Marco and the Devil's Bargain by Carla Kelly Page A

shrugged into the nightshirt and crawled between sheets smelling of more sage and civilization, and the fine hand of masterful housewifery.
    â€œ Oh, this is better,” he whispered and closed his eyes.
    He had almost composed himself for sleep when the door opened and Mistress Gutierrez came in again, followed by the younger woman who had stood so bravely in front of the Comanche’s horse, when things weren’t looking too sanguine for him or the Indian. From under his eyelids, he assessed the woman more closely, admiring her slim shape. His professional eye had already told him that the older woman had been made a mother several times over. This younger one, probably not.
    She had wonderful brown hair, maybe even with a touch of bronze in it. She kept her distance, but he could not mistake her vivid blue eyes. For so many months he had seen nothing but black hair and dark eyes. Not that he had minded dark hair and olive complexions—after all, Catalina and Pia Maria looked more like the Gutierrez woman. This one was different, and he appreciated the difference.
    Anthony watched them as they conferred at the doorway, their heads together. They didn’t appear to be related, but they obviously stood on good terms with each other. They both looked at him, and finally Luisa Gutierrez came closer.
    â€œ The servants will remove all of this,” she said. “I intend to burn your clothes and I will have no argument.”
    Her Spanish was precise and easy to follow, and he did not doubt that she would do exactly as she said. He was clean and comfortable and did not want that set of circumstances to change, at least until he had a good night’s sleep. He had been thrown out of meaner establishments because of the sin of being English.
    He nearly smiled as Mistress Gutierrez picked up his foul garments with forefinger and thumb and held them away from her. The other woman came into the room far enough to take a well-darned sheet from the carved chest by the door. She spread it out, and the mistress of the household dropped his disgusting smallclothes in the center. His shirt and breeches landed next on the reeking pile.
    There was no disguising the distaste on her face when she picked up his coat, the leather one he had patched and re-patched and then patched the patches as he had made his slow way across Texas’s winter landscape with the traders. She hefted it, then gingerly reached into the pocket and pulled out his smaller surgical kit, the little leather pouch that contained his few knives, bistouries, a flensing box, and his sole remaining needle.
    She didn’t untie the leather thongs that secured the heavy cloth around his knives, but put it on the table next to his satchel. She reached in again and pulled out the little tin that contained pus and scabs from the last dead trader.
    â€œ Stop, stop!” he said in English.
    Startled, she looked at him, probably not understanding his words, but aware of his obvious concern. She set the tin next to his knives.
    â€œ Is there anything else of worth you wish to keep?” she asked in Spanish, her eyes wary now.
    Anthony shook his head, and she finished gathering his remnants. She held up his pathetic socks and waved them at the young woman who had retreated to the doorway again.
    â€œ Do you want to give this raggedy estranjero one pair of socks you have knitted for your man?”
    Ah, she was married. Well, of course she was, he told himself, wondering how it was that he could be three-fourths dead and wasted and still think about lovely women.
    The little one nodded and left the room. When she returned, she held the socks out to him, then knotted them and lofted them toward the bed. He caught them one-handed, deciding to put them on after the ladies were gone. No one needed to see how skinny his hairy legs were.
    Maybe it was time to try that Spanish that the little one already knew was accented so poorly. “Why do you not come