by Cox, Deborah
Grabbing a towel, he dried his face and chest. Useless regret and guilt twisted in his gut until he found it almost impossible to breathe.
Even time couldn't dull some memories.
He studied his reflection in the cracked, faded glass. Running a hand over his stubbled chin, he tried to remain detached, tried not to study too closely the man who looked back at him, afraid of what he might find there. He'd been chasing after animals for so long he had almost become one of them. His single-minded quest for vengeance had left a permanent scar on his soul. It showed in his eyes, he didn't have to look to know that.
He walked across the room to the corner where he had dropped his saddlebags, closing his mind against the vestiges of the nightmare, against any emotion. It was his only defense, and it was getting harder to maintain with every day that passed. A constant battle raged inside him, a battle for control. If he ever lost control, he didn't want to contemplate what might happen.
As he unfolded the clean shirt he took from the saddlebag, something fell out and hit his bare foot. He bent down and retrieved the locket by its gold chain. Looking at the trinket made him think of its owner, and a bitter smile twisted his lips.
His cracked thumbnail worked at the catch. It still smelled of her, a faint, hauntingly feminine scent that was hers alone.
"Empty," he said aloud.
The locket was of the finest gold, crafted with care by a master jeweler. The piece might easily be an heirloom. And yet its owner could not find one image among all her possessions dear enough to wear close to her heart.
Nothing about her made sense. She was like a puzzle, and none of the pieces fit. He shouldn't care. The less he knew about her, the better.
But the memory of her soft skin, her dark violet eyes, and the way she'd felt in his arms made him forget for a moment that she was a complication, nothing more, a complication that had already cost him four hundred dollars in bounty money. When he realized she was leaving San Antonio on the stage, there was no way he could have waited long enough to collect what the sheriff owed him.
Rafe snapped the locket closed and curled his fist around it. No, she was more than a complication. She just might be the only person alive who knew Luis Demas's secret. It didn't matter who she was or why she was here. He didn't care about her lies or her secrets or the emptiness this locket seemed to speak of.
He crammed the locket into his saddlebags and dressed quickly. As he tucked his shirt into his pants, he reminded himself that he was only here to find out what, if anything, Demas had revealed before he'd died. He had to somehow convince the girl to tell him what she knew about the gold, the gold that would lead him to El Alacran. Finding El Alacran, after all, was the only thing that really mattered.
Chapter 4
The road to Hondo might be wide and well-marked, as the blacksmith had assured her it would be, but the surface left much to be desired. By midmorning, Anne had been jostled and jolted until she was certain her body must be covered with bruises. Her hands felt as if they had been cut to shreds, despite the heavy leather gloves she wore.
This part of Texas must be the closest thing to hell on earth. In fact, had anyone asked her for a description of hell, this would have been it. The sun pressed down on her like a scorching flatiron. The barren terrain stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions. Short, scrubby trees dotted the gray-green landscape in irregular clusters, but they provided no shade.
Once again, life had set her on a course not of her own choosing. The words of the banker, Mr. Sampson, echoed in her mind. "I'm sorry, Miss Cameron, but the house is scheduled for auction. You may bid on it like everyone else, but..."
She knew he hadn't been sorry. He hadn't cared one bit about her or her problems. He'd wanted her gone. She'd known from the first caustic words he had spoken to her that the battle was lost.
"She was my aunt," Anne explained, knowing it would do no good. "I came here to live with her."
"I do sympathize, Miss Cameron, but your aunt did not leave a will. You will have to take your chances with everyone else."
Mr. Thaddeus P. Sampson of the Bank of Ubiquitous had been unmovable. The house would be auctioned off at the end of the month.
She couldn't let that happen, but what options did she have? A hotel room would cost at least two bits a night, which would mean she could bid even less by the end of the month. And she had to eat. Maybe she could get a job, but she would never earn the money she needed to live until the end of the month and purchase the house. If she fell just a dollar short of the highest bid, she would be homeless.
From the bank, she had returned to the hotel where she had learned that the stagecoach she'd arrived on had continued on to Hondo last night. The driver would lay over there to resupply and rest the horses before continuing to Eagle Pass in the morning. The next coach wouldn't pass through Ubiquitous for another two weeks. Somehow she had to get to Hondo before morning.
She'd paid what was for her a fortune for a pair of swaybacked horses and a wagon from the blacksmith who had tried to dissuade her, even as he told her to take the coach to Eagle Pass and explained how to get to Chihuahua, Mexico from there.
He didn't realize she had no choice. Besides, her father had taught her to drive a carriage after he won one in a card game. She could handle a team of two horses. And forty miles didn't seem so far, not compared to the miles she'd traveled already.
She wore men’s clothing, a gift from the blacksmith whose son had been killed in the war back east. “He won’t be needing them anymore,” the craggy-faced man had said, the sorrow etched in his gray eyes.
Like the boots she still wore, the pants were hot and too large, held on by a frayed belt. The pants might feel odd, but the strangest sensation was the absence of a corset. It was freeing and uncomfortable at the same time. And the coat she wore over a cotton shirt to hide her breasts scratched her skin. And for all that trouble and suffering, her disguise would only fool the most casual observer.
The blacksmith had assured her she should be able to make the journey in seven or eight hours.
She had to get there before dark. Being on this road in this wilderness after dark filled her with dread which she swallowed, along with all of the other fears and doubts that welled up inside her. But nothing could be as difficult as the trip from New Orleans to Beaumont-could it?
“…you're getting into Indian territory once you leave Ubiquitous,” the annoying young man’s words returned to her, and her gaze skimmed the horizon as it had all morning. She was alone except for the infrequent cotton wagons that rumbled past, leaving a trail of cotton in their wake that looked like snow on the ground.
What would she do when she got to Eagle Pass? At least the stagecoach went that far. But after that… Beyond that lay Mexico. How would she manage there? She didn't know the language or even exactly where she was going.
She took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on something else – anything else. Fear could destroy her if she let it. There was no turning back. There was no choice. Either she would find the gold or… she didn't want to think about what might happen if she couldn't find the money to go on, to eat, to pay for shelter.
She carried a deck of cards in her running bag, and she knew how to use them to relieve men of their money and make it hers. But once she started down that path, she would be committing to a hard, risky way of life, one she knew all too well. Better to risk everything on one impossible quest than to live with uncertainty for the rest of her life.
A sigh of exhaustion escaped her lips. She couldn't remember the last time she'd gotten a good night's sleep. Right now she could sleep for a week. The heat of the day, the monotony of the terrain, the rhythmic swaying of the wagon contrived to lull her. If not for the frequent deep ruts that jarred her to the marrow, she could easily have nodded off.
And then, without warning, a violent, erratic movement from one of the horses shattered her boredom. She pulled back on the reins as the horse on the
right reared and bumped into its companion. The other horse took up the panic, and they both leaped forward, nearly jerking her from the seat.
Terror tingled down her arms and set her heart pounding. They were galloping across the barren terrain, leaving the road behind as they cut across the wild land to the right.
The wagon lurched and bucked over the uneven ground, throwing her out of the seat and sending her crashing back down on it, tossing her from side to side as she fought desperately to stop the frenzied horses.
She remembered the brake at her left. If only she could reach it. Carefully she inched across the seat, lifting her left foot, slamming it against the lever, screaming when it broke off.
In the next instant, the back end of the wagon flew into the air. A back wheel broke off and rolled away across the dry ground. She braced herself to keep from being thrown out. The wagon tilted dangerously toward the missing wheel. She lost her seat and nearly flew from the careening vehicle. Wood began splintering as the wagon hit another bump.
As the horses broke free, she had the presence of mind to let go of the reins to avoid being pulled from the wagon and dragged to her death.
Dust settled slowly around the wagon, but she was unaware of anything except the fact that she had somehow survived. Her heart thundered in her breast, the breath hissed between her teeth. She fought the trembling that possessed her, and the sobs that ripped through her.
Tears formed in her eyes and she steeled herself against them. It gave her something to concentrate on other than the fact that she had almost been killed. If she hadn't let go of the reins... if the wagon had turned over, as it easily could have...
She sat still and quiet in the wagon until her heart rate slowly returned to normal. In the distance, the horses had stopped running and stood nuzzling the ground for something to eat, as if nothing unusual had happened.
"Damn!"
The flat wilderness around her was quiet again, quiet and desolate. She surveyed her surroundings, and a terrible hopelessness settled over her like the dust and grime that covered her arms and matted her hair.
Dear God, where was she? How was she going to get out of this?
She had lost her hat somewhere in the tumult. It seemed foolish to fret over something so inconsequential, but without it she had no protection from the sun. Her cheeks were already growing hot. Without the shade of the hat's brim to shield her eyes from the sun's brightness, she could hardly see.
"Damn."
On weak and unsteady legs, she managed to move toward the side of the wagon. It shifted beneath her weight. She gasped and stopped until she had a feel for how to proceed without upsetting her perch. Slowly she worked her way to the edge and climbed down.
Think. There's got to be a way out of this. How far can I be from Ubiquitous?
She gazed at the sky. It was well past noon. She'd been traveling for more than four hours. It would take much longer than that to return on foot. The blacksmith had told her it would take around four hours to reach Hondo. She was better than halfway there.
She glared at the grazing horses, calm and quiet now. Stupid animals. They were useless to her now. Even if she could catch them, she had no idea how to unharness them, and the thought of trying to ride one of them filled her with terror. She'd never been on a horse before. They frightened her with their snorting and bucking. It was impossible.
Maybe she could walk the rest of the way. But she didn't know exactly how far it was or what direction for that matter. The horses had carried her far from the road and she wasn’t sure in what direction. She knew which way was south, and she knew that was the general direction she needed to go, but she hadn’t been traveling due south at all. Her path had been more southwest. Maybe if she traveled due south now she’d reach the road.
Maybe she should just stay put. There were bound to be more wagons traveling south with their cotton. But of course they would be traveling the road and it was nowhere in sight. No one would ever find her if she didn't get back to it.
And a part of her hoped they wouldn't find her. If the men she’d encountered in San Antonio were any indication of the character of the teamsters who drove the wagons, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be better off alone.
Oh, it was too hot and she was too thirsty to think clearly.
A shrill cry drew her attention. High overhead, a buzzard soared in a leisurely pattern, watching and waiting.
Scanning the horizon once more, she spotted the wagon wheel. It was a good distance behind the wagon. Was it broken? Could it be reattached if someone came along? Her legs trembled as she climbed gingerly from the unsteady wagon. She started walking toward the wheel, shielding her eyes from the sun's glare. If someone did stop, maybe they could put it back on for her – if it wasn't damaged.
She'd misjudged the distance. By the time she reached the wheel, she was out of breath and covered with sweat. Worse yet, the spokes were shattered. It was useless. She let out a growl of frustration, kicking the wheel with all her might.
The buzzard cawed loudly. Drawing her loaded pistol, she took aim and fired at the circling bird, though it was far too high to be in any danger.
"Go away!" she shouted. "I'll be damned if I'm going to die in this godforsaken hell!
"Damned bird. Damned stupid horses!" She kicked the wheel again but derived even less satisfaction than she had the first time.
She marched back to the wagon. She'd fetch her carpetbag and canteen and strike out to the south. That would take her back to the road, she was certain of it.
But when she reached the wagon, she had another unpleasant surprise. The canteen, a last-minute purchase, was gone. It had been thrown from the wagon. Worse than that, her carpetbag was missing as well.
She spotted something white blowing in the scant breeze behind her and knew with heartsick dread that it was one of her petticoats. The carpetbag had broken open and her worldly belongings were strewn over half of Texas.
"My money!"
She'd transferred most of the money from her running bag to her carpetbag this morning. She could hardly attach it to trousers.
She ran across the uneven ground in the direction of the petticoat. The carpetbag lay on the ground nearby—empty. She picked it up and began running willy-nilly around the area she had just traversed in the runaway wagon, scooping up dresses and stockings and undergarments as she went. She threw them in the back of the wagon and set about searching in earnest for her money, digging in the dirt for scattered coins.
Sweat streamed down her face and into her eyes, blinding her. She wiped it away impatiently with the sleeve of her shirt, ignoring the burning thirst that built within her and the punishing heat of the sun on the back of her head, but she recovered precious little of the money she'd had that morning.
Finally, she dropped to the ground in exhaustion, panting for breath, battling against the anger and fear that clogged her throat. Her dress, wet with perspiration, hung on her in cloying folds. Lifting the mass of unruly hair that had come loose, she allowed the scant breeze to touch the moist skin beneath. The sun was so hot she could feel her scalp burning.
She swallowed past the knot of fear lodged in her throat. She would die if she stayed here. Her situation was hopeless, utterly hopeless.
No water, no shelter. The road was her only chance.
She had to make it to the road. She squinted and shook her head, but the dizziness persisted.
"Well, I'll just have to walk fast, that's all," she said aloud, gasping for breath. She ran her dry tongue over parched lips, grimacing at the acrid taste of road dust.
"I'd rather die walking than sitting here waiting." And with that, she struggled to her feet and headed south toward the road.
* * * * *
Rafe steered his horse off the road, following the path the wagon had taken. He could tell by the tracks that the horses had bolted and headed across country. A knot of dread formed in his gut and he tried not to speculate what might have happened to the drive
r as he came across pieces of debris: clothing, splintered wood. He remembered her courage in San Antonio, the way she’d stood up to those rough teamsters on the street, and the thought of finding her body twisted and broken because of a wagon spill was something he refused to contemplate.
He dismounted at sight of a canteen. Picking it up, he shook it and the water inside sloshed around. Wherever she was, she was out of water. If she was alive, it wouldn't be for long.
Damn. It was beginning to look as if she might have survived the wreck, but if she'd been out here without water for long, she was probably sick or dead.
Something in the distance caught his eye as he started to mount his horse: an abandoned wagon. He reeled from the images that sight stirred in his mind: blank eyes staring at him, a sky full of buzzards....
He shook his head to clear it, his chest rising and falling with the force of his ragged breathing.
This was Texas, not Mexico. The woman he sought now was a stranger, a stranger who was stupid enough to strike out on her own.
He wiped the sweat from his face with his kerchief and swung up in the saddle, sending his horse galloping toward the wreckage.
How she had managed to keep the wagon from rolling over and crushing her, he couldn't imagine. Where could she have gone?
Dismounting again, he walked slowly around the wagon, looking for signs that would tell him what he hoped for: that she had unhitched the horses, mounted one, and ridden back toward the road. What he found made his blood run cold.
The horses had taken off to the north. It was obvious from their tracks that they were still harnessed together. Wherever the girl was, she was on foot.
He surveyed the horizon in all directions, desperate to find her. What if he was too late?
Too late.
The thought sent his mind catapulting backward through the years, back to Mexico and another woman. He'd been too late then, too late and too careless. He'd allowed himself to fall into a carefully laid trap. Since that hideous day, he'd learned much about the wilderness, about survival, but he hadn't learned to cope with the kind of gut-wrenching fear he felt right now.