NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 37

The following material is an extract from NOT JUST ANY MAN, A Novel of Old New Mexico, Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson. Published by Palo Flechado Press, Santa Fe, NM

A Note about Spanish Terms: This novel is set in northern New Mexico and reflects as much as possible the local dialect at that time. Even today, Northern New Mexico Spanish is a unique combination of late 1500s Spanish, indigenous words from the First Peoples of the region and of Mexico, and terms that filtered in with the French and American trappers and traders. I’ve tried to represent the resulting mixture as faithfully as possible. My primary source of information was Rubén Cobos’ excellent work, A Dictionary of New Mexico and Southern Colorado Spanish (University of New Mexico Press, 2003). Any errors in spelling, usage, or definition are solely my responsibility.

CHAPTER 37

“He sees me, papá,” Suzanna says. As she settles onto the stool beside his chair, the firelight casts a glow on her creamy-brown face and dark eyes. “He sees me in a way that no other man has ever done. In a way that not even you can.”

“You are my daughter.”

She smiles. “Yes. And I’ll always be a part of you, as you will be a part of me. But you can’t help but see me as your daughter, as part of yourself.” She shakes her head wonderingly at the fire. “He sees me as me.”

“Not as an extension of himself?”

“No.” She twists around to look up at him. “That’s what’s so unusual about him.” She turns back to the fire. “I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“There are many men you have not yet met,” Jeremiah observes mildly.

Suzanna snorts. “I’ve met enough. Including some I wish I never had.”

Jeremiah grimaces, then glances at the book in his hands. “I thought Carlos Beaubien might be interested in you, and you him.”

Suzanna makes a face. “Monsieur Beaubien is only interested in short young Spanish señoritas with a flirtatious air. Also, he wants a Catholic girl. His religion is important to him.” She grins. “I hear Paulita Lovato is interested in him, even if she isn’t quite fourteen. She wants a wealthy man. He comes from aristocracy and money, and I suspect will be wealthy in his own right. She’s young, but she knows what she wants.”

“And you, at not quite sixteen, are so much older than she,” Suzanna’s father says dryly.

She moves to the window and leans toward it to peer through the milky-white panes.

“And Ceran St. Vrain?” he asks.

She sighs in exasperation and turns back to him. “Now, why would I be interested in a man who chases every skirt he encounters? He’s already had a child by at least one of the local women.”

Her father chuckles. “St. Vrain does seem to have a roving eye,” he admits. He turns and puts his book on the small table beside his chair. “Though he would undoubtedly settle down if the right girl encouraged him to do so.”

“I doubt that very much,” Suzanna says tartly. She shrugs. “Besides, he’s also a devout Catholic. If he ever does marry, he’ll want a Catholic girl.”

“And what is Mr. Locke’s view on religion?”

She shakes her head. “We haven’t even spoken of it. It seems to have no weight with him.” She grins at her father. “I’ve noticed that, in all the time he’s spent in this parlor, he’s never expressed an opinion on the matter.”

Her father chuckles. “You mean that he has never contradicted my somewhat Protestant bias.” Then he sobers. “But it is something to consider.”

“Yes.” She gazes out the window again. “I will ask him,” she says absently.

“And what of this young man who came last Sunday with Matthew Kinkaid? This Christopher Carson?”

“He seems nice enough,” Suzanna says carelessly. “Though he’s very young.”

“He is just about your age.”

“Men take much longer to mature.” She gives him a stern look. “You’ve said so yourself.”

He raises his hands in a helpless gesture. “You have an answer for my every argument.”

She chuckles. “I am my father’s daughter.” Then she sobers. “I love him, papá. And we share a love for plants and the land that I’ve never seen in another man.”

“What of his people?”

“What of them?”

“Has he spoken of them? What are they like? After all—”

“I’m a half-breed,” she says. She sighs. “Well, a quarter breed. Although I’m sure there are some men who would consider the French part of my ancestry to also be a cause for concern.” She shakes her head. “No, we haven’t spoken of it. But he isn’t interested in going back to the States. As long as we stay here in nuevomexico, my ancestry won’t be a problem.”

There’s a long pause, then Jeremiah says, “I was thinking of his ancestry, not yours. He has told us of his Irish mother, who is no longer living. What of his father?”

“He hasn’t spoken of him, except in a general sense.” She leans forward. “But I don’t think his father will object to my background. A man of Gerald Locke’s caliber and kindness can only come from parents of the same quality.” Then she straightens and grins at him. “Besides, in this matter, it’s my father who has the final say, not his.”

He grimaces at the fire and her unwillingness to catch his meaning, but then she crosses the room to him, and resettles herself on the stool at his feet. She looks up at him, then into the fire. “I hope you will be glad for me.”

“I will be glad if you are glad.” He says it so stiffly that she turns her head in surprise.

His face is averted, staring at the door to the hallway, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. His lips are pressed together, as if he’s afraid to open them. She looks into his face, then leans her head against his black-trousered leg. “I will always be your daughter,” she says gently. “But I believe that Gerald Locke will make me happy. And if he’s willing to take me as I am then I am willing to take him as he is, with no questions about ancestry or anything else.”

Jeremiah Peabody sighs. His hand caresses her hair. “I agree that Mr. Locke seems to love you very much and that you have much in common,” he says. There’s a long silence, then he says, “And you will do as you see fit.” He leans forward to peer into her face, his blue eyes sharp. “But your happiness must come from within you, not from anyone else. He cannot give you everything. He is only a man.”

She smiles slightly. “He’s not just any man. He’s Gerald Locke Jr., the kindest man I know, besides my father. And he’s the man that I love.” She shakes her head slightly. “I feel a connection to him that I can’t quite express.” Then she tilts her head and looks into her father’s face. “But I take all this to mean that you approve.”

“‘Approve’ may be too strong a word.” His smile is bittersweet. “I cannot happily approve a thing that will deprive me of you. But I acknowledge your right to live your life and Gerald Locke does seem a good man, that we know so little about his background.” He looks again into the fire. “And so yes, I suppose I approve.”

She stands then and kisses his averted face. “Thank you, papá,” she whispers, and slips toward the door.

“And what of Encarnación?” he asks from behind her.

She turns and looks at him sympathetically. “You must ask her that yourself,” she says.

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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