by Cox, Deborah
"It's yours." He settled on the blanket beside her. His arm encircled her and he pulled her closer.
A sense of peace filled her heart. She cursed herself for her inability to stop herself from asking the one question sure to raise his ire again.
"Who is Christina?" she asked softly.
He stiffened. It was a long time before he answered, in a flat voice, "She was my wife."
"What happened to her?"
"She's dead."
Tension gripped his body, belying the detachment in his arid tone. Anne felt it in her own body.
"How?"
"Comancheros."
She shuddered at the violence in that one word, remembering the man in the saloon in Hondo and Rafe's accusation.
Five years ago... a woman... El Alacran.
So that had been El Alacran's revenge. He had killed Rafe's wife. That was the part of the story Rafe had left out.
"I'm sorry," was all she could think of to say.
He heaved a great sigh. "Where are we going, Annie? We're in Mexico now. Do we just keep going south until we get to Bolivia or do we change directions?"
"I don't know," she said truthfully. "The gold is behind the altar of a small church in a place called Concepción."
Rafe could hardly believe she had told him her most guarded secret, the location of the gold, and he had nearly told her his. She trusted him, damn her. He wasn't worthy of her trust, but she had given it to him anyway. Now he could ride away and leave her behind, didn't she realize that? Didn't she know what he was capable of?
"Do you know where Concepción is?" he heard her ask softly.
It was a moment before he could speak, and when he did, his voice sounded raw and unfamiliar in his own ears. "It's about a hundred miles southwest of here in El Alacran's territory."
Anne's skin crawled. Five years ago... a woman... El Alacran.
"Is he involved with the gold?"
He laughed bitterly. "Involved? He stole it first, and then one of his own men stole it from him. Luis Demas. El Alacran wanted him alive. If Demas had had any accomplices, you can be sure they would have told him anything he wanted to know."
He thought of Carlos Delgado, and his mission to take Annie to El Alacran, and knew that the comanchero still hadn't learned the location of the gold.
"You don't want the gold at all, do you? You want El Alacran," she said.
"Maybe you're right."
"I know I'm right."
"Annie, I want you to promise me something. If anything happens to me, I want you to promise me you won't go after the gold alone. You can't face a man like El Alacran."
She trembled against him and murmured through her tears, "Nothing's going to happen to you."
"I know," he said, not wanting to frighten her, "but I need you to give me your word. If anything happens to me, take the money in my saddlebags and go west to Las Cruces. My brother's name is Michael Holden. He'll take you in."
"I thought you said he hated you."
"He does. But he won't turn you away. He is a man of honor."
"But there's nothing there for me."
"There's nothing here for you but death. Don't you understand?" So much for not frightening her. Why did she have to be so stubborn? "Promise me."
"All right, I promise."
Rafe smoothed a strand of hair from her face. "You're right, Annie, nothing's going to happen to me. I promise."
He crawled inside the bedroll with her and they lay side by side, bare chest to bare chest. A familiar heaviness gathered between his legs.
Tears glistened on her long lashes, and he kissed them away.
"Hush, Annie, don't cry. I didn't mean to upset you. Nothing's going to happen to either of us. Don't cry." He kissed her eyelids, her lips, her cheeks. Her tears tasted salty on his mouth.
"Did you love her very much?" she asked in a small, jerky voice.
"Who, Annie?"
"Your wife. Did you love her very much?"
"I don't remember." Pain, like a knife, twisted in his heart. "Yes, I loved her."
Chapter 15
The sun felt warm on her face when Anne opened her eyes the next morning. She stretched like a lazy cat, wincing at the slight pain between her thighs. Memory returned in a rush and she sat up, clutching the rough blanket over her naked body.
Suddenly wide awake, she glanced anxiously around the camp until she saw Rafe kneeling at the edge of the river. A heavy sadness settled on her heart as she watched him stand and screw the top onto the canteen he'd been filling.
He was in pain, she'd known it before last night. But last night all the barriers had come down. She had seen past the pride and anger into his dark, tormented soul.
She remembered the other parts of last night, his gentleness, his fervor. And even though there had been pain and a little embarrassment, she wanted it again, wanted to feel connected to him again, wanted to hear his voice full of passion whispering her name. Her stomach fluttered.
He walked toward her, and her breath caught in her throat. What did you say to someone who'd seen you naked, who'd touched you intimately, who'd been inside you? How could she face him, knowing he knew all her secrets?
Her face flushed as their eyes met. Quickly she turned away, adjusting the blanket, feeling vulnerable in her state of undress, especially since he was fully clothed. He appeared so at ease, so normal, as if nothing had happened last night, as if he was accustomed to such things.
How many other women had he been with? His wife, for one, and he had loved her. He'd admitted it, even though the admission had cost him dearly. Was Anne just another woman to him? Just another body?
He hunkered down beside the remnants of a fire. She watched from the corner of her eye as he poured coffee into a tin cup.
"Coffee?" he asked calmly.
She looked directly at him for the first time, and the glint in his pale eyes set her heart pounding. She reached out with a trembling hand to take the cup, careful to hold the blanket in place, concentrating on his steady hand because she could no longer hold his gaze.
"There aren't a lot of towns where we're going," he told her matter-of-factly. "I'll need to buy a pack mule to carry supplies."
The coffee was tepid and bitter, but she drank it, hoping it would steady her nerves.
A long silence wrapped around them. The pressure of his eyes drew her like a magnet, but she refused to look at him.
"Annie," he said softly, "I... last night... I'm sorry. If I could undo—"
"Please don't say that." She looked at him, her throat burning with unshed tears. "I'm not sorry. I don't want to undo it."
He ran a hand through his hair, staring into the distance. The muscle in his jaw moved and he cleared his throat. "You deserve better."
"I wanted it too. I could have stopped you—" He turned his gaze on her again, and something in his eyes made her shiver. "Tried to stop you. Please don't apologize. I don't want you to be sorry."
He gave a crooked smile. "I don't know if I'll ever understand you." He stood, stretching his long legs. "We need to be leaving soon. The horses are saddled."
"I... I need privacy," she stammered. "Will you turn your back?"
That crooked smile deepened, and she knew what he was thinking. He'd already seen everything there was to see of her. But it was broad daylight now, and she didn't think she could bear to have him watch her dress.
He picked up the coffeepot, kicked dirt on top of the fire, and started toward the river. "I'll finish packing."
She waited until he reached the river before standing. With the blanket still carefully wrapped around her, she managed to step into her pantalets and had her shirtwaist firmly in her hand before she dropped the blanket. She had never dressed so quickly in her life, and in no time she was fastening her breeches.
The sound of footsteps behind her told her he had not waited for her to tell him she was ready. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him walking to the nearby horses.
&n
bsp; She brought him the blanket as he stuffed the coffee pot inside his bedroll. Without speaking, he took it from her, folded it, and crammed it inside the bedroll with the coffee pot.
"How long were you married?" she couldn't help asking.
"A year."
He finished securing the bedroll, then mounted up.
"We don't have any more time to waste. Let's get our supplies and get moving."
Rafe kicked his horse into a slow trot, stopping far enough away that she couldn't ask any more questions. A sickening knot formed in the pit of Anne's stomach. He had loved a woman once and, judging by the fact that he wouldn't discuss her, he must love her still.
She walked to her own horse and mounted after a moment's struggle, turning the animal and starting toward him.
He'd been married, this man who wanted the world to believe he needed no one and felt nothing. He'd been in the army and he'd been married. And he'd nearly been eaten alive by buzzards. He danced like an aristocrat and killed people for a living. He was from New Mexico and his brother hated him.
That was the extent of her knowledge about Rafe Montalvo, that and the fact that he had a conscience, no matter what he wanted people to think. He had a conscience, and he could be gentle, and he cried when he made love.
She didn't think she would ever understand him. There were too many shadows, too many contradictions. It was as if he were two men at once, the man he presented to the world and the man inside.
He's buried in the desert, he had said. How true was that? Did she really want to know all his secrets?
Leaving their horses tied outside, they entered the general store and walked around inside, surveying the merchandise. She looked longingly at an ivory-handled hairbrush and ran a hand over the bristles. When she noticed Rafe watching her closely, she returned the brush to its place on the table, blushing in embarrassment.
But instead of scowling at her and reminding her that she didn't belong in the desert, he smiled. "I'm going to the livery stable to buy that pack mule. You stay here and look around. Don’t leave this store until I get back.”
He tempered his stern words by adding, “Get anything you need. I'll be back."
Rafe stepped into the street, his heart almost light. For the first time in years, as he walked along he actually noticed things about the world around him other than whether or not it held any danger. A dozen or more men worked in the plaza, restoring it to its normal state after last night's festivities. Half a dozen women gathered at the well in the center of town to draw water. An old man sat in the shade of a tall tree in the plaza.
The darkness was still there, but it seemed distant this morning, like something that belonged to someone else. He'd seen the way Annie had looked at the hairbrush with such yearning, and he decided right then and there to buy it for her as a surprise.
Once inside the stable, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. At first the barn seemed empty, but then he caught a movement near the end of a long row of stalls. A big, powerfully built man walked slowly toward him, wiping his hands on a soiled apron.
"What can I do for you?" the man asked as he reached Rafe.
"I want to buy a pack mule."
"Got two out back. I'll bring them around if you want to wait here."
Rafe nodded. The man walked back in the direction he'd come, and Rafe's thoughts returned to Annie. Just remembering their lovemaking sent the blood pounding through his body.
She was like light in a dark tunnel, drink to a thirsty man. He'd even thought of telling her everything, but if he did she would never let him touch her again. He never wanted to let her go, and an acute pain stabbed his heart when he realized that one day he would have to.
The slight noise behind him didn't penetrate his consciousness at first. When it did, it was too late. It was the sound of a gun cocking. Was he about to be shot in the back? If so, he'd try going for his gun. He just might have time—
"Turn around real slow," a voice said behind him. "Lift your hands where I can see them."
Damn, he'd been taken completely unaware. He'd let down his guard for a few minutes, and it might well have cost him his life—his and Annie's, he realized with a sick dread.
He turned slowly, and the man who held the gun proved to be no stranger. Tom McCoy smiled broadly, flashing a row of uneven yellow teeth. "Long time no see, Montalvo."
"What the devil do you want, McCoy?"
"I think you know. Hell, I been following you all the way from San Antonio, you and that pretty little gal of yours. I wonder if she'll like me as much as she likes you."
Rafe made an involuntary move toward the outlaw, and McCoy lifted his gun in warning. "Wouldn't do that if I was you. I'm supposed to bring you in alive, but I could say you drew on me. Now, pull that pistol out and drop it real slow."
"He ain't come out of the barn yet!" A voice called from outside.
McCoy glanced away for a flicker of an instant, long enough for Rafe to pull his pistol. He fired, and the bullet tore through McCoy's chest. The other man drew, but Rafe didn't get off another shot before his head exploded in pain and the world went dark.
***
Anne strolled between the rows of merchandise, running a hand over crisp red-and-white calico, fingering a length of satin ribbon, touching the soft bristles of the hairbrush she'd admired earlier. She picked up a small bar of lilac soap and held it beneath her nose. It smelled sweet and clean.
How she longed to bathe in it, wash her hair with it. What would Rafe think if she smelled like flowers instead of trail dust and sweat?
With all her heart, she wanted him to love her, and she knew he did not. He didn't even believe she loved him, for that matter.
She couldn't forget the tears he'd shed last night. They haunted her. She wanted to know everything about him, but there were things he hadn't told her, terrible things.
Her thoughts were shattered by the sound of a gunshot. It could have been anything, anyone, but a prickling of fear brushed the nape of her neck and the hairs on her arms stood on end. Dropping the bar of soap, she ran for the door.
In the street, people were pointing toward the livery stable. Her heart skipped a beat.
Rafe!
She stepped down from the sidewalk, but before she could take another step, someone seized her from behind, covering her mouth with an iron hand.
He dragged her into the alley beside the store, in spite of her attempts at escape. Her booted foot made contact with her assailant's shin, and he cursed in Spanish, tightening his hold on her. She tried to bite his hand, tried to twist out of his hold. He kept his hand clamped over her mouth and pinched her nostrils shut.
She couldn't breathe. She struggled in panic, her lungs aching for oxygen. In the depths of her mind, she knew she was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it. Her head began to spin, her body weakening until darkness consumed her.
Another blow smashed into Rafe's face, and he welcomed the blackness that followed. He relished it. It took away the pain, the awareness that Annie was in danger and there was nothing he could do about it.
The next instant he was sputtering and gasping for breath. Water covered his head, his shoulders, his chest. He blinked his eyes open to see one of the outlaws standing over him with an empty pail.
Someone jerked him back up on his knees and a man he knew as Braxton hunkered down beside him. "Rafe, ole buddy, you don't look too good. You feeling all right?"
"Why don't we just kill him?" someone asked. "He don't know nothin'."
"No," Braxton growled to the man without taking his eyes off Rafe. "I've been waitin' a long time to have Rafe Montalvo where I want him. I'm gonna enjoy this before he dies. Besides, I ain't so sure he don't know nothin'. Charlie, let's see how fast our friend here can run. Bring me a rope."
Anne stirred from a deep, bottomless sleep, a low moan in her throat. Before she could open her eyes, a hand clamped over her mouth, the same hand that had pinche
d the breath out of her earlier. She was lying on her side on the ground, a man's body pressing against hers from behind. She trembled and tried to pull away, not knowing who it was but knowing it was not Rafe.
"Senorita," a voice said close to her ear. She could feel his warm breath against her neck. "I am a friend. Be very still and don't make a sound or you will get us all killed."
Her memory returned in a rush. She had run out into the street at the sound of gunshots from the direction of the livery stable.
Rafe. Where was he? Where was she, for that matter?
It was nearly dark, so she must have been unconscious all day. She was on a hill, looking down into a small canyon at a group of men gathered outside a ranch house. One man struck another hard in the face. He did it again, and Anne flinched involuntarily. The assaulted man crumpled to the ground, but someone threw water on him and he was hauled back to his knees.
Rafe!
The name stuck in her throat. She tried to rise, but the man who held her kept her still. He pinched her nostrils with his thumb and forefinger again, and she began to struggle with all her might. If he cut off her breath again and she passed out, she wouldn't be able to help Rafe.
"Are you loco?" The voice rasped in her ear. "Be still and quiet like I told you or I will smother you again. Comprende?"
She nodded and went still, fighting against the dizziness, beating at his arm with her fist until he released her nostrils. He kept a firm hand on her mouth, though.
"I will let you speak if you promise not to make noise. If those men find out we are up here, they will catch us and then Rafael is done for. Si? Can you be quiet?"
He released her in response to her nod of agreement. When she was able to breathe normally again, she whispered, "We have to help him."
"There is nothing we can do," came the calm reply.
She faced her attacker for the first time. He lay on the ground behind her, but even so she could see that he was a short, rather round man. Thin, wiry brown hair sprang out of his head in disarray, which was also the way he wore his clothes. He was Mexican, that much was evident from his appearance and his accent.
The gleam in his eyes when he looked at her sent a shudder of unease through her body. They were round and brown and intelligent, completely emotionless. She didn't trust him, but then she turned and looked again at the scene unfolding beneath them, and she knew he was Rafe's only chance for survival, whoever he was.