Lourdes wanted to gather her inquisitive little chicks and hug them close, shield them from what had been done to the stranger, but keeping them away from him would only make them more curious.
She glanced at Cáco for approval and received a silent nod in response. Then a word of caution.
“Try not to wake him.”
Nina’s eyes grew big and innocent. “We’ll be quiet.” She turned to her sister. “Won’t we?”
Paige bobbed her head, and as Lourdes led them to the guest room, both girls walked with an exaggerated tiptoe, proving how quiet they could be.
Their silence didn’t last.
They gasped when they saw him, sleeping amid his bruises.
“He has lots of ow-ees,” Nina said.
“Yes, he does.” Lourdes gazed at Cáco’s patient. He lay on his side, one long leg exposed, the other tangled within the sheet. He held a pillow next to his body, the way a man might hold a woman he intended to keep.
Gently, possessively.
Suddenly her skin grew warm, and she longed to touch him, to feel the impression the silver cross made against his chest.
What impression?
The necklace wasn’t a brand. And for now, it was hidden, trapped against the pillow in his arms.
“Did somebody hurt him, Mama?” Paige, the observer, asked.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Paige and Nina moved forward. Lourdes tried to stop them, but the children slipped past.
The four-year-olds stood for a moment, just staring at the stranger, then they reached out and patted his hair, giving him the kind of comfort they liked to receive.
Lourdes’s eyes went misty. Her girls had never known a father. There were no important men in their lives, no one to offer masculine guidance.
Of course the louse who’d sired them wouldn’t have fit the bill. Gunther Jones had been a criminal and a convict, a drug addict and a thief.
And what kind of man are you? she wanted to ask the sleeping stranger.
Maybe he was married. Maybe he had a wife and children, a family who loved him, who wondered and worried why he hadn’t come home.
She glanced at his left hand, at the absence of a ring. Then again, maybe he was single. Or divorced. Or—
What? A criminal? A thief?
I should call the sheriff, she thought.
But she’d promised Cáco that she wouldn’t.
“Come on,” she said to the twins, drawing them away from the bed. “It’s time to eat.”
She prodded her daughters out the door, then stopped to look back at the man.
The handsome intruder was already weaving his way into her life.
Two
Something went bump in the night. Battling sleep, Lourdes glanced at the clock—2:46 a.m.
Another bump sent her reaching for her robe. The house might be old, with creaking floors and rattling windows, but she recognized human footsteps when she heard them.
Belting her robe, she crept to her door and peered out.
The shadowy figure coming down the hall stood tall and broad-shouldered.
Was he sleepwalking?
She blew out a breath and prepared to guide him back to bed. She’d read somewhere not to awaken a sleepwalker, not to alarm the person into consciousness.
Would it be all right to talk?
Probably not.
Silent, she headed toward him, stopped and took his arm. He wasn’t a shadowy figure anymore. He was solid and real, his muscles strong and hard beneath her fingers.
“Can’t find the bathroom.”
She started at the sound of his voice. “You’re awake?”
“Gotta pee.”
Oh, my. “Okay. But you’re going the wrong way.” Still holding his arm, she turned him around. He didn’t seem particularly steady on his feet, and she was too concerned to let go.
“It’s here. This door.” She put his hand on the wood, guiding him as if he were blind. Could he do this by himself? Lord, she hoped so. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Know how to use the bathroom,” he muttered. “Not a kid.”
No, he was a grown man, struggling to find the doorknob. “Maybe a bedpan would be better for now.” Not that they had one lying around, waiting for this opportunity to present itself. “Or a bucket,” she added, deciding Cáco had probably placed a basin of some sort near his bed. The older woman wouldn’t have left something like that to chance.
“No bedpan. No bucket.” He pushed the door open and fumbled for the light switch.
She turned it on for him, blasting them with a hundred-watt bulb.
He squinted, and she noticed the glazed look in his eyes. He had no idea where he was or who he was talking to. All he knew, apparently, was that his bladder was full.
He zigzagged into the bathroom, then closed the door with a resounding click.
Lourdes stood by nervously, not wanting to listen, but knowing she had to. In case he tripped and stumbled. Bashed his head against the sink.
She heard the telltale sound and breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, it wasn’t a very consistent sound, making her wonder if his aim was off. After a long pause, the toilet flushed. Then running water. Even in his confused state, he’d managed to wash his hands. Habit, she supposed.
He opened the door and stared at her.
She reached for his arm. “I’ll take you back to your room. But next time, I think you should use a bedpan.” Or one of those plastic bottles designed for his gender, she thought. The pharmacy probably stocked them.
“No bedpan,” he told her.
“Stubborn man,” she said.
“Stubborn woman,” he parroted.
Lourdes couldn’t help but smile. Never in a million years could she have imagined engaging in a conversation like this one, with a stranger no less.
His room was dark, so she turned on a night-light. He made a beeline for his bed, climbed in and pulled the sheet to his waist. He’d kicked away the rest of the covers, she noticed.
Was he still feverish?
She decided not to jam a thermometer under his tongue. Instead she pressed a hand to his forehead.
“You’re a little cooler, but still warm.” She reached for the pitcher on the nightstand and filled his glass, which already contained a straw. “Do you want some water?”
He shook his head. “Who are you?”
“Lourdes.”
“Like the place in France?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a dream?”
“No. I’m real.”
She picked up the water he’d refused, encouraging him to drink. He sipped from the straw and winced. Not from the taste, she suspected, but from the nasty cut on his lip.
“Will you lie down with me?”
Her heart jumped, pounding