“I used to have ever’thing.” He hugged the bottle to his chest. “Ever’thing a man needed to be happy.”
Hilda feigned a look of sympathy, anxious to get away from the strange man. “Mr. Avery—”
“I ain’t got nothin’ no more,” he continued, then took another gulp of whiskey. “It’s all gone. Vivian. The farm. The livestock. And…her.”
Raising his head, he saw that Hilda was staring at him. With one tremendous shove, he pushed her out of the room.
“What—what about payment for the whiskey?” Hilda dared to ask from the hallway. “And the tw-twenty dollars you promised me for finding out—”
Wirt slammed the door in her face. The old woman wouldn’t get a penny out of him, and there was nothing she could do about it. He’d learned earlier that the town marshal, Cobbett Wilkens, had been run out of town. Rock Springs would be without a lawman until its deputy returned.
He ruminated on the information Hilda had provided. “Rosario,” he muttered. “Rosario.” Only two months ago, he’d been there and discovered that she had been, too. His darling.
He began to walk aimlessly around the room, questions and suspicions hurling through his brain like dangerous and continuous lightning.
And when at last he stopped pacing, the whiskey was finished. Gone, too, was all his confusion.
He dug into his pocket, drawing forth the tin locket. He glared at the portrait within it. “From Hamlett ya come back to Rock Springs. From Rock Springs ya set off fer Rosario, Mexico. Yer turnin’ the tables on yer sweet ole Wirt, huh, darlin’? Yer trackin’ me now. And ya’ve hired that friggin’ killer to help ya. Well, I ain’t afraid o’ the son of a bitch. His blood might be cold, but mine’s colder. Yer mine. Yer all I got left, and no Mexican scum’s gonna take ya away from me.”
Rosario. His mind spinning, he calculated that an old ox would need at least three days to make the trip to the border town. A fast horse like the one he had would need only one.
Smiling, he realized that they would all meet in Rosario on the very same day.
* * *
After three days of traveling, Santiago finally caught sight of Rosario, Mexico, a little village sleeping right across the border. A soft, gentle breeze ruffled through the tall and graceful oak trees surrounding it. The ebbing light of evening darkened the red-tiled roofs and painted the sides of the white adobe buildings with the cool and tranquil freshness of approaching nighttime. The metal cross atop the small church welcomed one and all with a lustrous gleam. Barefoot children singing songs in Spanish darted through and around a vine-covered fence, a group of yapping puppies nipping at their heels. From somewhere within the tiny town a donkey brayed, and though he was still some distance away, Santiago could smell the tantalizing scent of simmering chili.
From all appearances the town seemed peaceful. But something, some gut instinct, made him wary, and the longer he stared at the village, the stronger his perception of danger became.
He stopped Quetzalcoatl. “Russia, before we ride into Rosario… Did anything happen here that I should know about?”
She tossed the yellow daisies she’d picked hours ago into the breeze, absently watching the dead flowers scatter across the dry dirt. “Nope.”
His instincts continued to nag him. “Can we eat in the cafe without having to worry about your being arrested?”
“There ain’t no cafe here.”
His eyes widened. “You burned it down.”
She shook her head, pieces of the straw in her ragged bonnet flopping around her forehead. “There weren’t no cafe to burn down. They jist ain’t got one here. The women like to cook in the street. Travelers wanderin’ through can git food from whatever woman has the best to offer.”
“Is there a hotel?”
“A little one.”
He raised a brow. “Why is it little? Did you destroy part of it?”
“Slobberin’ sauerkraut and burpin’ bedpans, Santiago, why—”
“I’m asking the questions. You answer them. Do you have anything at all to do with the fact that the hotel is small?”
“No! It’s jist a tiny little inn with only two rooms!”
“Did you break anything while you were here?”
“No!”
“Knock over anything?” he continued, watching carefully for any signs that would tell him she was lying. “Did you sing and shatter every window Rosario had? Did you—”
“Dammit, Santiago, I didn’t burn down or knock over nothin’ in Rosario! I remember trippin’ and fallin’ down in the street, though. Stumbled over a pitchfork in front o’ the stable. Does that count?”
His fingers tightened around the reins; his imagination soared. “And when you fell, you shouted in pain,” he guessed. “You screamed so loud that you scared the stableful of horses. Terrified, they kicked at their stall doors until the doors broke, then they ran away. Because of you and your fall, not a single man in Rosario possesses a mount. Every person in town is out for your blood.”
She glared hotly at him. “It must be wonderful to have brains. Then again, how would you know? I didn’t scare away no animals! That’s the dumbest thing I ever heared!”
“I’m sorry, but no, it’s not dumb.”
She huffed angrily. Hell-bent as he was on believing she’d done something bad in Rosario, the man wasn’t going to back down no matter what she said. “Y’know what, Santiago? You’re so narrer-minded that if you was to fall down on a needle, it’d blind you in both eyes. Didn’t nothin’ happen in Rosario, hear? I got along real good with the folks here.”
With that, she slid the reins across Little Jack Horner’s back and proceeded toward Rosario, feeling rather good at leaving Santiago to bring up the rear, as he was so fond of doing to her. “There ain’t a bit o’ danger here,” she called over her shoulder. “Now come on.”
He had no choice but to follow. But while trailing behind her, he couldn’t shake the distinct feeling that she was wrong.
Chapter Nine
As they rode into Rosario, Santiago kept Quetzalcoatl close to Russia’s cart and keenly examined every person milling about in the zocalo, the village square. He missed no one.
“Ain’t it purty here?” Russia asked merrily, waving to a little girl who was smiling at her. “I tole you there weren’t nothin’ to worry about.”
Santiago would decide that for himself. He remained silent, watching everything going on around him.
Dotting the zocalo were several women sitting by small cook fires. Upon the fires sat clay pots bubbling with thick, chili-laden stews. Other pots were filled with rich black beans. A few of the women were busy patting out balls of fresh masa. In seconds, their experienced hands molded the soft, moist balls of ground corn into tortillas. These they placed on comales, thin sheets of metal that lay across the fires.
He felt a touch of nostalgia. In his own hometown of Misericordia, women enjoyed cooking outside just as these were doing. The small kitchens within the little adobe houses could get stifling hot, and preparing a meal outside in the cool evenings was a welcome respite from the heat.
The women themselves were a familiar sight to him. And though he didn’t know them personally, he felt as though he did. They all wore their black hair in braids that nearly reached their hips. Ebony shawls were draped over their shoulders and tied around their waists. Their white blouses were elaborately embroidered with bright, multicolored threads, and their long, generous skirts had pockets in them in which they carried their rosaries. Most were barefoot, but some wore sandals. Their tanned faces were deeply lined with wrinkles brought on by years of smiling and worrying, and by hours spent in the relentless sun.
They were grandmothers and mothers, he mused while watching them. Their husbands labored in the nearby fruit orchards. They stayed home, tending children, small gardens, and caged livestock. They attended Mass every morning at five o’clock, and the highlight of their day was making meals that brought smiles to the faces of their families. They were g
ood, hard-working people, these pious women.
Tipping his hat to one of them, he knew they themselves were not any sort of danger. He then turned his attention to the men.
Many were just returning from the orchards. Their brown faces were shadowed by their large sombreros. Their long-sleeved white shirts and loose trousers were soiled with black dirt, green grass stains, and sweat. Some wore serapes, and these were either vividly colored or solid black.
Loyal burros trudged closely behind them, their backs piled high with woven baskets filled with fresh apples, avocados, and a colorful assortment of other fruits. Santiago knew the harvest would be sold in bigger towns in Mexico and Texas. The rest would feed large families, and all refuse would be given to the pigs he could hear squealing nearby. These humble men toiled tirelessly from dawn to dusk, not only working the orchards, but also seeing to their animals. Not even nighttime brought an end to their labor. After their supper, they knelt with their families in front of their statue of the Virgin Mary and prayed the rosary; then they tended to the things in their homes that needed attention: a squeaky door, a broken chair, an exhausted wife, pleading children, or a lost kitten. Nothing or no one under their care suffered if the men could possibly help it.
These devoted and diligent people, men and women alike, gave testimony to the fact that there was little, if any, truth to the widespread belief that Mexicans were lazy people, that all they did was eat and take hours-long siestas. Many times Santiago had heard his people slandered in such a way. As he watched them now, as he witnessed their gentle and unassuming behavior, he was filled with a pride so deep he felt its warm glow shine from his eyes.
Russia noticed it, too. “You like it here, don’tcha, Santiago?” she asked, halting Little Jack Horner in front of the small stable.
He dismounted. “Yes.” But though peace seemed to reign here in Rosario, he still felt anxious. With long-practiced ease, he made a thorough inspection of his revolvers, rifle, and ammunition supply. He also made sure that his dagger was within easy reach.
Russia watched him closely, puzzled by his preoccupation with his weapons. A tremor of fear slid down her spine. “Why—why are you checkin’ your guns like that?”
He saw the apprehension in her eyes and realized his suspicions had been contagious. Not wanting her to panic over danger that hadn’t even materialized yet, he quickly invented a story he hoped she’d believe. “Russia, I always inspect my weapons when I arrive in a town. It’s habit. You saw me do it in Rock Springs, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Well, I did.”
“Oh.” Satisfied with his answer, she stood up in her cart, then prepared to alight, unaware that she’d dropped the reins and that they were now looped around her foot.
She stepped down and fell directly into a soft bed of hay. Lying flat on her back, half her leg in the cart, she stared up at Santiago. “Bottomless boxes of brainless bull balls, what the hell is it about this damn stable? Ever’ time I git near it, I fall down.”
“Brainless bull balls?” Despite his wariness, Santiago chuckled. “Call it guessing if you want, Russia, but I don’t think the stable has anything to do with you falling down.”
Smiling, he assisted her to her feet and began brushing bits of straw from her hair.
Instantly, he was aware of its softness. Unable to resist, he slid his fingers through it. Every nerve in his hand began to tingle.
Sensing his mood, Russia reached up and closed her hand around his. As she did, she saw flames leap into his sable eyes. “Should— Do y’think we should eat now?” she asked, captivated by the lingering smile playing upon his lips.
Lord, it was becoming so hard to ignore the warm feelings Santiago’s nearness brought. At night, while safely sheltered within his thick arms and the solid curve of his body, sleep came only after hours of restlessness. Hell, even when he wasn’t close to her…when he was out hunting or riding way ahead of her, his image remained in her mind, the thought of him sending desire wafting all through her. And though she knew full well that those hot feelings would come to nothing…that she was physically unable to satisfy them, she couldn’t seem to suppress them.
“Santiago,” she said softly, “I asked you if we should eat now.”
“I heard you.” Yes, he’d heard what her pink lips had said. But her eyes… From the turquoise-green depths of her wonderful eyes radiated a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
But as he beheld her desire, as his body responded to it, he wondered if he would ever have the chance to fulfill it. He wondered if she would consent to another try at love-making.
He wondered how to ask her. And if she did agree, he wondered how it would turn out. Wondered if she’d find the pleasure he so wanted to give her. He wondered…
Santa Maria, he wondered so many things about this beautiful and complex girl looking up at him.
“Senorita? Senior?” the stableman asked. “You stay in Rosario? I take care of animals?”
The sensual spell broken, Santiago gave Russia’s hand a gentle squeeze and turned to the man. In Spanish, he asked him if he’d seen anyone fitting Wirt Avery’s description.
Wide-eyed, Russia listened to the stableman explode into a full five minutes’ worth of furious, rapid-fire Spanish. When the man finally stopped yelling, she took hold of Santiago’s arm and squeezed it impatiently. “What did he say? Why’s he so riled? Does he know anything about Wirt? Did—”
“Avery was here. Before he left, he stole every bit of gold these people had.”
“Their gold?”
Santiago looked across the zocalo, his gaze settling on the small church across the way. “It was all in their church. A few gold candlesticks, the holy chalice, and the tabernacle. The villagers are still enraged. Their only comfort is that there were no consecrated Hosts in the tabernacle when Avery stole it. It seems he got away with the only real treasures these people had. I imagine he probably sold his loot to anyone he could find who was as ignorant as he is.”
“But why didn’t nobody try to stop him?”
Unconsciously, Santiago slid his hand over his Colt. “They were too afraid of him. These are peaceful, law-abiding people, Russia. I doubt many of them even possess weapons.”
“Oh, these poor folks,” Russia murmured. In a way, it was her fault, she realized. If she hadn’t come to Rosario in the first place, Wirt wouldn’t have trailed her here, and these villagers would still have their holy church gold.
Her guilt worsened as she continued to watch the people milling about in the square. They had so little. And now their only worthwhile possessions were gone. Damn Wirt Avery! she fumed.
Her lips set in a straight line of determination, she grabbed her bag from the back of her cart and hurried into the zocalo.
Keeping his eye on her, Santiago instructed the stableman to leave Quetzalcoatl saddled and Little Jack Horner hitched. Though he was relieved to know Wirt Avery was not in Rosario, his feeling of anxiety had not abated, and until he understood the reasons why he felt as he did, he wanted the mounts ready for flight.
As he followed Russia into the town square and watched her trip over a tin bucket, he began to wonder if the feeling of apprehension had something to do with her. After all, Avery wasn’t here, and Rosario was the epitome of tranquility. So what else—besides the possibility that Russia was on the verge of causing some kind of catastrophe—could be the reason for his suspicions?
With that thought in mind, he quickened his pace, completely panicked when he saw her dart into the church. Santa Maria, what if she destroyed Rosario’s place of worship? “Russia!” he called loudly, dread rising when he realized she hadn’t heard him.
Russia slowed when she entered the dim sanctuary. It smelled of wood. And lemon. And real old things. The aged pews gleamed; they were probably rubbed daily with lemon oil.
Never having been inside a church before, she wasn’t certain how to act, what to do. Glancing around, she noticed a nearby woode
n table with a basin of water on it. Painted along the sides of the bowl were little crosses.
Staring at the water, she figured it was for washing. It was probably a terrible sin to be in a Catholic church with dirt on your hands and face. Of course, she wasn’t Catholic, so maybe it was all right for her to be dirty in here.
Still, it was better to be on the safe side, she mused. Getting struck by heavenly lightning or shot by angel arrows wasn’t a pleasant thought in the least. She set her bag down and dipped her hands into the water. “Well, you’d think they could put out more water’n jist this,” she muttered under her breath lest some saintly being should hear her complaint and tattle to God.
After bathing as well as she could, she dried herself with her soiled skirt, picked up her bag, and proceeded down the aisle, running her hand along the backs of the rickety pews. When she reached the altar and looked at the wall behind it, she hesitated, stilled by awe.
Staring down at her from within an elaborately carved frame was a painting of the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Lifted by a tiny angel, the lady stood in an oval of brilliant sunbursts, her delicate hands folded in prayer. She wore a long tunic of dusky rose, and a cornflower-blue veil with gold stars on it lay upon her ebony hair.
Russia swallowed, a hint of apprehension whispering through her. “You God’s mama?” she asked softly. “You ain’t gotta answer,” she rushed to say. “If you did—good Lord, I’d faint dead away. I— Stay there, all right? Don’t be comin’ down here on a cloud or nothin’ like that, hear? I brung somethin’ fer you. Fer the people here.”
Her hands trembling, she opened her bag and withdrew her pouch of gold. Smoothing her fingers over it, she couldn’t help but dwell on all the nice and pretty things she’d been going to buy with it. “My lacy gown,” she murmured wistfully. “A new flower wreath and some more panties. And maybe even a new cover fer my book o’ fairy tales. A leather one with a picture o’ Prince Channin’ etched on it.” And with whatever gold would have been left over, she mused silently, she’d have been able to eat for weeks.
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