A Candle in the Dark (30 page)

It was a familiar feeling, too familiar, and Cain had never felt it as sharply as he did now. But that was mostly because every other time he’d gotten roaring drunk, and that had always blurred the edges, made him forget.

He glanced again at Jiméne. It wasn’t an option for him now, unfortunately. At least not until Jiméne went to bed.

The thought made him smile.

“Ah, now he is laughing!” Dolores smiled back, chattering in Spanish. “You looked so dour,
Señor
D’Alessandro, I was afraid for a moment.”

“There’s no need to be afraid,” he reassured her. “Your mother will be fine.” Empty words. Useless words. They fell off his tongue easily, by rote. “Worrying won’t make her better.”

“I haven’t worried since you walked into the house,” Dolores confided simply. “A real doctor, finally. It was the medicine men who were killing her, I know it.”

“I doubt that,” he said.

“You do not know them,” she insisted. She touched Serafina’s arm. “Is it not so, sister? Those old folk doctors come in here, they do some dances, they pray—for what, we do not know. Then they leave her with nothing but useless potions. She has drunk so much tamarind water I am surprised she has not turned into one!”

Serafina smiled slightly. “You exaggerate, Dolores, as usual, but she is right about one thing,
señor
. We are glad you have come.”

“I hope I can help.” There was nothing else to say but that, and it was true, at least.

“Enough of this talk,” Jiméne broke in. “Mama will get better under D’Alessandro’s expert hands, and we will all laugh about our worry. Now, tell me, Juan, what has happened while I have been gone?”

Juan launched into a narrative about the work done on the farm, how their neighbor,
Señor
Gonzalez, had been killed earlier that year by the bite of the poisonous fer-de-lance snake, and about the scorpion little Enzo had killed last week with his bare hands. Cain sat back, folding his arms across his chest while he listened.

He looked around him, at the rapt and smiling faces of Jiméne’s family, and warmth seeped into the dark, empty space inside him. Fer-de-lances, scorpions, alligators… These people faced death every day, and it brought them closer together, made them the kind of family he had always longed for.

But then, he supposed they had loved each other from the beginning. There had never been betrayal and lies and infidelities, never the kind of fierce hatred that ate away at a person’s soul.

He glanced at Serafina, who constantly rocked the baby she held in her arms. Her eyes were warm as she watched her husband, every now and then her teeth flashed in laughter, every few moments she leaned down to kiss the soft, downy curls on Melia’s head. The sight filled Cain with a painful yearning. Christ, how he had wanted that as a child. Unconditional love, the forgiving touch of a mother’s hand. He wanted to feel warm arms around him, wanted to be safe and warm and loved.

It surprised him, how much the thought still haunted him. He’d thought he had long ago forgotten that desire, killed it with whiskey. But it was still there, buried beneath years of pain and neglect. Still there, but different, because now he no longer thought of being the child, but of being the father…

Shaking, he lifted the coffee cup to his lips and drank the lukewarm liquid, nearly choking when his tongue realized it wasn’t bourbon. Hell, it was absurd that he was thinking of this again, thinking of it now. There were no children in his future. No dancing, bright-eyed daughters, no love, no nothing. He’d grown used to it, and just because now there was a reason to think differently—

He tried to halt the thought before he could finish it, but it went on, fading into his brain.
Just because now there was Ana
.

No, there wasn’t Ana
, he told himself.
You just need her now because she makes you forget the drink. But that will fade, and she’ll leave
. Yes, she would leave. Just because she’d begun to tell him little things about her life, just because she’d seen his fear and given him the strength to go into
Doña
Melia’s room didn’t mean she cared about him. Probably she just wanted to get this over with quickly so she could get to San Francisco. So she could refuse him when he stood in line with all the other men willing to pay an ounce of gold for her services.

His fingers curled around the coffee cup so tightly it felt like the pottery might crack in his grip. It didn’t matter. In San Francisco, there would be taverns and hotels. Safe places. Places where a lapse of memory or unconsciousness would be less dangerous. He could go back to his old life then. He wouldn’t need her, she could do as she liked. But even as he told himself that, he felt a sharp, aching pain in the pit of his stomach, a loss so intense he couldn’t bear to think about it.

So he didn’t. He sat back, forcing himself to release his hold on the coffee cup, forcing himself to listen to Juan’s stories, Serafina’s laughter, and Jiméne’s ridiculous jokes. Forcing himself not to look at Ana, though he hadn’t really looked at her all night, hadn’t heard her voice—

Because they were all speaking in Spanish
. The realization plunged into him; Cain felt himself go stupidly pale. They had been speaking in Spanish all night. She couldn’t understand them, couldn’t understand a damn word.

He jerked around to look at her. She was near the end of the table, on the same side, alienated not only by language but by distance. Her shoulders were erect, but her head was bowed, and she listlessly dragged her spoon through her half-eaten
sancoche
. Her hair curled over her shoulders and down her back, wisping into her face in thin tendrils that she didn’t bother to push away.

She looked tired, he thought, though it could have been simply that she was bored, and even from where he sat, he felt the cold, rigid wall surrounding her, protecting her.
Exiling her
.

The words pounded through him, and he tried not to hear. But he couldn’t stop them. The sight of her sitting there, alone amid a tableful of people, made him sick with dismay. It was her choice, he knew it was. Knew that distance was what she preferred. So why was it he had the sense that she was hurting, that this time the wall was simply a response to being ignored?

Because she’d been letting it down, little by little, and he’d become used to that, he told himself. The thought of the Duchess hurting was a contradiction—

Except she wasn’t the Duchess anymore, and he couldn’t stand the idea that she would ever be that way again. Cain didn’t stop to wonder why, didn’t think at all. Before he knew what he was doing, he leaned over to Amado, who sat next to him, and whispered: “Trade places with my wife, Amado, will you? She doesn’t understand Spanish. I can translate for her.”

Amado scurried to his feet, his eyes wide with horror. “She does not? But of course I will trade places,
señor
. Of course!”

The boy’s sudden movement made Ana look up, her forehead wrinkled in consternation. When Amado held out his chair for her, motioning for her to take it, her gaze shot to Cain’s.

“It is not necessary,” she said softly.

“Yes it is,
querida
,” he answered her. “Take the chair.”

She didn’t argue. She looked at Amado, and then at Cain again, and then she rose regally, moving to Amado’s seat and arranging her filthy skirts around her as if they were fine lace and she were the Queen of England. For a moment, Cain thought she didn’t understand. For a moment, he thought she would sit beside him, still cold and distant. But she slid a sideways glance at him, and her mouth curved in a quiet, grateful smile.
Tit for tat
, he thought, and began to translate.

It was late when Ana finally looked again at the notched pole leading to loft bedroom. She was exhausted. The day had been long, and emotionally draining, and she had wanted to go to bed the same time Cain had—at least two hours ago. But she couldn’t bring herself to climb that pole with him, couldn’t make herself face the night ahead with enough equanimity to join him while they were both awake and waiting for sleep.

Because they were sharing a bed, as they hadn’t done the entire journey. She had protested earlier, before dinner, when Jiméne told her that Serafina had moved herself and Juan in with Amado and Enzo, leaving the loft bedroom free for Ana and Cain to share. But he had only smiled and said: “My family will think it strange that you travel with two single men,
cariña
. Better for them to believe you and D’Alessandro are married.”

She knew he was right, but she wished he wasn’t. Ana told herself it wouldn’t be any different than the nights before, when she’d held Cain all through his delirium, or when he’d fallen asleep with his head in her lap. She told herself it would be the same.

But it wouldn’t be, she knew it. He was sober now, and no longer as sick. And she was afraid of what he would ask her for in the dark loneliness of nighttime. Afraid of what she would want to give him.

So she’d waited, shaking her head when D’Alessandro told her he was going to bed, telling him she wasn’t tired, that she preferred to sit and listen to their stories. Stories they both knew she couldn’t understand.

Now, everyone was fading. The children had long ago gone to bed, Amado with them, and one by one the adults had left until only she and Jiméne were awake, listening to Juan’s guitar.

Juan put aside the instrument and stretched, yawning.

Jiméne stood up. “I think it is time to go to bed, eh,
cariña
?”

She swallowed. “Yes. Of course.”

“Then I will wish you
buenas noches
.”

“
Buenas noches
.” Juan nodded.

Ana got to her feet. She glanced up at the loft, offering a silent prayer that D’Alessandro was asleep, and gathered her skirts to climb the notched pole.

Please, please, please be asleep
, she hoped. The pole was securely attached to the loft floor, but even so, it thudded against the bamboo with every step. By the time she reached the top, Ana was sure D’Alessandro would be wide awake, but as she stuck her head through the square opening, she heard only his soft, even breathing.

She stifled a sigh of relief and stood there for a moment, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the pitch-black darkness before she pulled herself over the edge and made her way past deep-shadowed baskets full of rice, beans, and dried pork to the wide pallet that served as their bed. She thought she heard a change in his breathing then, and she stopped short, but he only started to snore.

Carefully she sat on the edge of the bed, the palmetto leaf mattress rustled softly beneath her weight. Slowly, silently, she fumbled with her boots, pulling them off, biting her lip to keep from crying out when one of her broken fingernails caught.

D’Alessandro was still snoring. Ana pushed back the thin blanket and lay down. It was too hot, and the wool of her dress itched painfully. Not for the first time, she wished she had a chemise underneath. She hated sleeping bundled in the stinking, dirty wool. Tonight it was worse than ever. The skirt bunched around her knees, and she didn’t dare tug it down for fear the movement would wake him. She lay stiffly, arms at her sides, willing herself to relax—

“Where have you been?”

She jumped, nearly falling from the pallet. “You’re awake!”

“Yes.”

Damn
! Her pulse raced. Through the confusion came a queer thrill of—of anticipation. Ana turned away from him, onto her side, trying to calm her pounding heart. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

“No, of course not,” she snapped. “You always snore when you’re awake.”

“Like this, you mean?” His deep voice lowered, rasped into the same snore she’d heard minutes before. “Like that?”

She heard the laughter in his voice, and Ana flushed. “You were only pretending.”

“Once again,
querida
, you stun me with your perceptivencss.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he repeated. He moved on the mattress, turning on his side. She felt the warmth of his body barely touching her back. “Would you have come up if you’d known I was awake?”

“Of course,” she lied. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know.” He sounded thoughtful. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe I was wrong.”

Ana struggled to keep her voice even. “You looked tired. You’ve a lot of work tomorrow, you should get some sleep.”

“Yes.”

She felt his hand on her hair, winding a tendril around his finger. Ana tensed. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Touching you. Is that all right?”

“No.” She felt breathless, shaky, frightened. “No.”

He was silent for a moment, so quiet she heard their breathing in the darkness, thought she heard the pounding of his heart, though it was probably only hers. He was so close she felt his heat, smelled the bitter quinine and orange still clinging to him, the soft musk of his skin.

He didn’t stop stroking her hair. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet she barely heard it. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“I know you hated being in that room.”

That room.
Doña
Melia’s room. Ana waited for the inevitable question, the one he’d asked her already, the one she hadn’t answered.
Why do you hate doctors’
? But it didn’t come, and she twisted away from him again, staring into the darkness beyond the pallet, her stomach in knots.

“Yes… well…” She inhaled deeply. “I couldn’t let them see you like that. You don’t always hide your emotions very well.”

“Unlike you,” he said dryly.

She caught her breath. “I told you—”

“Yes, I know.” He touched her hair again, spinning his fingers through the strands, and she froze. “Ah, Ana, too bad. You’ve beaten the smile right out of yourself.”

She felt strangely offended—absurdly hurt. Ana rolled onto her back, oddly surprised to find him so close, levered up on one elbow, the black shadow of his hair falling forward. She inched away. “I smile,” she said tightly.

“Not for me, you don’t. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile at me. Not a real one, anyway.”