by Cox, Deborah
Desert Dreams
By
Deborah Cox
Desert Dreams
Deborah Cox
Copyright © 1995 and 2013 by Deborah C. Minyard
Originally published by Harper Collins
Chapter 1
He guided his horse through the crowded street with casual ease, one hand on the reins, the other resting on his thigh. His gaze never wavered from its direction straight ahead, and yet he seemed to be aware of everyone and everything around him. There was the look of the predator about him, the menacing watchfulness of an animal on the scent of its next kill.
Tension emanated from him and echoed in the hollow thumping of Anne Cameron's heart. She wiped sweat from her brow with the sleeve of the shirtwaist that had been white that morning when she'd put it on. A warm whisper of a breeze caressed her hot skin, as a rivulet of moisture trickled between her breasts in the blazing September heat.
Drifter. She'd seen his type before. There had been plenty of them along the Mississippi River, rootless men who wandered from town to town, game to game, dangerous men who had nothing to lose.
Not until he'd passed down the street did she notice the body slung crosswise behind the saddle. The horse's movements caused the corpse to sway in a macabre dance, arms and legs dangling on either side of the animal.
Bile rose inside her, and she held a hand to her throat in reaction.
San Antonio, Texas was nothing at all like Natchez, Mississippi—on the surface at least. You'd never see a man ride down the street with a body draped over his horse, even in Natchez-under-the-hill, the part of the city she was familiar with. But life in Natchez-under-the-hill was cheap, and it was evidently cheap in Texas, too.
The man with the corpse stopped before the jail. He swung down from the saddle and walked around to the side of his horse. At the same time, a tall barrel-chested man emerged from the jail. He came to stand beside the body and raised the lifeless head by the hair to get a look at the dead man's face.
Anne strained to hear the words that passed between the two, but the din in the street was too thick. She took the opportunity to study the gunfighter more closely. Her gaze slid down from his dark head to his broad shoulders to his narrow hips, where a gun rode low against his thigh. At that instant, she looked up and met his gaze.
He smiled, touching a finger to his hat. Try though she might, she couldn't break his gaze. She was rooted to the spot. Her heart raced, leaving her breathless. A flush crept up from her throat, and she was finally able to avert her gaze. A cold knot settled in her stomach. It was a warning she dared not ignore. She'd disregarded her intuition before and paid a terrible price.
"There's gonna be trouble."
She turned at the sound of a deep male voice behind her to see a whiskered, white-haired man standing in the open doorway of the hotel. He nodded toward the horseman who had just dismounted in front of the jail. "Pistolero. Prob'ly a bounty hunter."
That was pretty obvious. She moved past the whiskered man into the relative coolness of the hotel, grateful to be away from the cold, assessing stare of the man across the street. She stepped up to the desk, placing her gloves on the polished surface, trying not to think about the gunman.
"See those men on the other side of the street?" the whiskered man persisted.
In spite of her resolve to remain detached, Anne peered through the open door at two dangerous-looking men lounging across the street in front of the saloon, their eyes fixed on the gunfighter.
"Vigilante scum." The whiskered man turned away from the doorway with a scowl and walked around behind the shiny mahogany desk.
"Mark my words, somebody's gonna be dead before this day's over." He opened the large ledger book with a snort. "Minutemen, they call themselves. Their leader, Captain Asa Mitchell, vowed to punish criminals and traitors. Thing of it is, they're deserters and desperadoes themselves. They carry out their own brand of justice. Just last week, they hung a man for getting drunk and turning over a few chili stands in Alamo Plaza. Took him out of jail and strung him up from a chinaberry tree. Few months ago, they hung twenty men in one week."
Anne closed her eyes tightly, tapping her fingers on the wooden surface. Her temples were beginning to throb. She didn't care about this town or chili stands or hangings. Her too-large boots had rubbed blisters on her ankles and heels, despite the thick woolen socks she'd stuffed into the toes to make them fit better. All she could think of was taking those boots off, along with the rest of her clothes, and soaking in a hot tub.
"I need a room," she said finally. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that the last meal she'd had was yesterday's breakfast, and she wouldn't eat tonight either. What meager funds she had left had to last her until she reached her destination.
It wasn’t the first time in her life that she’d been hungry, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. She’d drink water-a lot of water-and pretend it filled that empty spot in her belly. It was a game she’d played before. If never worked.
The innkeeper turned the guest register around without another word and waited for her to sign her name.
"Pedro!" he called as Anne finished writing. A Mexican youth appeared, smiling brightly from beneath a large straw hat.
"Take Miss"—he glanced at the register for her name—"Miss Cameron's baggage upstairs, pronto!"
The Mexican bobbed his head and lifted the carpetbag Anne had dropped at her feet. She followed him toward the staircase.
One more night in a hotel.
One more night and a stagecoach ride and she'd be in Ubiquitous, Texas, where she would start her new life. Finally she would have a home, a real home that didn't float up and down a river. She could almost imagine her Aunt Margarite's face. She would look like the miniature of her mother she kept safe in her locket, the only thing she owned that had belonged to the woman who had died giving her birth.
"Remember where you came from," her father had always told her. "Your mother was a fine New Orleans lady from a respectable family. Remember that."
When she was old enough to understand, he had explained that her mother's fine, respectable family had disowned her for marrying an American, which meant anyone who couldn't trace their lineage back to France for at least three generations. The newlyweds were left to fend for themselves. But her mother's older sister, Margarite, hadn't shunned her. Her father had always told her to go to Aunt Margarite should anything happen to him, and so she had.
Closing her eyes, Anne caressed the locked that hung from her neck and allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to have a real home at last. Aunt Margarite's house would smell like home-baked bread. It would be white with a large porch on the front. They would sit and laugh together at dusk like the families she'd glimpsed in Natchez, the part above the bluffs where the decent folks lived, and in Baton Rouge, and in Vicksburg....
Hopefully Aunt Marguerite had received her letter. She'd posted it from Natchez on her way out of town. There hadn't been time to wait for a reply—it would have taken weeks to reach her, if it reached her at all—so she had taken a chance and struck out for Texas.
She moistened her parched lips. The taste of Texas trail dust was bitter on her tongue. Her gaze returned to the spot where the pistolero had been standing, but he had turned to follow the sheriff into the jail. She glanced across the street at the two vigilantes who were still watching and whispering to each other.
If there was going to be trouble, as the innkeeper had predicted, she hoped it would wait until she was well on her way.
* * * * *
Rafe Montalvo stepped out of the sheriff's office into the noisy street, adjusting the brim of his hat so it shielded his eyes from at least some of the sun's glare. He glanced down the street, looking for th
e girl he'd seen standing in front of the hotel moments earlier, her curly fair hair peeking out from underneath a battered hat. She was gone now, vanished, as if she'd never been there at all, as if she were nothing more than a mirage.
Something about her struck a memory deep inside him. Tall and fragile, she seemed out of place on the rough, dirty street. Her carriage, her manner, everything about her spoke of breeding and pride, despite her slightly shabby, travel-worn appearance. She was probably a refugee from the war.
With an effort, he deflected the empty knot of pain that formed in his gut. There once was a time when women like that were a part of his life, but that was long ago, before all the killing started. She was like a ghost from his past, a past he would just as soon leave buried. Still, he couldn't help wondering what she was doing in San Antonio, especially now, when what little law and order there had been before the war had completely broken down.
Rafe shrugged the question aside as he stepped off the wooden sidewalk and strode toward his horse. She was nothing to him. A woman like that would cross to the opposite side of the street to avoid passing too close to a man like him.
As he lifted the saddlebags from the chestnut gelding's back, he caught sight of a short bald-headed man hurrying across the busy street toward him.
Undertakers, he could smell them a mile off. Smiling vultures. They were all the same, from their white aprons to their serene faces and calculating eyes that counted death as profit—just as he did. They were in the same business, he and the undertaker, the business of death.
As he slung the saddlebags over his shoulder, the short, smiling man stopped before him. "After you're done with the body, have my horse taken to the livery stable," Rafe said without looking at the man. "Make sure he's looked after, and I'll make it worth your while."
He didn't wait for a reply but sauntered toward the saloon. What he needed was a shot of whiskey—make that a bottle of whiskey.
As Rafe walked, his gaze settled on the two men who lounged on the sidewalk in front of the saloon. The taller one he recognized as Tom McCoy. They'd run into one another in Laredo a few months back and McCoy had ended up with a bullet in his leg.
Rafe could have killed him, but he had no beef with the Texan as long as he stayed out of Rage’s way. McCoy, however, would be looking for revenge.
It was just his luck the bounty he'd earned had to come all the way from El Paso. If not for that, he'd be gone by morning and he and McCoy could both go on living. Rafe didn't look forward to the inevitable confrontation, but he would not run from it either. If McCoy wanted to test him again, he would end up dead.
Rafe smiled as he approached the pair, noting that McCoy had begun to squirm a bit under his unflagging gaze. He had made quite a reputation for himself. Rumor had it he'd killed some dozen men. Rumor also had it most of them were shot in the back. He'd have to be careful, but then, he could hardly remember a time when he hadn't had to be careful.
Brushing past the two men without a word, Rafe stepped into the cavernous saloon. The stench of stale beer and tobacco smoke stung his nostrils as he paused just inside the door to make a mental note of the positions of those present.
In less than a minute, he had measured everyone in the room. Two men played stud at a table, one smoking a cigar and laughing with the scarlet-clad woman who bent over him, revealing more than a glimpse of lush, full breasts. Against the bar stood a huge, rough-looking character, but his bulk was probably more fat than muscle, and his gun was strapped on like that of an amateur. A lone figure, a Mexican, sat in a dark corner. Rafe hesitated briefly as his eyes slid over this man.
Conversations died in mid-sentence as one by one the other occupants glanced up. Rafe crossed the room to the bar, his spurs jingling loudly in the suddenly quiet saloon.
The bartender ran a towel around the inside of a shot glass, while a bored-looking redhead in black and red lace and black net stockings leaned against the bar.
It wasn't much of a crowd, but that suited him fine.
"Bottle of whiskey," Rafe ordered, reaching into his shirt pocket for a coin.
"Yessir!" The bartender hurriedly placed a full bottle and a clean glass on the bar.
Aware that the saloon girl was watching him, Rafe turned to face her, and she smiled an invitation.
His body reacted instantly to the heat in her expression, the pale breasts that spilled out of her low-cut dress. Maybe later. She wasn't unattractive. He knew what to expect of her, and he knew what she expected of him. Nice and neat, no complications, no questions.
Rafe tossed several silver coins on the bar. "You got a clean room?"
His gaze inched downward over the redhead’s voluptuous body. The way her skirt was cut in front, her long straight legs were visible to just above the knee. The heaviness in his groin reminded him how long it had been since he'd been with a woman.
The bartender eyed the money, then nodded and reached under the bar for a key. "Room Two-B at the top of the stairs."
Rafe looked away from the woman. He took the key in one hand, the bottle and glass in the other, and moved toward the staircase. There he halted, glancing back at the bartender.
"What're the chances of getting a bath around here?"
The bartender smiled. "I'll see to it."
* * * * *
Less than fifteen minutes later, Rafe was relaxing in a large tin bathtub. He'd positioned the tub so he faced the door, a precaution he always took. His gun belt hung from a coat rack above his head within easy reach. A wooden chair stood beside the tub, the whiskey bottle and glass on the seat.
He closed his eyes, laying his head against the hard metal rim of the tub. Warm water soothed his sun-parched skin, washing away the tension along with layers of grit and grime. He relaxed for the first time in weeks, letting his thoughts wander.
Gonzales. When he'd ridden into Gonzales a few days ago, he hadn't been looking for trouble, but then he'd seen that familiar face on the street. He hadn't known the man's name until he read it on one of the old wanted posters he carried with him and studied faithfully, but he could never forget that face.
"Madre de Dios, don't kill me," the outlaw had pleaded. "I have a family, a wife and children." The bandit fished in his shirt pocket and held up a fistful of banknotes. "Mira, I have money. I will pay you!"
"You're worth three hundred dollars dead," Rafe had informed him evenly.
When the outlaw went for his gun, Rafe had all the reason he needed to shoot him down like the animal he was.
Looking back on it now, he couldn't help but feel a certain disappointment. He'd wanted the bandit to die slowly, to suffer awhile. But then, he supposed, dead was dead.
Rubbing a bar of soap between his palms, he worked up a lather and massaged the bubbles into his itchy beard. He tried focusing on more pleasant thoughts, but those were few. The future was barren, empty. He lived from day to day, driven by demons he didn't dare stop to contemplate for fear they would overtake him.
The past was dangerous territory and best avoided. He hadn't allowed himself to think of it in a very long time—until he'd seen the girl on the street. Something about her had jarred his memory and shaken him to his core. A heavy sadness settled on his heart as her image returned to him. He steeled himself against it. One image led to another until he found himself thinking of the old days when his world had been as soft and civilized as the one that young woman had undoubtedly left behind.
He lowered himself farther in the tub, submerging his head, as if by doing so he could wash away the memories that clung to him like trail dust. Resurfacing, he concentrated on scrubbing the dirt from his hair and body. He emptied his thoughts of past and future and surrendered himself to the present, to sensation: warm water, coarse sponge, waning sun through dirty, torn curtains.
The bathwater was cool by the time he stepped out and toweled his body dry. He dug in his saddlebag and found a slightly wrinkled clean shirt. Smiling wryly, he shook it out as if that would help smoo
th it.
"Not that one, mi amor." The female voice floated through his mind, along with the scent of jasmine.
She smiled, her dark eyes sparkling as she reached into the wardrobe, her chestnut curls brushing against his chest.
Christina. She turned and came into his arms easily, softly. He lowered his mouth to hers --
Rafe reeled backwards and loosened his grip on the shirt. The world righted itself and he was able to breathe again. He brushed the sweat from his brow with his forearm before shrugging into the shirt. It had been a long time since the past had broken through his careful defenses with such power and vividness.
Maybe it was the girl on the street. Or maybe it was seeing Jose again. Of all the people he could have run into in San Antonio, Jose Carvajal was the last one he would have expected or wanted to see. Seeing him again brought all his secrets crawling from their dark hiding places.
A knock sounded on the closed door as Rafe fastened his pants. He whirled around, drew his revolver from the coat rack, cocked it, and leveled it at the door in one smooth reflex action.
"Who is it?" he called.
"It is me, Jose!"
Rafe uncocked the gun with a muttered curse. Without waiting for an invitation, Jose opened the door and stepped inside. His eyes widened as he watched Rafe holster his gun.
"It has been a long time, amigo," said the Mexican. He turned around to stick his head out into the hall, then closed the door behind him. "I have worried about you."
"Why is that, amigo?" Rafe asked, not even trying to keep the sarcasm and irritation out of his voice.
Jose had an annoying habit of calling everyone amigo, a habit Rafe mimicked in the vain hope the Mexican would get as tired of hearing it as he did and drop it.
Jose laughed, wagging a finger at Rafe. "Because I know you too well. I know how reckless you can be." He lifted the whiskey bottle, studying it with a shake of his head. "Rotgut." Jose wrinkled his nose, then uncorked the bottle and took a swig. "So, what brings you to San Antonio?"