She imagined that she smelled of the mud that lined the riverbank, but he made it sound pleasant. She was glad she’d taken time to bathe this morning. Otherwise she’d have stunk of bus fumes and road dust. “Did you come here to smell me?”
His eyes darkened at the question. It dawned on her that they were the exact color of the Balsas, a woodsy blend of green and brown. “I came to ask you about Armando’s daughter.”
Her heart fell. Of course he was here on official business.
Of course.
There were no fairy-tale princes in Mezcala. No handsome American bachelors looking for love. There were just a lot of poor people like her who worked long hours to buy food and clothes and medicine, and dreamed of better days ahead.
“Armando’s daughter?” she repeated, moistening her lips.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know her.”
Now he was angry, and she was glad for it. He hadn’t come here to woo her. She wasn’t going to be his girlfriend. They couldn’t share any other kind of passion, so let them share this. Let him be angry. She swallowed hard, watching a pulse throb at the base of his throat.
“She might be in danger,” he said in a softer tone. “Armando has some ruthless enemies. They’ll go after her to get to him.”
“Can they find her?”
“Probably.”
His warning sent a chill down her spine. She didn’t think anyone else knew about the letter Armando had given her, but the cartels had spies everywhere. Its members had been known to kill women and children.
There was something about Sarai that made Maria uneasy, as well. Maybe it was her composure, or her quickness to pick up on the “mariposa” hint. Maria couldn’t put her finger on it. Between the exhausting trip home and Hugo running away, she’d had no time to reflect on their conversation.
“Did you deliver the letter?” Ian asked.
She nodded. “To her school. Yesterday.”
“You saw her?”
“Yes.”
“What school?”
“La Escuela de Nuestra Fe, in Taxco.”
As he took a small notepad out of his front pocket to jot down the information, an idea occurred to her. Taxco was on La Bestia’s route. There was a camp on the outskirts of the city where passengers waited for the next train to pass by. If her brother hadn’t climbed aboard yet, she might be able to find him there.
“I’ll go with you,” she said. “The school is for girls only. They won’t let you in.”
“I don’t need to get in to confirm her location. She’s still there, right?”
“She said she would be.”
“You think she was lying?”
“Perhaps.”
He tucked the notepad away, frowning. It was clear that he didn’t want her to accompany him. She was an unnecessary complication, and he had an important job to do. She felt a twinge of guilt about her underlying motives.
“I said I was a relative,” she said. “If she left, they’ll tell me.”
“Fine. You can come.”
Delfina returned from the market with a pocketful of dulces. She offered one to Ian, shyly. He thanked her with a tight smile.
Maria gestured to Delfina. “This is my sister.”
“Mucho gusto,” he said, popping the candy into his mouth.
“I’ll tell my mother we’re leaving.”
He nodded his acceptance and turned toward his rental car. His shoulders were tense as she led Delfina back into the shop.
“Maybe the candy was too sour,” Delfina said.
“It wasn’t the candy,” Maria replied. She kissed her mother on the cheek and told her she was going with Ian to look for Hugo. Her mother didn’t approve of this plan. Handsome or not, Ian was a stranger who hadn’t declared his intentions toward Maria.
Delfina didn’t want Maria to leave, either. She objected by crying and clinging to Maria’s waist. Maria had to forcibly extract herself, which upset Delfina even more. When Maria finally walked out of the shop, her nerves were frazzled. Ian opened the passenger door for her. She climbed in and fastened her seatbelt as he got behind the wheel.
She knew her reputation would suffer, but it was already damaged beyond repair. That was the price she’d paid for crossing the border. Like many women who’d gone before her, she hadn’t returned with her virtue intact.
Some of the townspeople thought Maria was to blame for the attack. She’d put herself in harm’s way, but so had every man who’d made the same journey. Men were praised for taking the risk to support their families, while women were expected to stay home and stay safe.
She sat in silence as Ian drove down the main drag. She wondered how he viewed Mezcala. It was a quaint colonial town, but hardly idyllic. Many of its residents couldn’t afford basic necessities. He turned onto the highway, toward Taxco. He drove without speaking for almost an hour. It felt strange to sit in a car with a man. But they’d been alone together before, all night, under much more intimate conditions. She squirmed at the memories.
“Your sister,” he ventured, clearing his throat. “She’s disabled?”
“She has Williams syndrome.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Most people haven’t. It’s a rare disorder.”
“How old is she?”
“Eighteen.”
He seemed surprised, probably because Delfina looked about twelve. “Is she in good health?”
“She has heart problems and some other issues, but she gets along pretty well.”
He gave her an assessing glance and returned his gaze to the road. They’d switched to Spanish, the language she was more conversant in. He understood it well but spoke it imperfectly, with a heavy accent. She’d always liked the sound of his voice. It had penetrated through her semiconscious fog in the desert, and in the hospital after the attack. He’d held her hand and talked to her in his gentle-rough tone until she opened her eyes.
“Where did you learn Spanish?” she asked.
“Here and there. On the street, mostly.”
“In San Diego?”
“Yes.”
He sounded like the surfers who flocked to La Fonda and Rosarito Beach. His speech was slow and melodic and distinctly American. She enjoyed listening to him almost as much as looking at him. “You cut your hair.”