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“Now you’ll have to watch Rafael so you can compare them.”
She was already so sick at heart, she doubted she could feel any worse, but after Santos made a quick and clean kill, she lacked the energy to stand and had to sit on the foot of her father’s bed to watch Rafael.
Santos had played to the crowd, but Rafael faced his bull as though they were the only two at the arena. She understood how well he’d absorbed Augustín’s lessons, but her father appeared perplexed.
“He’s showing us more than he did in the ranch video,” he said.
Rafael’s height and lean build gave his every pose an elegant line, but she’d quickly seen enough and retreated to the balcony. She checked her watch. His first tercio was nearly finished, but it lengthened endlessly in her mind. Her father dropped his water glass, and she hurried around the bed to pick it up. Empty, no water had been spilled.
“He’s surprised me,” Miguel whispered.
She filled the glass from the pitcher on the night table and handed it to him. “How?”
“I expected too little of him.” He took a sip of water and his hand shook as he handed her the glass. “Life is all a matter of luck.” He closed his eyes to rest a moment before looking up at her. “There is still time for mine to change.”
“What do you mean?”
He waved her off, and she sat down, confused by why he would refer to his own luck rather than Rafael’s. Then a truly horrible thought occurred to her. She immediately discounted it, but the pieces fit together too neatly to be ignored. What he needed was a healthy heart. Santos had said their father doubted he’d be the same man with another man’s heart, but what if he were given a matador’s heart?
What if he’d done all he could to increase his odds of securing a heart as brave as his own?
She circled his bed and spoke softly. “Was Rafael supposed to die this afternoon so you could take his heart?” When he stared up at her, the shock of her question shone in his dark eyes, as did the damning truth. She wondered when it had begun. Was his initial reluctance to endorse Rafael merely an act? Had he counted on Rafael to have more strut than skill? Had Ana worked with him to pit Rafael and Santos against each other in the hope Rafael would take careless risks to outshine her brother? It all made such logical and horrific sense, as did having an ambulance ready to rush Miguel to the hospital for a transplant if the right heart became available. She glanced at the television screen and saw Rafael’s bull dead in the sand.
“How lucky do you feel today?” she asked. “Would you be happy to take Santos’s heart if Rafael survives the afternoon but your son doesn’t?”
Miguel shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, then had trouble catching his breath. He gasped and clutched his chest, and she knew she’d gone too far. She’d wanted the truth, not to kill him, and she dashed out into the hall to call Fernanda. The nurse came flying up the stairs followed by the paramedics from the ambulance. There was oxygen in her father’s closet and a defibrillator. Tomas and the men from the kitchen heard the commotion and hurried upstairs as did Mrs. Lopez. They filled the hallway and peered around each other’s heads for the best view,
while Maggie retreated to the balcony.
The paramedics worked on her father for several minutes, then one ran for a stretcher. When he returned, he shouted for the servants to clear the way, and he and his partner carried Miguel out to the ambulance.
Fernanda grabbed Maggie’s hand. “Come ride with us.” Maggie followed and sat with the driver while the nurse rode with the second paramedic in the back. It was a wild ride weaving through traffic, and frightened, she grabbed hold of the dashboard to remain steady in her seat. Once they’d reached the hospital’s emergency entrance, she was pushed aside and forgotten. Fear tightened her chest with a painful ache, and unable to sit, she paced by the waiting room windows. There were mothers with crying children waiting to be seen, and others with a variety of complaints who eyed her with curious glances. She owed no one an explanation, but her companions all sat forward to listen when Fernanda appeared, sobbing into her hands.
“He’s gone.” Despondent, the nurse threw herself into Maggie’s arms.
Maggie patted her back and helped her to a seat. Her father had been stricken and died in little more time than a bullfight tercio. Her question had killed him, surely it had. Stunned but unable to mourn, she sat with the distraught nurse, her eyes dry and her senses seared numb. She was the only one who knew the truth of what had happened, but she dared not tell a soul.
Dr. Moreno ushered Maggie and Fernanda into a private waiting room. “You mustn’t weep so, my dear. You were a fine nurse for Miguel. He knew how precarious his health was, but I’d hoped he’d have more time to tell everyone he loved good-bye.”
Maggie understood. Wasn’t that why she’d been summoned to Spain? Or had she been part of the plot to complicate Rafael’s life? That would mean they’d both been used in an attempt to extend her father’s life. The doctor regarded her with an odd gaze, perhaps because she showed no sign of loss. She couldn’t have conjured up a tear had she tried.
Half an hour passed before Carmen and Cirilda rushed into the room, with Fox trailing. They’d been called to the hospital as they’d left the corrida, but it wasn’t until Dr. Moreno began to offer his sympathy that they understood Miguel was dead.
Carmen would have struck Maggie a backhanded blow had the physician not moved quickly to block her way. “What did you do to him?” she cried. “We left him with you for an afternoon, and now he’s dead. What did you do?”
Fernanda wailed even louder. Maggie stood, but she had no real defense. She had killed him. She’d been terrified someone would die that afternoon, but she’d never expected it to be her father.
Fox waited in the background. He caught Maggie’s eye and nodded. When he could make his way past Carmen, he came to her side. “What does she think you did?” he whispered softly.
Maggie had no idea but guessed the truth probably wasn’t among her grandmother’s suspicions. Cirilda was weeping softly, and Dr. Moreno ushered her and her mother across the hallway into another private waiting room.
Fernanda wiped her eyes on a tissue and hiccupped. “You’ll tell her we did all we could, won’t you?” the nurse asked.
“Yes, I will. She’s mad at me,” Maggie replied. “She won’t blame you. Do you have a supervisor who should be informed?”
Fernanda nodded and dissolved in another bout of tears. Maggie sat down again to hug her. “It all happened so fast, and you came running when I called.”
“I should have been with him,” the nurse moaned. “But he was only watching the bullfights. He wasn’t doing aerobics.”
