He glanced down. What he saw made his eyes widen and his heart skip a beat. “It’s a rosary,” he whispered, hardly able to believe what he was seeing.
“You’re damn right it’s a rosary! Last time I was in Rosario, I tole him I had me a hankerin’ to have one! This time, he give me one! And lemme tell you somethin’ else, Santiago Zamora! That slobberin’ son of a bitch, Zeferino Sanchez, is leavin’ fer Mexico City in two days! Wanna know why?”
A sinking feeling came over him. “Why?”
“Because he’s fixin’ to git made into a priest!”
“What?”
“He’s been studyin’ fer goin’ on seven years, and purty soon he’s gonna be one o’ them holy folks in your church!”
“But he was looking at you with—”
“He weren’t neither!” she argued hotly. “Good Lord, the man spended near all evenin’ tellin’ me Bible stories!”
“I saw you laugh! Bible stories aren’t funny!”
“Yeah? Well, in all my born days, I ain’t never heared nothin’ funnier’n some snake talkin’ a woman into eatin’ a apple!”
He clenched his teeth. “Well… Priests don’t dance at festivals!”
“He ain’t a priest yet! And even if he was, why cain’t he dance? There ain’t no sin in dancin’, is there?”
“But he was holding you tighter than—”
“Y’know damn well I cain’t dance! I stomped and tripped all over you when you and me was dancin’, didn’t I? Zeferino was holdin’ onto me to keep me from fallin’ flat on my face! And jist in case y’might be interested in knowin’, it was on account o’ Zeferino that I didn’t do no business a’tall the last time I was in Rosario! I had me a mind to, but I meeted up with him and spended the whole time jist talkin’ with him! Dammit, Santiago, he’s a holy man!”
“All right! All right, Russia! So the man’s going to be a priest!” A priest! he exclaimed silently. That explained the blessing Zeferino had given him. Santa Maria, he did everything he could to keep from having to shoot at coldblooded murderers, and tonight he’d been sorely tempted to kill a soon-to-be priest!
“Apologize to me,” Russia commanded, crossing her arms over her bare breasts. “Say you’re sorry right now.”
He looked down at his shuffling feet. “I’m—” He broke off; his head snapped up. Dammit, what was he apologizing for? “I will not say I’m sorry! Forget about Father Sanchez, do you hear me? The fact remains that you performed tonight! You—”
“I wanted to make you happy!”
“Well, you didn’t! Got that? You didn’t. And don’t you dare cry!” he ordered, anticipating her tears. “Santa Maria, I hate it when you cry.”
“You don’t jist hate my tears. You hate ever’thing about me. Why? Tell me why!”
Shoving his fingers through his hair again, he walked away from her, kicking at pebbles and dead sticks as he left.
“Did some whore do somethin’ mean to you?” Russia guessed, desperate to finally understand his deep hostility. “Tell me, Santiago. Tell me so’s I can—”
“So you can what?” he roared, whirling to face her. “Touch me with your magic wand and make everything all better? Real life isn’t some fairy tale, Russia. Happily-ever-afters aren’t real, do you understand me?”
She bowed her head.
He saw her bottom lip tremble. “Russia, I swear if I see one tear, I’ll—”
“Yeah?” she shouted. “Well, you don’t own my eyes, and you cain’t tell me what to do with ‘em. I can cry all I want. And seein’ as how it bothers you when I do it, I’m gonna cry all night. I’ll cry a damn ocean o’ tears!” She sniffled loudly, trying her hardest to get some good, racking sobs going.
“Fine! Swim in your tears! Drown in them!”
Damn the man! she fumed. “Git over here!”
“What for?”
“So’s I can knock you silly!” She balled her fists and began prancing around.
Good God, she’d gone mad, he thought, watching her swing at thin air. “Russia—”
“Tell me why you hate girls like me, or I’ll punch ever’ bit o’ that sawdust outta your head!”
Refusing to rise to her bait, he gave her his back again.
Infuriated by his lack of response, Russia raced toward him. When she was about a yard away, she took a flying leap and landed directly on his back.
“Santa Maria!” he yelled in surprise, staggering.
She smacked his chest. “I don’t know what the hell it was some whore did to you, but I ain’t the one who did it to you, hear?”
He grabbed her flailing fist. “Russia, stop this!”
Her other hand still free, she whacked his arm with it. She knew her insignificant cuffs hurt him about as much as running into a gnat would, but she was too mad to care. “And whatever it was she done to you, you ain’t got no damn right to blame ever’ whore in the world fer it!”
He snatched her other hand and tried to pull her over his shoulder, but she wound her legs tightly around his waist and attempted to pummel his belly with her heels, hooking her chin around his throat He tried letting go of her wrists to pull her legs away, but that only allowed her to twist her arms around his neck again. He needed four hands to perform the feat, and since he had only two, he couldn’t untangle her. “Dammit, Russia—”
“Tell me why you hate whores! Tell me! Tell me!”
Blast it all! he thought angrily. He’d been in numerous tight spots before. He’d successfully defended himself from countless vile and dangerous outlaws. But he’d never, not once, had to reckon with some long-haired, naked spitfire’s ferocious attack from behind! Grown men rarely provoked him into a fight, and this light-as-a-feather little twit was bent on knocking him senseless!
Determined to pry her loose somehow, he knelt to the ground, then lowered himself onto his side, thus laying Russia down, too. Pivoting his body within the circle of her arms and legs, he maneuvered himself so that he faced her. In this way, he could use his strength against her and was finally able to extricate himself from her hold on him. When he was free of her, he gathered his clothes and weapons. As he reached for his hat, Nehemiah bounded out of it.
The hat was full of hair. In a sudden and irrational burst of anger, Santiago threw it to the ground and shot it. “Damn that cat!”
Unperturbed by his rage, Russia threw a twig at him, missing him by yards. “You gonna tell me what it is with you and girls like me?”
He dressed quickly. “No.”
“Then there ain’t no way you and me can be together no more.” She rose from the ground. “I cain’t stay with a man who hates what and who I am. Fergit about Wirt Avery, hear? Fergit about the hunt fer him. I tried my damnedest to be a friend to you, you won’t let me, so you can jist fergit about me, too. I reckon the next time I’ll see you is when two Sundays meet.”
Santiago felt sure she was bluffing. She wouldn’t really leave. He knew she wouldn’t.
Dressed, Russia stormed over to her cart, lifted Nehemiah and her bed into it, then climbed in herself. Eyes directed straight ahead, she slid the reins across Little Jack Horner’s back and settled into the seat when the old ox trudged forward.
“And just where the hell do you think you’re going?” Santiago exploded.
“Anywhere that ain’t near you!” She urged her ox into a faster gait.
“You’ll be all alone!” he warned.
“I’m always alone! And you got some kind o’ swelled head if you think I cain’t git along jist fine without you! A head so swelled up, I reckon you gotta pin back your ears to git your hat on!”
He glanced at his ruined hat. “I don’t have a hat!”
“Well, that’s jist tough spit, ain’t it? If you hadn’t shooted the hell out of it—”
“Vert aca!”
She turned to glare at him. “You better quit cussin’ at me, or I’ll vert aca you right in the nose!”
“I told you to come here!”
�
��No! I’m leavin’!”
“Fine!” he thundered. “Go on, then!”
“I am!”
He could no longer see her, but could still hear her, so he continued shouting into the night. “Good!”
“Better’n good! Wonderful!”
“Great!”
“More’n great! Suberp!”
He scowled. “Suberp?”
“You’re damn right! Me leavin’ your worthless hide’s the suberpest thing I ever done in my whole life!”
“It’s not suberp! It’s superb!”
“Whatever! ‘Bye, see you never, glad to git shed o’ you, and adios, you varmint-o!”
Still sure she’d stop and turn back, Santiago picked up a handful of pebbles, leaned against a scrawny tree, and commenced tossing the small rocks one by one. He’d thrown about twenty of them when he noticed he could no longer hear the rattle of Russia’s cart.
He straightened, closing his hand around the few pebbles he still held and straining to hear even the smallest of noises. Nothing but the soft whine of the night breeze came to him.
She was fine, he tried to convince himself. She was probably just out of sight, waiting for him to come to her.
Well, she could wait all night! he mused furiously, then flung the rocks to the ground. All night, all tomorrow… She could wait a damn eternity, and he wouldn’t come!
Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the tree again. She was just fine, he knew, but she was more than likely scared out there in the dark all by herself. Sure, there was some moonlight, but sometimes moonlight could create frightening shadows. Sometimes, when it illuminated various objects, it had the power to make those things look like hideous creatures. Like monsters.
Santa Maria, if she thought she saw a monster, she’d have that nightmare again! And no one would be there to wake her up! She’d lie there fighting her covers and screaming all by herself.
“Quetzalcoatl, ven aca!” he ordered his horse. When the stallion trotted over to him, he leaped into the saddle and set his mount into a full, ground-battering gallop. “Russia!” he shouted, panicking when he didn’t see her. “Russia!”
Hearing no response, he slowed Quetzalcoatl and examined the ground. Because the moonlight was dim, it took him a while to find the tracks left by Russia’s cart, but when he located them he followed them successfully. A few minutes later he saw Russia.
She was leaning against the side of her cart, tossing pebbles. “Hello, glad to see you, warmest welcomes, and que hora es, varmint-o.”
He gave her a long stare. “Que hora es?”
“Yeah. I heared a Mexican say that one time. What’s it mean, anyway?”
“It means, ‘What time is it?’”
“Oh, well, fergit I said that, then. I don’t give a damn what time it is.” She cast away another pebble.
Her flippant attitude infuriated him anew. “Just what the hell are you doing out here, Russia?”
She looked at the small rocks in her hand, threw another one, then turned her eyes back to Santiago. “’Pears to me I’m pitchin’ pebbles. Ain’t you never done that before?”
He shifted in the saddle. “No. It looks to be a waste of time.”
“It ain’t when you’re waitin’ on somebody. I knowed you was gonna come. Jist thought I’d fling pebbles till you showed up. Why do you hate us soiled doves, Santiago?”
He made a terrible frown. “I only followed you, Russia, because I— The moonlight— When it shines down, it sometimes makes things look scary. It can create monsters out of perfectly harmless objects.” Bothered by his own lame explanation, he glanced around, determined to find something made frightening by night shadows and moonlight.
He soon saw a scraggly shrub that resembled a horned beast. “What do you think about that?” he asked, pointing to the shrub.
She looked at it. “That ain’t no monster, Santiago. It’s a bush, and I ain’t never been afraid o’ no bushes. Why do you hate—”
“How did you know I’d follow you?” he demanded.
“Jist knowed. Tell me why you—”
“I said no.”
“I know that’s what you said, but I didn’t like that answer.”
Santa Maria, what utter gall she had! “Well, it’s the only one you’re getting.”
She sprinkled the rest of her pebbles in a half circle around her feet, then began to move them with the toe of her boot. “Santiago Zamora,” she said on a long, slow breath. “Santiago Zamora Gunfighter. I knowed another gunfighter once. Damn bastard stealed ever’ bit o’ money I had. Had me some thirty dollars saved up. That was about a year ago. I hated him then, and I still hate him now.”
He glowered in confusion. Why was she telling him that story, and what did she want him to say about it? “Son of a bitch,” he finally said.
“Yeah, he was sure one o’ those. Y’know? I reckon you’re a son of a bitch, too, Santiago. You’re a gunfighter, jist like he was.”
“I’ve never stolen anything from you, Russia. On the contrary—”
“Y’know what else I’m thinkin’? I hate you jist as much as I hate that other gunfighter. I jist now this second realized it. You’re both gunfighters, one and the same. Yeah, I hate all gunfighters, lousy sons o’ bitches, all of ’em. I hate you, Santiago. Hear?”
He tilted his head back, staring at the stars without seeing them. “You’ve made your point, Russia. Only there’s one thing you’ve forgotten to consider.”
“What is it?”
He dismounted and made himself busy taking off his stallion’s saddle. “I never said I hated you.”
She tried to resist the pleasure aroused by his softly spoken statement, but couldn’t. Bringing her hands to her mouth, she smiled into them. And since Santiago’s back was to her, she took a moment to dance a few steps of a jig, stopping and becoming serious just when he turned to face her again. Primly, she flicked a piece of nothing off her dress sleeve.
Saddle in hand, he stared at her. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, but you ain’t never said you liked me, neither.”
His jaw clenched, he set down the saddle and pretended he didn’t like the way he’d set it down. He spent another few minutes rearranging it.
“You like me, Santiago?”
“What difference does it make?” He “fixed” the saddle again.
“I know I ain’t your Princess Charmin’, but do you like me jist a little bit?”
“Russia, I’ve never met anyone as blunt as you.”
“Don’t seem to matter how blunt I am, you still ain’t answerin’.” She watched him for a moment. “Santiago—”
“Yes!” he roared, still fiddling with the saddle. “I like you! All right? Satisfied? I like you!”
She smiled into her hands again, then squeezed her lips together in an effort to wipe off the smile before he turned and saw it. “Well, it sure is pissin’ the hell outta you to like me, ain’t it? Why’s it makin’ you mad to—”
“You know why, Russia, so I see no reason to go into it.” He couldn’t think of anything else to do with the saddle, and so began on the bridle. Confident his horse wouldn’t wander, he removed the bridle and started smoothing the reins.
“Is it because I’m a whore?”
He crushed his hands around the reins and gave a jerky nod.
His affirmation hurt. But not as much as she thought it would. The fact remained that he liked her, and she’d hold onto that in spite of anything else he might say to her. “Please tell me what it is with you and girls like me.”
Silence.
Undaunted, she decided to guess. “Some soiled dove stole all your money? Tried to steal your horse? Um… She weren’t no good in bed and then had the nerve to overcharge you?”
Bitter memories exploded into his brain. He’d resisted them for as long as he was able. Throwing the bridle to the ground, he spun to face her. “You’re not going to let up, are you?”
Cocking her head
to one side, she smugly made him wait for her reply. “No. I ain’t.”
One slow step at a time, he approached her, not stopping until he could feel her warm breath on his shoulder.
Peering up at him, she saw the danger in his cold gaze. “What…what are you gonna do?”
“Something I should have done long ago. Had I done it, I would have saved myself from immeasurable aggravation.”
If poison had a sound, it would be his voice. Her eyes widened. “You’re—you’re gonna k-kill me?”
“No, I’m going to tell you.” He took her slight shoulders in his huge hands. “Listen well, Russia. I never bedded her, understand? She was to be my virgin bride. I was going to marry her.”
She inhaled sharply, her breath trapped in her tightening chest.
“Anything else you would like to know?” he challenged her.
She drew back when she saw the glitter in his eyes. It was so bright. Brighter than she’d ever seen it. With the flare of deep anger?
Or with…tears?
Guilt poured over her. She didn’t know what to say, what to do. She only knew that she’d bullied him into remembering things that tormented him. God, if only she’d known his secret involved love! “Santiago,” she murmured, twisting her skirt into knots.
His anger peaked when she said nothing more. “Why drag this out, Russia? I see a thousand questions in those eyes of yours. Ask them!”
His shout frightened her; she let out a small squeak.
“Afraid?” he asked mockingly. “Are you afraid of me? Answer me!”
“No,” she whispered.
He grabbed her by the waist, hauling her up next to him. “Well, you should be,” he growled down at her. “I’ve tried to convince you of that since the first day I met you, but you wouldn’t listen. Listen now, Russia, to the grim story you’ve been longing to hear.”
Keeping his hands tightly on her body, he slid them from her waist up to her cheeks, his fingers slipping into her hair. “Her name was Graciela,” he began, his gaze penetrating hers. “She was the most beautiful girl in my hometown of Misericordia. While I worked, trying to save enough money to buy her every damn thing a bride could want, she was busy working, too. On her back, Russia, in a brothel. But she didn’t hate it like you claim to do, she liked it. I caught her in the act. She—”
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