The Spanish Daughter(18)

“Where is he taking them?” I asked.

“To the warehouse, for fermentation. We’ll go there next.”

I tried to follow Martin on the path, but apparently, Pacha had other plans. She darted through the woods, dodging tree trunks and branches, and picked up speed as the reins slipped from my hands.

I grasped her mane, kicking her sides to stop her, but she was immune to every attempt to dominate her. A branch hit my face and knocked Cristóbal’s spectacles to the ground. I brought a hand to my beard to protect it.

“Pacha! Stop!” My voice came out high and screechy—good thing Martin wasn’t around.

I got hold of the reins with one hand, still pressing on her sides. In the distance, I heard the hooves of another horse.

Martin!

Would he realize I was a woman without the glasses? And when was this damned horse going to stop? I could already taste the blood from a cut on my lower lip.

As we reached a stream, Pacha slowed her pace. She seemed to have forgotten that I was on her back as she approached the edge of the stream and ducked her head until it disappeared from view. Jesús, María y José, she was drinking, but all I wanted was to get down.

I managed to jump. The ground was moist and my shoes filled with mud. Rubbing my sore thighs, I retraced the steps Pacha had taken, trying to locate my glasses.

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.”