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Paloma reeled from the concussion and lost her balance when the guard jerked her around, his eyes wide with fright and something more. They steadied themselves, staring at each other.
    â€œ The juez was a fool to marry you!” the guard shouted in her face.
    From beyond the gate, she heard a man’s voice call out, “Paloma, help me!”
    â€œ It’s Toshua,” Paloma said. The look she gave the guard must have been fierce because he backed away. “Open the gate.”
    She hurried down the ladder, not caring if every guard in the courtyard saw her bare legs and beyond. When the guard wouldn’t lift the heavy bar, she yanked the smaller bar off the smaller man gate and stooped through the narrow opening. To her terror, it slammed shut behind her.
    â€œ Paloma, stop! It could be a trap.” Luisa pleaded with her from the parapet.
    She knew Luisa was right; she still couldn’t see clearly. The Indian had called her name, but she was known in the valley now. She peered closer as she walked toward the man carrying a lance and stopped, thinking of her mother and remembering how Mama had squared her shoulders and walked toward an entire horde of Comanches. Mama, you were braver than I , she thought, her mouth suddenly dry. Staying where she was, she moved from one bare foot to the other, because the winter grass stubble hurt.
    The Indian had a man slung over his lap, head down, hands trailing. The darkness began to lift, and she let out the breath she must have been holding since she opened the man gate, grateful to God. It was Toshua.
    â€œ Paloma, does this make four times you have saved my life?”
    She ran closer now, unafraid, even though the danger wasn’t over. “Make it five, Toshua,” she said as she stopped directly in front of the horse and rider, her hands out in what she hoped was a commanding gesture to stop the guards who had not lowered their weapons.
    Paloma looked over her shoulder at Toshua and the burden he bore. She sniffed. The man had either been dead for days or smelled worse than a herd of javelinas. Gingerly, she patted the foul lump of rags.
    â€œ I’m alive,” the man said in Spanish so poorly accented she wondered where he had come from. Did they speak Spanish on Mars?
    She was on sure ground now. “You are headed for a bath, señor,” she told him, then smiled at Toshua. “You remember your own bath, I trust?”
    â€œ I remember,” her Comanche said. “You need not remind me. You cut my hair, too.”
    â€œ Open the gates,” she called up to the guards, still poised to shoot. Even though she was barefoot and trembling, and her nighttime hair wild around her face—Marco would have laughed—Paloma willed herself tall and brave.
    Her heart went out to Luisa Gutierrez, too soon a widow because of a morning much like this one. Her sister-in-law stared at her from the parapet, then put her hands over her face. I am sorry, my dear , Paloma thought.
    â€œ If the juez de campo were here, he would tell you to open the gates in the name of the crown,” she said, speaking most distinctly. “This is my Indian and there is a wounded man. Do as I say.”

Chapter Four
In which a stranger is too close for Toshua’s comfort
    W hen the gates opened, Toshua handed her the reins and she led him and his stinking burden through the gates. As frightened women and servants began to fill the courtyard, he bent down and spoke to her alone. “You are the juez now? Your man will know about this before another day passes. I know you Spanish. Word travels faster than smoke.”
    â€œ Don’t be silly,” she whispered back, not surprised that everyone in the courtyard kept their distance, including the guards. Paloma looked at the man in Toshua’s lap. “Who is he? Where did he come from?”
    The Comanche dismounted. “He was staggering around in the arroyo seco beyond the hay