Wild Sierra Rogue

by Martha Hix

  She asked him to put his arm around her shoulders, when the basket had begun to lower. “I’m scared,” she said in her little girl voice. “This seat makes for an uneven ride, wouldn’t you agree? Without my sight, it seems as if we’re falling. Tell me, please, Rafael. Tell me what it looks like.”

  Rafe didn’t want to discuss the magnificent view, not unless he shared it with Margarita. My delicate warrior-woman, where will we go from here? Yes, she’d agreed to be part of his fight, but as cranky as she’d been of late, he’d begun to believe she had second thoughts where he was concerned.

  “Why won’t you answer?”

  “Oh, uh. You wanted to know about the view.” Rafe took a look at Olga. As usual, she was dressed primly. He couldn’t help pitying her vacant stare, yet . . . “It’s a beautiful place. The very essence of beauty.”

  He saw an oval face, lips generous and sensuous, black winged brows, and a wealth of wavy hair the rich brown of Veracruzano coffee beans. The bloom of health brightened a flawless complexion, and filled out a body obviously not racked by terrible hacking fits nor strength-sapping night sweats. He saw Margarita at twenty, as she’d been when he’d first seen her in the Bexar County Courthouse.

  ¡Maldicion! It wasn’t fair to Margarita that she’d aged at such a galloping rate, while her identical triplet sister never changed. His eyes burning for his beloved, he forced his gaze to the canyon. Its beauty engulfed him. And his memories . . . He loved the Sierras. It was home.

  But he wouldn’t share so much of himself with Olga. He replied, “It’s big. It’s deep. It’s intimidating.”

  “Have you ever been to the Arizona Territory? I’ve been told there is a great canyon up there, but the Copper Canyon is bigger and deeper.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Silence fell, punctuated by the creak of the pulley mechanism, and the wail of wind as it tumbled through the great chasm of the Sierra Madre Tarahumara. As far as Rafe was concerned, no talking suited him fine.

  “Tell me about yourself, Rafael. I understand you own a ranch near San Antonio. You raise bulls and export them to Mexico for the bullring, Mutti says.”

  “I bought the ranch for me and you. I even took your papá’s charity to stock it. I had a word with my pride. I told myself it would benefit his daughter. And her . . . children. I should have been telling myself the truth.” That truth choked him; it took a mighty effort to admit, “I traded guns and ammunition —and my principles—for a few head of cattle.”

  Olga moved her cane. “I always thought you’d return to Chihuahua and become a matador again.”

  That was how little she knew him. Never for a moment in the past had he intimated any desire to return to the corrida. Olga rattled and prattled on. Hate wasn’t what he felt for her. Pleased didn’t describe him, either. Beautiful she might be, but she hadn’t changed in all these years. He didn’t know how he’d ever preferred her to Margarita.

  “Why, Rafael Delgado, I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I’ve said.”

  “Guilty. Tell me again.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t write.”

  “Why didn’t you? Write or come back.”

  “Goodness gracious, I was so very busy. Then Leonardo refused to give me a divorce. The royals and their Church are funny that way.”

  “He knows about us?” By nodding, she confirmed what Rafe suspected already, and he asked, “How much does he know? And did you lie to him, like you lied to your sister? Did you tell him I raped you?”

  She blushed and chewed her bottom lip. “That was easier to explain than the truth. Which was just too, too shameful to confess. Oh, Rafael, you won’t tell on me, will you? I would die of embarrassment if my mother or brother or sister—” She flailed around to take his hand and squeeze his fingers. “Promise you won’t tell!”

  “Olga, what we had together was by mutual consent. I didn’t force myself on you, ever. You were willing enough.” Granted she’d lain in the dark like a limp rag most of the time, begging him not to touch her here, there, and most everywhere else. “My intentions were honorable all the way. But what did I get? Betrayal. Then you ruined my reputation.”

  “Oh, pish-posh.” Her manner took a vinegary switch. “You never had a reputation to ruin. Plus, anyway, you’re making it sound much worse than it was. The only ones I told were Maggie and Leonardo. Maggie, so she wouldn’t think ill of me for sleeping with you. As for Leonardo—”

  “Is it necessary to pepper every reference with his name?”

  “Please don’t yell at me.” Her chin quivered. “I have enough trouble as is. I can’t take anymore upsets. It’s not good for us.” Her palm pressed against the mound of her belly. “A gentleman wouldn’t ask a lady to recant her story.”

  “I’m not a gentleman.”

  “Maybe not, but don’t you feel an obligation to the past?”

  He did. He had, after all, made a sinner out of a prim countess. “All right. I promise not to say anything.”

  She sighed. “Oh, thank you. That’s so sweet of you. You were always so sweet. I have missed you so terribly, Rafael. You made me feel like a queen.”

  “Countess isn’t good enough for you?” He wasn’t proud of his sarcastic tone, but couldn’t stop himself. Eyeing her stomach, he asked, “How many babies does this make for you? After all these years, it couldn’t be your second.”

  “It . . . it is.”

  “What happened to the first? I seem to recall my child was the reason you wanted to come back to me.”

  Solemn moments passed before she replied, “I miscarried. Not long after I reached Granada.”

  “Merdo.”

  “It was my punishment for being an adulteress—I just know it was! And to think I didn’t even enjoy sexual congress that much. Oh!” She covered her mouth with her fingers, blushing a scarlet red. “I—I didn’t mean it like that. I—I d-didn’t. I promise you.”

  He sat, numb. “Don’t make excuses for honesty. If that’s what you’re being. I’ll admit my touch seemed to revolt you, but what about the night before you told me goodbye? In the shadows of the Alamo. Are you saying you weren’t enjoying the way I made love to you with my mouth and finger?”

  “Finger? What finger? What Alamo? You’ve got me mixed up with one of your other ladies.”

  Her game didn’t strike him as cute. “Shall I elaborate on the finger and—”

  “Rafael, you’re being indelicate.”

  “We got pretty damned indelicate, countess.” Her mouth flattened. “We never touched each other except behind locked doors, and when we did, I didn’t allow you all those liberties you wanted. And you know it.”

  “Your memory may have faded.” Which was no compliment to his already bruised ego. “It was the night before you told me you had to go back to Spain, to tell your husband you wanted a divorce.”

  “Rafael, I remember that night. I called on old friends that evening, to bid them adios. I stayed until well past midnight, then the host escorted me back to the Menger Hotel.”

  Was he getting the old man’s disease of memory loss? No. So much fire had been out of Olga’s character; she endured sex; he should have questioned a change in behavior at the time.

  Margarita was different. She savored and celebrated the act of mating, her spontaneity the substance of wonder.

  You stupid fool. How could you have been so dumb? All these years he’d been longing for the wrong sister! All along Margarita had filled his hopes and dreams. He could have laughed and cried. And he could have choked her. Why did she do such a thing?

  “What about me?” Olga asked quietly. “Are you mad? Please don’t be mad, Rafael. I can’t stand the thought . . .”

  “Don’t worry. What’s done is done.”

  “Thank you. You were always so dear.”

  He took a long look at Olga. She might not have been his Alamo lover, yet he couldn’t disregard all the times Olga had been Olga. Even though the overture had come from her, s
he’d been a woman unhappy and unfulfilled in her marriage, searching for something better than her lot—such was only human. And Rafe could have said no.

  He’d been weak, had overlooked their sins against her husband. And God. Rafe had introduced her to adultery, and he’d impregnated her. He owed her something. The extent of his debt, he couldn’t reckon. He didn’t wish to ruminate it.

  “Rafael . . . were you teasing me about that finger business?”

  “Yes,” he replied, not wanting her to realize who had met him in the Alamo shadows. Thank the Holy Virgin, Olga was no genius. “It was all a joke.”

  He itched to get to the truth of that evening by the Alamo. On one hand he was thrilled to know Margarita had been the one to make him dream of settling down. On the other he could have strangled her for deceiving him all these years. Wasted years! Years they could have been laughing and loving—together.

  You weren’t ready for all that, back then, not with the girl who intimidated the Eagle. He ignored the whispers in his head.

  “Can we be friends?” Olga asked him.

  Hesitating to answer, Rafe squinted at the sky. This is a mess. He wanted no part of a friendship with her. He wanted her sister and no one to bother them.

  While he didn’t quite see the beauty in making Margarita his bride right now, he realized his aggravation would pass. If—when!—they were wed, trouble could be in the offing, should this dilemma with Olga not be settled. After all, she and her count would become kin.

  Merdo.

  Rafe turned to his beloved’s sister. “As you wish. We can be friends.”

  “Thank you.”

  The basket seat reached the ground, and his eager fingers unfastened the leather latch. He hopped out, grabbed his crutches, then noticed the gap-toothed attendant Hipólito wasn’t at the moorage.

  Something about the absent jack-of-all-trades had struck Rafe as peculiar, but he scoffed away his intuition. Hipólito was a benign little hombre.

  “Hello, Triplet.”

  That wasn’t Olga’s whiney, little-girl voice, though she did say, “Why, Sissy, I’d know you anywhere. Did you have a nice trip? I’m so happy you’re here.”

  Rafe twisted to the left. Margarita, the hurt of the world in her eyes and face, stood a few feet down the incline from the elevator. He saw that she had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  “We need to talk,” he said to her. “I’ve been looking for you—”

  “Spare me.” Margarita raised a palm to ward off his words. “I’d rather not hear flimsy excuses.” She whirled around, marched off.

  “ ’Rita, wait!” He tried to get the crutches going, but they seemed to get tangled in the unwieldy cast. “ ’Rita! Hear me out!”

  She didn’t.

  “Thanks for the insult,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Just like always, she hadn’t given him the benefit of a doubt. What kind of team did they have, with her feeling so little for him? Damn her to hell. Where was her trust? Where was her faith in him, and their love?

  “Sissy? Sissy, where are you? Rafael, where did she go? Rafael, please help me. Please! You’ve always been so strong. How I depend on your strength. I’m scared! I can’t get out of this seat on my own. I shall fall if no one helps me. Rafael—You won’t let me down, will you?”

  “ ’Rita!” Her name echoed through the canyon.

  She kept walking.

  All right, fine.

  Good.

  Let her go. It was better this way. If she’d stayed, no telling what he would have done. It wouldn’t have been pleasant. He was pissed-off from being pissed upon. In the past. And today. He needed time to cool his temper.

  Rafe hopped around to help her triplet.

  Twenty-six

  Chin up. Shoulders square. Smile. Keep moving. This was how Margaret took leave of Rafe and Olga at the curious elevator. This was how she behaved all afternoon. It even worked at dinner, the highlights of which were muskmelon, goat cheese, and oat bread of heavy texture. The low part? Sitting at the table with a subdued Rafe and a chatty Olga.

  Margaret could never recall if anyone else had occupied that dining room.

  It hurt to witness what she’d always suspected. At first opportunity, Rafe—a rogue and a rambling man—had turned to Olga. Confirming her suspicions didn’t make the pain go away. After that one blatant show of emotion at the falls, though, she was, nonetheless, proud of herself for not showing how much it hurt.

  An hour after bedtime that night, she heard him tapping on her cottage door. She kept silent, fearing he’d break down the door. He didn’t. The next day she immersed herself in the business of getting well, taking each and every one of Isaiah’s suggestions. Cornering Sean Moynihan, she addressed her brain to vertical mines.

  “How do they work?”

  Sean smiled his freckled smile. “A learned colleen ye are, but would not ye be bored with technicality?”

  Rather than insult his profession by admitting she’d just as soon study the sleeping habits of the blind mole rat, she said, “Rafe and I have had some trouble with Arturo Delgado. We may need to get into the Santa Alicia silver mine at some point.”

  “Arturo Delgado? A sly beastie is he.” Sean’s elfin features turned dark. “Tell me, bonny colleen, what is it that ye wanna be doin’ to Arturo Delgado?”

  “Make him free his slaves. Rafe thinks that can only be done by some sort of armed confrontation, and to tell the truth, I fear it may come to that.”

  On a nod, Sean commented, “ ’Twould seem the case, knowing the beastie as I do. But would ye be telling me where I fit into yer scheme?”

  “Rafe has ideas to sabotage the Delgado mines. Starting with the Santa Alicia.”

  Interest danced in Sean’s bottle-green eyes. “Ah. . . what a grand idea is yours! Ye do know that Irishmen love a fight, don’t ye? How can this son o’ Eire be o’ help?”

  “As I said before, teach me about mines.”

  For a while, as Sean explained the rudiments of his profession, she actually didn’t think about Rafe. Well, no more than ten or twelve times.

  She spent that night in her mother’s casita. And the next and the next.

  Amazingly, her strength began to return.

  Somewhere in between all that, Isaiah sawed off Rafe’s cast. “To get air to the wound,” the host revealed to her after wrapping his lips around a repast of carrots and watermelon juice. “That cast has been on long enough, anyway, and he needs the magical water—which he couldn’t get all trussed up.”

  Isaiah knew what he was talking about. Who could fail to notice Rafe’s immediate and marked improvement?

  While she kidded herself into thinking she had no interest in his activities, her ears were peeled to any mention of him. He spent most of his time outdoors, had even started riding Diablo again. The Countess of Granada, still able to ride despite her impediment, went along with him. They both had many rhapsodic comments about the wonders of the surrounds.

  Through it all, Margaret comported herself with civility toward Rafe and his constant companion, who ignored her triplet but clung to their lover as if he were a lifeline.

  It seemed he hadn’t forgotten her, though. One morning, when Helga was busy rearranging Margaret’s muscles, the masseuse said, “There is a package for you. Do not forget it.” And it turned out to be a package of herbs along with a sheet of instructions penned by Rafe. The birth control herbs from Areponapuchi. The nerve of him! Margaret could have strangled the gallant-come-lately.

  She tossed part and parcel into the pot-bellied stove in her cottage. As soon as they went up in smoke, she had second thoughts. There might be an odd chance that she’d need them in the future.

  When they had been at Eden Roc for a tennight, Margaret let it be known—a stage whisper did have its uses at times—she would return to her own cottage. But he didn’t come calling. This made a fresh gash in her already damaged heart, since as long as he tapped on her door, she wasn’t without hop
e.

  “What should I do?” she whispered in the dark.

  She couldn’t ignore him forever. They had much to discuss; she wasn’t sure he even knew that her mother had no intention of leaving. Of course, he could have asked. Obviously he was in no rush to get away from the more amiable Olga.

  “That’s unfair, Margaret McLoughlin,” she scolded herself. “He was so very, very sick. He has a right to recuperate.”

  She turned her face into the pillow, trying to block the images of that worst time at Rancho Gato. The rancher and his wife had helped her bathe his face with wet cloths and tend the dreadful wounds, as Xzobal said prayer after prayer. A fat little old lady, the curandera, arrived with her pots of herbal remedies and the quackery that made up her witchcraft. Margaret demanded a doctor—a real doctor. But when the mustachioed young man arrived, the prognosis wasn’t good.

  “His only chance is if we take the leg.”

  “No.” Fear tightened her windpipe. “He doesn’t want that. You’ve got to try to save him and the limb.”

  Dr. Benavides worked diligently. Two nights later the doctor called Xzobal aside, then put his arm around Margaret’s shoulder. “I’ve done all I can.”

  Panicked and frantic, she rushed to Rafe’s bedside and fell to her knees. Already the rancher and his wife were there. So were Tex and Xzobal. And the priest, with his crucifix and holy water and lowly intoned Latin sacraments, administered extreme unction.

  She cried for Rafe, her tears falling down her cheeks and off her chin. Somehow he moved his hand and placed it on her jaw. She leaned over him, pressing her lips to his fevered ones. “You mustn’t give up. We have much to do, compadre.”

  “Yes . . . much.”

  “If he lives,” she whispered to Xzobal Paz, “I’ll take his religion.”

  Xzobal’s gentle face filled with compassion. “Don’t bargain with the devil.”

  “This is no bargain with the devil. This is a promise to your God and mine. If He in His grace will save Rafe, and if He allows me to have a little longer here on earth, I will repay Him the kind favor.”