Wild Sierra Rogue

by Martha Hix

“Only a woman very in love would make such an offer.”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t have an answer.

  Before the next dawn, Rafe’s fever broke. Three days later the doctor was able to set the leg. And three weeks later, she and Rafe, along with their brothers, set out for Eden Roc. She didn’t forget her vow, once they had arrived, and several times Xzobal had questioned her on it.

  “I intend to make good on my promise,” she said to herself, here in this lonely casita. Throwing off the covers as well as her recollections, she got out of bed. “I need to do something. Rafe and I can’t go on ignoring each other.”

  They needed to make plans for leaving, as well as for his Uncle Arturo. These were good enough intentions to call on a lover losing interest, weren’t they?

  She went to his casita. He wasn’t there.

  “You bastard,” Margaret muttered. “You heartless callous rutting bastard. Why am I not surprised?”

  From her vantage point a couple dozen footsteps away—she’d been passing by on her return from his empty bungalow—she watched Rafe close the door to Olga’s casita, step onto the porch and into the clement air of midnight. His walking stick in one hand, he put a comb to his mussed hair.

  She let him get into the pathway connecting the cottages before she marched up to him. “Fancy meeting you here. Out for a night’s stroll?”

  “I, uh, I was on my way to you.”

  Just like that afternoon at the elevator mooring, Rafe’s excuse sounded hollow. “What a relief,” she said cattily “Out of the arms of one triplet and straight to the other. A scenario to warm the cockles of my heart.”

  He settled the crook of the cane over his forearm, exhaling as if he’d never been more fatigued by a subject. “Let me explain—”

  “No! I’ve heard enough.”

  She grabbed that stupid cane, swinging her arm high with all her might, meaning to toss it into the branch of a nearby pine tree. But the walking stick snapped on the side of Rafe’s miserable disgusting head.

  Her palm covered her mouth in horror.

  He yelped, clutched his pate—which wasn’t bleeding, thank heavens!—then grabbed her retreating arm. “Damn you to hell. You could’ve killed me.”

  “Impossible. Only the good die young, you narcissistic louse, you lothario of the lowest form. You, who abandoned a defenseless woman to Chihuahua’s answer to Robin Hood and his merry men.”

  “You’ve never been defenseless.” He yanked her to him. His voice as raspy as sandpaper, his eyes piercing hers under the full moon, he shook her shoulders. “What gives you the right to strike me?”

  “Anger!”

  He took a deep breath, obviously to calm himself. “You might try listening to reason, then you wouldn’t need to work yourself into a lather.”

  “Reason? Where’s the reason in your leaving a married woman’s cottage? Where’s the reason to make love with your lover’s sister? But then, you’ve been doing that ever since that night in Pancho Villa’s house. I’m just second in line.” And now you’ve gone back to the more important one, the beautiful one. “You have the morals of a cat.”

  His fingers bit cruelly into her upper arm. When he replied, ice cracked his tone. “Careful of passing judgments. You’re no pillar of virtue yourself. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about—Ouch! Watch what you’re doing. You kicked my hurt leg.”

  “If you were any kind of a man, you’d have shot those Arturiano dastards before they got the drop on you.”

  “If you were a man”—he got in her face—“I’d punch you for your remarks.”

  She peeled his fingers from her arm. “If you were a gentleman, I wouldn’t have need to make them.”

  “You don’t own me, Margarita.”

  “That’s right. I don’t.” She stepped back, her face burning with anger, her limbs shaking with it. “And you don’t own my sister. You might have taken up where you left off, but keep something in mind. She’s married. And her husband isn’t across the ocean this time.”

  “Let’s hope this Eden Roc place heals your head as well as your body.”

  Margaret whirled away, walking as fast as her legs could carry her, yet she slowed down on the far side of Beatrice Watson’s cottage.

  Beatrice’s voice floated through the open window. “Of course, Seanie, I’d love to see you again. Do come to Curacao and visit. Yes, I do regret that Mother and Father and I will leave on the morrow. Oh, I agree. A relationship must have openness and honesty, if it is to succeed.”

  Closing her ears to any more eavesdropping, Margaret couldn’t help but think about what she’d overheard. Why didn’t you at least listen to what Rafe had to say? She turned. Hobbling and limping, he headed toward his quarters. He didn’t take even the slightest glance to the rear.

  She didn’t go after him. If he’d cared anything about her, he wouldn’t have let her flit away. His passions would have been so strong that wild horses couldn’t have held him back.

  Lies, eyes, and spies.

  Women.

  Margarita.

  “Merdo.”

  Rafe, his leg hurting like a son-of-a-bitch, hobbled toward his quarters, muttering curses and berating life in general, Margarita in particular. “La Bruja is pushing me to an early grave.”

  He wouldn’t think about the eyes and spies just now.

  Cursing her self-righteousness, he let himself in the cottage, shoved a welcoming Caballo from the bed, then fell upon the mattress. A knife of agony carved its way through the marrow of his leg bone, sawing a path through every cell making up the whole of Rafael Delgado.

  “Damn her to hell.”

  You should’ve let her have it out there. You should have confronted her with her cursed lie. The witch had turned his life inside out, to where he couldn’t tell up or down, or right from wrong.

  A whimper. A pant. A wet lick on Rafe’s ear, along with a claw scratching in sympathy.

  “Jesucristo, por el amor de Dios, get off this bed.” Rafe swept his arm across the mattress.

  The Chihuahua went flying to the floor, but he returned to the bosom of his master. Quickly. “Uumf?”

  “All right, you can stay.” Rafe, nonetheless, maneuvered to his side, putting Caballo at his back. “Just go to sleep, amigo.”

  About as obedient as Margarita, the dog sailed to the end of the bed and Rafe’s booted feet, then, like a ship rounding the Horn, began the next leg of his journey, dropping the anchor of his chin on the inside of Rafe’s crooked elbow. “Uumf?”

  If Caballo wanted to hear his troubles, okay. “I’ve had it to the gills with the McLoughlin sisters. I read about Weird Sisters like them. In Teutonic mythology I can’t recall the Norns’ names. But one of them was old, old, old—she’s Olga.” For all her beauty and youthful appearance, Olga might as well have been a centenarian, so sad was she. “Margarita, she’s the image of another Weird Sister. She takes offense to any and every real or imagined slight.”

  Caballo squirmed. “Uumf?”

  Rafe scratched that mangled canine ear. “I should have slammed the door in Margarita’s face, when she showed up at my vacáda. But, damn, my little friend, can you imagine all I would have missed, if she weren’t around?”

  Harping. Nagging. Fault-finding.

  To her credit, she’d done something he hadn’t been able to do. She’d gotten him to Mexico. And here he was, sprawling on a rich man’s bed and partaking of a routine allowed only to the most privileged. No telling how long he’d be here. Olga had been informative, where Margarita should have been. Their mother had no intention of going back to her viejo, and her most exasperating daughter—whose name started with an M—had ideas to escort her back across the Chihuahuan Desert. Naturally, she hadn’t mentioned any of this to Rafe.

  The witch.

  And she’d conveniently forgotten, it seemed, about Xzobal. Did she propose they traipse all over Mexico with a hunted priest in the entourage?

  What happened to her promises for
the revolution? “Down a sinkhole.” He uttered the most basic and vulgar curse in the ensemble of his vocabulary, both in English and Spanish.

  If there was anything good going on, it was that Arturo had been lying low. But how long would that last?

  Caballo whimpered, then bestowed another kiss.

  Rafe cringed. “Sabe Dios—God knows—if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have to put up with you.”

  A whimper of injured canine dignity placed guilt where it ought to be. “You’re a good niño. I’m glad you’re with us. When I send for ’Rita’s cats-heyyyy, you’re gonna love chasing those cats—I’m gonna send for Frita. Remember your mamá?”

  Merdo. What was he doing, thinking about collecting a menagerie? Margarita wasn’t a settling-down lady, and Rafe had several scores to settle. The first? Having a few words with Margarita about switching places with her sister.

  Rafe had gotten his aching body off the bed, had somehow dragged that aching body to the door, before he had second thoughts. If she loved him-and she’d never once said it, not even in the throes of passion—she would have made mention of her shameless rotten lie, where they could chuckle over it. Or made love in its honor. Eventually.

  But no.

  He got back in bed and pulled man’s best friend close to his chest. “While I’m getting my strength back, I’ll stay away from her. I’ve got other things to keep me occupied. Like with eyes and spies. And Xzobal.”

  Twenty-seven

  “Leonardo, must you be insistent? Why aren’t you thankful I’ve let you back in this casita?”

  Actually, Olga hadn’t let him in. Her husband had gotten a key from one of the easily corruptible minions, probably that lecherous Hipólito. Every time she had the misfortune to pass the churl, he crooned, “Ay, mamacita.”

  Thankfully Rafael had taken his leave of her quarters before the count arrived. She didn’t wish any trouble on the only man who’d made her want nasty things.

  A disgusting hand pawed at her. “Please let me, Olgita, my little Olga. Por favor.”

  “Go to sleep. It’s very late.”

  “I’ve been gone for two months, yet you still hold yourself away from me. Oh, I knows. You’re still upset about . . . about, well, you know to what I refer. My temper—I’m sorry for it.”

  Upset? She hated him. And it had nothing to do with the rape he’d perpetrated on her, which had happened just before he left to perform the wicked business of spying. Two months ago. No, she didn’t hate him for violating her person as well as the womb that sheltered her child. Her hatred had been building for years.

  His hot breath on her shoulder, she felt his nasty poker drilling at her thigh. He smelled sweetly sweaty, traces of tobacco smoke and the animal stench of fornication clinging to his skin. Attar of roses combined with those other ghastly odors. He’s been to that awful Areponapuchi place.

  Too bad he hadn’t gotten his fill there, because Olga had no interest in helping him out. The only man she’d consider was Rafael, yet he’d shown no interest in being naughty with her. He claimed to love Maggie; Olga feared it was true.

  Wasn’t this what she’d set out to accomplish, a match of her beloveds? She’d been noble enough in Granada, at the Alhambra.

  Leonardo had never allowed her to return to Texas on her own, even when she had her eyesight, but after everything had fallen into place for their voyage to Mexico and ensuing stay here at Eden Roc, she’d schemed to get Rafael here. Just to be near him, she’d told herself.

  It wasn’t until her fingers had touched him that the truth climbed up to grab her throat. She wanted him for Olga. That’s why she’d begged his silence about her lie. She wanted to keep the peace, while working on winning his love again. A hopeless plan, I’m coming to believe.

  A slobbering kiss drew her attention as well as a shiver of revulsion.

  “Was your trip successful?” she asked her husband, aspiring to a subject that would sidetrack his doggedness and her tortured truths. “Did Arturo Delgado allow you to do your will with the spies?”

  “Don’t say spies. It’s such a vulgar word.”

  She found it vulgar that he would spy against his wife’s country, but what did she know? Being a commoner in the courts of Europe had given her an education. While those in trade were scorned upon, those whose fathers had built their fortunes on pushing cows from Texas to Kansas were considered even less desirable than the garbage pickers of Delhi. Their Imperial and Royal Majesties treated her as if she were refuse on their jeweled slippers. Which hurt her pride. She wanted so desperately to please those around her. She basked in the sunshine of favor.

  There’ll be more than a mere scandal, once Leonardo’s activities come to light. She had passed a secret to Rafael that could and probably would do her husband in. So be it. It would be the first step in his final payment . . .

  His debt had begun years ago, when she’d returned to the shores of Iberia. Leonardo had refused her pleas for a divorce, so she had concocted the rape story. Why? To keep him from venting his fury on her and the—

  Her recollections were interrupted as eager fingers started gathering her nightgown up her leg. “My beautiful countess . . .”

  “I’m very tired. And my eyes hurt.” Rafael had been advising her to go ahead with surgery to ease her discomfort. Don’t think about him. Or about losing your eyeballs. “The pain has been very bad.”

  “Would you like some of your sleeping powder?”

  How he lied with his attentive tone. That was the Count of Granada, nothing but a lie. Immune to punishment, thanks to his rank. And he put on such a good show as devoted husband and prospective father.

  She cringed, imagining his eyes on her. “Leave me alone. Go to sleep.”

  Once, kindness and patience were your way. That was before Leonardo, in one of his dreadful fits of temper, had yanked Rafael Delgado’s beautiful girl-child from her crib, then dunked the wailing babe’s face in a golden chalice filled with wine. He held her until she cried no more.

  The pit of darkness was Olga’s world, yet she saw all the vivid colors, all the shades and shadows, as if her vision were perfect. Oh, my little girl. If only I could have saved you!

  Leonardo thought he was so, so clever, thought that Olga knew nothing of his crime. Outside the window of the Alhambra, his mother and brother had gagged her, had pinned her arms, had chloroformed her, lest she save her bantling.

  The dowager countess had justified it all by saying, “Leonardo loves and reveres you. Yet you sinned against him! You forced my son into putting your bastard out of her misery.”

  Her baby hadn’t deserved punishment for her mother’s sin! Olga damned her in-laws. And she laughed when a carriage overturned the next month, mortally injuring both the Dowager and her younger son. Even before their deaths, Olga had vowed to make her murdering husband pay—and pay with the greatest amount of suffering—for saying he’d rear the babe as his own, then killing her instead. He’s been paying. And he will continue to pay.

  It was this lust for vengeance that had kept her from returning to Rafael in 1890. She’d spent these years making Leonardo wish he’d never been born. Soon, her plans and schemes would come to a great and grand conclusion. Soon, the Mexican people would know that yet another devious Hapsburg was using their country to further his Spanish causes. Like mad dogs, the Mexican peasantry will chew the Count of Granada to shreds.

  She snickered.

  Her biggest regret in being sightless? That she couldn’t see Leonardo’s face when he tumbled into the kennel of his own corruption.

  “Olgita . . .” Her husband moved away to sit on the edge of the bed and light a cigarette. The smell of smoldering tobacco nauseated Olga. His breath rushed out as he said, “I’m not taking the ambassadorship.”

  “Why?”

  “I think we should return to Madrid. So my son will be born on Spanish soil. I’ve arranged for us to leave. Oh, by the way, Arturo Delgado will be accompanying us.”

 
; She couldn’t see, but her other senses were more sharply defined, and visions of his fear came to her. “Arturo Delgado? You can barely abide the man.” She waited a moment. “What is he blackmailing you with?”

  “Blackmail? Crudity from my own wife? Have you learned nothing from being in the company of royalty?”

  Who was the blind one here? “Leonardo, you may not believe it, but I never knew intrigue, backbiting, and treachery until I married you.”

  She wormed her way to the far side of the bed, presenting her back and praying for the peace of sleep. She dozed, but came awake with a start when he shook her shoulder.

  Leonardo spoke, a strange inflection in his voice. “I thought you said the other guests departed today.”

  “All but the Watsons and Sean Moynihan. The Watsons leave tomorrow. I don’t know about the Irishman.”

  “They aren’t the only guests, it appears.” Dead silence fell before Leonardo insisted, “What . . . what is this? Olga—what is this!”

  “What are you talking about?” She heard something, something that sounded like the links of a small chain pinging together. Oh, no! When she’d reached out to Rafe, the chain had broken and then—

  “This crucifix,” her husband demanded. “Who does it belong to?”

  “I have no idea. One of the maids must have dropped it.”

  A moment passed. “I don’t think so. Unless Rafael Delgado has taken to cleaning chambers.”

  “Really, Leonardo, you’re being silly.”

  “Am I? It’s engraved right here on the back. ‘To my brother Rafael Delgado from María Carmen.’ ” Leonardo grabbed her wrist, yanking her across the bed. “He’s here. You’ve enticed your Texas lover to Eden Roc. I will kill him. With my bare hands.”

  Enjoying his anguish, she tossed his favorite expression back at him. “Leonardo, that is so vulgar.”

  In the wee hours of morning, as the Tarahumara natives began to beat their drums to beg the sun to rise, the voice of reason had a stern talk with Margaret McLoughlin.

  Just because he hadn’t fallen to her level of yelling and screaming, who was to say Rafe had no passion for her? She had a roaring passion for him, yet she’d backed off, so who could say his thirsts for her had been slaked? Considering the lovemaking they had shared . . . Considering the ties that went beyond making love . . . Considering their cumulative state of physical dysfunction . . . she couldn’t be that wrong about Rafe.