Wild Sierra Rogue

by Martha Hix

  “No, ’Rita.” He put his plate down. “I’ve had days to think on this. And visiting Hernándo’s grave has helped me see what I must do. I am never going back to Texas. I am returned. Forever. I will see Xzobal to the sea at Topolobampo, but I won’t leave with him. Mexico is my destiny.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “Rest assured, I mean it.”

  She retreated, until the back of her knees touched the fence. “Rafe, you court disaster. It will find you.”

  “Yes, I believe it will.”

  “You live under a death wish.”

  “If it takes my life, so be it. I don’t know the full price, and I don’t know if there’s any turning back, but I will rid Mexico of Arturo Delgado. This is something I must do.”

  Either crazed or courageous, he had guts of iron. She thought of another obsessed man who’d plunged into the unknown without any assurances that there was a turning back. Columbus. Disgusted yet just a little bit envious of Rafe’s courage, she said, “I would do anything for half a chance at grandchildren and the rocking chair. While you tempt death sans souci.”

  “What does it mean, sans souci?”

  “Without a care.”

  “Well, I told you. Violent death is an honorable one.”

  Margaret didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry or to try to argue some sense into Rafe. What did one do with a man who held his life in so little value that he would gamble it away?

  Nineteen

  Having left the Federal District thirty-six hours before, at midnight on Halloween, the train steamed north to the city of Chihuahua. On orders it wasted no time, careening around bends in the Sierra Madres, taking curves which would have arrested the breath of most mortals. Arturo Delgado, incensed and obsessed, was like an old salt of the sea in a hurricane. He rode the furies. Why? He would not rest until his fingers choked the life from Natalie Nash. She’d sent him chasing off to the capital city. Chasing air. The devious bitch.

  Instinctively he knew where to find her. The state of Chihuahua. Most likely at Eden Roc. She always returned to Eden Roc. And the closer Arturo got to her, the more restless he became.

  She’s probably spreading her legs for Rafito at this minute. Whether or not they were tumbling each other, it went without saying that Arturo Delgado had murder in mind for her and for his treacherous nephew. “He will die.” Arturo’s fingers squeezed, his nails digging into his palms. “I’m going to kill Natalie. They will pay. Each in his own way has double-crossed me.”

  This was no idle threat. A fierce ripping—the sound of red velvet as he tore it from the window of his private railroad car—fought with the steady clip of steel wheels. The drapery gap exposed fierce rays of sunlight; they pierced the irises of Mexico’s richest and most powerful man—El Grandero Rico.

  Arturo, aggravated at the pain poking at the back of his eyeballs, slapped at the light, as if he had control over sunshine, then stomped over to the sideboard and downed two fingers of 1878-distilled Scotch whiskey.

  “Enjoying your breakfast?”

  Arturo swung around and forced himself not to scowl.

  His arm resting across the back of a divan, the Count of Granada sat with a knee crossed over the other, scowling. “Why don’t we get back to our discussion?”

  Conversing on the subject of Spanish spies—tiresome. Tiresome engulfed the count, period. If not for Arturo’s determination to take a titled bride, a daughter of Spain—oh, what he’d give for one of the infantas, were the princesses out of leading strings!—he would have tossed Leonardo de Hapsburg y Borbón from the train and onto the steep grade. And he would laugh upon seeing the body topple over and over, until it crashed and gashed on the rocks. Such would not be wise.

  Being El Grandero Rico of Mexico; owning factories aplenty and millions of square miles of land along with a dozen mines that catacombed the mountains of northern Mexico; having pure Spanish bloodlines in the Americas reaching back to the Conquest. These meant little to royalty. Unless an upstart used his head.

  Arturo eyed the count, who sipped tea and waited expectantly for an answer. Hapsburg had all the right connections in Madrid, as well as purple blood in his veins—he counted most of the crowned heads of Europe as cousin—so Arturo had been pleased to find him in Porfirio Díaz’s company, and even more anxious to offer transport back to Chihuahua. Anything to ingratiate himself, even abiding the snide bastard.

  Rubbing shoulders with this living proof that cousins shouldn’t marry had helped Arturo keep his mind off how close he had come to giving in and taking that baggage Natalie for his bride. She’s not a good idea.

  A well-designed marriage to a well-bred bride—and subsequent children—would smother the demons of gossip. Always, they whispered thorn-sharp truths, that for Hernán, he’d stolen the domain from his father’s rightful heir, and had done nothing to pay homage to that vast inheritance, even after his son became ashes and dust. A titled bride and progeny—and Rafito in his grave!—would give absolute legitimacy to Arturo’s claim.

  Though his patience verged on cracking, he made a magnanimous gesture. “Do go on, Lord Hapsburg.”

  “As I told you before we left the Presidential Palace, I received a distressing telegram. Felipe Apodaca has been arrested in Chihuahua city. He must be assassinated before he talks.”

  “That will be taken care of.”

  “Thank you. And . . . need I explain? It is but a matter of time before my country goes to war with the norteamericanos. We must keep abreast of the U.S. Army’s movements. Furthermore, our operatives need reinforcements, if not replacements, especially in Nuevo Laredo and Chihuahua city. Will you permit me a free hand?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” The train took a sharp curve to the left. Grabbing a golden handrail, Arturo added, “Anything for you and Her Royal Highness.”

  “Thank you.” Lord Hapsburg lit a cigarette, inhaled. “You’ll not regret aiding María Cristina, Alfonso XIII, and all of great and grand Spain.”

  “When will you return there? I wish to travel in your entourage.”

  “Actually, my countess and I have plans for Mexico.” The count paused, as if to wait for a heralding trumpet. His answer being train wheels rumbling up the track, he picked up a silver ashtray (molded from Santa Alicia silver, .925 purity). He ground out his cigarette. “I’ve been recommended as ambassador to Mexico. Your president has kindly accepted my credentials.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Arturo didn’t care for this turn. That mestizo Porfirio Díaz—who did he think he was, keeping such an appointment secret? And whose mad idea was it to flaunt a Hapsburg? The peasantry hadn’t forgotten the last Mexican emperor, Maximilian of the same family.

  Forget politics. Think of yourself. Without the count’s help, it might take years to get a foot in the door of the Palacio Real. The sands of time were sifting away. No one had proof of how long Eden Roc’s rejuvenating properties lasted. Arturo might not have years to waste!

  Refilling his glass, he said, “I will go to Madrid on my own. I shall expect your letter of introduction forthwith.”

  “That seems so . . . tawdry. Cheap. Common, if you will. Without a proper introduction, María Cristina would never grant the sort of audience you solicit.” The count reached for his teacup, sipped. “At any rate, you are in no position to travel to the Continent. Not with disenchanted rabble disrupting the workings of your mines. How distasteful, having your slaves executed. And there is the no-small-business of avenging your son’s murder.”

  Arturo’s anger rose. Currying favor grew four times as tedious as Hapsburg himself. I hate this condescending bastard. The most powerful man in Mexico drew the line on any more fawning. He’d show this Spaniard some New World manners.

  With a thumb and forefinger on the handle, he extracted Hapsburg’s teacup to hold it aloft. Arturo hurled the cup across the car. As it crashed in many pieces against the mahogany paneling, the Count of Granada jumped as if struck.

&nb
sp; Recovering, he looked down his too-thin nose. “You provincials can be so crude.”

  “Crude?” Arturo pointed downward. “The teacup—did you notice? But how would you have known? The gold rim was 24-karat, from the Delgado mines of Sonora. The porcelain was a Limoges special firing, part of a service for one hundred and twenty-eight. It commemorated my grandparents’ marriage. The Delgados of the north with the Calderóns of the south. Did you know the King of Spain crossed the Ocean Sea to attend the wedding?”

  “You were then New Spain. We owe Mexico nothing.”

  “Not even repayment for favors?” Arturo kicked a stray piece of porcelain. “Let’s talk about how you think I ought to conduct my business, expert at commerce that nobility tends to be.” He bent low to Hapsburg’s face. “Don’t second-guess me, you snot-dripping son-of-a-Moor. And don’t address me as if I were a peon too stupid to find his pene to piss.”

  “I—I, uh, you shouldn’t be so quick to take offense.”

  “I’m not offended. You can’t offend a crude provincial. I’ve been called worse than gauche.” An evil smile melted across Arturo’s face; he loved being in his element. “Señor Ambassador, you are not the only man with informants in Mexico. My spies in Eden Roc tell me your lady has been fractious of late. I’ve been told she’s locked you out of your casita. After you forced yourself on her. Shame on you. You know you love her. You will do anything to return to her good graces.”

  “I don’t see how—”

  “It is whispered you spend much time at the whorehouse of Areponapuchi.”

  Hapsburg blanched.

  “Interesting place, isn’t it? So near Eden Roc, yet altogether different. The Tarahumaras named the village, and some respectable people live there, but its infamous den of iniquity fits the name Areponapuchi.” Arturo’s upper lip quivered as he added, “Snake pit.”

  His manhood stirred as he recalled debauchery and lewd rituals. He held a crystal decanter up to the light gaping through the window, before pouring a stiff Scotch for the not-so-arrogant-now Hapsburg, then sat down in the rich embrace of cordovan leather. “The lovely Queen Regent . . . I think she’d be shocked to know such a place exists. If she were to learn you had sampled the bill of fare, I should imagine she’d be outraged.”

  Near to choking, the count tugged at his collar stays.

  “The lovely Lady of Granada knows nothing of Areponapuchi, I’m sure.” Again, Arturo flashed a smile. “You, I assume, wish to keep it that way. With both ladies.”

  Lord Hapsburg lurched to his feet and started toward his own private car. “I’ll see to your introduction.”

  “In person? And soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m pleased we’re in agreement.”

  That settled, Arturo got back to his plans for revenge against Rafito and Natalie. First, though, the avenger had to take care of the business of the Santa Alicia.

  “So many times I have wondered if I would ever see my property again.” By morning light, after an evening sitting vigil at the cemetery of Santa Alicia (Margarita had retreated to the church to sleep within an hour of sundown), Rafe and his delicate Valkyrie halted their mounts at the entrance to Hacienda del Aguilera Real. “So many times I’ve wondered how my ranch has fared.”

  “How does it measure up?” she inquired.

  “The soul is no more.”

  “What a pity. It must have been a grand estate,” Margarita commented, “once upon a time.”

  Rafe, gulping down a lump in his throat, took the reins he’d wound around the saddlehorn, kneed the black stallion he called Diablo, and rode through the rock archway leading into his former vacáda. The great herds of breeding cattle and fine horses had been taken away, or perhaps slaughtered. He didn’t even see the odd goat or two. Outbuildings had fallen to disrepair, if not in on themselves. And when he and Margarita approached the house of twenty-five rooms and two stories, where he had lived in a more innocent and idealistic time, he saw more decay.

  Many of the weathered shutters were missing, some hung from rusted hinges. The hacienda house had been constructed of adobe with a red-tile roof, in the Colonial style with all rooms opening onto the patio and its fountain. The white facade had faded to the most dismal shade of depressing gray; the tiles were the hue of burnt sienna. Rafe said, “The spoils of the corrida built this house. Only fifteen years ago. It appears more like fifty.”

  “It’s a pity.” The words were trite, but her tone held sincerity.

  “I wonder what my hacienda will be like fifteen years from now. In 1912.” On a flash of insight, Rafe saw the bandit Pancho Villa as mature and venerated, and an upstart named Madero ascending the grand staircase of the Presidential Palace. He also saw Margarita, a streak of silver hair flaring from her temple. He smiled. He liked what he saw.

  “Rafe? Rafe, are you all right? Rafe. Snap out of it.”

  He shook his head, smiled.

  Margarita leaned to pat the neck of the chestnut she’d dubbed Penny. “Why won’t you answer me? It’s a simple enough question. Where does your uncle live?”

  “On many haciendas. And there’s the palacio in the Federal District. But the true Delgado family seat isn’t far from here.”

  “How far from here?”

  “It’s between Santa Alicia and El Ojo de la Barranca.”

  “The idea of passing his property makes my skin crawl.” She shuddered. “Explain something. This ‘his’ property. Why did you, a Delgado, have to buy your own land? You weren’t disowned until later, I thought. I assumed you fell heir to Delgado property. I gathered Arturo was a younger son, and—”

  “Arturo took it all for himself.”

  “How can that be? Surely there are laws of inheritance.”

  “My grandfather’s will stipulated that no Delgado of mixed blood could inherit. That left Arturo and Hernán.” Rafe directed Diablo alongside Penny. “It was just as well. I didn’t want the responsibilities that went along with the fortune. Not until I realized, too late, that Delgado resources could have been used for the common good.”

  “I don’t doubt your benevolent heart, but I wonder if you speak from both sides of your mouth. You could’ve given money to the poor instead of buying this hacienda.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, both loving and hating her forthrightness. “There is no way to fool you, is there, my ’Rita?”

  “There is no way to fool me.”

  Rafe swung a leg over the saddle, wrapped the reins around a hitching post, then helped her to the ground. Of course, his hands lingered on her ribs. Of course, his fingers trailed up the sides of her breasts. Naturally he brushed her forehead with his lips. He needed and wanted another round of lovemaking with his warrior-woman. And he was eager to express his undying devotion.

  But she took a wary step backwards. “Tell me, Rafe, why did you buy this ranch?”

  The distance she put between them was measured in more than a couple of feet. She’s still like water for chocolate. He couldn’t blame her for being mad about his running out on her, but he would do his best to make up for it.

  At last he answered her question. “I bought the property for a place to breed bulls for the ring. And for the quiet, to develop plans for the revolution that is yet to be.”

  “My father said your hacienda was a nest of activity, with so many toadies surrounding you, it took days of waiting to gain a ten-minute audience.”

  “Is he usually so talkative? What else did he say?”

  “That you’d assembled an army of misfits. That the little dogs swarmed by the hundreds. That”—her expressive eyes clouded—“beautiful women waited with bated breaths to see to your every whim.”

  His hands going to his hips, Rafe laughed heartily. “All true, mi soldadita. All true.”

  “Why do you call me little soldier?”

  “Would you rather I call you witch?”

  “Little warrior will be fine.”

  She turned as if to look for their
brothers, and lifted the hair from her nape, shaking it. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost hair paraphernalia, leaving her unable to fashion a severe chignon. Thank you, sweet lady of Guadalupe. Margarita’s hair flowed long, dark, and free down her back. It softened her appearance, made her seem younger to Rafe. Younger or older didn’t matter. To him, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

  “Yip! Yip, yip, ruff!”

  Rafe turned to the racket. Something black and minuscule darted from behind a clay flowerpot. “By the ghost of Hidalgo, what have we here?” A sentimental tug in his chest, he stooped to pick up a palmful of half-eared, eager-for-kisses Chihuahua stud. “Look at you. Aren’t you a mess? Where did you get these gray hairs on this muzzle? Only old hombres have gray hair. Hello, Caballo.”

  Margarita clapped her hands with the enthusiasm of a girl. “My goodness! What a day! An old friend to welcome you home.” She scratched behind Caballo’s mangled ear. “But how do you know this is Horse?”

  “I recognize the ear.” Rafe accepted a slobbering kiss to the wrist. “He’s Frita’s son.” Holding Caballo up for inspection, Rafe turned him one way and then another, receiving yips and ruffs and blatant bids for cuddling. “If man were endowed in proportion to these perritos, the ladies of this earth would know heaven on earth.”

  “I don’t know about that. Your endowment is—Well, goodness.”

  “Yes, goodness.” The erotic energy that had pulsated between them in the past went into full power. Rafe absorbed her blue eyes, the lustrous hair, the tiny bead of moisture illuminating her lower lip, and his heart skipped a beat for the want of his willowy Margarita.

  To break the spell, she lifted a finger to the scar at his mouth. “How did this come about? From a bull?”

  “No toro got the better of me, ever. Tío Arturo did it.”