Isabeau shifted slightly, just enough to lean into him, as if shouldering whatever burden he had. He loved her for that small movement. His fingers tightened around hers, his thumb brushing back and forth in small caresses over the back of her hand.

“You know your mother, Conner,” Gerald continued. “She took one look at that child, without parents to love him, and she immediately bonded. She was living in the cabin with the baby part of the time and the village during the rainy season.”

“That’s why she was in the village,” Conner said.

Will nodded. “The boy was in Adan’s house playing with my cousin when Cortez’s men attacked. Your mother tried to stop them from taking the boys. They thought your brother was one of us. He’s only five, Conner.”

“Why wouldn’t she tell you about having a half brother?” Isabeau asked.

Conner hung his head. “She knew I would have gone to the village and killed that son of a bitch. I despise him. He uses the women and if they become pregnant, he throws away the child—and the woman—if she won’t get rid of it.”

The bitterness in his voice sickened him, but he couldn’t help it. He always had a handle on his emotions—except when it came to his father. The man hadn’t been physically abusive to Conner, but emotional abuse was far worse, in Conner’s opinion. It was like Marisa to put her child first and build a life for him. And she would have done the same for his brother, even though she hadn’t given birth to the boy. He knew he couldn’t do less.

He brought Isabeau’s hand to his jaw and rubbed absently over the faint shadow while he turned the problem over and over in his mind. If Imelda’s rogues took too close a look at the child they might recognize the leopard in him. With a female it was nearly impossible at a young age, but boys . . . one never knew when the leopard would emerge and there often were signs.

“What’s he like?” Conner asked.

Beside him Isabeau stirred, drawing instant attention. “What’s his name?”

Conner nodded and used the pads of her fingers to press tight against his throbbing temples. “Yes. I should have asked that.”

“Your mother called him Mateo,” Will said.

Conner swallowed hard, picturing his mother with the small baby. He should have known. Should have gone home to help her. “What’s he like?”

“Like you,” Gerald answered. “Very much like you. He will be grieving for your mother. He saw her killed.”