"It's why Huerta wanted to keep you here in the first place," she said.
"Quartel and Tarant were against it, but Huerta thought you had some
reason for coming here. He was right, Crawford. Nothing else could make
you take what they've been doing. You've got part of the _derrotero_,
and you think one of us has the rest. Well, one of us has!"
She turned around and did something with the waist of her dress,
beneath the fichu. When she turned back, she held a piece of torn,
yellowed paper in her hand.
"There are three pieces to the map," she said. "This is one of them."
"Lopez?" he asked.
"Yes," she muttered. "Santa Anna had many wives. My mother was one.
You will recall that the captain of the mule train sent one third of
the map to Santa Anna himself. It was about all my mother got out of
Santa Anna's estate when he died."
"Who was it downstairs?" he asked.
"He came from behind. It was dark. I did not see."
He stared at the section of paper a long time, scratching his dirty
beard with a thumbnail. "Huerta's been trying to find out all along if
I have the _derrotero_. The fact that he doesn't know for sure has kept
him from making any definite move, one way or another. What would he do
if he found out, for sure, one way or another?"
"Why should he find out?" she said.
"You're with Huerta."
"Am I?" she said, moving in close again. "Maybe I _was_."
"You tried that before," he said.
"No," she said hotly. "Will you never trust me, Crawford? I want to
help you. Not just the map. That doesn't matter, now. Out there, with
the _trigueño_. I'm sorry for what I called you."
"Maybe you were right," he said, bitterly.
"No! You're not a coward, intrinsically. Can't you see what they were
doing? Maybe Huerta was the first to see how it was--about your legs.
Now they all know. They're using it, Crawford. Quartel used it today.
He shoved you up against the horse and held you there till you were
half-crazy with panic. He knew you wouldn't fight him in that state.
It wasn't fear of him that demoralized you. It was horrible to watch."
She reached up to grasp his elbows with her hands, lifting her weight
toward him. "But I've seen what you used to be, too. When you brought
Whitehead back. No coward could have done that. Come back, with
Whitehead that way, knowing what you would have to face, here. Do you
realize what it did to me? To come out on the porch that morning and
see you standing there beside Whitehead's body, knowing what it meant.
It doesn't happen to a person often in her life, Crawford. That sort
of feeling. Let me help you, Crawford. I want to. I can't if you don't
trust me."
She was up against him now, almost sobbing it, and his hands had slid
around her waist, the flesh hot and silken against his palm through
her gown. For one last moment he tried to fight it. But he had fought
so long, so alone, without anyone, and the warm resilience of her body
against him filled Crawford with a giddy weakness.
"Merida," he muttered thickly, bending her back, "Merida--"