Wild Sierra Rogue

by Martha Hix

  “You’ve still got an accent.”

  Obviously he wasn’t getting his point across. He shortened the distance between them. “I’m not referring to the inflection of my voice. I’m trying to tell you—you can’t count on my name for protection.”

  “I want a guide, not a bodyguard.”

  “Really? Who’s to say you won’t get your throat slit in Mexico? Who’s to say your Teutonic god will get back alive? And who’s to say I won’t be the one to slit your throats?” He tightened his grip. “I am an outlaw. And you know it.”

  “You won’t murder us.” She shoved his fingers away. Her shoulders squaring, she seemed alive with bravery and challenge.

  For the very first time, he kind of fancied her daring. Kind of. Had his advancing age turned his brain to mush? “Be careful giving your trust, Margaret McLoughlin. You might get hurt.”

  A moment passed as she assessed him, then a half chuckle lifted her meager bosom. “I appreciate the warning, but I’ve been to hell and back already.” A dash of melancholy laced her rich voice. “Tempting death is the least of my worries.”

  Admiring her courage too much for comfort, Rafe asked, “Does your father realize . . . Does he know about the trouble I left in Chihuahua?”

  “Yes. Of course. He knows you all too well. Of course, he doesn’t know the whole truth about you and Olga, and let’s not get into that. Anyway, my father isn’t one to make snap decisions.”

  Margaret started to take a deep breath, but she coughed instead. The deep croup alarmed Rafe, but he told himself not to make too much of it. She’d probably suffered no more than a recent chest cold, maybe even a bout of lung fever. She might look bad, but she didn’t look as bad as his sister had . . . when Maria Carmen fought a losing battle against consumption.

  Swallowing, Margaret took a restorative breath and braced herself by holding on to the back of a chair. “As for the method to his madness, Papa figures you’ll shield us against your kind.”

  “A dangerous tactic, I’d say. But you’ll go along with whatever he wants, won’t you? You follow blindly in his stead.”

  “With my eyes wide open, I do my duty to family. A close family, in my opinion, is the most precious jewel ever mined.”

  He knew she meant it. And, suddenly, without warning, he envied her devotion. With the exception of his priestly brother, Rafe’s family—Jesucristo, he couldn’t picture them anymore—loved one another by the points of daggers and swords and repeater rifles.

  “Funny, I find it, your father sending a delicate”—oh, he was proud of not saying sickly-looking—“daughter after his mujer. Why doesn’t he go after his woman himself?”

  “Papa can’t leave Washington just now. He’s busy with the affairs of state—you know we may end up in war over Cuba.”

  “You’ve got a brother and two sisters.”

  “Angus manages the Four Aces. And I thought you knew that my sisters live in Europe. But Olga and Leonardo are traveling—Well, that’s not important right now. I am the one called on. And I do my duty to family.”

  He knew she spoke the truth. Of all the McLoughlin daughters, Margaret was the fixer. She wouldn’t quit until the job was done, even though she might gripe the whole way. For the second time today, Rafe let down his guard. “What would your father do without us?”

  “No telling.” A grin softening her ravaged face, she lifted her palms in a gesture of acceptance. “Good old Rafe and Margaret to the rescue.”

  They shared a laugh, and it felt good to Rafe. He didn’t wish to study on why. Since she’d mentioned the Gulf of Mexico port of Tampico, curiosity forced him to ask, “Where exactly is this Fountain of Youth?”

  “It’s called Eden Roc. It’s near El Ojo de la Barranca, in—”

  “The Eye of the Canyon. In Chihuahua state.” His good feeling vanished, Rafe felt his throat closing. And it had nothing to do with his having heard of Eden Roc. The slightest movement impossible, he murmured, “I know the area well.”

  “Then you know it’s a very isolated place, several days’ journey from Chihuahua city. I believe the area around Eden Roc is inhabited mostly by Tarahumara Indians.”

  The Tarahumara. Rafe could almost hear their drums and chants, could almost taste their potent beer and voluptuous virgins. What a wonderful time he and Hernán, as youths, had one summer there. As men, they had taken Rafe’s young brother to a nearby village’s notorious whorehouse to make a man out of Xzobal. How Rafe and Hernán had laughed when the boy who became a priest ran screaming from Señora Pilar’s spate of instructions.

  Hernándo! Rafe had to clench his teeth, else he’d scream out his dead cousin’s name.

  Turning on his heel, he went to a table of bottles, selecting tequila. Dust blown from the glasses, he poured two shots, then went over to hand Margaret one. She set hers aside. He quaffed his. “I do not wish to return to Chihuahua.”

  “You’ll be well paid.”

  He started to say she’d be better off staying well away from Eden Roc—the old man who owned it being loco as a Yaqui on peyote, according to the Tarahumara—but he heard something in the distance; a quick look over the patio wall confirmed his suspicions. Dolores and her buggy approached. What was he going to do about La Bruja?

  “Margarita,” he said, pronouncing her name in Spanish and waving a hand, “I don’t want the money, I—”

  “Good. Then you’ll do it as a favor to my father.”

  He’d forgotten her miserly bent; she could pinch a peso until the eagle gave up the serpent. Another time he might have found humor in that. “Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t want compensation for services rendered.”

  He crossed to her chair and took her arm. “You’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Must you always be rude?”

  “Yes. Always. Now go.” He picked up her handbag, thrust it into her hand, and started leading her to the door. “Nice to see you again,” he lied. “Give your papá my regards.”

  “I am not leaving till you promise to take me to Mexico!”

  “I’m not promising anything.”

  Margaret got an eyeful of the approaching buggy. “I promise I won’t leave until you say yes.”

  Three

  Returning to Chihuahua could cost his life.

  A bead of sweat rolled down his back and into the waistband of his britches; though more than half of October had passed, the weather remained warm and sultry, even on an early morning such as this. Rafe paced the railroad platform and made a point of ignoring the McLoughlin spinster and her future husband, though it proved difficult, since she was hectoring a porter over proper care of her numerous steamer trunks.

  While it was amazing such a woman of simplicity could outdo the most equipped of travelers, Rafe didn’t mull the contents of her stores, the narrowness of her brown traveling suit, nor did he dwell on his own situation.

  He concentrated on the mundane. Fog tumbled into the smoke that bellowed from the locomotive. Hawking his wares, a ragged paperboy held aloft the San Antonio Light. A taco vendor pushed his cart between the crush of men, women, and children waiting to catch the westbound Southern Pacific.

  Margaret marched over to the station master; her mouth began to ratchet.

  “Lady, I don’t have nothing to do with the routes,” Rafe heard the man reply.

  She could have been an opera singer, so voluminous was her voice when she said, “But this is the epitome of inconvenience. It is a straight trip to Chihuahua, if we head for Piedras Negras.”

  “Ma’am, as I told you, there’s trouble with rebels between Piedras Negras and Chihuahua city, and the president of the Southern Pacific has done decided we’ll take our passengers to El Paso. You can catch the Meskan train outta Juarez. And, madam, that be all I intend to say on the matter.”

  Rafe didn’t listen to Margaret’s protest.

  “All aboard!”

  At the conductor’s summons, Rafe doffe
d his Stetson to wipe his brow. Now that it was time to leave, he thought about what the journey would bring. After eight years of vowing never to set foot in his home state without the armature of war backing him, Rafe Delgado—revolutionary and murderer—was about to start the return journey to hell. But he’d go with nothing but a Colt Peacemaker, and a gun belt studded with bullets.

  What about when you return to San Antonio? If he returned. Maybe he’d take Ida Frances’s advice and find some nice little wife, then get some children. A certain peace accompanied that thought. Bring out the walking sticks and liniment.

  A strawberry blonde, luscious and ripe as any strawberry in a field of June, sidled up to Rafe and patted her ample bosom. “My goodness, it’s warm, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Indeed it is, señorita.” On instinct, his mouth curved into a smile around the half-smoked cheroot. Taking a long look at this big blonde reminded Rafe of the Amazonian morsel he’d been forced to turn away, thanks to the witch. He stepped to the side, making a gesture not unlike when he’d flourished the muleta. “May I help you aboard?”

  “By all means.”

  He held her fingers and guided her elbow as she took the first step. Something poked his side at the same moment a thank you gushed into his ears. He turned his head, catching sight of an umbrella; he felt its tip wedging between his ribs.

  Dios, what was the matter with the witch? If he didn’t know better, Rafe would have guessed Margarita was jealous. “Remove that poker, or you and your man will be traveling to Chihuahua by the seat of your broomstick.”

  Iced blue eyes chipped into the slate of his. Her mouth pinched like that of a woman wearing tight shoes, she huffed, “I didn’t hire you to further your love life.”

  No, she hadn’t. And he hadn’t wanted to guide Margaret and her man to Eden Roc, not even for the obscene amount of money he’d demanded in a ploy to get her to cease and desist. He felt no overriding responsibility toward them or their quest. It wasn’t as if she’d worked for the money.

  Two nights ago, when she stood in his home and argued, he’d realized something. Her request had been a sign, a divine signal for him to return . . . and somehow honor Hernán’s memory.

  Then, even if it cost his life, he would have a purpose beyond stud.

  “I know what you want, bruja.” He slapped at the umbrella. “Help aboard. You’ve got your own hombre for that.”

  “Obviously you misunderstand. I said—Oh, never mind!” The umbrella tip receded. Swiveling on the ball of her buttoned shoes, Margaret stomped up and into the car. “And don’t call me an old hag.”

  “Bruja has two definitions.”

  “Don’t call me witch, either. Miss McLoughlin will do.”

  “You don’t say . . . Margaret.”

  She gave an ooh of aggravation before disappearing past the conductor. Her man shrugged at Rafe, then followed, and Rafe took another puff from the thin cigar before tossing it onto the rails. Something about Tex Jones struck him as peculiar, and his feeling had nothing to do with jealousy over realizing Margaret’s fiancé wasn’t in jeopardy of going gray.

  An hour ago, Rafe—a few minutes late by Margaret’s timepiece; early by his own standards—had met the happy couple at the San Antonio rail station. During those sixty minutes, Rafe had noticed something besides the wet behind a couple of ears. The ox of a straw-haired hombre hadn’t cast so much as a yearning gaze at his woman.

  Well, who gave a damn? Rafe climbed aboard. Ambling down the aisle, he saw the lovebirds sitting on facing seats. And Tex Jones had his eye on the strawberry blonde. It shouldn’t have mattered to Rafe, Jones’s inattention to his bride-to-be. To Rafe, she was nothing but a witch and a chingaquedita, the last a vulgar term for an irritating female. But any woman, no matter how unpleasant, ought to have her man’s undivided attention.

  Blondes. They ought to be burned at the stake. Men were fools for them, Margaret bemoaned inwardly, as Tex took his turn ogling that floozy and acting touched in the head. Rafe had already done his stumbling over her. The worst part of the situation? Over the past two days Margaret had been unable to stop herself from recalling the sight of Rafe’s bare chest. Or of that golden cross snuggled in those jet black swirls of chest hair. Or of that hard flat stomach. Sin looked like heaven . . .

  He wasn’t a burly or strapping man, Rafe. Though his shoulders were muscular and broad, there was a litheness to him, typical of those in his former profession. It took agility to get out of the way of more than a ton of fire-snorting beef on the hoof.

  “Ain’t she purty,” came a whisper.

  “If you don’t put your tongue back in your mouth,” Margaret threatened Tex in her own whisper, “I’m going to snip it with my embroidery scissors.”

  Tex nodded absently. “That’s nice.”

  Oh dear. She did have a job ahead of her! Rafe Delgado might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t an imbecile, and if a certain fair-haired young man didn’t behave himself, Rafe would suspect Tex Jones was more, or perhaps less, than he was supposed to be.

  And Rafe kept an eye on the man who might be hers. Garbed in leather and suede and enough cheap cologne to suffocate a Longhorn bull, Rafe strode toward her. What he lacked in height he made up for in presence and nimbleness, which must have been handy in the bullring. Once, Charity had commented on Rafe’s catlike grace; Margaret had laughed until her stomach ached at the prosaic reference. She was no longer laughing. And it pleased her they met on equal ground when standing.

  Margaret liked looking men dead in the eye. She preferred to look down at them.

  Rafe leaned toward her. “You’re staring.”

  Her line of sight flew downward, but it bounced like a ball. Knowing his character, she knew any woman would have her hands full, trying to keep the upper hand with Rafael Delgado.

  He took a seat across the aisle, parallel to Tex Jones. Before unbuckling his gun belt and placing it on a handy empty seat, Rafe raised a tanned, callused hand to run a forefinger down the scar lashing into the corner of his sardonic mouth. That Argentine gaze had question written in it.

  He defined inquisitive.

  If there was anything to be thankful for, it was that she’d eschewed bustles and corsets for the trip’s duration, so she didn’t suffer fashion’s dictate. Once upon a time she would have worried about embarrassing jiggles, but that had been once upon a time. . . when she had something to jiggle. Giving the devil his due, Margaret admitted inwardly that Rafe’s comment on her corset had been the deciding factor in her decision.

  Again she glanced at Rafe, who stared at her. He had a way about him. When he centered on a person, his attentions were solely and squarely there. His stare was at times flattering and disarming. In this case, the latter.

  He rolled a slender cigar from one side of his intriguing mouth to the other. Intriguing? Mercy sakes, have I lost my marbles? Just because that scar made her wonder just how it had come about. . . Just because his mouth moved sensuously with every expression he made . . . Just because his anything-but-thin lips were sketched with a fine line of fair skin contrasting to his Mediterranean skin tone, didn’t mean she was fascinated by the villain.

  Did it?

  Surely the naive and smitten fool of 1889 was no more.

  He took the Havana from between his teeth, removed a tad of tobacco from his bottom lip, and made a small sound of spitting. “You two been engaged long?”

  “Not too very.”

  One winged black eyebrow hiking, Rafe moved his thumb in a rhythmic motion. “If I had my guitar, I’d play you a serenade to a long life of love.”

  “How very thoughtful.”

  “I think so.” His eyes crinkled in mild amusement. “Say, I understood you were living up in New York City. How’d y’all meet?” He took another puff. “Ice-cream social? WCTU gathering? Sing-Sing?”

  She squirmed. “We’ve known each other for ages.”

  “Longer than you’ve know me?”

  “Yes, now that you m
ention it.”

  “Isn’t life a strange thing? Next you’ll be telling me you changed his diapers.” Rafe moved his scrutiny to Tex. “What line of work are you in, Jones?” After a moment, he asked Margaret, “Is he deaf?”

  “As a post,” she lied.

  On a whistle of steam, the train chugged out of the station. Tex excused himself to “see the conductor.” While he took a too-slow walk past the frothy object of his interest, Rafe leaned across the aisle. “I sure am glad he’s gone. And I sure am glad the seats around us are vacant. I’ve been wanting to tell you something.”

  “Oh? What?”

  “I looked up Teutonic gods.”

  “It’s never too late for an education.”

  Rafe extended his legs—it was impossible not to notice the fitness of that pair of limbs—and he rested one booted ankle over the other. A click of tongue. A shake of head. “You know, it seems to me . . . Whoever called your hombre a young Siegfried, musta been well into a bottle of mescal.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Margaret—oh, you wanted me to call you Miss. Don’t get me wrong, Miss, I don’t do a lot of studying on other men—that’s kind of sissy, don’t you think? But to my way of adding up two and two, your hombre appears to be fresh off the farm. You’d call an hombre like that ‘hayseed’ in English, right?”

  “He is a man of the land. Ranch land.”

  “Bueno. That’s my language. But you know Spanish. You McLoughlins are big on Spain. Viva España. And all that. Well, that’s neither here nor there.” His aristocratically chiseled nose twitching, Rafe studied his hand as he rubbed a knee. “Kind of young, isn’t he? How does ‘callow youth’ strike you? Whatcha gonna do with an hombre like that, Miss Margaret McLoughlin?”

  “Marry him.”

  “You reckon he’ll be able to do you any good?”

  “Rafe,” she hissed, going red, “don’t be crude.”