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

by Rebecca Paisley

  His thundering arrival into Calavera caused a scurry of chaos. People took one look at him and began to run. Women and children hurried into the safety of buildings, and several men raced toward the marshal’s office. The street was completely empty in minutes.

  As he dismounted, Santiago watched the townsfolk disappear and concluded that they believed he’d come to murder them all. The grisly tales about him had apparently found their way there.

  He didn’t give a damn. He would never again give a damn about anything.

  Without Russia, nothing would matter. Nothing.

  He heard her mare stop behind him. Heard her dismount. He refused to turn around and look at her. “Go to the marshal’s office and stay there,” he told her, his eyes scanning the small, dusty town. He saw a few listless mules and several patches of wilted weeds, but other than that, there was no sign of life. The sight suited his black mood. “Explain to him that I’ve come for Wirt Avery and that I won’t be stopped. Not by him or anyone else. Stay there until I come to get you. Until—until I’m finished.” His actions jerky, he tied the horses to the hitching post and began checking his weapons.

  Russia examined her surroundings, wondering where everyone was. “Santiago, you don’t know what Wirt looks like. You cain’t—”

  “I can. This town’s not big. I’ll find Avery in a matter of—”

  “You ain’t even sure he’s here. How—”

  “He’s here.”

  Her eyes widened. “How—How do you know?”

  “Don’t doubt me, Russia. The marshal’s office is across the street. Go there. Now.”

  She didn’t want to leave him. Soon she’d be separated from him forever, and she wanted every minute she had left with him. “Why do I have to go to the marshal’s office?”

  Finally, he turned and faced her. The sight of her made him feel weak with emotion. It was for her own safety that he wanted her sheltered in the lawman’s office. God only knew what kind of violence Wirt Avery was capable of causing before dying. “Do as I say.”

  Though he’d spoken the command softly, Russia heard the hard danger beneath it. Mutely, she watched as he examined his guns. The cold efficiency with which he handled those steel revolvers frightened her. There was nothing gentle at all about him now. He was not the man she knew.

  This was the gunslinger who never missed his target.

  This was Santiago Zamora, the legend.

  She knew then that Wirt Avery was, indeed, in Calavera. “How long—”

  “As long as it takes him to die. Now go do what I told you.”

  Realizing he’d dismissed her for the final time and that he would hear no more from her, she turned and walked across the street. When she reached the steps that led to the marshal’s office, the door swung open.

  She stopped, so shocked that she stopped breathing.

  Marshal Cobbett Wilkens smiled. “We meet again.”

  Russia felt a lurch of dark apprehension. Something was wrong here. She reached for the porch post.

  But it was Santiago’s arrival by her side that steadied her, kept her from falling. She realized he must have recognized the Rock Springs lawman. “Santiago,” she whispered fearfully, “what’s he doin’ here in—”

  “Recognize me, Zamora?” Marshal Wilkens cut her off.

  Santiago tightened his hold around Russia’s waist. His eyes narrowing, he stared at the marshal and the five armed men who stood with him. A sound came from behind him. The sound of bootheels striking the hard dirt street. A sickening sense of foreboding permeated his entire being.

  He and Russia were completely surrounded.

  “Lay down your weapons, Zamora,” Marshal Wilkens ordered, his thin lips curling. “You’re under arrest.”

  “Arrest?” Russia shouted. “What—”

  “Russia,” Santiago mumbled into her ear, “be quiet. Don’t say another word.” When she obeyed, he pierced the marshal with another penetrating glare.

  The perilous depths and dangerous glitter in Santiago’s black eyes caused Marshal Wilkens to take a step backward. It was a moment before he got hold of his fear, a moment before he remembered there were twelve armed men on his side. He threw back his shoulders and raised his hand.

  One look at the drawing pinched between the marshal’s bony fingers erased every shred of confusion from Santiago’s mind. In that instant, he knew every detail of the scheme Wirt Avery had obviously worked. He arched an ebony brow and looked back at the marshal. “It’s a fake, and you damn well know it,” he said calmly.

  Marshal Wilkens was stunned by Santiago’s cool demeanor. Did the man possess even a hint of fear? “I know nothing of the sort, Zamora. Throw down your weapons, or I’ll be forced to shoot you through your black heart.”

  Russia gasped, choking on her quick breath and terrible fear. “Dear God, no! Santiago—”

  Quickly, he laid his hand across her mouth, quieting her. After a brief silence, he heard what seemed like thousands of gun hammers clicking. They clicked softly, but the sound roared in Santiago ‘s ears like cannon fire. If he were alone, he’d be tempted to shoot his way out of his predicament. But he wasn’t alone. Russia stood beside him. The thought of a stray bullet hitting her made him sick inside. Santa Maria, what was he going to do?

  “Worried about your whore, Zamora?” Marshal Wilkens taunted. “There’s no need to be. None at all. Her loving father is here. He wants to reform her, you understand,” he explained, not for Santiago’s benefit, but for that of the townsmen around him. “He plans to take her home where she belongs. Any devoted father would do that for his daughter. It’s the right thing to do. The only thing to do, and I pray he’s successful. Mr. Avery? Come collect your daughter.”

  Hideous fear engulfed Russia as she watched the marshal and his men move to the side, allowing another man room to pass. Her eyes locked on pale blue ones. Set in a fleshy face covered with filthy red hair, they glowed with twisted happiness, pulsing excitement. With unmistakable lust.

  “Come to Papa, darlin’,” Wirt urged, holding out his huge hands to her. “Come to yer sweet ole papa.”

  She tried to scream, but gagged instead. Burying her face in Santiago’s shirt, she searched desperately for some comforting thing. Wildly, she sought his scent, that special fragrance that would make her feel safe.

  She couldn’t find it. She smelled Wirt. Nausea welled, gagging her again. “Don’t let me go,” she whispered into Santiago’s chest. “Don’t let me go, please don’t, please don’t, please—”

  “Make him let go of her, Marshal!” Wirt shouted. “God Almighty, I want to hold her so bad, my arms is shakin’ somethin’ fierce!”

  “Take your daughter, Mr. Avery,” Marshal Wilkens said compliantly. “Go and get her.”

  Santiago raised his Colt. “Another step, Avery, and I’ll send a bullet through your—”

  “She’s mine, Zamora!” Wirt exploded. “My daughter!”

  Marshal Wilkens advanced. “Let her go, Zamora.”

  Russia felt all the strength leave her body. She sagged against Santiago, panting in terror. “Santiago, please. Please.”

  Her plea squeezed around his heart. He glared at Marshal Wilkens again. “I’ll see you in hell if you go through with this.”

  Reminding himself that he had the upper hand, the marshal managed to resist the heart-stopping fear caused by Santiago’s softly spoken warning. He raised his chin. “Let the girl go, Zamora.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Marshal Wilkens smiled, then pushed his hat back with the tip of his finger. “Then we’ll shoot you.” He raised his rifle again, his action imitated by all the men who stood with him.

  Santiago kept his Colts steady.

  The marshal’s men walked nearer. So close that Santiago could see the pores on their faces. Gun barrels pushed into every available spot on his body. Some wide, some small, all lethal. He even felt a knife at his throat. A trickle of blood dripped down his neck.

  Rus
sia clung to him like his own skin. Her body shook uncontrollably, and he felt her hot tears drenching his chest. The need to hold and protect her seared into him, but he forced himself to remain still when he saw what Marshal Wilkens was doing.

  Discreetly, the smiling lawman held a shining silver pistol to Russia’s side, moving the gun so that Santiago couldn’t miss seeing it. He knew then that the bastard would give the order to shoot. Every bullet fired would be aimed at his own body. Every bullet save the one from the marshal’s shining silver pistol. That one would end Russia’s life.

  His surrender was his only way of saving her.

  He didn’t resist when one of the men disarmed him. He put up no fight when another man yanked his hands behind his back and bound them tightly. Only when Russia lifted her face and gazed into his eyes did he move. He bent to kiss her.

  Just as his lips touched hers, Russia felt herself being torn away from him. The fat arms that curled around her then brought back remembered horrors. “Santiago!”

  Her plea for his aid—aid he had no way of giving her—chilled him to the very marrow of his bones. “I’ll find you, Russia,” he swore softly. “Wherever he takes you, I’ll find you.”

  Marshal Wilkens bit back a smile. “I’m afraid that’s one vow you won’t be able to keep, Zamora. That is, unless you have the power to come back from the grave. Calavera isn’t big enough to hold you, and it’s my duty to see that all its citizens are safe. The only way I can do that is by making sure you’re dead. The fact that you refused to lay down your weapons when under arrest proves what a danger you are. Men? Do you agree with me?”

  Mumbled approvals filled the air.

  “No!” Russia screamed, struggling to free herself from Wirt’s brawny hold. “Marshal, you’re makin’ a mistake! Santiago didn’t kill nobody! That picture was drawed by a man down in—”

  “Shut your lyin’ mouth!” Wirt shouted. He raised his hand and slammed his open palm across her mouth, then kept it crushed to her lips. “No daughter o’ mine’s gonna lie fer some stinkin’ murderer!”

  Santiago’s grief and fury knew no bounds when he saw Russia’s tears. They flowed from her wide, fear-filled eyes and slipped over Wirt’s huge and filthy hand. Without realizing what he was doing, he started for her. He’d taken only two steps when a hard object hammered down on the back of his head.

  The pain was excruciating. Consciousness slipped slowly away. He fell to his knees. The day began to darken. He could see nothing but Russia.

  He whispered to her. “I love you.”

  He couldn’t hear his own words. Desperate for her to know what he’d said, he whispered them again. “I love you.” His declaration was still soundless.

  His body toppled forward; his face hit hard, rocky ground. “Russia, I love you.”

  His words blew across the dirt before blackness settled over him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Numb with terror, Russia held onto the saddle horn.

  Wirt sat behind her, panting into her ear, rubbing himself lewdly against her back. Moonlight illuminated the lathered sweat on his mount’s neck. The horse had been running for hours, and although Russia realized he was close to exhaustion, she prayed he’d go on forever.

  For she knew that once he stopped, her nightmare would truly begin.

  Had Santiago already lost his life? Was he now, at this moment, swinging from a noose? Or had they shot him? The questions battered into her, adding to her already unbearable stress and pain.

  She slumped forward, her dazed eyes staring at the ground beneath the horse’s beating hooves. They sped through a smattering of wild marigolds and a thick bed of emerald clover. Moonlight cast a silver sheen upon the fragile plants. It was only this morning when she’d sat in the clover and held the marigolds Santiago had given her. God, this morning seemed like years ago.

  The clover gradually gave way to spots of grass and rocks, then sandy dirt out of which grew scraggly mesquite seedlings. The labored horse crossed the border into Mexico. He began to stumble then and was shuddering for breath when he abruptly stopped. Russia’s prayer that he continue never reached heaven. She knew then that she was at Wirt’s mercy.

  Muttering profanities, Wirt dismounted. Wildly, he searched the night-shrouded distance. Santiago Zamora was dead. He was almost sure of it. At the very least, the man was in jail, locked up in a cell, and he would be hung tomorrow.

  But Wirt couldn’t shake his fear, couldn’t forget the horrible promise he’d seen in Santiago’s black eyes. If there were any way at all, the gunslinger would follow, even if it meant coming back from the dead. Wirt continued staring into the darkness, terrified he’d see the infamous gunman riding out of the night, maybe out of hell.

  His shoulders heaving, he jerked Russia out of the saddle. “Yer gonna have to hold on fer a while, darlin’,” he told her, his hand closing around her breast, his fingers pinching her cruelly.

  She pushed against his hand. “Hold on fer what, you stinkin’ son of a—”

  “Fer more o’ this.” Quickly, he pulled her into his arms, his lips crushing down on hers. “Yer mine,” he growled into her mouth. “And I aim to prove that to ya in a way that ya won’t never fergit.”

  On the verge of being sick to her stomach, Russia managed to turn her face away from his. Every horrible memory she had of him slithered through her mind, causing her to shake with fear and revulsion.

  Wirt wrapped his sausagelike fingers around a lock of her hair and jerked her head around. “It was wrong what ya done, runnin’ from me. Ya was all I had left, and ya runned away. I lost yer ma, then I lost the farm. It weren’t fair, do ya hear me! How much losin’ do ya think a man can take? Yer gonna pay fer runnin’ away. I own ya, and ya ain’t gittin’ away again.”

  She glared at him. “I won’t never be yours,” she whispered. “Nothin’ you do will ever make me yours.”

  “Yeah?” Without warning, he slapped her. Hard.

  Russia felt dizzy with pain. Her eyes seemed crossed; she saw two Wirt Averys towering above her. She began to sway.

  He yanked at her arm, his beefy hand bruising her tender flesh. Burying his huge face in her neck, he kissed and nipped at her moist skin. “Ya had that comin’ to ya. Ya have to git punished fer runnin’, and I got a lot o’ punishments in mind fer ya.”

  He lifted his head and struck her again, catching her in his arms when she fell. “We gotta git away. Ain’t got no horse, so we’ll walk. You come on with Wirt, darlin’,” he whispered down to her. “Come on with yer sweet ole Wirt.” Smiling, he began to walk.

  Semiconscious, Russia tried to see and understand where they were going, but soon lost all sense of direction. The man didn’t tire; he walked for what seemed all night. Her suspicions were proven true by the arrival of dawn.

  The weak light shone upon a battered wooden signpost. Wirt stopped beside it. “Mis—Miseri—Misericordia,” he read. “Must be the name o’ some town. Some town nearby.” Pulling Russia behind him, he continued on.

  Russia closed her eyes. Nearby, she repeated to herself. Soon, very soon, Wirt would assault her. Like he had before. She’d fight him this time. He would kill her. She knew he would. She’d goad him into it. Death was infinitely preferable to a lifetime of abuse at Wirt Avery’s hands.

  Misericordia, she thought dully. She’d never been there, but Santiago had. Once upon a time, he’d been born there.

  And she would die there.

  So much for happily-ever-afters. Defeat crept through her exhausted body, her broken heart. With it came sorrow so deep, it defied even her tears.

  * * *

  The noose hung from a branch of a huge oak tree. Santiago could see it from the small, barred window of his cell. Marshal Wilkens had told him last night it was there, but not until dawn had broken could Santiago see it.

  He stared at it now. The hanging was set for eight o’clock.

  “A breakfast hanging,” the marshal had proclaimed. “A change of pace from the
usual afternoon-picnic hanging.”

  A breakfast hanging, Santiago thought, his gaze riveted on the circle of rope. Women would pack hard-boiled eggs, fried ham, biscuits, and jam. Maybe he’d smell fresh bacon right before he died. Perhaps richly scented coffee as well.

  The children would watch. For as long as it took him to die, they’d lay down their toys. They’d be wide-eyed and awed, but not sorry. Someone would have told them the stories, the grisly tales, and they’d be glad he was being put to death. He was the stuff of children’s nightmares.

  Nightmares.

  Russia’s. Had they come to pass yet? He laid his chin on the rough and rocky windowsill and closed his eyes, engulfed in helpless rage.

  He’d paced his cell all night, his bootheels creating a nonstop clatter on the wood floor. The sound irritated him, but he couldn’t stop pacing, couldn’t sit, not for a second. His nerves were stretched to the point where they caused him to ache all over.

  He wasn’t afraid of death; he never had been. But to die like this…like the criminals he’d hunted down. To die like this…when Russia needed him so badly…

  He turned and walked to the cell door, raising his hands to the bars, curling his fingers around the cold black steel. He looked closely at his hands. It no longer mattered that they were dirty and covered with calluses.

  Raising his gaze, he spied his Colts. They were still in his gun belt, which was draped over the back of a chair near the door along with his straps of bullets. His dagger gleamed from the marshal’s desktop. His hat had fallen to the floor next to a coat rack. Even from where he stood he could see the dust on it.

  He watched the door. It would soon open, and in would come Marshal Wilkens. Coward that he was, the man wouldn’t come alone; he’d bring armed townsmen with him. Without his weapons, Santiago knew he stood no chance of overpowering them.

  Nor could he escape before they arrived. He’d tried. All night, in between pacing.

  His thoughts wandered aimlessly. He remembered Russia’s prayers. The ones she’d whispered in the church in Rosario. She’d asked Mary to keep him safe.