by Cox, Deborah
First, he pulled out a worn deck of playing cards. Why the hell would anyone care enough about a deck of cards to hide them like that? He examined them closely to see if there was anything significant about them. They weren't marked or made of anything precious. It didn't make sense, and his curiosity was piqued more than he wanted to admit.
Another piece to a puzzle that didn’t fit.
The cards went on the nightstand, and he returned his attention to the pouch.
Next he found a bent, rusted horseshoe. He almost laughed aloud at that. She was frightened of horses, but kept a horseshoe tucked away like something precious.
Superstitious? He wondered.
He placed the horseshoe on the nightstand with the deck of cards. Next he pulled out a yellowed handbill that read:
OPERA COMEDIE NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA MAY 9, 1860
When he opened it, an envelope fell out. He picked it up and read the name: Anne-Marie Cameron.
He glanced at the girl in the bed. She wasn't just a girl anymore. Now she was Anne-Marie, someone who kept a horseshoe and a deck of cards in a secret pouch on the inside of her skirt.
Anne-Marie.
He closed his eyes and tried to forget, but it was too late. The mere fact of learning her name changed everything.
He placed the letter and the handbill with the rest of her treasures on the nightstand, then turned the pouch over, emptying the rest of the contents on the bed. There were shells for her gun and about thirty dollars in silver coins. So she hadn't lost all her money in the accident.
"Anne-Marie," he whispered, "you certainly are a mystery."
The letter wouldn't contain a reference to the gold. She'd probably brought it all the way from wherever she'd come from. Still, he took the envelope from the nightstand and held it up to the light. The flap was open, so it would be easy to peek inside.
She'd never know, but he would. It would seem he did still have a conscience because it pricked him as he opened the envelope and removed the folded sheet of paper inside.
A letter addressed to her would have to contain intimacies and details of her life that he didn't have a right to know.
But what if it contained a map to the missing gold? Or a quickly scrawled set of directions? He would have missed the best opportunity he might ever have to find out the location of the gold and leave her behind where she'd be safe.
He shook the letter and the envelope, but nothing fell out. With a deep breath, he unfolded the letter. Nothing tucked inside. But before he could fold the letter and put it back in the envelope where it belonged, the first line leaped off the page at him in large, sweeping script: Please don't be angry at me.... He could not help but read on.
July 20, 1863
Dear Anne-Marie:
Please don't be angry at me for leaving you behind. I couldn't stand being trapped in Baton Rouge with no chance of leaving the city once the Union army occupied it. I still think it was the best place for you, under the circumstances.
I have found a place to live in Natchez. It's not much, but it's clean and cool in the evenings. I am sending a friend, Borden McKenna, to bring you safely to me.
Please don't be angry, Anne-Marie. Please come. You know I need you here.
Love, Papa
Rafe's throat constricted. What kind of man would abandon his daughter and leave her unprotected in a town that was under attack by an enemy army? Maybe there had been relatives to rely on, but even so, any father should want to keep his daughter safe at his side.
Anne-Marie's father seemed weak and irresponsible—first leaving her behind, then begging her to come to him when he needed her.
He folded the paper and slipped it back inside the envelope. It was none of his concern. All he cared about was the gold, and he hadn't found the slightest clue to its whereabouts. He put the letter and her other belongings back inside the pouch and laid it on the table.
Remembering what the doctor had said about the salve on the nightstand, he took the jar and sat on the edge of the bed, gazing down at Anne-Marie as he twisted the top.
The doctor had bathed her face, revealing a simple unadorned beauty that made him think of wildflowers growing along a mountain path. Unlike the hothouse beauty of women like Christina, whose only occupation was her appearance, Anne-Marie's beauty was a natural product of who she was, a scrappy, stubborn woman with more courage than many men he'd known.
He poured water into a cloth he found on the bureau to wash away at least some of the dirt from her arms, and hands. That accomplished, he dipped his fingers into the jar of salve and massaged it gently over her painfully red face. She moaned and shifted in the bed but didn't open her eyes.
The sunburn would be painful in the morning when she was awake. For now, he was glad the doctor had given her laudanum to help her sleep.
Avoiding the white bandage wrapped around her injured right hand, he applied the salve to her other hand as best he could, trying not to think how small and delicate it felt. Her skin was warm against his, and soft, despite the calluses and scrapes caused by her struggle with the runaway wagon. He still shuddered whenever he thought of what could have happened.
"How could you be so reckless, chica?" Gently he ran a finger over her cracked, blistered lips, his heart constricting. "You could have died out there alone."
With his fingers, he dabbed more salve on her lips, then rubbed it in with a feather-light touch. Her soft breath on his flesh sent a shudder through his body. Soon he found himself imagining what it would be like to touch those lips with his mouth instead of his fingers, and he pulled away.
For a long time Rafe sat there, watching her sleep. He touched her forehead and smoothed the hair back from her brow.
She is a distraction, Jose had said. She will slow you down.
He rose from the bed with a disgusted sigh. At the bureau he poured water into the cup, then returned to the bed and slid a hand behind her shoulders to pull her up.
"Anne-Marie, wake up," he coaxed. "You've got to drink some water." When she didn't respond, he shook her gently. "Anne-Marie."
"Leave me alone." She opened her eyes slightly, but she was having difficulty focusing. "Why are you following me?" she asked.
Ignoring her question, he held the cup to her parched lips. "Drink." He tilted the cup and she swallowed obediently. "Good girl. You'll be good as new in no time."
"I'm not going to tell you where the gold is."
He smiled. "I know."
"Are you going to kill me?"
"No, I'm not going to kill you," he replied soothingly, fighting against the regret that clogged his throat.
Gently he eased her back down to the bed. She closed her eyes and smiled slightly, and he wondered if she was already asleep again. He bent over slowly, placing a kiss on her forehead, then jerked back in shock because he hadn't intended to do that, hadn't even known he was going to do it until it was done.
"Good night, Papa," she murmured.
He stared at the water that was left in the cup, trying to sort out his feelings.
Everything had seemed so clear just four short days ago. He had been certain he knew where he was going and how he would get there. Now he was beginning to question everything he'd done and everything he'd lived for over the past five years. And he didn't like it one little bit.
Even so, he knew he would spend a restless night in the chair beside her bed and watch over her through the night.
Chapter 7
Anne slowly opened her eyes and tried to adjust to her strange surroundings. She was accustomed to waking up in unfamiliar hotel rooms, and this must undoubtedly be another one. But she couldn't for the life of her remember where she was. She blinked her eyes to clear them, trying to focus on the room, but what she saw only confused her further.
The room was small and dark. Not a single painting adorned the walls. The curtains at the single window were plain and drab. There was no bureau, no armoire. She'd stayed in some disreputable hotels before, but n
ever in a room so poorly furnished.
The bed was narrow and hard, the nightstand small and unpainted. A clock on the far wall ticked the seconds as she searched her mind for some explanation. She glanced at the clock—one o'clock. She'd slept most of the day away.
She tried to sit up and the pain that shot through her body from head to foot reminded her - Texas.
Yes, she was in Texas. She'd nearly been killed in a wagon accident, and Rafe Montalvo had saved her.
"So, you decided to wake up!"
She started at the voice, jerking around to see a strange man standing in the doorway. He carried a tray as he crossed the room, studying her with intelligent eyes behind thick spectacles. He looked vaguely familiar, but she wasn't sure why.
"I was beginning to think you were going to sleep forever." He smiled kindly.
Anne barely noticed. "Where am I?" she asked as he rearranged the nightstand so he could set the tray on it. "Who are you?"
"Well, you're in Hondo, and I'm Doc Stone."
The doctor touched her forehead. She closed her eyes, comparing his touch with the one she'd felt last night. His hand was warm and soft, his touch firm but gentle. No, it wasn't the same at all. The other hand had been warm but not soft. The touch had been as gentle as the doctor's, but there was a natural ease in the doctor's touch, while the other had seemed somehow tentative by comparison.
A dream?
"How did I get here?" Memories flashed through her mind: the wagon flying off the road and into the wilderness, the brake failing, Rafe Montalvo raising her head and pressing a canteen to her parched lips.
"Your husband brought you in," he said, withdrawing his hand.
"What?"
"In fact," he said, craning his head to look around the room, "he told me he'd bought you a nightgown. I see he decided not to put it on you. There it is on the nightstand, still wrapped up."
She pulled the covers higher and sank down in the bed, trying not to think about the possibility of Rafe Montalvo undressing her while she was asleep and defenseless.
"I..." she stammered, "I... there was an accident."
"Yes, your husband told me about it when he brought you in. Said you two eloped."
"Eloped! No. Yes." Rafe had made up a lie, a marriage. Why? She had a matter of seconds to decide whether to go along with it or tell this man the truth. In the end, she decided it didn’t really matter.
"Doctor, I want to thank you for taking care of me."
The doctor laughed shortly. "It's my job."
"You didn't have to sit beside me all night and—"
"I didn't," he replied, moving to the bedside table to retrieve the dishes he'd left there earlier. "I turned you over to your husband and he took care of you."
Her hand went to her forehead. No, she must have dreamed that part of it. No one, least of all Rafe Montalvo, had kissed her on the forehead last night. It had been a dream; that was the only possible answer.
But there were other parts of last night that she was just as sure she hadn't dreamed, like the gentleness of his hands as he'd held her and tipped a cup to her lips, and the way he'd bathed her face and neck with a damp cloth and smoothed the hair from her brow.
She distinctly remembered the pressure of lips against her forehead. No, it hadn't happened. She'd imagined it.
"Where—where is he?" she asked, shaken by the memory and the revelation that Rafe had been in this room with her all night while she slept. "My—husband, where did he go?"
"Don't know," Doc Stone replied. He ran a hand over his whiskered chin, contemplating her question. "He left as soon as I came in to check on you this morning."
The doctor's thumb on her eyelid startled her. She flinched until she realized what he was doing. He pulled the lid open in order to study her eye.
"Your eyes look clear today. You'll be fine, thanks to that husband of yours."
He's not my husband! She wanted to scream. She should tell him, so why didn't she? Maybe later. Right now, she was too tired to face the inevitable questions.
"Here," the doctor was saying. "I brought you some broth."
He picked up the tray and held it over her, expecting her to sit up, to let him place it on her lap. She didn’t move. "I'm not hungry."
"You're bound to be. Your husband said you hadn't eaten since night before last."
Night before last? Was that the night of the accident? She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain in her head. "How long have I been here?" she asked, too tired and confused to figure it out for herself.
"Oh, about twenty-four hours."
"I've been asleep all that time?"
"Like I said, you were pretty bad off. In fact, I suspect your husband saved your life."
"I know," she said, the taste of betrayal bitter in her mouth. "Did you know that in some countries if someone saves your life you're their slave forever?"
"Well, no, ma'am, I didn't know that."
He moved the tray toward her again, and this time she sat up and took it without thinking.
"It's true," she assured him, settling the tray carefully on her lap.
The doctor turned to go. "You rest now, Miss Christina."
Her mouth dropped open. "What did you call me?"
"Miss Christina," he repeated. "Would you prefer Mrs. Holden?"
"Holden? My name is Anne."
"Really? But—" He stopped in mid-sentence and shrugged. "I could've sworn he called you Christina. Well, then, Miss Anne, rest awhile and I'll be back to check on you shortly."
She watched as he crossed the room to the door and halted with one hand on the knob. He ran his other hand across his chin before he turned to face her once more. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"
Her heart caught in her throat, and suddenly she was desperate that he not know the truth. She needed to see Rafe again if he hadn't left town already.
She recalled asking him for help. They’d made a bargain. Would he honor it or had she given him enough information that he could just leave her behind and keep all the gold for himself? Would he do that?
After trying so hard to leave him behind, realizing how much she needed his help was a bitter pill to swallow.
"No," she said, she hoped convincingly.
The doctor stared at her with his piercing blue eyes. It was a long moment before he nodded almost imperceptibly and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She lay in bed, listening to the ticking of the clock. If Rafe had gone out first thing this morning, he’d been gone for hours. He could be anywhere. He couldn’t go after the gold without her, or could he? Had she given him more information than she remembered? Maybe she’d said something in her delirium.
Maybe he was still in town. Maybe there was something he had to do. Like what? Like kill someone else?
But maybe he'll come back.
Pain knifed through her heart, and she closed her eyes against it. How many times had she wondered if Papa would come back?
"I just have one thing to do," he'd told her.
She remembered standing alone on the crowded New Orleans dock, clutching her small satchel and a tattered doll. She couldn't have been older than ten. She remembered how frightened she'd been by the crowd and the noise and the activity.
She had tried not to cry as she searched the crowd of adults who rushed past her as if she were invisible. She remembered jerking at the sound of a riverboat's steam whistle, the familiar noise foreign and frightening.
He promised he'd be there. He promised, but he was nowhere to be found.
"I just have one thing to do, Anne-Marie, and then I'll be there," he'd told her that morning.
He was going to sell her mother's jewelry, the jewelry he'd once promised she would have when she grew up. It didn't matter to her, nothing mattered right now except that she was alone and frightened and her father had lied to her.
Maybe he had left without her. Maybe he expected her to be on the boat instead of on the dock and she was going t
o be left behind. Maybe—
"Are you lost, ma petite?"
The man who had bent over her that day was Gaston, she later learned, a man who preyed on children, taking them off the streets of New Orleans and selling them into prostitution.
Even now, the thought sent a shudder down her spine. But at that moment her father arrived...
She had learned a hard lesson that day, one she had never forgotten: to trust herself and no one else. No one was going to take care of her, no one, not even her own father—least of all her own father-or an outlaw who only helped her because she had something he wanted.
Closing her eyes, she mentally counted the money she'd kept in her running bag and the few coins she'd managed to salvage from the accident.
The need to see the money in her bag, to make sure it was still here, overwhelmed her. She threw the covers off and sat up quickly, too quickly. Her head reeled, and she had to sit for several moments while her equilibrium returned. When she was able to maintain her balance and think clearly again, she stood shakily.
Her legs were weak, practically useless, but she managed to walk around the bed by holding on to the bedposts.
"My clothes!"
She searched the room, but her clothes were gone. Gone! Why would he take her clothes?
Her heart pounded. She could hardly breathe. Not only was she destitute and alone, she didn't even have clothes to wear. What was she going to do? She couldn't stay in this room forever.
She spotted her pistol in a chair across the room. Beside it was her running bag. Her heart froze. Either he or the doctor must have found it inside her skirt. A cold dread knotted her stomach. Had he looked inside, gone through her personal belongings? Had he taken her money?
She picked up the running bag and returned to the bed with it. When the contents lay spread out on the bed before her, she released a sigh of relief.
He hadn't left her destitute, just stranded. That she could cope with. She'd been stranded before. Still, she couldn't imagine what he'd wanted with her clothes, unless he didn't want her to leave for some reason. Probably wanted to get a head start.