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

by Rebecca Paisley

  “Well, simmerin’ sacks o’ sunburned skunk spit!” she cried. She lay sprawled in the dirt, the contents of her bag spilled everywhere. Muttering under her breath, she got to her hands and knees and began picking up her possessions.

  Her ranting assured Santiago that her tumble hadn’t hurt her. He bent to help her retrieve her belongings and caught sight of something glittering near the handle of her bag. His heart slammed into his ribs when he recognized what it was.

  The ring.

  Unable to stop himself, he snatched it from the ground, squeezing it with such strength he felt its setting cut into his palm. Mindless of the pain, he slowly raised his other hand to his face. In the space of an instant, he recalled the night he’d received the scar. The night he’d first begun what had turned out to be years of violence and bloodshed.

  He stood and stared at Russia, who was still gathering her belongings.

  “I cain’t find my box o’ oils,” Russia said, looking all around for her perfumes, then spying them about a yard away. Sitting on her heels, she dropped them into her bag and looked up at Santiago.

  Her heart skipped a beat; she felt her face drain of color. Like two pieces of blackened ice, his dark eyes were dazzling with coldness. “Santiago?” she asked softly. “What—”

  “Senor! Senor Zamora!”

  At the sound of his name, Santiago saw the stableman racing toward him. Instantly, his earlier wariness returned. In a split second, it exploded into full-blown apprehension.

  The danger he’d suspected had arrived.

  The stableman pointed wildly toward the stable across the plaza, prompting Santiago to twist toward the lively. Dismounting in front of it was a large, overweight man with red hair and a red beard.

  Wirt Avery.

  Santiago squeezed the ring in his hand even harder. His other hand fell to the butt of his Colt. This was his chance. If he got Avery now, Russia would have to reveal all the information she had concerning the one-eyed vaquero who’d once worn the ring. That was the bargain, and he’d force her to keep her end of it.

  End of it.

  It would be the end of his time with Russia, too. She’d go find her Prince Charming, and he’d track down his prey. They’d never see each other again.

  He saw Avery advance toward the crowd of people. In only a moment the man would be close enough to see Russia.

  He looked down at her. Her eyes were filled with questions and innocence. With sparkles, and beauty, and a tenderness that seemed to fill an emptiness in his heart.

  “Santiago?”

  He watched her lips move as she said his name. God, those lips. What sweet things they could say.

  I’ll be nice to him fer as long as I’m with him, Miz Mary. Nice as nice can be. But who’s gonna be nice to him when him and me ain’t together no more?

  As the memory of her prayer swept through his mind, he felt a special warmth settle over him, and he knew he would never forget the words she’d whispered in the church.

  In contrast, the ring in his hand was cold, its icy feel reminding him of his desire to punish the man he never dreamed he’d have the opportunity to find. How could he ever forget that, either?

  He realized he had only a few moments to decide what to do.

  Should he go after Avery and the information that would lead him to the path of vengeance?

  Or should he choose Russia and whatever time he had left with her?

  The seconds ticked by.

  And then he decided.

  Chapter Ten

  Because of the crowd of people, many of whom hadn’t seen Avery yet and were still dancing, Santiago felt sure he could get Russia away before she was seen. Bending, he dropped the ring into her bag and quickly finished stuffing in the rest of her things. “We’re leaving, paloma,” he told her calmly, not an easy thing to do considering his wild rush to get her out of the village before Avery saw her. Before she saw him.

  Before she insisted he catch the man.

  “But, Santiago, I—”

  “You want to get to Calavera, don’t you?” he asked, his eyes on her, his instincts trained on Wirt.

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “Let’s go. Right now. Come on.” Taking her hand, he helped her to her feet and pulled her through the throng of jostling villagers. Heading in the opposite direction of where he’d last seen Avery, he made a wide berth around the zocalo and stayed on the edge of town, thankful beyond belief for the black shadows that concealed them.

  Russia felt as though her arm was being jerked out of its socket. “Santiago, what the hell’s got into you?” she yelled.

  “Callete! Be quiet!”

  She began a vain struggle to escape the iron hold he had on her. “Lemme go! What—”

  “Dammit, Russia!” With one smooth, effortless motion, he picked her up, slung her over his shoulder, and raced for the stable. Once inside, he tossed her into the seat of her cart and ripped her jingle bells off its side. “Get that ox moving,” he ordered her, flinging her bells into the hayloft. “Fast!”

  “But I ain’t got King Dooly!” she screamed at him. “I cain’t leave without—”

  “You can, and you will! I’ll find the damn cat!” He slapped Little Jack Horner’s rump soundly. The startled ox lurched forward at a brisk trot and soon disappeared into the thick black night.

  Listening to Russia’s shouted curses, he realized he damn well better find her pet. If he didn’t, she’d never forgive him. Somewhat calmer now that she was heading out of Rosario, he wondered where a cat might hide.

  “Senorita Valentine, she forgets her cat, Senor Zamora.”

  Santiago’s head snapped up. There in the dim entryway stood Zeferino, Nehemiah in his arms. “Dame el gato,” he commanded the young man.

  Zeferino obeyed and handed Nehemiah to Santiago. “The villagers, they know why you leave with Senorita Valentine with such speed,” he said quietly. “The man who comes here tonight, he comes here once before. First he asks about Senorita Valentine, and then he steals gold from our church. We know that this man, he comes here again to find her. He will hurt her.”

  “I do not believe he sees you or Senorita Valentine,” he continued. “The people of Rosario, we will not say to him that you were here. The music is loud to cover your flight. So he will not have reason to think he can follow you tonight. He will drink, and when he has become too drunk, some of the village men will try to catch and tie him. But still you must hurry, Senor Zamora.”

  He loosened a sack from the sash around his waist and attached it to Santiago’s saddle. “It is food, senor,” he explained. “When the women, they see you leaving, they fill this bag for you and Senorita Valentine. Vaya con Dios. Go with God.” His lips moving in silent prayer, he raised his right hand and made the sign of the Cross in front of Santiago’s chest.

  Santiago stepped away, as if the blessing had burned him. Scowling, he tucked Nehemiah into his saddlebag, buckled it closed, and mounted. After throwing one last, well-aimed glare in Zeferino’s direction, he urged Quetzalcoatl out of the stable and into the night.

  It wasn’t hard to find Russia. Though Little Jack Horner had continued at a swift pace and carried her a good distance away from Rosario, Santiago could still hear her shouts of outrage. With a spill of moonlight leading the way, Quetzalcoatl was soon cantering beside the lumbering ox.

  “Damn you, Santiago Zamora!” Russia cursed, trying in vain to slow Little Jack Horner. “You scared the hell outta him when you slapped him, and now I cain’t git him to stop! And I ain’t got Fackle Wackle, and—”

  “I’ve got the cat.” Without warning, he leaned out of the saddle and whacked Little Jack Horner’s flank again. He knew he wasn’t hurting the beast, only surprising him into faster motion. The ox snorted in protest and increased his pace.

  Desperate to stay in the wildly moving cart that seemed to hit every bump and hole in the ground, Russia let go of the reins and clutched the edge of her seat. “Panickin’ pans o�
� pickles and parakeet piss, Santiago! You slap-assed crazy varmint!”

  Deaf to her shouts of fury, Santiago smacked Little Jack Horner again, and continued to do so for the next half hour. Only when the ox showed true signs of exhaustion did he allow him to slow. Looking over his shoulder, he saw no sign at all of Rosario, sensed no hint of danger, and knew their escape had been a resounding success.

  The second her animal stopped, Russia flew out of the cart, stopping beside Quetzalcoatl. She raised her balled fist over Santiago’s thigh.

  He caught it just as she was about to hammer him with it. “Russia—”

  “I’m throwin’ me a honest-to-goodness walleyed fit, Santiago, and I aim to punch the hell outta somethin’! And seein’ as how you’re meaner’n eight acres o’ snakes, it might as well be you!” She lifted her other fist and this time succeeded in giving his leg two solid wallops before he managed to restrain her.

  He tightened his hold around her wrists. “Why—”

  “Am I plumb nelly riled?” she finished for him. “How the hell would you act if somebody slinged you over his shoulder, throwed you in a cart, slapped your ox, and sended you thunderin’ out into the dead o’ night without no good reason? Why—”

  “I didn’t like Rosario.”

  “‘I didn’t like Rosario,’” she mimicked, getting just the right tone of haughtiness into her voice. “Well, who the hell cares what you like! I was havin’ me a good time there, you smug, selfish, senseless, stubborn, and sour son of a—”

  “Ya! Basta!” Quickly, he pulled her into the saddle with him, giving her no quarter when she fought to free herself from his embrace. “Stop,” he murmured, his lips touching her ear. “Stop it, Russia.”

  His nearness sent that now-familiar tide of awareness coursing through her. Her skin quivered at his touch; her heart began to beat with the pulse of budding desire.

  Damn the man for doing this to her when she was supposed to be mad at him! And for being able to do it so damn quickly, too! Well, she just wouldn’t let him know what he did to her, damn him. Yes, damn him, no matter what he did, she wouldn’t respond. That’d show the damn varmint, dammit!

  “I don’t feel nothin’ fer you but anger right now,” she informed him saucily, emphasizing her statement by lifting her chin. “I’m what y’call imperious to you and ever’thing you do to me!”

  He smiled, savoring the way her soft hair felt on his lips. “It’s not imperious. It’s impervious.”

  “Whatever! You ain’t doin’ nothin’ to me, hear? So you can jist quit lookin’ at me with them starry midnight eyes. You can jist fergit about talkin’ with that gold-and-velvet voice, you can jist git them big dark, roamin’ hands off me, and you can jist lemme git down.”

  “No. I want to see how impervious you are.” With a strength that defied her struggles, he arranged her so that she sat astride, face-to-face with him. Removing his neckcloth, he pushed it between the saddlehorn and the base of her back, thereby providing somewhat of a cushion for her.

  “I ain’t stayin’ on this here horse, you worthless’er’n-pig-tracks varmint, you.” She pushed against his shoulders. “I ain’t—”

  “Shut up, Russia.” Placing his palm on Quetzalcoatl’s shoulder, he urged the stallion into a slow, measured walk, and was glad when he heard Little Jack Horner following.

  Russia was unnerved by the intimate closeness of their bodies. Her lips were right next to his, and she had to lean her head back to keep them from touching. Her breasts were flattened upon his warm, broad chest.

  And to the pace of the sleek stallion’s walk, his hard maleness slid rhythmically against the mound of her femininity.

  Bursts of pleasure shot through her. Squirming, she tried to ignore them and the man whose virile nearness caused them.

  But her fidgeting only took her even closer to him. Before she could pull away, her lips brushed his. The slight contact sent her emotions skidding out of control, and she was instantly caught by that same desperate yearning Santiago always made her feel.

  At the sheen that suddenly appeared on her flushed face, Santiago raised a sable brow. “If you wanted to kiss me, Russia, you had only to tell me,” he teased, well aware of the feelings she was experiencing. “There was no need for all that wiggling around to get closer to me.”

  Her body continued to warm with hot longing; her cheeks burned with ire and embarrassment. “Ha!” she shouted right in his face. “You’re so damn arrogant, Santiago, I reckon ever’ time you look in a mirror you take a bow. I ain’t wantin’ to kiss you, you conceited ole varmint, you. That’s the dumbest thing I ever heared in my life.”

  “Is it?” He leaned closer and touched his lips to hers.

  His caress was softer than a whisper. But slight though it was, there was enough sensual power behind it to make her ache with a need too fierce to conquer. She heard her moan escaping, but was beyond stopping it. Indeed, another followed.

  “What was that noise?” Santiago asked through his smile, his mouth traveling across her cheek to her temple.

  “A grunt,” she replied a bit breathlessly. “It was a grunt o’ damned and deep aggravation. I done tole you that you ain’t doin’ nothin’ a’tall to me, so you might as well give up tryin’. And if y’don’t mind, I’d…rather travel in my own cart.”

  “But I do mind, Russia,” he argued softly, planting a garden of tiny kisses at her temple.

  Still determined not to give in to the arousing feelings his touch provoked, she tried to dismount. But the saddlehorn was at her back, Santiago’s body was in front of her, and his arms were around her. She was thoroughly trapped, with no possible means of escape.

  She fell into jittery silence, resigning herself to the growing response of her traitorous body to the man who held her captive in the sensuous prison of his arms.

  Santiago won the battle not to laugh. He knew exactly what she was doing, but remained resolute in his efforts to win her surrender. “You’re right, Russia,” he told her, keeping his mouth at her temple so she wouldn’t see his grin. “You really are completely impervious to me. It’s a shame. A real shame. Because, you see, if you weren’t, I was going to touch you like this.”

  He leaned back a bit and placed one finger at the delicate hollow of her throat. He slid it downward, letting it rest on the rigid peak of her breast for a moment before rotating it in a circular motion.

  Russia bit her lip to keep from crying out with pure pleasure.

  “And I was going to do this, too,” he informed her, opening his hand to cup and knead her gently. “Yes, it’s really unfortunate that you’re so impervious, Russia, because not only was I going to touch you like this, but I was going to do this, too.”

  He wound the reins around the saddlehorn, then dropped his other hand to just below her knee, his fingers closing around her skirt. Leisurely, his motions tightly controlled, he slid his hand up her leg, drawing her dress up also. When he’d brought it up to her hip, he released the thin fabric and glided his hand beneath it.

  Russia gasped when she felt the tips of his fingers burrowing into her panties. They were warm. She was warm. Hell, she was on fire! Without even realizing what she was doing, she leaned back, giving him better access to her.

  “Yes,” Santiago murmured huskily, “this is what I was going to do. This, Russia. This.”

  Her head lolled back when he began to caress the moist folds of her womanhood. His fingers were soft, his maleness was hard, and they were both touching her, tormenting her, pressing, pressing into her. She moaned endlessly.

  Suppressing a deep chuckle, Santiago moved his other hand from her breast to her back. In no time, he’d undone every button on her dress, then proceeded to slip the bodice off her shoulders, baring her breasts. “I was going to do this, too, my impervious little dove,” he added rakishly.

  His arm still around her back, he lifted her as if she weighed no more than a moonbeam, then bent to take her breast into his mouth, his tongue twirling arou
nd its stiff crown.

  The pleasure Santiago’s attentions brought was like some kind of whirlwind spinning out of control within Russia. It filled her with the desperate longing to jump right into it and let it carry her to whatever paradise it would. Instinctively, she arched into his hand, shuddering with desire when she felt his fingers slip deeply inside her.

  “It’s all just such a shame,” Santiago whispered, his lips moving upon her breast. “To think that I was going to do all of this to you, and you’d have remained impervious to it all. I’m glad I didn’t give in to the urge to do it. I’d have made a perfect fool of myself.”

  Confident that he’d won her surrender, however unwilling it was, he lifted his head from her breast and removed his hand from beneath her skirt. Gently, he set her back down into the saddle and picked up the reins again, clucking to Quetzalcoatl as if nothing had happened.

  Still afire with that sizzling yearning gone unfulfilled, Russia’s first impulse was to smack his smug grin right off his face. But she contained herself. To show any irritation with him right now would be to admit that she was about as impervious to him as a sun-baked desert traveler was to a shimmering oasis.

  Fingers trembling, she smoothed her hair away from her face. “Well, now that you know how impervious I am, you perfect fool, lemme down.”

  “Of course.” He stopped Quetzalcoatl and listened to the sounds of his surroundings. “Good place to spend the night. There’s a nearby stream. Perhaps you’d like a bath? It wouldn’t take you long to prepare for it, you know. You’re already half undressed.”

  She glanced at her bare breasts, but restrained herself from covering them. Damn the man for acting as if nothing at all had just happened between them! Well, two could play at this little game, she decided suddenly, defiantly. Lifting her chin, she looked Santiago right in the eye.

  He saw an impish gleam in her bright gaze and wondered what she was up to.

  “Since I’m impervious to you,” she began, sliding her breasts against his chest, “I ain’t got no need to worry about nothin’, huh? And since I don’t reckon you want to be any more of a perfect fool’n you already are, I could git plumb nelly nekkid, and ain’t nothin’ a’tall gonna happen. Fer that matter, you could git bare-assed nekkid, too. We could touch each other all over, and ever’thing’d keep on bein’ impervious as all git-out, right?”