I am number two wife. He
tells me I am the best trade he ever made—worth every pony he gave Louis Papa,
the man I married first. I don’t think often of the Papin man—it was Mariano I
wanted, the moment I saw him. He was a man of many nations, proof it could be
done. Spanish, American, Mexican, Indian; he is all of these and he is more, he
is more than those came before him. He is mine. There are many people in this world
and I chose him. Over my people. The Numa, the people of the high growing
grasses. I chose him and I hope it was right. I have made a life here, on the
banks of this Big Thompson and it is not an easy life. There are those who
would see us leave, those who don’t understand, who wish us gone. Or dead. I
thought—sometimes I still think—Mariano could force the peace I seek with his
winning ways and his money.
I watch this husband of
mine, now, in that time of day when the earth is spinning itself slowly to
sleep and the Great Spirit draws a blanket over the sky. It is my favorite time
of day—the children are gathered around the small stove, warming their tiny
brown hands. Mariano smiles up at me, the husband that calls me John. I don’t
know why—I’ve never asked. He pulls on the beaded moccasins I have made for him
and I don’t tell him they look out of place with his store bought pants and
gentleman’s jacket. My man is no gentleman; he is all business, all about the
coin. They jingle in his pockets when he walks; they clank in the soles of his
boots. “I have been in this world with nothing, John,” he tells me. “I won’t go
back.” Do I understand this in him? Sometimes. It is nice to give our children
warmth, a wooden floor and new shoes every winter. But there are things, quiet
things, I miss about our life before we settled here.
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