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

by Rebecca Paisley

  A tear slipped down her sunken cheek. She looked up at him again.

  He saw gratitude in her cloudy eyes, but not a hint of recognition. She didn’t know him. But then, he mused, she’d never really known him.

  Pressing his palm against Quetzalcoatl, he urged the stallion forward, leaving the memories behind forever.

  “Who was that?” Russia asked, also casting a look of tender pity at the sickened hag.

  Santiago kept his eyes straight ahead. “A girl I used to know.” With that, he put his stallion into a canter, Russia following closely behind.

  Graciela watched them leave.

  * * *

  Whispering Oaks.

  From her hotel-room window, Russia looked out over the peaceful town. The journey from Misericordia had taken only two days. True to his word, Santiago had hurried. He’d hurried so hard, there’d barely been enough time to sleep, much less talk.

  “It’s nice here,” she whispered to Nehemiah, who sat on the sill rubbing his face against her shoulder. “Whisperin’ Oaks—nice. Real…nice.”

  Tears welled; she felt them trickle down her cheeks. Nehemiah licked them away. “Ben—he’s nice, too,” she continued shakily.

  Her heart skipped several beats. “He’s leavin’, boy. Santiago. Goin’ on, jist like he should. Ain’t it grand? Grand that he’s gonna find him his happily-ever-after? And me? Well, Ben—he proposed again the second he finded out I was back.”

  She closed her eyes, contemplating the meeting she’d had with Ben earlier in the day. She’d come right out and told him about the sexual assault she’d suffered and how it had left her unable to bear children. She’d thought for sure he’d change his mind about wanting to marry her.

  He hadn’t.

  Sighing, she stroked Nehemiah’s ears. “I done a lot o’ thinkin’ while we was travelin’ to Whisperin’ Oaks, boy. I ain’t never gotta be one o’ them soiled doves again. Don’t gotta keep runnin’ like before. Whisperin’ Oaks I ain’t got nowheres else to go. Ain’t got no family a’tall no place.

  “And Ben—I cain’t hardly believe he still wants to marry me. A girl like me shouldn’t oughta let a gentleman like him slip through her fingers, huh? I’d—I’d be plumb nelly stupid not to take hold o’ all these dreams come true. Red velvet coach, poetry, clean nails and all… And didn’t you always hear me say I wanted to settle down in some peaceful town? Didn’t you always listen to me when I commenced tellin’ you about all them things I wanted outta life one day? The day fer gittin’ ’em— The day come, boy, and I’m gittin’ ever’thing I— Jist—jist like I always wanted. Yeah, good ole Ben. I’ll be good right back to him. I’ll do ever’thing I can to make him happy. We’ll have us a fine life. A real fine one, me and…Ben. It’s what— It’s— It’s what I always wanted!”

  Her shoulders heaved; sobs racked her body. She laid her head upon her arms, weeping for the love she’d found, the love she’d lost, the love she’d never have again.

  Only a sharp knock at the door finally stopped her tears. She splashed cool water on her face, then smoothed her hair. Her motions wooden, she opened the door.

  There stood Ben.

  Behind him stood Santiago.

  They’d brought up her belongings, and she watched as they placed them on the floor.

  Ben held out his arms. She walked into them. Her eyes locked with Santiago’s.

  Two men.

  She loved one. She would marry the other.

  * * *

  Ben could barely wait for the wedding. He took care of all the plans quickly and efficiently, making sure Russia was by his side as he did so. The ceremony would be held on Saturday, four days away. The entire town of Whispering Oaks looked forward to the romantic event.

  From a distance, Santiago observed Ben’s activities. The man was meticulous about each tiny detail, working feverishly with the minister, the church organist, and the women who were to create the flower arrangements and the wedding cake.

  But there was one thing Ben had overlooked. One very important thing.

  Santiago took care of it. It was the last favor he would ever do for Russia, and he was determined that it be done perfectly.

  He almost drove the seamstress and her assistants insane, insisting they work day and night. He might as well have moved into the dressmaker’s shop, for he rarely left it during the time it took the women to complete his order.

  The finished product was sheer perfection. The time had come to give it to Russia.

  The time had come for him to leave.

  He found her in her room. He’d hoped he would, for he couldn’t stand the thought of having to say good-bye to her while she was wrapped in Ben’s embrace.

  His parting gift to her draped over his arms, he walked further into her room and stopped a few feet away from her bed, on which she was sitting. “I didn’t know…what color,” he stammered. “I assumed you’d want—well, a white one.”

  Russia saw that he held a dress. “White,” she repeated. Her mouth went dry; her heart sank. She knew in her soul this was the last time she’d ever see him.

  Santiago looked down at the lily-white satin gown. It appeared so vivid next to his coal-black shirt. “It has lace on it. I picked it out myself, Russia. You like lace. You have it…on your underwear.”

  She thought about all the intimate things he knew about her. Things Ben didn’t know. Tears tried to come. She refused to let them.

  “Pearls, too,” Santiago continued. “The seamstress and her assistants have worked around the clock to finish it, Russia. Do you like it?”

  She heard the deep hope in his voice. He wanted desperately for her to love the dress. Dear God, she couldn’t believe she was going to thank the man she loved for buying her a dress in which she would wed Ben. “Santiago, it’s real purty.”

  “And a veil, Russia,” he said softly. “It has a veil, too. A long one. It’ll hang down behind you. The dress—it looks like something straight out of a fairy tale. You’ll look like…a princess…won’t you?”

  Anguish paralyzed her. She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even nod.

  Santiago swallowed and strode toward her. Carefully, he laid the gown down beside her. “Russia, I’m—”

  “I know,” she told him, valiant in her efforts to conceal her grief. “I know, Santiago. You’re—you’re leavin’.”

  He took a deep breath and turned toward the window, unable to look at her. “Yes. I—I came to tell you…good-bye.”

  At that moment, her heart broke. She could feel the pieces separating, tearing apart. They’d never come together again. Not ever. She’d known this moment would arrive, but she was unprepared for the devastating torment it brought.

  Her gaze fell to her lap; she saw her hands shaking. Only her love for Santiago kept her from throwing herself into his arms. Only her love gave her the courage to accept their final parting.

  Slowly, she rose and walked to the dresser, taking a burlap sack from the top of it. She caressed it for a moment, then returned to Santiago. “I wanted to give you a little somethin’. Some little gift. Ain’t much, but I hope— Well, I hope you’ll like it.”

  He accepted the bag, but couldn’t make himself open it. His feelings were too raw right now. “I have something for you, too.” He removed a large leather pouch from his belt and dropped it on the bed. It landed on her gown and opened.

  Gold spilled all over the white satin.

  Russia’s eyes widened. “I ain’t takin’ that.”

  “You will.”

  “Won’t.”

  “Will.”

  “But why?” she asked. “Why—”

  “Let’s just say God’s mama is paying you back.”

  She realized then that he knew she’d given her gold to the church in Rosario. Was there anything at all about her that this magnificent man didn’t know?

  “I have to go now, Russia,” he murmured almost inaudibly.

  She tangled her hair in her fingers. “I don’t kno
w what to do. What to say. I ain’t—I ain’t never said good-bye to nobody.”

  “I never have, either.”

  “I reckon we jist come right out and say it.”

  He felt hollow. The fullness she’d brought to him was emptying now, never to be filled again. It was agony, this moment. Saying good-bye to the woman he loved more with each breath he took.

  “Good-bye, Russia Valentine.” He reached out, sliding his hand across her cheek.

  She did likewise, running her finger down his pale and jagged scar. “Good-bye, Santiago Zamora.”

  Unable to stop himself, he pulled her into his arms, embracing her tightly. “Be happy,” he whispered.

  She breathed deeply of his scent. Of sunshine and steel. Worn leather, horseflesh, and virility. She’d never forget the wonderful way he smelled. “You, too,” she murmured, her arms going around him, her fingers spreading over the thick muscles in his back. “Live happily ever after, Santiago.”

  His arms dropped from around her. After one last, long look into her incredible blue-green eyes, he headed for the door.

  In the next second, he was gone.

  Only when she could no longer hear his footsteps in the hallway did Russia allow herself to do what she’d refused to do in front of him.

  She lay down on her wedding gown and sobbed, her tears washing over the gold.

  * * *

  Santiago gave Quetzalcoatl his head, allowing the stallion to wander in whatever direction he wanted. He didn’t care where the horse went and gave the steed no guidance. Quetzalcoatl drifted slowly, aimlessly.

  They traveled for the rest of the day and clear through the night. When morning arrived, Santiago gave his mount only a short rest before continuing. Before he realized it, nighttime had fallen over him again.

  Millions of stars glittered down at him. It was now as it had been before. He was alone. Completely alone, just as he’d been before he met Russia.

  He reined Quetzalcoatl to a halt and dismounted, his feet sinking into a bed of mesquite saplings. He looked down at them, remembering the day he’d told Russia how the trees had been planted here. Remembering the day he’d caught her mare for her.

  Remembering every single second of the time he’d spent with her.

  He gripped the saddle hard, as if he could crush it. His hands whitened with exertion. Through narrowed eyes he saw the stains beneath his nails.

  He ripped his gaze away from them. As he did, he spied the bag Russia had given him before he’d left. Fingers trembling, he reached for it, holding it next to his chest for a long while before finally pulling open the rawhide drawstring that held it closed.

  He pulled a book out of it. Russia’s fairy tales. All the breath left his body. The book… Russia’s sole treasure. The possession that meant more to her than anything she’d ever had.

  And she’d given it to him.

  A tear splashed upon it. Another followed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wept. He didn’t care. No one could see him. No one witnessed his anguish. He was alone. It would always be so.

  The burlap bag dropped from his shaking hands. After a moment, he realized it had fallen heavily. As if there was something more inside it. He bent to pick it up. Its weight told him there was, indeed, something else within it. With his thumbs, he tried to discern what it was. He couldn’t.

  His heart in his throat, he opened the bag wide and peered inside. He still couldn’t understand what was in it. Slowly, he slipped his hand through the opening, his fingers touching something small and hard. Taking hold of it, he pulled it out and held it up toward the light of the moon and the millions of stars.

  The night light filtered around the shape of a hand. Not his own, but another one. A small, delicate one.

  It was a cookie. A cookie shaped like a hand.

  When I find my Prince Charmin’, Santiago? Well, I’ll make him those hand cookies I done tole you about. I won’t never make ‘emfer another man. Jist him, only him. I’ll put ever’ bit o’ love I got into them cookies, and when he eats ‘emthey’ll be the sweetest things he ever put in his mouth. I’ll live happily ever after with him.

  His tear-filled eyes widened. He was too stunned to breathe. Tide after tide of unmitigated astonishment crashed over him.

  Russia. These were her hand cookies. She hadn’t made them for Ben.

  She’d made them for him.

  “Santa Maria, Quetzalcoatl!” he shouted at his horse. “She—she doesn’t love Ben! She loves me! She—”

  He broke off abruptly, panic exploding inside him. Friday. Today was Friday. Mother of God, he’d left Russia with the man she was to marry tomorrow! Tomorrow!

  He was back in the saddle before he even thought to mount. His keen gaze swept across his surroundings. In only a moment he’d judged his location. His hand on Quetzalcoatl’s shoulder, he sent the stallion into a thundering gallop.

  He had a wedding to stop.

  A princess to claim.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  A terrible sense of foreboding swept through Santiago as Quetzalcoatl raced into Whispering Oaks.

  It was Saturday, midafternoon, and the town was void of people. The streets were empty.

  Empty but beautifully decorated. Every available post, door, and porch boasted ribbons and streamers. Pots of freshly cut flowers lined the street that began at the church and ended at the steps leading into the hotel. And on those steps lay a white runner. Rose petals were scattered upon it.

  Dread pumping steadily through his veins, Santiago halted Quetzalcoatl in front of the hotel, flew out of the saddle, and raced into the building. The very first thing he saw upon entering was a stream of white lace cascading down a large table in the middle of the lobby. Upon it sat a cake. A huge, seven-tiered wedding cake embellished with pink sugar roses.

  His dread turned to cold fear; his body seemed frozen with it.

  The hotel owner, fiddling with a flower arrangement on the registration desk, looked up and smiled broadly. “Come back, did you, Mr. Zamora?”

  “Russia,” Santiago panted. “Where—”

  “Why, they’re all over at the church-house!” the man replied. “It’s where folks go when they want to get married, y’know. Ceremony started about a half hour ago. I reckon Miss Valentine and ole Ben are jist about wedded up by now. They—”

  Santiago spun on his heel, ran out of the hotel, and bounded down the steps, having every intention of leaping back into the saddle.

  But the saddle was otherwise occupied. Nehemiah sat upon it, a dead garden snake in his mouth. With all speed, Santiago tucked the cat and the deceased reptile into his saddlebag and mounted. Frantically, he turned the stallion toward the church, situated at the end of the street.

  The horse galloped to the church, rearing before it when his master pulled on the reins. Santiago saw that the church doors were open. From within, a voice came. His blood congealed as he listened.

  “If anyone knows just cause why this man and woman cannot be joined in holy matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their—”

  “Russia!” Santiago screamed. “Santa Maria, no!” Mindless of everything except stopping the wedding, he urged Quetzalcoatl up the steps of the church and rode him straight into the sanctuary.

  A collective gasp rose as the ebony stallion pranced up the aisle. The minister fainted. Ben paled.

  Russia dropped her bouquet. Her hands shaking, she clutched at the satin skirts of her wedding gown and spun around. The sight that met her eyes dazzled through her.

  Santiago. Astride his stallion. Guns gleaming. Hair flowing. Santiago.

  He stopped Quetzalcoatl beside her. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  Her gaze swept up to him, her heart thrashing when she looked into those obsidian-black eyes. They bore into her as if seeking her very soul. Slowly, she raised her hand to the place on her chest where she figured her soul was, vaguely remembering that this was exactly what she’d done the day he’d first pinne
d her with those eyes, those glittering eyes.

  “Russia!” he yelled, his shout echoing throughout the church. “I asked you what you’re doing!”

  “Gittin’—gittin’ married.” She groped for more words, but couldn’t find any.

  He saw tears sparkling on the tips of her long lashes. Santa Maria, how those tears affected him. He would never give her cause to weep again. Not ever. “Once upon a time, I asked you if you thought you could wave your magic wand over me and make everything better. Do you remember that, Russia?”

  She gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “You did it.”

  She tried to understand the full implication of what he was saying to her.

  Santiago saw the bewilderment in her eyes. “You’re not marrying Ben, Russia.”

  Ben gasped and took Russia’s arm. His thin body shook like a reed in the throes of a strong wind. “Santiago, what right do you—”

  “What right?” Santiago repeated. He slipped his hand into the burlap sack attached to his saddle and withdrew a hand cookie. “This,” he began, holding the cookie in front of Ben’s eyes, “gives me every right in the world.”

  Ben stared at the cookie, unable to comprehend what it had to do with stopping the wedding. “But—”

  “Russia,” Santiago pressed, ignoring Ben.

  She heard his question in the sound of her name and answered it. “Yes,” she answered softly, tears still glimmering in her eyes. “Yes!”

  With one fluid and powerful motion, Santiago leaned down, wrapped his arm around her waist, and lifted her into the saddle. “You ought to be thanking me, Ben,” he told the pallid groom. “She’d have eaten you out of house and home, provided she didn’t burn it down first. And her singing… God, you’d have been deaf within mere weeks. And her cat would have slept in your hat every night. Santa Maria, Ben, I’m saving you from a lifetime of pure, unadulterated aggravation.”

  With those parting words, Santiago urged Quetzalcoatl back down the aisle. Her emotions spinning, Russia looked over her shoulder. What she saw relieved her guilt at leaving Ben stranded at the altar.