Marco and the Devil's Bargain by Carla Kelly

or Toshua, or the cold weather, or the axis of the earth, or some other imaginary slight , Paloma told herself, as she dropped stitch after stitch. She put her hands in her lap, telling herself to stop her crazy-making thoughts.
    It seemed that the only thoughts she had were ones determined to send her walking up and down in the sala , if only she dared. She was not certain if she had angered Toshua or saddened him. “Just go back to your plains,” she whispered, barely moving her lips. “That’s all I want.”
    She stared at the stocking in her lap. She was making a muddle of it, and mohair was too dear to waste. When Luisa’s cocinera came into the sala with a pitcher of steaming hot chocolate, followed by a little child staggering under a mound of tasty pan dulces , Paloma used the distraction to excuse herself.
    Luisa must have known she would do precisely that. She stood in the hall as though waiting for Paloma, her face solemn.
    â€œ Come with me, dearest,” she whispered. “I do not know what to make of this man.”

    Washed clean and full of posole and buttered bread so tender his eyes filled with tears, Anthony Gill felt his eyes begin to close. The bed was soft, the room was warm, and he had not been warm in weeks. There was no wind to blow snow and dirt into his eyes and chap his lips. He even wore a man’s nightshirt, something that had not dignified his body in more months than he could count. He sniffed at the collar, which smelled of camphor. Whoever wore this nightshirt had not worn it in years, if the camphor and permanent creases were any indication. It was much too large for him.
    The woman had introduced herself as Luisa Gutierrez. When he finished eating, she had gestured to the servant to remove the dishes he had practically licked clean. He almost stopped her from whisking away the one slice of bread he couldn’t finish, then reminded himself that if he ate so well now, there would probably be more food later. This was not a poor house.
    When the servants finished, she followed them, returning behind other servants, who carried a wooden tub and brass buckets of hot water. When the tub was full, she left a towel and cloth beside it, an Indian pot with soft soap, and the nightshirt. He stripped himself naked before the door had barely closed. The water was bliss, and the soap a scarcely remembered luxury. Even though the soap stung cuts and scrapes he hadn’t even been aware of, he gritted his teeth and scrubbed himself until he must have removed a layer or two of epidermis. He thought of earlier years and better times, and shook his head at his own foulness.
    Anthony knew he had lice and wasn’t sure what to do about it, until he noticed a pair of sheers and a fine toothed comb beside the nightshirt on the bed. He had quit blushing years ago, but the knowledge that this obviously gentle lady knew his predicament made his face hot. He dried off and wrapped his towel around his middle. Leaning over the well-used tub of water that had a shiny film on it now, he combed and cut. It was a poor job, to be sure, but the lady of the hacienda was too hospitable for him to leave a host of unwelcome guests for her, once he quit the place.
    She had thoughtfully left a small pot of white salve. He sniffed it, discerning more camphor and something tart and grassy. Maybe it was sage. Whatever it was bit into the nicks on his scalp, but he rubbed it in, relieved to be free of the little pests that had accompanied him all across Texas.
    He undid the towel and looked at his hairiness down there, wondering if his privates should receive the same treatment. He decided they should, and cut more carefully. He knew his balls were going to itch like billy-be-damned when the hair came in again, but maybe that was the price of being a guest in the Gutierrez hacienda.
    When he had done all he could without resorting to the finer tools in his leather medical satchel, Anthony