The Immortal Conquistador (Kitty Norville 15)

“All right, all right. Here is what happened in Santa Fe.”

Santa Fe was on a crossroads: the road in to the mountains, to Taos, ran west. The main route of the Santa Fe Trail ran north, to the Colorado Territory and eventually to Bent’s Fort, where Ricardo and Juanito were due to meet the first of the summer traders, to serve as guides and translators as they headed south. They’d stopped in Santa Fe, at the southern edge of the Sangre de Cristos, a week ago, intending to resupply and be on their way. But Juanito had fallen ill with a fever and cough. Ricardo had rented a room without windows in the back of a small adobe inn, paid extra to be left alone. And Juanito had gotten worse.

Juanito had been nineteen when Rick first met him, a wiry and brash kid convinced of his own worth and struggling to prove it to everyone else. The diminutive had made him bristle. He was sixty-five now, his hair a white fringe, his skin leathered, his joints swollen with arthritis, and he wouldn’t answer to anything but Juanito.

He didn’t know he was dying, but Ricardo had seen this many times. Juanito was worn out, too many miles under his feet, not enough rest. Ricardo had worn him out.

“We’ll be late,” Juanito said, fighting for the next breath. “They’re expecting us . . . at Bent’s.” They’d had this conversation six nights in a row.

“It’s fine,” Ricardo said. “They can wait.”

“I’m sure if I walk around a little, if I get in the saddle, I’ll feel much better—” He tried to sit up, but a fit of coughing interrupted him. Ricardo pressed his shoulder, urging him back to the straw mattress.

“Rest, Juanito. You’re very tired and should rest. Please don’t worry.”

Juanito settled, finally succumbing to the bed’s hold. Maybe, finally, resigned. “Have you eaten yet tonight? You should eat something.” He struggled to pull a sleeve back from a shaking hand, to expose his wrist.

Ricardo tugged the sleeve back in place. “You’re too weak right now to provide.”

“I’m not. I’m not.” A spark of that brash nineteen-year-old shone through. His breath rattled.

Ricardo looked away, squeezed shut his eyes against tears. This feeling in his chest, where his heart would be breaking if he still had a living heart, was also familiar. Nothing to do but march forward through it.

“Juanito. Rest.”

The man’s breathing deepened into sleep but still rattled in a way that seemed to echo through his whole chest. Ricardo fled, just for a moment, to the courtyard at the front of the inn and then outside, to get some air that wasn’t filled with illness, to walk out some of his grief. Outside smelled of pines and piñons, and he cleared his lungs, refreshed himself.

The matron of the house, Imelda Constance, stopped at the doorway. “How is your friend?” Ricardo shook his head, and the matron crossed herself.

He asked, “Is there a surgeon nearby? He needs a doctor—”

“No surgeon,” she said. “But I will bring Santa Lucinda.”

“Santa Lucinda?” That seemed a bit presumptuous, but one didn’t argue with nicknames.

“The curandera.”

“I’m not sure—”

“I trust Lucinda. I will send for her and all will be well, you’ll see.”

“But he needs a doctor,” Ricardo murmured. Imelda was already at the gate, yelling at one of the stable boys to carry a message.

The house was close enough to the plaza to hear traffic outside, even at night. Travelers arriving after nightfall, townsfolk out for drinks and dinner or other entertainments. A tune from an idly strummed guitar carried. This was a good place to be. A good place to rest for a while. Since he had to, he was glad it was here. He had to be at peace with this; he had no choice.

He went back to the room for the long vigil. Juanito might linger for a week or be gone in an hour. Ricardo would be by his side, however long it took. The room was smoky, too hot in the thick air. He didn’t need to breathe, so the sourness of the sick room didn’t touch him. Still, his nerves thrummed, a tension running up to him like the hoofbeats of an approaching cavalry. He did not know if it was the waiting or if Juanito was right and he needed to eat.

Later. He could feed later.

A commotion sounded in the courtyard, two women calling greetings and exchanging a rush of news. Her expression alight, Imelda appeared outside the sickroom a moment later.

“Here she is, Santa Lucinda!”

Ricardo stood to greet the woman coming up behind Imelda. She was taking off her shawl, which the matron accepted from her reverently. The curandera’s dark-colored dress was clean, simple. Her black hair lay down her back in a braid. She was young—couldn’t have been much more than twenty. Ricardo didn’t know why he’d expected an old woman, but her unlined face, shining eyes, surprised him. And she was pregnant, maybe six months along. He could hear the baby’s heartbeat.

He caught her gaze, and they stared at one another a moment. He couldn’t see through her, couldn’t sense a thing from her. Usually, he looked in a person’s eyes, and he could drive his will into them, persuade them, speak and have them obey without effort. She was like a wall, and herlips turned in the smallest of smiles, as if she knew this. She was unafraid.

Then her gaze broke off. She looked him up and down, shook her head. “I cannot help you. Your curse cannot be lifted.”