Daughter of Fortune Read Free

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oxen.
    She shook her head. “Not now. After we stop. Then
I’ll give it back.”
    She wanted to be alone when she looked at her face.
In the half year’s journey, she had not looked into a mirror, and
she had to be by herself when she surveyed the ruin of her
complexion and the state of her hair. Maria had never been vain,
but she remembered how Mama used to utter little cries of delight
as she brushed Maria’s hair each night before bed, exclaiming over
the copper-gold highlights of the thick auburn hair. It was her one
glory. She had no height to recommend her, an ordinary figure,
freckles sprinkled liberally over her nose, but in the soft light
of evening’s candleglow, her hair used to shimmer around her face
like a nimbus.
    Maria sighed, thinking of her mother’s great
silver-backed hairbrush that was probably resting now on a dressing
table belonging to Papa’s lawyers. Her eyes narrowed for a moment
as she remembered the solicitors with their red tape and sealing
wax, then she sighed again and patted the mirror in her pocket. It
was going to take more than six months to become accustomed to
poverty and charity from teamsters.
    In late afternoon they paused at the edge of the
meandering Rio del Norte. The freighter cleared his throat and
pointed with his whip.
    “Santa Fe,” he said.
    Maria shaded her eyes with her hand. She could see
nothing except a series of mountains rising before them to the
north and east. The mission supply caravan had been climbing
steadily for weeks now, from desert to plain to gentle slope, and
she had watched those mountains growing slowly closer each day. She
looked at the freighter, a question in her eyes.
    “It is in the foothills below the Sangre de Cristos.
Tomorrow. The next day, perhaps. You will see.”
    Sangre de Cristos. The name frightened her. “Why are
they called after the blood of Our Lord?”
    “The afternoon sun will turn them red. Watch for
it.”
    She nodded, suddenly shy again, remaining silent as
the wagons circled near the riverbank. She jumped down, not waiting
for the freighter to give her a hand, touched her pocket and felt
the smooth edge of the mirror.
    Maria looked around, then turned away quickly. The
men had gathered in a small circle by the river to relieve
themselves. Carmen de Sosa sat with her back to the men. She
glanced at Maria, then flicked her eyes away.
    A distance away from the river there was a circle of
bushes and a small stand of cottonwoods, testimony to an earlier
path of the river. Maria walked toward it, rubbing the small of her
back. She could relieve herself in the bushes, then rest in the
shade of the trees. Maybe if she gathered the courage, she would
look in the glass and determine if she still bore any resemblance
to the young lady who had begun a journey on the King’s Highway six
months before.
    The leader of the caravan had admonished her never
to stray from it, but she was heartily weary of all of them—the
unwashed freighters, the uncomplaining missionaries, the
uncommunicative Carmen de Sosa—tired of their food, their coarse
conversation, the endless journey, but most of all tired to her
very soul of her worry over what awaited her in Santa Fe.
    The small grove was shady and cool, a change from
the gathering warmth of the late winter sun. After taking care of
private matters, Maria sat down under one of the cottonwoods and
leaned against the trunk, lifting her heavy woolen skirt, removing
her shoes, and stretching her legs out in front of her. She took
the mirror out of her pocket and gazed into it.
    A stranger looked back. Maria blinked. Gone was the
smooth, light pink complexion she had nurtured with buttermilk and
flour paste in Mexico City. She was as brown as an Indian. And
dirty. So dirty. She rubbed her face, appalled at the layers of
dirt. She had tried to wash regularly, but the journey of the last
few weeks through the Jornada del Muerto had given her no
opportunity to bathe. On the route of