by Cox, Deborah
Hondo had been a sleepy little town on the way to nowhere until the war when the blockade had diverted the only foreign trade enjoyed by the Confederacy. Now the narrow streets bulged to the point of bursting with traffic they were never designed to carry.
The Rio Grande couldn't be blockaded by the Union. With the sympathies of the government in the northern provinces of Mexico squarely behind the Confederacy, trade flourished. One consequence was the sudden growth of many small towns that, like Hondo, just happened to lie along what had become known as the cotton road. Another consequence was lawlessness.
Even if not for the general unruliness and sporadic gunfire, the absence of descent women on the street in the middle of the day told him the law in Hondo wasn’t adequate to keep the peace.
They were no safer here than they were on the trail, but the one thing this town had that he needed was a doctor-or so he hoped. He studied the signs outside the buildings. At the end of the street, he found one that read Clarence Stone, M.D.
His burden stirred as he dismounted, and he steadied her with a hand to her waist while he assessed the situation. Standing at the foot of a long flight of wooden stairs, he studied the arrow that pointed up. Painted on the arrow was the word "DOC".
"Shit," he muttered. "Why can't anything be easy?"
Laughter and tinny piano music reached his ears from the saloon across the street. This place would be even more chaotic after dark. At least she’d be safer above it all. He couldn't say the same for himself. He'd have to check things out. The last thing he needed was a surprise encounter with his past.
It was going to be a long night.
With a sigh, he moved the hand that had been holding the woman in the saddle and she slid off into his arms without waking. Not a good sign. Nothing seemed to rouse her.
She was still alive, still somewhat responsive. They’d made it this far. Surely the doctor would know what to do to help her.
With a deep breath, he started the long climb to the top of the stairs. Why the hell would a doctor open an office at the top of a long, narrow flight of rickety stairs? Hauling an undernourished woman to the top was hard enough. It would take two or three grown men to get a wounded or sick man up there.
He reached the landing at the top panting and covered in sweat. He pounded on the door with his booted foot since both of his hands were occupied.
A short man with white whiskers and round wire-rimmed glasses came to the door almost immediately, gazing at him with curious intelligence.
"What have we here?" he asked in a gruff voice.
"Let me in, doc, she's dehydrated and feverish."
The doctor held the door open wide to allow Rafe to enter.
"Through here," the doctor said, walking past him again and opening a door at the other end of the room. "Put her on that bed."
Rafe did as he was told, laying her gently on the narrow cot. Rolling up the sleeves of his starched white shirt, the doctor moved to a basin of water, and washed his hands thoroughly, then turned to look at Rafe as he dried them. "Who is she?"
"My wife." It came out without hesitation, just as it had in San Antonio.
"Well, loosen her clothes so she can breathe."
"Right." He pushed aside a twinge of guilt and worked at the fastenings of her shirtwaist. She moaned low in her throat but didn't open her eyes.
"Sunburned pretty bad." The doctor spoke from behind him. When Rafe turned to look at the older man, he saw accusation and a bit of anger in the sharp blue eyes. "How'd you let that happen?"
He'd anticipated that question and had a ready answer. "We're newly-weds. We ran away. Her daddy didn't like me, so we eloped. We were supposed to meet up on the road between Ubiquitous and Hondo, but she got lost. There was an accident. I was lucky I found her."
The doctor eyed him for a moment, running a hand over his whiskers as if digesting what Rafe had said. "So when did you get married, before the accident or after?"
The question was so inane it was clear the old man was challenging him. Those sharp eyes came with a sharp mind. He didn’t believe Rafe’s lame story one bit.
The woman on the bed moaned again, and he used that as an excuse not to answer the question. "Doc, she's real bad.”
"Hmmm," was all the doctor said. He ran a hand over his chin, studying the patient. "What's her name?"
"Huh?" Rafe pretended not to hear the question as his mind grappled for a name, any name.
"Her name. You're married to her, you must know her name."
"Christina."
"Well, Miss Christina," the doctor said as he turned back to the bed, "let's see if we can fix you up."
"Should I…" He gestured toward an interior door he assumed led into a waiting room, desperate to get out of the room, to get away from the girl who lay so still and vulnerable on the white sheets.
The doctor shrugged, his attention completely focused on his patient. “Do what you like, the doctor said finally, “but don’t stray far. I may need to ask some questions and she’ll want to see you when she wakes up.”
No she won’t. He was the last person she would want to see, but at least she’d admitted she needed him. She’d asked him for help. He wouldn’t betray her. He had no reason to, but she didn’t know that.
Rafe slipped from the examining room into the small waiting room. It was clean and rustic like the room where he’d just left. Four straight-backed chairs lined the center of the room, providing little comfort for loved ones.
Loved ones and opportunists who took advantage of a girl’s vulnerability for his own purposes.
He wasn’t aware he’d been pacing until he stopped and stared out the window, gazing down at the activity on the street. The rest of the world was going on as usual. His gaze followed the dusty street to the edge of town, and he found himself wishing he could just ride away and never look back.
She had something he needed. If not for that, he'd be gone by now.
Just a couple more days. Just a couple days and he'd be able to leave her behind in a safe place, well, as safe as any place in Texas these days. She'd be a fool not to tell him about the gold after all she'd been through trying to get it on her own. He'd make a deal with her – tell him where the gold was and he'd bring it back to her. But he was realistic enough to know she'd never believe he wasn't interested in a fortune. He'd have to convince her somehow.
The door to the examination room opened. The doctor stepped through with a grim, serious expression on his face that made Rafe's heart falter for an instant.
"How is she?" Rafe asked.
"She's pretty dehydrated. Probably has sun poisoning, but she'll recover. She's young and strong."
"Can I see her?" It seemed like the right question to ask.
"I gave her some laudanum. She's sleeping now."
Rafe ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, relieved he didn’t have to see her again right now and unwilling to explore why.
"Thanks, doc. I need to leave her here for a while. I've got to see to my horse and try to find a place to stay the night."
"Won't be easy. Bunch of rowdies burned the hotel down. There ain't nowhere else to stay in town. You planning on being here long, you and your—wife?"
"I've got a job waiting for me in Eagle Pass." When had he stopped being surprised by his talent for lying?
"Well, you can stay here until she's fit to travel." He gestured toward an overstuffed chair in the corner. “That chair’s not too uncomfortable. Or you can make a bed for yourself on the floor.”
"Thanks, I appreciate it. I'll be glad to pay whatever you think's fair."
The doctor made no reply, just snorted and turned back into the room where his wife slept.
*****
It was easy enough to find Jose late that afternoon. He was in the saloon, the kind of place they'd visited frequently during their long association. Like everything else in this overgrown town, it had the look of impermanence, the look of something that had been thrown up over
night to meet the sudden demand thrust on it. It was nothing more than a large tent, windowless, stifling, filled with the too-sweet odor of cheap perfume and the even more offensive stenches it was meant to disguise.
It was barely noon, but already several poker games were in progress at tables scattered throughout the tent. Whiskey flowed and scantily clad women hovered over the tables, waiting to see who the big winners would be.
"Amigo," the Mexican called with a broad smile. "Sit. Tequila?" He offered a bottle, but Rafe turned up his nose.
"Isn't it a little early for that?"
Jose laughed, setting the bottle back on the table. "It is never too early for tequila, amigo. But tell me, what have you been up to since I last saw you?"
Rafe lowered his tall, weary frame into a char. He'd tried all day to decide how much to tell Jose. Jose could be ruthless when money was involved. Their goals drove them in the same direction, but they were after two completely different things. And neither of them would give up their goal. Rafe was the only one willing to die for what he wanted, while Jose was more than capable of killing for a million dollars in gold-even Rafe, even his own mother, if he had a mother.
"Well, she knows where the gold is, but she's not sharing. She won't tell me, but she says she'll show me where it is."
Jose studied him intently for a few moments before throwing up an arm in dismissal. "Not a problem, amigo. It should be easy to convince her to talk. Use some of that gringo charm of yours."
Rafe snorted. "I ran out of that a long time ago."
Jose leaned toward him with a conspiratorial wink. "Then do whatever you need to do. Dios!"
"I just don't seem to have much stomach for torturing women."
"Of course not, amigo." Jose smiled, light glinting off a gold capped tooth. "You would not have to torture her. It would take very little, a twist of the arm maybe, and she would tell you whatever you want to know. I only hope you are not becoming distracted."
Jose narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "Must I remind you of all that El Alacran has done to you? Have you forgotten how close to death you were the day I found you in the desert where El Alacran left you? Do you remember how the buzzards circled overhead? Do you remember the one that landed on your chest and—"
"Enough!" Rafe bellowed, suddenly aware that he had begun massaging his wrist. He stopped, glaring at the other man. It would have been easy at that moment to kill Jose. "You've made your point."
"And all your fine manners and your aristo blood and your fine education were useless," Jose went on. "You were as helpless as a babe. If not for me—"
Rafe took a deep breath, struggling to control the rage that threatened to erupt into violence.
"You don't have to remind me, goddammit! You saved my life and taught me to survive. I owe you my life. Is that what you want to hear?"
Jose was intentionally pushing him, and, damn him, Jose knew exactly how to do it and how far he could go before Rafe exploded. But even though he recognized the game, he could not control his own reaction.
"I think you are going soft," Jose repeated, "now that your belly is full and your wounds have healed. Maybe you don't have the stomach for vengeance any longer."
Rafe slammed his fist on the table, nearly toppling the tequila bottle. "The only thing that will heal my wounds is El Alacran's blood."
"The woman is a distraction, amigo," Jose said calmly, "a beautiful distraction, but a distraction just the same. She will slow you down. She will get in the way."
"I know. I'll handle it."
"Good."
"She's injured and sick right now. When she recovers, I'll get her to tell me what we need to know."
*****
Rafe returned to the doctor's office around dusk, no better off for the tequila he'd consumed. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered to drink at all. He couldn't seem to get drunk. No matter how much he drank, all he usually got for his troubles was a roaring headache like the one that throbbed behind his temples now.
He pushed the door open to find the doctor sitting beside his patient.
"How is she?" Rafe asked, dropping his saddlebags and bedroll inside the door.
Pressing a finger to his lips, the doctor lifted a tray with a cup and bowl on it and stood up. Rafe moved silently to the door, holding it open as the doctor walked through into the waiting room.
"She took some broth and water," the doctor said, indicating the tray.
"I bought her a nightgown." Rafe held a package toward the doctor as if to prove his words. "She lost hers when the wagon overturned."
Dr. Stone wrinkled his nose. Rafe wondered if he could smell the liquor on his breath. "Whatever you say, mister." He turned toward a door to the right that Rafe hadn't seen before.
"Where are you going?"
"To bed. My apartment's downstairs. Wake her every couple of hours and see if she can take a little water. That's the best thing for her. And keep her face and hands doused with the salve beside the bed." With that, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Rafe stepped into the dimly lit room and stood uncertainly just inside the door. He listened to the soft, rhythmic ticking of the clock on the far wall, the sound of shuffling footsteps descending an unseen flight of stairs, the shallow breathing of the woman who lay on the small bed. The kerosene lamp on the table beside the bed cast elongated shadows on the far wall.
His own breathing sounded ragged in his own ears. His boot heels scraped on the hardwood floor as he walked toward the bed, his eyes fixed on the still, silent form under the white sheet.
“Who are you?” he asked aloud. What kind of woman drove a team of horses into a hostile wilderness alone?
A desperate one, his gut told him, swallowed the compassion in his throat.
He didn't want to see her sun-reddened face resting on a white pillow or the cascade of wild blonde curls that spread around her head like a storm cloud, or the bandaged hand that rested softly on top of the covers. He didn't want to feel his chest constrict at her innocence and vulnerability.
Everyone looked vulnerable and innocent in sleep. If she opened her eyes right now and saw him standing over her, she'd probably fly into a rage.
He smiled at the image his thoughts evoked.
"I didn't ask you to help me!" she would shout. "I didn't ask you to care about me!"
Care? Where had that come from? She’d never accused him of caring, and he didn’t, dammit. He couldn’t afford to. He had to focus on the goal-on El Alacran. The only reason he hadn’t left her and Hondo behind was the gold-the gold that would lure his enemy out of hiding.
He sat in the chair the doctor had pulled up to the bed and laid the package containing the new nightgown on the nightstand, not sure why he'd bought it. It was an impulse. She’d obviously lost everything in the accident, and he hadn’t had time to run all over the countryside retrieving clothes and personal things. She needed a nightgown. He’d bought one.
Of course, now he was faced with the dilemma of how to get the damned thing on her. He wasn’t about to change her clothes.
His jaw clenched. He had removed her shirtwaist because not to do so would have seemed odd to the good doctor. Lying as she did on her back with her arms over the covers, he glimpsed the much mended chemise he’d seen earlier.
Women liked fine things, soft fabrics, clean clothes. It seemed a shame to leave her like that when the gown, though nothing fancy, was clean and crisp.
He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he released it in a great sigh.
She moaned and murmured something incoherent. Her face was red from sunburn, her lips raw and cracked. Already her nose was beginning to peel, but at least it hadn't blistered.
He couldn't resist the opportunity to really study her closely for the first time. Her cheeks were hollows beneath high, delicate cheekbones. Tiny, pale freckles dotted her nose. Her lips were full, but not pouty like Christina's, and slightly parted in sleep. His gaze slid down her throat t
o a fragile collarbone.
His hands ached to feel the softness of her skin as his heart ached to keep her out of danger, to send her back where she'd come from.
"Why don't we live in a house like other people, Papa?" she murmured, startling Rafe. "When can we have a house? When, Papa?"
Rafe swallowed hard and diverted his gaze. It was then he noticed that she was still wearing her boots. He'd glimpsed them before when he'd pulled her up on his horse. They looked even more disreputable on closer inspection. Ugly, clumsy boy's boots.
Grateful for something to do, he moved to the foot of the bed. He untied the laces and pulled the first one free. A wadded-up sock fell out of the toe, obviously put there to make it fit her small foot better. A semicircle of red blisters ringed the back of her heel. How had she managed to walk, let alone run?
Quickly he removed the other boot, trying to remain detached.
He carried the boots and set them next to a hard-backed chair in the corner. Her shirtwaist and skirt lay on the seat of the chair and on top of that, the pistol she'd bragged about being proficient with. He retrieved it from the floor with a smile. It was an old seven-shooter. If she could shoot—what had she said?—the head off a one-eyed jack at twenty paces with this gun, she was a better shot than he was.
He picked up the pistol and knocked her skirt to the floor in the process, surprised when it made noise when it fell. Curious, he retrieved the garment and turned it inside out to find a leather pouch hooked inside the waistband.
Pretty clever. He studied the pouch, wondering what had prompted her to create such a thing. Maybe she had been in the path of the enemy army at one time and had used it to guard her jewels or whatever she prized. He remembered the locket he'd found, the locket with no picture in it, wondering, with a twinge of guilt, if it had been a prized possession.
And in spite of his vow to remain detached, he wondered what else she might have hidden away. Surely she wouldn't have been foolish enough to make a written record of what Luis Demas had told her. Surely not. But if she had, what better place to keep it than in a secret pouch inside her skirt? And even as he argued with himself, he was drawing the pouch open, looking inside.