She kissed him again. Mistaking his lack of ardor, she drew back and looked at him questioningly. He forced a smile and assured her that his feelings had not changed because of what she had told him; no, it was because his side was hurting again that his kisses were not equal to hers.

“Luis said that—” she began.

“Never mind Luis right now,” Will interrupted. “You are here. You are safe.”

“I had expected you to come for me in the little boat,” she said. “I had hoped it would be you, mi corazón. That would have been very romantic.”

“I would have, except for—” He could not finish: Another bolt of pain branched from his abdomen down into his groin, up into his chest.

“Does it hurt that much?” she asked.

As she reached across him to touch his side, her bare arm rested on his stomach. He flinched and she, feeling the wetness on her arm, slipped a finger between his shirt buttons and then put the finger to her tongue. Her dark brows pursing, she opened his shirt and removed the bandanna and looked with alarm at the wound, the dried blood smearing his belly.

“Madre de Cristo!” she hissed. “It looks like—What happened?”

He did not answer. She raised her eyes to his face; those black eyes so full of comprehension that it seemed almost unnecessary to explain what had happened, and why.

“Will, this did not happen loading the boat.”

“What we did last night,” he started, but the pain was now like hot coals in his guts. He took a breath. “A beautiful thing … but … not intelligent … Francisco saw … I think maybe he was sent looking for you because you were late … and this afternoon … at the wharf … Francisco … knife …”

“What? What did you say?”

“Francisco stabbed me.”

“Francisco?” she cried. “He did this? Francisco? Mi hermano? Imposible!”

Will repeated, “Francisco,” thinking that in a way his wound had been self-inflicted.

Elvira, silent, stared at the puncture again before covering it with the bandanna and refastening the buttons.

“No mi hermano,” she murmured. “Mi tío. Francisco held the knife, but that cabrón, that shit eater who calls himself my mother’s brother, that pig who would have stuck his curo into his own mother’s cunt, he put my brother up to it. Oh, I know it was him.…”

“Calm yourself,” said Will, as impressed with her rage as with her profane vocabulary. “I think you’re right, but Francisco could not have told him last night.… He—Tío—he would have beaten you then and come after me. No, I think Francisco did not know what to do at first. But then, today sometime, maybe after you and Rosaria left … maybe then he told Tío.… And then Tío hit him for not talking sooner.… Tío must have said to him if he was to be a man, then he must avenge your honor.…”