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

by Rebecca Paisley

  God, he had to leave. If he didn’t, he’d forget his vow to help Russia find her happiness. Indeed, it took a tremendous effort not to grab her right now, throw her over his shoulder, and gallop out of town with her.

  He clenched his fists and knew what he would do. He’d simply leave. Without Russia, and without telling her. He’d go to Calavera, take care of Wirt Avery, then send Russia the message that all was well. She’d marry her prince, have her happily-ever-after, and that would be that.

  To hell with the information she could give him concerning the vaquero who’d once worn the ring. He didn’t care anymore.

  He didn’t care about anything. And without Russia, he never would again.

  He spun around and stalked toward the door, unable even to say good-bye.

  “Santiago! Wait!” Russia cried. “Where are you goin’? What—”

  “I left a few horses out in the paddock, and I can’t remember if they had water or not,” he lied. “I’m going to check and—”

  “I’ll go with you.” She began searching for her shoes.

  He watched her, yearning filling every comer of his heart. God, how he wished she really could go with him. Wherever he went.

  “Well, lacy lumps o’ leapin’ leech livers!” Russia exclaimed, peering beneath the bed. “How the hell’d my shoes git under here?” Muttering curses, she lay flat on the floor and inched her way under the bed in an effort to reach her shoes.

  Her flailing legs were the last Santiago saw of her before he quietly left, closing the door softly behind him.

  Standing in the hallway, he stared at the doorknob. She was going to marry that dandy! The man was going to have Russia for his very own! He was going to hold her. He was going to kiss her. He was going to…

  He was going to do all the things a husband had every right to do.

  Jaw clenched, he fairly raced down the corridor. He stopped at the head of the stairs, gripping the mahogany banister. A myriad of questions burst into his mind.

  What if Ben didn’t feed her enough? Considering Ben’s thin body, it was obvious the man barely ate enough to satisfy a flea. Would he expect Russia to live off such meager amounts of food, too? Santa Maria, she’d die of starvation!

  And what of her accidents? What if she broke some expensive object in their home? Would Ben yell at her over something she simply couldn’t help?

  And her hand cookies. He knew she’d soon be baking them for Ben. Would the man know the meaning behind those special cookies? Would they be sweet to him? Would he understand why Russia made them for him? Would he be sure to tell her how much he appreciated them and all the love that went into making them?

  Her nightmares… What if she continued having them, and Ben couldn’t calm her down after waking her? For that matter, would Ben even be able to wake her? It was next to impossible to do so, he remembered. Hell, what if Ben simply ignored her, allowing her to deal with her night monsters alone?

  And, dammit, what did Ben Clayton know about Russia’s frustrating problem regarding lovemaking? Would he even realize how sensitive she was? Would he take the time to ease her fears and anxieties? Would he be patient enough to arouse each and every part of her before consummating the marriage? What if he thought only of his own pleasure, like so many other men in Russia’s life had done?

  His questions burned him with fury. Before he even realized what he was doing, he was running down the hall again. He didn’t bother to knock on Russia’s door. With one firm kick, he sent it flying open.

  It banged against the wall, scaring Russia so badly that she screamed. “Santiago!”

  Her shout came from beneath the bed. She was still under it.

  “Russia, come out of there.”

  “I’m stuck! I done tole you that a hunnerd times! What the hell are you doin’ over there?”

  He realized she hadn’t been aware he’d left and come back. “We’re leaving Whispering Oaks.”

  “Git me out from under this—”

  “Ben will just have to understand. It’s important that we leave. Today. Right now.”

  “Hang black crepe on your nose, Santiago, on account o’ your brains is dead! Dammit, are you plumb bereft? I asked you to git me out from under here! Now grab my feet and pull me out!”

  Grinning broadly, he ambled over to the bed and took hold of her bare feet.

  “Stop! You’re pullin’ me in half! Oh, God, I’m stuck under here tighter’n skin on a damn sausage, Santiago!”

  Calmly, he moved to the bottom of the bed, bent, and curled his hands around the frame. With one smooth motion, he lifted the bed from the floor. “All right, Russia, get out.”

  She turned her face and saw the bed hovering above her. Instantly, she scrambled away, scooting to the middle of the room.

  Santiago lowered the bed back to the floor.

  “What if you’d dropped that damn bed?” Russia hollered. “I’d’ve been smashed flatter’n a fritter! I’d’ve been—”

  “But you weren’t, because I didn’t drop it. He entered her closet and soon emerged with her gowns draped over his arms. “I know you like Whispering Oaks, Russia, but you have to go with me to Calavera. I—I have only a scanty description of Wirt Avery, and I need you to come and make a positive identification.” It was a bald-faced lie, but even if he had to tell it a thousand times over again, he would.

  Russia stared at him. Why was he telling her that? she wondered. All along, the plan had been for her to go to Calavera with him.

  Santiago shoved her dresses into her bag. “Do you think Ben will understand?”

  Watching him smash her gowns into the bag, she thought about how terribly wrinkled they would become. “The leastest thing you coulda done with my dresses is fold ‘em, Santiago,” she scolded. “They’re—”

  She broke off when someone knocked at the door. “Who is it?” she called.

  Santiago stared at Russia. “What will you tell him? You do have to go with me to Calavera.” He said the words gruffly, defying her to argue with him.

  Russia bit her bottom lip, tried to think of something she could tell Ben that wouldn’t hurt his feelings, then rose to let him in. “Ben, we’re leavin’,” she blurted out the second he walked into the room. “Y’know we’re lookin’ fer ole Dickito Zamora. We been here too long already, and Santiago says it’s time to git back on the trail. He’s our cousin, Ben, and we gotta find him.”

  Ben paled and turned to Santiago. “Please don’t—”

  “I’m sorry, Ben,” Santiago said firmly, “but we’re leaving within the hour.”

  Ben held out his hands in a pleading gesture. “You’ll bring her back, won’t you? Santiago, I— Swear to me that when you find your cousin, you’ll return Russia to me.”

  “When I find my cousin?” Santiago smiled. No such cousin existed. “Oh, I swear, Ben. By the life of my long-lost cousin, I swear.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Calavera was just how Wirt remembered it. Nothing much ever happened here. The isolated town was smaller than small, home to only about a hundred people. The lack of a saloon enticed few travelers to stop. Therefore, news of the outside world was slow in reaching Calavera.

  It was the perfect location in which to pull off his plans.

  Standing in front of the Calavera marshal’s office, he removed a carefully folded piece of paper from his coat. Unfolding it, he stared down at Santiago Zamora’s image. Beneath the drawing were words he’d bribed a professional printer into printing.

  On the whole, Wirt mused, everything about the picture looked authentic. Smiling, he spat into his hand, smoothed back his hair, and strolled into the marshal’s office.

  The lawman looked up from the plate of food on his paper-strewn desk. “Yes?”

  Wirt forced himself to appear distraught. He shuffled his feet on the floor and wrung his hands. “Name’s Wirt Avery, Marshal. Jist got to town. I need yer help.”

  The marshal tossed a well-gnawed chicken bone back on his plate a
nd motioned to a chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, Mr. Avery.”

  Wirt lumbered to the ladder-back chair and sat down. “I’m lookin’ fer my daughter.” He took out the tin locket and handed it to the marshal. “She’s growed up some since that there little paintin’ was done, but she’s still real purty like that. She runned off, y’see, and I been follerin’ her ever since. She—she was such a good girl. Deep down inside, maybe she still is. But she’s done failed off the path o’ goodness, sir. She’s— Lord, it shames me somethin’ awful to say it, but she’s livin’ a life o’ sin now. May God Almighty fergive her, she’s been sellin’ her body to any man who has enough money to pay fer the use of it.”

  The marshal stared intently at the face in the locket.

  “I gotta find her, Marshal,” Wirt went on, his pale blue eyes darting around the room. “She’s done tuk up with a murderer. Her and him’s gallivantin’ around the countryside, and they’re comin’ here to Calavera. They’ll be here soon, sir, and I… Marshal, please help me git my daughter. Ya gotta keep both her and me safe.”

  The marshal stood and leaned forward, his knuckles pressed to the desk. “How do you know they’re coming here, Mr. Avery?”

  Wirt closed his eyes, pretending extreme nervousness. “The man she’s with, he knows I’m lookin’ fer her. He’s done turned the tables on me, Marshal. Now he’s trailin’ me. He don’t want to give her up, y’see. I know he don’t. I reckon if he finds me, he’ll kill me. He’s a killer, sir. A cold-blooded killer. Wanted all over Texas. You prob’ly heared of him.”

  Forcing his hand to shake, Wirt laid the charcoaled sketch of Santiago on the marshal’s desk. “That’s him, sir. I—I cain’t even hardly look at his picture without curlin’ up my toes in pure bone-shakin’ fear. Jist look at them eyes o’ his. Ever seed such viciousness in all your born days?”

  The marshal’s face furrowed. Staring up at him from the Wanted poster was the exact image of Santiago Zamora. The artist’s name, Zeferino Sanchez, was written in the lower left-hand corner. Whoever Zeferino Sanchez was, the marshal mused, he was extraordinarily talented.

  Santiago Zamora. The long dark hair and jagged scar were well-known and unmistakable characteristics of the infamous gunman. Zeferino Sanchez had even managed to capture the dangerous glitter in Santiago’s eyes.

  Slowly, the marshal lowered his gaze to the words printed beneath the striking picture: WANTED FOR MURDER—SANTIAGO ZAMORA—DEAD OR ALIVE—$10,000 REWARD.

  He sat back down, his eyes still riveted on the Wanted poster. “I haven’t heard anything about Zamora being wanted for murder.”

  “Calavera ain’t near nothin’,” Wirt hastened to say, “and not many folks stop here. I reckon the news jist ain’t got here yet.”

  The marshal tapped his long, thin fingers on the desk. “When did Zamora commit murder?”

  “’Bout a month ago, sir,” Wirt replied in a low, fearful voice. “Shooted down some six people in Sharonville, Texas. Worst thing about it is that one of ’em was a three-year-old boy. Ever’ lawman in Texas is out fer him.”

  “Sharonville? Where’s that?”

  “It’s a small place near the Oklahoma border,” Wirt lied, having invented the town. “Zamora let loose that famous temper o’ his when a group o’ folks was admirin’ his horse. He tole ’em to git away from his mount. When they didn’t move fast enough, he shooted ‘emdead, then rided outta town. Had my daughter with him. Ya gotta help me, Marshal. Zamora’s comin’ here. He’s after me, and I’d have better luck growin’ crops by moonlight than I’ll have tryin’ to stay alive around that Mexican killer.”

  The marshal stared at the Wanted poster for another long moment, then nodded. “I’ll round up some men from town and make sure they’re well armed. Don’t worry, Mr. Avery. As soon as Santiago Zamora arrives, we’ll be waiting for him. Your daughter’ll be back home where she belongs in no time.”

  “You’ll arrest him.”

  The marshal glanced at the small cell to his right. It was an enormous temptation to smile, but he kept his angular face stiff with seriousness. “I will. But a man like Santiago Zamora will put up a fight the likes of which Calavera has never seen. I’ve heard the stories about him. As you know, this is a small, peaceful town. As marshal, I have a duty to keep it that way. I’ll do everything within my power to prevent myself from having to do it, but if Zamora doesn’t cooperate with me, with the law—I— Well, I’ll be forced to hang him.”

  Wirt could barely contain his glee. “Then me and my daughter’ll be safe again. Glory to God in heaven.” He rose and shook the lawman’s hand. “’Predate yer help.”

  Still battling the strong urge to smile, the marshal nodded sympathetically. “It’s my job, Mr. Avery.”

  Feigning humility, Wirt bowed his head and left quietly.

  When the door closed, Marshal Cobbett Wilkens, newly arrived from Rock Springs, Texas, looked back at the Wanted poster and finally allowed himself to smile. The poster was a fake, he knew. He wouldn’t, however, let on that he was aware of its fraudulence.

  His smile widened. Revenge. The word sent excitement coursing through him. Santiago Zamora would now be forced to make amends for humiliating him. For causing the citizens of Rock Springs to run him out of town. Yes, the arrogant son of a bitch would pay.

  The cost would be his life.

  Caressing the drawing, Marshal Wilkens threw back his head and laughed until his sides ached.

  * * *

  Santiago tossed away the squirming caterpillar Nehemiah had just given him and cast his gaze across the campfire. Russia lay on the other side, firelight and a gentle night breeze dancing through her hair. Stretched out on the blankets, wearing one of her new sheer night rails, and surrounded by a riot of colorful wildflowers, she presented a tempting sight.

  Yes, he was tempted. He had been ever since leaving Whispering Oaks that morning. But while riding, he hadn’t found it too hard to ignore the temptation. Now, tonight, it was impossible.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked.

  She brushed the palm of her hand over a mound of scarlet cardinal flowers. “I’m warm.”

  He rubbed the stubble on his chin, trying to come up with something else to say. “You rode well today,” he remarked, flicking pebbles into the nearby shadows.

  She frowned at him. “I failed off all day long! Spended more time on the ground than I did in the saddle.”

  He nodded. She was the worst rider he’d seen in his entire life. “But you always got back on. You were afraid, but you didn’t give up. I—I was proud of you today, Russia.”

  His compliment made her feel beyond wonderful. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to her in years. She was so touched, she couldn’t find the voice with which to thank him. She smiled instead.

  He was enchanted by that small, shy smile. God, she could be so bold sometimes, he thought. So outrageously blunt. And in the next second, she was blushing. There were two sides to Russia Valentine. One was the saucy and incorrigible woman who brought him the laughter he’d believed he’d never hear again. The other was the shy and uncertain girl who drew from him a tenderness he’d thought long dead.

  Santa Maria, how he wanted her in his arms tonight. How he wanted to tell her…

  Tell her what? he wondered. About his feelings for her? Dammit, what were those feelings?

  He didn’t realize how long he pondered that question until he looked at Russia again and saw that she was asleep. Disappointment rose within him, for he’d wanted to talk to her tonight. He’d been separated from her for a week back in Whispering Oaks, and he was anxious to make up for that time.

  He thought about waking her, but decided against it. They’d been riding all day, and no doubt she was exhausted.

  His mouth quirked when Nehemiah trotted to his side and dropped a hawk feather on his stockinged foot. With a twist of his ankle, Santiago got it off. “Why do you keep bringing me things I don’t want?” he asked the purring cat. “Th
e only thing of value you have that I want…is Russia.”

  His dark gaze alighted upon her sleeping form. He heard her breathing. Frowning, he realized it wasn’t peaceful breathing. She was still asleep, he knew, but something was wrong.

  He hurried to where she lay and watched her stir restlessly in her sleep. The nightmare. He realized then that those sleeping monsters were awakening inside her. Kneeling beside her, he swept his finger across her hot cheek. “Russia?”

  She began to thrash beneath her blankets. “No!”

  Her shout ripped through Santiago. The need to protect her from whatever haunted her dreams was the most powerful thing he’d ever felt. He lifted her into his arms. “Russia, wake—”

  “Stop! Don’t—”

  “Russia! Open your eyes!” He hugged her to his chest, cradling her head on his shoulder. “Russia!”

  Russia. The name swirled into her dream, causing her confusion. Why was he calling her Russia? That wasn’t her name. And why did his voice seem to be coming from a hundred miles away? He was standing right in the threshold of her room, a mere five feet from the foot of her bed. “Don’t—don’t come in here,” she murmured shakily.

  “Who, Russia?” Santiago demanded. “Who’s coming?”

  She watched him take a step into the room. Come to Wirt, darlin’. Come to yer sweet ole Wirt. “No! God, please, no!”

  Santiago saw her stomach heave and realized she was on the verge of retching. Quickly, he held her up, supporting her chin in the cup of his hand. He waited. Nothing happened. “Russia? Russia?”

  Russia, she heard. He was speaking to her again, calling her by that strange name. He was touching her. Wirt. With his big, scary hands. He was pinching her. Making her breasts ache, her nipples sting. “You’re hurtin’ me!”

  Santiago knew he wasn’t holding her tightly enough to hurt her and realized she was dreaming of pain. Someone was hurting her in her dream, just like last time. He laid her back down in his arms. Taking her chin in his hand again, he moved her head from side to side. “Russia! Open your eyes, do you hear me? Open your eyes!”