As we reached a stream, Pacha slowed her pace. She seemed to have forgotten that I was on her back as she approached the edge of the stream and ducked her head until it disappeared from view. Jesús, María y José, she was drinking, but all I wanted was to get down.

I managed to jump. The ground was moist and my shoes filled with mud. Rubbing my sore thighs, I retraced the steps Pacha had taken, trying to locate my glasses.

They must be around here. I took wide steps, my gaze on the crashing leaves. Out of the corner of my eye, something caught my attention. Something bright. I raised my head. Through the bushes, I could see a solid structure, a portion of a wall. I shoved the branches to the side and headed over.

It was a house and it had been destroyed by fire. There had been two stories once, but now the second floor was burned almost in its entirety. Parts of the charred walls remained standing and most of the windows on the first floor were broken. There were smoke stains all over the walls.

“Don Cristóbal!”

Martin’s voice came from somewhere behind the bushes.

I didn’t answer. I was afraid of how my voice would come out if I shouted. But his steps drew near nonetheless. He emerged on foot, pulling his horse by the reins.

“What happened to you?”

“Pacha decided to go for a drink,” I said, pointing in the general direction of the stream.

“Well, she’s not there anymore,” he said, shaking his head. “But mares are finicky. Just like women.” He chuckled.

I smiled unwillingly—it seemed like the proper reaction.

“You can ride Román back to the hacienda,” he said.

I examined Martin’s gray.

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll walk.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll guide him.”

“I said I’ll walk.”

Martin shrugged, then flashed my husband’s spectacles. “Are these yours?”

“Yes.” I extended my hand. “Thank you.” I put the glasses on quickly before he could examine my features any further. “What happened there?” I lifted my chin toward the house.

He shrugged. “A fire. About a year ago. The foreman lived there with his family.”

“Are they all right?”

“The father died. The mother and son survived, but they had third-degree burns, especially the son.”

I swallowed. “A child?”

“Fortunately, no. He’s all grown up, but the entire side of his face was burned.”

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

A burned man. I had to find out who he was and who in the family had hired him to kill me. Because I had no doubt that the man Martin mentioned, the one with the half-burnt face, was the bastard who had killed Cristóbal.