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

by Rebecca Paisley

  As his gentle voice told the tale, Russia felt awash with peace. It was the tenderness with which he read, the beautiful story itself, and poignant memories of her mother that so moved her.

  “‘And so,’” Santiago concluded, “‘Cinderella and Prince Charming lived happily ever after. The end.’” He closed the book and turned his head to look at her, smiling at the look of pure wonder in her eyes. “Why is Cinderella your favorite?”

  She sighed. “Cinderella was jist a plain girl. Dressed in rags and always had cinders all over her. But even so, she got her a prince in the end. A Prince Charmin’. I’m gonna find me one o’ them fellers one o’ these here days, and I’m gonna many him. I dream about him at night sometimes.”

  He picked up a lock of her bright hair, intertwining it between his dark fingers. “You’re going to wed royalty?”

  Her smile grew. “He won’t be a real prince, Santiago. But he’ll have the same kinda qualities. He’ll be a true and decent gentleman, y’see. The kind that dresses up in suits all the time. Maybe he’ll be a banker. He’ll ride around in one o’ them fancy carriages. The kind that have red velvet inside ’em. He’ll talk about poems and the writers who writed ’em. He’ll wash with bayberry soap, and the smell will stay on him all day. His nails won’t never have no dirt under ‘em, and he might even have one o’ them long gold pocket watches.”

  Lost in her dreams, she was silent for a moment before she continued. “When I find my Prince Charmin’, Santiago? Well, I’ll make him them hand cookies I done tole you about. I won’t never make ’em fer another man. Jist him, only him. I’ll put ever’ bit o’ love I got into them cookies, and when he eats ‘emthey’ll be the sweetest things he ever put in his mouth. I’ll live happily ever after with him.”

  “I see.” He laid the book down and promptly noticed all the dirt beneath his nails. He’d seen dirt under them countless times before, but had never given it a second thought. As he looked at it now, he wondered if Russia had ever noticed it. Unconsciously, he curled his fingers into his palm.

  “What about you, Santiago? You got a Princess Charmin’ in mind?”

  His mind spun with years-old memories, memories which he ordinarily refused to allow himself to remember. Once upon a time he’d really had a princess. But Graciela had proved to be more like a wicked witch who had put a curse on his life.

  Russia waited for him to answer her. When he didn’t, she thought that perhaps he was a little embarrassed to be talking about such personal things. For a moment, she wondered if she should allow him his privacy, but her growing curiosity got the better of her. “Your princess, Santiago,” she prodded softly. “What will she be like?”

  Lost in his own reverie, Santiago answered automatically. “She’ll be a lady. A decent, proper lady. One whose eyes reflect exactly what’s inside her. She’ll never give me grounds to doubt her. She’ll love and be true to me. She’ll have my children. My lady…she’ll be everything I ever wanted.”

  He spoke with such passion, such profound emotion, Russia was moved deeply. He really wanted the lady he’d just described.

  A decent, proper lady who would give him children. At the thought of how far she was from that woman, dismay crept through her. She tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t go away. “And—and do y’think you’ll ever find her?”

  He didn’t respond. The answer was too painful to voice.

  The answer was no. He’d never find that woman. Every decent lady he’d ever seen was absolutely terrified of him. The only way he’d ever be able to take one to wife would be if he marched her to the altar at gunpoint.

  His silence spoke volumes to Russia. Recalling how people treated him, how frozen with fear they became in his presence, she felt her heart go out to him. Suspecting that the very ladies he’d spoken of were the ones who were the most frightened of him, she wondered if he was destined to be a loner for the rest of his days.

  She wished she could think of the words that would somehow comfort him. But try as she did, she could come up with nothing to soothe him. “I— You— It’s gittin’ late,” she stammered. “I’m goin’ to sleep now.”

  She held her breath while she waited to see if he would invite her to share his bed. When he didn’t, she rose to gather her sleeping equipment.

  Santiago felt a sharp stab of disappointment when she left him. He’d wondered if she’d want him to sleep with her again tonight, and now, as he watched her lay out her bed on the opposite side of the fire, he had his answer.

  Perhaps it was just as well, he decided, struggling to ignore his desire when she slipped into that gossamer nightgown before curling into her blankets. Sleeping together would only remind her of last night, and she’d already told him she didn’t want to talk about it.

  Last night. God, he’d been furious over her promise to pretend sensual feelings and her verbal assurance that she would allow other men into her bed.

  Even now, inexplicable ire filled him. What business was it of his if she invited other men to her bed?

  He’d just confessed to her that he wanted a decent lady. He didn’t hate Russia, but Santa Maria, her very livelihood proved that she was as far from being decent as a woman could possibly get!

  Frustrated, he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come.

  He waited in vain. Opening one eye, he glanced at Russia and saw her tossing beneath her quilt. “Can’t sleep?” he asked nonchalantly.

  His sudden question startled her. “I— Yeah, I could sleep if I wanted to. Jist don’t want to, is all. I’m—I’m thinkin’.”

  “What are you thinking about?” Last night? he added silently.

  Last night, she answered without words. “Oh, jist some stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  She couldn’t bring herself to tell him. A conversation about last night would probably bring all the hostility back again.

  And she didn’t want to talk about it anyway, she told herself. She never wanted to speak about the something wrong with her again.

  And she couldn’t bear to see Santiago angry about her profession again, either. Yes, he had his reasons, and she knew they must be very good ones. But it still hurt to hear and see his feelings about what she was. She hated being a prostitute a thousand times more than he did, yet she didn’t know how to make him understand.

  “Russia?”

  “I—I was thinkin’ about how I need to go to sleep,” she blurted out.

  No doubt she was anxious to dream about her gentlemanly Prince Charming, he mused irritably. Maybe she’d dream about the prince’s clean fingernails. Yanking his blanket over his shoulders, he waited for sleep.

  He hadn’t realized it had finally come to him until Russia’s gasps roused him. Instantly awake, he jumped to his feet, his gaze pinned on her. She began to jerk within the folds of her quilt. He realized she was asleep.

  She moaned, her moan soon turning into a full-fledged scream. “No! No, don’t come near me!”

  Understanding she was having a nightmare, Santiago raced to her side and knelt beside her. “Russia?”

  “It hurts! Please don’t! Please stop! It hurts!”

  “Russia, wake up!” He took her shoulders, lifting her from her bed. Her head lolled backward. “Russia, you’re dreaming! Wake up!”

  She screamed again. A scream so filled with pain and horror, it seemed to turn Santiago’s blood to ice. “Santa Maria, Russia, wake up!” Slipping his arms beneath her, he lifted her to his chest and bent down, his face a mere inch away from hers. “Russia—”

  “It hurts! Blood!”

  Someone or something was hurting her in her dream, he realized. Making her bleed. The thought filled Santiago with a fury so deep, he felt as though a blazing fire had been lit in the pit of his belly. “Dammit, Russia, wake up!”

  She thrashed in his arms; he tightened his hold on her. Whatever nightmare she was having, it was keeping her imprisoned within its heinous grasp. “Russia!”

  She opened her eyes half
way, getting a bleary glimpse of a man’s face. She became aware of his huge arms crushing her to his broad chest. Come to Wirt, darlin’. Come to yer sweet ole Wirt. Terrified, she pummeled at him, her feet flailing wildly. “Lemme go! Don’t hurt me no more!”

  “For God’s sake, I’m not going to hurt you, Russia!”

  She couldn’t get away from him no matter how hard she tried. His strength and his intent were too powerful.

  She closed her eyes against his horrible visage. Then she saw the blood. It was everywhere. All over her, him, and the bed. And the pain. It seemed never to end, but only increased, crashing through her in great, pounding bursts. She felt ripped inside. Completely broken and ruined.

  Santiago felt desperate when she began to cry. A few silent tears at first, but then huge, racking sobs that wet his entire chest. He stood, still clutching her in his arms, and began to walk. Rocking her from side to side, he continued to call her name. “Wake up, paloma. Please, Russia, wake up.”

  A voice drifted into her tortured mind. A man’s voice, but it wasn’t the deep, raspy one that filled her with such sickening fear.

  It was soft and accented. Paloma, it called gently. Paloma.

  She opened her eyes again, bringing the man’s image into slow but steady focus. It wasn’t fleshy and ruddy-complected; it was tanned, concerned, and handsome. No beard grew on it. Instead, there was a pale, jagged scar. And the scar didn’t frighten her; it soothed her.

  His hair wasn’t red and hanging in foul, greasy strands all around his head. It was the color of midnight, and soft and clean. It flowed over broad shoulders in long, rich waves that made her want to touch it.

  And the eyes…the handsome man’s eyes. They weren’t small and pale blue like the ones whose unholy expression twisted horror around her heart.

  There was nothing evil in these eyes, these big and gentle ebony eyes. They shone with tenderness—a special caring she wasn’t used to seeing.

  This man wasn’t Wirt Avery. “Santiago,” she whispered.

  He breathed a great sigh of relief. “God, Russia, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to wake you up.” He carried her to bed—not hers, but his—and laid her down upon the soft blanket. Sitting beside her, he took her trembling hand, covering it with his strong and steady one. “What were you dreaming about, paloma?”

  She couldn’t tell him. She’d never tell anyone, for putting the events of that hideous night into words would be like living it all over again. The nightmares were bad enough.

  “Russia?”

  “A monster,” she said, averting her eyes from his. “A terrible beast.” And his name is Wirt, she added silently.

  “A monster?” Santiago wondered if she’d remembered some monster in one of her fairy tales. “He hurt you, didn’t he?”

  Sweet Lord, if only he knew how badly, Russia thought. “Yes.”

  “He made you bleed. You screamed about blood. Russia, what did the monster do?”

  He raped me. “I—I cain’t remember good. I think—I think he musta bited me. Real hard.”

  “What—”

  “I cain’t talk about it no more, Santiago. If I do, I might have the nightmare again. Let’s fergit it, all right?”

  Her moist eyes were so filled with fear and pain and reluctance, he didn’t have the heart to argue. Without another word, he lay down beside her, pulling the blanket over them both. “Sleep here with me,” he said, his statement not a request but a command. “If the dream returns, I’ll wake you up again.”

  His promise transcended her fear, filling her with peace. Santiago. He was trailing Wirt. He’d find him. He’d make him stop following her.

  Santiago. He wouldn’t let Wirt hurt her in her nightmare. He’d wake her up before the bastard made her bleed.

  Santiago. In real life, and in dreams, too, he would be there. And they’d live happily ever—

  She cut short her train of thought. Santiago wasn’t her decent gentleman any more than she was his decent lady, so why had she thought to live happily ever after with him? Theorizing that it was because he’d rescued her from her nightmare just like a fairy-tale champion would, she dismissed the matter from her mind.

  She yawned and looked at his big, tanned hand. It lay upon her lower arm. There was dirt beneath his nails.

  It was clean dirt, though, she decided. Not dirty dirt. It was the kind a man got from riding, and building fires, and handling weapons, and hunting. It was honest dirt.

  Still staring at his nails, she squirmed deeper into the warm, solid curve of his body and yawned again. Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was that the dirt didn’t look that bad at all.

  * * *

  As Wirt lumbered down the boardwalk toward the Rock Springs Saloon, he spied a little girl sitting against the front of the dressmaker’s shop, a pink-nosed puppy lying beside her. In the girl’s small arms, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, was a porcelain baby doll.

  Wirt stopped before her. “Ya love that doll, girl?” he asked, bending closer to her.

  The girl’s brown eyes widened; she tried to scoot away.

  Wirt’s foot blocked her way. “Does that there baby doll make ya happy?”

  The girl gave a shaky nod, her blond braids swishing across her slim shoulders. She clutched the doll to her thin chest.

  Wirt jerked the doll out of her arms. With one quick yank, he tore off its head and threw it down. It rolled a few feet away before he slammed the heel of his boot down on it, crushing it. “It don’t make ya happy no more, does it, girl? It’s gone now, ain’t it?”

  When she began to cry, her puppy growled and snarled at Wirt. Wirt gave it a swift kick before sauntering down the boardwalk again. As he walked, he smiled at the sounds of the girl’s sobbing and the puppy’s whimpering.

  He soon reached the saloon, pushed open the swinging doors, and stepped inside.

  Wiping spilled beer off the counter, Hilda watched the huge man approach her. He was overweight, but she saw slabs of muscle beneath the fat His red hair and bushy beard were foul, and his small eyes were out of proportion on his big, fleshy face.

  He wore two revolvers at his sides, a smaller pistol was strapped to his barrellike chest, several knives glittered from sheaths on his legs, and in his hairy hands he clutched a rifle. He was so well armed, she wondered if he carried dynamite in the leather pouch dangling from his gun belt. She took a step backward when he arrived at the counter.

  “Avery’s the name,” he said to her. “I’m lookin’ fer a girl with long red-gold hair. Goes by the name o’ Russia Valentine. I jist come from Hamlett. A stableboy there tole me she was comin’ here.”

  Hilda nodded. “She did. She’s been here twice. The first time she was here, she burned down the hotel.”

  Wirt licked his thick lips. “So she’s here?” he asked, excitement pounding through him.

  Hilda shook her head. “She left two days ago.”

  Wirt slammed his fist down on the counter, causing several mugs to shake and clatter. “She left Hamlett with Santiago Zamora. Is she still with him?”

  At the terrible look in his small eyes, Hilda felt a wave of apprehension. “Yes.”

  “Did—did they share the same room?”

  “Yes.”

  Wirt hung his head, staring at the dusty floor. His chest heaved. “Gimme that room. The same one she stayed in while she was here.”

  Hilda searched the shelf beneath the counter, then handed him a key. “Room two.”

  “Bring me a bottle o’ whiskey. And see if ya can find out where the girl went. There’s twenty dollars in it fer ya if ya can tell me.”

  The second Wirt walked into room two, he could smell her. The scent of clove still lingered. It was faint, but he recognized it for exactly what it was.

  It was always like this, he mused, yearning coursing through him. Wherever he went, he sought out the room where she’d stayed. Once in it, he never failed to smell the fragrance of whatever essence she’d worn there. She liked t
he flavoring oils. He’d discovered that when he’d once found an empty bottle of ginger oil in a room she’d rented.

  Walking further into the room, he stopped by the bed and fingered the tattered spread. She’d lain here.

  With Santiago Zamora.

  Rage smashed into him. He lifted the mattress from its frame and hurled it across the room. “It ain’t fair!” he roared, his own shout making his head pound.

  Taking a deep breath, the scent of clove filling his wide nostrils, he walked to the window and parted the filthy rags that served as curtains. Watching a group of townsmen clear away rubble that had once been the hotel, he concentrated on the information he’d gleaned both in Hamlett and here in Rock Springs.

  “Santiago Zamora,” he growled, his hand turning white around the curtains. “Ya left Hamlett with him. Ya come back to Rock Springs with him. Ya left with him again.”

  Santiago Zamora, he mused angrily. The legendary, cold-blooded gunfighter. Reputed to be the most ruthless bounty hunter and expert tracker in the land.

  A sharp knock at the door interrupted his murderous thoughts. “Mr. Avery,” Hilda called from the corridor, “I’ve brought the whiskey. And I’ve also found out the information you asked for.”

  Wirt rushed to open the door. Ignoring the bottle Hilda held out to him, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the room. “Where’d she go?”

  Hilda tried to escape his hold, but his strength far surpassed hers. “Cecil—he…”

  “Who the hell’s Cecil?”

  “He—he owns the livery. Cecil heard her ask Mr. Zamora how long it would take to get to Rosario, Mexico. Cecil, he… Cecil reckons that’s where they were headed. And like I already told you, they left two days ago.”

  Wirt snatched the bottle from her, uncorked it, and drank until he’d swallowed half the whiskey. “Ain’t fair,” he murmured, staring fixedly at the bottle.

  When he made no move to pay her for the whiskey or the information, Hilda fiddled nervously with the top button of her gown. She waited for a long moment. “Uh…Mr. Av—”