by Cox, Deborah
"I ran into some trouble outside Gonzales," Rafe replied, wishing Jose would just get to the point. And there was a point. He was as sure of that as he was that Jose being in San Antonio was no coincidence.
"Who was it this time, amigo?"
Rafe dug out the wanted poster he had shown to the sheriff earlier and handed it to Jose. The truth was, Rafe couldn't recall the man's name even now, but Jose would recognize him. Jose knew every bandido and comanchero between the Red River and the Rio Grande and beyond into Mexico
Only Jose knew the truth about what had happened that day in the desert, which made being around the Mexican almost painful. He couldn't pretend it didn't matter. He couldn't keep the memory from rising to the surface as long as Jose was around. Not that either of them spoke of it directly. Jose was just a living, breathing reminder.
A sly smile curved Jose's lips as he unfolded the poster and studied the familiar face. Light from the open window glinted off his gold-capped tooth. "You always were the one to take advantage of opportunity. That is why I have always liked you."
He studied Jose in the mirror as he tossed the wanted poster on the bed and poured whiskey into the glass. The Mexican's eyes danced with mischief, like a cat that had just swallowed a fat mouse.
Short and round, Jose didn't look at all like a ruthless bandido. Many men had underestimated him, because of his almost comical appearance, and many had lived to regret it. It was only because of his reputation that he was allowed to roam freely in this, a white man's saloon.
Jose held the glass out to Rafe, but Rafe reached for the bottle instead. The Mexican laughed heartily, then tossed down the glass of whiskey with a shrug. Rafe upended the bottle, relishing the fiery liquid trail that burned down his throat.
"But I think it must have been providence that brought you here," Jose said. "Si, la Providencia." His hand shook as he turned the empty glass in his palm, studying it with a frown before continuing. "I have an amusing story to tell you, amigo."
Finally! Rafe turned to place the bottle on the bedside table. The sound of bedsprings creaking told him Jose had made himself comfortable, and he realized his visitor meant to stay awhile. Resigned, Rafe turned back to the mirror to trim his beard.
"A ship arrived in Matamoros two months ago, a French ship carrying six million dollars in gold for the Confederate cause."
In the mirror, Rafe watched the Mexican rise from his seat on the bed and move to peer out the dingy window. He couldn't remember when he had last seen him so jittery. It had something to do with the gold.
Jose turned and looked at Rafe again, shrugging at the question in his eyes. "I might have been followed, amigo. You can never be too careful. A million dollars is a lot of money."
"A million? A minute ago it was six million."
"Be patient, amigo. You see, this gold was received by a Confederate agent who found himself without means of transportation. Who could he turn to but the governor of Tamaulipas province? Of course, the good governor was more than happy to help. Like France, Mexico is neutral in the American war."
Jose sarcasm wasn't lost on Rafe. He could well imagine how eager the "good governor" would have been to take a fortune in gold off the unlucky agent's hands. And although he didn't pay attention to politics, it wasn't a secret the French occupiers in Mexico were squarely on the side of the Confederacy.
"When the gold was delivered to the agent in Eagle Pass," Jose continued, "it was a million dollars short."
"And where is this gold now?" Rafe asked, his interest piqued in spite of his best efforts to remain uninvolved.
"I do not know, amigo, but I know the only man who does, and he is here in San Antonio."
"Who might that be?" He glared at Jose through the mirror, damning him for his theatrics.
"Luis Demas."
Rafe surveyed his own reflection in the glass, his expression carefully indifferent. He ran a hand through ink-black hair that fell to his shoulders in wet, unruly strands.
"The name sounds familiar," was all he said. He had never met Demas, but he knew everything he needed to know about him from his reputation and the company he kept. "Why are you telling me this?" If this was another of Jose's wild schemes, Rafe wanted no part of it.
"I have a proposition for you, amigo. All you have to do is help me find the gold."
"Hell, why should I help you? You don't know where the gold is. Luis Demas does. What's to stop me from finding Demas and going after the gold myself?"
"You owe me, amigo. Besides, I can give you something you want very badly. You help me and I'll help you. Surely you know who Luis works for. The Confederate agent entrusted the gold to the governor who hired El Alacran to transport it. El Alacran delivered the gold a million dollars short. Who know how it all happened but the million dollars ended up in the hands of one of El Alacran’s most trusted men who is here in San Antonio now.”"
El Alacran. The name was never far from Rafe's mind, but hearing it spoken aloud hit him with the force of a blow. His heart began to pound as tension built in every nerve and sinew of his body. He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to hold back the memories. In his imagination, he was in the desert again, a land wavering with heat. A column of smoke curled skyward in the distance, beckoning him....
He pulled his mind back to the present, but not soon enough, not in time to avoid the tormented stare of those damning eyes.
"I don't need or want your help," Rafe said in a voice that sounded strange in his own ears. "But I suppose I do owe you something. I'll help you get your gold as long as nothing gets between me and El Alacran."
"Si, I understand," Jose said quickly. "But if you find the gold, you will find El Alacran. El Alacran wants Luis alive. He doesn't just want to find out where the gold is, he wants to make an example of the thief. You know better than I that if El Alacran gets to Luis first, there won't be enough of him left for the buzzards. I wouldn't want to trade places with him right now, not even for a million dol—"
Jose fell silent at the sound of a knock on the door. He swung around, drawing his revolver from the holster at his hip, while Rafe stood ready to reach for his own weapon, should the situation warrant it.
"Come in!" Rafe called.
As the door opened slowly, the noise from the bar downstairs preceded the saloon girl Rafe had seen earlier into the room. Jose lowered his gun and turned to glance quizzically at Rafe.
Rafe ignored him, focusing on the woman who had stepped over the threshold and halted just inside at sight of Jose.
"I'll come back later," she said.
Jose laughed, looking from Rafe to the woman and back again to Rafe, as he returned his gun to its holster.
"No, no," Jose insisted. "I was just leaving. I'll keep an eye out for our friend. We have a deal, yes?"
“Sure.”
Smiling lewdly, Jose circled the girl, his gaze gliding over her boldly displayed body. He glanced at Rafe once more, winked enviously, and went out, closing the door behind him.
Chapter 2
Anne jerked awake at the sound of a gunshot and leaped out of bed, her heart racing. She thrust her head out the window in time to see a shadowed figure fall to the ground just within eyesight.
"Papa!"
Grabbing her wrapper, she ran into the dimly lit corridor, around a corner, and down the stairs, her heart pounding with fear, her mind racing. Only the stairs weren't where she remembered. Who could remember? She'd been in so many hotels lately, it wasn't surprising she didn't remember the way to the foyer and the front door.
Papa, don't die!
She ran into the street, her bare feet racing over the dirt surface.
"Let me through!" she demanded as she forced her way through the crowd that had gathered around the fallen man.
You can't help him, a little voice told her. Papa's going to die and you can't help him.
So much blood. She knelt beside the injured man, blood everywhere. Nausea rose in her throat and she swallowed the fear that
threatened to strangle her. Her trembling hands reached out to touch him as her mind recoiled from the fact that he was dying or dead.
"Papa, don't die," she whispered past the tears that ran down her cheeks.
A shaft of light fell across the wounded man's face. It was the face of a stranger.
Anne pulled away in shock. This wasn't Natchez, it was San Antonio. Papa was already dead, had been dead for weeks.
She sat back on her heels and wiped angrily at tears. Try though she might, she couldn't keep her chin from trembling, couldn't help the heart ache that threatened to consume her as it had that terrible night.
But this wasn’t that night. She shifted her brain to the new reality as the cobwebs of sleep receded. It wasn’t the first time she’d walked in her sleep since papa died, but she’d never been so disoriented.
San Antonio. She was in San Antonio, Texas, on her way to her aunt’s house. Papa was dead.
If only he'd stayed with her that night, if only....
Damn you, Papa! Damn you for leaving me!
"Angel."
The word was so faint, Anne wasn't sure if she'd heard it or imagined it. It took her a moment to realize what he'd said. When she did, she smiled down into the pain-filled eyes of the wounded man and shook her head. "No, I'm not an angel."
Something in his desperation touched her heart.
"He—he needs a doctor!" she cried, forcing her gaze from the bleeding Mexican.
Fear shot through her at the sight of a dozen eyes glaring down at her. She scrambled to her feet and backed away, only to run into the men behind her. She gasped and jerked away, eliciting a round of laughter from the hard-edged men who surrounded her. She clutched her wrapper around her. A menacing silence fell over the group. She scanned the circle of a faces, all leering down at her with similar expressions.
How could she have been so foolish? She'd run out into the street clad only in a thin nightgown and robe. A man had been shot and would probably bleed to death while the men who had gathered to gawk stood by and did nothing.
"Hell, ain't no doctor gonna treat no Mex!" a bleary-eyed man said, eliciting a round of laughter from the others.
"You should be ashamed of yourselves!" Anne scolded, playing for time. "This man is a human being!"
The man closest to her turned his head to the side and spat a brown stream of tobacco juice that landed in the dust close to her foot. "Maybe he is and maybe he ain't."
"Por favor, I must tell you—"
The wounded man broke off, his face contorting as pain gripped his body.
Her gaze fell on the gun strapped to the fallen man's waist. Did she have time to grab it before anyone realized what she intended and moved to stop her? Did she dare? Did she dare not?
* * * * *
Rafe Montalvo came awake with a violent start as the door to his room flew open and banged against the wall. Jose stood in the doorway, his body haloed by the light from the corridor.
Swearing under his breath, Rafe groaned and fell back on the bed. He hadn't even thought to go for his gun. The reflexes that had kept him alive for the past five years had failed him. One mistake like that could cost a man his life, especially a man who chased trouble the way he did.
"It's Luis!" Jose cried before Rafe could gather his wits. "He's been shot!"
Rafe sat up slowly this time and threw the covers off with a scowl. He paused and ran a hand through his hair, struggling to clear his sleepy mind. Running through the facts as he knew them helped him focus. Luis Demas held the secret to a fortune in gold, gold that could flush El Alacran out into the open.
"Is he dead?" Rafe asked quietly, feeling the best chance he'd had in five years to flush El Alacran out slip through his fingers.
"I don't know, but you've got to come with me! He's down on the street in front of the hotel. If he is alive, you've got to try and make him talk. If he's dying, maybe he'll tell you about the gold. He won't talk to me, me and Luis go way back. Hurry, amigo!"
Rafe stood and pulled his pants on quickly, then sat on the edge of the bed to jerk his boots on. Shoving his arms into his shirtsleeves, he stalked past Jose, grabbing his gun belt from the coat rack on the way out the door.
Jose was right. He had to get to the street before the bandit died. He shook off the grogginess that clung to him, ignoring pulsing headache that nearly blinded him, thanks to the rotgut he’d drunk earlier, and the smell of sex that clung to him.
A full moon cast freakish shadows on the street where men shifted in a taut, uneasy circle. The hairs on the back of Rafe's neck stood on end as he approached.
The air throbbed with tension like the silent excitement before a hanging or a dogfight.
Instinctively, Rafe's fingers tested the strap on his holster. Blood pounded in his veins and tingled in his fingertips as his body prepared for a confrontation.
He shouldered his way through the crowd to find himself face-to-face with the young woman he'd seen on the street that day. The men had completely forgotten the injured man on the ground and were ogling her.
She looked as if she'd been in bed. Pale hair had worked its way free of the braid that hung down her back to her waist, framing her face in disarray. Her thin nightgown and wrapper didn't conceal her body as well as she probably thought it did.
He clenched his fists at his sides, trying to think, to curb the irrational anger and fear that roiled inside his chest.
Christ, what was she doing out here this time of night? And how the hell was he going to get her and Demas out of this?
These men were teamsters and drifters, probably deserters from one army or the other. The streets belonged to them at night, the streets and anyone unlucky enough or foolish enough to stumble across them. They recognized no law, and nothing in San Antonio would stop them from doing whatever they wanted to do under cover of darkness, least of all a skinny half-naked woman with a gun in her hand.
"You can't shoot us all," one of them said.
She pointed the gun straight at the speaker. "Maybe not, but I'll make sure you're first."
"Hell, she prob'ly can't even fire a gun."
In answer, she pulled the hammer back and cocked the pistol. "I can shoot the head off a one-eyed jack at twenty paces, so I can sure as hell put a bullet in one of you."
Rafe stifled a laugh at her audacity. He didn't know if she was bluffing or not, and he didn't want to find out. Acting quickly, he said the first thing that came to mind.
"Darlin', I've been lookin' all over for you! What the hell are you doin' out here in the middle of the street this time of night?"
"Well—" She turned to look at him. Her eyes widened, and confusion became fear.
Fear was an important weapon, one he'd used countless times. But seeing it in this woman's eyes caused a sick pain in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to walk away, to turn his back so he wouldn't have to see the expression on her face.
Instead, he continued with the ruse he hoped would get them both out of this situation.
"Were you sleepwalkin' again?" He turned to the men who were gaping at him. "She walks in her sleep. The doctors can't do a thing about it."
Sensing movement to his left, Rafe gripped the hilt of his gun, gazing around the circle from man to man.
"This ain't none of your business." A man with yellow teeth and foul breath, the one who had been threatened with the gun, stepped forward.
He was big and burly, probably a teamster. He'd be hell in a brawl, but he probably couldn't handle a gun worth a damn.
"The hell it ain't," Rafe replied, his voice nonchalant. "She's my wife."
He moved closer to the young woman. She didn't seem to notice him until his hand closed over hers and the gun and she tried to pull away.
"Give me the gun," he urged softly.
Her hands trembled beneath his. Her wide, frightened eyes darted from him to the men who watched her with a predatory zeal. She was weighing her options, trying to decide whether to take her chances with t
hem or trust him. He didn't envy her position, but he hoped for both their sakes she made the right choice.
She looked at him again, and he softened his expression with an effort, hoping to reassure her with a look. Finally she relinquished the weapon. Her eyes met his, violet eyes. How a woman with such fair hair could have such dark eyes. He recognized the fear in their depths, fear and a silent plea that wrapped around his heart and shook him to his core. She was asking him not to betray her trust.
Rafe stuffed the pistol in his belt while his gaze moved inexorably over her thinly veiled body. The outline of her firm, round breasts and long legs sent the blood pounding through his body. A fierce arousal gripped him before he managed to tear his eyes away from her. The scent of lilac soap wafted to him as he turned to face the crowd. It was a moment before he could speak.
"I'm takin' my wife and her friend to the hotel. Anybody got any objections?"
"Senorita," the wounded man murmured, just loud enough for Anne to hear.
She'd almost forgotten him. She tried to listen to the conversation around her, tried to understand why she had relinquished her only means of defense to a man she knew to be a killer.
She'd lost control of the situation, if she'd ever had control of it. This stranger, this bounty hunter, had both of their lives in his hands now. She trembled, shivering despite the heat at the memory of his gaze stripping the clothes from her body and the cold, hard glint she'd seen in his eyes when he'd looked into her face again.
"Por favor, senorita, you must listen."
Anne focused on the face of the wounded man. His skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his voice so weak she could scarcely hear him. He probably wanted comfort, but she had none to offer. All she wanted was to escape this dangerous situation. All her senses focused on the man who had casually called her his wife.
"Please don't get excited. The doctor will be here soon," she lied, kneeling beside the Mexican again. She could smell the blood. He was dying.
"I want to make you a very wealthy woman," he murmured. "I can tell you where there is a million dollars in gold." He looked skyward. "Maybe this will make up for some of my sins."