By midmorning, the rain had abated, and she’d reached her breaking point. She was already hungry, her stomach churning with emptiness. If she didn’t go now, she might be walking alone in the dark. She collected the bottle of rainwater and placed it where he could find it. Then she left the barn with the other bottle in her tote bag and his knife tucked in her back pocket.
She followed the fence line away from the barn. It didn’t take long to find a dirt road. She followed it for several hours. The sun was hot and high overhead, the wet earth steamy and fragrant from the rain. Her bottle of water ran out quickly. She couldn’t turn back, so she pushed forward, putting one foot in front of the other. Her tongue felt like wool in her mouth. She was lightheaded and lethargic. But she’d been in worse spots than this before. She’d been thirstier in the desert. She hadn’t quit then and she wouldn’t quit now.
Ian was counting on her. He needed her, even if he couldn’t admit it.
She didn’t think about the pleasure he’d given her last night. Those memories were too special to drag out at any old time. She’d save them for daydreams in her bedroom, or when she was floating in the Balsas looking up at the brilliant blue sky.
She didn’t think about anything. She just kept walking toward a glimmer on the horizon.
The glimmer turned out to be the front window on a dusty green pickup truck. She almost fainted with relief when she saw it. There was a man working on a rusted piece of machinery in a nearby field. She jogged the last quarter mile, and was out of breath when she reached him.
“?Qué pasa, muchacha?” he asked with a friendly smile.
“I need help,” she said in the same language. “My husband is sick.”
“Where?”
“In an old barn.” She pointed the opposite direction.
“ándale, pues,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag.
They walked to his truck and she climbed in the passenger side. He had a gallon of water, which he shared. She drank inelegantly, rivulets running down her neck. On the way to the barn, she made up a story about getting lost on a hike and caught in the rain.
He arched a brow at this explanation. “There aren’t any trails around here.”
“No wonder we couldn’t find it.”
If he found her story hard to believe, he didn’t say so. She gave him her best smile, which made him blink a few times. “I’m José.”
She stuck out her hand to shake. “Maria.”
José drove past the end of the road and over the lumpy ground. He parked as close to the barn as possible. They had to walk the rest of the way. Ian was in the same place she’d left him, but he’d thrown off the blanket. He was shirtless and semiconscious, fever-flushed.
“Can he stand up?” José asked.
“I don’t know.”
She gathered Ian’s things, taking care to hide his gun holster, and helped José lift him to his feet. Ian didn’t fight, but he didn’t really cooperate either. They each took a side of his body. They had to sort of drag him along, and it was slow going.
“Wait,” José said.
She stopped to rest, breathing hard.
He bent down and boosted Ian over his shoulder, carrying him the rest of the way. José was short, but powerfully compact. He grunted at her to open the tailgate. She did, helping him put Ian in the back of the truck. Then she climbed inside with him and cradled his head on her lap. It was a rocky ride. The jostling motions seemed to nauseate him. He rolled over and vomited weakly, coughing up about a handful of stringy bile.
She grimaced and rubbed his shoulders. Pobrecito.
“Where are we?” he rasped.
“In a farmworker’s truck.”
He closed his eyes, nodding. Ten minutes later, they were at the rancho. He was alert enough to walk now, with help. José took him to a guest room and laid him down on a single bed. The accommodations were basic, but comfortable. Ian passed out again immediately.
The house belonged to a woman named Do?a Cristina, who seemed delighted to have interesting guests. Maria told her that Ian was from Argentina, a country known for tall, European-looking men. Then she asked if there was a doctor nearby.
“I can bring the curandera,” José offered. “She lives just down the road.”
Maria agreed, thanking him for his help. She didn’t want to involve a doctor or hospital unless she had to. A medicine woman could evaluate Ian’s condition and let her know how serious it was. For the next hour, she waited at Ian’s bedside, holding his hand.
The curandera came at dusk. She was a plump woman in a flowered dress. She said her name was Xochilt. First she did a routine sort of exam, palpating different areas of Ian’s body and checking his throat. Then she took out a feathered, yarn-wrapped staff and moved it over his prone form from head to toe. Bracelets jangled on her wrist as she worked.
“Does he have any wounds?” she asked Maria.
“On his thigh.”
“Let’s see it.”
Maria stepped forward to unbuckle his belt, blushing a little. Do?a Cristina watched the proceedings with interest. Xochilt shooed the other woman out and closed the door behind her. Maria lowered his pants to the knees, exposing his wounded thigh. And everything else, because he was naked beneath the fabric. Xochilt removed the bandage carefully. The skin around the wound was red and puffy, the stitches wet with seepage.
“What happened here?”
“He um, fell on a sharp branch. Hiking.”
“Hmm,” Xochilt said. “I will make a poultice to draw out the infection.” She helped Maria take his pants off completely. Then she tossed a blanket over him and went to work. After she found the right ingredients in her bag, she mixed them in a pot on the stove. The end result looked like hot green tar. “You have to hold him.”
Maria held Ian’s hand, nervous.
“No, m’ija. He is a large man. Put your weight on him.”
She stretched out across his upper torso as the curandera applied the poultice. Just as she’d anticipated, Ian almost bucked off the bed. He hollered words that blistered her ears. Then he quieted, breathing heavily.
Xochilt smiled at the strong reaction. She covered his thigh with a square of muslin and returned to her bag, removing a syringe and a vial of clear liquid.