2a748f08-49ec-41d8-8e72-82e5bc151bc0-epub-67710b16-8d2a-4caa-be30-f5ebeb130f9c

by Rebecca Paisley

  She returned to her cart. “I was puttin’ on my nightgown. Y’don’t ’spect me to sleep in my clothes, do you?”

  Words defied him; he shook his head instead.

  From the back of her cart Russia dragged a small feather tick, a tiny pillow, and a bright patchwork quilt. Unaware that Santiago was watching every move she made, she arranged her sleeping equipment near the fire, then snuggled into her bed.

  He felt extreme disappointment when she pulled the quilt up under her chin. Absently, he stroked his thumb across her lacy panties.

  Russia turned her head and saw her underwear in his hand. “What are you doin’ with my panties?”

  He looked down and saw how tenderly he was caressing them. “You threw them at me,” he explained, crushing them into a tight ball.

  “Purty, ain’t they? Most underdrawers is made o’ plain cotton, but not mine. Silky ones cost a lot more since I git ’em special maked, but I like somethin’ soft next to my— Uh…well, you know.”

  He did, indeed, know. The thought was highly arousing.

  Russia saw the slight tilt of his lips and blushed. “Gimme back my panties. I only got one pair that says Sunday, y’know.”

  He tossed them into her cart and tried to take his mind off the fact that she was almost naked. “Where were you before Rock Springs?” he asked, desire building steadily.

  She noticed a slight tremor in his voice. Maybe he was cold. There was a gusty wind blowing tonight, and he’d let the fire die down to only a few glowing embers.

  She got out of her bed, retrieved a thin blanket from her cart, and returned to Santiago. Wrapping it around his shoulders, she made sure it was tucked in well all around him.

  As she circled him, he couldn’t help but look at her body. As if the gown were made of fine mist, he could see straight through it. Her legs brushed against his arms, her hips against his cheeks. When she leaned down behind him, her breasts rubbed across his back.

  And her extraordinary hair swept past his face, barely touching him. It smelled of sunbeams and breeze and whispers. Silk and splendor. It smelled like everything soft he could think of.

  He burned. He longed to catch her in his arms, lower her to the ground, and feel the beat of her heart against his chest. He yearned to claim her, to know every part of her body. “Russia—”

  “Your voice was shakin’,” she explained, adjusting the blanket around his neck. “I figgered you was cold, so you can use this here blanket.”

  Her explanation aroused in him a feeling that transcended desire. She’d thought he was cold. Was she concerned about him? Why? What difference did it make to her whether or not he was cold?

  Her consideration made him more than uncomfortable. Many years had passed since anyone had shown him any sort of care. He’d been forced to run far away from that kindness then, and he refused to accept it now, either.

  He yanked the blanket off. “I’m not cold!”

  She frowned down at him, baffled by his sudden anger. “Well, all right! But you ain’t gotta act so ugly about it, do you? Great and greasy gobs o’ gallopin’ goose hair, Zamora, I was only tryin’ to be nice.”

  He bolted to his feet and stalked away from the dying fire. “I don’t recall asking you to be nice.”

  Her frown deepened. “I ain’t never heared o’ needin’ permission to be nice to somebody. Why cain’t I be nice to you?”

  He jammed his fingers through his hair and stared at the distant darkness. “Because I say so.”

  “Well, that’s jist plumb nelly dumb. Do you tell ever’body not to be nice, or jist me?”

  He broke a twig off a wilted crabapple tree. He never had to tell anyone how to act. Everyone always acted the same—afraid. So afraid that no one even got near him unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Everyone except Russia Valentine. Dammit, what was the matter with the girl? Didn’t she care anything at all about his dangerous reputation? He raked his hand through his hair again.

  When he didn’t reply, Russia recalled that earlier in the day he hadn’t wanted her to say anything about his looks, either. “Do y’like folks to be mean to you?”

  “I like to be left alone.”

  “Well, you sure don’t have any problem with that, do you? From what I seed back in Hamlett, folks stay as far away from you as they can git.”

  He ignored the emptiness he felt at her last statement. “Where were you before Rock Springs?” he asked again.

  Russia couldn’t for the life of her understand the man. Shrugging, she lay back down in her bed, turned onto her side, and propped herself up on her elbow. “I been all over. I cain’t remember ever’ single town. Now come back over here by the fire and git it goin’ good again. It’s pro’bly chilly over there in the dark, and you’re gonna git ammonia.”

  “Pneumonia!”

  “Whatever. Now git over here where it’s warmer. It ain’t that I’m tryin’ to be nice to you or nothin’, but if you take sick, I ain’t gonna have nobody to help me catch Wirt.”

  He saw right through her lie. In an effort to forget the distressing emotions her strange regard for him caused, he decided to concentrate on something he could understand. Ambling toward her, he stared at her breasts. Through the thin fabric of her gown, he could see their dusky crests. He tried to look nonchalant, but felt his face tighten as desire returned. “You have to remember the towns, Russia. Otherwise, we stand no chance of finding Avery.”

  She closed her eyes and thought. Finally, after a very long moment, the information came to her. “Before Rock Springs I was in Rosario, Mexico. Before that, I was—”

  “Rosario? That’s a long way from Rock Springs. Why did you go so far?” he murmured huskily, savoring the sight of her softly formed mouth.

  His gently asked question pleased her. Maybe he was mellowing toward her. “Y’know, Zamora,” she began, smiling, “you’re a halfway decent feller when you ain’t spittin’ spite. This talk we’re havin’ right now’s the nicest one we’ve ever had.”

  She was looking at him with a tender glow in her eyes. His irritation and puzzlement swelled, and he wished to God he could understand why she was intent on being so kind to him. “Where were you before Rosario?” he snapped.

  “Calavera,” she said sweetly, determined to ignore his renewed gruffness. “It’s a small town about ten miles from the Mexican border.”

  “Twenty miles,” he corrected her.

  “Ten miles, twenty miles. What’s the difference?” She braced herself for his loud reply.

  “The difference is ten miles!”

  At the yell she’d known she’d hear, she smiled. “Yeah, well, I don’t travel nowheres else ’sides Texas and Mexico. I reckon I could if I had me a mind to, but I ain’t never had the mind. I do a sorta zigzag travelin’ so’s Wirt won’t have no idea where I’m goin’. I didn’t used to do that, but, well…it seems like a good thing to do, keepin’ him guessin’.”

  She twirled a lock of her hair through her fingers. “I make short stops in some towns to git food and stuff, but I spend most o’ my time travelin’ on account o’ sometimes I’m jist too scared to stop somewhere. I sleep under the stars a lot, y’know.”

  “’Course, I seen Indians before,” she informed him, smoothing a curl across her cheek. “One time when I was washin’ in a stream? Well, I was singin’ jist as happy as happy could be, and that song o’ mine got strangled in my throat when I looked up and seed a passel o’ Indians. But instead o’ scalpin’ me, they turned around and hightailed it away.”

  Santiago imagined it was her singing that had frightened the braves away. As superstitious as Indians were, they’d probably believed some god-awful evil spirit was locked in her body, shrieking to get out. “Do you have any idea which towns Avery might have already looked for you in?”

  She shook her head, her bright hair swishing across the firelit ground. “I try to stay as many steps ahead of him as I can, and since I’m always zigzaggin’, there really ain’t no
tellin’ where he is now.”

  “Well, how do you know he’s still following you?” While waiting for her answer, he let his gaze meander down to her breasts again. His palms itched to hold them.

  And her hair… Fireshine flickered over it, highlighting the ribbons of red that streaked through the gold. Santa Maria, how he wanted to touch it!

  He remained spellbound for a moment more before he realized she hadn’t replied. “Russia, I asked you how you know Avery’s still on your trail. It could be that he’s given up trying to find you.”

  She failed to get hold of the fear that rose within her. It was so great, it almost hurt. “I know he’s still after me,” she whispered. “It’s jist a feelin’, but it ain’t wrong.”

  He nodded, understanding it was instinct that told her. His own instinct had warned him about such things many times. “It might help me if you told me why he’s following—”

  “No.” She turned and lay back down, her gaze directed at the moon. Come to Wirt, darlin’. Come to yer sweet ole Wirt. As the words came to her, revulsion welled within her. It was all she could do to keep from being sick to her stomach.

  At the look of stark terror on her face, Santiago’s curiosity rose. “Did you steal something from him?”

  She closed her eyes.

  “Russia, what—”

  “I’m goin’ to sleep now. ’Night.”

  He moved to stand directly over her. “Why won’t you tell me?”

  She opened her eyes and looked right into his black gaze. “It ain’t none o’ your business, that’s why. I been dyin’ to know how you got that scar on your face, but I ain’t asked on account o’ it ain’t none o’ my business.”

  As he turned away from her, his eyes hardened. He had to force himself not to touch the mark he hated so terribly.

  “’Cept fer them tales the fellers in the saloon tole about your fame with horses and outlaws,” Russia continued, “I didn’t believe none o’ their stories. They was all talkin’ about your scar, see, but you ain’t the kinda man who’d bash dead a mountain lion jist ’cause he stole your rabbit. You’d go out and find another rabbit.”

  “And that story about the devil was plumb nelly stupid. The devil don’t throw his pitchfork at folks. And mean as you know how to be, I don’t see you as the sorta man who’d knife his own face, either. Only a crazy feller’d do somethin’ like that jist to see some blood, and I’m figgerin’ you’re smart. ’Course, maybe that tale about you fightin’ all them Apaches to git your horse back was true.” She turned to look at the black stallion pawing the ground nearby. “What’s that frenzified monster’s name, anyway?”

  “Quetzalcoatl,” he said absently.

  “Quetza-what?”

  “Quetzalcoatl.”

  “What the hell kinda name is that to give a horse? What’s it mean?”

  “Quetzalcoatl was an Aztec god.”

  With her finger, she flicked a small twig into the fire. “Don’t you git tired o’ sayin’ such a hard word all the time? Why don’t you give him a nickname? Blackie’d be a good one, don’t y’think?”

  His mind refused to concentrate on her questions. He could only ponder what she’d said about her disbelief in all the tales the men had told about him. He’d heard the stories before. He’d heard others much worse.

  Russia Valentine was the only person he’d ever known who hadn’t believed them. She’d been acquainted with him for just twenty-four hours, and she’d already decided he wasn’t the man people had told her he was.

  So who did she think he was, then?

  His mental question angered him. “I don’t care who you think I am!”

  “What?”

  “You can believe I’m Satan, and I won’t care a single, solitary damn. But think carefully about this, Russia. The stories you’ve heard about me might be greatly exaggerated, but many are based on fact, do you understand me?”

  “Yeah. It’s only when you talk Spanish that I don’t understand you good.”

  He clenched his teeth. “Dammit, aren’t you going to comment on what I told you?”

  She wondered what kind of comment he wanted to hear. “You’re the big bad Boogy Man?” she offered.

  He closed his eyes, completely out of patience. Short of holding a knife to her throat, he couldn’t think of a way to frighten her. Hell, even if he did hold a knife to her throat, she’d probably guess his motive!

  “Beandom!” Russia squealed when Nehemiah trotted out of the darkness and into the flame-washed area. “Whatcha got there, darlin’?”

  The cat dropped a mouse tail next to Santiago’s foot. Russia smiled. “He brung you a tail this time. He loves mouses, but he don’t never eat the tails. I reckon they don’t taste good, but since I ain’t never ate one, I don’t know fer sure. It’s another present fer you, Zamora.”

  Santiago looked down and saw the huge green cat eyes peering up at him. “I don’t like dead bugs, and I like mouse tails even less.” With that, he proceeded to lay out his bedroll.

  Russia felt miffed at him for not appreciating her cat’s efforts at friendliness. “That’s some chip you got on your shoulder, Zamora,” she taunted. “’Course that don’t surprise me none, seein’ as how there ain’t nothin’ but wood higher up.”

  He flung his blanket to the ground. Only a few minutes ago she’d told him he was smart, and now she said he was wood-brained! Santa Maria, was it even possible to understand her? More importantly, why did he even try? “Go to sleep, Russia.”

  She threw a pebble at him.

  He felt it hit his bottom. It didn’t hurt, but he couldn’t believe she’d dared to do it! Slowly, he turned to face her. “You threw a rock at me.”

  “And hit you dead square in the ass.”

  “I’ve killed men for doing less than what you did.”

  She smiled. “Zamora, I done tole you that you ain’t a good liar, so why do y’keep lyin’?”

  He wondered how she knew he was, indeed, lying. “I’m not a patient man, Russia.”

  “Well, drag me in the bushes and leave me fer ripe!”

  “You—”

  “Look, Zamora,” she cut him off. “You tole me yourself that you don’t want me to be nice to you. Throwin’ rocks at folks ain’t nice. It’s mean. So why ain’t you happy I did it? Jist how the hell do you want me to act with you?”

  “I want you to leave me alone! Now go to sleep!”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, then pulled Nehemiah beneath her covers, situating him next to her breasts. “I know he hurt your little kitty feelin’s, Doo Dip, but he’s hell-bent on bein’ irritated with us. ’Course, sometimes he fergits, and then he acts nice. He cain’t stand niceness, so when he realizes he’s bein’ nice, he starts hollerin’ and bein’ ugly. The man has a temper shorter’n a gnat’s eyebrow.”

  Santiago heard every word she uttered. “I didn’t invite you to accompany me on this hunt, Russia. I made it clear to you this morning that I’m a loner. So if you don’t want to continue this journey with me, fine. Just pack up and—”

  “Look at him, Chickles,” she said to her cat. “He’s so damn mad, he’s stiffer’n a preacher’s prick. You reckon he’s ever gonna decide to like us?”

  “Santa Maria, what is there about you for me to like?” he roared, totally fed up with her. “You’re sassy-mouthed, stubborn, devious, clumsy, and worst of all, you’re a whore!”

  The last word he shouted impaled her like a flaming lance, burning her with shame. Hot tears sprang to her eyes. “Yeah?” She tried to yell the word at him, but it came out on a strangled quiver. “Well, what’s there about you fer me to like? You’re impatient, arrogant, and worstest of all, you prob’ly snore!”

  As he watched her bury herself beneath her covers, her accusation echoed in his mind. You probably snore! Was the possibility of his snoring really the most terrible thing she could say about him?

  Her sniffling broke through his tangled thoughts, and he realized she was crying. Her litt
le weeping noises sounded so sad to him. He didn’t want them to sound that way and couldn’t understand why they did.

  He’d just ignore her stupid tears, that was what he’d do. He stretched out on his bed.

  He could still hear her soft crying. He could hear her stomach growling, too.

  Well, who the hell cared if she was sad and hungry?

  A muffled sob escaped her.

  He glared at her huddled form. If she was waiting for him to apologize for what he’d said, she’d wait forever. Why should he say he was sorry anyway? She was sassy-mouthed, stubborn, devious, and clumsy. And yes, worst of all, she was a whore. Whores were contemptible. He hated them all.

  He hated Russia. She was a strumpet, he hated her, and nothing she said, did, or thought would erase his reasons for hating her and all her kind.

  He was glad she was sad. Glad she was hungry, too.

  “Stop crying,” he ordered.

  She still ached with humiliation. Her feelings continued to sting. It was a very long while before she was able to obey his command. Finally, sheer exhaustion overcame her.

  Sleep was almost upon her when she heard Santiago approach. She sensed that the toe of his boot was almost touching her nose. Then she heard a small noise, like he was putting something on the ground near her bed. When she heard him walk away, curiosity forced her to open her eyes.

  Beside her mattress lay a plateful of bread and raisins.

  * * *

  “Ants!”

  Russia’s scream awakened Santiago from a dead sleep. Before his eyes were even completely open, his Colts were in his hands. Flinging off his blankets, he raced toward her, the faint glimmer of dawn lighting his way. “What the hell is it?” he thundered. “What’s the mat—”

  “Ants!” Kicking and flailing her legs, she tried to get her quilt off. But it was wrapped around her, and instead of removing it, her battle only wound it more tightly around her prone body.

  With one powerful yank, Santiago ripped it off, the action causing her to roll several feet away. When she stilled, his eyes widened.