Wild Sierra Rogue

by Martha Hix

  She jumped from bed to collect herself and the tools of peacemaking.

  As dawn broke, she found him in a small clearing behind the calisthenics pavilion. The other guests had finished exercising, had gone on to the falls. Rafe lingered. He wore cropped white huipils that contrasted to his olive complexion and dark hair. Sitting on the ground with his hairy legs stretched out in front of him, he bent toward one foot, then another. Each movement etched agony and popped sweat on his face. When he caught sight of her, he leaned back on his elbows and took a series of restorative breaths.

  His crucifix was missing, she noticed, and wondered why

  One eye squinted, he hoisted his gaze. “About last night . . .”

  “I apologize for it. I’ve been awful. I hope Eden Roc can heal my head as well as my body. Further, I’m sorry for breaking your walking stick.” She brought her hand from behind her back, extending a crude cypress cane. “It’s not fancy, but maybe it will do until I can get you a proper one.”

  He took it, rubbed the sweat from his brow, and smiled. “I’ll put it to good use. Where did you get it?”

  “I, uh”—she shrugged—“my father taught me to whittle.”

  “Is there anything you can’t do?” he asked, awed.

  “I’m not very good at conducting a love affair.”

  “Come here.” He winked and crooked a finger at her. “Come sit beside me.”

  Facing him, she knelt and rested her palms on her thighs. Loam, grass, and perspiration mingled in her nose, as she offered, “Let me rub your leg.”

  “Which one?” he returned, innuendo in his voice.

  “The one that took the bullet.” She glanced at the angry red scar. He’d always have a limp, but the outcome could have been much, much worse. Hoping he’d be able to cope with his handicap, she touched the prickly hair of his shin. “I’ll grant I’m not as good as Helga at this sort of thing.” Her blue eyes met the silver of his. “But I do have enthusiasm on my side.”

  “No. You wouldn’t be as good as Helga. You’d be better than that big blond cow. Much better.” His fingers on Margaret’s jaw, he rubbed his thumb on her chin, then up to her mouth, and slid it behind her lips to stroke her teeth. “It’s not a rubdown I want from you, querida. I want to get some honesty between us.”

  She nodded.

  “We can’t stay here forever. As soon as we’re patched up, we’ve got to move out. It appears we have a conflict, though. You want to take your mother to Texas, I want to see my brother to Topolobampo. I won’t bend, Margarita. Your mother must put her pretty butt on a ship out of Topolobampo. They can sail up to California, then she can take a train from there.”

  “I don’t think she’ll agree.”

  “Then we’ll have to leave her. Arturo’s got a spy inside Eden Roc. I think it may be Netoc. We tempt the devil, if we don’t get out of here forthwith.”

  “Rafe, I refuse to leave Mama here. I promised my father, and—” She searched his expression. “Rafe, why do I think this has nothing to do with ‘honesty’?”

  “Doesn’t it?” He rearranged his legs, wincing. “I went to your sister’s cottage, yes. She lured me there by appealing to my sympathies over her blindness and loveless marriage.” He rushed on. “I didn’t stay but a couple of minutes. But I won’t lie to you, I had some thoughts about refreshing my memory in certain areas with Olga.”

  Margaret cringed, but tried to hide it. Hurt clogged her throat. “It . . . it’s to be expected. You’ve loved her for forever and a day.”

  “You’re good at jumping to a conclusion.”

  “What do you mean?” She stared at him, aghast. “Are you saying you don’t love her?”

  “I’m saying you’ve been lying for years.”

  She studied the flint of his gaze. “What do you mean?”

  “If I had a bullet for every time I agonized over you, I could arm a revolution.”

  He took hold of her wrist and pulled her fingers to his hot groin. A surge of desire went through her, yet no passion was building in him. He lay slack beneath her fingers. And the razor’s edge of hostility scored his expression.

  “¿Como fue? How was it . . . the first time a man touched you here?” He put his thumb on her breast. “Were you in love? Is that why you would’ve spread your thighs for him? Or were you so desperate for la cópula, that any overheated hombre would do?”

  “What in the devil are you talking about?” Surely he didn’t know—but why wouldn’t he? Olga probably set him straight. If he’d kept a distance between then, then just how had their conversation turned to intimate talk?

  “You could have saved us both a lot of heartache if you’d—” He thrust her hand away. “Tell me something, Margarita. Would you have gone through with it, that first night? I’m not talking about Juarez. I’m talking about San Antonio. San Antonio, Texas. Alongside the Alamo.” He bared his teeth as he grabbed her face between his strong hands, squeezing . . . pressing. “Damn you, why didn’t you tell me it was you that night?”

  He knew. Oh, Lord! How long had he known? The shame of her deception washed over her, her blood rushing to her toes. “Wh-when did Olga tell you—”

  “Give me credit for some sense, lax though it may be. I figured you out for myself. When Olga and I were riding the elevator. But what difference does it make? You . . . damn you! You played games with me for years, claiming to despise me, treating me as if I were dirt, insulting me at every turn.” His thumbs dug into her throat before he released his hold, jerking his arms away. “When all you wanted was a good scr—”

  “So what if I did? I’m no different from a thousand other women, I imagine. I—I . . . the first time I saw you, I went as loony as all the rest of your admirers. And when you said you’d steal me away to Chihuahua, I wanted to go. But you ignored me.” She dropped her chin. “When you fell in love with my sister, I couldn’t go back to my old life without . . . without having a taste of yours.” Her gaze moving to weld to his, she continued. “Through all the years I told myself I hated you, I didn’t understand the fine line between love and hate. I believed the worst in you, because it made it easier to accept that you didn’t want me.”

  He pulled her back to his arms. “Oh, ’Rita . . .”

  “I’m sorry I deceived you.” Her face burrowing into the cotton of his shirt and the heated strength of Rafe, she put her arm around him. “It was a dirty trick to play on you and Olga. You were so much in love. I’m sorry, so ashamed.”

  Spent, she wilted against him, hoping and praying that he would understand or at least forgive her.

  “My foolish, foolish ’Rita. Haven’t you listened to me? I never loved her. I’m telling you it is you—” They eased to the ground, the gentle waft of his breath on her cheek. “I’ve been loving you all these years.”

  “Me? You’ve loved me?”

  “Yes, amorcito, you. I have spent all this time remembering you. Wanting to give you all of this. Needing to spend the rest of my life with you.” He guided her hand back to him, and this time he was quite aroused. “I want you. I want you now. I want to thrust into you so far, that you aren’t able to let me go.”

  A shadow moved over them. Gold winked in the aurora. A chain. A broken chain. The interloper dropped it to the ground beside Rafe’s head. “Is this yours?”

  Twenty-eight

  What?

  What was going on? this intruding

  Rafe’s brow quirked. Who was this intruding hombre?

  Shock and surprise bleached Margarita’s face as the golden serpent—symbolic of original sin—slithered to the grass beside them. Merdo. Rafe’s fingers slammed to his breastbone, searching. In vain. That was his chain. The cross. Where is it? It might be gone from its linkage, but he knew, without depending on second sight, who hovered above them.

  “Leonardo,” Margarita choked out, proving his conclusion.

  “You keep bad company, sister-in-law.”

  She wiggled from under Rafe, then rose to stand as
he pitched to his back, lunged upward to a sitting position, and ignored his protesting thighbone. He skewed an eye on the Count of Granada. Like everyone who spent a lot of time here, Olga’s husband looked young. Young and strong and sly. A bellowing dislike roared within Rafe. On the same level with Tío Arturo, Hapsburg—Spain’s master spy-exemplified evil.

  Hapsburg stared downward, pointing to the coiled snake. “Did you not hear me, señor? I asked if this is yours.”

  “It’s mine. Forgot it last night.” Rafe, clasping the new cypress cane, got to unsteady feet. He put an arm around Margaret’s shaking shoulders. Please don’t let her get the wrong idea here. “Where’s the cross?”

  Hapsburg hoisted a closed fist; gold gleamed from between his fingers and palm. “Would you like it returned? I thought you would. Before I give it back, tell me—do you enjoy going from one sister to the other?”

  Margaret gasped.

  And Rafe had to force himself not to lunge for the bastard. “How about rephrasing that? Castilian Spanish coming to my Mexican ears—what you said got all mixed up. I know you couldn’t have meant what it sounded like. No self-serving—I mean, self-respecting; patois problem, you know—no princely hombre would insult his lady and her sister.”

  “I am insulting the master of cuckoldry, a vile libertine, a cur even in this land of mongrels.” Nostrils flared above the pencil-thin mustache. “You. Who raped my countess.”

  “I’ve known your wife. But I never touched her with force. Left the rough stuff to you. Want to discuss all I know?”

  Margaret took Rafe’s hand, in a show of support and faith.

  Hapsburg moved forward, crushing the golden chain beneath his shoe. “I’ve said everything I intend to say to you, Delgado. Except for—Stay away from my countess. And . . .” He opened his fingers to expose the cross. Then the symbol of love and faith and sacrifice dropped to the ground. “Be my guest.”

  Margarita bent to pick it up, but Rafe ordered, “No. Don’t. Leave it. Go to your casita. Or better yet, to your sister. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  She straightened. “But, Rafe—”

  “This is between me and your brother-in-law. Please do as I ask, my heart.”

  Turning to profile, she nodded and left.

  “Rutting ram, how easily you make sheep of the women. But no more.” Hapsburg sneered at Rafe, advanced. His hand reached into his coat pocket. For a gun. To level at Rafe.

  From his years in the plaza de toros, Rafe knew how to get out of the way of fire-snorting anger, and when gunfire exploded, he had hopped to the right. He felt no pain from his old injury. All his anger at Hapsburg’s evil-doing propelled him into action. In the blink of an eye, he feinted from another bullet, raised and swung the cypress cane, and knocked the pistol out of Hapsburg’s hand.

  As amazement burst in the highborn’s countenance, Rafe made a back-sweep with the walking stick. The cane slammed against the nobleman’s neck, and he cried, “Awwgh!” Rafe then went to fists.

  With little effort he trounced, routed, defeated Hapsburg.

  Standing over the battered and bloodied face, he said, “You’re fortunate I don’t carry a knife. Or I would gut you.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Starved for air, Hapsburg rolled into a fetal ball of misery. “I w-will see you laid out in lavender.”

  “Never. I will see you dead.”

  A thought occurred to Rafe. While he, like most Mexicans, had a fatalistic bent, he yearned to live many, many years. As long as Margarita was at his side.

  People came running, and a man yelled, “Who fired that shot!”

  “Is Hapsburg dead!”

  “Rafe, ole buddy, are you all right?”

  The Spaniard lifted his head. “Swine, you’re not rid of me.”

  Leaning down, Rafe whispered in Hapsburg’s ear. Words to keep him at bay. For a while, at least.

  Rafe took hold of the gift cane, nudged Hapsburg’s arm off the chain and cross, and picked up the last gift his sainted sister had given him. He turned from the circling crowd, heading for the magical fountain.

  For the quiet of it.

  After witnessing the tussle between Rafe and Leonardo—she’d turned back as soon as Leonardo had shouted at Rafe—Margaret went to her sister’s quarters. She didn’t bother to knock. Olga, propped up in bed, sipped something from a teacup.

  Margaret slammed the door behind her, then marched over to the bed. “It’s time you and I had a talk.”

  No reply.

  She asked, “Didn’t you hear gunfire? For heaven’s sake, Olga, aren’t you interested to know if someone’s been hurt? Leonardo. Or Rafe. It could have been anyone!”

  “Has someone been hurt?”

  “Not fatally. But your husband took a battering.”

  She waited for her sister to comment. Olga said nothing, simply sat there in bed. If anything, she looked relieved.

  Confused by Olga as well as by many things in this chaos called life, Margaret sighed. “I want to know something. And if you lie to me, I’ll yank every hair from your head. Do you have designs on Rafe?”

  “A woman doesn’t cleave to her rapist.”

  “I’m not buying that. I know, you know, and Rafe knows he didn’t rape you in Texas. Tell your husband the truth.”

  “He wouldn’t believe me. Plus, anyway, he’d never think I would allow a man liberties.”

  “How do you know, if you haven’t tried being honest?”

  Setting the teacup on the tray that sat on the bed, to her right, Olga replied, “Maggie, you’re probably not going to believe this, but I don’t care what Leonardo thinks.”

  “I believe you.” Margaret sat down on the edge of the bed. “What is wrong between the two of you? You should be so happy, with the baby on its way. Yet you allow men to act like dogs, fighting over you. Will you have more repeats of today?”

  “Oh, Maggie, really. Boys will be boys. If they aren’t fighting over me, they’d be fighting over something else.”

  “The something else couldn’t be as serious as a husband wanting to defend his wife’s honor. Rafe disarmed Leonardo, but your husband could very well hit his mark next time.”

  Olga straightened, her fingers walking to the table next to the bed. She donned a pair of spectacles, a nervous gesture, for the glasses might as well have been eye patches. “Why are you all the time trying to scare me? You always do that, Maggie. Besides, Leonardo has been threatening to kill Rafe for years. He won’t. He doesn’t pick on people his own size, or bigger.”

  “I want the misunderstanding cleared up.”

  “Don’t be a worrywart. And where’s your faith in your adored Rafe? He’ll always get the better of Leonardo.”

  “My faith in him is what brought me to you.” Margaret crossed the room, bending to sit at her sister’s side. She took the dainty hand. “Olga, I love Rafe very much, and want to spend the rest of my days with him. Help me. Please call Leonardo off this vendetta!”

  “How do you know Rafe didn’t rape me?”

  “He isn’t drawn that way. Never in a million years would I believe he would hurt a woman.”

  Still holding her sister’s hand, Margaret lay her forehead on the mattress. Tentative fingers opened, the tips trailing up to an eye. “You’re crying. Please don’t cry, Maggie. Please don’t. I—I’ll do something to make it better. I promise.”

  “What? What will you do?” Raising her eyes, she gazed upon Olga’s tormented face. “Will you clear Rafe’s name, so that we may have peace in the family?”

  “First . . . there’s something I must say.” Olga’s lip trembled. “I concocted the rape story to save my child. Yes. My child.”

  She launched into a story so horrific that it sent spears of fury and grief and helplessness through Margaret. She opened her arms to her sister. Both women wept for Olga’s dead baby.

  Rafe’s daughter.

  How awful it must have been for the innocent infant, her last moments. Needing a mother and getti
ng a murderer. Leonardo must not get off scot-free!

  “My little girl,” Olga divulged, once they had collected themselves, somewhat, “I called her Margarita. After you.”

  Touched and honored at the gesture, Margaret squeezed her sister’s hand. “Does Rafe know about her?”

  “No. It’s better if he doesn’t.”

  Margaret agreed. He would kill Leonardo. And Leonardo wasn’t good enough for simple killing.

  “Maggie . . . don’t cry. There’s something else I must tell you. Something else about Leonardo. He plots against us. Us as an American nation. He’s planted spies all over northern Mexico.”

  Once upon a time Margaret wouldn’t have found his activities loathsome. This time spent in Mexico, had changed her way of thinking, and she hoped Cuba would be liberated. ¡Cuba libre! She prayed ill on Spain’s heinous spy.

  “Olga, you don’t have to stay with Leonardo,” she said. “You have a home. With your family who loves you. When we take Mama—”

  “Mutti isn’t going anywhere. And you know it.”

  “She’ll have to leave. She can’t stay here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because her family needs her. You need her. If she doesn’t want to go back to Papa, then fine. You two can go back to the Four Aces together. Or anywhere you like—you can have my brownstone in Manhattan, if you please. I think you should settle somewhere that you can get good medical attention. You’ve got to think about your eyes. Surgery will ease your pain.”

  “My pain is my penitence for little Margarita.”

  “Balderdash. Straighten your back, take a deep breath, and grab your reins. You’ve got a new baby to think about, and if you drag your feet, you’ll be too far along to travel.”

  “But, Maggie, if I leave, I’ll miss my great revenge.” She launched into explaining her plans for retribution. “I’ve waited too long to give up now.”