by Cox, Deborah
Annie's hand faltered and he gasped as the hot soup spilled on his bare chest. Instinctively, he tried to jerk away, and the movement caused a fiery flash of pain that blazed along his rib cage.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Setting the bowl down on the bedside table, she reached for a towel and caught the hot trail of soup before it reached the white bandage around his midsection.
She tried to concentrate on her task as she cleaned the spill, but she couldn't help remembering the feel of his chest against hers, the texture of the hairs that curled sparingly across his breastbone. The need to touch him, to kiss him, to assure herself he was real nearly overwhelmed her. She had almost lost him.
"What happened?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought you were dead, Annie. Braxton wasn't dead. I saw you jump in front of his bullet."
"Jose shot him and Braxton's bullet went wide."
"You could have been killed, Annie. Why would you do something so foolish?"
"I couldn't let him shoot you." She turned her head away from the pain and desolation in his pale eyes.
"Promise me you'll never do anything like that again," he said.
Anne picked up the bowl and turned to face him again.
"Promise me," he repeated.
She reached for the spoon, but he grabbed her wrist.
"Promise me."
###
After dinner, Anne returned to Rafe's room, stopping before the door at the end of the dark corridor. She shifted an armload of sheets to one side so she could knock with her free hand.
Whoever had deserted this place had left behind most of their worldly possessions. Jose said they'd probably been greenhorns from the East who gave up and went back home.
For some reason it made her sad to think of it, although she could certainly understand. This was a savage, unforgiving land, a place where only the strongest flourished, and everything, even the men and women, had to be prickly in order to survive. Sometimes even that wasn't enough.
If ever a man had thorns, it was Rafe Montalvo. Yet he'd almost died. He knew this land and its hazards, yet it had nearly devoured even him.
He'd been hurt pretty badly. His chest and arms were bruised and cut. Patches of skin had been scraped off his legs. According to Jose, he'd bruised his ribs. It would take him a while to recover, but recover he would—this time.
He could have been killed. In the darkness of the night while she'd tended him, she had realized she couldn't stand by and watch him die. She couldn't endure another episode like that.
She also believed that he cared for her in his own way. Maybe it would be enough. Maybe she would be able to convince him to give up his quest for vengeance, to just walk away.
When there was no answer to her knock, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Rafe sat on the bed, his back to the door. His torso was bare, except for the bandage wrapped around his ribs, stark white against his sun-darkened skin. She walked around to face him, clutching the towels to her chest like a shield.
"You must be feeling better," she said with a smile.
He didn't move, didn't respond. His gaze seemed fixed on some distant object he could see through the window. A steely tension radiated from his body, and she took a step back from its impact.
"I brought you some clean sheets. If you'll sit in the chair..."
When he turned to glare at her, the fury in his eyes took her breath away. She wanted to touch him, to say something, to ask why he was so angry suddenly, but she dared not. Violence simmered just beneath the surface calm, and she didn't want to be the one to unleash it.
And then he gazed out the window again as if nothing had happened, his indifference more devastating than his anger.
Shaken and confused, she put the linens on the bedside table and began untucking the sheets. When the time came, she had no doubt he would move to the chair and allow her to complete her task. Maybe then he would tell her what was wrong, why he was so angry.
"Leave it," he said, without turning around.
"But the sheets were on the bed when we brought you here. You've bled on them—"
Without warning, he swung out with his arm, knocking the sheets and the lamp from the nightstand. The lamp shattered and kerosene went everywhere, all over the floor and the bedding.
"Leave me alone!" he growled.
"What's wrong with you?" She didn’t know whether to flee or stand her ground.
"You should have let me die," he said quietly. "You promised you'd go to my brother if anything happened to me."
"And you promised nothing would happen to you."
"I lied."
"So did I." Her eyes widened as a thought struck her. "Is that it? Are you angry because I injured your stubborn male pride?"
"Leave me in peace, Annie. You've done enough for me. Now I want you to leave me the hell alone."
She started at the sound of the door opening, though Rafe hardly seemed to notice. Jose stepped into the room, shoving Carlos Delgado in front of him. The smile vanished from Jose's lips as his gaze fell on Anne.
"Buenas tardes, senorita," he said with a nod of his head.
Anne looked from the Mexican to Rafe. "What are you going to do?" she asked, a cold dread clutching her heart.
"Leave us," Rafe said, without looking at her.
"I will not. I want to know—"
"Get out, Annie. Now."
She shivered under the deadly chill of his voice but refused to back down. Was he capable of killing an innocent boy to avenge his wife's murder? She didn't want to believe it, but the merciless glint in his eyes chilled her to the marrow.
"If you do this," she said, her voice trembling, "you'll be no better than El Alacran."
"Jose," Rafe demanded, "get her out of here."
"Please! Don't do this! This isn't the way to settle anything!"
Jose grabbed her arm and hauled her to the door. She turned as they reached it and gazed pleadingly into Jose's hard, cold eyes. "Please. Don't let him do this!"
Jose said nothing, just shoved her out the door and slammed it shut, turning a key in the lock.
Rafe jerked around at the sound of her fist pounding on the door.
"Damn you!" she cried, her voice barely audible through the thick wood. "Damn you!"
Rafe rose carefully and walked to where the boy stood just inside the door. The naked fear in the youth's wide brown eyes disgusted him.
"You too, amigo, out," Rafe said to Jose, without taking his eyes from the boy.
"But, amigo—"
"Get Annie away from the door." When Jose didn't move to comply, Rafe turned a murderous glare at him.
The Mexican backed away, muttering under his breath in Spanish, and opened the door. Anne nearly fell into the room. Jose grabbed her and backed her out into the hall.
"Please don't do this!" Anne cried as Jose dragged her away. "Listen to me, Rafe!"
The door closed with a loud crash. Rafe waited for a few moments until the sound of scuffling moved down the hall and dissipated.
He turned back to the boy. Without a word, he moved to the bureau and retrieved his revolver from its holster. He hated himself for enjoying the sense of power he felt in the boy's fear. Slowly, he started removing cartridges from the gun while the boy watched in mute terror.
As he returned to the boy, he spun the cylinder, saying, "There's one bullet in this gun. Now, I'm going to start pulling the trigger. Who knows when the bullet will come up? Where is your cousin?"
He pressed the gun to the boy's temple. Carlos Delgado squeezed his eyes shut tightly, his entire body convulsing with fear as perspiration beaded on his forehead.
Rafe pulled the trigger and Carlos cried out. His eyes filled with tears that spilled down his cheeks. "Please! Don't kill me!"
"One down and five to go—oh, unless it’s in the next chamber. Answer my question. Where is your cousin?"
"I don't know!"
Rafe pulled the trigger again. "Wrong an
swer. Four chances left."
Carlos was sobbing now. "You're crazy! Why are you doing this?"
"Ask your cousin, if you live long enough. Now, start talking."
"I can't!"
The hammer clicked again. "The odds are narrowing. Three left."
"He'll kill me if I tell you!"
Again Rafe pulled the trigger. "And I'll kill you if you don't."
"All right, all right, I'll tell you! J-just don't shoot. Don't pull the trigger again. H-he's in Chihuahua."
"City or province?"
"Province."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
Rafe fired again. "Just one left."
"Madre de Dios! He has a fortress near the Rio Conchos. He will kill me if he finds out I told you."
Rafe held the gun to the boy's head, his eyes narrowing as Carlos Delgado trembled. He pulled the trigger for the sixth time, and the boy fell to his knees on the floor at the hollow sound of metal against metal.
"You are loco!" he sobbed.
"I must be," Rafe agreed. "Otherwise I would have killed you."
***
The door to Diego Munoz's room banged open, flooding the small space with light. He shielded his eyes as Carlos Delgado flew through the opening and landed at his feet. Behind him stood Rafe Montalvo, his face grim.
Without a word, the bounty hunter grabbed Diego by the arm and hauled him toward the door. Stumbling, nearly falling, he struggled to keep his balance with his hands tied behind his back.
They didn't stop until they were outside. Rafe Montalvo dragged him toward the stable where Rafe had left one of the outlaw’s horses saddled and ready to ride.
When they reached the horse, Rafe shoved Diego's chest against the animal and drew a long knife, which he used to slice through Diego's bindings.
"What are you doing?" Diego asked, rubbing his wrists as he turned to face the other man.
"What does it look like? I'm letting you go."
"I don't understand."
"You're going to Chihuahua," Rafe said casually. "I've got a message for El Alacran, and you're going to deliver it."
"But I don't know where he is," Diego said nervously.
"Well, that's too bad because there's a little town about a day and half's ride from here called Concepción. If El Alacran isn't there in four days, his cousin's going to die. Maybe I should just kill him now."
"Perro! If you kill the boy, El Alacran will kill me."
Rafe smiled. Fear could be a powerful weapon when used correctly. "If you're lucky."
Diego's eyes widened and he paled noticeably.
"Better get going," Rafe said as he sheathed his knife. "You've got a lot of territory to search. Four days, then the boy dies."
"What about my gun?"
"What about it?"
"You can't expect me to leave without it."
"You'll manage."
Diego hesitated, studying Rafe's eyes as if searching for some sign of weakness or mercy. Finding none, he cursed under his breath and swung up in the saddle.
"I'll tell him, amigo. And when El Alacran finds you, he'll make you sorry you were ever born."
With that, he wheeled the horse around and galloped through the stable yard.
###
Rafe rose before dawn the next morning and dressed in the darkness. Then he took up his saddlebags and bedroll, wincing with pain as he straightened up. He was becoming accustomed to the ever-present discomfort. Like the pain in his soul, he was learning to adjust to it.
His horse whinnied softly as he entered the stable. After dropping his saddlebags over the stall door, he petted the animal on the nose, pushed the door open, and led the horse out. Farther down the row of stalls, he found Carlos Delgado's roan and led it out, too.
As he saddled the roan, he thought of Annie with a bittersweet pain. He remembered teaching her to saddle a horse, her tenacity and courage in the face of her fears. He remembered how she'd grabbed the saddle and tried to carry it to the horse, in spite of her weakened condition. Once she set her mind on something, there wasn't a power on earth that could sway her.
Crazy woman. Crazy, stubborn woman.
He didn't want her to care about him. He didn't want anyone to care about him. To care about him was to be in peril. Annie had almost found that out the hard way.
With a weary sigh, he slipped the bit into the roan's mouth.
The only thing he knew with any certainty was that he had to get away. He had to put as much distance as possible between them. She made him feel things he didn't want to feel. Better not to feel anything, he decided, than to allow himself to care about her.
It seemed he couldn't cut off a single emotion—such as pain—without shutting them all off. Similarly, he couldn't feel a single emotion—such as joy—without feeling them all, and there were things he never wanted to feel again, ever.
He finished saddling the roan and was throwing the blanket over his own horse’s back when he heard soft, measured footsteps on the hay-strewn floor.
"Running away again?"
Chapter 17
Rafe closed his eyes as her voice trembled up his spine. He turned slowly to see Annie standing behind him, her face a study in pain and betrayal. Swearing under his breath, he turned back to his task before he started remembering everything that had happened between them.
"That's right," he murmured.
She walked slowly toward him. He could hear her movements, though he didn't turn to look at her.
"You were going to leave without even saying goodbye?"
He could tell by her voice that she had come to stand near him. Ignoring the pain in his ribs, he lifted the saddle and swung it up on top of the blanket with a grunt.
"Right again."
"You don't need me anymore," she said to his back, each word a stone on his heart. "I told you what you wanted to know."
He turned and walked toward her. She retreated until her back met the wall and she could go no farther. Guilt twisted in his heart at the fear in her eyes, but he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't face her questions. He'd hoped to get away without seeing her again. It would have been so much easier that way.
"Right the third time," he said. If he confirmed her accusation, maybe she'd be so hurt and angry she would leave him alone. "I seduced you. I used you to find out where the gold is, and now that you've told me—"
The crack of her palm against his face almost felt pleasurable. It sobered him, braced him for what he had to do.
"Bastard!" she cried. She drew back to slap him again, but he caught her wrist and held it still.
"You should have believed me, Annie," he murmured against her ear, trying to ignore the softness of her hair and the sweet scent of her flesh. "I am what you see, nothing more. You try to see something good in everyone, but sometimes it just isn't there. I'm empty inside. I use people, I kill people, and I just keep on living. I have no conscience."
"I don't believe you," she managed to say, running her tongue over dry lips. "You're going after that man, El Alacran, when you can barely move."
"It's none of your concern."
He reached beneath the horse's belly and found the girth, then worked at securing it. He had to get away from here, from her, from the tears in her voice and the comfort in her arms.
"It is my concern. If someone saves your life, you're their slave forever, remember?"
In spite of his grim mood, he smiled, remembering when he'd told her that. "Not in Mexico. Besides, I'd say I'm still one up on you."
Anne reached out and grasped his arm, her touch searing his flesh through the fabric of his shirt. He turned to look at her and winced at the pain in her eyes.
"You could have been killed, and for nothing," he muttered, his voice trembling with emotion.
"For you."
He jerked away. "For nothing. For a dead man. I have nothing to live for. You have everything."
"How can you say that? Why can't you let go of whatever
is eating you up inside?"
"There is nothing in here," he said, pounding his chest and causing a physical pain that did nothing to lessen the pain in his heart. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Annie. Your life for mine is not a fair trade. I can't stand the pain of living. Damn you for what you've done!"
"What have I done besides love you?"
He didn't know how to describe it to her, this feeling of powerlessness. He didn't know how to tell her that because she was willing to die for him, he now felt a strange obligation to live for her.
"I don't care if I live or die, but you do. You do, and... God, I don't know how to explain it. Your caring forces me to choose life, or your life becomes meaningless. Do you understand?"
"No, I don't understand. I don't understand why you would want to die or why you would think yourself so worthless. I know you still love your wife. I know you still grieve for her, but—"
The laugh that rumbled up from his chest sounded hollow and maniacal, even in his own ears. "Still? I never grieved for her. I never had time. I was too busy trying to survive and forget."
"Forget? You’ve done everything possible to make sure you never forget, that no one ever forgets. You’ve let it eat you alive.”
"I killed her," he said. "I killed my own wife!"
His whole body shuddered, his breath coming in great gulps. It took him a full minute to regain the control he usually kept over his emotions.
Her own breath hung suspended in her throat. Her entire being trembled with dread. She searched his eyes, but they had turned to stone. "It's not true. You're lying."
He backed away with an inhuman growl. His face had gone deathly pale. His gray eyes were as hard as granite. He ran a hand through his hair, and she saw the pain flash across his face as he expelled a ragged breath.
She waited, her heart still, her mind whirling, waited for an explanation, but when none came, she created her own. "You... you couldn't save her. You went after them, but you got there too late."
She searched his eyes for confirmation of her words, but there was none.
He turned away with a bleak expression on his face and continued saddling his horse, throwing the right stirrup over the animal's back.