Anger boiled inside of Isandro like a pit of acid, and his mouth thinned into a severe line, an angry slash across his dusky, brown face.

“Only heathens question the power of prayer,” he spat vindictively, and angrily knelt down by her side. He uncorked the bottle and splashed some of the amber liquid across his hands, then more across the bullet wound. With shaking hands he situated the material of her nightgown around her thighs, trying to position himself so he would touch as little of her as possible. This wasn’t the job for a monk, he thought, his fingers hovering over her skin. This was the job for a doctor, for a man who actually knew what he was doing. Isandro felt as if he was only making things worse.

Tentatively he touched her skin, not looking up into her face. He didn’t want to see the pain there; it would only slow him down if he was worrying about her hurt. It would be far better to be quick and get it over with. He wished he had the proper tools for such a move. Forceps should be used, not unsure fingers. Unfortunately, there were no proper tools to be had. With a quick prayer under his breath, he reached into the bloody hole in her leg, reaching his forefinger and thumb to get the bullet lodged near the muscle. The wound widened and the bleeding increased. Ruby red blood mixed with the alcohol, sending dark, pink-red streams of color down the pale skin of her leg. He could feel the top of the bullet against his fingers, but he couldn’t seem to get a grasp on it. His brown furrowed, his face straining as he concentrated, and he leaned in toward her, trying to get a better angle. The edge of his thumb touched the metal casing, warmed to the temperature of her body, and the tiniest amount of relief stole through him. It wasn’t over yet though, he thought grimly.

He gripped the bullet and pulled it out. Blood pooled inside the little hole and spilled over down her leg. He set down the bullet and reached for one of the rags he had brought, pressing it to the wound with firm pressure. The rough, white material soaked with her blood, turning crimson before his eyes. He reached for another rag, pressing it on top of the first, not relenting in the pressure he put down. He tried not to think of the fact that his hands were on a strange, godless woman’s thighs, reminding himself of who exactly she was.

The flow of the blood seemed to slow, no longer coming in gushes. Her face looked pale and drained of color. The moonlight, bright as the sun through the open window, further strained her face and hair of hue, making her look like she was made up only of black and white. Her lips looked pale too, blending in with the skin of her face. She had lost a lot of blood already. He hoped the blood would congeal quickly and stop flowing.

“There,” he said, reaching for her hand and placing it over the rags on her leg so she was holding the makeshift bandages in place. He leaned back away from her, taking a deep breath as if he close proximity had suffocated him. “Done.”

There was one clean rag left, and he picked it up, nervously swabbing away the blood that had run down the inside of her thigh, then the blood that had pooled on the floor. He wiped her blood off his hands, but it wouldn’t all seem to come off. He looked at his brown hands, calloused and rough and covered with blood, and a shudder of revulsion ran through him.

He watched mutely as her eyes began to droop and her breathing evened out. As if in slow motion she began to sag. He barely caught her shoulders before she fell back, saving her from cracking her skull against the tiled floor. He laid her back, looking over the unconscious woman with a frown.

Indecision ate at him like a parasite, making him pause. He was unsure what to do. There was no way he could take her on his mule in such a state; she would surely fall off, and the smell of blood would spook the poor, docile animal. He could leave without her, but he had no idea where to go. She hadn’t told him anything.

That left him with only one other option. Wait till morning and leave with her then. It was a poor choice, and it wasn’t one he wanted to choose, but he was running out of options. The only way he stood any chance of finding Lawrence’s killer was if she showed him the way. She was the missing link in the puzzle that would unite him with the arsonist of the abbey.

Isandro scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and then looked down to see that her change in position had made the wound start bleeding once more. He quickly grabbed for the rags, pressing them down hard against her skin, trying to stop the flow of blood. After a few moments, it quelled, and he took his hand away.

On the other side of the small bedroom was a dresser, and he crossed over to that, pulling open the top drawer. It was women’s under things like he had never seen before, and he quickly shut it, his face feeling suddenly hot. The second drawer had more nightgowns like the one she was wearing, clean white cotton and modest. He pulled one out and, without a second thought, ripped the material into long strips. He set the strips he had torn off on her nightstand, then knelt to scoop her up.

He put his arm under her head and her dark hair spilled over his arm, soft and fragrant. His other arm looped under her knees, and he smoothly pulled her up. His muscles tensed, but he was used to carrying a burden. She felt light in his arms, and soft. Holding her was nothing like carrying a heavy bag of grain, or transporting water from the well to the cloisters.

He set her gingerly on her bed and pulled away. Her nightgown had fallen down back into a proper position and he flushed as he pulled the material back up to her thighs, exposing the creamy white flesh of her legs. He reached for the long strips of cotton he had torn and lifted her knee so he could begin wrapping the wound. When he finished, it looked slightly better, if only because it was no longer visible. The blood hadn’t soaked through the bandage, but he worried her tossing and turning through the night would change that. He told himself that if she died, he had done everything he could for her. Surely God would forgive him.

Weariness settled upon him like a heavy blanket across his shoulders and arms, making him feel weighed down. He suddenly felt exhausted, and he lowered himself to the hard floor beside her bed, kneeling. He said a final prayer and stretched out. The tile felt cool and comfortable beneath him, and he rested his cheek against his arm, letting his eyes fall heavily shut. Moments later, sleep took him.

Something hit him hard right under the ribcage, expelling all his breath in a swift ‘oof’. Isandro coughed, recoiling into himself, eyes snapping open and then rolling down to the sight of the woman sprawled atop him, her knee still lodged barbarically into his abdomen. Bleariness from sleep made it hard to formulate thoughts, much less words, and he merely spluttered in pain, moving to push her off of him so he could fill his aching lungs with fresh air. She was already scrambling to get up, though, and his hands met empty air, getting nothing more than the feel of cotton from the hem of her nightgown. It slipped uselessly out of his fingers and she began hobbling away, her limp from the poorly dealt with bullet wound obvious in her hurried strides toward the main room of her house.

Where in heaven was she going?

He rolled over on his side and sprang to his feet, at the door before she was. She was an idiot if she thought she could outrun him with an injury like that. Even with the breath knocked out of him he was lighter on his feet, though he could feel his lungs taking in air in uncomfortable little wheezes.

He blocked her path and seized her wrist, turning her around and roughly pushing her back against the wall. He loomed over her, his face darkened with anger and residual pain. “Where do you think you’re going?” he snarled, gathering the neck of her nightgown into a bunch of fabric in his fist, drawing the material close to her throat. “You think you can get away from me, pinche woman?”

He glared down at her hatefully then let go of her nightgown and tugged her by her wrist into her bedroom. He pointed to the dresser against the wall, the line between his eyebrows deep and severe as he looked at her. “Get dressed, I’m tired of your games. We’re going and you’re leading me to your father.”

Letting go of her wrist, Isandro pushed her in the direction of the dresser, his chest still burning. Anger at the woman burned within him like acid, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He grimaced at her, silently asking God how he could stand to make such a creature. Why put a demon under a sweet façade? What sort of test was this? He was suddenly reminded of Eve being seduced by the serpent. Women were inherently sinners. It had been Eve who had gotten Adam thrown out of the garden of Eden. Women weren’t to be trusted; life without them had been much easier. Surrounded by only his brothers and the hard physical labor that was a monk’s life, things had been simple. Now this vile, beautiful creature was bringing a plague on his life.

She turned with a defiant expression on her face, and Isandro was reminded of some of the younger novices and the stubborn streak they often went through upon first entering the abbey. A pang of homesickness coursed through him, starting in his stomach and moving out to his entire body, the emotion like a frosty current. He knew that he could never return; they wouldn’t take him back. And yet he was suppressing that fact, and in his mind’s eye he could still see himself going back, returning to his simple, pious life. He didn’t want to think about what would happen when he found the woman’s father. He didn’t want to think about killing a man in cold blood. He didn’t want to consider the possibility that maybe he just couldn’t be found. He didn’t want to think about what life would be like when he was no longer a monk. Books and scripture and hard, physical labor- that was all he knew. He didn’t have the social skills to live in town, and he didn’t have a penny to his name. Denial was a much easier state to deal with than confusion.

She scornfully looked at him over her shoulder, and he opened his mouth to reprimand her, but the words fell short. She lifted her nightgown over her head, and suddenly she was nude in front of him. Her dark hair fell in waves down her back, stark against the light tone of her skin. Panels of light cast by the shuttered windows created light and dark stripes over her back and hips, a shadow hugging the curve of her waist. His dark eyes widened, his pulse sped up, and he swallowed hard, swinging around so he couldn’t see her, closing his eyes tightly against the image of her clad in nothing but a flimsy pair of women’s under things. It was burned against the back of his eyelids, and he cursed under his breath fluently in Spanish.

“You have no modesty,” Isandro hissed, refusing to turn around until he was sure she was once again decent. “That is a sight meant only for your husband, you heathen!”

When he heard the rustle of her skirts, he slowly turned back around to face her. She was now dressed modestly, but all he could see was the memory of her moments before- the swell of her breast, the curve of her hip, the curl of her hair brushing against the smooth expanse of skin. His dark skin flushed and he ducked his head, angry with her and himself. He knew she was doing it to bait him, and it was working. He shifted uncomfortably in his habit, eyes on the floor, the ceiling- anywhere but her.

Blindly he grabbed her elbow and tugged her toward the door. Isandro’s mule waited outside, chewing on a mouthful of grass under a shady tree. “I hope for your sake you suddenly remember where he is. I have very little patience for you.”

He pulled her down the steps, giving little thought to her injury, and pushed her toward the tired looking animal. “Get on.” He spat, crossing his arms over his chest.

Isandro snatched the dangling reins, tugging the tired animal along before even giving Eva a chance to settle herself on the rough blanket that served as a saddle. It bore a colorful, Hispanic design, but red dust covered it and dulled the pattern till it almost blended with the rest of the red and gold area. Tall trees with spreading, leafy limbs dotted the landscape, and tall, golden grass grew in shimmering waves, broken up by twisting dirt roads. Colorful wildflowers, an array of vibrant reds and purples, dotted the dry countryside like stars on a cloudy night.

The monk walked beside the woman and the mule; there was no way it would be able to take their combined weight, and besides, he didn’t think he could bear the further torment of feeling her body jostle against his with every hitch in the trail. He felt ashamed of the arousal he felt around her, and the physical signs of it were a constant reminder. He was suddenly grateful for the voluminous habit that cloaked him.

He looked toward the mountains to the east, heading in that direction. He knew of a mission in the direction, and it was headed by a priest he was familiar with, but not particularly fond of. Still, it would provide them a place to sleep and a meal to eat, provided he found a way to keep her silent. That might prove problematic, but he reasoned he had till that afternoon to think of a solution. Maybe he would just tie her to a tree while he went and begged a few provisions off of them. It wasn’t ideal, but it was something.

It bothered him that they didn’t have a more specific direction to go in, but he gritted his teeth and didn’t say anything about it. If her father was hiding in the mountain, they would find signs of his presence. Isandro wasn’t worried.

He glanced briefly, consideringly, up at her, then he looked back to the long, dirt road and snorted derisively. “You don’t know?” he sneered, staring straight ahead. “Your father didn’t come home and brag about murdering an innocent man in cold blood? About killing a man of the cloth?”

He hoped the knowledge shocked her. He hoped it made her feel even the tiniest amount of shame, to be related to such an outlaw. Maybe then she would assist him without constantly acting as a thorn in his side. He was asking for too much, he told himself, and he knew it was malevolent to be wishing her such pain, but bitter, malicious rage still burned inside him, like a parasite consuming his soul.

Isandro trudged on, the reigns hanging limply in his brown hand. The sun beat down on them and sweat beaded on his brows, stinging his eyes. He wiped the perspiration with the rough wool of one voluminous sleeve and pulled the hood of his habit up to shield his brown face from the sun. No doubt the white woman riding beside him would be burned by the sun, he thought with a small amount of satisfaction.

“I know your father murdered a priest,” he said with equal certainty. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

This was perhaps stretching the truth a little. What he had seen was the abbey on fire, then the bandit running out, and Friar Lawrence running back in to save the bible brought from Spain. Perhaps the murder had been indirect, but it was a murder all the same. “Your father set fire to my abbey. We were lucky that more innocent men didn’t die that day at your father’s hands.”

He looked at her acidly, as if she was equally responsible. The woman riding beside him was nothing but the product of an outlaw and murderer. He doubted she had any redeeming qualities in her. He felt sure of the evil blackness of her tiny heart. Surely it pumped venom and not red, hot blood like mortal men. She was a devil in disguise, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The only use for her was to lead him to her father, thought Isandro, sneering at her.

His throat felt dry and scratchy and he hoped vaguely that they were headed in the right direction to run into the mission he remembered. What if he had misjudged their location? The endless fields of grasses, dotted with green, spreading trees looked all the same. He hadn’t thought to prepare for any sort of journey and he didn’t know how to survive on his own. He had never been without his brothers before.

His heart felt heavy as he remembered what now felt like his old life. One day at a time, he told himself resolutely. He would take things one day at a time, just get through until tomorrow. When Friar Lawrence was avenged, surely his new meaning would become evident. God would provide a direction for him.