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bed back into place, but she managed, smoothing out the covers carefully.
    She refused to dwell on her behavior or the fear building insidiously in her mind. She had work to do and she would remove every single bit of evidence that Zacarias had been outside or inside. Because she desperately needed it, she made herself a cup of mate de coca , a tea made with coca leaves. She took her time, savoring the tea for the pick-me-up she needed to keep going.
    Marguarita cleaned the entire house, every room, mopping and dusting and permeating the house with a strong cinnamon scent. She armed herself and went outside, following the trail of the tarp back to the stables, carefully removing all signs that something heavy had been dragged through the wet grass. Close to the stable where Zacarias had sat and then laid in preparation for death, she found some of the grass scorched. She very carefully removed every blade.
    Exhausted, she had another cup of tea and then showered and changed her clothes again, meticulously washing and drying the outfit she’d been wearing, using perfumed soaps to remove and cover any lingering scent. When she was fully satisfied that she’d done all she could, she went out to help with the stock.
    Cesaro spotted her as she came out of the stable on her favorite mare, Sparkle. He waved to her, his face set in grim lines.
    “The oldest one has come, hasn’t he?” he greeted as he rode up beside her.
    Marguarita saw no reason to deny it. She’d signaled by closing the heavy drapes and one of the men had given him the word that a De La Cruz was in residence. It was the only time the drapes were pulled. She nodded her head.
    “I knew it. The cattle and horses are uneasy in his presence. Perhaps you should go visit your aunt in Brazil.”
    She frowned in question.
    Cesaro hesitated, clearly not wanting to appear disloyal. “He’s difficult, Marguarita. Very different from the others.”
    She signed a question mark between them.
    Cesaro sighed. “I don’t know exactly what to tell you. I met him many years ago when I was a boy. He was the only man who frightened my father—frightened all the men on the ranch. And more recently, when we lost your father, when this . . .” He indicated her throat. “He had grown even worse.”
    She signed the question mark again.
    Cesaro shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with the topic. He even glanced toward the main hacienda as if Zacarias might overhear them and—for all Marguarita knew—maybe he could.
    “If animals bred as stock horses are terrified when he’s around, that should tell you something, Marguarita. When he was here the last time, he saved your life, but he came close to taking mine.” He sat for a moment in silence, and then shrugged again. “I would have given my life to save his, but still, there was something not right about him. Even his friend worried. It’s best you go.”
    Marguarita turned the warning over and over in her mind. Had Zacarias tried to burn himself up in the sun because he was close to becoming something he didn’t want to be? She ducked her head, unable to look Cesaro in the eye. The idea of running away to her aunt in Brazil was tempting, but she knew she couldn’t. She set her shoulders and indicated the animals.
    Cesaro sighed audibly. “You’re a very stubborn young woman, Marguarita, but I am not your father and I can’t order you to go.”
    She waved toward the horses, ignoring the fact that he was trying to make her feel guilty. She already had enough guilt going. In any case, she noticed that because she couldn’t speak, some of the men were beginning to treat her almost as if she were deaf as well. And while annoying, that was somewhat to her advantage in such a male-oriented world.
    “Yes, we could use your help settling the horses down. We have three mares close to giving birth and I don’t want anything to go wrong. Go into the stable with them and see if you can get them to calm down.”
    It was highly