Wild Sierra Rogue

by Martha Hix

  “The last I saw him, your thugs—no doubt they are your thugs—had rendered him senseless.”

  “He’s recovered.” Arturo swirled the contents of his snifter, then held the rim to her nose to sniff the bouquet. “Tell me, beauty. What do you see in a worthless cripple like my nephew?”

  “Anything bad, I equate with you.”

  He tipped the cognac to her lips. Rather than choke, she took some onto her tongue. “That’s a good girl,” he cooed.

  “What are you about, El Grandero Rico?” By halves she didn’t feel as bold and calm as portrayed in the content of her discourse or in the tone of her voice. “What game do you play that you would have your own flesh and blood shot down first, and now bludgeoned? And why did you stalk us to the Sierras in the first place?”

  “You know the answer as well as I do. At least where Rafito is concerned.”

  Forcing the emotion from her voice, she replied, “You want to avenge your son’s death. And you would like to get rid of any reminders of your stolen fortune.”

  “I stole nothing.” His expression betrayed his denial.

  “Ah. What does it matter? Anyway, no one could blame you for looking out for you and yours. That’s one of mankind’s most basic instincts, wouldn’t you say?”

  He grinned. And Margaret was taken aback at his handsomeness. His nephew really did favor him. Too bad so much beauty was spoiled by so much greed and insensitivity.

  “Arturo—you don’t mind if I call you by your given name, do you?—what was the point in killing Father Xzobal? He, a simple parish priest, couldn’t have done much to hurt a man as powerful and as revered as El Grandero Rico.”

  A chuckle, low and dry. “He isn’t dead.” Margaret hid her sigh of relief, and Arturo went on. “We only made it look like the rabble-rouser had died.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Did you not recognize the priest? The big Swede Helga wears his holy robes, and is as we speak”—Arturo sniggered, smacked his lips—“she is giving him a blessed sacrament.”

  Poor, sensitive Xzobal. First attacked by the piranha Natalie, and now to be violated by that ghastly Helga. Yet Margaret forced a laugh. “That Helga, isn’t she amazing? A man of your stature, I should think you’d be attracted to a woman who can go heads up with you.” Margaret paused. “Unless you prefer shrinking violets.”

  “I prefer fauna to flora.”

  Getting some ideas of his character, Margaret said, “Have you given Helga a go?”

  “Never gave it much thought. But now that I do, yes, I find her interesting. She rather reminds me of my late wife. Yolanda enjoyed being in charge.”

  Uh, huh. He does like to be bossed around. “Pour me another splash of that cognac. And be quick about it.”

  Arturo hastened to oblige, then Margaret asked, “If Xzobal isn’t dead, who is in that fresh grave? Or did you turn up dirt for show?”

  “There’s a proper corpse.” Stretched out on his side, the side of his head cradled in one palm, Arturo reached for her hand with his free fingers. “The Count of Granada . . . what do you think of him?”

  “Very little.”

  “Then we have something in common. I found him sly and patronizing.” Arturo flashed a smile. “Your brother-in-law has gone to a greater reward. Or to his just deserts. Whichever way you prefer to look at it.”

  Leonardo. Dead. There is a God! Should she take everything Arturo said as fact, though? “What assurances do I have that you speak the truth? That grave could be anything or nothing. And what reason did you have for killing the count?”

  “I didn’t kill him. Nor did my minions.” Indignation laced Arturo’s words. “I don’t regret his death, you can be assured. Actually, I find it amusing. A dozen peasants—several of them old enough to remember the first of his family in Mexico—clubbed Lord Hapsburg to death when he tried to enter this village, Helga at his side.”

  There was no playacting on Margaret’s part when she uttered, “The earth has just become a more genteel place for the loss of Leonardo.”

  “Yes, yes.” Arturo laughed. “We should hang a warning on posts in our ports. HAPSBURGS, ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.”

  Violence always lurked just beneath the surface of normalcy in this god-awful country, and it sickened Margaret to realize she’d gotten caught up in her own glee. Would Mexico sap all her honor and conscience?

  This is the life you’ve committed to. Are you sure you can deal with it? New York City, after all, was a civil and respectable city. And it was home, home, home.

  “Would you like another sip of cognac, tigress princess?”

  “No.” She shot him a stern look. “I want you to loosen these bindings. I want you to tell me where I can find Rafe. And don’t hand me that fifth-door nonsense.”

  His eyes brightened. “All right. I’ll be honest. He escaped. No more than five minutes before you arrived here at Casa Pilar.”

  “I don’t believe you. He couldn’t have recovered so quickly. He was unconscious at the cemetery, which wasn’t that long ago.”

  She had to get out of here. On her own. Under her own steam. And rescue Rafe and his brother in the process. But how to escape? This for all intents and purposes was a cage. It was a long way to the entrance. You’ll have to outwit Arturo.

  He sipped cognac, his eyelids falling to half-mast. He lifted a hand to scrape his fingernail across her chambray-covered breast. “Would you like to know why I’ve brought you here?”

  “The thought has crossed my mind.”

  “I want you for my mistress.” His fingers moved to the front of his trousers; he ran his fingertip on the elongated outline. “I want to pound you until you cry for mercy.”

  When Rafe said these sort of things to her, they aroused her. When his uncle said them, they fell on deaf ears. Don’t show it, not if you want to get the best of him. “This pounding. Do you intend to do it while my hands are tied behind my back?”

  “Why not? At least until you get broken to my saddle. I will take you to my hacienda . . . if you please me. I know you will. Tonight makes me certain of it. And if you bear me a boy-child, I shall make you my wife.”

  A child. A fist closed in her chest, a lump kept her from swallowing. For weeks she’d suspected but refused to acknowledge, not even to herself, that she’d soon be holding Rafe’s child in her arms.

  She’d blamed her faintness on her lungs; the Fountain had returned her strength, though. But her flow hadn’t come since before leaving Texas. What else could it be, but the obvious?

  Heaven help me, do I chance being honest with my child’s own uncle . . . ?

  She couldn’t, shouldn’t, and wouldn’t. She would trust no one with Rafe’s precious babe.

  Though her hands were bound, she cuddled her abdominal muscles around the tiny precious life. “If you mean to make me your mistress, I must insist on my rights. I refuse to allow you to touch me when I am restrained.”

  “What a tigress.”

  He lunged for her, but she rolled away. Rolled to her knees. Recalling Yolanda and Helga along with her own conclusions, she gambled. “Did you not understand my Spanish? Must I repeat what I said? Or . . .” Her eyes welded to his hips; she widened her eyes, drawing in a deep breath of supposed interest. “Get up from there.”

  It was all she could do not to giggle. “You’ve been a bad, bad boy, having me tied up like this. When I get loose, I’m going to give you the spanking you so richly deserve.”

  He beamed. “Yolanda. You sound just like Yolanda.”

  Like a lad digging into a bowl of cherries, Arturo delved into untying the leather straps. Within thirty seconds Margaret had crowned him with the cognac decanter, rendered him insensate, and was rushing on tiptoes up the hallway. Just as she reached the last turn, she pulled up short.

  “Rafe!”

  She flew into his arms.

  Behind him she caught sight of a clothed Father Xzobal. To his left, Sean Moynihan. And Pancho Villa. Pancho Villa
! Plus his man Javier. The Villanista Pedro? Missing.

  This was no time for a reunion or for questions about how Rafe and his brother had gotten free, or about how these men had come to help out. Rafe took her hand, and hopping along with his best effort, they burst into the red room where Pilar had been gagged already.

  The contingent made a fast exit.

  Pedro wasn’t missing, she learned after they had gotten away from Areponapuchi. He would catch up with them, Rafe explained and rubbed his sore head. The group made camp near Eden Roc.

  Pancho Villa had much to say, mainly to Margaret. Ready to raid the Santa Alicia, he’d followed Rafe’s path to Eden Roc. One of the cooks had stopped her packing to send Villa to Areponapuchi. At the cemetery Villa and his men found a half-dazed Rafe, the Arturianos preparing to carry him to Casa Pilar.

  Hipólito ran from the cemetery, Rafe said. Never to be seen again.

  “I tossed the Eagle a gun,” said Villa, “and he came out of his daze.” The walrus mustache lifted in a smile. “The Magnificent Eagle shot the three criminals dead.”

  He put her beliefs to rest that Rafe wouldn’t defend himself.

  Villa carried on with the story. By the time they reached Pilar’s house of whoredom, Xzobal had gotten free of Helga, who, he said, had done nothing more than touch his leg after the Arturianos had strung him up.

  “She was reeling from the shock of seeing Lord Hapsburg drawn and quartered,” Xzobal explained.

  While Rafe serenaded the group with a guitar borrowed from Javier, Pedro returned. He brought news that Arturo’s wound was superficial. Already, El Grandero Rico had started back for Santa Alicia, his remaining Arturianos in attendance.

  Rafe, naturally, vowed to follow them. He and Pancho Villa made expansive plans to bring the Santa Alicia mine down. Actually, Villa wanted nothing more than the money in the office safe; he’d leave the do-gooder part to Rafe, Xzobal, and Sean.

  “Why did you leave Arturo at Casa Pilar?” Margaret asked Rafe by the crackling and popping campfire, when the others had scattered for various and sundry chores and privacies. “Rafe, if you wanted your revenge, why didn’t you take it before we left?”

  “I had to get you out of there.”

  “Why? If your favorite playpen is good enough for you, why wouldn’t it be good enough for me?”

  A muscle in his jaw went rigid. “Pilar’s establishment is not my favorite playpen.”

  “I do believe the madam begs to differ.”

  A thunderous look passing across his face, Rafe replied, “If you were looking for a man without a few sins to his name, you picked the wrong hombre. If you’re looking for me to apologize for my past, you’re in trouble. I can’t change it. I won’t make excuses for it. And that’s that.”

  That’s that. One of her hardheaded father’s favorite expressions.

  I can’t deal with Rafe tonight.

  Later, she heard him say to Villa, et al, “Too bad we’re fettered by the need for rest. I’m burning to ride on to the Santa Alicia mine.”

  Seeing another man of zeal—her father—Margaret questioned a lot of things. She turned away and moved to the area where she and Rafe would sleep tonight. She spread a saddle blanket on the ground. She kept hearing Pilar call Rafe “master stud.” She kept remembering how she’d smiled upon hearing of her brother-in-law’s brutal death. She kept thinking about all the awful things that could happen when they sabotaged the Santa Alicia silver mine.

  And she cried. Cried for herself and for Rafe. And for their baby.

  Get a grip. You’re tired. You’re upset. Don’t say something you’ll regret later.

  She took her own advice. She refused to discuss her feelings. It wasn’t until they neared the village of San Antonio that the rumblings of her true nature reverberated.

  The Delgado band planned to spend one night at Rancho Gato, the gate of which stood no more than two miles from San Antonio. Margaret decided, Once we reach the Fuentes ranch, I’m going to call Rafe aside. We are going to get our house in order.

  Thirty-three

  Rafe and Margaret, along with their followers, descended to the base of the Sierra Madres and reached Rancho Gato on a crisp January afternoon. The rancher and his wife greeted the returned visitors warmly. Vicente and Esther Vasquez welcomed Margaret with special warmth.

  Without so much as a backward glance at Rafe, Margaret tucked Caballo in the crook of one arm, locked the other one with Esther’s, and made for the adobe ranch house.

  Margarita had been quiet, much too quiet since leaving Areponapuchi five nights ago, and her actions had Rafe concerned. Even her usual enthusiasm in lovemaking had been lacking.

  He sighed as he led Diablo into the stable and unsaddled the fitful stallion. Something had to be wrong with Margarita—something very wrong—for her not to talk. It had to be more than jealousy over Casa Pilar.

  Going in to their love affair, Margaret had known he was immoral and likely to stay that way. Stay that way? He’d never cuckold her. Never. But how was she to know that?

  Damn.

  Maldicion.

  He glanced at Xzobal, who was running a currycomb through his mount’s mane. Rafe had the urge to say something to his brother, something on the order of, “I think Margarita has changed her mind about me.” But Xzobal had enough worries without piling Rafe’s on top.

  Rafe patted Diablo’s rump, then stepped to the adjacent stall. “Are you gonna be all right, muchacho?”

  Xzobal rubbed his palm down the side of his britches. With the Federales still looking for him, he wore the clothes of a common vaquero. He turned to Rafe, and the fatigue of a thousand years dulled his brown eyes.

  “You’re not going back to the church, are you?” Rafe said.

  “But I am. With more dedication than ever before. I’m going to join a monastery.”

  “You’re going to be a mock? Have you lost your mind? You joined the priesthood just to please your father, you don’t have a true calling.”

  “Not so.” Xzobal gave a dry laugh. “If I didn’t have a calling, I would have swept Natalie away the first time she flirted with me.”

  “Seems to me your heels got round. And quick. So don’t hand me that line.” Rafe saw he was getting nowhere. “Think on this. Those places would bore a mouse, much less an hombre who’s sampled a tasty morsel like that Natalie.”

  Scowling now, Xzobal yanked the currycomb down the gelding’s neck, receiving a bite on his forearm for his roughness.

  As the victim yelped and rubbed his abused flesh, Rafe smirked knowingly. “You’re joshing me with that monk business. There hasn’t been a monastery in Mexico for thirty-odd years.”

  “They still have them in Spain. And that’s where I’m going.”

  Rafe grimaced, blew a stream of breath out his rigid mouth, and shook his head. “You’ll live to regret taking off for there. You wait and see. It won’t be anytime ’til you have such a craving for a mouthful of tit and a handful of hot woman, you’ll be scaling the monastery walls.”

  Xzobal said nothing.

  One last bit had to be said. “If you’re leaving, fine. But you’re not going until after you marry me and ’Rita.”

  “Who says we’re going to be married?” came a feminine voice.

  ’Rita.

  Rafe spun around.

  She stood barefooted in the door of the stable, sunlight shooting through the dark hair that lay thick and wavy over her shoulders. Esther Vasquez must have loaned her some clothes, for Margarita wore a red skirt and a white peasant blouse, the drawstringed collar of the latter settling just below her shoulders. As usual, she looked sensational. Except for her expression.

  “Xzobal,” Rafe demanded, “leave us.”

  He did. Margarita entered the stable, stopped at Diablo’s stall. When Rafe tried to take her in his arms, she backed away. Again they surfaced, his fears about her intentions.

  She spoke. “I want you to back off this vendetta against Arturo.”


  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Arturo isn’t a totally unreasonable man. If you put your heart into it, I think you can reason with him. Actually, all you need to do is set forth demands, and he’ll listen to you.”

  Was he hearing right? Margarita—Margarita the warrior-woman!—had turned coat? “He’s duped you.”

  “I don’t think so. I believe I understand him quite well. And after talking with him, I better understand myself. I realized that I was enjoying violence. Having a blood thirst scares me witless.”

  “You aren’t obligated to go with us on the raid. Stay here ’til I return for you.”

  She shook her head. “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t want you to jeopardize your life. You must give up this revenge bunk. I want us to leave for Texas at first light. If you want to marry me”—she plumbed her spine—“you’ll have to accept that our home will be New York City.”

  His ears weren’t working right. Or this was a dream that would fade when he awoke. But it wasn’t a nightmare. And there was nothing wrong with his hearing. “Your terms are unacceptable.”

  “Then you and I are finished.”

  “Bullshit.” His words gritted past his clenched teeth. “We’ve come all this way, fought so many odds, and you want us to retreat like cowed curs? Unacceptable.”

  “I find it unacceptable, the idea of a husband who’s used for target practice.”

  Struck dumb by all she’d thrown at him, he tried to understand her reasoning. All this time, he’d believed her steady and true to their shared ideals. Obviously their ideals weren’t shared. Had her promises been empty, too? “What is it you’re wanting?” he asked sourly. “A rose garden?”

  “Never a rose garden.”

  “A cottage in the glen? Quiet evenings, hearth-side. A passel of babies?”

  She flinched. “We . . . we both agreed we wanted children. A while back you didn’t think they were an impossibility. Have you changed your mind?”

  “I want to father your children. But not now. We’re on the eve of our greatest triumph.”