The wind drove pellets of ice into his face, but they melted on contact, cooling his thoughts as well as his body. He drew down his hat, ducked his head and pulled up his scarf to cover his nose and mouth. It only helped a little. The muffler soon iced up and even his pocket stones gave out. He would have to put up with the cold or make camp early.

It was nearly noon before the weather broke, but gradually the snow stopped and the skies showed signs of clearing. Once the sun came out, there would be a chance of it actually getting warmer.

He made camp that evening near an arroyo and headed into the mountains the next day. Here the previous day's snow had stuck, but the drifts weren't high and he was able to drive the wagon in the ruts made by another driver. The sight of the occasional cougar track kept him on the alert, but he saw no evidence of bears, which was his greatest worry. He camped that evening near the summit, and in the morning affixed his yellow traders' flag to the cart and started down the path to the valley floor.

His first order of business was to find a safe place to leave his wagon at the market. Then he took Goneril to the blacksmith. He haggled over the price and offered a bit of old cast iron in trade. Satisfied that he had made the best deal he could, he left the jenny at the blacksmith's hitching post and decided to visit Mother Reyes and see if she had any letters or ration books.

As he walked down the main street he took in the scene— vendors hawking their wares on the streets, carts rumbling past on their way to market or out to the fields and home, children bundled in layers of rags and ponchos begging, selling or chasing each other through the streets. A musician played a homemade guitar on a corner, crooning a ballad in a combination of Spanish and some native Indian language. A plastic-picker made her way down the street with her big canvas bag of broken toys, dishes and electronics from another time, hoping to gather enough to sell to a trader from the melting plant. The smoke and smells of street cooking mingled with the chants of the vendors, the shouts of the children, the clop of hooves, the crunch of bicycle tires on gravel, and the animated voices of ordinary people going about their business. It was a lively scene, full of busy people trying to make the most of the day. Donovan took a deep breath, glad to be a part of it.

He had stopped to watch a file of Indians pass— nativists showing their political sentiments by wearing tribal costumes, when a child's shriek distracted him. He turned, but the movement caught him off balance and was largely unnecessary, because heading his way was a dark, tiny little girl, not much older than five, chased by an older boy who shouted curses at her. With a cry, the girl tripped and sprawled in the dust at Donovan's feet, catching him off balance and nearly bringing him down. The boy was going too fast to stop and crashed into them both. This time Donovan had a split second to prepare and he used his braced leg to stabilize himself and absorb the impact. The boy stumbled against him and almost fell. He murmured something that sounded like an apology and was about to bolt again when Donovan realized that the girl seemed awfully calm for someone who was supposed to be scared out of her wits. An old memory stirred. His movements more instinct than thought, Donovan grabbed the boy by his collar and held on. In the same deadly voice he had once used on belligerent hoarders, he said, "Give me back my wallet!"

* * *

The boy's name was Will and he claimed to be eleven years old. He was thin from hunger, but his features suggested he would be sturdy, even rugged, if he could ever get enough to eat. He handed back Donovan's wallet with a look of disappointment in his gray eyes, but as he rubbed a hand through his hair, he seemed more embarrassed at having tried to steal than at having been caught.

"Thought this brace made me slow, did you?" Donovan put the wallet back in his pocket.

Will shrugged. "It was worth a try."

Donovan looked at the girl, still standing at his feet. She was the first black person he had seen since leaving the city and the Guard. Not mixed-race like he was, she was so dark the dust of the road made her look like she was dusted in sugar. The image wasn't inappropriate. She looked sweet, with intelligent eyes that tilted up at the corners. If she survived the streets, she would be a beauty some day. Donovan glanced critically at her bare, cracked feet, wondering how she was avoiding frostbite with no shoes. "Who are you?"

The girl lifted her chin. "Tasha."

"She's my sister," Will said. He motioned to her and she went to stand next to him.

Donovan considered. A family relationship seemed unlikely, given Will's waxy skin and the faint splash of freckles over his nose. "It's a bad business you've got her into," he said. "It's not right to steal."

"How else are we going to eat? I wouldn't do it if we had some other way.”

"Your family has no friends who could care for you?"

"We're not from here. We only arrived last week."

"Where have you been sleeping?"

"There's a burnt building where some of the other children sleep."

Donovan turned away so the children wouldn't see his anger and confusion. There was no way he could abandon these kids, not with his own memories of the street. He couldn't take them home with him, though, could he? "Come with me."

Will and Tasha stared. "Where are we going?"

"To the blacksmith. I’m going to ask him if there's a way we can find you a decent place to eat and sleep. Maybe a place where you can go to school or something."

"He won't know. There's no place like that here."

The children were right. The blacksmith didn't know, but he directed them to the church. "The priest will think of something," he said, pausing over his hot irons only long enough to cast a disapproving look at the children.

They went to the church, but although the ancient priest was kind, he didn't know of any place, either. "The church has no one who does that, although it used to be something we were known for. There's a ranch a couple days' ride from here that is good, but they only take boys."

"I don't go anywhere Tasha can't go," Will said.

The priest's frown deepened. "If you aren't willing to be separated, that only leaves Miss Stevens' place, but I don't recommend it."

Tasha's eyes widened. "Is that the place. . . ?"

"Yeah, that's the place the other kids talked about," Will said.

"Well, that's the only place I know that's close by and takes both boys and girls."

Donovan thanked the priest, accepted his blessing and took the children back into the street. As the children stood squinting in the sunlight, Donovan asked, "So what's with this Stevens place?"

"Nothing," Will said.

"Don't 'nothing' me. I saw how you reacted in there. What's up?"

"All the kids where we've been staying know about it. It's no good. The lady sells kids to work on farms and if she can't sell you, she makes you work at her house, or at a food stall on the street. If you disobey, you get no food and she beats you. She even puts kids out to beg sometimes. She likes the ones who are crippled. They make the most money."

"Maybe those children are exaggerating."

"I don't think so."

They walked down the dusty market road. Donovan wasn't sure what to do now. He kept his head down, jaw set, eyes focused on the patch of ground in front of his feet. In spite of the limitations of his brace, he moved quickly and the children hurried to keep up. Tasha grabbed his hand. "Can we go home with you?"

"No."

"We'll be good."

"That's not the problem. I've got no place for you."

"You got no home, either?"

"I have a home. It's just that it's not really mine. It's someone else's. I can't just go taking you there without asking."

"So ask," Will said.

Donovan stopped. "It's not that easy. It's far away. Two days by donkey cart, and that's only when the weather's good." He shook his head. "Once I take you there, you're staying. There's no place to send you away to. But I can't go taking you home and just assume my women can look after you."

"You're like us then," Will said. "You ain't got no real place." He looked at Tasha. "I guess we'll go see if we can pick some pockets, and hope the other kids don't steal from us while we sleep, like last night."

Tasha's eyes welled up with tears. "Are you sure we can't go home with you?" she asked Donovan. "I'm tired. And I like you."

"It's okay," Will said. He put an arm around her. "I'll take care of you. Haven't I taken good care of you 'til now?" He turned accusing eyes upon Donovan. "Go on. We don't need any more of your kind of help."

Donovan hesitated. "I'm sorry. . ."

"For what? Getting our hopes up?" He patted Tasha's shoulder. "I don't care so much about me, but she don't deserve this kind of life."

"No one does.”

"Well, go on. We'll make out okay." He turned his attention back to Tasha. "Let's see if we can get some of the stuff they throw away from the restaurant, like last night, remember? The rats aren't all that big. We'll take some sticks and—"

"Oh, for Christ's sake."

"What?"

Donovan sighed. "Will you two cut that out? Come on."

"What do you mean, 'come on.'"

"I mean come on, we've got to get back to the market."

"Why?"

"I'm selling goods from the farm." He glared at the children, angry at the emotional trick they had played on him. "You're both going to help." He turned back toward town and began walking again.

Will and Tasha exchanged triumphant smiles behind Donovan's back, then ran to catch up with him. The girl grabbed his hand while Will babbled in excitement about how much help they would be.

"That's good," Donovan said grimly. "Because when I show up at the farm with you two, I’ll be lucky if my women don’t kill me."

Tin Soldier - Book One, Chapter Nine

2006-12-21T11:10:00.001-06:00

Donovan heard Carina's voice in the other room. "Bring it around like this," she said. "Hook. Pull. Good. Let's do another one."

He walked into the living room and found Carina on the sofa with Tasha, taking advantage of the morning sunlight to teach the little girl how to crochet. Yarn was strung everywhere, but Donovan could see that Tasha was making progress. Although she handled the needle awkwardly, a sizable tail of crochet dangled from her fingers as she hooked her next loop.

Carina watched the operation closely. "One more and I'll teach you how to turn around and go back the other way so we can make a granny square." She looked at Donovan. "Her hands are too small for knitting needles, but she's taking to crochet pretty quick."

"Good. Ever since Amalia said. . ."

"Don’t pay any attention to what she says. She thinks everyone's useless. Even me."

"I wouldn't say that."

She motioned Donovan over. "Look at these nice even stitches."

Donovan examined the chain obediently. "Better than I could do."

"Which isn't saying much." Carina arranged Tasha's needle and yarn for the next stitch. "We'll go backwards now. Let's do the first ones together." With her hands guiding Tasha's, she made a few stitches. "Let's see if you've got it."

"I understand," Tasha said. She made a few loops and tugs with the needle, frowned, then bit her lip in concentration as she made the next stitches in the row, just as even as the first ones had been.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised,” she told Donovan. “She's good at sewing, too."

"Maybe she should've been picking the pockets instead of Will, since she's so good with her hands.”

"Oh, hush." Carina stood up, disentangling herself from the yarn. "Did you want to see me about something?"

"I just came in to see if there were any other gloves around. Amalia is killing us out there with her fence-mending." He held out his scratched and bleeding hands.

"What happened to the leather gloves you had this morning?"

"I gave them to Will."

"So she's got both of you working on this project?"

"Was there some other plan?"

"Will was supposed to take one of the jennies and collect firewood along the creek. I guess we'll have to send him tomorrow."

"Amalia's been anxious about this fence."

"Yes, and I suppose it's best we give her what she wants today. It'll make it that much easier for us if she's in a better mood tomorrow."

Carina motioned with her head for Donovan to follow to her bedroom. "I think I have another pair of gloves you can use." She called back to Tasha. "Wait for me when you get to the end of the row, okay?"

She led Donovan into the room she had once had for her own but that she now shared with Amalia so the children would have a place to sleep. The room had seemed spacious before, but now it felt cramped and messy, even though not a thing was out of place. Carina pulled open a dresser drawer and rummaged among gloves, scarves, belts and knitted hats. "Here." She handed him a single glove of heavy canvas. "I know there's another one somewhere."

Donovan tried to pull the glove on. "It's too small. I guess I'll give these to Will and take mine back."

Carina handed him the other glove and shut the dresser drawer. Without meaning to, she glanced at her image in the dresser mirror and smoothed her hair.

"You look lovely, as always.”

"Do I really?" Her eyes searched his for confirmation, then returned to the mirror. "In Miles' last letter he asked for a new picture of me, but I don't have one. I don't know if I'd send him one if I did. I'm not the same person. It was a long time ago."

"You're a beautiful woman, and any man would be proud to carry your picture with him."

Carina smiled. "You know all the right things to say, don't you?"

"What do you mean? I only speak the truth."

"The truth as you see it at the moment." She turned back to her reflection and leaned in to examine her face more closely. "And the truth is that I'm getting older and he's far away."

"He's getting older, too."

Carina's features softened. "Yes, I sometimes wonder in what ways he's changed, and if the ways he's different now will be compatible with the ways I've changed. We have so many plans for when he comes home: the clinic, the home we'll build. But what if. . . ?"

"Any man would be happy to come home to you."

Carina refused to meet Donovan’s eyes but took his hand in both of hers and pretended to examine it, caressing the small nicks and scratches from the morning's work. Then she brought his hand to her lips, kissed his palm and cupped it against her cheek. "If I weren't married. . ."

Donovan held his breath, acutely aware that nothing he said would be the right thing.

Carina gave an odd little sigh and examined his hand again, tracing the scrapes from the barbed wire. There was a small quaver in her voice when she spoke again. "I'll give you some ointment for these, and you'll get your gloves back from Will before you do any more work on that fence." She pushed past him toward the bathroom and handed him a little glass jar. "This will keep those scratches from getting infected."

He took the jar and grabbed her hand. "If you weren't married. . ."

Carina smiled as if shaking off a foolish daydream. "But I am married. Amalia, though. . ."

"What about her?"

She opened mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. "She needs your help with that fence."

* * *

Although Amalia had complained at first that the children would be a burden, they worked hard and soon became proficient in a number of small tasks. Tasha's small hands seemed unlimited in their talents as she sewed, crocheted, teased wool, and sorted seeds and herbs with the patience of a much older girl. Will seemed to grow taller and stronger overnight on Carina's good cooking and was a willing worker on any odd job they presented him with. He had a surprising amount of knowledge about animals, although he was vague about where he had learned so much. Carina thought he might have worked for a vet or farrier, while Amalia was certain his parents had owned a ranch.

It was Donovan who finally got Will's story out of him one afternoon as they checked the traps. They had been disappointed to find that instead of a jackrabbit, one of their snares had trapped a young coyote. Donovan leveled his gun to shoot it, but Will stopped him. "Don't waste your ammo." He double-checked the safety on his rifle, then to Donovan's amazement, walked up to the snarling animal and felled it with a single blow of his rifle butt and bent to remove it from the trap.

"Are you sure it's dead?" Donovan asked. "I don't want it waking up and attacking you."

"Oh, he's dead, all right. I've done this a lot."

Donovan considered while they disposed of the animal and put the trap into a bag to take home for cleaning. "Where'd you learn to kill a coyote like that?"

"Practice. One of my first jobs was guarding the animals at night, with nothing but a piece of old pipe. You get pretty good with a pipe when it's the only thing you've got."

"I thought you said your mom and dad were townies."

"They were. Probably still are, for all I know."

"You mean you're not really an orphan? You have a home you could go to?"

"I'm not an orphan, if you mean are my parents still alive. I have no reason to think they're dead. But no, I don't have a home to go to."

"You ran away."

"Not from them."

"Then from who?"

"From the man they sold me to."

They were at the next trap now, empty and unsprung. "They sold you to a man out in the country who needed a hand."

"Yeah." Will moved forward to check if the trap was still baited. "There were too many of us and it was supposed to be like an apprenticeship."

"Seems like you learned a lot."

"I learned some things." He took off down the trail.

Donovan hurried to catch up. "Why didn't you stay?"

Will’s face clouded over. "There were things he wanted to teach me that I didn't want to learn. Everyone in town knew what he was like, but he paid good prices to our parents if we had the kind of look he wanted."

"I guess that's why you couldn't go home."

"They needed the money and would've sent me back."

They checked a few more traps in silence before Donovan’s curiosity got the better of him. "What about Tasha? Don't tell me again that she's your sister."

The boy shrugged, picked up a stone and tossed it into a fallow field. "She is my sister, as far as I'm concerned. When I found her she didn't have no one. I promised I'd be her brother and look out for her always."

"So she was alone?"

"She was with her mother, but her mother was dead."

"Where was this?"

"Off to the side of a road in the dark. I was trying to get to Jonasville and I guess they were, too. Or maybe they were leaving it. Tasha couldn't really explain what happened. Her mother must've been sick or something. I don't know."

"How long ago was this?" Donovan asked, in some concern. "Does she remember?"

"I don't think she remembers much," Will said. "I don't even know if she remembers her real name. She never told me. I call her Tasha because I had a sister, a real one, with that name. But she's pretty smart. She might remember more than I think. She always surprises me."

* * *

That night after they had put the children to bed, Donovan told the women what he had learned. The three of them sat on the porch, bundled into blankets and huddled over cups of hot tea as they talked, unwilling to go inside and lose their chance at private conversation.

"Those poor kids," Carina said. "It makes you wonder how they can stay so good-natured."

"Children are pretty resilient." Amalia bent over her cup and took a sip.

"I survived just as bad, maybe worse," Donovan pointed out.

Carina shook her head. "I can't help thinking how different children are now. Things were pretty crazy while we were growing up, but at least parents still looked out for their kids, still tried to give them something like a childhood."

"Plenty of parents still do. There's Diana, and all the kids who aren't picking pockets on the streets of Macrina." Amalia took another sip of her tea.

"But kids work so hard now," Carina said. "I think it's sad we can't offer Will and Tasha things like school and music lessons and play time."

Amalia sniffed. "That stuff's overrated. I sometimes think it was a shame we were raised that way. It gave us expectations. But there's no reason we can't teach the kids reading and basic math. They'll need that, even if they do have to spend their entire lives living on farms and working in the dirt with animals."

"You make it sound like a life sentence," Donovan said.

"Isn't it?"

For a moment no one spoke. The women pretended to be absorbed with their tea while Donovan stared at a distant star. "Well, I like it out here," he finally said.

"Tell me that again in twenty years," Amalia mumbled.

"Maybe I will."

"If you're still around."

"Where would I go?"

"So it is like a life sentence.”

Before Donovan could answer, Carina spoke up. "We need a plan on how we're going to raise these children."

"What's to plan?" Amalia asked. "They’ll work like the rest of us until they get old and die."

Carina chose to ignore her sister. "When will they have lessons and who will teach them?"

"You've got more patience than I do."

"But you're smarter."

"No I'm not. And even if I were, you're the one who likes kids, not me."

"You don't like kids?" Donovan interrupted. "But I thought all women—"

"I'm not all women." Amalia got to her feet. "I think I'll go check on the animals before we go to bed. I need to stretch my legs a bit." She stepped off the porch and vanished into the darkness.

Donovan stared after her. "I'm sorry," he told Carina. "I didn't mean to offend her."

"She's just feeling sensitive. She's never been very good at handling new people underfoot. It makes her tired. She'll get over it."

"I wouldn't have brought those kids here if I'd known she hated children."

"She doesn't hate them. It's just that people who need a lot of attention sap her energy. Once we're in a routine, she'll be all right again."

"As all right as before? I don't know if that'll be an improvement."

Carina gazed in the direction her sister had gone. "It's hard for her to let people in, and having so many of the people she cared about die only made things worse. I wish I could help, but there's not much I can do. A sister's love just isn't enough sometimes."

"I guess."

"She likes you very much, even though she'll never admit it." She toyed with the fringe on her blanket. "I'd kind of hoped. . ."

Donovan murmured something noncommittal and looked out toward the fields.

Carina stood up with a sigh. "Well, maybe I'll try to put her and Tasha together. She’s such a quiet, self-sufficient child I think Amalia could really warm up to her." She moved toward the door. "Are you coming in?"

"No. It's peaceful out here. I think I'll count the stars for awhile."

"Suit yourself." Carina shivered and went inside.

Donovan walked to the edge of the porch. After waiting a few minutes to make sure Carina had gone to bed, he stepped out onto the same path Amalia had taken, leading toward the fields and barn. There was enough of a moon that he didn't need to go back for a lantern, and by now he knew the paths between the buildings well enough to navigate them with minimal light.

He found her where he thought he would, leaning on one of the posts that supported the fence they had been repairing around last year's alfalfa field— the field that would be for corn this year. The fence was supposed to be rabbit-proof. Donovan came up softly behind her as she stared at the bright molten disk of the waning moon.

"I want to apologize."

She spun around, startled, then turned back to the moon and the field. "The fence isn't right."

Donovan looked where she was looking. Sure enough, there was a rabbit, long ears up and alert as it sat hunched between the furrows. A few feet away another one nibbled at some remaining stalks. "I guess it's not. Might be a good place to set a trap, though."

Amalia huddled in her thin sweater and shivered. Donovan took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. "They're so pretty," she said, still looking at the rabbits, her voice unusually tender. "I wish. . ."

"You told me once you didn't like to wish for things."

"I don’t. What's the point?"

"I'm beginning to think you wish for a lot of things."

She shrugged and continued to watch the rabbits. "At least it's just the leavings. It's not as if they're eating any new growth. But we'll have to fix it before spring."

"Hush." He put his arms around her and drew her against his body. Her head fit perfectly under his chin and they stood like that for a moment, both of them pretending they were looking at the fields.

Finally, as if on a dare, she twined her arms around his neck and kissed him. She pressed her body against his, touching him and whispering between kisses things he couldn't understand. He only wanted to get her to some sheltered place where they could be alone. "Wouldn't you like to go someplace where it's warm?" he whispered.

Amalia pulled away, suddenly frightened at what she had started. She drew her arms across her chest and shook her head. "No." She handed back his jacket. "I'm sorry. That was inappropriate.”

Donovan put his coat back on. "Why do you do this? You act like you want me, then you push me away."

"You don't really want me. You're just lonely." She shrugged. "And I guess I am too."

"Well, if we're both lonely, what's wrong with. . . ?"

Amalia turned toward the house and started walking. "Everything."

Donovan caught up with her. "You don't really believe that." He caught her hand and held on in spite of her token resistance. "Happiness is wherever you can find it."

"Maybe for you."

"And for you too, if you want it." He stopped her outside the kitchen door. "Look," he said, his voice urgent and barely above a whisper. "You don't have to tell me who or what I am. I know I'm young. I know I'm not reliable, I know I'm not always honest. But I do care about you, Amalia. Sometimes you just have to take a chance. If we both didn't have a need—"

Amalia lifted her chin and pulled her hand from his. "I may have needs, but I don't need you." She opened the door and slipped inside before he could answer.

Donovan stood outside the door, hugging himself against the cold. Then he willed himself to relax, to let the cold in. His shivering stopped. It didn't seem so bad when you didn't fight it. He turned and started walking back toward the fields. It was a fine night to watch the rabbits.

* * *

Donovan rested for a moment against the plow. A bitter wind tugged at his jacket and he wondered by what stretch of the imagination this could be called spring planting. He gazed back along the row. Will was catching up quickly with the seeds.

In the next field, it looked like Amalia and Tasha were moving at a good clip. Donovan slapped the reins against Cordelia's back, pulling the plow around to start the next row. A sudden movement caught his eye. It was Carina running toward them from the direction of the paddock. This wasn't her usual happy loping, either.

Donovan jerked on the reins and tossed them to Will, who had come running up to him, curious. "Wait here," he said. He caught up with Carina just outside Amalia and Tasha's field. "What is it?"

"Raiders!" She pointed toward the mountain road.

"Are you sure?" Amalia asked.

Carina nodded. "I don't think they're Guard," she said, turning toward Donovan,

"Probably up to no good, just the same. How many?"

"At least three. Maybe four."

Donovan looked at Amalia. "We can handle them."

She nodded. "We'll go protect the house. A party that small won't be after livestock, except maybe the chickens. . ."

"That's where I’m going," Carina said. She glanced over at Will, still holding Cordelia in the next field. "Have him ride over to the Petersons and warn them."

Carina took off toward the chicken coop and Amalia and Donovan started toward the house at a run. No sooner than they were inside when Amalia started pulling guns off their racks and ammunition out of cabinets. She grabbed a pair of binoculars and went out onto the front porch, scanning the horizon. Donovan peered over her shoulder at the rapidly growing dust cloud. "What do you think?"

She handed him the binoculars. "They look like irregulars to me."

He peered through the lenses. Four horses, four dirty-looking men in varying outlandish types of dress. "Definitely irregulars." He handed back the binoculars, stepped back inside and looked around. "What's the plan?"

Amalia looked around the room, momentarily at a loss, then everything came back to her, all the plans she had made over the years with her family, with Carina, on how to deal with such a scenario. "Hide the good stuff: money, food, anything with batteries or solar panels. Act nice when they arrive, like they're friends and we're expecting them. And keep them away from the linen closet."

They sprang into action and Donovan was surprised at the number of odd cubbyholes and hidden places the house held. The women had never shown him these places before, but now with a real enemy almost at their gate, Amalia had no choice but to open the secret trapdoors, the hollow books, the false panels so they could hide the batteries, flashlights, solar lamps, money, and ration books. "Leave a few things out," she urged, as he tried to put every last coin, bracelet and coupon into the false bottom of a basket. "If they find nothing they'll know we're hiding things."

A sudden slam of the kitchen door sent them dashing into the hallway, hearts pounding. They couldn't be here yet, could they? It was only Tasha. "Are the raiders. . ."

"Yes, they're coming," Amalia said curtly, brushing past her to grab a few guns from where she had left them on the kitchen table.

"It's okay, honey," Donovan said. "They won't hurt you. They aren't here to bother children." He tried to get past her to help Amalia with the ammo.

"What do they want?"

"Money. Valuable things. Maybe food. But not children."

"Definitely not children," Amalia said.

They each hid a gun and a knife on their persons, and just in time, because now they could hear the clop of hooves coming up the drive. Donovan and Amalia exchanged looks. Donovan was already feeling the familiar adrenaline rush of a raid. It felt strange to be on the receiving end, but he knew he would have no problem firing on these men, if it came to that. Amalia, on the other hand, looked nervous, but as she turned and walked toward the kitchen, head up and shoulders squared, he knew that come what may, she wouldn’t let him down in a fight.

He joined her in the kitchen and was astonished at what he saw. Tasha, taking him at his word about the raiders being after food, had loaded the table with whatever food was to hand: dried apples, half a pan of cornbread and even the pie that Carina had made on a wild impulse to celebrate who knew what. Before he could say anything, he saw horses outside the window and went to take a look. Three of the men were dismounting, while the fourth remained outside to keep an eye on things. They had some experience raiding, if they knew enough to post a lookout.

When they burst through the door and stomped into the kitchen, Donovan reconsidered. These were just teenagers, dressed in the latest raider fashion of whatever rich attire they could find, no matter how inconvenient or inappropriate. One was in dusty blue jeans embellished with velvet and leather patches. His red shirt was of some kind of shiny material and he wore a tooled leather vest trimmed in silver. The second raider was more subdued and wore what looked like a faded military dress uniform. The third was dressed improbably in a gray wool suit. They all wore gold earrings and numerous gold chains, but they were young. This could mean they would be ruthless, but it might also mean they could be tricked.

Amalia stepped forward to meet the men as they tramped into the kitchen in their ill-fitting boots. "Gentlemen, you could've knocked."

"We don't knock," the one in the leather vest said. He looked around the room, scanning it for valuables. His gaze fell upon the table.

"We figured you'd be hungry after such a long ride," Amalia said. "There's no other places to stop for miles in the direction you came from. Please have a seat. Would you like some wine? It's not very good, but. . ."

All three men cast longing looks at the table, but then the one in the vest came back to his senses. "Look lady," he waved a hand, then looked at Donovan. "You, too. We're want money, whiskey, batteries, ammo, and anything else you've got." He sized up the room. "Are you going to make me an offer, or do we need to find what we want on our own?"

Amalia forced a smile. "I'm afraid we're very poor."

"That's what they all say. Have it your way." He motioned to the other two and they pushed past Amalia, Donovan and Tasha in a rush.

Amalia and Donovan's eyes met again and Donovan reached for his gun, but Amalia shook her head. Already they could hear the sounds of cabinets and closets opening, objects being tossed off shelves. "Just keep an eye on them," she whispered.

Donovan and Tasha followed her lead and watched as the raiders checked under sofa cushions, under rugs, behind chairs and inside chests and cabinets for anything that might be of value. They picked up pictures, checked the frames for precious metal, fiddled with the backings and dashed them onto the floor. They tossed away books and keepsakes. Amalia cringed as knives were brought out and cushions ripped open, the flocking pulled out and picked over, but she made no move to stop them, standing near the linen closet door.

The raider in the suit came out of the women's bedroom holding a handful of cheap costume jewelry that Amalia had left out in the hope they wouldn't seek more valuable items. "Can't you do better than this, lady?"

"I'm afraid not. We've been raided before.”

The man grumbled and shoved the items into his pocket. "Move."

"What?"

"I said move."

"Where?"

"I don't care where, just get the hell out of the way so I can see what you've got behind that door."

"It's just a linen closet. Do you need towels and blankets?"

The one in the leather vest walked over, unimpressed with his takings from the children's room. "You let us decide what we need. He gave Amalia a shove that knocked her hard against the door.

Donovan jumped between them, still resisting the urge to grab for his weapon. "You don't need to push the lady."

"Obviously I do because she ain't out of the way yet." The man reached for his gun. "And if you don't both let us see what's behind that door. . ."

Amalia and Donovan were both reaching for their weapons when there was a sudden shriek and crash from the kitchen. It was deep and loud and seemed to go on and on with lots of smaller crashes behind it. "What the—" The man in the vest ran toward the kitchen, the other two at his heels. Amalia made a motion to go after them.

"Go," Donovan told her.

Amalia hurried into the kitchen to find a tall array of shelves on the floor and all its former contents scattered across the linoleum. The young men were standing in a confused huddle around something. To Amalia's surprise they moved apart without a word and let her through. Tasha lay underneath two heavy cast iron kettles. With a cry, Amalia knelt down beside the girl and moved the metal pots away, feeling her all over for broken bones. The girl was breathing, but faintly. "Tasha," she said. "Tasha, wake up."

She looked around wildly. Something didn't seem right, but with the men watching her in confusion and with her own heart pounding at how narrowly they had missed a gunfight, she couldn't gather her thoughts. How could that shelf just fall over? And how could the pots have flown off and hit Tasha in just such a way?

"Tasha, can you hear me?" Tasha's eyelids flickered and Amalia bent closer. "Are you all right?" The girl moved again, but this time it was just one eye, almost like she was trying to wink. Amalia sat back, startled. She looked around again. No, there was no way those kettles could've fallen where they did by accident.

Amalia glanced up at the young men. They weren't afraid to shoot a woman in cold blood, but an injured child was another matter. She forced down a sudden leap of hope and screamed. "This is all your fault! You did this!"

The leader took a step back, startled. "Ma'am, I wasn't even in this room."

He had called her ma'am. That was a good sign. "It wouldn't have happened if you hadn't come here, if you could've just taken what you needed and left. But no, you had to scare this poor child so bad she tried to climb the shelves to get away from you. And look what happened!" She jumped to her feet and the three men all moved back.

"Look at her!" She was shrieking again now and Donovan came rushing into the room in spite of his promise to guard the closet. "Look what they did to the baby!" Amalia said to him, trying to signal that Tasha was all right without the raiders catching on.

Donovan looked at the still form on the linoleum and remembered the day she and Will had tried to pick his pocket in Macrina. With difficulty he suppressed a smile and glared at each of the young men in turn. "What the hell is the matter with you that you'd hurt an innocent child?"

"I'm telling you," the leader said. "We weren't even in here."

"Well, help us get her into bed where we can at least care for her," Amalia said. She turned to the one in the military uniform, who seemed to be the weakest and most easily led. "Pick her up and take her to the children's room. It's the second one down the hall." When she saw him move to obey, she turned to the one in the suit. "You start some water boiling, in case we need to sterilize anything. And you," she turned finally to the leader. "Come with me and help me check for broken bones and monitor her for signs of concussion or skull fracture."

Donovan stepped out of the way while the young men sprang into action. He went to the bathroom and tried to look busy sorting through herbal concoctions and bandages while keeping a casual eye on the linen closet. From the children's room he could hear Amalia's voice directing the men and cooing at Tasha. Every now and then one of the raiders would hurry past, intent on some useless task. Then he heard new steps, light and cautious, coming down the hall.

He grabbed Carina and yanked her into the bathroom.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

"You won't believe it," Donovan said. "Just go in the children's room and play along. Tasha's okay."

She looked at him in confusion. "Did they hurt her?"

"No, she's faking." He shoved her back into the hallway and after a moment, he heard her shriek. Now all was confusion again, one man's voice raised in denial, another one dashing toward the kitchen on some new errand. The man in the suit appeared in the doorway of the bathroom, fingering a loose button. "I'm supposed to get some bandages," he said. Donovan handed him a roll of bandages and a pair of scissors and he darted off.

Gradually things calmed down again as Carina took charge of directing the medical operations. Soon Donovan could hear Tasha's voice, bewildered and rising in a series of questions as everyone, even the raiders, spoke soothing words to her. It didn't matter what happened next. The raid was over.

Donovan went and stood in the door of the children's room, gazing in amused silence at the tableau— the child, the hovering women, the nervous young men standing in uncomfortable poses in the corner. Amalia looked up and met Donovan's eyes with an expression of barely suppressed relief. She murmured something to Carina, then went to meet him. Together they went into the kitchen.

"That was some stunt you two pulled off,” Donovan said.

"She's a very clever girl." Amalia looked at the floor, covered in broken crockery. "Although if I'd known she had a trick like this up her sleeve, I'd have made sure not to have anything breakable on these shelves."

Donovan squeezed her hand. "We'll clean it up, and I'll get you some new stuff in Macrina." He gazed at her in admiration. "You're really amazing, you know that?"

She pulled her hand away. "Go tell that to Tasha when those bastards are gone. It was her idea.” She glanced toward the back of the house where they could still hear Carina's soft tones directing the men at some trivial task. "I hope that's it, though. I hope they leave after this."

"They will.”

"How do you know?"

"If I'd been brought up out here instead of the city, they're what I would've become. After something like this, I would've just taken whatever seemed easy and left."

True to Donovan's prediction, the raiders left soon after Carina said it was time for Tasha to get some rest. They pocketed a few items on their way out and stuffed their saddlebags with food while Carina pretended to examine their horses, delaying their advance to the Petersons. But they made no more attempts to search out hidden nooks and crannies. They showed no more interest in closed doors. And as they swung into their saddles and rode away, they looked like little more than boys playing a dangerous grownup game.

Tin Soldier - Book One, Chapter Ten

2006-12-20T11:20:00.002-06:00

It was another hot, cloudless afternoon. The dry winter had been a portent of a rainless spring and summer. With the well water lower than the women had ever seen, they decided to clear an irrigation line from the creek that had been clogged with silt for several years. Although the distance wasn't far, it was difficult work because the ground had hardened in the sun to the consistency of baked clay. When Donovan and Will hit a particularly bad patch they would pour a little water on it, but with water so precious they preferred to muddle along as best they could in the dust.

One afternoon, the clop of hooves and rattling of metal canisters caused Donovan to stand up from his work and look toward the drive. Will looked up at the same time and dropped his pick. "Who's that?"

The visitor was a dirty, brown-skinned boy driving a bony mule hitched to the most uncertain-looking vehicle Donovan had ever seen. It wasn't even a real wagon, just a raft of boards attached to what appeared to be a couple of old truck axles, complete with wheels and balding tires. The wagon bed had a hastily-built rim of stakes and baling wire around it to keep its cargo of covered plastic pails and old metal canisters from falling out as they bumped against each other on the rutted road.

"I'll go see what he wants," Will said, noticing the driver was about his age.

"No, you go tell Amalia someone's here and I'll talk to the boy," Donovan told him, but it was too late. Will had already run off. Donovan laid down his shovel and walked over, taking off his gloves and stuffing them in a pocket. The boy had parked his cart just outside the kitchen door. Donovan saw the boys exchange a few words. They fell silent as he approached.

"This is Jimmy Montoya," Will told him. "He says he lives on the north side of the valley."

"You've had a long drive. What can we help you with?"

"My dad said I need to talk to Miss Amalia or Miss Carina right away."

Donovan glanced at Will. "Go see if you can find one of them."

"I'll be right back."

"So are you the new hand?" Jimmy asked Donovan.

"Not all that new, but I guess compared to the rest of you, I am. How are things on your side of the valley?"

"Terrible. Everything's burning up-- the alfalfa, the beans, the chiles. We had no corn this year, the kitchen garden is ruined, the goats and cows are low on milk and we're afraid to plant our squash and pumpkins. Don't want to throw seed away, you know. But we got to eat and now the well is bringing up sludge, when it brings up anything at all."

"I take it you don't have a creek on that side."

"We have an arroyo, but it’s only full in the winter. This last winter, it never filled at all and we weren’t able to store any water in our tanks. We've been filtering the sludge from the well, but it ain’t enough, so we was wondering. . ."

"Jimmy!" Carina came running from the goat shed, with Will darting ahead like a calf. "Look at you, handsome! You're getting to be so grown up. Miles had better get home quick or I'll be getting me a new husband, I think."

Jimmy accepted Carina's hug and teasing good-naturedly. "Hi, Miss Carina. I was just telling your new hand here—"

"Donovan," Carina corrected him. "And he's not just a hand, he's family."

"Okay. I was just telling him our well's almost dry and we could sure use a little creek water."

"Of course," Carina said, motioning Jimmy down from the wagon. "Take as much as you need. It's not running real high this year, but when times are tough we help each other out, don't we?" She hitched his mule to a nearby post and herded him toward the door. "But I've got conditions on my water. No one can take it without first coming inside, having a little something to eat and giving me all the news."

Jimmy's shoulders sagged in relief. "It's sure hot out and I wouldn't mind a little rest before heading back."

"You'll get that, plus a bath, and maybe we can find you some clean clothes, too."

"I bet he'll fit something of mine," Will offered, following them into the kitchen.

"Good idea. Why don't you two go do that while I see about making us something to eat? Will you be needing a meal, Jimmy, or just a snack?"

"I ate my lunch in the wagon about an hour ago," Jimmy said. "So I ain't really starving or anything."

"Sounds like you just need dessert, then."

The boys took off down the hall and Carina started bustling around the kitchen.

"You seem to like that boy,” Donovan observed.

"I like all children. If they hadn't shipped Miles away, we probably would've had a dozen."

Donovan poured a glass of water. "I wonder how come the boy came all the way over here. The Petersons are closer. There must be other families on his side of the valley. If he goes far enough down this road he'll eventually come to where he won't have to ask anyone to take creek water."

Carina set out some dessert bowls. "The Montoyas probably got water from the Petersons last week and didn't want to bother them again so soon. They're a very proud family. They hate to look like they can't take care of themselves. As for why Jimmy didn't drive to the end of the property lines, take a good look at that mule and you'll have your answer. He's thin, poor thing, and the trip to get here was probably as much as he could bear. I'll have to take a look at that creature before I let Jimmy drive him back."

She was about to say more when the screen door burst open. "What kind of contraption is that outside?" Amalia asked, entering the kitchen with Tasha at her heels. "Looks hardly sturdy enough to get here, no matter where it came from."

"It's Jimmy Montoya's cart," Carina said. "They're low on water up there."

"And the boy is going to fetch it back in that? With that bag of bones pulling it?"

"It's probably sturdier than it looks."

"I guess we'll see, won't we?"

"Yes, we will." Carina stepped back and admired the desserts she had prepared. "What do you think?"

Amalia and Donovan nodded noncommittally at the six little bowls of layered nuts and preserves decorated with mint sprigs, but Tasha pulled a chair up to the counter and examined them. "These look fancy," she said. She did a quick calculation on her fingers. "Do we each get a whole one?"

"You sure do." Carina set the girl on the floor and moved the chair back to the table. "Now, tell the boys to come eat. I think they're in Will's room." When Tasha hesitated, Carina urged her on. "It's okay. Will has a friend with him, that's all. Go on and he'll introduce you."

Still uncertain, Tasha headed down the hallway. Amalia followed her with her eyes. "You wouldn't know she's such a tough little thing, as shy as she is."

"Being wary of strangers isn't such a bad thing for a girl," Donovan said.

Carina took some spoons out of a drawer and began setting the table. "Donovan, could you go get an extra chair? And Amalia, how about we mix up a pitcher of that powdered lemonade?"

"What is this, a party for the Montoya kid?"

"We haven't seen anyone from the north side in a long time, and it will be fun for the children."

Amalia raised her eyebrows. "Anything for the children, of course. Do you need me to get the lemonade out of storage or do you keep a can out here?"

"I have some here. I just thought I'd ask so you wouldn't go saying I never consult with you on anything."

Carina took a can out of a cupboard and started mixing lemonade powder with some cool water from one of the big kitchen crocks. Amalia, after watching the preparations in silence, went outside. Minutes later, she was back with a handful of herbs, weeds and grasses. Just then Tasha wandered back into the kitchen, a puzzled frown on her face. "Didn't find them back there, did you?" Amalia asked.

Tasha shook her head.

"Listen." Everyone in the kitchen stopped what they were doing. They could barely make out the sounds of running water and laughter from the far side of the garden.

Tasha's eyes widened. "Are they playing with the shower?"

Carina strained to look out the window but could see nothing. "I told Jimmy he could have a bath. . ."

"Well, I think it's turned into a water fight, but since it'll save us watering the garden, I suppose it’s okay."

While Amalia was saying this, Tasha slipped out the door. A minute later the whooping increased in volume, now clearly audible over the adults' voices.

"It sounds like they're having a good time." Carina set the lemonade pitcher on the table and began rummaging in the cabinet for matching glasses.

Amalia tried to arrange her grasses decoratively in an old vase she found under the sink. "They better enjoy it while they can. At this rate they'll be out of water in another minute or two."

Sure enough, the laughter soon died down and was replaced by excited whispering. A few minutes later, three damp children, two clad in towels, one wrapped in shirt of marginal cleanliness, trooped in the front door and scampered into the children's bedroom. Donovan caught a glimpse of them from his position near the pantry. "Looks like we're going to have a few puddles in the hallway."

"There's worse things to have in the house than happy children," Carina said. After a quick glance at her party preparations, she announced that she was going to fix herself up, too.

"Oh, no," Amalia mumbled. "We'll be waiting until next Thursday for you to be done primping."

"I heard that!" Carina called from down the hall. "It'll only take a second!"

Amalia and Donovan looked at each other. "Should we dress, too?" Donovan asked.

"Hell, no. My sister seems to have forgotten there's some real work to do around here, in addition to getting the Montoyas their water. Why she has to turn a simple bit of food and water into a gala event is beyond me."

They waited, sipping lemonade and fidgeting until a storm of running feet heralded the arrival of the children. They trooped in, hair still damp, but neatly dressed. Jimmy and Will were both wearing clean work shirts and cut-down pants, and Tasha was in a sleeveless silk blouse that had belonged to Amalia and Carina's mother, which with the addition of a ruffle and a sash made a passable party dress.

The boys scooted into chairs while Tasha climbed into hers in undignified fashion. Amalia poured them some lemonade. "Drink it slow because that's all we've got for today," she told them. "And don't eat until Carina gets here. It's bad manners to eat before your hostess sits down."

"Hostess?" Tasha frowned at the unfamiliar word.

"The lady who fixed up this party for you," Amalia clarified.

The children cast regretful looks at their desserts, but waited. "Where did she go?" Jimmy asked.

"She wanted to get dressed up, too."

"Why didn't you get dressed up?" Will wanted to know.

"Because there's still a lot of work to do. We're going to enjoy Carina's party, but after that we all need to get back to work, okay?"

All three children nodded and Jimmy added, "They're expecting me back tonight, so I guess I need to start filling those cans soon."

"We'll help," Amalia said. "But what does your father plan to do about the long term? You can't collect water in cans all summer."

"He's going to dig a new well any day now. He sent Carlitos to the reservation last week with a message for Alma Red Wing to pick a spot for us, but she was busy doing healing ceremonies so she couldn't come right away. Papá is hoping she can come find our water in a few days."

"Who is Alma Red Wing?" Donovan asked.

"She's a curandera. The best wise woman around." Jimmy said.

Amalia nodded slightly. "She lives on the reservation on the other side of the mountain. She does things for people, some of it real like midwifing, some of it magic like banishing the evil eye and such."

"She can cure susto." Jimmy added.

"Uh, yes. She can cure susto, a sort of jinx."

"I see."

Amalia went on. "They say what she's best at is water witching, and people around here have used her before. For the price of a goat or a few chickens she'll come out with her divining rod and tell you where to dig your well."

"Divining rod? That's a stick that points to water, right? Couldn't anybody do that?"

"You'd think so, but as much as I hate to admit it, Doña Alma is the only one I've ever known to have any success at it. You don't have to believe in magic, just your own eyes."

Donovan was getting ready to ask a question when Carina breezed into the room in a flowing blue dress, her hair loose, lips rouged, bangles jingling on her wrists. Tasha clapped her hands and was rewarded when Carina took off her locket and put it around the girl’s neck. As the girl examined the locket in wonder, Carina beamed at the assembled group. "What are we waiting for? Let's not let good food go to waste."

* * *

The sun was low in the sky before they had Jimmy and his rickety wagon back on the road. Carina had checked the mule and pronounced him healthy but dehydrated and undernourished. This led her to stuff every empty nook in the wagon with animal feed, much to Amalia's annoyance. Carina thought Jimmy should spend the night, but he swore he was expected home that evening and Amalia and Donovan supported him in this. "He's a big boy. He'll be safe enough out there and it's not like the mule doesn't know the way."

They sent him off with a wagon loaded down with water, hay and corn. Will and Tasha begged to know when they would see him again. "Why don't you come to the water-witching?" he said. "You can watch Doña Alma do her ceremony and there will be a well digging and a feast after."

The children turned eager eyes upon the grownups. "Can we?"

The adults exchanged glances. "Sure," Carina said. "We really should go and help with the work."

"Neighbors help each other," Amalia said, although there was a timbre to her voice that suggested she wasn't thrilled about it. "Let us know when Doña Alma is coming and we'll be there with food and shovels."

Jimmy grinned. "I'll tell Papá. I knew you'd want to help." He reached his arms toward Carina for a hug. "You may be the farthest away, but you're my favorite neighbors."

He flapped the reins on the mule's back and started the slow, plodding way toward home. The jugs and canisters didn't rattle this time, full of water and bolstered as they were by bundled hay. Will and Tasha ran a little way down the road, shouting their good-byes, and then they were alone again and everyone trooped back inside for dinner.

* * *

A few days later, Jimmy was back, this time on a pony. He had only enough time to relay the news that Alma would be doing her witching ceremony on Sunday, and then he was off to give the news to other neighbors.

Sunday morning everyone got up before dawn, fed the animals, milked the goats and had a cold breakfast of cornbread and milk. Amalia hitched Goneril and Regan to the large market cart and Donovan loaded all the tools they could think of.

Everyone was dressed for a festival, Carina in her usual blue, Donovan in his nicest summer slacks and shirt, the children in their only summer finery. Even Amalia had bowed to necessity and put on a yellow shift with a swirling hem that showed off her neat calves. The adults tucked bundles of work clothes into the wagon, in case they should be called upon to help dig the new well. They loaded the children in, then headed out as the sun streaked orange across the morning sky. The children soon fell back to sleep, nestled on grain sacks. The adults rode up front, saying little as they watched the valley come to life with the dawn.

It was a long way to the other side of the valley, past the expanse of the Peterson ranch, past the Garza estate, and onto another road through a neighborhood of abandoned homes, the remains of a trailer park and a gutted gas station. Then there was a pasture dotted with anemic-looking sheep, and finally some larger estates once again. Unlike the ranchos on the creek side of the valley, these were in dire straits, but only the Montoya's, near the end of the road, was on the brink of ruin. Everywhere the fields were parched and dusty, the animals thin and few in number.

Will and Tasha woke up, and on seeing their friend Jimmy, scrambled out of the wagon. After a quick introduction to his brother Carlitos, the children were off to parts unknown.

The adults smiled indulgently as the kids ran off, then Carina hurried to embrace each of the Montoya women in turn while Amalia and Donovan shook hands with the men and made inquiries about the nature of the well-digging and the tools that would be required.

"We'll know when Doña Alma gets here and finds our water," said José, the patriarch. "She'll not only tell us where it is, but how far down we'll have to dig to find it. Then we'll go a little lower than that as insurance against the next drought."

"We have an auger, so it won't be all shovels and sledgehammers," added Pete, the oldest son, who was in his teens and lived in terror of the military draft. "It's hand-powered, but the Garza boys think they can find a way to hitch the mule to it and save us all some sweat."

The Garza "boys" were all men in their forties, bachelor sons of petite Chata Garza, widow of Simón, killed years ago during the fighting in Tehran. The men were all on one form of medical discharge or another and lived in their childhood home. Their stated reason for not having married was that they wanted to help their mother with the ranch, and they were so friendly and helpful that no one dared hint that there could be any other reason for it, even as local daughters grew up and pined for husbands.

The Garzas were busying themselves with the drill, a pole and a set of harness straps when the Montoyas led Amalia and Donovan over. The men greeted Amalia, then welcomed Donovan and shook his hand. "Always nice to have another man in the valley.”

"Is Doña Alma here yet?" Amalia asked.

"No," José said. "She should be here soon, though. It's what, a little after eight?"

Amalia looked at her watch. "Past eight-thirty. Closer to eight forty-five."

Pete shrugged. "She said she'll come, so she'll come."

"We're forgetting our manners," José said. "My wife and daughter have made coffee and breakfast. Please go have some."

Knowing the Montoyas' poverty, Amalia and Donovan demurred, but when he insisted, they agreed that maybe some coffee would be good. As they walked toward the house, Donovan asked, "Can they really afford this? Coffee for everyone?"

"It doesn't matter if they can afford it or not. It's part of their hospitality. They've asked us for a favor and this is the favor they're doing for us in return. Even if this is the last coffee they'll ever see, they'll give it to us because it's good manners."

"Are all country people like this?"

"Like what?"

"You know, generous."

"Of course, if it's their neighbors. When these are the only people you can count on in times of need, you make sure to treat them right." She gave Donovan a quizzical look. "Aren't people that way in the city? I mean, not total strangers, but don't people in gangs help each other?"

"Not like this.”

"Well, out here we make sure to let our neighbors know we appreciate them, even when it's inconvenient or just a big pain in the ass."

Donovan laughed and suddenly Amalia laughed, too. "Yes, it is a pain in the ass sometimes. There. I've said it."

"Sounds like it needed saying."

Amalia stopped and sniffed the air. "But sometimes a little inconvenience pays off. That smells like real coffee, not the kind that's made out of chicory and dandelions."

"I wonder where they got it. Coffee’s getting hard to find in town."

"Maybe they have a stash of beans they roast up on special occasions. Let's hurry and get some, just in case there isn't enough to go around."

* * *

It was nearly ten o'clock before Alma Red Wing arrived. The compound was thick with the assembled neighbors of the valley. so when the children, who now numbered close to a dozen and were staking out the road, came dashing up the drive shouting, everyone milled around the low wall that marked the property line and pressed against each other to watch the cloud of dust on the horizon. Slowly the cloud resolved itself into a little party of Indians on horseback. In the lead was a short brown woman with deeply lined skin. Tassels and feathers were woven into her graying braids, and she was decked in layers of heavy turquoise jewelry, her shoulders wrapped in a bright red shawl. She sat her palomino easily, with a pride that gave her plain features an air of dignity. Beside her rode a tall man in a black velvet shirt and strings of animal bone necklaces. His face was weather-lined, but his hair still hung glossy and black below his shoulders, held in place around the forehead by a broad band of red cloth. He carried a drum strapped to his back, and out of respect to Doña Alma, he rode his horse just a step behind hers, his mount's neck even with the withers of her palomino. Behind them both rode a little girl in blue, solemn and acutely aware of her own importance as she struggled to match the easy dignity of her elders.

As the party turned in at the gate, the assembled crowd fell silent, bowed their heads and crossed themselves. Carina joined in unabashedly, but Amalia and Donovan stole glances at each other.

Alma led her party to where José and his family were assembled in front of a table covered in a red and green Indian blanket with bowls of food and cups of coffee laid out in offering. "Bienvenidos, Doña Alma," José said. "Mi famila les doy a usted y a su ayudantes bienvenidos y toda la hospitalidad de mi casa. Por favor, usa lo que tenemos como lo suyo. Dios les ha guiado a ustedes a este lugar."

"Do you know what he said?" Donovan whispered in Amalia's ear as José and Doña Alma ritualistically handed a cup of herbal tea back and forth.

Amalia nodded, watching the little welcoming ceremony with a hint of bemusement. "He says he and his family welcome her, for her to use whatever she needs, God brought her here, that sort of thing."

"And what are they doing now?" Doña Alma and the Montoya family seemed to be engaging in a complicated little ritual of bows and greetings.

Amalia shrugged. "Beats me. My father used to say there are almost no authentic Indian ceremonies left in these parts, so I suspect most of this is made up, just like the dowsing ceremony will be." Catching the look of disappointment on Donovan's face, she added, "But that doesn't mean it's no good. If it puts people in the right frame of mind, it serves its purpose."

"I thought you didn't believe in that sort of thing."

"I don't. But there's a big difference between not believing it works for me and not believing it works for anyone else. If it works for them and it doesn't hurt me any, I'm for it."

Doña Alma and her attendants had by now dismounted and handed off their horses to the Montoya children, who took them to the paddock. Meanwhile, José and his wife led the Indians in an improvised procession to the rocky and windswept area around the well, with the neighbors following in silence. When they were all gathered in a circle around the well, Doña Alma shooed the Montoyas away. She murmured a few words in a language only the Indians understood, and the little girl in blue handed her a leather pouch. The pouch contained blue cornmeal and Alma began sprinkling it in a broad circle around the old well, chanting in her native language as she went.

After she had gone around three times, the girl built a fire inside the circle and the man sat down on the ground and began tapping on his drum with the tips of his fingers. The drumbeats became louder as the fire fed off the sticks and herbs the girl fed it. She added some bundled sage, which gave off a pungent smoke, and now Doña Alma came over to the fire, chanting as the drumbeats increased in volume and tempo. She threw a handful of cornmeal into the fire, then some herbs and a powder that popped and made green sparks. Then she stood in the smoke, swaying and chanting.

This went on for awhile, the curandera standing over the fire while the drum beat its steady rhythm. The Montoyas and their neighbors found themselves lulled into a trance, swaying like the curandera to the rhythm. Then Doña Alma began a stomping dance around the perimeter of the cornmeal circle, first slow, then faster, throwing herbs into the fire as the drums beat louder and louder. Then suddenly all sound stopped and Doña Alma was left swaying and muttering over the flames, before the drums took up a beat again, soft and steady like a heartbeat.

For two hours this went on, Doña Alma alternating between frenetic dancing and solemn chants, the drummer keeping pace with her moods and the little girl feeding the fire, handing the curandera the items she needed without her having to ask. Finally, at no signal the crowd could discern, the girl moved away from the fire and knelt in a prayerful attitude. Doña Alma remained by the flames, chanting and moaning, but it was clear this time that she intended the fire to go out. Thirty minutes later it was reduced to glowing embers. From a flask hanging by a cord at her waist she drank a mouthful of a local moonshine and spat it onto the coals. The flames leaped up a final time, then died.

The little girl now brought Doña Alma a Y-shaped stick and the curandera rubbed it in the ashes of the fire. The crowd scattered as she prepared to leave the magic circle to find water. Across the field she went, chanting softly, trailed by the little girl, both of them following the direction indicated by the divining rod. Back and forth, they wandered through the parched stubble of cornfields, bean fields and hay pastures. Finally at what seemed the most unlikely spot of all, the rod appeared to jerk downward. The girl handed Doña Alma a bit of cornmeal and she tossed it on the spot. Then, just to be certain, she walked a circle around the area, holding the stick steady, alert to any signs of life. Again it twitched at the spot and again she drizzled a little corn. At the third time, she gave José, who had hurried over at such promising signs, a steady look.

"Su agua está aquí."

Everyone sprang into action. While José’s wife led Doña Alma and her assistants to the house for lunch, young Pete and a handful of men too old to help with the digging trooped off to the corral to slaughter goats for the evening's feast. José led the rest of the men and the hardier women, including Amalia, to the site of the new well and everyone started digging a shallow basin with the predicted water site at its center. After watching for a few minutes, most of the women went back to the house to wait on Doña Alma, tend to the youngest children, and begin cooking. The children old enough to no longer toddle scurried back and forth among the different activities, sometimes helping the adults by scraping coals from the ovens or by taking water and tools to the well diggers. They played as much as they worked, hiding in the barn, chasing each other through the fields and getting underfoot as the men dragged the giant tripod and auger to the well site and set it in place.

The drilling was slow, difficult work. They had to stop often to let the mule rest and to allow water to soften the baked earth. Some men wandered off to see how the goat roasting was coming along. Some, like Donovan and Amalia, merely waited, talking a bit and occasionally fanning themselves with their hats. About twenty feet down, the ground became damp and sandy. The work sped up. When the mule tired at fifty feet, everyone took a break while one of the neighbors went to get one of his own mules to take over the task.

Donovan and Amalia wandered in the direction of the house in search of Carina, who they found sitting under a tree near Doña Alma, talking quietly, each in a pidgin of the other's language.

"Señora Amalia," the curandera greeted her. "Mucho gusto."

"Good to see you, too," Amalia said, taking the offered hand and squeezing it. "Me agradezco que me rememora."

"I forget no one. The old woman's gaze settled on Donovan. "¿Quién es este hombre?"

Carina made a quick introduction. The woman smiled, but when Donovan took her hand in greeting, a flicker of fear crossed her face. She composed herself with a shake of her narrow shoulders, and her benevolent wise woman's smile returned. "How did you find us?"

"I was lost in the desert. I got lucky."

"Lucky." Doña Alma considered the word. "La suerte es cosa misteriosa. ¿No tienes familia que te extraña, que te busca?" She frowned and considered how to translate. "Your family. They do not look for you?"

"I'm an orphan.”

"We're his family now," Carina added. "Nosotros somos su familia."

The curandera pondered this. "Cuídale bien," she finally said, directing her attention to Carina, "Cuídale quien le elige para ser miembro de su familia."

Amalia and Carina exchanged curious glances at this pronouncement. "What do you mean?" Amalia asked, unwilling to go so far as to ask what business it was of hers who they chose for family, but the old woman said she was tired and asked for a fresh cup of water. They hurried away to fulfill her request, leaving Donovan behind.

After an uncomfortable minute of Doña Alma's black eyes boring into his own, he could stand it no longer. "Is there something wrong?"

"Eres peligro a todo este valle," she hissed, no longer the kindly curandera but an angry Indian woman with the gift of sight. The lines on her face deepened into a scowl. "Eres débil y desagradecido." She reached for a staff lying in the grass beside her and shook it at him. "Déjanos. No te quedas aquí."

Donovan was so startled he took a few steps back, his eyes wide with shock at such treatment. He didn't understand Spanish, but the hostility of her meaning was clear. He quietly murmured, "I'm sorry," then followed the women toward the house.

* * *

After a snack of some nuts and dried fruit, Amalia, Carina and Donovan wandered back to where drilling on the well had resumed. Donovan was still shaken by his encounter with the curandera and he hung back, standing apart from the women as he watched the proceedings.

The new mule was stronger than the Montoyas' and was rapidly gaining ground, mud already oozing around the bore. Finally someone stopped the mule and set her trotting in the opposite direction to bring the shaft back up. When the pipe reached the surface, the bit was removed and the hollow pipe dropped back down the hole. Sledgehammers came out. The rest of the work would be done by hand.

The men stripped off their shirts and took turns pounding the pipe into the mud. As it went deeper, additional sections were screwed on, checked for proper fit and painted with sealant. Then the pounding would begin again. The pipe slowly inched its way downward and mud started bubbling over the top. This caused some excitement, even as the men wielding the sledgehammers became splattered with each stroke of the hammer. "It don't matter," one said, "I have a feeling we'll all get a shower real soon."

There were enthusiastic nods of agreement as the mud turned to brown, silty water. A few of the younger men were so encouraged that they rushed the pipe to catch a the overflow and rub it on their faces and in their hair. "Out of the way," said lame Lupe Garza, who was taking his turn at the sledgehammer. "You'll get your water soon enough."

A few hammer blows later, there was a rumble and spindletop of water burst from the pipe, showering everyone in cold, clear water. The flow died down quickly, but the shouts of the workers brought people running from the house and barbeque pits. Children swarmed out of nowhere, squealing and rushing to dip their hands into the bubbling flow. Women cupped water in their hands to drink, then wet the heads of their babies with the remaining drops, like a blessing.

After a little while, Doña Alma arrived, followed by her attendants. She dipped a bundle of sage in the burbling fountain and flung the drops at the crowd, chanting a blessing. Then the little Indian girl handed her a white china cup and she filled it with fresh water. She sipped the water daintily, smiled on the crowd and pronounced it "Sano y dulce." Everyone cheered.

* * *

The more expert well-diggers remained at the site to pound the pipe deeper into the aquifer, then add a tap and pump. Everyone else returned to the house and prepared for the evening's festival. The goats were removed from the spits and carved, the meat stacked onto waiting platters. Quick-cooking foods that had been prepped earlier in the day were now put onto the fire. Bread came out of dome-shaped mud ovens and kettles of beans were pulled out of their beds of hot coals. Tables and benches were improvised, blankets spread on the ground for picnic-style feasting, dishes and silverware of all description set in a common area. Children scurried to and fro to set out utensils, cups, and bottles of home-brewed beer. A CD player and speakers were brought out, fresh with precious batteries, and on a side table were cakes, pies, cookies and a big bowl of rice pudding, all covered with a sheet to keep away flies and to minimize their temptation to small children.

When the men came trooping back, tired and wet, freshly scrubbed with well water, Señora Montoya sent three of the older children with a clean washtub to get water for everyone to drink.

All was almost ready when Doña Alma approached José Montoya. "Yo me voy.”

José's eyebrows went up in surprise. "No, Doña," he exclaimed. "Please stay. Disfrute la fiesta.”

The curandera was firm. "És su fiesta," she said. "Your party. For you and your family. Me voy ahorita."

He had no choice but to let her go. He sent Carlitos and Jimmy to get the horses and directed Pete to bring Doña Alma her pay— a goat and kid, which he tethered to the little girl's saddle. Then the entire company wandered down to the gate to see the wise woman off. Before she could mount her horse, her eyes met Donovan's in the crowd and her satisfied expression clouded. She beckoned to Carina. "Aquel hombre," the woman whispered, clutching Carina's arm. "Es peligroso."

Carina smiled and patted her hand. "No Doña. He's very kind."

"No es malo," the curandera tried to clarify. "Not a bad man, pero. . ." she frowned, searching for a way to make herself understood. "Falta coraje."

Carina stole an anxious glance over her shoulder at Donovan, who at the moment did indeed look like the coward Doña Alma claimed him to be.

"Es débil," the woman continued. And before Carina could protest that Donovan had taken his place at the well with a sledgehammer and wasn't weak at all, the woman added, "Es débil en el espíritu, en el alma." She tapped her chest for emphasis.

She sighed, mounted her waiting horse and placed a gentle hand on Carina's hair. "You know what I say?"

"Yes, but--"

"Bueno." Doña Alma kicked her horse with her heels and moved toward José, who had been watching her curiously. After flicking his eyes toward Carina, he gave Doña Alma a bow and made a small speech thanking her for saving his farm and family. The curandera accepted his thanks, blessed him and each family member individually, offered a blessing to the assembled crowd and then moved her horse onto the road. Her attendants fell in behind her, the goats bleating, their bells jingling. The crowd watched them retreat down the road until they were a cloud of dust mingling with the setting sun.

"Bendígala, Dios!" someone said aloud.

"Yes," someone else chimed in. "God bless her."

"And God bless the food," José added. "Let's go eat."

* * *

The feasting went on past sundown, and after everyone had his fill, someone pulled out a guitar and someone else grabbed an accordion. Tables, chairs and benches were moved out of the way for dancing. Donovan didn't know the country dances and sat out at first, watching as Carina and Amalia danced to the Spanish and native rhythms of the local music, taking their turns with the Garza boys and each of the men in turn. Although Carina was an enthusiastic dancer, it surprised him that Amalia was the more graceful one. He tried to ignore both women's increasingly frequent glances toward him, embarrassed that he didn't know these local dances.

Diana ran up to him. "Aren't you going to dance?" She tugged his hand.

"I don't know how to dance to this kind of music."

She furrowed her brow in confusion. "It's just ordinary dancing. Come on."

With a little patience and a lot of laughter, Diana soon had Donovan doing some of the simpler steps, but as he moved through the crowd with her, he still didn't feel confident in approaching Amalia, who obviously knew these dances well. At last he felt like he could cut in on Carina, though. He handed off Diana to Lupe Garza. "Isn't this fun?" Carina said, clasping his hand for the twirling maneuver that Donovan was still having difficulty with. Fortunately for his ego, she was no better.

"It would be more fun if they played something I knew how to dance to."

"It doesn't matter if you know the steps," she said, demonstrating by missing a beat in the music. "See? None of us are any good, either. We don't get enough practice."

"Your sister is good." Donovan looked to where she was executing a perfect twirl with Grandpa Peterson.

"She doesn't count. She can dance to anything."

Suddenly Lupe cut in. "She wants to dance with you again," he told Donovan, depositing Diana in front of him and leading Carina away.

"Is that true?"

"You're better than he is."

"He must be pretty bad, then."

"He steps on my feet."

The musicians were tiring. They finished a song, and then stopped for a break. Someone put on a CD and although Donovan didn't know the song, he knew the style. He had danced to this type of music as a kid. Diana launched into the dance with enthusiasm, bouncing and swaying as if it were a song written just for her.

Donovan scanned the group. Carina was dancing with José, but Amalia was gone. He caught a glimpse of her yellow dress by the refreshment table and thought she looked unhappy. He handed Diana off to Pete, who had been dancing with a tall, aggressive girl who appeared to be making his life miserable. It obviously wasn’t easy being one of the only teenage boys around. Rid of Diana for the moment, he moved toward the refreshment table, but by now Amalia had wandered into the fields, her pale dress visible against the dark of the land. He came up behind her. "Why did you leave? I hadn't gotten to dance with you yet."

"You danced with Carina. I figured if you wanted to dance with me, you would’ve."

"It's a little intimidating to cut in on someone who's so good."

"That didn't put anyone else off, and I'm not so good as all that. Anyone can do it."

"Teach me, then."

"Out here?"

"Why not?"

She laughed. "All right. What do you want to learn? You were doing okay there at the end."

"Show me how to do that twirl thing you were doing with Peterson."

She walked him through the moves. Back at the party, the band started up again and the strains of their instruments carried faintly to the drought-hardened bean field. They picked up the beat and Amalia danced with real enthusiasm this time. When the song ended, she leaned back in Donovan's arms. "That was nice. You dance well."

"It's easy when you have a good partner and no one watching."

Amalia was silent for a long time. "Thank you for following me out here," she finally said. "I was feeling lonely."

"With so many people around, I don't see how."

"Alan was a good dancer. Sometimes parties bring back too many memories."

"I'll dance with you anytime you want. Or anything else you might like. Loneliness is optional, you know."

Amalia pulled away. "Save your flirtations for the girls your own age, or haven't you noticed them watching you tonight?"

"I'm not interested in the local girls. They're all looking for husbands."

"And you'd rather have fun without the commitment."

"You make it sound like a crime."

Amalia considered. "No. I think I'm beginning to understand the temptation."

* * *

It was past midnight when they hitched their team and headed home. The children slept soundly even as the wagon bumped over the road. Carina was too tired to talk, and Amalia seemed glad to not have to speak. Donovan watched her out of the corner of his eye as he drove. Cautiously, he took her hand and was surprised that she didn't pull away and even seemed to smile a little in the faint light of the stars. The warm night air was gentle on his skin, and when he breathed, the clear sky, the distant stars and the desert breeze came into his body with a rush that intoxicated him.

It was a letdown to arrive at the ordinary little farm. Seeing that Carina and Amalia were tired, he offered to put up the animals. By the time he returned to the house, he felt certain everyone would've gone to bed. He was surprised to find Amalia set up with the book and lamp in the living room, Carina and the sleepy children on the sofa. "They insisted," Amalia said. "But you don't have to stay up if you're too tired.

Although whittling had become Donovan’s new evening project, he didn't trust himself with the woodcarving knife at this late hour. He found his latest attempt at knitting and settled into a chair. Amalia picked up her knitting and opened Pride and Prejudice to where they had stopped the night before. "But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never seen before. . .'"

Donovan pretended not to notice the occasional glances the sisters were exchanging and tried instead to remember what count he was on, when to knit and when to purl, but it had been so long since he had knitted last that he couldn’t keep it all straight.

"'All were struck with the stranger's air, all wondered who he could be. . .'"

Well, it didn't matter how it looked, since it was just for him. He would knit straight through and see how that turned out, but as he listened to Amalia's clear soft voice, even the simple act of knitting failed him and he let the needles drop into his lap.

Amalia stopped reading and looked around. "I guess that's enough for tonight."

"I'll put the kids to bed," Carina offered.

For some reason Amalia blushed. "We'll do it like we've always done." She headed for the children's room with Tasha in her arms while Carina pulled Will off the sofa. She tossed a glance over her shoulder at Donovan. "Don't stay up too late."

Donovan thought he detected something coy in her manner, but was too tired to puzzle it out. "Not much chance of that. I'm going to bed as soon as I can find my candle."

"Take the lamp. We already have one lit in the children's room, so we don't need this one." Without waiting to see if he would take the lamp or not, she guided Will to his room. Amalia had already gotten Tasha into her nightgown and was tucking her into bed. "Don't worry about that," Carina said. "I'll take care of it."

"I don't mind."

A look passed between them. "Wait long enough and it will be too late."

Amalia looked at the floor. "You like him, too."

"It hardly matters whether I like him or not. I've still got a husband."

"You won’t be jealous?"

"Of course not."

Amalia kissed Tasha on the forehead, then went into the bedroom she shared with Carina and changed into a heavy silk robe that had once been her mother's. She paused in front of the mirror and ran a comb through her hair, then on impulse put on a dab of Carina's lipstick. She smiled at her reflection and was relieved to see that in the dim light of the oil lamp, she still looked almost like the young woman who had once been thought a beauty. That was another lifetime ago, but maybe everyone was right, that you sometimes had to take a chance, take happiness where you found it.

She padded on bare feet down the hall, passing the children's room where Carina was telling a story in soft, measured tones. She stopped outside Donovan's room. He had left the door ajar, whether from carelessness or expectation, she couldn't be sure, but it didn't matter why the door was open, or why he was still awake with the glow of the lamp spilling out into the hallway. All that mattered was that the door swung inward at the pressure of her fingertips. She stepped inside and shut the door softly behind her.

Tin Soldier - Book One, Chapter Eleven

2006-12-19T11:36:00.003-06:00

The drought continued into summer and Amalia, Donovan and Will were up late many a night irrigating the fields and garden after the sun went down to minimize evaporation of the precious water. Showers were rationed at once a week, leaving the adults dirty and grumpy and the children peevish for a chance to play in cool water during the heat of the day. Their prudence paid off as their animals continued to thrive and their crops ripened under the desert sun. With a little supplementation from their stash and whatever Carina's veterinary calls might bring, their harvest would sustain them through the winter.

Carina went on a lot of calls, some on her own initiative, but most at the request of the farmers themselves. A man would ride up on a dusty pony, leading another mount for Carina, and off she would go to check on a colicky horse or a foal that was failing to thrive. When it wasn’t a valley neighbor needing her services, it was an Indian needing help with the sheep and goats on the reservation. Carina always went right away, and now that Amalia had Donovan and the children to help with the chores, she went without misgivings, sometimes staying away for several days to make the best possible bargains.

Tasha was a busy girl that summer. She picked tomatoes and Donovan showed her how to cut them and lay them on big screens to dry. She picked peas and Amalia cooked them for dinner or added them to fresh salads. She mended screens with a needle and thread and she crocheted diligently, even though the wool was hot and scratchy on a summer day. Her favorite task was to wander the creek for herbs, which she brought home and tied into bundles to dry.

Will proved his worth with the animals during Carina's absences, handling them with an ease and experience beyond his years. Unlike Carina, he had the patience to dig worms for the hens on the banks of the creek. He devised a new predator deterrent around the chicken coop and he repaired a goat cart he found in the barn, enlisting a docile nanny to pull it around so Tasha could range farther and bring home more herbs and wild edibles.

The kitchen stove was now used for extra counter space as cooking moved outdoors to the solar cooker, the grill, and the dome-shaped mud oven. The thick adobe walls of the house kept out the worst of the summer heat and at night the windows were left open to the desert breezes. In the evenings the family sat on the porch with the wind blowing through the cool leaves of the apple trees while the children practiced their reading and arithmetic. When they were finished studying, they could have a piece of watermelon or whatever other fruit had come into season, while the adults sipped homemade wine and planned the next day.

It was a good life, even though it seemed they were always working. Sometimes Donovan thought back to his first weeks at the farm. He understood now why Amalia had been hostile. Anyone who didn't produce required them to dig into their stores, leaving them ill-prepared for the next emergency. But he had paid them back. He had worked hard and had brought home more trade goods than they could've ever acquired on their own. That he had scammed and stolen for some of them didn't bother him in the least.

Perhaps one of the best things that had come out of his tenure on the farm was the change in Amalia, whose mood had grown more hopeful, even before she found her way to his bed. She had become fond of the children, especially Tasha, who had taken to reading with an eagerness that won her heart. Now in addition to Amalia's nighttime readings they had breakfast readings, with Tasha puzzling out an inspirational thought for the day.

Amalia began drawing again. She did it furtively at first, but when the rest of the family earnestly ignored her, she warmed to her project and began sharing her work. She sketched mesas, rabbits, apple trees and clumps of manzanilla in bloom. An expert rendition of Tasha with her goat cart became the little girl's prized possession, and Will made a frame for it from scrap he found in the barn.

In a private sketchbook, she drew pictures of Donovan. Pencil, ink or charcoal; shirtless or with no clothes at all, she seemed to enjoy his body as much on paper as she did in the bedroom. He teased her, but she was always quick to remind him, "The human form has always been a favorite subject of artistic expression."

Donovan knew almost nothing about art and remained unconvinced. "Come to bed and tell me that you are only interested in my, what did you call it, 'aesthetic' qualities."

As the hot, dry summer wore on, Carina stayed away more often, and when she was home, she spent as much time as she could with her animals or with Will, who shared so many of her interests. Even though Carina had urged her to follow her desire, Amalia suspected she was jealous. If Amalia wore a pretty blouse or made an effort to style her hair, Carina was quick to tease her about "dressing up for your boyfriend." If she went far afield or came in late, it was, "Don't make your boyfriend worry about you." Everything was said in her usual sweet tone, but Amalia knew her sister too well not to catch the meaning that lay beneath.

The worst moment came when she decided to move into Donovan's room. Carina laughed and said it was about time, since she was there all the time anyway, but there was something false in her enthusiasm for having a room to herself again. On the day Amalia moved her things down the hall, Carina had been so sullen that the entire family was relieved when a neighbor rode up with an extra pony, asking Carina to tend an injured ewe.

The tension between the sisters had become almost visible when one afternoon a cloud of dust on the horizon heralded the return of Alvi, the peddler.

* * *

Alvi was surprised to see the children but took the new additions to the family in stride. He gave them some peppermint candy that he kept on hand for the children of his best customers, and got down to the business of mending shoes and selling luxury goods.

Donovan tried to keep working. The corn was ripe and he was slow, especially working alone, with Amalia cutting hay in the next field and Carina preparing a special meal for Alvi, but Donovan's patience only went so far. When he could stand the suspense no longer, he brought in his team.

He found the windows of Alvi's cart open, shades extended and goods spread out on Indian blankets in the shade of the mulberry tree. Will and Tasha were trying on huaraches from a wicker basket. "Is that a good fit for you, my friend?" he asked Will, who was jumping around the yard, frowning at his feet.

"There's a spot. . ."

"Come here and let Alvi see it. Perhaps it is a small matter, easily fixed."

Will showed him the spot where the strap was rubbing. "I can probably get used to it."

"Don't be ridiculous." He motioned for him to take off the shoe. "They must be a perfect fit or I will not let you have them. My customers must be satisfied."

Will smiled up at Donovan as Alvi got to work. "I've never had anything new.”

"Well, technically you know huaraches aren't new, right?"

"Yeah, they're just old tires."

The peddler interrupted. "But once Alvi has finished with them, they have been given new life. And they are better than new rationed shoes from the store because they are customized."

"Customized?" Will frowned at the new word.

"I fix them special for your feet, and your feet alone."

"That sounds like a good deal,” Donovan said. “Maybe I need some. Boots get hot in the summer."

Alvi looked up from his work and met his eyes with a look that said he knew his real motive for stopping by. Ever the professional, he stuck to the matter at hand. "You find a pair in that basket that you like, I will make them yours."

Tasha came up to the workbench, clutching a pair of huaraches and a handful of yellow ribbon. "Sir?"

"I am Alvi, not Sir."

"Can you make my shoes tie with ribbons?" She held out both items for him to inspect.

The peddler handed Will his huarache and asked him to try it on. While the boy experimented with leaps beside the nopal gardens, Alvi examined Tasha's choice of sandals. "You see, Miss Tasha, we need these shoes to be strong so you can wear them a long time. These ribbons aren't made for that. Besides, the pretty ribbons would only get dirty." The disappointment on her face made him examine the huaraches again, knitting his brows in thought. "What is it you like about the ribbons? Is it their color? Or did you just want to make the sandals pretty?"

Donovan sighed. This was going to take awhile. He tried to leave unobtrusively, but Alvi stopped him.

"Friend Donovan. I have something special I think you will like. Perhaps we can do some business after supper?"

* * *

At dinner Tasha could scarcely sit still for her excitement over her new huaraches, their functional black straps replaced by tough cotton bands of braided pink and yellow, punctuated with a few sequins. Everyone had been asked at least three times to admire them, and throughout the meal, the normally quiet child squirmed and twisted in her chair, trying to see her feet.

The meal was a leisurely one, with the women peppering Alvi with questions about his travels and the state of world affairs and laughing at his exaggerated and evasive answers. "No, really. The rice came all the way from China. I put a sail on my little wagon and we went to Shanghai, where I met the most remarkable geisha—"

"Geishas are in Japan," Amalia pointed out.

He gave a knowing wink. "I forget you and your sister are the last of this country's well-educated women."

"Not me," Carina said. "When I went to school, if it wasn't about animals, I wasn't interested."

"Don't listen to her. She only says things like that because she knows it's not fashionable any more for women to be book-smart."

"I'd hardly call it fashion," Alvi said sadly. "There aren't many places left where there are enough children for a school, and there is not enough leisure that they can attend, anyway. Everyone must work, even the littlest ones."

"We have school," Tasha said.

"We teach them basic reading and math in the evenings," Amalia explained.

Alvi looked at each of the children in turn. "You must do all you can to become good at reading and numbers," he told them. "Even when it's hard or it seems not important. You will be happy later. You will see."

Will fidgeted. "Tell us about how you got the rice from China.”

"Oh, yes. I sailed my wagon to Shanghai." He glanced at Amalia. "After stopping in Japan to buy sake."

"What's sake?"

"Wine made from rice."

"Is it good?” Carina asked. “I don't think we've ever had it."

"We will have some after dinner and you will form your own opinion."

"So you bought sake in Japan," Amalia prompted him.

"Yes, and that was where I met the lovely geisha. She helped me disguise myself so I could trade with the Chinese, since of course we are still at war with them. But when I got to the port of Shanghai. . ."

Donovan toyed with his fork, trying not to appear impatient. He wouldn't be able to relax until he had his papers in his hand. He was going to read them, too. It gave him a headache just thinking about it, but he would read every word and make sure he understood what they said. Only then would he feel safe. There was still no guarantee he wouldn't get picked up as a deserter, but with 4-F papers, the prospect that he would be held more than a few hours was small. The only danger was if he got picked up by someone who recognized him, or by a unit that had access to a radio or phone line to check records at regional headquarters. He would probably never be out of danger as long as he lived, but having papers would vastly improve the odds.

"They would not let me go," Alvi told his audience. "They kept me in a dark room where I passed the time singing songs to keep myself cheerful. One day a little bird was attracted by my singing. . ."

Donovan looked at his empty plate. The rice had been good, a rare treat out here where rice would not grow. Only God knew where Alvi got it. But the stories! His goods almost certainly came to him by ordinary means— a trade from some wealthy hoarder's cache, or maybe a chance meeting with a tradesman who knew where a federal relief train had been diverted by rebels. He looked at Alvi, whose eyes glowed as his tale grew more fantastic. The children were staring, the women stifling their laughter at his escape down a crocodile-infested river by moonlight. The ordinary adventures of life were obviously not enough for Alvi. What sadistic turn of fate had made him a peddler on a circuit of lonely desert farms and half-forgotten villages? It was probably the same fate that had taken Donovan off the city streets and set him in this place, minding goats and donkeys, and trying to harvest corn.

* * *

After dinner they went on the porch, and while the children did their lessons, the adults occupied their hands with simple tasks, the women knitting and the men making corn ristras. Alvi insisted on helping, and Donovan was annoyed to see that he was good at it. "This brings back happy memories of the summer I spent here," he said. "I thought my career was over just as it was beginning, but you got my Hérculo back on his feet and I will never forget it."

"I did what I would do for any animal," Carina said.

"Your family was very generous to me. That was my favorite summer, and Hérculo was a good worker and faithful friend for many years, thanks to you."

"You've got some good ones now," Carina reminded him. "I know I say it every time you come through, but I hope you're making note of who's breeding good stock out there. I'm willing to look outside the valley next time we buy, if there are quality animals for the right price."

"There is never a moment I'm not thinking of it."

"Then it's a wonder you get any sleep," Amalia teased.

"Sleep is for those who are willing to miss out on life. We must stay awake always."

"Well, I don't mind missing out on a few things," said Carina, yawning.

"It's a sacrifice we have to make," Amalia agreed. "But we don't have to miss out on that sake, do we? You thought we had forgotten, didn't you?"

"Not at all," Alvi said, standing up. "It is I who had forgotten. I will be right back."

A few minutes later he returned with a blue bottle and four short glasses on a tray. He poured a bit of the cloudy rice wine into each glass and handed them out. "I was told that it should be drank out of small bowls, but I don't know if I trust my source."

The women sipped cautiously. Carina made a face. "This tastes like what I use to preserve my herbs."

"Yes, if you added water and a bit of rose petal," Amalia agreed. "But it's okay." She took another sip. "I can see how it could grow on you."

"Well, I don't." Carina set her glass on a small table and returned to her knitting. "At least I can say I've tried it."

Amalia shrugged and added the contents of Carina's glass to her own.

A cool wind blew in off the desert and they sipped their wine, talking about nothing in particular. The sake and the peaceful evening quieted Alvi, and finally Amalia got out a book and read to them all from Mark Twain. Then the women stood up and Amalia began bringing in lamps and glasses while Carina herded the children down the hall to their bedroom. Alvi turned toward the porch steps and motioned to Donovan. "I think we have a business transaction to finish."

* * *

Donovan held the papers in his hands. He couldn't make much out of the unfamiliar words, but he understood the most important bits, especially the card that identified him as 4-F, unfit for service. That was the most important part. He could scarcely contain his excitement. It had been worth the extra trouble to get the money.

"Take those with you whenever you set foot off the property," Alvi told him.

"Don't worry, I will."

"Things are getting strange out there. It looks like the rebellion in Texas is serious. The feds are going to have to put it down fast or it could get out of control."

"You mean spread to other states?"

"So they say. You know I only repeat what I hear."

Donovan tucked his papers inside a pocket and reached for his glass of whiskey. It tasted good after the anemic sake. "Well at least you hear something. We don't hear much of anything out here, and in Macrina, it's almost as bad."

"They tried being something of a news center many years ago, but they found that bad news made the buyers nervous, and it was almost all bad news. Such things tend to attract the wrong kind of people. Macrina just wants honest traders willing to spend money. Rumor-mongers start riots. That's how half their business district burned down. It set trade back by years."

"Was that the riot that Amalia's father. . . ?"

"Yes. He was a fine man. Treated me like a son the summer I was here, and he died worse than an animal. It's enough to make one think the feds were right to shut down free communications. Most people are fools. They believe everything you tell them and then run around in a panic if it's not the news they wanted to hear. If you want to keep public order, you don't have much choice but to make it all good news."

"So where do you get your information?"

"Customers. Towns that don't have news blackouts. I have sources, and what I'm hearing pretty consistently is that there's a push in the military to do some recruiting sweeps, especially in the overlooked areas."

"Like Macrina?"

"Like Macrina, and maybe this valley."

Donovan took a deep breath, acutely aware of the papers in his pocket. "These came at a good time."

Alvi topped off their glasses. "You're still not completely safe," he reminded him. "They might decide that even as a 4-F, you'd be good for manning a supply station behind the lines. And of course there's the whole desertion thing."

"I know. I've thought about all that."

"When you have time to look the papers over more carefully," Alvi gave a little smile that suggested he knew why he had only skimmed their contents, "You'll see I had them add a few things to your phony psych report."

"What kinds of things?"

"You'll see. It ought to make you undesirable for just about anything, and might even help get you off the hook if they find out how you left your prior service."

"In that case I don't care if these papers say I'm an alcoholic transvestite who bays at the moon."

"Just remember, none of it will do any good if they figure you out or don't bother to read the papers at all."

"So how is it you aren't nervous about some of the same things, like getting picked up and made to mop floors in a barracks somewhere?"

"You're as bad as the ladies, wanting to know my secrets."

Donovan considered. "You have friends in high places." He knew better than to ask and simply stated it as a fact.

"A few."

"Hard to believe they wouldn't have other ways of getting scotch whiskey, olives and the occasional bottle of sake. I wonder why powerful people would resort to an ordinary peddler?"

"I provide my clients with what they want."

Donovan tossed back the rest of his whiskey and waited until he could feel it burning in his stomach. "Is the information you give them real?" he asked. "Or fake?"

Alvi stared, but it was too late to deny what he was. "I tell them whatever I think will help the most number of people, and then I pray to God that I have chosen wisely."

In the silence that followed, Alvi filled their glasses a final time and they both nursed their drinks, darting only the occasional glance at each other. "Be careful about going to town for awhile," Alvi finally said. "I've tried to throw them off track, but I think Macrina, Higdon and all the towns in this region are targets."

"Do you hear anything else?"

"Some units are being brought up from South America to help put down the Texas rebellion. I think Miles might be with them, but I'm not certain. If he's not with them, it could be many more years before he comes back to the States. And if he is with them, it might be even worse. The waters are full of mines, making it dangerous to send the men by ship, and the indigenous of Central America have begun targeting supply and medical units. They figure it makes it easier to kill off the regular troops if there's no one to feed them or patch them up. We can't say a thing about this to Carina, you know. It will worry her.”

"Yes. It’s funny, I used to think Amalia was weak because she was always so angry."

"She's the strong one because she doesn't deceive herself."

"When you know something. . ."

"I will get word to you and Amalia. Good news or bad."

"Thank you." Donovan looked at his hands. It was a new feeling to be grateful for a favor that didn't benefit him personally. "I don't want to see her hurt."

"We will hope that the news, when it comes, is good."

Donovan set his empty glass on a wicker chest and got to his feet, surprised at how unsteady he felt. "Thank you for the whiskey. And the papers. Especially the papers."

"You paid for them," Alvi said, seeing him to the door. "Be sure and show them to the ladies. It will put their minds at ease next time you are out and about. I don't think you realize how they worry about you."

Donovan nodded, grabbing onto the door jamb as he teetered on the step. "It'll reassure Carina," he said. "But Amalia. . ."

"Will see the catch in it, as always. But she'll feel a little better, too. Trust me."

"Of course I trust you," Donovan said, making his unsteady way down the stairs. He reached the ground and felt he had overcome a great obstacle. "You gave me back my life."

Alvi stood on the top step, an odd expression lighting his eyes. "Don't go taking advantage of it too soon. I'd hate to see Amalia have her heart broken again."

Donovan frowned. "Of course not." But as he weaved his way back to the house, he pulled his papers out of his pocket and clutched them tightly to his chest, a movement not lost on the dark man standing in the open doorway of the gypsy wagon.

* * *

Donovan opened his eyes slowly. He could tell from the sunlight streaming in the window that it was morning. For a moment he couldn't think how he had overslept or why he felt like he did: thirsty, headachy and just plain bad. Then he remembered the whiskey. And the sake. No wonder. But then he remembered the papers and reached for his pocket.

Where were his pants?

He sat up, frowning. He hadn't remembered undressing, but here he was, wearing nothing but his underwear. And where were the papers? A sudden panic seized him and he looked around in confusion.

"I have them over here," Amalia said. She was sitting in the upholstered chair under the window. "Alvi did a good job. It must've cost you a fortune."

"It did." He pushed himself off the bed and stumbled over to her.

"Why didn't you tell us this was what you were working on?" Amalia's eyes shone unnaturally clear in the morning light, like a reflection of the sky. "This ought to be a big help to you. Of course, it's not foolproof."

He took the papers out of her hands. "I need to find a way to carry these on me at all times." He looked around the room for his pants.

"I hung them up," Amalia said, guessing what he was after. "I'll take a look through our parents' things. I think one of them may have had something like what you need— a sort of leather billfold you can wear underneath your clothes, against your skin so no one can pick your pocket."

Donovan was putting his clothes on blindly, fighting back a sudden wave of nausea. Sake and scotch were a bad combination.

"But why didn't you tell us?" Amalia asked again.

Donovan sat on the bed. "I wanted it to be a surprise, and I didn't want to deal with a lot of questions about how I was getting the money to pay for it."

"So you cheated at cards again in Macrina?"

"Not always. Sometimes I won legit."

"Any outright stealing?"

"Only a little."

Amalia stood up. "Well, none of that is anything I haven't heard before. I try to understand times are different, but it still doesn't seem like a good way."

"I got what I needed, didn't I?"

"Sure, but what about the people you stole from? They needed things, too. How did they manage?"

Donovan rubbed his aching head. "Maybe we can talk about this some other time? Because right now. . ."

Amalia put her hand on the doorknob. "What do you want? Coffee?"

"I don’t know if I could keep it down."

"Didn't you know Alvi can drink anyone under the table? You should never try keeping up with him. Sounds like you need some greasy eggs with lots of salt. I saved you a plate of migas."

"Thanks. And later. . ."

"What?"

"Do you think you could read these papers to me?"

* * *

Alvi left that day in a cloud of dust, after a great deal of flirting and fussing. As always, the women were sad to see him go. "He sure has a way of livening up this place," Carina said. She had been watching the red cart disappear down the road but now turned toward the path that led to the barn and paddock.

"He's funny," Will agreed, joining her on the way to the barn before Amalia could task him with something more onerous.

Tasha looked at her feet in their colorful new sandals. "When will he be back?"

"There's never any telling," Amalia said. "It's usually summer and winter, but. . .well, there's just never any way to be sure."

The chores seemed harder than usual that day, the sun hotter and mealtime duller. The peddler had brought a flavor of the exotic into their day-to-day existence and his unexpected arrival and quick departure left a little shock in its wake— a sudden sense of tedium where before, things had seemed to move along pleasantly enough.

Life soon resumed its normal rhythms. In the face of unending heat, they rose early and tried to do as many chores as they could before the sun hit its zenith. They spent the afternoon napping in the cool of the adobe house underneath the solar-charged fans. They soothed their parched throats and cooled their bodies with water brought up from crocks in the root cellar, mixed with crushed mint. As the sun went down each night, they released creek water into the irrigation lines, so that by the time they ate their supper on the porch, the plants, which had wilted under the blistering summer sun, had begun to straighten and show themselves alive again, hardy survivors in this burning land.

Finally came a morning when something new blew in on the desert air. Amalia noticed it first, straightening from a row of stunted summer squashes, sniffing the air like some savvy forest creature. She dropped her pitiful harvest and scanned the western horizon. At about the same time, Carina came loping from the paddock. "Rain!"

Amalia sniffed the air again. It smelled unmistakably of water and life, and there on the horizon was a faint smudge of gray. She stood on her toes, trying to get a better look.

"It's coming," Carina said.

Amalia had her doubts, but for a little while, all work was suspended. When Will came up from the creek, Amalia sent him for chairs and they sat and watched the darkening line across the western horizon. After awhile, dishearteningly, the sky began to lighten. There would be no rain today.

A few days later, the sky to the west darkened again. Again everyone grew excited and stopped what they were doing to watch, only to be disappointed. So when a faint smudge of gray appeared over the mountains for a third time, they kept working. Either the rain would come or it wouldn't. Chores had to be done, just the same. But soon it was clear this line of storms was different. The wind picked up, heavy with moisture and the scent of damp earth. Dust blew across the yard, the wind carrying dead leaves and weeds in its wake. Like an ink stain, the dark clouds spread out across the sky.

There was no time to bring out chairs, no need to gather and discuss. The women ran to bring the laundry off the line while Donovan herded the children toward the house.

They were gathered in the safety of the front porch when the first big drops came, plopping fat and lazy into the dust. Then others joined them, lighter, faster, and finally so numerous that they dissolved into a gray curtain shimmering and beating a rhythm against roof and earth. The women took deep breaths of the humid air, sat back in the porch chairs and sighed. Donovan leaned over the railing, the mist dampening his face and clothes. Rain had never seemed anything but a nuisance before he came to the farm, but now it was the essence of life. He watched it, consumed with the desire to dance among the raindrops and drench his skin and clothes for the pleasure of it. He turned to the women with elated eyes. "Do you think. . . ?"

Amalia laughed. "Go ahead."

Donovan went toward the edge of the porch and the children followed, guessing what he was up to. As one, they tumbled down the steps and into the gray, wet world, stomping in the rivulets, splashing in the puddles, dancing wildly to the rhythm of the rain. Carina and Amalia looked at each other, the question unspoken, but understood. They jumped out of their seats, and with excited whoops and giggles ran down the steps and joined the others in celebration.

It was a dripping and sodden group that greeted the clearing skies a little while later. The rain hadn't lasted long, but it was enough to feed the crops and the wild plants and herbs around them. It was enough to raise the creek so they could continue irrigating the fields. It added water to their storage tanks. Most of all, it gave them hope.

Tin Soldier - Book One, Chapter Twelve

2006-12-18T11:46:00.003-06:00

It was hard for Donovan to believe he had been at the farm a year. It was harder still to take in the ways his life had changed. Here he was, a city boy, walking beside a hay cart tossing in alfalfa from the winrows where he and Amalia had raked the drying hay the week before. He was still trying to get the hang of forking and tossing it without losing most of his hay to the wind. Amalia, working the other side of the cart, was an expert, but tired more quickly than Donovan, who had the advantage of strength.

When the cart was full, they sent Will to the barn while they remained behind. They raked up the leavings, then propped their tools against the fence. Tired and hungry, they wandered toward the creek in companionable silence. While Amalia retrieved their lunch from a cool, muddy spot in the shade, Donovan considered the creek.

"You going to jump in?" Amalia asked as she set out some hard-boiled eggs, cheese, bread and apples. "That water's pretty cold this time of year. It comes down from the mountains, you know."

He put his hand in the flowing water. "It's not that cold."

"Get in. You'll see."

"Maybe I will. But not now." He sat beside Amalia and accepted a glass of water. "Sure is a pretty day," he observed, looking at the brilliant blue sky.

"I was thinking the same thing." Amalia handed him a piece of bread smeared with goat cheese. "Days like this make me love living on the land." She took off her straw hat, shook out her hair in the breeze and smiled. "Most people used to work indoors all day and I used think I would've liked that, but not on days like today."

Donovan took a bite of bread and chewed thoughtfully. "On a day like this a person could see doing this sort of thing forever."

"What would be better?" she asked, reaching for an egg.

"Nothing, of course."

"Cities and towns are still in chaos, you know. Raiders and Guardsmen are looting and killing people along the main roads. There are wars in crazy places that no one can keep up with any more. Maine, Vermont, Texas, and parts of California have all seceded." She picked at a bit of eggshell. "We're lucky to be away from it all."

Donovan took the egg out of her hand and kissed her long and slow. "Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere." He jumped up and took off his shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"Time for that swim, remember?"

"You're crazy. That water's freezing. I bet you don't know how to swim, anyway."

He struggled out of his boots and socks, then took off his pants. "I can't let that stop me."

Amalia smiled as he wiggled out of the last of his heavy work clothes. His taut, muscular body held no end of fascination for her, in spite of the horrific scars on his shoulder and thigh. If anything, she found him more attractive because of the scars. They were like a decoration, a reminder that not even the perfection of his smooth toffee skin was immune to the ravages of an uncertain world. She started to go to him, but thought better of it and settled back on the blanket.

The creek was too shallow for diving, so Donovan waded in. He was only up to his knees when he looked over his shoulder at Amalia. "You're right. It's cold!” He laughed and waded out a little deeper, shivering. Then he ducked \and attempted to swim. After a few minutes of splashing around and getting nowhere, he burst out of the water, ran up the bank and threw himself, dripping, onto the blanket. "Damn, that was cold!"

Amalia ran a hand along his back. "You're half-frozen."

He rolled over and grinned up at her like a cat. "Warm me up."

"I don't think so. Will will be back with the wagon soon."

"No he won't. He'll have lunch with Tasha and Carina first."

"Are you sure?" Her eyes darted toward the path back to the house.

"Pretty sure." He drew her down on top of him. "And if he happens by, a little education won't hurt the kid."

"We're supposed to be protecting what's left of his innocence." She let him kiss her, then after a token resistance, relaxed into his arms.

"Innocence isn't any fun." He kissed her slowly, as if he had all day. In the warm autumn afternoon, it was easy to forget time was passing and there was work to do.

They were fumbling with her clothes when they were arrested by a sound of voices and hooves on the trail. Cursing, Donovan grabbed his clothes and began pulling them back on. Amalia sat up and buttoned her shirt, then attempted to do something with her hair as Will and an unknown boy on a chestnut mare came into the clearing.

Will looked from one face to the other and although both Donovan and Amalia were now decently dressed, his eyes lit up with amusement, as if he knew he had interrupted something. "This is Marco. He comes from Jonasville and says he has a message for you."

"Couldn't Carina. . ."

"No, ma'am," Marco said. "The man said you or Donovan. No one else." He looked at Will. "Not even you."

"What?" Now it was Will's turn to be annoyed.

Donovan felt a lump in the pit of his stomach and suddenly the golden afternoon felt cold. "It's nothing personal," he told Will. "Did anyone else see Marco arrive?"

"No. I saw him while I was taking back the cart. I think Tasha and Carina were already at the house, or maybe in the barn."

"Good. Don't tell them anything, understand?"

While Donovan reassured Will, Amalia opened the letter. Alvi had taken the trouble to write neatly, using the simplest possible words in case Donovan had to read it on his own. Amalia read the entire thing at a glance, but continued staring at it as if she could will it into nonexistence.

"What does it say?" Donovan asked.

She handed it to him without a word, then walked to the creek, sat down on a warm rock and sat staring, unseeing, as the water rushed past her feet.

It took Donovan a minute to puzzle out Alvi’s message, but when he was through, he crumpled it and shoved it in a pocket. "I don't have any money with me," he told Marco. "But if you can wait until we go back. . ."

"No, I need a return message right away. I don't care about a tip. I'll get a bonus if I get back to town fast."

"You should at least let us feed and water your horse. We'll check it out and make sure it's sound."

"Carina isn't going to want to see that horse," Amalia said from the creek bank.

"I'll do it," Will offered. He turned to Marco. "Come on. We'll go back to the barn."

"Don't—" Donovan called.

The boys stopped. "What?" Will eyed him solemnly, having guessed by now at the contents of the letter. "Were you planning on not telling her?"

"When and how we do that is up to Amalia."

Amalia walked back to them. Her jaw was set and every move of her body was a study in barely suppressed anger at the fate that had given her this task. "There's never going to be a good time. We may as well go back together and get this over with."

* * *

At first she seemed to take it well. "It's not possible," Carina said. And since it wasn't possible, she didn't have to believe it. This lasted maybe an hour and gave the family enough time to get Marco on his way.

Then she began pacing.

Back and forth across the living room floor, sometimes down the hall to her bedroom, which was all wrong, then back to the living room and kitchen, which weren't right either. She haunted the rooms, staring at nothing and everything in confusion. It just wasn't possible that everything could have changed, yet still look exactly the same. Her movements became more agitated. Donovan handed the children plates of tortillas and late summer vegetables and sent them to their room while Amalia tried to do something with her sister.

"Honey, sit down, won't you?"

Carina paused to stare out a window, then started moving again. She wandered to different items in the room— table, bookcase, painting, Indian blanket, staring at each thing in turn with unseeing eyes as her breathing became more agitated. Her gaze fell upon the mirror hanging on the wall and before Amalia could react, she tore it from its hangings and dashed it to the floor.

The sound brought Donovan running as Carina began grabbing everything she could get her hands on, wordlessly and methodically destroying it. She picked up vases and smashed them, she upended a small table. She tried to rip the recently mended sofa cushions, but found that activity unsatisfactory and hurled a small footstool toward the window instead, where it thankfully missed the glass and crashed against the wall. She didn't scream cry. She was on a simple, silent mission to obliterate everything she came into contact with.

Donovan met Amalia's eyes. "Should we stop her?"

Carina paused in the act of ripping a picture off the wall, walked over and slapped him.

Amalia came up behind her and Carina whirled around. Donovan grappled her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. "Stop it."

As if a human touch was all that was needed to release her voice, Carina screamed in long anguished wails that quickly robbed her of the strength to fight as Donovan pulled her to the floor. She collapsed in a heap, shrieking like she would never stop.

Amalia motioned Donovan away. "Might as well let her get it out."

He wasn’t so sure. He tried to put an arm around Carina’s shoulders, but she kept screaming as if he wasn’t there. He looked at Amalia in concern.

Amalia shook her head, located the damaged footstool and sat down to wait. At one point the children appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed with concern, but she hurried them back to their bedroom, telling them this was “grownups’ business."

Donovan watched Carina’s heaving shoulders, waiting for just what, he wasn’t sure. It seemed she was going to do this all night. Didn’t she at least need to breathe?

Finally the timber of her voice changed. The screams dissolved into keening sobs and this seemed to be what Amalia had been waiting for. She sat on the floor and pulled her into her lap, rocking her back and forth and letting loose a flood of words that Donovan couldn’t make out. When she finally looked at him, tears were streaking her own face, too. “Get a handkerchief,” she said. “Get several. And a glass of water.”

Donovan rushed to take care of these small errands. He returned with a stack of clean cotton rags and a cup of cold water from the jug in the kitchen pantry. Amalia wet one of the rags and wiped Carina’s face, which stopped her tears for a moment. She took a few deep breaths, then buried her face in Amalia’s lap and continued crying.

This went on until they had worked their way through nearly half the stack of rags. By now even Amalia was starting to show signs of concern. “Aren’t you tired yet, honey?” She rubbed Carina’s back and shoulders, but this seemed to set off more gasping and tears. She motioned to Donovan. “I need to get something. Could you?” She deposited Carina in his arms.

She was gone a long time, and when she returned she was carrying a fresh rag and a bottle that Donovan thought looked familiar. “I hate to do this,” she told him as she dampened the rag. Donovan moved back while Amalia held the rag over Carina’s face. She struggled only a moment, then lay still.

Amalia set the chloroform aside. “Let’s put her to bed. Hopefully we won’t have to go through this again tomorrow.”

She was so light that Donovan carried her without any trouble. They laid her on her bed and Amalia began stripping off her clothes. “Get a cool washrag so I can clean her up."

When he came back, he found Carina asleep under a quilt. He sat beside her and wiped her red, puffy face. “I had no idea anyone could cry that long."

“She hasn’t cried since we moved out here.” Amalia sat on the other bed and looked around the room at the pictures and memorabilia. “I knew it had to catch up with her sometime. You can’t go that long faking it and not have it build up inside.”

“So what happens now?”

“I have no idea.”

“Alvi’s letter said. . .“

“Yes. I guess at least one of us is going to have to make the trip to Jonasville.”

“I can go.”

Amalia shook her head. “It’s a federal town. Even with your papers, it’s not safe. Besides, they’ll want to see proof of kinship.”

“Alvi will make sure they release the body.”

“Why do you say that?”

Obviously she didn’t know Alvi was a spy. “Just a feeling I have.”

She dropped her head. “Miles was a nice man. I was fond of him. He would’ve been a big help to us, and to the valley, but mostly I was hoping. . .“ she looked at the still form of her sister.

“Do you want to come to bed?” Donovan asked, taking her hand. “You must be exhausted.”

“I’m going to sleep in here tonight, in case she needs me.”

“Can I stay with you?”

Amalia buried her face against Donovan’s chest, wetting his shirt with her tears.

An hour later, Will and Tasha dared peek in the room. They found Carina still unconscious, Donovan and Amalia curled up asleep in the other bed. The children looked at them, then at each other in puzzled silence. Then Will pulled the door to and they walked away, whispering to each other in the darkened hallway.

* * *

It was daylight when Donovan awoke. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He looked at Amalia, still sleeping in his arms, and shook her awake. “We overslept.”

Amalia opened her eyes with a start, looked around the room in confusion, then went to check on her sister. Carina hadn’t moved during the night, but her breathing was deep and regular. “I wonder how long she’ll sleep. I have only the vaguest idea how to dose that stuff. We get it on the black market and you never know.”

“She looks okay to me. She’ll probably wake up in a bit.”

“I kind of hope not.” Amalia looked out the window, rubbing her neck. “We’re getting a late start on the chores, plus it’s harvest time. I know what she’s going through, but we don’t have time to be nurses.”

“Maybe we can get Grandma Peterson to come over, or maybe we can hire someone to help us bring in the hay and chiles.”

“Maybe. Let’s make some coffee and think about it over breakfast.”

They found a surprise when they entered the kitchen. The table had been set for three with a jar of wildflowers as centerpiece. A pot of coffee was on the stove and a covered pitcher of fresh goat milk was on the counter. “Oh my God, the children,” Amalia said. “I forgot all about them.”

Donovan noticed two plates and cups drying in the rack by the sink. Examining the stove, he found a pan of spoon bread in the warmer, with several large pieces missing. “It looks like they managed okay. They had breakfast, at least.”

“A good thing they’re old enough to take care of themselves. She poured a cup of coffee and went to the kitchen window. “I wonder where they are."

“Close by, I would think,” Donovan said, scooping a bit of spoon bread onto a plate. “They’re probably gathering eggs, picking chiles, looking for apples or something like that.”

“We need to finish the hay.” Amalia sat down and picked at her breakfast.

“Eat. It’ll still be there in an hour.”

Amalia took a bite. "It's a little scorched on the bottom, but not bad. I wonder how the kids. . ."

"They survived two years on the streets. Cooking a basic meal is no big deal by comparison."

"I guess not." She ate in silence, lost in thought, until the slam of the kitchen door made her look up.

Tasha came in carrying a basket of squash. Her face lit up with pleasure to see the grownups having breakfast, but then she noticed one place was empty. "Is Carina still sleeping?"

Amalia motioned her over. "Thank you for the breakfast. Did you do all this yourself?"

"Except light the fire. Will did that."

"Good," Donovan said. "You're a little young to be handling the fire. Wait until we teach you how to do it safely, okay?" The look on her face was so serious that he pulled her onto his knee. "You're a very thoughtful girl."

"Is Carina all right?"

The two adults looked at each other. "Not right now," Donovan said. "But if we take good care of her, she'll get better soon."

"Would you like to help?" Amalia asked. "I've got an important job for you, if you think you're grown up enough for it."

There was nothing Tasha liked better than being told she was grown up.

Amalia set her up in Carina's room with her latest crochet project and a few items that needed mending. "Work quietly and wait for her to wake up. Get her whatever she asks for. Come find us if there's an emergency, otherwise stay close and keep an eye on her."

Tasha nodded and picked up her crochet needle. She glanced protectively at Carina, then turned to her work, all business.

* * *

The haying was going well enough that when Will came to help them an hour later, they tasked him with picking chiles instead, and continued down the rows. They worked steadily under the maddeningly beautiful sky, and when they got hungry they sat in the shade of the wagon for lunch. "If we get this field done today," Amalia said, "I'll leave for Jonasville in the morning. You and Will should be able to finish things on your own."

"I don't want you going to Jonasville alone," Donovan said. "It's a rough place, in spite of the fact there's feds there. A lot can happen on the road."

"I'll take a gun," Amalia said. "You and I can't both go and leave Carina by herself."

"No, but I can go alone. You know better about bringing in the crops, anyway."

"I told you, they won't release his body except to next of kin."

"Well, at least let's find someone to go with you. How about one of the Petersons, or one of the Garzas?"

Amalia murmured something noncommittal. They were still in disagreement when they put the empty lunch basket in the wagon and resumed haying. The mid-afternoon sun burned hot through their sweaty clothes, and they were nearly finished with the field when a running figure caught their attention. They stopped what they were doing and went to meet Tasha.

"She says. . ." Tasha gasped, panting after her mad dash across the fields, "She says she's going to burn everything up!"

* * *

They ran back to the house, half-expecting to find the entire place on fire. Instead, the smoke was confined to a single spot in the yard, a place that Carina, with the same calm with which she had smashed vases the night before, had cleared of flammable debris so she could build her bonfire. Just as they got close enough to breathe a sigh of relief that the house itself wasn’t the target of her rage, Carina came out the front door, her hair ragged, as if she had sawed it off with a kitchen knife. She was clad in an old party dress of greening black velvet which sagged and bulged in odd places, and in her arms she carried a mass of objects that Amalia and Donovan couldn’t discern from where they stood. With the utter calm of someone on a mission, she dumped everything onto the fire. A toxic-smelling black smoke billowed up and greedy yellow flames consumed the new offerings. Carina went back into the house.

Donovan got to the fire first, and pulled out the first thing he could grab. It was one of her framed animal prints, and he beat out the flames that had been eating at the corner. Amalia stared over his shoulder as fans, scarves and photographs blackened and turned to ash. “Carina!” Of course she got no answer, so while Donovan tried to find something else that could be rescued, Amalia ran up the steps, nearly colliding with her sister in the doorway. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Carina tried to push past. “It's obvious."

“You can’t burn your things. You’ll want them later.”

“No I won’t.” She ducked around her and headed toward the fire.

“I’ll put them in a box. If you still want to burn them a year from now--“

Carina tried to push past Donovan. "Mind your own business." Donovan was so startled at her hostility that she managed to get three items into the flames before he and Amalia grabbed her and forced her to drop her ribbons, memory books and paintings.

“You’re going to regret this later,” Amalia said.

Donovan dragged Carina from the fire and together he and Amalia got her into the house while Tasha remained outside to throw dirt onto the embers and salvage what she could. Once they had wrestled her into a chair, Amalia took a hard look at her. Carina’s delicate features were bloated from crying and her fair skin was streaked with soot. The ragged remains of her hair hung in scraggly clumps, hopelessly uneven, and the misshapen dress was a horror. “What have you done to your hair? And what are you wearing?”

“It was the only black thing I could find.”

“You never wore black when anyone else died. Neither of us did.”

“This is different.”

“We're going to get you into some sensible clothes. Have you eaten?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Amalia jerked her sister to her feet. “That’s no excuse.” She glanced at Donovan. “Fix a plate for her, would you?” She pulled Carina down the hallway, noting in passing that it had been denuded of family portraits. “If you touched anything of mine, I’ll kill you.”

When they got to the door of the bedroom, Carina balked.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m not going in there any more.”

Amalia peeked inside. It was now almost as bare as her own room had been before she gave it to the children. “There’s nothing in here,” she said. “You would’ve gone in there a minute ago to burn what little is left, so there’s no reason not to go in now.”

Still, Carina refused to go inside, so Amalia deposited her in the children’s room with a warning not to go anywhere. Then she went back to Carina’s bedroom and opened the closet. It was empty. Unable to believe what she was seeing, she stood for a moment in shock. She pulled open the dresser drawers. Also empty. She ran back to Carina, who was sitting on the edge of Will’s bed in a daze. “What have you done with your clothes?"

“I burned them.”

Amalia looked at her in stunned amazement. “What do you think you’re going to wear?”

“I’m not wearing blue ever again. It was his color.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. You have to wear something. You can’t go around in that.” She stormed down the hall to the room she shared with Donovan and returned with one of her own shirts and pair of sturdy canvas work pants. “Put these on.”

Carina shook her head.

“What’s the problem? They’re not blue, they’re brown.”

“I’m only going to wear black.”

Amalia struggled with an urge to throttle her. “I can’t deal with this,” she said, and stomped out.

* * *

Donovan found Carina no more tractable on the subject of food. Like a stubborn child, she sat looking straight ahead, refusing to open her mouth to so much as speak. Unlike Amalia, he didn’t get angry. He merely left the plate on a nightstand and went into the kitchen. "I guess she’ll eat when she gets hungry."

“It’s no way for a grown woman to act. She’ll make herself sick.”

“We can manage the work without her.”

“Not if one of us goes to Jonasville.”

Donovan considered. “She probably just needs a few days.”

“We don’t have a few days.”

He took Amalia’s hand. “It’ll be all right. She’s gotten through all the other times okay.”

Amalia pulled away and paced the linoleum. “No she hasn’t. That’s what scares me. She hasn’t gotten through anything else before; she simply denied it. She built up this fairy tale that her handsome and intelligent husband would one day return and make everything right. And now. . .“

“She’s dealing with reality for the first time,” Donovan finished for her.

“I shouldn’t have let her do it. I knew this had to happen someday. Even if he had come home, it wouldn’t have been what she thought. They barely knew each other when they married, and he’s been gone so long. . .”

“But it would’ve been a little easier if he had come back.”

“I was selfish. It was easier to let her be happy while I indulged my bitchy ways.”

Donovan encircled her in his arms. “Don’t talk like that, okay? You did what you had to do, and so did she.”

“But I’m older than her. I promised Mother I’d take care of her.”

Donovan sat her at the table and brought her a cup of chamomile tea from a pot that had been steeping for Carina. “Take care of her, then.” He sat across from her. “She wouldn’t have listened before now, anyway.”

Amalia watched the steam rising off her cup. “Tomorrow morning I’ll send Will to find someone to go with me to Jonasville.”

“Fine,” he said, in a tone that suggested it wasn't fine at all. He stood up, looking tired and strangely old as he walked toward the kitchen door. “I’ll bring in those last two rows of hay and see what I can do to help Will wrap things up in the chili field.”

Amalia set down her cup. “I’ll come, too.”

“No. Let me be a man and do something for once, okay?”

* * *

When Carina heard of Amalia's plans to go to Jonasville, she would have none of it. "I'm going."

Amalia looked at her skeptically. "You're in no condition to travel."

"I'm going, even if I have to walk."

Amalia and Donovan conferred privately. "She and I will go," he said. "You stay here with the kids. Get one of the neighbors to come over, if you don't want to be alone."

"I don't care about being alone. I just don't think Carina is up for it."

"I think she's past the worst of it."

"She's practically catatonic, not to mention she won't eat. She'll be a drain on you."

"Maybe getting out in the open and doing something useful will help her get well."

"Or maybe she'll collapse from dehydration and lack of food. That's if she doesn't snap and run off into the desert. Taking her to Jonasville is crazy."

"Not letting a wife claim her husband's body is what's crazy," Donovan said. "Let's not argue about this. She says she wants to go, so I'll take her. Tell her it'll be the day after tomorrow and she's not going unless she eats and finds something reasonable to wear. That ought to bring her around."

* * *

That evening Carina ate a little atole. She spent an absurdly long time staring at it before scooping it up with all the joy with which she would've eaten arsenic. At Amalia’s insistence, she also choked down a vitamin and some chamomile tea laced with St. John's Wort and a bit of tranquilizer from their veterinary supplies.

After dinner Amalia boiled some coffee and pecan shells, and when the mixture had cooled, she put a dark blue dress into the mixture to soak. It was an old dress of Carina's that had somehow been overlooked in the afternoon clothes-burning. With any luck, she could dye it dark enough to pass for black until Donovan could get her something new in Jonasville.

No one had any enthusiasm for lessons that evening, so they settled in the living room to work instead. Tasha snuggled close while Carina made a few desultory stitches on a sweater she had been knitting for Will.

Amalia tried to read from Mark Twain, but found she couldn't. The words just didn't seem right. She went to her room and brought out her Bible instead. "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help," she began. She glanced at Carina. "My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth."

Carina took a few stitches at her knitting, every line in her body resisting comfort. She tried to purl, dropped a stitch, frowned and tried to pick it up, but without any real interest in the task.

"The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night," Amalia continued. "The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul."

Carina raised an eyebrow doubtfully, but pretended to focus on her hands, her needles, on anything that would keep her from having to meet curious or sympathetic eyes.

"The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore."

"Let’s hope so," Donovan said from the easy chair, where he was stringing peppers.

Amalia read for awhile, skipping around to the parts she thought most appropriate. Finally the small print blurred and she set the book on the table. Tasha had dozed off, Will was nodding over a half-finished ristra of peppers, and Carina sat staring at nothing. Although she knew it was partly the effect of the tranquilizer, Amalia found this emptiness troubling. She and Donovan stood at the same time. Amalia picked up Tasha and motioned for Will to follow while Donovan helped Carina to her feet.

Amalia had barely gotten the children into their room and was helping them locate their nightclothes when voices in the hallway made her pause. "You can't not go to bed," Donovan said. "Look at you. You can barely stand up."

Carina mumbled something. Amalia left the children and went into the hall. "I'm not going in there," Carina said.

"She did the same thing this afternoon," Amalia told Donovan. "Put her in her bed anyway. She'll be asleep in another couple minutes and it won't matter where she is."

Carina began crying and leaned into Donovan for support. He put his arms around her. "Can't we put her in the children's room for tonight?"

"I don't think we should indulge her."

"It's just for one night." He cupped Carina's chin and tried to make her look him in the eye. "Just tonight, okay? You have to learn to be brave again."

Carina nodded and Amalia, disgusted, herded the children into Carina's room where they bounced on the beds. After she got them settled, Amalia went into the other room, where she found Carina in Tasha's bed with Donovan tucking the covers around her. The black dress lay across a wooden chair and Amalia fought a surge of suspicion. "I would've helped her undress."

"It's okay," Donovan said, smoothing Carina's ravaged hair. "She was almost asleep. She couldn't have waited any longer."

Amalia looked for a moment at the still face against the pillow. "Are you going to sleep in here with me tonight?"

"I don't think so." Donovan kissed her on the forehead as if she were a child. "I'll be in our room if you need anything, though."

* * *

Amalia rose early to finish dying Carina's sole remaining dress. After a few soakings in coffee and pecan shell tannins followed by a rinse in cold water, a bath of iron salts, and a lot more rinsing, the finished product lay dripping across the clothesline in the afternoon sun where by nightfall it had dried to a stiff muddy color that while not quite black, was not exactly any other color, either.

While Will checked the jennets and harnesses for the trip and Donovan made a few minor repairs to the cart, Amalia and Tasha prepared food for the road. They boiled eggs, baked cornbread, and cooked tortillas. They made pemmican of fruit, nuts and honey. They packed coffee, jerky, pickles, preserves, and dried apples. Amalia prepared bottles of herbal drinks that would keep Carina nourished if she refused to eat, and would tranquilize her if she became restless or got the urge to rage again.

Carina slept until nearly lunchtime, so while Donovan and the children ate at the kitchen table, Amalia took a tray of cornmeal mush and a cup of strong tranquilizing tea to into the bedroom. She found her sister lying listlessly in bed. In the fresh light of day, she looked wan and not at all healthy. Amalia's doubts and jealousies of the night before slipped away like a bad dream.

"I made the cornmeal mush the way you like it," Amalia said, setting the tray across her lap. "It's got cinnamon, ginger, honey and a little of that maple sugar you keep hidden in the back of the spice cabinet. You thought I didn't know about your stash, didn't you?"

Carina stared at the bowl and refused to speak.

"You know you can't go to Jonasville in the morning if you don't eat. You'll like it once you taste it."

Carina glared but obeyed.

Amalia sat down and pretended not to pay her any mind. "I think you'll have good weather for the trip. The barometer is holding steady and the skies are clear. I think you should take the road through Catalunia. It'll make your trip longer by about half a day, but it will keep you off the main roads. I don't care what kind of fancy papers Alvi gave him, Donovan still needs to avoid the feds as much as he can." She glanced at her sister, who was eating as if it were some sort of exotic torture. "Don't you agree?"

Getting no answer, she pressed on with chatter about the crops, the garden and finally the animals. "Will milked the nannies this morning and says they miss you. He says the jennies do, too, especially Cordelia." Amalia paused, scanning her sister's face for signs that she found this subject interesting.

Carina pushed the bowl away. "That's all."

"There's still some left."

"That's all I'm eating."

"Well, okay." Amalia handed her a cup. "Drink this and we'll call it square."

Carina sniffed at the tea in suspicion. She drank it all and handed back the cup with a faint smile. "It won't help."

"What won't help?"

"I know what's in that." She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. "You're just trying to keep me quiet. You think I'm going to start breaking and burning things again."

"You have to admit, after what you've done so far, we aren't sure what to expect."

"It's okay. I’m finished."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"I'm done with everything. There's no point. I'll bring him home, and after that. . ."

"After that, what?"

Carina shrugged and turned her face away.

Amalia lay down on the bed and pulled Carina into her arms where she lay limp and indifferent, like a doll. “It'll get better. I know it feels like it never will, but one day you’ll wake up and sun will be shining and you’ll notice how pretty it is. The birds in the feeder will make you laugh, you’ll be happy to see the buds on the apple trees and you’ll realize you can survive this.”

“I don’t want it to be bearable. I want everything to be like it was.”

Amalia chose her words carefully. “Maybe it wasn't ever like you thought. This is the reality we have to live with.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You don’t get a choice. No one does.”

“There are always choices,” Carina said with an edge to her voice.

“There aren’t always good ones.”

“But they’re still choices.”

Amalia fell silent, unable to find an argument against this line of reasoning. “You know, I spent a long time being angry at the world. Our parents did us a disservice by raising us the way they did, trying to insulate us from what was going on, raising us with old-fashioned education and expectations. It only made things harder. Even here in this valley, we’re still living in a dream. Things are getting worse out there.” She paused, considering. “There isn’t anyone or anything that will make it like it used to be. We have to take a chance on living in the world we’ve got, because no one’s going to give us the one we want.”

Carina shook her head. “I don’t want this world.”

“You haven’t really tried it.”

“I don’t have to.”

Amalia went to the window and pulled the curtains back. She tugged at the sash and opened the window onto a warm afternoon of bird songs and a breeze that smelled faintly of ripening apples. She returned to the bed and took Carina’s hand. “Sometimes if you’re patient with yourself, do the things you know you enjoy even if you can’t take any pleasure from them, it gets easier.” She hesitated, trying to think what to say next. “You can always change your mind later if you find it doesn’t work. Won’t you give it a try, just for a little while? Promise me?”

Carina turned away. Her eyes followed the stirring of the leaves in the apple tree and the flit of a bird on a branch. She remained unmoved by it all, but managed a nod.

* * *

That evening Carina ate with them at the dinner table, wearing the dyed dress, even though the iron salts had left it stiff and uncomfortable. After dinner, Amalia trimmed Carina’s hair, trying to make the ragged edges presentable. Tasha cut a swath out of the old velvet dress and added a black band to one of Carina’s straw hats, then deftly turned a few remaining strips into pretty hair bands. Amalia found a faded black wool cape among their mother’s old things and Carina was ready for the journey.

“I’ll pack your makeup for you,” Amalia said. “All that black makes you look even more pale than you already are.”

“I don’t care what I look like,” Carina said, but remembering her promise, she added, “Thank you for offering, though.”

“You don't need makeup,” Donovan said, looking up from where he was stringing the last of the chiles with Will. "A week in the fresh air ought to put some color in your cheeks."

“I suppose it will,” Carina had been examining the straw hat and now handed it back to Tasha. “You did a nice job." She sat on the sofa and picked up her knitting needles.

Amalia went in the other room and returned with her unabridged Shakespeare. She read for a bit from one of the histories until Tasha and Will began nodding off. Then she set the book aside and picked up her Bible from where she had left it on the table the night before. She adjusted the lamp and flipped through the tissue-thin pages. “We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed,” she read. “We are perplexed, but not in despair.”

Carina shifted uncomfortably and kept her head down, feigning absorption in her work, even though she could count stitches by touch.

“Persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed. . .”

Carina felt Donovan’s eyes upon her, and looked up. What she saw in his face startled her and she dropped her attention back to her knitting without bothering to move the needles. After a few minutes she rubbed her eyes as if she had a headache. She glanced up again. He was still watching her in the same fascinated way a man might watch a dying fire.

“For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal.” Amalia closed the book.

“That was nice,” Carina said. She picked up her lamp and walked slowly from the room, as if it was her joints and not her soul that ached.

Donovan looked after her curiously. “Do you think she meant that?”

“No,” Amalia said, shaking Tasha awake. “But she’s trying. That’s all I asked of her. If she keeps going through the motions, eventually the feelings will follow.”

She picked Tasha up and started toward the hallway, Donovan following close behind herding Will in front of him. Amalia expected to put the kids in Carina’s room again, so she was surprised to find the door shut. She deposited Tasha in the children’s room and returned to Carina’s closed door. She opened it a crack to find Carina sitting on her bed, examining her new velvet hair band in the dim light of the lamp.

“Are you going to be okay in here tonight?”

Carina nodded. “You don’t need to stay with me tonight. You should sleep with Donovan. We’ll be gone a long time, you know.”

Amalia hesitated.

“Go.” This time her voice was firm. “I need to be alone, and you need to be with him.”

* * *

It was still dark when Will and Donovan hitched the team to the market wagon and brought it around to the house. Everything they needed had either been packed the day before or staged near the kitchen door, so they had the wagon ready to go almost before Amalia could finish preparing a special breakfast of apple cinnamon pancakes.

"I put an extra map inside Carina's Bible in case you lose the one I gave you," Amalia said.

"It's okay. I've already got the map memorized."

"The Trés Ladrones Pass is tricky. Rockslides are pretty common and I don't know how recently someone has been through to clear the road. You'll have to be on the lookout for road hazards and things falling from above, but it's the best way to avoid a chance encounter with feds."

"It'll be all right."

She looked at Carina. "Maybe you can stop with the Sanchez family along the way, or drop in on that nice Williams couple."

"Maybe," Carina said, toying with a scrap of pancake.

"It would save you a night in the open, and everyone likes to see a veterinarian."

"I know."

"You don't need to worry about us," Donovan said. "If anything, I worry about you. I wish you'd reconsider about getting someone to stay with you."

"Will and Tasha are all the help I need."

"I'm more worried about raiders coming by again."

Will looked up. "I'll shoot them if they come back."

Amalia glanced fondly at both children. "I think we've proven ourselves pretty resourceful. It's only for a couple weeks, and we'll be so busy we'll hardly have time to miss you."

Will nodded, enthusiastic about his first opportunity to be man of the house. Tasha was a little less certain. "I'll miss you," she said, turning her large eyes on Donovan and Carina in turn.

When Amalia started clearing the table, Tasha jumped to help, too. While they pumped water into the sink to soak the breakfast dishes, Carina went to her room to get her cloak, and when she returned, she paused in the kitchen doorway until Amalia couldn't help but notice her.

"Are you ready?" Amalia asked, with an attempt at a cheery tone.

"Maybe I shouldn’t go."

"Are you not feeling well?"

"No worse than before. It's just. . ."

Amalia understood. "It's not going to be any less real if you don't go, although if you've changed your mind. . ."

Carina squared her shoulders. "I just wish I could do it without having to do it, you know."

"You want things to fix themselves by magic." Amalia offered her an arm to lean on. "It'll be all right once you're on the road."

They found Donovan stroking Goneril's neck while he had a last minute talk with Will over chores that needed to be done while he was gone. He smiled when he saw Carina, but she turned away and allowed Amalia to help her onto the seat. "It's going to be a pretty sunrise," he said, motioning toward the faint light in the east.

"Yes," Carina agreed, without bothering to look.

Amalia went to Donovan and stood awkwardly in front of him. "Be careful out there."

He took one of her hands in his, then changed his mind and gave her a hug. "It's only two weeks."

"Of course. And you have your papers."

Donovan patted his side where he wore the papers in a leather pouch close against his body. "They stay with me at all times."

"Okay." She cast about for something witty or profound to say but could come up with nothing. "Have a safe trip." She threw her arms around him. "I love you."

He kissed her in answer, then hoisted himself onto the seat beside Carina, who had been pretending to be absorbed in the horizon while she twisted a handful of skirt between her fingers. Unable to muster the strength of will to wish her sister farewell, she pulled up the hood of her cloak to hide her face and set her eyes resolutely on the road. Donovan slapped the reins against the jennies' backs and the cart lurched forward.

The children ran after them as far as the gate, but Amalia stayed by the courtyard wall, watching the cart bump over the rutted drive. She looked toward the east where the sun was streaking the sky with gold. It would be a pretty day; a good day to get a lot of work done. As she leaned against the wall, watching the wagon recede into the distance, she resolved to work hard while they were gone. Very hard. She wanted to drop into bed each night too tired to think, too exhausted to miss having a man next to her. She hoped to make every muscle hurt so much that the physical pain of even ordinary tasks would distract her from the fact that her suddenly-single sister was on a long journey with the man they had both grown to love.

The children were ambling back to the house, covered in dust. There was no time to lose. "Come on," she told them. "We've got a lot of work to do."