A drink with a priest? My first inclination was to decline. I didn’t like to stay up late and I didn’t particularly enjoy Martin’s company, but I stopped myself. This might be a good opportunity to get some information from these men. Moreover, if I found a way to spend the night in town, I could take the check to the bank first thing in the morning and find out who had signed it. Otherwise, I would have to find a ride to Vinces in the morning or climb on one of those horses again and take myself to the bank. My sore bottom didn’t like that idea one bit.

“Sure,” I said.

While my brother said goodbye to my sisters, I rushed upstairs and collected the check.

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 11

It was apparent I knew little about males and their habits because I’d never heard of priests going to bars. Or maybe my brother was different from other men of God. But tonight, I had the rare opportunity to enter the male mind without any restrictions. To my surprise, I was growing excited to get to know this mysterious world of theirs.

I followed Martin and Alberto to a dim room, where the laughter and the clicking of bottles and glasses became louder. We walked past a long bar aligned with stools and two bartenders in pressed white aprons hustling behind the counter.

We settled in one of the back tables. As the first round of aguardiente was passed, I studied my two companions. There was a camaraderie between them that hadn’t been apparent at the house, in a way I’d never experienced with women. With the women in my life—my mother, my friends, my assistant—I always had to choose my words carefully, lest I hurt their feelings. But these two men were completely at ease with each other. Martin explained that the two of them had known each other all their lives even though Alberto was three years younger than Martin.

“I tried to save this one from a life of celibacy, but he wouldn’t listen,” Martin said, rolling up his sleeves. “Now he has to pay the consequences with a sore wrist.”

It took me a moment to understand the implication, but when I did, I offered a chuckle of approval—not that this was my kind of humor—but it seemed to appeal to both of them.

Martin ran his fingers through his hair, laughing with gusto, while Alberto watched him with an amused smile. Martin refilled his glass and tried to add more puro, as he called it, to mine, but I shook my head.

Martin scoffed. “What? You’re worried about this cassock?” He nodded at Alberto. “He’s not going to hold it against you. He doesn’t go around counting sins.”