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

by Rebecca Paisley

  His shoulders slumped. If only the prayer had been heard. If it had, he’d be able to save Russia. As it was, he was powerless to help her.

  More memories came to him. And they lived happily ever after. The words swirled through him, reverberating in his mind so loudly he could have sworn he really heard them with his ears. Happily ever after.

  The three words would never come to pass. Not for him, and not for Russia. He groaned, hearing his own despair in the sound he made. His wretched grief and impotent fury.

  He pressed his hot forehead against the cold bars and waited for the hour of his execution.

  In the next moment, he heard a sound that startled him. His head snapped up; he stared at the door, sure it would open in the next second.

  It didn’t. But he could still hear the small sound. It was coming from behind him, he realized suddenly. He spun on his heel, his eyes widening.

  There, behind the bars of the window, sat Nehemiah, a big green bug clamped in his mouth. Two long steps were all Santiago needed to reach the cat. His heart pounding with emotion, he slipped his hand between the bars, grasped the skin behind Nehemiah’s head, and pulled him into the cell. For the first time since he’d been thrown into the jail, he sat down. The rickety cot squeaked and sagged beneath his weight. The big green bug fell to the floor.

  Santiago held the tabby close to his chest. Here, he mused sadly, was the last friend he’d see on this earth. Here, in his arms, was Nehemiah, Russia’s baby. Deep emotion rippled through him; he said nothing, but he had the distinct feeling there was no need for words. The cat seemed to detect his every thought. He wanted to hold Nehemiah until the marshal came, close, like he was now, next to his chest while remembering…remembering.

  But Nehemiah had other ideas.

  “Wait,” he said when the frisky tabby suddenly jumped out of his arms and trotted through the cell bars.

  His head held high, Nehemiah padded into the marshal’s office. He headed toward Santiago’s hat.

  Santiago watched the cat step into the hat. Nehemiah spent long minutes turning around in it. Then, as if bored or too wide awake to sleep, he hopped out of it. Santiago walked toward the bars, his eyes never leaving the gray tabby.

  Nehemiah spied a small knot of tattered rope lying beside a cabinet. He lay flat on his belly, his pupils dilated, his tail swishing. Then he attacked, his paws landing directly upon his prey, the rope. Joyously, he rolled onto his back, his hind claws slashing at the bit of rope he held in his front paws.

  And then he stilled, staring at the ceiling for a moment before righting himself and carrying the rope to Santiago.

  Overcome with poignant feelings and bittersweet memories, Santiago swallowed convulsively. He bent, took the rope from Nehemiah’s mouth, and thought of all the times the cat had given him presents. He’d always refused them. He wouldn’t now. Clutching the rope in one hand, he patted Nehemiah’s head with the other. “Gracias,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

  Encouraged, Nehemiah then brought him a bullet shell he found by the door. From the marshal’s desk he retrieved a small comb, a red kerchief, and a scrap of coffee-splattered paper. He liked the desk. Liked what was on top of it. He swiped everything off, peering over the edge as the stuff fell to the floor. When there was nothing left to throw off, he jumped down, then noticed there were things hanging from the side of the desk. He liked those, too.

  Santiago stopped breathing when he saw Nehemiah batting a ring of keys. Suspended from a nail on the side of the desk, they shone brightly, clanked loudly.

  They were the cell keys.

  Nehemiah soon had them off the nail. They banged to the floor.

  Santiago broke out in a cold sweat when the cat began swatting the keys all around the room. They slid from one corner to the next, Nehemiah scurrying after them. Under a chair they went, then next to Santiago’s hat. Nehemiah took great delight in catching them, freeing them, then sending them on their way again.

  And then he tired of playing with them. He sat on them. Sat there and looked around, bored. Finally he straightened, picked up the keys between his teeth, and trotted toward the cell.

  Straining to believe the miracle unfolding before his very eyes, Santiago didn’t move while Nehemiah approached him. The keys jangled from the cat’s mouth. “Bring them to me,” he whispered. “Santa Maria, bring them here.”

  Gently, Nehemiah dropped the keys onto the top of Santiago’s left boot.

  His fingers shaking, Santiago lifted the keys, squeezing them so hard that one of them sliced into his palm, drawing blood. There were five of them. The third one opened the cell.

  In minutes, his Colts hung from his hips. Crisscrossing his broad chest were his bullet straps, and his dagger shone brilliantly from the leather sheath tied around his calf. He was no longer Santiago Zamora, criminal doomed to die. He was again Santiago Zamora, fabled gunslinger.

  Every shred of defeat he’d felt earlier fled, replaced by a determination so great his body shook with it. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his mission, the most important one of his entire life.

  I’ll find you, Russia. Wherever he takes you, I’ll find you.

  Strength, like a raging tide, streamed into his body. He swiped his hat from the floor and Nehemiah into his arms. The door whined as he cracked it open. He saw a few people strolling down the street, a couple in front of the general store. Several milled about mere yards from the steps that led to the marshal’s office.

  He took a step away from the door, unbuttoned his shirt, and started to stuff Nehemiah inside. But before he did, he took a moment to hold the cat close. “Gracias, amigo,” he whispered. Quickly, he then tucked the cat inside his shirt. Nehemiah squirmed for a second, then settled down.

  Santiago buttoned his shirt again and drew his Colt. His heart pounding with the will to succeed, he yanked the door open and made a mad dash for Quetzalcoatl and Little Miss Muffet, who were still tied where he’d left them yesterday.

  Seeing the escaped prisoner, a woman screamed shrilly, her shout causing the town dogs to bark. Shots were fired; bullets whizzed past Santiago’s head and shoulders.

  Power uncoiled inside him. He ran faster, reaching the horses quickly. His actions blurred, he untied them, then swung into his saddle. Knowing the mare would follow, he urged Quetzalcoatl into a swift canter that soon became a thundering gallop.

  A group of armed men awaited him at the end of the street. Santiago wrapped the reins around the saddle horn and reached for his second Colt. With all the expertise for which he was famed, he fired both guns. His bullets found their marks unerringly. Two men fell, one hit in the shoulder, the other in the thigh. A third staggered wildly, shot in the arm.

  A fourth man took bullets in each of his hands. Marshal Wilkens, his mouth dropping open in utter disbelief, stared at his bleeding palms and the exposed, shattered bones in his fingers. He knew then that he would never be able to pull a trigger again. Dumbfounded, he raised his head. His wide gaze met a swirl of dust. Within it raced the midnight stallion carrying his midnight rider.

  He heard his men questioning him for orders. Idiots, all of them, he fumed. That was Santiago Zamora.

  No one could catch a legend.

  * * *

  Santiago had their trail. Wirt had done nothing to cover it. They’d lost their mount at the border. Santiago knew this from having examined the tracks in the sand. The shape and depth of the footprints indicated Wirt was carrying Russia.

  His stallion prancing, he looked out over the distance. He could smell his own rage. It fueled his determination, fed his strength, and heightened the need for violence pulsing through his veins.

  He’d only maimed the men in Calavera. The next time he shot his guns, his bullets would kill.

  Quetzalcoatl tossed his head, his black mane flying in the wind. He reared, and when his front hooves finally hit the ground, he sped forward. Santiago leaned low over his stallion’s neck, directing the steed.

  “I’ll
find you, Russia,” he whispered into the wind. “Wherever he takes you, I’ll find you.”

  Quetzalcoatl thundered west. West, into the land of Santiago’s birth.

  Into Mexico.

  * * *

  Mesmerized, Russia stared at the pool of bright sunlight on the stained wooden floor. It sparkled, as if it were water, and trickled in from the window, which was without panes, void of curtains, and made unsightly by all the peeling, cracking paint around it.

  The rope moved. One end was tied around her waist, the other around Wirt’s chest. It had proved an effective way of keeping her where she was. She snapped her head toward him and was relieved when she saw he was still sleeping. He’d walked all night and well into the morning, stopping only when he’d reached Misericordia. Now he was exhausted. Too weary to touch her.

  She knew her location. Had known the second Wirt had happened upon it. She was being held captive in an old gray house. Outside was a broken stone wall. Though she’d never laid eyes on the place before last night, she’d recognized it immediately.

  It was the brothel located outside Misericordia. By some morbid quirk of fate, Wirt had found and sought shelter in the same ugly building in which Santiago had discovered Graciela and her lover.

  Wirt groaned in his sleep. The man wasn’t going to sleep forever, and when he awakened…

  Russia’s stomach pitched. Trying to quell the nausea, she stretched out her leg, wiggling her bare toes in the patch of sunlight. She wanted to feel its warmth, tried so hard to feel it. But she was too cold. She felt no heat at all. Not from the splash of sunbeams or in her own body. Her hands were icy. They quivered, as if immersed in something frozen. Her heart beat slowly, as if it, too, had begun to freeze.

  Shaking, she looked around the filthy room again. Part of Santiago had died here sixteen years ago. Maybe all of him had died last night. Perhaps this morning.

  She’d die here today. In only a short while.

  She wouldn’t cry. Santiago didn’t like her tears.

  * * *

  The old man looked up as the black stallion galloped past him. Another black horse followed. Weak though his muscles were, the man rose from his seat on the stone bench beneath the huge shade tree just outside of town. With tired eyes he stared after the man who rode the stallion; his weary mind began to whirl. Nodding vigorously, he hobbled toward town.

  The ebony stallion raced past a group of women who were carrying buckets of water from the stream. They caught only a glimpse of the rider, but it was enough. They set down their buckets and scurried into town.

  The priest let go of the bellpull, disturbed by the loud noise the charcoal stallion made as the horse thundered past the church. Frowning, the holy man watched the rider’s long coal-black hair whipping in the wind. For a moment, he did nothing. Nothing but watch. Then he looked up at the heavens, crossed himself, and waddled toward town.

  Several able-bodied men fought for control of their frenzied horses. The sudden and swift passing of a sable stallion had frightened the steeds. The men calmed them, then looked at one another. They all pondered the face of the man who’d been riding the galloping stallion. Sixteen years had gone by, but none of them had forgotten what he looked like. In the next instant, they sent their horses cantering into town.

  No one in Misericordia had ceased to remember Santiago Zamora. And everyone who saw him hurried to tell Lupita Zamora that her brother had returned.

  * * *

  The rope moved again. Russia didn’t have to look to know Wirt was awake. He grunted something that she didn’t understand.

  He repeated it. “Mine. My little darlin’.”

  “I ain’t your little nothin’.” She said it hatefully, wanting to anger him, wanting him to hurry and begin the assault so she could fight him and make him even angrier. Angry enough to kill.

  Wirt sat up, rubbed his eyes, and stared at his surroundings. A bed frame sat in the middle of the dusty floor. There was no mattress in it, only the crisscrossed ropes that had once held it.

  He ran his tongue over his cracked lips, then rummaged through his saddlebag and yanked out a bottle of rum.

  Russia was repulsed by the way he gulped and slurped at the liquor. It trickled from his mouth, wetting his filthy beard and shirt. He didn’t stop drinking until the bottle was empty. She jumped when he flung it across the room and it shattered against the wall.

  He looked over at Russia, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and smiled. “A man’s gotta have possessions, darlin’. Ya jist don’t unnerstand that, do ya? A man without no ownin’s jist ain’t a man.”

  “You ain’t no man, Wirt Avery,” she hissed at him, “you’re a pig.” She turned away from him, giving him her back, then moaned when he began pulling on the rope. It cut into her middle, squeezing the breath out of her. She felt herself sliding nearer to him. He dragged her to where he sat and positioned her against the wall. She felt fear, but an eerie sense of calm enabled her to control it. Staring at his loathsome face, she silently dared him to do his worst.

  “Say yer mine,” Wirt ordered.

  His smile twisted into a frown. “Say it!” Swiftly, he jerked a knife from a sheath inside his shirt, where he’d hidden it to keep Russia from finding it while he slept. He held it to her neck, nicking her.

  She flinched slightly, but refused to give in to her fear. What good would it do her now?

  “Say ya belong to me,” he insisted. “Remind me that I might’ve lost a lot o’ what I owned, but that I still got you. Tell me them things, darlin’. Tell me.” He moved the knife again, cutting her once more.

  Russia clamped her lips together.

  Infuriated, Wirt tore at her gown, moaning with desire when her breasts sprang free.

  Instantly, Russia began to fight. With one hand she clawed at his face, her nails snagging in his thick beard. Her other hand closed around his throat. She squeezed with every bit of strength her hatred lent to her.

  Wide-eyed, Wirt drew back his fist and hit her brutally. He staggered to his feet, then quickly removed the rope from her and himself.

  Russia watched his knife clatter to the floor and seized the opportunity to reach for it. When her fingers touched the cold metal of the dagger’s hilt, she felt an overpowering sense of anger flood her body. She’d never hurt a living thing in her life, but now, right now, she shook with the need to kill.

  With the flat side of his hand, Wirt cuffed her again, causing her to sag against the wall and drop the knife. Grinning, he fell upon her, grabbing, pulling, and tearing at her dress.

  Russia heard the delicate fabric rip from her body. In mere moments, she felt her naked flesh against him. Outraged, she sank her teeth deeply into his shoulder.

  Wirt screamed. Mindless with fury, he jerked his huge frame off her and rose. Before she could scramble away, he stepped on her, his booted foot between her breasts, and leaned forward, thus allowing much of his tremendous weight to crush down on her.

  Russia gulped at air. Her lungs burned for it, but her chest couldn’t rise. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. Waiting in terrible expectation for her ribs to splinter, she winced with both pain and dread as she watched Wirt strip off his clothes.

  Naked except for his boots and breeches, which were pooled around his ankles, Wirt began to laugh. With each deep rumble of laughter that filled his body, his foot dug harder into Russia’s chest.

  She closed her eyes, wondering if death was closing in on her. The pressure in her head began to destroy her vision, and she could see nothing but a big white mass above her.

  Seeing her condition, Wirt removed his foot. While Russia inhaled deep breaths, he took off his boots and breeches. He knelt. He reached out for her. He bent over her.

  And Russia knew the end had come.

  * * *

  Lupita’s fingers closed around her throat, her action one of shocked astonishment. “Where?” she whispered.

  The people crowded in front of her door all began talking at
once.

  “Outside of town!”

  “On a black stallion, Lupita! And another black horse followed him!”

  “It was him! Racing past the old brothel!”

  “We saw him with our own eyes! Riding—”

  “Mother of God, he looked angry! Like the devil himself!”

  “And if he did not come here to find you, then why is he here? So many weapons! They covered him all over!”

  “He was just like the man we have heard he has become! Quickly, Lupita! You must find him!”

  Lupita whirled around and hurried back into her small, sparsely furnished house. Gently, she covered the infant who slept in a cradle near the fire, then cast a glance at three other children, who sat at the table eating their meager meal.

  Several of the women who’d come to her with the news of Santiago entered the house. “We will watch the children, Lupita,” one of them assured her. “Go now and find your brother. Go find Santiago!”

  Lupita needed no further urging. Clutching her multicolored skirt, she ran out of the house and raced down the street. The knot of hair at the back of her neck loosened. A thick ebony mane flew about her shoulders as she continued to run.

  She looked everywhere, but saw no sign of Santiago or the two black horses. She kept running and was soon out of town. Squinting, she saw the old brothel and sped toward it.

  Out of breath when she arrived before it, she staggered to a broken stone wall and leaned against it for support. While struggling to slow her pounding heart, she searched desperately for the two black horses the people had told her they’d seen.

  There were no horses. No sounds. Her shoulders heaving with exertion, Lupita turned back toward the town. She’d taken only a few steps when a scream reached her ears. As if it were a tangible thing, Lupita felt the scream batter into her. It was so filled with horror, it hurt her to hear it.

  It was a woman who shouted. From within the brothel. Lupita scowled, trying to understand what she was hearing. A second scream exploded from the old gray building. Lupita wasted no more time trying to comprehend who was screaming or why. Nor did she give further thought to Santiago’s whereabouts.