Peering up at him, she saw he was a mere boy of sixteen or seventeen years old. His smooth face was covered with warm brown freckles; a sandy blond curl fell near his big blue eyes. Only the two huge pistols he wore at his boyish hips proved he was nearing manhood.
She smiled, thinking of how ready Santiago had been to shoot this lad. She wondered if he felt ashamed of himself now. One glance at him told her the answer.
He wasn’t at all ashamed. In fact, his hand remained wrapped around his Colt, and in his eyes glittered a look so hard and ruthless, it took her aback.
Determined to prove to Santiago that the young boy wasn’t a threat, she decided to take the situation into her own hands. “Had breakfast yet, stranger?” she asked the boy sweetly. “If you ain’t, I could give you some bread and bacon. We jist come from Rock Springs, and we got supplies there.”
The boy ignored her, his gaze directed at the black-garbed gunslinger before him. He stared for a long while, his eyes widening steadily. “You—you’re Santiago Zamora. I know by that ugly scar o’ yours.”
Rendered mute by the boy’s foolish daring, Russia could only gasp. Glancing at Santiago, she felt apprehension colliding with her astonishment. His black eyes bored into the boy; a muscle in his jaw twitched ominously.
“I’m Cougar Callahan,” the boy announced, sliding a finger across the fuzz under his nose. “I’m the man who robbed that family who was headed West about a month back. I reckon you’ve been after me, huh?”
Santiago remained stiff, his body an unyielding mass of coiled muscle. “I’ve never even heard of you.”
Cougar’s face reddened in outrage. “Well, you have now. And soon, everyone else will’ve heared o’ me, too.”
Santiago smiled. “Really? And why is that?”
Santiago’s cool smile infuriated Cougar. Quickly, he drew both his pistols, pointing them at Santiago’s chest. “Because from now on I’ll be known as the man who killed Santiago Zamora. I’ve heared all about you, but I ain’t afraid o’ you. I aim to prove it.”
Russia dropped her reins. Confusion ripped through her. “Why do y’want to kill—”
“Shut up!” Cougar screamed at her, his pistols wavering in his hands.
Russia’s palms moistened. “But I—”
“Russia, be quiet,” Santiago told her. He addressed Cougar again. “Killing a man without reason doesn’t prove your courage. It proves your stupidity. Now lower your guns and be on your way.”
Angered anew, the boy jumped off his horse, his pistols still pointed at Santiago. “I got a reason, Zamora. I’m gonna be the most successful outlaw who ever walked this earth. Gonna make a name for myself.”
Santiago rubbed his chin. “And murdering me will be a good start in making that name, is that it?”
The boy nodded. “And after I’ve taken care o’ you, I’m headin’ for Pine Run. Hear they’re holdin’ a shipment o’ gold in the bank there. I aim to take it. Get off your horse. Now.”
Russia couldn’t believe it when Santiago obeyed the order. Surely he wasn’t really going to go through with this. The boy didn’t stand a chance! “Santiago—”
“Stay in the cart, Russia,” he told her.
She knew by the tone of his voice that he meant what he said. “But he’s jist a boy!”
“I ain’t no boy!” Cougar shouted, pointing one of his pistols toward her.
Santiago’s eyes narrowed. “Russia, he insists he’s a man. As such, he deserves to be treated like one.” He walked toward a group of rocks, intending to lead the lad away from Russia. His ploy worked. Cougar followed as if he’d been led on a leash. “If it’s a contest you want, Cougar, I’ll be glad to oblige you. How do you want to do it?”
In a gesture of smugness, Cougar took his time in answering. “Ten paces, then we’ll draw.” His freckled chin raised high, he replaced his pistols in his belt. “If you’re a God-fearin’ man, Zamora, say your prayers. I been practicin’ shootin’ ever since I was old enough to know what a gun was.”
Santiago inclined his head, but made no comment.
Trembling with fear for the boy, Russia stood up in her cart. “Stop it! Do you two hear me? Stop it!”
Cougar and Santiago paid her no mind. Indeed, neither of them even looked at her. Instead, they moved so they were back to back.
“On ten, Zamora,” Cougar reminded Santiago.
Cougar began to count. Mute with apprehension, Russia watched them take a long step with each number Cougar shouted.
Sickening horror filled her when she saw Cougar turn and draw on the sixth count. Realizing she had to warn Santiago, she tried to shout at him.
But before a sound escaped her, the thunder of gunfire exploded. The tremendous noise seemed to smash into her brain. Dizzy with fear, she fell back onto the seat of her cart and tried to take in the scene before her.
Both Santiago and Cougar were still standing. Smoke curled into the air from the barrels of Santiago’s Colts, but Cougar’s pistols lay on the ground.
“Hurt,” Russia whispered, unable to find her voice. “Is anybody hurt?” Her breath came in heaves as she stared, searching for signs of injury. In the next moment, she spotted blood seeping from a wound on Cougar’s upper arm.
She turned away, closing her eyes and trying to resist the nausea that hit her. She felt sickened both physically and mentally. God, why had this violent thing happened? How was it possible for Cougar to believe he could defeat Santiago, and why had Santiago led him on?
The sound of footsteps made her open her eyes. Careful to keep her gaze away from Cougar’s bleeding arm, she watched Santiago approach the lad.
Santiago stopped before Cougar. “How old are you, boy?”
Cougar clutched his hand over his hurt arm, trying to hold back the tears of humiliation stinging his eyes. His smooth cheeks reddened when he felt the tears roll down his face. “S-s-sixteen.”
Santiago refused to give in to the impulse to comfort him. He stuffed his Colts back into his belt. “What’s your real name?” he asked gruffly.
“Jo—Joseph Callahan.” He hung his head and wiped away his tears.
Santiago pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wrap it around the flesh wound in Joseph’s arm. “Forget the insane wish to be a criminal. Go home, grow up, and make an honest name for yourself. Now pick up your guns, get on your horse, and ride.”
Aching with embarrassment, Joseph retrieved his pistols, walked to his horse, and mounted.
“Oh, and Joseph?” Santiago called as the boy began to ride away. “If you do decide to take the bank in Pine Run after all, I can promise you that the next time we meet I’ll show you no mercy. Understand?”
Sniffling, Joseph nodded and rode away.
Santiago watched until Joseph had disappeared from view. Guilt and regret washed through him; it was a moment before he got control of his emotions.
His back to Russia, he wondered what she thought about him now. He’d just shot a young boy. He could have merely shot the guns from Joseph’s hands, but he had deliberately chosen to injure the lad. In his mind, that had been the right thing to do, and if faced with the same situation again, he’d do the same thing.
But what did Russia think about him now? In her eyes, was he still the same man she’d defended in the Rock Springs cafe? Or had he become the coldhearted gunslinger everyone else believed him to be?
He heard her approach him from behind. Tensed, he attempted to prepare himself for any angry accusations she might throw at him.
“How’d y’know he was gonna turn around and try to shoot you before he’d counted to ten?” she asked.
He tried to decipher the emotion he heard in her voice. Suppressed fury? Disgust? “I heard his boots spin in the dirt.”
Waiting for her reply made his apprehension rise. Suddenly he was unwilling to hear her criticize him. He stalked back to Quetzalcoatl. Mounted, he glared at Russia. “I did what I had to do. And if the same sort of thing ever happens again
, stay out of it.”
Without giving her a chance to answer, he left her standing there.
* * *
After having eaten his fill of the roast rabbit, Santiago tossed a meaty bone to Nehemiah. As a reward for his generosity, the cat brought him a dead lizard. Santiago swiped the deceased reptile off his bedroll and glanced at Russia, who was busy making fried apple pies on the other side of the campfire.
Damn, he thought. Things were the same tonight as they had been this morning.
Silent.
And now it wasn’t only what had occurred between them last night, but also what had happened with Joseph, that stood between them. Santa Maria, the tension in the air was thicker than the black of the night.
He decided to say something. Anything. “So,” he began, pausing to fold his arms across his chest, “before Rosario, you were in Calavera.”
“Yeah, Calavera.”
He nodded, trying to think of what fascinating thing he could say about the small town. “I see,” he drawled, damning Calavera for being such a boring place. “Calavera.” Drumming his fingers on his knee, he watched her remove the four golden-brown pies from the pan of hot grease that lay over the fire. It puzzled him when she began examining them closely. “What’s the matter with the pies? Are they burned?”
She continued to inspect the desserts. “No. I’m jist lookin’ fer the two special ones that I maked fer you.”
“Special?” He relaxed. Surely she wouldn’t make special pies for him if she was angry at him. Relieved, he accepted the plate she handed him and glanced at his pies. “How are mine special? They look just like yours.” He picked one up, blew on it, and bit into it.
Russia watched his face contort as he chewed. “What— what’s wrong? Y’don’t like ’em?”
He swallowed his mouthful. “Chili!” He tore open one of the pies and saw several long red chilies nestled among the bits of apple. “Why the hell did you put chili in—”
“But you like chili!”
“Not in apple pie I don’t!” He flung the pies into a mass of thorny brush.
Russia’s feelings were hurt. She really had believed he’d like the chili-laden apple pies. He liked chili on everything else she’d seen him eat. “I’m sorry, Santiago. I thought—”
“Did you put chili in the pies to punish me, Russia?”
“Punish you? Fer what?”
He bolted to his feet. “For shooting Joseph Callahan!”
“Fer shootin’…” She took a moment to consider him. “Is that why you’ve been so damn quiet all afternoon? Because you thought I was mad at you fer hurtin’ that boy?”
“I’ve been quiet?” He jerked his fingers through his hair. “Oh, and you haven’t shut up since we left Rock Springs, right?”
She looked down at her plate and pushed a pie around with the tip of her finger. “No, I been quiet, too. Y’want to talk about what you done to Joseph?”
“No, I do not. I already told you that I did what I had to do and for you to stay out of it. I’d rather talk about last night.”
She didn’t want to talk about last night. Not yet. She still felt too raw inside. “You need to talk about Joseph.”
He noticed a warm light in her eyes. It tugged at him, though he couldn’t understand why. “I won’t talk about him, Russia.”
She gave no heed to the note of warning in his deep voice. “You coulda killed him, y’know.”
Here it comes, he thought. The criticism and accusations. “If I’d wanted to kill him, I wouldn’t have aimed for his arm! Now, that is the end of this discus—”
“I didn’t mean that you might’ve accidentally killed him, Santiago. I meaned that you could’ve killed him if you’d wanted to. But you didn’t. Another man mighta gone on and blowed Joseph’s fool head off. You shouldn’t feel so bad over what you done.”
He scowled. “I don’t feel—”
“Oh, you do so. You’re feelin’ guilty as all git-out. ’Pears to me your heart’s heavier’n a bucket o’ hog livers.”
“I—” He broke off. He’d been going to argue, but why try to deny the truth with someone as intuitive as Russia? He did feel bad about having to injure Joseph.
Russia picked up a long stick and began sliding it around in the dirt. “One time when I was about seven? Well, Mama spanked my bottom fer wanderin’ too far away from the house. It didn’t hurt as much as it embarrassed me, but I cried and carried on like I was near death. Then I asked Mama why she had to spank me. I wanted to know why she couldn’t have jist tole me not to wander away. She had tears in her eyes when she tole me she hated to spank me, but she explained that sometimes plain words didn’t work good and that there come times when folks need stronger reminders about stuff. Weren’t too long after that when I was chasin’ a butterfly. It flied far away, but before I commenced follerin’ it, I remembered the spankin’. I turned right around and went back home.”
She poked at the fire with her stick, staring pensively into the flames. “There ain’t no doubt in my mind that if Joseph ever starts wantin’ to be a outlaw again, he’s gonna remember how your bullet feeled slicin’ into his arm. Hell, he’ll even have a scar there to remind him over and over again. You plumb nelly proved to him that he’s green enough to hide in a lettuce patch. That’s why you shouldn’t feel bad about what you done, Santiago, and I’m real sorry fer gittin’ so upset over it this afternoon. I shoulda knowed y’wasn’t gonna kill him. But I panicked. Still ain’t no excuse, though. I reckon I weren’t no different than all the other folks who believe the worst about you. Do you fergive me?”
He stared at her. Without his having to explain his actions to her, she’d figured them out by herself. Somehow, she’d seen beyond what was visible to her eyes and had discovered his internal motives.
Santa Maria, she wasn’t like all the other people who believed the worst about him. She wasn’t anything at all like them.
“Santiago?”
Profoundly touched, he took a moment to answer her. “There’s nothing to forgive, Russia.” He returned to his bed and sat with his back against the tree trunk behind him.
Thinking he needed some time to sort through his feelings, Russia retrieved her book from the back of her cart. She threw a few more sticks on the fire and looked at the book by the light of the flames. She’d turned only a few pages when she sensed Santiago staring at her.
“‘Member I tole you about my fairy tales?” She held the book up for him to see. “Well, this is them. My favorite story is Cinderella. I like to look at all the words and try to recall what they say.”
Her chatter sounded so good to him. “You try to recall?” Turning onto his side, he supported his weight on his lower arm.
She glanced down at the book in her lap, caressing it tenderly. “I tole you I ain’t never been to school. I cain’t read.”
There was a hint of sadness in her quiet voice. Suddenly he felt a deep need to know more about Russia Valentine. “Why didn’t you ever go to school?”
She went rigid, a strong shiver racing through her. Wirt had never allowed her or her mother to leave the farm.
And he’d made sure they didn’t by giving them grueling work that took from dawn to nighttime to complete. As a child she’d longed for friends and regular outings with her mother, and hadn’t understood why Wirt denied them to her. The one time she’d dared to chat with a family passing by in a wagon, he’d dragged her into the house and hit her so hard that he’d loosened two of her baby teeth.
She knew now that irrational possessiveness was the motive behind his actions. And she’d learned that fact in the most painful, utterly degrading way possible.
Struggling to conceal the torment that the memories created, she laid down her stick and began playing with her hair. “There weren’t no school nearby, Santiago. We lived…way away from ever’thing.”
He hadn’t missed the way her body had stiffened at his question. She’d flinched, as if stabbed by some sharp thing. He could un
derstand if she were saddened by the fact that she’d never been able to go to school or learn to read, but why had she recoiled at his offhanded query?
“Where did you live during those years you were supposed to have gone to school?” he asked.
Listening to the distant, mournful howl of a coyote, she swirled her finger in the warm dirt edging the fire. “On a farm. In Oklahoma.”
“You’re a long way from home.” He kept watching her, noting every nervous action she made, and suspected that something bad or sad must have happened at her childhood home.
“Home’s wherever I am,” she informed him shakily. “As long as I got Digby, Little Jack Horner, my cart, and my clothes, I’m home.”
He couldn’t argue with that. He, too, had a home. Far away, but he’d never return there. Like Russia, his home was wherever he happened to be.
“Santiago, you feel like readin’ this here book to me?” She held it up again.
“Read to you.” He paused, feeling a tad uncomfortable with her request. “I— Russia…”
She laid the book back in her lap. “It’s all right. You don’t have to. You bein’ a big ole gunslinger and all, I reckon you’d feel purty dumb readin’ fairy tales out loud, huh?”
“Well…” From across the fire, he gazed into her eyes. They were filled to the brim with a sweetness that was so real, he imagined he’d be able to taste it if he were near enough.
So what if he read a story to her? he asked himself. What would it hurt? Besides, no one but Russia, a horse, an ox, and a cat would see him. He smiled. “Come over here, paloma. Bring your book.”
Grinning, she quickly fed the fire more twigs and crawled over to his bedroll. Snuggling beside his big, warm body, she handed him the book and struggled to leash the thrill that trembled through her at the feel of his lean muscles. “Read—”
“I know. Cinderella.” He thumbed through the pages, forcing himself to concentrate on the story titles and not on the soft, sensual, and exquisitely feminine feel of her body. His fingers shaking, he soon found the story and began to read.
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