Fiesta Moon (18 page)

Her frozen lungs gave way to relieved laughter, until she met Mark's molten gaze. Her breath caught in her throat once more, and Corinne swayed in his embrace with a sudden need for protection . . . and more. So much more that she couldn't—daren't— define it. She blinked as he released her, disappointed . . . relieved . . . annoyed that he had been together enough to step back when she had not.

He gave her a sheepish grin that told her she wasn't the only one who'd thought they were about to witness a gunfight.

“Mind if we walk on the moonlit side? All this talk about hunting accidents has made me jumpy.”

Corinne didn't mind at all—if she could pry loose the toes that her heart had pounded into the boards under her feet. Whether it was from the commotion made by the dogs or the result of being engulfed in the protection of Mark's arms, she couldn't say. But she could still hear his heartbeat in her ear and feel the heat and power of his body.

Giving her rioting senses a mental shake, Corinne linked her arm in his offered one. “Consider that motion approved, seconded, and carried.”

Back the emotions came, stimulated over the most innocent contact, like the playful pups that had just run by. Corinne resisted the urge to nuzzle up against the strong shoulder next to her, or worse yet, lay her head against it.

Lord, I don't need playful pups. I need guard dogs.

Lorenzo Pozas leaned against the clapboard side of the glassmaker's shop, his hand pressed against his thudding heart. He swore an oath at the mangy dogs that had startled him as he made his way from his employer's home to the lake, where his small boat waited. Who could guess anyone, save a drunk trying to find his way home from the cantina, would be out and about at the midnight hour in Mexicalli? And of all people, it would be Doña Violeta's guests from the hacienda?

He fingered the wad of cash in his trouser pants and glared, his contempt renewed, at the retreating couple, now meandering uphill on the opposite side of the street. Instead of being genuinely frightened by his warning, they had laughed at him. Worse, so had
El Caracol
. And he'd cut Lorenzo's pay for the job in half, all because that imbecile cousin of his wife had brought along a nearly empty can of paint. They had just finished scrawling the threat on the wall with the crayons when they heard someone coming.

Although Lorenzo did not believe in ghosts, the thought had gone through his mind when the front door opened and the gringo businessman and Juan Pablo, both well in their cups, had staggered in.

Getting out of the house through the back was no problem. The problem came when Lorenzo realized that he'd forgotten to leave behind the doll inside his shirt. What good was a threat without the magic doll to give the words substance?

He and Sergio waited, wet and cold, while the American and the electrician finished off the bottle of tequila that they'd brought with them and collapsed in the sleep of the dead. Only then did Lorenzo sneak back inside and place the doll on the pillow, next to the snoring gringo's head. Emboldened by the man's drunken state, he'd even snipped a chunk of his hair to show his wife, Atlahua, how brave he was. Besides, if the gringos could not be frightened away, there were other, more sinister ways to get them away from the hacienda—now that he had the gringo's hair.

For that, Lorenzo should have gotten
twice
the pay, not half.

CHAPTER 14

Living up to his name, Salvador Gonzales was the
savior
to Mark's dilemma. The Cuernavaca contractor was not only willing to send a crew to Mexicalli, but his price was right
and
he could start right away. By the end of the week, the demolition of the walls that had to go in order to combine smaller rooms upstairs into one large dormitory had been started. Support walls were stripped and waited for the arrival of steel beams before the thick studs were removed. Those that did not require moving still had gaping trenches where ancient wiring had been pulled or where water damage had taken its toll.

“Now we're making headway,” Mark told Corinne six weeks after the workers had started. Having just reported his progress to Blaine, little brother was riding high.

But Mark could tell from the expression on Corinne's face that she wasn't entirely convinced. The view from the balcony off the upstairs hall was that of old plaster and debris covering the wooden floor.

“What did Soledad say?”

Mark winced. The housekeeper had scrubbed the entire hacienda from top to bottom before the work started. War had been declared. Now heavy plastic divided the living space from the battle zone. Armed with a mop and a broom, Soledad let no man pass through unless he measured up to her specifications of clean.

“Sometimes the soul must be broken before it can be salvaged,” Corinne mused aloud. “I guess that applies to houses too.”

Mark quirked a brow at her. “Funny. That's what Doña Violeta said this morning when she dropped by.”

He really enjoyed the old lady's visits. She was interested in everything that was going on and why. That he could project what the future rooms would look like with his computer made her think that he was nothing less than a miracle worker.

“I understand that she's taken it upon herself to organize a grand opening when it's complete.” Despite her wry drawl, there was a fondness in Corinne's eye that told Mark she shared the same soft spot for Mexicalli's “Señora Dulce.”

“This morning she had Gaspar put a big beverage cooler of espresso in her cart . . . and she saved aside some of the day-old baked goods for the workers. Of course,” Mark added on a dour note, “that little break held up progress for an hour while she dispensed her treats and chatted with them.”

Corinne laughed. “That kind of ‘help' we don't need. Although,” she added, “it
is
sweet.”

“It is a miracle,” Soledad's voice traveled up from below.

“What is a miracle?” Mark asked, moving to the rail to see where she was. The housekeeper's ability to eavesdrop could make wiretaps obsolete.

Clad in her favorite yellow-and-black, Soledad came out of Corinne's room with a can of insect spray in hand, finger at the ready. “The change in Doña Violeta, how not?”

The battle of the
boogses
had become secondary since construction began, but with the erection of the plastic wall, the housekeeper now had time for vigilance on the insect front as well. Mark could only hope that she never discovered the insect bomb. They'd all wind up wearing chemical suits.

“Soledad.” Corinne heaved a measured sigh, no doubt in anticipation of inhaling the fumes during her sleep later. “I thought we agreed to spray the bedrooms first thing in the morning, once we'd gone to work.”

“So we said,” the woman answered, shocked that Corinne should even question the fact. “But all this
work
—” She put her disdain in the word. “It has disgusted the
boogses
at all hours.
Pues,
in your room, this big spider . . .” The span of her fingers said the rest.

With a shudder, Corinne caved in with a nod of absolution. “No problem.”

“What did you mean, saying it's a miracle how sweet Doña Violeta is?” Mark reminded Soledad, his interest piqued. He couldn't imagine the lady as anything but.

Resting an arm on the rail of the staircase, Soledad looked up at them. “Doña Violeta was not always so generous of heart and money.”

Mark waited, watching Soledad's thoughts weigh upon her face. “But then . . .” She shrugged. “Then her tragedy made her think about her selfishness and high manners.”

“What sort of tragedy?” Corinne asked.

“It is not—” Soledad broke off with a shriek.
“Oh! Mi corazón!
It is your pig again!” She rushed off toward the kitchen, no doubt to arm herself with her pig-herding broom.

Toto was always Mark's pig, he had noticed, when the animal pulled off an escape from its pen.

With Corinne on his heels, Mark ran down the curved staircase and headed in the direction where Soledad had spied the culprit— his room. “How in the world did he get out this time?”

He didn't expect anyone to answer. In fact, he found it hard to believe that Soledad wasn't hallucinating, since he'd gone over the animal's pen to make certain there was no way it could loosen a board or dig its way out. But there it was, making its way around the empty hearth in the salon—where Mark kept the extra copies of the rolled-up blueprints for the quotes that no one was interested in.

“I allow no creatures in my house!” Soledad shouted.

As if Mark needed to be reminded for the umpteenth time. “Toto!”

Instead of going bonkers as it usually did when Mark was around, the pig ignored him. Its attention was fixed on something in the interior of the fire-blackened fireplace. As Mark got closer, he made out some movement. The pig was catching something up in its mouth and chewing for all he was worth.

“Oh-hhh . . .” Corinne exclaimed from the spot where she remained glued in the doorway.

Mark checked himself from doing a back step as he, too, recognized what was in the pig's mouth. It was a snake, big and black and still wriggling.

“You are in the oven now, Toto!” Soledad vowed, bursting into the room with her broom raised. But upon seeing the pig chomping on his victim, she lowered her weapon and backed out of the room, crossing herself. “First they disgust the
boogses
, now the snakes.”

“Aren't you going to do something?” Corinne asked Mark.

He looked at the pig, which by now had eaten the snake's head. “You got any suggestions?”

By her silence, she didn't. “Where do you think it came from?”

Moving closer, Mark looked at the blackened walls of brick. “Maybe from some loosened chunks of mortar or down the chimney . . . Or it could have crawled in here from the open walls. This is an old place . . . uninhabited for what?” He glanced at Soledad. “A year or so at least?”

Soledad nodded. “I have heard that the pig can kill snakes, but never have I seen it.”

“I'd rather have a cat,” Corinne murmured, as if not wanting to insult the swine. “They can be trained.”

“The man said, did he not, that this pig belonged to a
bruja?
Perhaps he is trained in such ways.” Soledad rested her chin on the handle of her broom. “She must have been a good witch to enchant our Toto so . . . especially after yesterday.”

Mark swung toward the housekeeper, incredulous. “He was out yesterday, too?”

“Oh,
sí,
Señor Mark. Almost every day now, he is out. He found the magic doll that I buried in the yard yesterday and ate it.”

If he didn't know any better, Mark would swear Houdini had finally made it back to the world of the living in the form of the witch's ex-pet. The longer he lived in this place, the more surreal it became. Not only was the pig an escape artist, but it also could find buried magic dolls.

“You're telling me you buried that doll, and the pig ate it?” Corinne switched her bewildered look to Mark. “Deranged, maybe?”

“Soledad or the pig?” Mark's flippant reply earned him a scowl from the housekeeper. “Hey, this whole witch thing is weird to me, Soledad. I don't believe in this stuff.”

“The pig,” Corinne insisted. “Do you think it's safe to be around?”

“Pigs eat everything and anything. I checked it out on the Internet,” Mark replied. And now he was an expert on swine. He wondered how Blaine would handle inheriting a snake-killing, escape artist, antimagic pig from a witch.

“Soledad,” he said to the housekeeper, “why haven't
we
seen Toto if he's been out so much?”

“Toto does not like the noise the workers make. He comes only to the kitchen door to beg for treats like a little dog.” The moment the words were out, Soledad realized that she'd given herself away. “And then I put him right back where he belongs.”

A knowing smile spread on Mark's lips. “So
you're
the one letting him out.”

“Not the night the vandal comes.”

Corinne put her hands on her hips in mock indignation. “What happened to
no creatures allowed in my house?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Mark chimed in.

The grateful glance he sent her way for helping him out with the wily but endearing housekeeper was as platonic as the way he'd held her in his arms on the night they'd been startled by dogs on the way home from Doña Violeta's—yet Corinne's reaction was anything but. He'd not only moved her heart that night, but he'd moved the woman in her. And that woman did not want to be moved.

Soledad bought some time with her stretched out
“Pues . . .”
But when the calculation in her ebony gaze could find nothing to free her from her own web of disclaimers, she resorted to the Indio default answer to any question—the shrug.

Corinne couldn't help but smile. There was definitely more to Soledad's bark than her bite.

“It happens like so,” Soledad began, obviously thinking on the run. “When Toto eats that doll, I know in here that he is good magic.” She tapped her temple, her gaze narrowing in discovery. “He protects the hacienda . . . like a blessing of God!” she finished triumphantly.

She nodded, satisfied with her reply, and pointed to where Toto had found a comfortable spot at the foot of Mark's air bed. Ears still perked, as if he knew he was the topic of conversation, the pig watched them watching him. Corinne would have sworn the creature's tail wagged, but curled as it was, it was hard to discern a wag from a plain dangle.

“And
he saves much money when we go to the market.”

Corinne swung her attention back to Soledad. “You've been taking Toto to the market?”

“Cómo no,
but on a leash.” Her secret out, Soledad was on a roll of triumph. “Everyone feeds him, and I find the very best prices because he amuses so much.” She cast an affectionate look at the swine. “He is a good-luck pig. He belongs in this house.”