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

by Rebecca Paisley

  “Russia—”

  She resisted his efforts to pull her away, clinging to him like a stubborn vine around a tree trunk. “You was hurt and bleedin’ when you runned away that night! You was in a rage, and you was sad! You feeled betrayed and guilty and afraid and humiliated! Hell, you was even cryin’! You—”

  “Crying?” he yelled.

  She tilted her head and nodded up at him. “Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t cry that night, Santiago Zamora, because any young man woulda cried! You couldn’t have been more’n sixteen or seventeen years old. And I know that that man you attacked musta been full growed. He was bigger and stronger’n you, or else he’d never have been able to take your knife and cut your face the way he done.”

  Lifting her hand, she gently touched the jagged line on his cheek. “Do y’think I cain’t see it all in my mind, Santiago? Do y’think I cain’t imagine how you musta feeled? You’d jist finded your woman in bed with another man. You didn’t never tell me what she said when you seen her, but I’m figgerin’ that maybe she laughed at you or somethin’ like that. A woman who’d throw away a happy, decent life with someone like you ain’t the kinda woman who’d feel a bit o’ shame over gittin’ catched. And if that weren’t bad enough, her lover beated you in a fight and scarred you fer life. I bet there ain’t a young man in the whole world who wouldn’t break down after all that.”

  Her insight proved to be his complete undoing. His arms curled around her; he brought her closer to him, so close he could feel her heartbeat. Bending, he buried his face into the soft hair in the crook of her shoulder.

  God, it felt so good to hold her. So good to realize that someone else in this huge world knew his past. He wasn’t alone with it anymore. Someone shared it now.

  “Russia.”

  “Santiago.”

  “She did,” he whispered into her hair. “Graciela did laugh.”

  Russia’s arms tightened about him.

  He welcomed her compassion now. Indeed, it seemed the sole remedy for a fatal wound. “And after she laughed,” he continued, pausing for a deep breath, “she invited me into the bed with her and her lover. She swore to make a real man out of me.”

  “A real man? What—”

  “The man she was with… He began pinching her. I stood there watching, unable to believe how happy it made her to be treated so cruelly. She didn’t want tenderness, Russia. She wanted to be taken and conquered. She’d found something she loved, and she was delighted to be paid for doing what gave her such satisfaction.”

  His quiet explanation drained all confusion from her. She knew well the kind of woman Graciela was. She’d met a few just like her, women who, for some twisted reason, found pleasure in being treated in a degrading manner. Some even enjoyed being physically hurt. And, yes, it exhilarated them to be paid for accepting the abuse they needed in order to feel fulfilled.

  “I should have suspected long before I found out,” Santiago continued, the words flowing easily now. “Sometimes when we were together, she became restless. When I held her hand, her impatience with me was obvious. And when I finally got around to kissing her the first time— God, she responded with more passion than I knew how to handle.”

  Russia smiled, understanding he’d been an innocent then, completely inexperienced in sexual matters. It was difficult for her to envision him like that, but once she succeeded, she loved the thought.

  Straightening, Santiago saw her smile and decided it was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. “All right, Russia, is there anything else you want to know? Anything at all that that perceptive mind of yours hasn’t already figured out?”

  Though she saw no smile on his face, she noted two in his eyes. An extraordinary sense of relief rushed through her. She sank into the bed of primroses, pulling on his hand until he joined her there. “There’s jist one more thing, Santiago. Take back all them lies you tole me a while ago.”

  “Lies?”

  She took his face between her hands. “Yeah, lies. You ain’t no merciless killer. Lemme hear you say you ain’t.”

  He couldn’t escape the strange lure in her eyes. Moreover, he didn’t want to. The sweet concern in her gaze pulled at his trust with gentle, insistent tugs, and he realized suddenly that he no longer thought it a terrible thing to allow her to see his vulnerability. God’s truth, he suspected she already had. “No, Russia,” he replied quietly. “I’m not a merciless killer.”

  “And them criminals you hunt down… You don’t see ’em as victims when you set out to find ’em, do you?”

  “No.”

  “One more question. You do feel somethin’ when you’re forced to shoot men, don’t you?”

  He closed his eyes. Some three hundred faces floated through his mind. Most were filled with hatred, evil, and a savagery so hard only a bullet could break it. But even so, it was never an easy thing to pull the trigger. “Yes,” he finally answered. “I—I feel.”

  Opening his eyes, he slid his fingers through his hair and looked away from her. “Most were outlaws, but some… A year ago, I killed a young boy who couldn’t have been more than nine or ten.”

  She picked up his hands, kissing each of them before she spoke again. “But you didn’t mean to kill him.”

  His fingers enfolded hers. “He was the youngest child in the Pearson family.”

  Russia recalled hearing about that family of outlaws. Hogan Pearson had raised his five sons into a life of crime, leading them into committing countless atrocities. “I didn’t know you was the one who…” Her voice trailed away when she saw the regret shadowing his face.

  “I was the one, Russia. They had me surrounded in a canyon. Killing them— There was nothing else I could do. The boy—” He stopped, shaking his head over the terrible memory. “I didn’t even know he was there. He came out of nowhere. I glanced at him, but saw only the rifle in his hands. I reacted instinctively, and…I killed him.”

  “But it was a accident, Santiago. You—”

  “He wasn’t the only one. Through the years, there have been others. God, there was even a woman, Russia. She threw herself in front of her husband just as he and I had, drawn our guns. It was only when she lay dying at his feet that he surrendered his weapons to me. Crossfire… Why do people run into the crossfire? I once gunned down an old man—a little girl’s grandfather. To this day I don’t know why he ran into the crossfire. The little girl—she sobbed over his body, then threw rocks at me. As long as I live, I’ll never forget the hatred on her face.”

  “Accidents,” Russia whispered.

  He nodded.

  She gave him a fierce hug. “I don’t hate you, Santiago,” she murmured into his ear. “And I still ain’t afraid o’ you neither.”

  He thought about how he’d tested her. How he’d challenged her to show him loathing and fear. Instead, she’d shown him a warmheartedness that he’d doubted he’d ever see again. “I know, Russia.”

  She drew away from him. “Are you glad or mad about that?”

  In answer, he smiled and tweaked her nose. Sweet emotion drifting through him, he contemplated what he’d done tonight, revealing his memories. It hadn’t been easy. But now that it was over, he felt as though some aching growth had been cut out of him. He wondered why he hadn’t told someone about his torment before tonight. Maybe if he’d done so years ago, he might have saved himself from years of misery.

  The answer to his mental questions came to him instantly.

  No one had ever asked. No one had ever cared. No one except Russia.

  Still silent, he rose and retrieved her quilt and several blankets from the back of her cart. It took him but a moment to make a soft bed atop the thick patch of primroses. When it was made, he took off his shirt and boots, lay down, and patted the space beside him.

  “Come to bed, Russia.”

  “Y’want me to sleep with you?” She couldn’t keep her astonishment out of her voice.

  “You don’t want to?”

&nb
sp; Her fingers curled into the wildflowers. “Um…Well, I thought— Santiago…”

  “What?”

  “I’m a…a whore,” she said softly, achingly.

  “I know what you are, Russia,” he replied just as quietly. “I’ve known since the moment I first saw you.”

  “Then why do y’want me to sleep with you?”

  “Because—” He frowned and turned onto his side, supporting his weight on his elbow. “We’ve slept together before.”

  “But that was before I knowed about Graciela. Now that I know—”

  “Russia, come to bed.”

  She hesitated a moment too long. He gained his feet in an instant and swept her into his arms. She was lying in the primrose bed before she could argue. When he knelt beside her, his ebony gaze claiming hers, a deep blush crept over her cheeks. “Santiago, I wish I didn’t have to do the kinda work I do, but I’d prob’ly be dead if I didn’t. Wirt—”

  “Is probably three hundred miles from here,” he finished for her, taking a quick look in the direction of Rosario. “You aren’t running from him tonight, and you aren’t plying your trade right now, either. So you aren’t a whore right now, are you? You’re just a woman getting ready to go to sleep.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up, Russia.”

  She trembled all over when he stretched out beside her. “This don’t make no kinda sense. Now that I know why you hate girls like me, I cain’t understand why y’want me to sleep with—”

  His kiss silenced her. He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, as if trying to draw every uncomfortable thought from her mind. “Hush, Russia. Hush.” He covered her mouth with his again, his caress demanding her response.

  Made mute by a warm flow of desire, Russia tendered her surrender. It was useless to fight what Santiago did to her. Absurd to battle such exquisite sensations.

  And he had said he’d liked her. She hadn’t imagined that; she’d heard it plainly. Sighing, she slipped her arms around his neck.

  At the soft moans coming from her, he smiled. “Was it such a good kiss?” he teased.

  She looked into his eyes and saw so many things. The quiet sparkle of amusement. A small twinkle of curiosity. And the rich, smoldering glow of desire. “Them eyes,” she began. “You cain’t know what they do to me, Santiago. And your smile? Lord, when you smile, my heart skips so many beats that one o’ these here days it’s gonna skip too many, and I’m gonna die.”

  “And your hair, too,” she told him, threading her fingers through it. “I love watchin’ it swing across them wide shoulders o’ yours. I even like the way you smell, Santiago. Durin’ the day you smell like leather. And hot sun and hard steel. At night you smell like night breezes and chilled sand. Y’taste good, too. Good like a man.”

  “And the way you talk,” she cooed, brushing her finger across his lips. “Your accent sounds real, real soft in my ears. One time I thought about your voice, too, and I decided it sounded like velvet. Velvet the color o’ rained-on earth. Rich gold, too. I even sorta pretended I was layin’ on velvet, and pieces o’ gold was sprinklin’ down all around me. They was little pieces, though, so they didn’t hurt when they failed on me. I like your voice, Santiago.”

  He took a moment to dwell on all the things she’d told him. He felt flattered, yes, but the harder he thought about what she’d said, the more he began to read into it. His emotions soon soared beyond flattery.

  A sense of comprehension passed through him. A deeper knowledge of Russia. Of her profound awareness of the things around her, and her responses to that awareness.

  God, he’d been going about everything all wrong.

  Anxious to further test her sensitivity and his own growing understanding, he grabbed a fistful of primroses and held them out to her. “Take them, Russia. They’re for you.”

  She looked at the blossoms, both confused and pleased. Her fingers trembled around the stems. “I— Thank you.”

  “Has any man ever given you flowers?”

  She shook her head.

  “What do they smell like?”

  She brought them to her face, inhaling their fragrance. “Well, they ain’t perfumed. They’re sorta like— Um… Real light. Like a rainbow would prob’ly smell if you could ever manage to smell one. You know—like colored air.”

  He liked that unusual description very much. “And what do they feel like?”

  She took a pink petal between her thumb and forefinger, rubbing it. A burst of bright yellow pollen settled over her hand. “Y’know? I think this is what a rainbow feels like, too, Santiago. Feels sorta happy. Yeah, these here flowers are like rainbows and raption.”

  He thought for a moment. “Rapture,” he corrected.

  She grinned. “Whatever.”

  Rainbows and rapture, he mused. He decided the vivid words described Russia, too.

  How he longed to please this wonderful girl.

  He smiled at her, his eyes ablaze with a passion he would release slowly. Over days and long, sweeping nights. What she’d just explained to him about his looks and what they did to her… About the flowers he’d given her… She responded intently to her senses. Whether it was something she saw, heard, smelled, tasted, or felt, she always responded wholeheartedly.

  Her senses. He was going to woo them. Make love to them. He would lavish his attention on all five of them, whenever, wherever, and using whatever means he had at hand.

  He felt his grin broaden. Santa Maria, lovemaking wasn’t only the act of joining two bodies. It didn’t even start in the bed, but well away from it!

  And that, he mused, raising a sable brow, was the key to bringing Russia the pleasure she’d never known.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A low, mournful sound disturbed Russia the next morning. She resisted the sound, reluctant to let go of her dream.

  Swirling in the mist of slumber, she remembered the way Santiago had held her all night while whispering all those sweet-sounding Spanish words to her. She didn’t recall falling asleep, but was sure she’d done so with a smile on her face.

  The deep, sorrowful sound came to her again. Unable to ignore it this time, she opened her eyes and looked around. The sky was shimmering with pink and orange and yellow and the bare beginnings of blue. It was dawn. What was that sound?

  She heard it again, a soft, deep bellow of longing. Frowning, she realized it came from Little Jack Horner. He was standing as straight and tall as an ox was able. In all the years she’d had him, she’d never seen him hold his head so erect. His muscles seemed rigid and tense with… With what? Fear?

  Anxiously, she looked around again, sure she’d see some approaching peril. “Santiago,” she whispered loudly, giving his shoulder a shove. “Wake up. Somethin’s wrong. Somethin’—”

  “It’s just your ox,” he mumbled sleepily, keeping his eyes closed.

  “I know, but he looks like he sees somethin’!”

  A heavyset man with red hair and a red beard crept into Santiago’s dream. In an instant, he sprang out of bed, Colts in hand. Every nerve in his body was wide awake as his keen, narrowed eyes swept in all directions. But all he saw, besides the brush-covered landscape, was a stray cow.

  He smiled and slid his guns back into his belt. “Look, Russia.”

  Rising, she saw the cow Santiago pointed to. Her eyes widening, she walked over to where Little Jack Horner stood bellowing and quivering. Was he scared of the cow? Excited?

  She stared into his huge brown eyes. They were filled to the very brim with moisture. “Oh, he’s— It looks like he’s cryin’.” Again she turned to the cow, who was lowing as pitifully as Little Jack Horner.

  Suddenly she understood. “Well, wigglin’ whirlwinds o’ whopper wonders, they’re in love.”

  Santiago thought her announcement ridiculous. “Russia—”

  “Little Jack Horner ain’t never been trimmed, Santiago,” she explained. “He’s a mite old, but ’pears to me he’s still got plenty o’ sting in his stinger.”<
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  Santiago bent his head and chuckled.

  Russia ignored his amusement and concentrated on the seriousness of the situation. Her mind teemed with realizations. Caressing her ox’s soft snout, she felt her heart would burst with all the deep emotion it was forced to hold. “It’s a eye-waterin’ thing I have to do, Santiago, but I ain’t gonna cry.”

  He heard the suspicious quiver in her voice. “Cry? What would you cry?”

  “Oh, Santiago, don’tcha see?” she asked, wondering why she had to explain something so simple to him. “As far as I know, Little Jack Horner ain’t never had him a wife. Maybe he wants him some young-uns. And maybe he wants that cow over there to be the one to give ‘emto him. Maybe she’s real sexy to him. I ain’t no ox, so I don’t know what’s purty and what ain’t to Little Jack Horner.”

  Her explanation made Santiago want to smile, but her sad expression helped him to resist the urge.

  Her fingers trembled through her ox’s fur. “God, Santiago, I cain’t stand in the way o’ true love. I ain’t got no right a’tall to keep Little Jack Horner and his ravin’ beauty from havin’ a life together.”

  “What? Are—are you suggesting that you’re going to let him go?” Santiago asked incredulously.

  “Yes.” She threw her arms around Little Jack Horner’s neck. “I cain’t believe I’m gonna do this. This is jist the hardest thing I ever done. The hardest, hardest, hardest thing.”

  Despite her vow not to cry, Santiago sensed she was on the verge of tears. God, he couldn’t think of anything he wouldn’t do to keep her from weeping. “Then don’t let him go, Russia. He’ll get over—”

  “I g-gotta,” she murmured, her voice muffled in the ox’s dusty neck. “Jist gotta. People need love, Santiago. They need to love, and they need to be loved.”