Chapter 15

YAQUITA NEVER MANAGED to sing that evening for anyone but Smith.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the window Smith had smashed with his suitcase the day before. The gold-tasseled curtains hung open, ruffled by a breeze. The big brass bed had been knocked askew; the rumpled scarlet bedspread looked as if a herd of llamas had stampeded across it.

Smith lay on the mattress, dead to the world, or at least wishing he was. One arm dangled off the bed to the pile of his discarded safari outfit. The buttons were loose, threads frayed from when Yaquita had torn off his clothes.

The aftereffects of the rum made his head pound, and Yaquita had ridden him hard. Smith cradled his head in his hands; he had already learned not to sit up. “Oh, my skull!”

Yaquita stood on the other side of the bed wearing only a thin cotton robe untied in front. She wrung her hands with worry. “I’ve never seen you like this, Pedrito! I’ll get a doctor. Maybe you have the Black Death, or the Scarlet Fever, or the Green Gout!” She grabbed her trench coat and rushed from the room.

To the barely conscious Smith, the door slam sounded like cannon fire on one of Admiral Nelson’s ships during the Trafalgar battle.

* * *

The wild chickens outside crowed every hour on the hour, like feathered alarm clocks.

A Santa Isabel doctor with a gray suit and a white goatee examined Smith’s head, measuring it, pressing against it. Throughout the examination, the doctor thrust out his lower lip and muttered incomprehensible sounds. Yaquita paced back and forth like a caged lioness, concerned for Smith’s health.

The young lieutenant’s eyes were bleary. The doctor pried up the lids with his thumb and shone a light into the pupils. He picked up his bag and beckoned for Yaquita to follow him for a grim consultation. They went out onto the balcony, where they could talk in private above the empty cantina. Down below, the knife-throwing man snored across his usual table, his image reflected in the numerous mirrors.

The doctor shook his head solemnly. “I examined him very thoroughly, señorita. There’s not the slightest sign of concussion.”

Yaquita sagged with relief. “Good! I didn’t hurt him by throwing all those things, or by . . . by working him too hard last night. Any signs of the plague?”

“No symptoms of fever or brain swelling. I performed a complete phrenology exam, and all the lumps on his head are completely normal,” the doctor continued. “He does seem to have a hangover, however.”

“A hangover!” Yaquita said. “That’s all?”

“I’m amazed that the infamous Pedrito Miraflores is not familiar with the symptoms of too much drink — but he’s perfectly all right. He could get up right now, if his head could take it.”

Yaquita smiled, exuberant with relief. Bag in hand, the doctor clomped down the curving staircase. Upon reaching the cantina floor, he wove his way around the toppled tables, kicking discarded beer and rum bottles. Out of professional courtesy, the doctor inspected the few unconscious patrons sprawled on chairs or on the floor, verified that they all still breathed, then departed through the front door.

Yaquita returned to her room where Smith still lay groaning on the bed. She touched his head tenderly, brushing his red hair aside. Something was very different about this man, but she couldn’t quite figure it out. Then her face grew sad, much in contrast to the expression of relief she had shown the doctor. This was definitely not the Pedrito she knew — perhaps he had amnesia, or brain damage of some kind.

If so, then she had plans of her own. . . .

Blinking with the pain of his splitting headache, Smith looked up at Yaquita in alarm. He raised an arm to fend off any other objects she might throw at him. But she kissed his hand instead.

“Oh, you poor boy,” Yaquita said with sympathy. “The doctor says you are very, very ill. Shhh! You must not get up or go out, even for a minute. Just stay here with me, dear.”

With her back turned, Yaquita dribbled another fifth of dark rum into the enamel coffeepot. “He did say, however, that you ought to drink more of my special coffee. Plenty more.”

Yaquita sat on the side of the bed with the steaming cup. She lifted his head gently and put the cup to his lips. “There you go, take a big sip.” He gulped trustingly. She took the cup away, setting it on the bedside table, then bent over him. A breast escaped from her flimsy robe. She leaned closer to kiss him.

“In fact,” she said as she lifted one of Smith’s arms to wrap it around her neck, “the doctor told me to use whatever means possible to keep you in bed.” She ran her hands over his chest and kissed him again, until Smith groggily responded.

She fell onto the sheets beside him. “And I intend to follow doctor’s orders.”