Corinne shifted in the plush leather chair next to Mark’s bed, studying the pale man lying against the pillows with sleep-dogged eyes. Despite the even, reassuring rise and fall of his chest, she leaned forward and tested his forehead with the palm of her hand. Thank God the fever had finally broken, after a full day and night of sapping his strength.
When Mark collapsed in the doorway of Violeta’s home, Corinne felt as though the life had been knocked out of her. She and Gaspar broke free of the shock at the same time and rushed to his side.
He was burning up with fever. Disoriented, he’d struggled as though drunk, vowing that he was fine. Once he determined that Doña Violeta was in no danger, he had insisted on returning to the plaza to see the fireworks, but his knees would not support him. Since there was no ambulance in Mexicalli, much less a medical facility, Corinne called Capitán Nolla and asked him to bring Father Menasco’s sister and his car. A half hour later they arrived, and with them Don Rafael.
Suspecting a bronchial infection, Dr. Flynn sent Father Menasco to find the owner of the farmacia to get antibiotics while Mark was transported to Hacienda Ortiz. For the last thirty-six hours or so, Corinne and Soledad spelled each other in nursing him.
With each labored breath Mark took, Corinne struggled as if it was her own. Somewhere in the midst of their verbal sparring, he’d become a part of her, and it scared her. Yet she knew beyond a doubt that her heart belonged to the man lying on the bed before her.
It had to be a God thing, she reasoned. Mark Madison was not the kind of man she wanted to fall in love with. She’d asked God to help her resist, and instead, God changed Mark. Not by leaps and bounds, granted, but Mark was not the same man he’d been when he climbed down from that pig truck.
A banging at the front of the house startled the wistful smile from Corinne’s lips.
“Hola, is there anyone in habitation?”
Recognizing Juan Pablo’s voice, Corinne shook away the remnants of sleep and hurried to the entrance as Soledad stumbled into the hall, still in her nightdress.
“Ay de mí, I sleep too late and—” She broke off, her dark gaze narrowing as Corinne opened the door. “Oh, and look who is here from the mountains.” In a dither, she ducked back through her bedroom door.
“Juan Pablo, you’re visiting early today.”
Bewildered by Soledad’s declaration, Corinne peered around him to see the plumber’s brothers taking tools out of his truck. Since she knew Juan Pedro, she assumed that the third man—the source of Soledad’s strange behavior—was none other than Juan Miguel.
The mason Juan looked nothing like Juan Pedro and Juan Pablo, who were short, stocky, and sported thick mustaches to match their bushy brows. This Juan was tall, willow thin, and clean-shaven, with salt and pepper hair pulled into a ponytail.
“Los Tres Juanes are ready to work, señorita,” the plumber announced, puffed with pride.
It was Monday! Corinne backtracked. She’d missed church yesterday to care for Mark. Weariness had blurred her sense of time.
“And this is my eldest brother, Juan Miguel.”
From the truck, Juan Miguel nodded.
“Mucho gusto, Juan Miguel.” She waved and then backed inside. “Please, come in . . . all of you.”
“And how is Señor Mark?” the plumber asked, taking note of the candles and flowers laid on the patio. “It was a grandiose fireworks display.”
By now everyone in Mexicalli knew of El Señor del Cerdito’s malady. The candles and flowers, as well as some curious bags of native healing balms, began appearing yesterday morning. If the villagers appreciated his work for the orphanage, he was even more dear to them now for the unexpected treat of fireworks.
“The antibiotics Dr. Flynn prescribed are finally working. His fever broke last night, but his breathing is still shallow.”
Invisible hands squeezed her heart. One moment he was a pain in the neck, and the next, a pain in her heart.
“Has he been in any caves?”
Corinne lifted her brow in surprise. That was the same question Dr. Flynn had asked. An avid cave explorer, she explained how the mines and caves riddling the area were filled with bat dung, the spores of which sometimes infected the lungs. Usually it was only fatal for those who already had lung problems, particularly the elderly and little children.
“Mark hasn’t been anywhere, except here in the house . . . unless you count an occasional walk to the village.”
“Humph. Pues,” Juan Pablo said, dismissing the thought. “He need not to worry. My brothers and I will employ his blueprint according to our projectations.”
“Great. I’ll grab a quick shower first, if that’s okay?” Corinne had been so concerned about Mark that she’d only freshened up yesterday. Now she needed one to wake up.
It was okay as far as Juan Pablo was concerned, but no one consulted Juan Pedro, who cut the power to the water pump, fortunately, just as Corinne finished rinsing her hair. While she dressed, the scent of frying bacon on the gas stove in the kitchen tempted her to head straight there, but instead, she returned to check on Mark.
On entering the room, she found him struggling into a pair of shorts.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. Seeing him teeter, she rushed to steady him.
“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
“The door was open,” she replied, ignoring the dour reminder of their first meeting at the hacienda. She pressed a hand to his forehead to confirm the heat emanating from his bare shoulders. “You still have a little fever.”
“The key word there is little.”
“How much do you remember of yesterday?”
He scowled, thinking. “I missed the fireworks . . . and Soledad made flan.”
“Fireworks were Saturday. Flan was yesterday. Case closed.” Corinne pushed him back against the pillows with little effort.
“You always like to take charge, don’t you? Although . . .” He flashed a devilish grin. “I could get used to this part.”
“I’m glad you didn’t try to stand,” she answered, making a show of ignoring the twickle his comment evoked. She grunted as she swung his legs onto the mattress. “I’d hate to have to lift you from the floor.”
“Whoa, you’re dripping on me,” he said, drawing up his knees to avoid the drip of her wet hair.
“I towel dried, but Juan cut the electricity, so no hair dryer.”
“Which Juan?”
The playful arch of his one brow stirred the names in her mind. “Electric Juan.” With a chuckle, she slung the sheet over her patient, shorts and all.
“Are we having fun yet?”
Corinne pulled a straight face. “I know someone who is not ever going to have fun if that fever doesn’t go away.” She retrieved a thermometer from the nightstand and stuck it in Mark’s mouth.
He made a questioning grunt.
“Dr. Flynn said if your temp remained elevated, you would be taken to the hospital in Cuernavaca.”
The night-light on the desk flashed on suddenly.
“Looks like we have pow—” Before Mark could complete his sentence, a loud pop echoed from the back of the house, followed by an excited barrage of Spanish.
“Desconectelo! Off, off!”
With a groan, Mark closed his eyes.
Corinne rushed to the hall, leaving the thermometer beeping in her patient’s mouth. “Juan, todo está bien? Is everything okay?”
“Está bien, señorita,” one of the men shouted back—which Juan, she couldn’t tell. “Just a little—how do you say . . . snitch.”
Corinne frowned. “You mean snag?”
“Sí, a snag. No worries.”
“Easy for him to say,” Mark grumbled from the bed.
Spinning around, Corinne rushed to take the thermometer he’d removed from his mouth, but he turned it off before she could read it. “What did it say?”
“Just a little elevation.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “How little?”
“A hundred.”
“And what?” She smelled smoke akin to burning wire.
“Just a hundred.” Mark reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. “And by the time I drink this, it will be even lower.”
“Juan . . . Electric Juan?” she called out, moving back to the hallway. “What is that burning?”
“Es nada, señorita,” the man shouted back as the lamp came on again, this time without event. “See, no worries.”
Lord, please let that be the truth.
“Tell you what,” she said to Mark. It wouldn’t hurt for her to look, not that she’d really know what she was looking at. “I’ll go check on things and be back in two shakes with your breakfast.”
At his answering grunt, she made her way to the ballroom. Juan Pedro stood on a ladder next to a hole where one of the wall lamps had hung before the previous contractors had removed and boxed them. A piece of charred wire protruded from the wall. To it, he was tying a coil of new.
“Soon it will all be new, no?” He smiled upon seeing her approach. “What are you doing?”
“Pues, this is old,” he said, pointing with a soot-smudged hand to the charred piece. “And it runs to that enchufe where the electricity comes.” After wiping his nose with the back of the same hand, he nodded to a gutted electrical socket a few feet away. “So, to keep from creating more plaster work for Juan Miguel, I will pull the new wire through as I pull out the old, no?”
She’d used a similar technique to replace worn elastic in some of the children’s shorts. “That’s brilliant, Juan, but we aren’t replacing the wall lamps. This is to be a gymnasium. Aren’t you supposed to cover the hole with plaster?”
With knitted eyebrows, the little man came down the ladder and took the set of blueprints from the tube where they’d been stored. After much rustling of paper and scrutiny, he dropped them on the floor. “Pues, if that is the way you want.”
“Unfortunately, that’s what we have to do,” she said, leaving the man to his work.
Corinne understood Juan Pedro’s reluctance. The ballroom was beautiful, but the orphanage did not need it, with its elegant converted Victorian gas lamps lining both walls. Nor did it need the large chandelier overhead, which had yet to be taken out. What was needed was a gymnasium with fluorescent lighting. And she’d already found a place on the Internet where they could sell the antique fixtures.
“Soledad,” she said, marching into the kitchen. “Breakfast smells—”
She broke off. Sitting at the kitchen table, Juan Miguel was finishing off a plate of huevos rancheros and bacon, while Soledad hovered over him with a look of adoration.
“—delicious.”
“It is, señorita, and I am very thankful for it.” The sculptor-mason munched the words along with his last forkful. After swallowing, he gave Soledad a wink. “But then, Señorita Corina, you must know that you have the best cook in all of Guerrero.”
Soledad gave him a playful smack on the shoulder as he rose to leave. “You mean in all of Mexico, perro viejo.”
Old dog? Was Soledad flirting?
“Pues,” the housekeeper announced, all business after he exited, “I will have your breakfast and that of Señor Mark en un momento.” With that, she returned to the stove where the remainder of the cooked bacon warmed on a plate over the pilot light.
Love must be in the air, Corinne mused, distracted by the pop and sizzle of the coffeemaker on the counter. Craving a cup, she was reaching into the cupboard when she heard someone in the bathroom. Juan Pablo, she thought, filling the mug to the brim. Just the scent snapped her taste buds to attention.
“And how is your patient?” Soledad asked, shaking the frying pan to spread the melting butter.
“Mark still has a little temp . . . if I can believe him,” she said. “Do you think I should give him some coffee?”
“I’d love a cup.” Mark leaned against the jamb of the utility-bathroom door, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary— weak cat, small bird. As if walking on the moving blocks in a fun house, he approached the table and dropped, literally, into a chair.
Lord, help. I’m losing patience with this patient.