Wild Sierra Rogue

by Martha Hix

  She turned a questioning gaze to the culprit, who had a deceptive innocence in his silver eyes. At last Rafe replied, “Mexico is every bit as interesting as Columbus or Isabella or her husband Fernando. We’ve got a rich history. Somebody smart needs to write our story.”

  “And when will I write a book?” She exhaled and shook her head at Tex, saying to him, “Why is it that everyone thinks a book just writes itself, when there’s nothing better to do?”

  “You can do it,” said Rafe. “You can do anything.”

  His faith added to her height. “Yes, I think I can.”

  “Well, folks, I better hit the road. You, too.”

  Rafe clasped Tex’s hand, but both men stopped in the middle of the handshake, then went into a brief back-patting hug. “Adios, young lion. Take care of yourself. Vaya con Dios.”

  Tex departed.

  More misery came to Eden Roc. It was time to leave for the western coast, but where was Xzobal Paz? Gone. Had he left of his own accord, or had Arturo Delgado—with no Netoc to protect the premises—breached the walls to capture one of the Santa Alicia’s troublemakers?

  And what had happened to the Count of Granada? When he surfaced from his sulk, day before yesterday, he had ranted and raved, making a nuisance of himself by berating his wife over her shortcomings, especially that of being a promiscuous commoner undeserving of her exalted station in life.

  Everyone did their best to ignore him.

  In the outcome of Olga leaving him, he continued to behave in a deranged manner, alternately justifying his own stance, shouting his innocence in her desertion, and not understanding how she could desert a member of European royalty. It all trailed into sobs of not knowing how to live without his Olgita.

  Frankly, Margaret began to see the beauty in her sister’s game of enjoying his suffering.

  But where was he? Where had he gone?

  In the stable Rafe groomed Diablo to ready the stallion for wherever the search for Xzobal would lead him and Margaret. When she questioned Rafe on both men’s disappearance, he surmised, “I’ll bet the count is chasing Olga.”

  “Oh, dear. I’d hoped she could get out of the country without trouble from him.”

  “Don’t worry, amorcito,” Rafe assured Margaret. “Your family’s got a generous head start. Even if that wasn’t so, their Federale escorts won’t let him near her.”

  Margaret kicked some hay aside. “Let’s hope so.”

  “Let’s hope his absence and Xzobal’s isn’t tied in with Tío Arturo. Last thing Netoc told me, my uncle and his hombres have been lurking around the gate to Eden Roc.”

  “Hola.” Hipólito strolled into the stable and offered up information. “Your brother the priest, he is at Areponapuchi.”

  “He wouldn’t go there,” Rafe said.

  “Areponapuchi. Where have I heard that name before? Areponapuchi. Snake pit!” Margaret shivered. “Hipólito, what makes you think he’s there?”

  Lifting shoulders as well as his upturned hands, the peculiar Indian replied, “The drums in the canyon say the Federales that come with the gran señor your papá, they find the padre. They arrest him. Take him to the jail in Areponapuchi.”

  “Rafe!” she exclaimed. “Whatever shall we do?”

  “Pack light.”

  Now that the excitement had died down, Arturo Delgado needed to relax. A cigar stuck between his teeth and a nubile whore at work between his legs, he lay smiling in the warren of Señora Pilar’s whorehouse. Hunting the foxes, Mexican style, had always fascinated him, and today’s hunt set his heart to tripping. “Ah, yes. Ahhh, yes, señorita.”

  A voice from the doorway snatched his attention. Cantú. “It is done, patrón.”

  “My nephew and the McLoughlin girl have been flushed from their nest? Excellent.” Arturo smiled with malice. “The yellowbelly will get his punishment. Soon.”

  Cantú got a strange look on his face. “You never called him a coward before.”

  “It’s taken him all these years to brave a showdown with me. Form your own opinion.”

  Back in the old days, Arturo never would have imagined calling Rafito a disparaging name. Matter of fact, he used to wish that Hernán had had his cousin’s backbone. “By La Santisima Virgen,” Arturo murmured under his breath, “my son so loved his cousin.”

  A knot formed in El Grandero Rico’s throat.

  Suddenly restless with the smacking and sucking from his lower regions, he shouted, “Get off. I have business to take care of.”

  He thrust his knee into the naked girl’s midsection. And, wailing, she flew across the room. The back of her hand brushed across her mouth as she scrambled away.

  “Cantú?” Arturo called out. “Where are you?”

  “Right here.” He remained standing in the doorway.

  “The other matter . . .” Brushing his hands, Arturo shot to his feet and gathered his discarded clothes. “Is he dead and buried?”

  “He is.”

  “Excellent.”

  Hipólito on a burro to the rear of their mounts, Caballo’s muzzle peeping from Margaret’s saddlebag, she followed Rafe along the twisting, rocky mountain path. They reached Areponapuchi just before sundown. Until today she hadn’t given this village much thought, but she remembered it with all clarity: this was where Rafe had called on the local curandera.

  Margaret shivered.

  Once, Rafe had asked if she’d used the quackery he’d sent to Areponapuchi for. She’d hedged answering. And now she was glad she hadn’t taken it. No telling what went into the stuff.

  It was a strange little village, this. An eerie air prevailed. The children appeared subdued. No dogs or cats or goats wandered the streets. The only light poured from a few scattered shacks. Sobs—the wails of many women—emitted from the little church. Margaret hoped against hope—Please don’t let them be grieving for Father Xzobal.

  She alit Penny as Rafe tied Diablo to a hitching post in front of a stucco cantina. Caballo jumped to the ground to relieve himself, then yipped to be put back in the saddle.

  Rafe frowned. He’d been frowning for hours, ever since Hipólito relayed the rumor of Xzobal’s capture. Peacemaker in hand, Rafe filled and spun the cylinder.

  Margaret ached to go to him, to comfort him, to express the depth of her love and concern. But a warrior’s job was to get in, get out, and be victorious with both. This was no time for hearts and flowers.

  “See after the horses,” Rafe ordered Hipólito, then limped toward the main plaza, el zócalo.

  She followed. All five pounds of Sir Colt dragged from the gun belt at her waist.

  A stooped—cowed?—middle-aged man, wearing a sombrero and a serape, shuffled past them. He didn’t gaze upon Margaret. When he looked up at Rafe, his eyes flashed with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty, the expression of a person faced with someone they think they might know.

  “Hombre, halt,” Rafe called to him. “I have a question.”

  The mexicano stopped, turned back on the toe of a sandaled foot. “¿Que?”

  “The priest Xzobal Paz. Is he here?”

  “Sí, señor.” He pointed a timid finger. “Outside the cemetery. El Grandero Rico, he would not let the padre be buried in hallowed ground.”

  This was their worst fear come true.

  Arturo had done Xzobal in.

  Margaret’s heart plunged.

  Hope blighted, Rafe blanched and was swaying on his uneven legs.

  She took his hand as he rationalized, “It couldn’t be him. Not even Tío Arturo would work that fast.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  In the fading light, they moved as fast as Rafe’s legs would carry him. They turned the corner. The cemetery crowned the hill; Rafe and Margaret charged up it. This side of the gate, a tiny nun, rosary in hand, knelt in front of a fresh grave. Her prayers mingled with her wails.

  Rafe froze, a garbled “No” rising from his throat.

  Margaret looped one arm around his, and squee
zed the other wrist. “We don’t know that it’s him. We have no proof.”

  Leaves crunched nearby. Then everything happened at once. Figures lunged from the shadows. Arturianos! The ones who’d chased her and Rafe at the mine. The ones who’d shot him.

  Margaret screamed. A strong arm grabbed her waist. Fingers grasped her throat. Another ruffian lent a hand to bind and gag her, then to snatch Sir Colt away.

  Meanwhile, three men had lunged at Rafe; the one from behind had kicked the Peacemaker out of Rafe’s hand. It landed a dozen feet away. Rafe fought with all his might, landing blow after blow, but the marauders prevailed by falling upon and knocking him to the ground. A noiseless scream vibrated in Margaret’s throat, as one of the thugs pinned Rafe’s arms behind him, while his accomplice hammered a pistol butt on Rafe’s head.

  He went unconscious.

  Continuing to scream behind her gag, Margaret struggled to get away. She kicked. She grappled. No use. The assailants dragged her away from her fallen Eagle.

  They took her to a place beyond horrible.

  Shoving her into an odd and squat building of many rooms, she sprawled trussed on the dirty red carpet. The music of guitars, an accordion, and several mariachi singers beat through her ears. Red surrounded her. Chairs upholstered in red velvet. Draperies of heavy red material. Red-flocked wallpaper. Whereas the red satin coverlet of Rafe’s bed at El Aguilera Real had sent her on a sensory magic-carpet ride, this place just looked tawdry and cheap.

  And roses. Everywhere, roses, some of them real.

  The smell of too much attar of roses clung to the air, funereal and dank.

  Margaret’s stomach roiled.

  A harlot walked through the beaded doorway. Red plumes that had seen better days topped her dark head. Rice powder and kohl caked her face, a fake mole dotting her cheek. She wore heeled shoes, and a red corset over some sort of abbreviated red silk pajamas. In her hand she carried a riding crop.

  She minced over to Margaret, then unfastened the gag. A disgusting display of bosom jiggled as she worked. “Hola, muchacha. I am Pilar. Welcome to my house of many surprises.”

  “Proving that a house isn’t always a home,” Margaret, inhaling great lungsful of air, shot back, and got a slap from one of her assailants. “Let me go!”

  Another slap.

  “Stop that, niños.” Pilar scratched a flea. “El Grandero Rico won’t want her bruised.”

  El Grandero Rico. Arturo Delgado. What hell have I toppled into? Margaret struggled with her fetters, but they seemed to tighten with each of her efforts.

  Pilar motioned to the men. “Stand her up, Cantú, Martin. Up, up. There. That’s better.” She motioned toward the beaded doorway. “Take her to the fourth door on the right.”

  Margaret resorted to a different tack. “Let me go. Please, Pilar. Call off these dogs. I’ve done nothing to you. I’ve done nothing to them.” Where is Rafe? What have they done to him? “Let me go!”

  Pilar lifted a penciled brow; her pale amber eyes snapped. “I understand you are the mistress of El Aguila Magnífico.”

  “What do you know of him?”

  “Why, what an absurd question.” The painted mouth bowed. “The master stud has been gracing my presence since he was but a yearling.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh? What about the time he called on me to get the herbs to prevent pregnancy? I assume they were for you.”

  Margaret slammed her eyes closed. What did she really know about him? What kind of man had she given her all to? Damn you, Rafe Delgado!

  Her heart warned her head not to make too much of this vile creature’s word. Rafe deserved her faith.

  “Take her on to the room, niños.” The madam slapped the riding crop against her leg. “I will be with you in a minute, Señorita McLoughlin. I will strip you, make you ready. El Grandero Rico grows impatient.”

  Thirty-two

  Fear. Anger. Sheer cowardice. All these emotions tumbled end over end in Margaret, when the duo of Arturianos dragged her down a lengthy and crooked hallway, toward Pilar’s fourth room. She refused to give them an upper hand by displaying her terrors.

  The older thug spoke. “Martín, do you think the señorita would enjoy a look around?”

  “Why not?”

  Glad that Pilar had removed the gag, Margaret jumped in. “I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself, and I don’t—”

  Cantú interrupted with, “¡Basta!” Stopping at the first doorway, his fingers cut into her wrist. “Take a look, pretty peach.”

  “No thank you.”

  From behind, she felt sturdy hands grip her head. “Watch,” said a man, neither Cantú nor his conspirator.

  With the fascination that ofttimes accompanies repugnance, Margaret saw a hooded man chained spread-eagle to manacles on the wall; he hadn’t a stitch of clothes. Her back to the door, a big woman wearing a flowing black robe ran her hand along his thigh. He cried out. “Be quiet, young man! Or I will be forced to paddle you.”

  Good Lord, that’s Helga!

  “Ready for more?” asked the stranger.

  Not waiting for her reply, Cantú shoved Margaret to the next room, where a bound and gagged woman moaned when an unclothed, aroused man snapped a bullwhip over her behind. Margaret made a face. She ought to kick his privates, just as soon as he sets her loose.

  Next, Margaret was forced to witness—she had some private-kicking of her own to do, that she did!—a large arena with a row of men seated on ice-cream parlor chairs along one wall; smoke wound through the air, the smell redolent of hashish.

  The men ogled a pair of roosters. Their feathers swirling like small tornadoes, the cocks battled amid coins that had been tossed near their sharp spurs. “You people ought to be shot for being cruel to those dumb roosters.”

  “Shhh,” ordered Cantú.

  “I will not. This is an awful place.” One rooster prevailed as she said, “A sick circus with two rings, stinking to high heaven of animal, sweat, and decay. And dissipation!”

  “¡Ole!” roared the crowd, and closed in to gather their cockfight winnings.

  Hugging the second ring, cheering men observed a woman, wearing leather and little of it, circle a donkey while she scratched his ear and chanted to him as she went.

  “Do you know what she’ll do with the donkey?” asked the stranger who held Margaret’s head.

  “I don’t want to know.”

  Her eyelids slammed down, she closed a mental trapdoor on her ears. To think—Rafe had visited this den of iniquity, and lately. It disgusted her to picture him enjoying the attractions. How bored he must get with my inexperienced—and basically conventional! —lovemaking.

  He’d had lots and lots of experience. Most of it with loose women and in dens such as Casa Pilar, if gossip was any barometer. The McLoughlins would never have known Rafe Delgado existed if he hadn’t gotten drunk in a Nuevo Laredo whorehouse. Gotten drunk, then had gotten in one of those chains-and-shackles carousals with a couple of felonious Mexicans!

  “Penny for your thoughts,” spoken by the stranger, yanked her back to this house of harlotry and hell.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  No answer. But his hands let go their vise.

  The ruffians yanked her onward to the next doorway, then pushed her inside the dimly lit, windowless room. No furniture. Satin pillows littered the wooden floor. A tray of bottles and glasses sat in the middle, inviting entrance and indulgence. That unpleasant scent of roses lingered here. She knew that to her dying day, she would never again abide the smell of them.

  From behind, the small sound of a door clicking shut drew her attention.

  Terrified at what might happen to her if she didn’t escape, Margaret, nonetheless, squared her shoulders and schooled her voice. “Stay away from me, Pilar. I am not taking my clothes off.”

  “I am not the proprietress.”

  It was the man who had held her head. She suspected his identity. He wasn’t a
comforting thought. And she was trapped. Trapped! What should she do? Which way should she turn? You’ll have to bide your time, think through the situation, before you can get control.

  With as much hauteur as her shackles and circumstance would allow, she struggled to a sitting position, then turned her nose up toward the doorway. The light poor in that direction, Margaret tried to get a good look at the man who leaned back against the jamb, one ankle crossed over the other. He wore a white shirt and dark trousers.

  She demanded, “Don’t just stand there. Cut these bonds and be quick about it. I am quite uncomfortable.”

  He started to comply, but checked the instinct. “It seems, Miss McLoughlin, you are a young woman of your own mind.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “We’ve met before. Do you not remember?” He took a step into the faint stream of light. Crouching back on his heels, he rested a wrist on a knee and bent his face closer. His was a handsome visage, resembling Rafe’s face. She recognized him way before he said, “I am Arturo Delgado. El Grandero Rico. The uncle of your paramour.”

  The urge to spit in his eye got quelled. If she wanted the advantage, she had to fight fire with fire. At least she hoped this strategy would work.

  She blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “What took you so long? We’ve been expecting you for weeks.”

  His left eyebrow jerked up and down, twice. “The tigress doesn’t back down. I like that.”

  “Where is Rafe?” Please let him be all right!

  Arturo moved to the tray of drinks, crouching down to pour a snifterful, then sat back on his heels. “Evidently you don’t know your man as well as a bride-to-be ought to.”

  “Whether that is so or it isn’t, it’s my business. And since he is my business, I demand you tell me where he is.”

  “He’s next door. In room five. Don’t bother to scream. He can neither hear nor help you.” Arturo took a sip, then set the drink aside to plump a couple of pillows. He snuggled into the softness. “I should imagine Rafito is doing what he’s done a hundred times in this emporium of variety. Oh, that’s right. You wouldn’t know . . . We never got to door number five.”