A Candle in the Dark (28 page)

“What happened?”

Ana’s voice sounded vague and far away, barely intruding upon the memory that was as clear and distinct as the day it had happened. He pulled the emotion from his voice, spoke as flatly as he could, meaning to shock her with a callousness he didn’t feel. “I made a mistake. He died.”

He waited for Ana’s response, waited for the horror in her voice, the inevitable platitudes. An “It was an accident,” or “You couldn’t have meant to”—the same things he’d told himself and didn’t believe. But she was quiet. So quiet, for so long, that Cain opened his eyes.

“I—I wish Jiméne hadn’t said those things,” she said softly. “I’m sorry he did.”

“But you don’t think he’s wrong.”

“I think you think he’s right.” She smiled dryly, raising a finely arched brow. “My opinion doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t matter what other people think of you.”

She looked so positive, fiercely so, as if it was the one thing she believed with all her heart. Cain’s self-pity vanished. Now, instead, he felt strangely sorry for her. “No?” he whispered. “What a sad, cold world it’s been for you,
querida
, if you believe that.”

She seemed to melt before his eyes. “Where I come from, not caring means you survive.”

He took a step toward her. “Tell me about where you come from then, Ana.”

She looked like a rabbit caught in a trap, wide-eyed and ready to run. He’d temporarily forgotten that this was a woman who would always be wary, a woman who needed to be handled gingerly. But he didn’t have the energy to do that right now. He wanted her to be like other women, suddenly, to chatter on about inconsequential things like hats and the weather. To be like his aunts—women who had been known to spend entire days commenting on a single needlepoint stitch.

But Ana would never be like those women. She would never be like any woman, and for a moment, he hated that about her, because he
needed
someone to talk. Just talk. Someone to fill his ears with stories and distractions. Someone who made him forget about bourbon and Jiméne and imminent failure.

She licked her lips, her hands twisted in her skirt. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Nothing?” Cain frowned. “I don’t believe you. Where did you live?”

She threw him a glance laden with sarcasm. “You know where I lived. In Madam Rosalie’s Home for Women.”

“Did you like it there?”

“It was one of the best houses in the city. I was lucky to be there.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“Yes, it is.” She frowned, her brown eyes lit with confusion. “You asked me if I liked it there.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

“But I did. I told you—”

“Did you
like
it there, Ana?” He watched her, feeling a strange tension build in his chest as he waited for her answer. He could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, the agile way she searched for an impartial answer to his personal question. He wasn’t sure what he would do if she answered him that way, didn’t know whether he would shake her or walk away—or even why he wanted so desperately to know about her.

“I don’t understand,” she said finally, her voice colored with anxiety. “I don’t know what you want.”

“It’s a yes-or-no question,” he answered tightly. “Did you like it there or not? How goddamned hard is it to answer? ‘Yes, I liked it’ or ‘No, I didn’t.’ Christ, Ana, what the hell is wrong with you? Why won’t you talk to me?”

She backed away. “I’m trying to.”

“The hell you are.”

He heard the tightness in her voice, saw the beginning bricks of the wall, and Cain ached with frustration. In that moment, he knew he could never break through the wall she’d spent years building. He was too weak, too tired. Hell, it was all he could do to keep himself sane. He’d been wrong, thinking she could save him, thinking she needed him as much as he needed her. Maybe it had only been what he wanted to see. Maybe it had only been the drink talking.

Abruptly he sighed, shoving his hand through his hair, feeling old and exhausted and sicker than he’d felt even a few minutes before. “Jiméne’s waiting,” he said wearily, moving past her, back toward the road. “Let’s go.”

He was several feet away from her before he realized she hadn’t moved. Frowning, he turned on his heel, meaning to tell her impatiently to hurry, but the look on her face stopped him.

There it was again, that angry desperation, the fear that made her sherry-colored eyes seem large and golden. “What is it?” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong,” she said finally. “You’re right, let’s go. Jiméne’s waiting.”

Later that night, he was sitting by the fire, staring at the play of light and shadow across his legs, wishing he were far away from her. Wishing he were still in New York, in a little tavern called Cavey Davey’s, watching the buxom waitresses slosh beer across the patrons, with nothing more to worry about than where his next bottle was coming from.

He heard her footsteps behind him, heard the flapping of her wet skirt against her legs, and he didn’t turn around. But she stopped, and he felt her waiting. He didn’t want to acknowledge her, but she stood there silently, and he had the uncomfortable impression that she would wait there until he did.

So he twisted to look at her. Her eyes were spitting fire, her face was hard and tight, her shoulders stiff.

“I didn’t like living at Rose’s,” she said quickly, as if trying to get the words out before she changed her mind. “She didn’t like me and I liked her less, and every day I was there, I wanted to be somewhere else.”

Then, before he could answer, she spun on her heel and marched away.

“—Jiméne! Jiméne!” The shout exploded from the
quincha
, startling the pigs and chickens in the front yard into a screeching, scrambling frenzy. The old mongrel dog curled by the door staggered to his feet, hurrying away on stiff legs, ears flopping.

A wide smile stretched across Jiméne’s face. He was off his mule in a trice, running pell-mell across the grass toward the house like a small boy.

Just in the nick of time, Ana thought, watching his dark-haired brothers and sisters stream from the door. Waving, shrieking, laughing, and crying—they made so much noise it sounded like a crowd instead of only six people. A small boy attached himself to Jiméne’s legs, the adults talked over each other in an attempt to be heard. And all the while, Jiméne laughed and hugged and cried. Their joy was palpable—it filled the air around Ana and made her smile.

D’Alessandro rode up beside her, pulling his mule to a halt and staring at Jiméne’s family with a bemused expression. “It must be nice to have people miss you so much,” he said softly.

Ana nodded. “I suppose so.”
Yes, it must be nice
. It had been a long time since anyone had missed her that much. Ana saw the warmth in Jiméne’s eyes as he looked down at his nephew, and she saw the sparkling, dimply smile he got in return. Once upon a time, she remembered, her mother had looked at her that way.

For a moment, sadness threatened to overtake her, and Ana fought it. There wasn’t time to think about that now, even if she wanted to. Family, warmth, love—those were things she had never expected to find again. She had long ago decided she didn’t want them.

She glanced at one of the women surrounding Jiméne—his sister, by the looks of her. She cradled a baby in her arms, and her brown eyes were wet with tears. That especially was something Ana didn’t miss. The pain that came from loving someone, the vulnerability that made a person cry even when they were happiest. Strangely, the thought made her sadder than before, and Ana suddenly didn’t want to get off her mule and go over to them. She was a stranger; someone who couldn’t share their joy. Someone who didn’t even understand it—

D’Alessandro slid from his mule and turned to her. “Ready to face the circus?”

She licked her lips, a tight knot of nervousness in her chest. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.”

“Just pretend you’re in the salon at Madam Rosalie’s,” he said in a low voice, a half smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll bet there wasn’t a man there you were afraid to meet.”

“It’s not the same,” Ana said tightly.

“Meeting people is always the same,” he said. “Mind your manners and smile. You can do that. I’ve seen you.”

“Ana! D’Alessandro!” With perfect timing, Jiméne turned, motioning for them to join him. “Come and meet
mi familial”

D’Alessandro offered her his hand. He raised a challenging dark brow. “Well?”

She pushed aside the dirty folds of her skirt and laid her hand in his. His fingers curled warmly around hers, and she felt shivery suddenly.

“Ana! D’Alessandro! Hurry!” Jiméne’s smile grew wider. Clumsily he lifted the small child tugging on his leg, hugging him as close as he could without dislodging the sling. “Come now—I would like you to meet them all.”

D’Alessandro strode forward easily, and Ana hurried to catch up to him, stumbling over her sodden skirts. She looked up, catching the gaze of the sister with the baby. The woman’s smile was gone; she was quietly assessing. Ana paused, suddenly aware of her filthy clothes and her mud-streaked skin. Her hair was curling over her shoulders, her braid nothing more than a few strands twisted together. She must look like a miserable wretch of a human being. Not a lady, certainly.

But Ana took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders, raising her chin. D’Alessandro was right, she could do this. She was the Duchess, the whore with manners so excruciatingly polite even the other girls had often wondered if she was nobility. That, at least, she thought wryly, she could thank her mother for.

“Ah, here we are,” Jiméne said as they approached the group. “Ana, D’Alessandro, may I present my brothers and sisters.” Then, as the child in his arms squirmed, he laughed. “And my niece and nephew. That is Serafina with the baby Melia, then Dolores, Amado and Juan Domingo—Serafina’s husband. And this”—he jiggled his nephew—“is Enzo.”

He went on, introducing them to his family in a rapid spate of Spanish, and Ana tried to match the names with the faces. Serafina was the most beautiful of the sisters, though Dolores was pretty in a bright, round-cheeked way. Tall Amado was a younger version of Jiméne, and Serafina’s husband, Juan Domingo, was the masculine counterpart to her dark beauty. All in all, a handsome family, and when D’Alessandro said something to them in Spanish, their laughter was a booming echo of Jiméne’s.

“What did you say?” she asked softly.

D’Alessandro shrugged. “I thanked them for having us. My Spanish must be a little rusty.”

“No, no,” Jiméne protested. “They did not expect it, that is all.” He said something to his brothers and sisters, and they nodded soberly. “I have told them D’Alessandro is the skilled doctor come to cure Mama,” he informed Ana. He motioned to his sling. “They trust him because they know he saved my life.”

She threw a quick glance at D’Alessandro. Some expression she couldn’t interpret passed across his eyes and then disappeared. He looked as if he hadn’t even heard.

In unspoken agreement, Jiméne’s family began to walk back to the house. Dolores took the squirming Enzo from Jiméne, walking just in front with Amado while Serafina, the baby, and Juan went hurrying ahead.

Jiméne watched them go, a thoughtful look on his face. “Juan has done a good job while I was gone.”

Ana followed his gaze to the
quincha
. Jiméne said the farm was a small one, but the native house was one of the bigger and sturdier ones she’d seen. Three small huts attached to the main rectangular building, and their cane-and-twig walls were well kept, smooth with clay. The high, conical roof showed no holes in its palmetto thatch. An outdoor kitchen was just off to the left, and the pots and jugs stacked to one side were clean and unbroken, the patch of dirt separating it from the house well swept and void of animals.

“And Amado too,” Jiméne went on distractedly. “He has grown. The last time I saw him, he was”—he leveled his hand at his waist—“this high.” His glance followed his brother across the dirt yard. “He is no longer a boy, eh? More a man. Sixteen now.” He paused.

“You were gone a long time,” she said because it was all she could think of.

Jiméne smiled dryly. “
Sí
, too long. I thought I would not come back. I thought I would stay in New York and make my fortune. But now I think perhaps it is not for me. I would worry too much.” He took a deep breath, and turned to D’Alessandro. Jiméne’s brow furrowed, he lowered his voice. “Dolores says
mi madre
is no better,
amigo
. I am sorry, but you could perhaps look at her now?”

D’Alessandro’s lips tightened, he paled slightly. “Yes, of course.” He motioned to the mule. “I’ll need to get my case—”

“Amado!” Jiméne called. His younger brother spun around, and Jiméne rattled off a command. Within seconds, Amado was running toward D’Alessandro’s mule.

They walked across the ring of dirt edging the house into the bustling
quincha
. Dolores was in the corner, trying to interest small Enzo in a game. In a hammock nearby, baby Melia gurgled incessantly while Serafina leaned over the fire, stirring something in a big clay pot.

The room was redolent with the smell of savory stew, smoke, and sweat. Ana stood aside to make room for D’Alessandro and Jiméne to pass through, waiting for her eyes to become accustomed to the dim light after the blinding sun. The inside was like every other native house she’d seen, with little furniture besides a table and bench, and a cane ceiling forming an attic with a notched pole serving as a ladder. The smells were the same, the sights. The only thing that was different was the noise, and the warmth that seemed to emanate from the very walls.

“
Dónde esta
?” Jiméne asked tersely.

Serafina turned from the fire, nodding her dark head in the direction of a curtained doorway off the back of the main room. “
Esta Mi
—
en su cuarto
.”

“Ah.” Jiméne’s mouth tightened. He looked expectantly at D’Alessandro.

As did Ana. Her partner looked taut. His jaw was tight, a tiny muscle bunched in his jaw, and his fingers clenched and unclenched.