They must be around here. I took wide steps, my gaze on the crashing leaves. Out of the corner of my eye, something caught my attention. Something bright. I raised my head. Through the bushes, I could see a solid structure, a portion of a wall. I shoved the branches to the side and headed over.
It was a house and it had been destroyed by fire. There had been two stories once, but now the second floor was burned almost in its entirety. Parts of the charred walls remained standing and most of the windows on the first floor were broken. There were smoke stains all over the walls.
“Don Cristóbal!”
Martin’s voice came from somewhere behind the bushes.
I didn’t answer. I was afraid of how my voice would come out if I shouted. But his steps drew near nonetheless. He emerged on foot, pulling his horse by the reins.
“What happened to you?”
“Pacha decided to go for a drink,” I said, pointing in the general direction of the stream.
“Well, she’s not there anymore,” he said, shaking his head. “But mares are finicky. Just like women.” He chuckled.
I smiled unwillingly—it seemed like the proper reaction.
“You can ride Román back to the hacienda,” he said.
I examined Martin’s gray.
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll walk.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll guide him.”
“I said I’ll walk.”
Martin shrugged, then flashed my husband’s spectacles. “Are these yours?”
“Yes.” I extended my hand. “Thank you.” I put the glasses on quickly before he could examine my features any further. “What happened there?” I lifted my chin toward the house.
He shrugged. “A fire. About a year ago. The foreman lived there with his family.”
“Are they all right?”
“The father died. The mother and son survived, but they had third-degree burns, especially the son.”
I swallowed. “A child?”
“Fortunately, no. He’s all grown up, but the entire side of his face was burned.”
CHAPTER 8
A burned man. I had to find out who he was and who in the family had hired him to kill me. Because I had no doubt that the man Martin mentioned, the one with the half-burnt face, was the bastard who had killed Cristóbal.
Alone in my room, I removed the check I’d found in the mysterious valise and examined it. The signature was illegible and it was postmarked May. In other words, the man couldn’t cash the check until he was finished with me. The only other clue was the name of the bank in Vinces. Anyone in this house could’ve written the check and given it to the foreman’s son. But who?
A stern knock on the door startled me. I needed to calm down. I was dressed like a man, I reasoned. My disguise made me less vulnerable. The house was filled with women; they would think twice before attacking me. In addition, I posed no threat, really, being that I supposedly inherited so little.
I shoved the check inside the night table drawer and searched for my beard and mustache on the surface.
Seeing my reflection in an oval mirror across the bed, I attached the hair to my face as quickly and precisely as possible. My chin itched. It was developing a rash from the adhesive.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your nap, Don Cristóbal,” Julia, the maid, said from the other side of the door. “But Ni?a Angélica told me you’d had an incident with a horse and needed tending to.”
I groaned. Everybody in this house seemed to follow Angélica’s orders to the letter. Apparently, my sister was not satisfied with just sending me to rest, I needed a nurse, too.
The maid didn’t wait for me to invite her in before she waltzed inside the chamber with a wicker basket in her hands. Poking out of the basket was a bottle of alcohol, a tin box, and rags.
“Oh, no, I’m fine,” I said, even though I had a bad scrape on my arm and a large bruise on my outer thigh. “You don’t need to bother.”
“No bother. It’s my job to serve you. Where are you hurt?”
There was no way I would remove my trousers in front of this woman, but the determination in Julia’s eyes told me she wouldn’t leave me alone unless she’d tended to at least one wound. I rolled my sleeve up to my elbow, revealing the fresh scrape. The blood had already dried but it was still tender and bright red. For the first time in my life, I was grateful for the fine hairs on my arms.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
Julia didn’t answer. She was too busy setting the basket on my night table, removing a cotton ball from the tin box and moistening it with alcohol.
If you looked at each of Julia’s features with close attention, you wouldn’t find anything particularly striking about any of them: her eyes were too distant from each other, her nose was rather common, and her eyebrows too thin, but all together they composed a harmonious, pleasant-looking face. Her one beauty lay perhaps in her soft, button mouth. She was thin, with no breasts to speak of, and wore tiny earrings—her only visible piece of jewelry.
“It’s going to burn,” she said before pressing the moist cotton against my elbow. I flinched at the sting and bit my lip.
Julia dressed the wound and, without a warning, pressed another cotton ball against my forehead. I froze. What if the beard and mustache fell down?
My hands dampened while she tended to my facial wound. Her warm breath tickled my nose. The aroma of sautéed onions and lavender lye wafted from her hair. As she parted her lips, I noticed her crooked front teeth, her overbite reminiscent of a rabbit. I’ve never been this close to a woman, except for my mother, and her proximity made me uncomfortable.
How would a man react to having a woman so close? Cristóbal would probably stare at my chest, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I had an urge to push her away, but that would be suspicious.
After excruciating seconds bandaging my forehead, she leaned back. “There.”
I stood up. “Gracias.”
“Dinner will be served in about twenty minutes. I will come and fetch you then.”