Page 48 of The Hacienda
He reached a hand up and gently brushed the back of his knuckles over my cheek. Goose bumps raced over my skin at his touch.
“An angel,” he murmured. “Are you an angel?”
His head had hit the wallhard. He couldn’t be in his right mind.
“Tell me where it hurts,” I said, voice cracking.
Awareness flickered behind his eyes; his brow creased with concentration. “I think... broken rib.” He winced, lowering his hand to his torso. “Or two.”
“Shall I get a doctor?”
“No,” he grunted.
“But what if you’re bleeding on the inside?”
“Doctors aren’t witches,” he said. “Can’t fix broken witches.”
We were safe now, safe from whatever mistake we had made, but his behavior sent a wave of panic through me. What sort of damage could a blow to the head like that cause? Would he survive the night?
“Of course a doctor could fix a broken witch,” I insisted calmly.
“Pierce with pikes and burn the witch,” he murmured, eyes fluttering closed. “Salt the earth and scatter his soot.”
The curl of panic beneath my lungs expanded. He wasn’t making sense. “No one is going to burn you, Padre Andrés,” I said, forcing authority into my voice. “Not on my property. Now look at me.”
He opened his eyes, gazing up at me with an open adoration that made something in my chest bend close to snapping.
“You will be more comfortable if you can sleep in your bed.”
“Bed,” Andrés repeated dreamily.
Yes, bed was the best idea, but there was no way I was going to be able to carry him all the way to his rooms at the back of the capilla. I checked his limbs for any signs of broken bones, but apart from his ribs and his head, Andrés had no other injuries that I could see.
“Can you stand?”
He grunted in the affirmative and began to hoist himself up.
“Wait for me.” I scrambled to my feet, head spinning, chest tight. The best way to guide him was to sling one of his arms over my shoulder again. I braced as his warmth pressed against me, with too much weight. “No, you need to stand on your own.”
He corrected, and, swaying slightly, we cut a meandering path up the aisle of the chapel. Christ watched us from a wooden crucifix above the altar. The candles on the altar flung shadows across His hollow cheekbones, giving His carved face a condescending air.
“Either help me or stop judging,” I muttered under my breath.
“Hmm?” Andrés wondered.
I didn’t reply. Thankfully, he began to bear more of his own weight as we neared his rooms in the back of the chapel. I cautioned him to mind his head as we passed through the doorway.
The rooms were dark, but it was a gentle dark. The same safe, soft charcoal dark of the chapel. I followed Andrés’s lead to the bed and helped lower him onto it.
I fumbled for candles and matches, finding them near the small round fireplace. I lit more than was necessary—out of habit more than actual fear. Here, we were not watched. Here, it was quiet. Quiet but for rain pattering on the roof and Andrés’s sigh as he kicked off his shoes and lay on the thin mattress.
The warm candlelight lit the sparsely decorated room. I cast a look around: a painting of la Virgen hung above the fireplace. Whitewashed walls, a wooden cross opposite la Virgen. A clay bowl and jug on the table. A single chair, a stack of books next to the bed, their spines worn with use.
Andrés curled into a fetal position. Sweat shone on his forehead; sudden distress drew his brows together.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I may be—”
