Fiesta Moon (10 page)

Ignoring the sensory overload that drove her breath away, Corinne gathered it back. “Can you wrap it for me to take back to the office?” She started toward the hacienda entrance. “I really need to get back.”

As far away from Mark Madison as possible until she could determine what and how whatever happened
happened
.

Fool me once
. . . Corinne stopped in her tracks, recognizing Mark's words.
Oh, just give it up,
she told herself in frustration, whatever
it
is.

CHAPTER 7

What had he been thinking?

Or maybe that was the problem. No thought had been involved. He'd just kissed her.

Mark paced the floor of the salon, leaving footprints in the dusty coating left from his sweeping. It was Corinne's fault, of course . . . all of it. She'd started in on him, just like Blaine, and driven Mark into saying things he shouldn't have and then doing something he shouldn't have.

“So,” Soledad said, startling him to a halt as she entered the room with a tray balanced on one arm and a folding chair under the other. “You and Corina have a disgust about what?”

Mark hurried to help her put the chair at the desk. He'd seen Corinne brush by the salon as if he weren't there and heard her talking to Soledad in the kitchen. Undoubtedly filling the maid with her vile opinion of him. Not that he really cared, but he could have sworn Corinne had been crying. And now her protective bumblebee wanted to know why.

“With all due respect, it's not any of your business, Soledad.”

Retrieving a damp cloth from her yellow apron pocket, Soledad motioned for him to sit down and wiped the rickety desk.
“Pobrecita,
she is so upset.”

“Yeah, well, I'm a little upset too. I have a right to some creature comforts.”

The stocky housekeeper jerked upright, her brow a continuous knit of consternation.
“Qué?
What kind of
creature?”

“Me,” Mark clarified, her misinterpretation bringing a hint of a smile to his lips.

Looking over her shoulder, as if fearing that her Corina had the same radar hearing that she possessed, Soledad lowered her voice. “But of course, the man of the house should be comfortable.”

At least one of the females in charge agreed with him.

“Corina is not herself this day. She is very upset.
Ay de mí
,” Soledad sniffed, digging into her big apron pocket for an embroidered handkerchief. After blowing a loud honk into it, she put it away, but her dark eyes were glazed with emotion.

Something told Mark it had nothing to do with his
disgust
with Corinne. He put his arm around the housekeeper. “What is it, Soledad?”

“That Enrique.” She shook her head. “He was always running off to the hills. I knew it would finish badly with that adventurous one.”

“Enrique?”

“Antonio's brother, who went lost before you coming here,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “And my
pobrecita,
she is gone to tell 'Tonio his brother will not be coming back. But first she must put together herself.”

Kicked in the belly by the news, Mark sat down on the chair. “Aw, man,” he lamented. “I didn't know.” He thought she had just overreacted out of superiority. The fact was, she was just a better businessperson than he; but then, who wasn't?

“So you go say that you are sorry for making her cry.”

Mark's head shot up. “Say what? I didn't make her cry. I just—” He stopped speaking as Soledad planted her hands on her hips.

“I just acted like a jerk,” he finished. A displaced and very uncomfortable jerk, but a jerk.

But she was such a goody-goody . . .

“So you will say I am sorry and take her a rose.”

Mark blinked in disbelief as the housekeeper produced a rose wrapped in tissue from the same apron as the dishcloth. “Have you got a rabbit in there too?”

Soledad burst into a giggle. “Oh, Señor Mark, you are so silly. I put no rabbit in my apron. In the pot, yes, but in the apron, no, no, no.”

Mark took the flower, wondering just how much Soledad knew about his and Corinne's “disgust
.”
Part of him rebelled at the idea of crawling to Corinne with a rose in hand, yet there was another, more subtle side of him that wanted to apologize. He hardly recognized it.

“I'll go in there now. Maybe I can—” Mark blinked in disbelief. Either a small white pig just trotted through the foyer, or he'd been sober way too long. Besides, wasn't the hacienda ghost a Spanish
doña
or a murderous Indio? “Soledad—”

A startled shriek came from the direction of the kitchen, followed by the scraping of furniture. “Mark!”

Flower in hand, Mark raced to the kitchen with Soledad on his heels, only to meet a pink-eared swine making tracks away from Corinne, who brandished a chair.

“Vete! Vete ya!”
Soledad shouted. “I will not have creatures in my house!”

Instead of exiting out the open patio door, where a young man stood waving his straw hat at the animal, the pig veered into the salon.

“I will get my broom.”

As Soledad ran off to fetch her weapon of choice, Mark and Corinne tried to corral the animal in the salon. It scattered Mark's piles of dried plaster debris as it raced around the room. In an attempt to head it off, Mark stepped into its path, waving his hands. Instead of being dissuaded, the pig made straight for him, slowing from a run to a panting trot until it had Mark's back to the wall.

“Corinne, the chair.” Why hadn't he grabbed the broom?

But to his astonishment, instead of attacking him, the pig pulled the blossom of the flower that Mark still held. Dumbfounded, he watched as the pig dropped at his feet, exhausted and chewing.

“Wait, I think I know this pig.” Even as he spoke, he couldn't believe he heard himself right. But the pig was just about the same size and coloring as his travel mate in the swine truck.

At Corinne's snort of amusement, Mark shot her a dour look.

“You see one white pig, you've seen them all,” she teased.

A knock dragged Mark's attention from the snouted visitor to the foyer where the Mexican youth stood, hat in hand. “
Perdonamé
, señor,” he began, shifting his nervous gaze to the ceiling as if the rest of his words were written there. “I . . . bring . . . your . . . peeg.”

“Pigs of a feather,” Corinne said, her mouth contorted with the effort not to laugh outright.

“This is a joke, right?” he asked the man. One brow lifting in suspicion, he cranked his head in Corinne's direction. No, she wouldn't know a joke if it fell on her.

“
Perdonamé,
señor,” his visitor repeated. “I . . . bring . . . your . . . peeg.” Clearly, that was the only English the man knew.

This was unreal. Mark shook his head. “No.
No es mi
. . . pig.”
What was the Spanish word for pig?

At his feet, the pig grunted.

“Your pig seems to think otherwise.”

The man's face brightened. “
Mira
, your peeg.”

Soledad buzzed into the room, armed with her broom.
“Salga!
Get out. I allow no creatures in my house.”

Startled to its feet, the pig darted behind Mark. “Whoa, wait!” he shouted as Soledad missed the swine and clipped Mark soundly with her broom.

“Calme, calme,”
he told the riled housekeeper.

“That creature cannot stay.”

“I know.” Mark looked at Corinne for reinforcement, but her amused demeanor told him no help would come from that quarter. Nonetheless, he tried. “Will you please tell this man to take the pig out into the courtyard until we can resolve this?”

Corinne repeated Mark's request in rapid Spanish, while Soledad stood, broom at the ready, gaze narrowed, until the peasant moved to fetch the animal.

“You go,” Mark told the housekeeper. “We will get the
creature
out of your house.” Then, “What is it with this pig?” he exclaimed as the animal circled him to avoid the man's reaching hands. “And if you can stop smirking long enough,” he told Corinne, “can you find out who this guy is?”

Mark walked out into the courtyard—the only way to get the pig out of the house without further chaos. Only then did the pesky porker oblige. After some questioning by Corinne, Mark discovered that their visitor was the son of the farmer who owned the swine that had accompanied Mark on his trip from the produce stand fiasco to Mexicalli.

Seated at a concrete table and bench set that had been too heavy for the previous owners to move, Mark strained to pick out the story behind this odd delivery, particularly why the animal was deemed
his
.

After a staccato exchange of Spanish, Corinne turned to him, her eyes dancing. “José says that this pig was not supposed to come with your other traveling companions. It seems your livestock entrepreneurs bought this piglet from a
bruja
.”

Bruja
. . . the translation triggered incredulity in Mark's voice. “A witch?”

José nodded. “
Sí, una bruja que . . .”
The rest was lost on Mark's limited academic knowledge of the language.

Corinne nodded, taking on a sympathetic expression. “
Lo siento,
señor,” she said, before turning to Mark. “Your pig is bewitched.” Her lips twitched. “But then it would have to be, to be so enamored with you.”

“I love you too.” He gave her a pained smile. “But what's the witch got to do with me?”

“
Sí
,
una bruja
,” José put in with pride. “Witch.”

“The Indios are very superstitious, especially the more rural ones. When José's father discovered the pig had belonged to a witch, he was reluctant to take it, but since it was so cheap, he decided to put it in with the other pigs. But then they started to get ill, so his father said to get rid of the enchanted pig.”

“
Y además, el puerco no crece
,” José added, shaking his head.

Corinne translated. “And besides, he says, it won't grow.”

Now it all made sense. “In other words, no one wants the runt.”

Beneath the table, the piglet wormed its way around Mark's leg. “Sheesh,” he exclaimed, shoving it aside with his foot. “It's not enchanted. It's just plain crazy.”

“You must put off some killer pheromones . . . for swine, that is.” Corinne covered her mouth with her hand, but Mark knew a giggle when he heard one.

Annoyed, he glared at her. “You didn't seem to mind them a little while ago.”

The sobering sting of Mark's retort brought color to her cheeks. He was not only forward, but he was rude. No wonder the pig liked him. She peeked under the tile-inlaid table at the animal resting its head on Mark's shoe, its little pink-rimmed eyes closed in contentment. It was cute . . . for a pig.

“Bueno,
I go
ahora.”
José rose from the table bench, addressing Mark.
“Usted debe darme diez pesos para el puerco.”

“Ten
pesos?”
Mark echoed.

“Oh, sí,
señor.
Pero eso incluye la carga de la entrega.”

“That's ten
pesos
for the pig, including delivery charge,” Corinne explained.

“But I don't
want
the pig.” Mark couldn't believe his ears—or anything else about this scenario. “No,” he said, pointing a stern finger at José. “Take it elsewhere.”

“Now, there's no need to get disgruntled,” Corinne said. “No pun intended.”

“Just tell him.”

“If you insist.” With a sobering sigh, she addressed José. “
Lo siento, José, pero tome el puerco a otra parte.
”

“It is good buy, jefe,” Soledad observed from the door of the hacienda, where she eavesdropped, broom in hand. “If we feed it, it will make good dollars when it is grown.”

“How would you know a good buy on a pig, Soledad?” Mark snapped, what little good nature he had going to the hogs.

Corinne suppressed what was rapidly becoming hysteria. As far down as the report of finding Enrique's body had pushed her, this scene was having the opposite effect. If this didn't end soon, she'd go totally crazy.

The cook approached them, a condescending look on her face.
“Pues
, Señor Mark,” she began with authority. “I go to the market every day, no? I shop good for
la
Señorita Corina. Why, just this morning—”

Mark held up his hand to cut her off before he received the entire market report and addressed Corinne with measured words. “Tell him I don't want the pig.”

José's face fell. “
Ah, bien, dígale que es suyo, gratis
.”

Corinne gave Mark a wicked grin. “Good going. He says it's yours at no cost.”

“I will keep the pig in the orchard,” Soledad volunteered. “And we will share the moneys when it is grown.”

“I don't want a pig.”

“No one will take it,” Corinne pointed out, “now that it has a reputation. The Indios are very—”

“I know.” Mark cut her off. “They're very superstitious.”

She almost felt sorry for him as he buried his face in his hands and then ran his fingers through his sun-streaked hair as if to erase the whole affair from his mind. Almost.

“So, does the pig stay or go?” she asked, glancing from Soledad to Mark and back.

With absolute denial in his demeanor, Mark turned to the cook, but the expectation of profit on Soledad's brow practically lifted her off the ground. Corinne watched his certainty wage war with reluctance to disappoint the housekeeper.

“Okay, it stays.”

The hard case that Corinne had built against Mark Madison in her mind and around her heart cracked.

Soledad broke into nothing short of worship. “I knew you were a good businessman, jefe, and I am very happy to be in business with you.” She wrung her hands with excitement. “There is a—
cómo se dice?—un cajón de abono
—?”