by Cox, Deborah
He pulled her bedroll from the saddle and spread it under a scruffy cottonwood tree.
"Stay here," he told her. "You can stand or get on the horse, but just wait here for me. I'll be a little while. I've got to bury them."
"How many?"
"Two. Can't figure why they would be out here in the middle of nowhere alone."
"No children?" She didn't think she could bear it if there were children.
Rafe shook his head without a word and went to perform his grizzly task.
She turned away, unable to watch without feeling the bile rise in her throat again. She hated this desolate, savage land. More than anything, she wanted to go home, back to the river. At least there she knew how to survive. She understood the rules. Here there were no rules, no laws except survival of the fittest, enforced by violence.
***
It was still daylight when they finally rode away from the burning wagon. Without a shovel, there was no way Rafe could bury the bodies, so he devised a funeral pyre with the ruined wagon. He tried to position Anne downwind while he set the fire and made sure it caught, but the foul stench of decay filled the air.
They traveled another hour before he could no longer smell the fire. He found the most defensible spot possible to set up camp. Trees along another dry riverbed provided some cover.
Their dinner that night was cold jerky. A fire was just too much of a risk with his enemies so close by.
It didn't matter to him, and he had the feeling it could have been dirt and leaves for all Annie knew or cared.
She sat trancelike as he prepared her bedroll for sleep. He glanced at her from time to time to make sure she was all right, but of course she wasn't.
Over and over again, she was reliving in her mind the moment when she'd discovered the woman's body. He could see it in her blank eyes. He could feel it in her silence. It was always like that the first time. Nothing would ever be the same for her again.
He moved to stand over her, holding out a hand. When she didn't respond, he prodded gently. "It's time for bed. You need some rest."
She looked up at him, and his heart wrenched as he waited for her to return mentally from wherever she'd been. He had to admire the way she regained her composure. Annie Cameron was made of strong stuff. She was a survivor.
The thought sprang unbidden to his mind that Christina could never have held up under everything Annie had been through in the past few days. But then, Christina shouldn't have had to. If not for him, she wouldn't have had to.
It was one of the things that had haunted him for the past five years. Christina had been with the comancheros for three days and nights before he found her. He shuddered even now, thinking of all the things she had been forced to endure at their hands.
He returned to the present to find Annie reaching toward him. He wrapped his big hand around her small one and pulled her to her feet, supporting her as they walked to her bedroll, where he laid her down and tucked her in.
"Good night," he murmured, wishing there was something he could do to ease her horror. "Things will look different in the morning."
"Please." She grabbed him by the arm as he made to rise, halting him. Desperation made her voice tremble. She gazed up at him pleadingly, her face contorted as she struggled not to cry.
"Please lie down with me. Hold me. I... I don't think I can sleep by-by myself."
He hesitated, torn between the need to keep watch over the camp and the desire to comfort her. The pleading expressing in her eyes made the choice for him. He would stay by her until she fell asleep, then start his vigilance. What choice did he have?
She held the bedroll open for him. He removed his gun belt and placed it on the ground within easy reach before lying down on the edge, careful to keep his dusty boots out of the bedding.
It was a mistake. He knew he would regret it, even as he slipped into the bedroll beside her, wrapping his arms around her soft, yielding body, holding her tightly against him. He tried to ignore the sweet curves that burned through his resolve. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her and feel nothing but a detached kind of compassion, but his body quickened despite his best efforts.
She shuddered once, then went still.
He tried to clear his mind, but it was useless. From the first moment he had spotted the smoke on the horizon, the memories had surfaced with sickening clarity. It had been too much like the other time.
This raid too had been the work of comancheros. All the signs were there. Their horses had been shod, unlike Indian ponies. The wagon had been picked clean, except for trinkets that would have appealed to an Indian but that a comanchero would have recognized as worthless. They had scalped the woman but not the man. Long pale hair would bring a higher price than the man's short pate.
He hadn't said aloud what he'd thought when Annie had asked about children: that if there were children, their fate would be worse than that of their parents.
Children would be taken south of the border. The girls would go to brothels, and possibly the boys as well, or they might be sold to the silver mines as slaves.
Rafe's hand moved over Annie's soft, tangled hair, and he shivered slightly. That woman they had found today could have been Annie.
It was sweet torture, lying so close beside her, their bodies pressed together. She lay still now, her head resting on his shoulder, and her steady, rhythmic breathing told him that she had fallen asleep. He kissed her gently on the forehead and closed his eyes, struggling against memory and desire.
Somewhere in the distance, a coyote wailed, its lonely cry filling the still, silent night. He drifted into a shallow, troubled sleep.
He couldn't move. The heat of the sun seared his flesh and shrank the thin rawhide straps around his wrists and ankles. He was naked from head to foot and as helpless as a newborn babe. He tried to open his eyes, but the sun's glare blinded him.
He welcomed death, yearned for it.
A soft, brief breeze and a shadow fell over his face and was gone. Something sharp pierced his chest. He forced his eyes open and gazed into the face of death.
Rafe cried out, the sound echoing across the plains. He sat up with a jerk, grabbing his gun belt from the ground where he'd left it. It took him a moment to realize it was the dream that had waked him. There was no immediate danger.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice still thick with sleep.
He couldn't speak. He sat beside her in the darkness, running a hand through his hair, cursing himself for drifting off to sleep. He tried not to think about what could have happened, focusing on stilling the pounding of his heart. She touched his shoulder, and he jerked away, leaping to his feet.
"I… I want to help," she murmured.
He twisted his lips in a bitter smile. "Help? You can't help me. What are you going to tell me, that it was just a dream and that everything will be all right in the morning?"
Her gaze dropped to his hands. He was massaging his wrists, though he wasn't even aware of it until he noticed her stare, and then he stopped.
"What happened to you?" she asked softly.
"Jesus, Annie!" He paced back and forth in front of her.
She sat on the bedroll, watching him struggle with the emotion so close to the surface. Something was eating him up inside. What secret horror lived in his mind, escaping only at night to torment him? She had thought him invincible, so untouchable that the proof of his vulnerability overwhelmed her as it had the first time she'd witnessed it.
"It might help you to talk about it," she said hesitantly, wanting him to tell her, yet at the same time dreading what he might reveal. She steeled herself for whatever was to come.
"It was while I was in the army," he began quietly, "I tracked a band of comancheros into Mexico. They set a trap for me and I fell right into it. They staked me out in the desert with wet rawhide straps." He paused, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. "Do you know what happens to rawhide when it dries? It shrinks. It would have cut through my wrists and ankles to the bone if so
meone hadn't come along. I... I couldn't move."
He had to stop speaking momentarily to regain control of his emotions and steady his voice. She almost asked him not to go on, but before she could speak, he continued in a taut voice. "I couldn't—the sky was full of buzzards. I kept slipping in and out of consciousness, but I woke up one time to see one of them sitting on my chest looking me in the eye. I... I couldn't move."
Her throat constricted as a terrible shudder ran through her. She closed her eyes to block the images his words had evoked.
The need to touch him, to comfort him in some way, nearly overwhelmed her. It must have cost him dearly to share what must surely be his darkest memory. He seemed so fragile suddenly, as if he could break into a thousand pieces at any moment.
She made to rise, to go to him, but he seemed to anticipate her purpose and stepped back from her, holding up a hand.
"Don't. I don't want your pity. I don't want you to care about me. Don't you understand?"
"Why?" she whispered. "Why would anyone do that to you?"
"I made a lot of enemies when I was in the army."
"Someone would have to really hate you to do something like that. Why didn't they just kill you?"
Rafe released a bitter snort. "That's not El Alacran's way."
"El Alacran?"
"Felipe Delgado." His eyes hardened as he spoke the name. "He calls himself the Scorpion. He sets traps, and when he's caught his quarry, he likes to toy with it awhile before he destroys it."
"Why does he hate you so?" She almost dreaded the answer.
"El Alacran and I go way back," he replied. "His mother was the daughter of a powerful man in northern Mexico. She was fifteen when the Apaches kidnapped her. Fifteen years later, the army found her and her half-breed child living with a band of Mescaleros in the Potrillo Mountains.
"Tomas Delgado identified the woman as his long-lost daughter, Elena. The boy was so violent he had to be incarcerated at Fort Bliss. Tomas and Elena moved into a small house close to the fort to be near the boy while the long process of civilization began. Elena couldn't adjust to life among her own people, and the whites would not accept her."
"Why?" she asked. Her heart pounded in her chest as her head reeled with images of what must have happened to that fifteen-year old girl.
Rafe smiled bitterly. "Most of them believed she should killed herself."
She dropped her gaze from his uncompromising gray eyes. "Do you?"
"Doesn't matter what I think."
She looked up to find him still studying her intently. "It matters to me."
He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know, Annie. How could I?" He sighed, his gaze holding hers prisoner. "Indian captives, they're not usually treated... they usually don't survive very long. Every now and then one manages to assimilate into Indian society. I think that's what Elena did. I don't know. She ran away in the dead of night, leaving her son behind.
"Tomas thought he could civilize Felipe. He took him into his home, educated him.... Felipe repaid him by slitting his throat and running away with all the gold and silver and jewels he could find in the house. He became a comanchero. He raided into Texas, then crossed the border into Mexico where the army would not follow, until they decided it was time to put a stop to it.
"We followed them across the Rio Grande, right back to their camp. We didn't know... there were women in the camp—and children. Captives mostly, but El Alacran had his woman and his infant son with him. There was so much confusion—bullets flying everywhere—the baby was killed. There's no way of knowing if the bullet was army issue or not, but El Alacran always blamed me."
"You personally? But—"
"I commanded the raid. I led the attack into Mexico, something El Alacran never expected. He was ruined, and the only thing he ever cared about in his whole damned miserable life was dead."
"It wasn't your fault."
"No, but it doesn't matter. It took him two years, but he finally exacted his vengeance."
She swallowed, trying hard not to think of all the unanswered questions screaming in her head.
Five years ago... a woman... El Alacran.
There was more to the story, much more, but she couldn't bring herself to probe further. If what he'd left out was worse than what he had revealed, she decided she'd just as soon not know.
"Who found you?" she asked.
"A bandit named Jose Carvajal. He nursed me back to health and taught me how to survive in the desert. He taught me a lot of things."
"I don't know what to say. I wish—"
"Don't say anything."
He strapped his gun belt on. "Nothing's changed, Annie."
"Everything's changed," she said, rising unsteadily to her feet. "I understand so many things now that I didn't understand before. If only you would let me—"
"You don't understand anything." The muscle in his jaw flexed. His face seemed to have been carved from granite. "You can't help me. I'm not worth the trouble anyway. There's so much... so much you don't know, so much I don't want you to know. If you knew me, the things I've done, you wouldn't be standing there talking to me. You'd be running as fast as you could."
She took a step toward him, stopping at the stony look that pierced her heart. "I know you. I know what kind of man you are. You're the kind of man who would take me to a doctor instead of leaving me to die in the desert."
"I couldn't leave you to die. I don't know where the gold is."
"And why don't you?" she asked stubbornly, determined to make him see his own goodness. "Why haven't you forced me to tell you where it is? You could. You know it and I know it. Because of the kind of man you are, that's why. You're the kind of man who would hold me and comfort me yesterday in the middle of a scene that must have brought back your worst memories."
"Let it be, Annie, and I mean it this time. Just let it be. I'm going to keep watch for a while. Go back to bed."
With that he walked away, leaving her to stare after him through the tears she could no longer control.
Chapter 13
Anne pulled her hat down lower over her forehead, shielding her eyes from the glaring sunlight. Up ahead, the little town of San Juan Bautista slept in deceptive tranquility, its white adobe buildings glistening in the midday sun.
She breathed in the scent of water from the river, which seemed so like home yet so different. The vegetation that lined both sides of the Rio Grande was sparse and pale compared to the trees and undergrowth along the Mississippi. In every direction, the sun-scorched plains stretched to the horizon, but a gentle breeze rustled the leaves and caressed her sun-parched skin. For a moment, she could almost forget...
They had traveled all day in silence, reaching Eagle Pass and crossing the Rio Grande into Mexico, then turning south to follow the winding river.
For most of the time, Anne lagged slightly behind, allowing Rafe the distance he obviously needed. She studied his rigid back. He was embarrassed at having confided in her. He'd described an episode in his life when he'd been vulnerable, not in control. It must have cost him.
He was so proud, so private. Yet he had given her a glimpse into his tortured soul last night. She cherished it like a gift, even as her mind recoiled in horror.
She'd known all along that he'd been through some experiences she couldn't even imagine. One only had to look into his eyes to know he'd seen and done things that were better left unexposed. And for the first time, she realized that the hard, uncompromising exterior he presented to the world was as much to keep things inside as it was to keep people out.
There were things he hadn't told her about this El Alacran and what had happened between them. Questions still plagued her. Was El Alacran still chasing Rafe? If he held Rafe responsible for the death of his son, would leaving him in the desert to die have been enough to settle the score? Did he know that Rafe had survived? And, if so, would he want to kill him now?
The sound of shouting, la
ughing voices struck a discordant note. They seemed somehow eerie against the seriousness of her thoughts.
Rafe had come to a stop on the edge of the town, and Anne drew up beside him. "Is it some kind of holiday?" she asked.
"Don't know." They were the first words he had spoken to her all day.
As they turned onto the main road into town, they saw what must have been the entire population lining the street on both sides, spilling out into the surrounding countryside.
An old man in white shirt and trousers passed in front of them, and Rafe called out to him in Spanish. The man stopped and turned to face Rafe with a gap-toothed grin, responding in the same language.
"What did he say?" she asked as the man scurried across the street and Rafe urged his horse forward.
"It's a wedding. The daughter of the patron."
"Patron?"
"Probably a big ranchero whose wealth supports the village," he explained over his shoulder.
They stopped in front of the hotel, and Rafe dismounted. A man on the sidewalk stepped toward them with a smile. He clapped Rafe on the back and the two of them conversed in Spanish as if they'd been friends all their lives.
"Gracias," Rafe finally said. It was the only word in the entire exchange that Anne understood.
"Do you know that man?" she asked.
"No, but it doesn't matter. Anybody who rides into town peaceably today is considered a friend." As the Mexican returned to his companions, Rafe continued, "We're invited to the fiesta."
She glanced around. It was like Carnival in New Orleans, only on a much smaller scale, of course. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been among such merry people, and she tried not to show her eagerness in front of Rafe for fear he'd make fun of what he would surely see as childishness. He was always so serious.
She turned to find him staring up at her with an expression she couldn't read. Then he walked around to the left side of her horse, holding his arms up to her.
She placed her hands on his shoulders. His muscles flexed beneath her grasp as he swung her to the ground in front of him. His face hovered close over hers as he held her a moment longer than was necessary. A disturbing current ran between them, and then he pulled his hands away as if he'd been burned.