by Cox, Deborah
"Rafael." El Alacran tried to appear self-assured and completely in control, but Rafe sensed an uncertainty in his manner, as if he knew the man before him now was every bit his match. "You have been trailing me for five long years. You have managed to kill many of my most trusted men. Now we are finally face to face, just the two of us. Don't you have anything to say to me?"
When Rafe didn't reply, El Alacran continued. "You are alone. As honorable as ever, I see. You have come to settle things with me, no? Rafael, haven't you learned? Look at you. You have nothing. No wife, no home, no money—nothing. Even the army has turned its back on you. Then look at me. I have prospered greatly since last we met. Honorable men die young."
"I have come here to die," Rafe said evenly. "Haven't you figured that out? A man who doesn't care if he lives or dies is a dangerous man."
El Alacran laughed. "A brave man, too. Cowardice was never your shortcoming. Recklessness, perhaps. But your true shortcoming, the one which has destroyed you, is that there are things you care about more than your own life. You cared what happened to your beautiful wife. You even care what happens to a girl you hardly know, a nobody. Yes, I can see that you are harder now, stronger. But you cannot be ruthless, Rafael. You cannot be ruthless."
A sudden explosion rocked the building and El Alacran jerked around, surveying the balcony and church rafters until he realized the sound had come from outside.
"I may not have learned much about desert survival at West Point, but I learned a great deal about weapons and ammunition," Rafe said evenly. "Black gunpowder makes one hell of an explosive. They should have stayed out of town. There are charges scattered everywhere."
Another charge exploded, as if to confirm Rafe's words. El Alacran's eyes widened, the first sign of fear he'd shown. Rafe relished it.
Rafe inclined his head toward a sound from above. He surveyed the landing, and though he saw nothing, he knew someone was there. One of El Alacran's men had made it inside through the roof, something Rafe had anticipated. That was why he had decided to wait on the altar. He could see the entire landing from his vantage point.
A movement overhead caught Rafe's eye at the same time that the church door flew open and a shot felled the man on the landing. Drawing his pistol, he shot a second man who fell over the rail into the pews below. He whirled around as El Alacran pulled his gun, and both men dove for cover in opposite directions.
Rafe wrapped an arm around his rib cage to ease the pain as he crawled between a rows of pews toward the wall, his heart pounding, the blood rushing through his veins. He had to guard his back and keep out of sight while he figured out what was happening. He'd shot only one of the men on the landing, and he'd be dead right now if someone else hadn't shot the other. He didn't need to be distracted by trying to figure out the identity of the shooter. He needed to concentrate on El Alacran.
A scraping sound reached his ears. It came from behind him. He leveled his gun in the direction of the noise, but he couldn't fire. He waited, knowing that a second's hesitation could mean the difference between life and death, but also knowing that the other person in the church might be Jose... or Annie.
Had they followed him? What other explanation could there be?
The sound of staccato gunfire outside the church reached Rafe's ears, and in the next instant a head popped out from between two rows of pews close by.
"Annie," he murmured as she slid along the wall toward him. "What the hell are you doing here?"
There was no time for a reply. This time when Rafe heard something dragging along the floor, he knew it was El Alacran. He peered over the backs of the pews, ducking back down to avoid a bullet.
The shot ricocheted harmlessly against a wall. As Rafe fired back, El Alacran dove for cover.
"Shit!" Rafe swore. "Goddamn you, Annie, why the hell did you come here?"
"If I hadn't, you'd be dead."
When Rafe raised up to shoot again, El Alacran was ready for him once more. The bullet whizzed by Rafe's head. Then he returned fire. He had barely ducked again when Annie fired, and he heard the comanchero swear viciously.
"You saved my life again," Rafe said, but there wasn't a shred of gratitude in his tone.
"I guess we're even now."
"Rafael!" El Alacran laughed, the sound bouncing off the wall. "Since you can't keep your women alive, you have decided to arm them so they can defend themselves, I see. Does this one know what happened to the last one?"
Rafe took advantage of the opportunity to get off a shot, taking El Alacran off guard, but the other man still managed to dodge.
"Senorita, did he tell you what happened to his wife? He was too busy playing soldier to take care of her. She had to go to his brother for love!"
Anne gazed at Rafe. He had gone still, except for the flexing of the muscle in his jaw. He turned toward her, but she could read nothing in his expression, nothing but fury and hatred.
"She used to travel the road between El Paso and Las Cruces regularly, remember, Rafael? A dangerous stretch of road. You should have prevented her from going so often. But I guess you were too busy being a soldier to notice."
"Where is Jose?" Rafe whispered anxiously.
"Outside," Anne replied in the same hushed tone. "There were other men—"
Rafe held up a hand to silence her.
"Senorita," El Alacran called, his voice coming from a slightly different direction. "You need a real man. I know how to treat a woman, don't I, Rafael? Rafael has led you into a trap. He will not escape with his life, but you—I plan to take special care with you. I wonder if you will scream like the other one."
His words struck Anne's like hailstones. She struggled for breath, fought against the panic welling up inside her. She had to stay lucid and reasonable for Rafe.
Rafe started to rise, but Anne laid a calming hand on his arm and he turned to look at her, his eyes wild with rage. She shook her head, her hand caressing his arm. Slowly the murderous glint in his eyes faded, and he nodded, assuring her that he was again under control.
A shudder ran through him as he imagined what El Alacran could do to Anne if given the chance. Despite the way she handled a gun, she was no match for El Alacran and his kind.
If he died, Anne would be destroyed. He had to think. When he'd set his elaborate trap, escape had not been a part of his plan. All he'd known was that he would kill El Alacran, and whether he himself survived or not didn't matter. Now he had to think of a way to get them out of this, even if it meant his vengeance would have to wait.
"Did he tell you that he killed his own wife, senorita? He shot her in the head with a rifle. One shot through the brain."
The direction of El Alacran's voice told Rafe the comanchero was moving along the opposite wall toward the door in an effort to trap them in the church. He didn't know about the back door. But even though El Alacran couldn't trap them, Rafe didn't want to let him out of the church where he might escape.
Rafe grabbed Anne by the hand and dragged her along the wall, trying to be as quiet as possible. El Alacran fired his gun, and Anne screamed when the bullet nicked the wall only a few inches from her head.
Rafe jerked her down and they huddled in the aisle near the wall. He held her close and felt her heart beating furiously against his chest. He could hear the terror in the way she gasped for breath and he silently cursed her for being here. He wanted to berate her nearly as much as he wanted to comfort her, but there wasn't time for either.
"Annie," he whispered, "do as I say for once. Stay here and keep your head down." His arm tightened around her trembling shoulders before he released her. "I don't know where Jose is—if he's even alive. But, Annie, if I die..."
He hesitated at the tremor that ran through her body. How could he tell her that her only choice might be to end her own life or face unspeakable torture and inevitable death at the hands of El Alacran? He looked into her dark eyes, perhaps for the last time. It tore his soul apart to think of her dead, and he couldn't even c
ontemplate what might happen to her if she lived and he did not. But she lifted her face and looked into his eyes and he knew she understood.
Reaching behind her neck, she lifted a gold chain and lowered it over Rafe's head. He dropped the locket that dangled from the chain down the front of his shirt, touching a finger to her lips. She closed her eyes as he slipped away down the aisle toward the front of the church.
Rafe fell to the floor as two bullets struck the pews closest to him, splintering wood. El Alacran fired again, and he ducked out of the way. This time the shot struck wood behind him and he heard Annie gasp.
"Stay down, Annie!" he cried.
"Annie!" El Alacran called.
Anne fought the nausea that rose in her throat at the sound of her name on the comanchero's lips. She shivered as she fought for control. There was something horrific about this man—this monster who was capable of skinning an innocent woman alive, leaving her to suffer so that her husband could find her and kill her—knowing her name, speaking her name.
"You can live if you come to me now, Annie," El Alacran said. "Follow my voice. I'll get you out of here. I am a wealthy man. A million dollars can buy a lot of happiness."
Someone cursed and Rafe heard what must have been a gun hitting the floor and a fist hitting flesh.
"Annie!" he cried. "No!"
The scuffling stopped. Rafe's heart pounded like a drum in his ears as he waited, dread twisting in his gut. What had she done?
"Rafael! I'm coming out! Don't shoot or you might miss and hit your friend!" It was El Alacran's voice.
"Amigo, don't shoot!"
Rafe cursed with relief at the sound of Jose's voice. He collapsed against the wall, his lungs filling with air.
He stood when he felt steady enough, his gun hand hanging at his side, as El Alacran straightened and walked toward him shielded by Jose's body. The comanchero held a pistol to Jose's temple and was smiling in triumph.
"Don't worry, Jose," El Alacran said. "Rafael is a man of honor. He would never let you die."
"I thought you were outside," Rafe said, playing for time.
"I came in through the back door, amigo. You should have been more careful. One of the explosions shook the lock loose."
"Drop your gun, Rafael," El Alacran warned. He walked toward Rafe, his eyes never leaving his enemy's.
He'd be dead as soon as he dropped his gun. As long as he held onto it, there was hope, hope for Annie. If he had to sacrifice Jose for Annie...
"What are you going to do with so much gold?" Rafe asked. "There's enough for all of us."
"One can never have enough gold, Rafael." El Alacran laughed. "Drop your gun—now."
"I told you he was a greedy bastard," Jose said. "Shoot him, amigo. You can hit him. Shoot him."
"Jose will be dead before you can lift your arm," El Alacran assured Rafe.
"Well, the way I see it, we're all dead either way," Rafe reasoned.
The comanchero shrugged. "But perhaps I will let this one live and it will go easier for your woman. I will take excellent care of her, Rafael, you can depend on it."
El Alacran cursed as a shot exploded to his left. He grabbed his arm and blood immediately began seeping between his fingers. Jose took advantage of the moment, falling to the floor.
The comanchero turned, the gun still in his right hand as he gripped his left arm. He gazed at the woman who stood pointing a pistol at him.
Anne squeezed the trigger and the loud click told her she had run out of bullets. A smile spread over El Alacran features.
"Felipe!" Rafael called sharply, using El Alacran's given name.
His gaze still fixed on Anne, El Alacran lowered his gun hand to his side. "Perdition, Rafael, I forgot she had a gun."
In the blink of an eye, El Alacran whirled around toward Rafe and raised his gun again. Rafe fired and the Mexican fell to the floor with a loud thud.
The pistol slipped from Anne's numb fingers.
"Ay, Jesus!" Jose cried, struggling to stand and wiping the dust from his pants. "You could have killed me! What made you so sure you could hit him?"
"I wasn't," Anne replied, her gaze on Rafe as he moved slowly toward the prone form of El Alacran. "But I knew it was our only chance."
"Dios! I could be dead right now!"
Anne hardly heard him. Her attention was riveted on Rafe as he knelt beside El Alacran. He reached down and rolled the comanchero over, placing a finger against the throat.
Rafe's body slumped, and all the life seemed to drain from him as he lowered his head and closed his eyes.
The very fiber of his life seemed to be unraveling. He reeled slightly, disoriented, confused. El Alacran was dead—too quickly dead—and he, Rafael, was still alive. He looked at the gun in his hand, the gun that had killed El Alacran. It hadn't happened as he'd planned it at all.
"Goddamn you, Annie," he said. Fury rose in his throat, choking him. "Why couldn't you stay out of it?"
"I... I did it for you," she murmured behind him, but he barely heard the words through the fog of rage that slowly enveloped him.
He jerked away from the hand that touched his elbow. "If you wanted to do something for me, you should have stayed at the ranch like I told you!"
"Rafael!" Jose cut in, but a look from Rafe quieted his protest. "There is a wagon outside. I'll hitch two horses to it. The gold, senorita, where is it?"
Anne kept her gaze on Rafe as she replied. "Behind the altar. There are some loose boards: a secret compartment, I think."
Jose moved away toward the front of the church.
"If we hadn't come, you'd be dead," Anne said, drawing his gaze back to her tear-streaked face.
"Did it ever occur to you that I wanted to die?"
"Yes, it occurred to me," she murmured. "But I couldn't let—"
"You had no right to interfere! This had nothing to do with you! You made me kill him too quickly. I had plans for El Alacran, and you ruined them!"
Something inside him broke. Rafe struck out viciously, kicking the corpse in the side.
"Filthy bastard!" He kicked the corpse again and again.
"Rafe, stop! He's dead!"
He glared at her.
Anne took a deep, steadying breath and wiped at the tears that slipped silently from the corners of her eyes. "You killed him. It was what you wanted."
He holstered his pistol and walked toward the door without looking at her.
"Where are you going?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Madre de Dios!" Jose's voice boomed in the sanctuary. "Just as you said! More gold than a man can count!"
Rafe stopped but didn't look at Anne. She could see the tightened jaw muscle and the clenched hand at his side. "You got your gold."
He halted just outside the door at sight of Carlos Delgado. He was the only one of El Alacran's men still alive, and he was standing near the bottom of the stoop with a revolver in his hand.
"I don't want to kill you, boy," Rafe said softly.
Carlos dropped the gun and took a step back. "The killing stops here today."
Rafe nodded and strode past the boy. Anne ran to the door and watched as he swung up into the saddle and galloped away.
Epilogue
Rafe watched the sun set behind the brick and stucco mission on the dusty road to Las Cruces, wondering how he'd come to be here and why he couldn't just turn and ride away.
He hadn't meant to come here. For the past six months, he'd drifted aimlessly in Mexico, but there was nothing there but memories, all of them painful. The setting sun had drawn him until he'd found himself at the place where the Rio Grande turned north into New Mexico and he'd known where he had to go.
Uncertainty gnawed at his gut. He had no idea what he would find here, how he would be received. The last time he'd been ordered never to return.
He nudged his horse into a slow walk, postponing the moment of confrontation. What would he say? How could he begin to explain? Would he get the chance?
As he rode his horse through the open gates, a dog barked close by, announcing the arrival of a stranger. Dismounting before the priest's quarters, he looped the reins over the hitching post and stared at the hard, silent door. Part of him wanted to turn and ride away, but whatever had brought him here would give him no peace until he faced up to his past.
He stood at the door, afraid to knock, afraid not to. His gaze moved to the church across the way. He'd attended mass in that church as a boy, and he'd been married there.
He scowled. The past was better left buried, he well knew. He'd been a fool to come. He turned away and was taking a step toward his horse when the door opened.
"Did you want something, my son?"
The voice of the man behind him made him shiver. He closed his eyes against memory and pain and turned slowly to face his brother.
"Hello, Michael," he said.
Michael Holden hadn't changed at all in the past five years. Tall and slim like their mother, Michael's features bore the unmistakable mark of their Latin blood: pitch-dark hair, deep brown eyes, dark skin that appeared even darker in contrast to the white collar around his neck.
"Or should I call you Father Michael?"
Michael frowned, then his face relaxed in recognition. "Rafael," he whispered.
Rafe didn't move. He stood watching his brother's face, so like his own yet so different. He tried to gauge his brother's reaction while his own blood pounded with both hope and dread.
Father Michael Holden expelled a breath. "It is you."
Rafe ran a hand across two weeks' growth of beard, realizing how unkempt he must appear. Michael had always been so clean and fastidious.
"You look well," Rafe said, because he couldn't think of anything else.
When last he had seen Michael, his brother was a novice. Rafe had heard he’d taken vows and become the priest at the mission. And even though he had never doubted it, he had not been able to picture Michael in austere black, a white collar around his neck. At least he wasn't wearing robes at this hour.