by Sandra Hill
The tall, statuesque woman, with dark hair piled atop her head, studied them with unwarranted intensity, almost horror. Despite being very pregnant, she was absolutely gorgeous.
Rafe furrowed his brow, squinting in the bright sunlight. “I met Sandra Selente—that’s Selene’s real name—at a cocktail party five years ago. She didn’t look at all like this woman.”
“That figures!”
“What?”
“That you’d be cavorting with the rich and famous.”
“Cavorting? What the hell kind of word is that? And, I’ll have you know, it was a barbecue. If it was for the rich and famous, I sure was out of place.”
“Hah!”
“Hah!” he threw back.
Before they had a chance to move closer and speak to the woman, she slapped a hand to her chest in dismay. Then she spoke softly to a dark-skinned man beside her and rushed into the house.
They watered their horses under Ignacio’s ever-vigilant eye. At one point, the owner—James Baptiste, they learned from Pablo—was arguing with Ignacio about his captives, telling him to release them. They heard Ignacio explain that Rafe was the notorious Angel Bandit, wanted for numerous robberies throughout California, and Helen was the prostitute Elena. Mr. Baptiste appeared dubious and walked up to their horses.
Helen saw Pablo raise his pistol under the blanket. He said in an undertone, “I weel shoot the gentleman if you misbehave.”
The handsome Creole addressed Rafe first. “Ignacio says you’re the Angel Bandit. Is that so?”
Rafe hesitated, then nodded.
Mr. Baptiste’s lips thinned angrily. “You killed an acquaintance of mine in Sonora last year.”
“I’ve never killed anyone,” Rafe asserted, despite Ignacio’s hiss of warning. Wisely, Rafe clamped his mouth shut, refusing to say more.
Mr. Baptiste turned to Elena. “And you? Are you an accomplice to this man?”
“Yes.”
Throwing his hands out hopelessly, Mr. Baptiste walked off then, muttering, “Merde! They all deserve each other.”
“There will be other chances to escape,” Rafe assured her a short time later when they moved on. She certainly hoped so.
As they proceeded on their grueling ride toward Sacramento, she and Rafe couldn’t stop pondering their remarkable adventure. They both accepted that somehow, someway, they had landed in a time warp, and they discussed the repercussions of their situation.
“This is the damnedest thing that’s ever happened to me.” Rafe shook his head in confusion.
“And you think I bee-bop through the ages all the time?” Helen heard the shrewishness in her voice but was unable to control its stridency. Fear churned in her stomach, and Rafe’s flippant attitude about the potential dangers they faced made it even worse.
“Rafe, aren’t you worried about what will happen to us in Sacramento? I mean, they might really kill you if they believe you’re this Angel Bandit guy.”
“I have a plan, hon. Trust me.” He winked.
“A plan?” She rolled her eyes, trying to imagine the leap of faith needed to trust this scoundrel. “And me . . . Well, what’s going to happen to me? I sure as heck am not going to turn tricks in an 1850 mining town.”
He grinned.
“It’s not funny.”
She saw him struggling to force a more serious expression on his face, but he couldn’t stop grinning. The ass!
“The idea of you turning tricks just boggles the mind.”
The fact that Rafe considered her so sexually unattractive that she couldn’t even be a hooker in a female-starved mining town shouldn’t bother her, but it did. She felt like crying. She was hot and tired and afraid and homesick. And she sat fighting back tears because a vulgar, arrogant creep judged her lacking in some way.
“You’re more the kind of woman a man keeps to himself.”
She jerked her head to attention.
“Sort of like a secret gift a guy hordes for himself.”
She should tell him to stop. Right now. But her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
“On the outside, you’re all cool professional. Flame hair skinned back. Kissable lips pressed into a forbidding line. Sultry voice turned shrill. Smoldering eyes cool. Every sexy curve of your tempting body covered by sexless, drab clothing.”
“Oh, my God,” she whimpered, mesmerized by his wicked words.
“But your man—your lover—knows. I know . . .”
She gasped.
“. . . that underneath, when you let your hair loose on the pillow and part your lips, your voice is a hot whisper of invitation. Your eyes mist with desire. And every move you make in those loose military clothes,” he continued, inclining his head to indicate her garments, “well, I suspect that underneath there are five-foot-eight inches of pure ripe-to-be-turned-on woman, waiting to explode.”
“You are the most outrageous, egotistical—”
“Yep,” he went on, ignoring her tirade, “you were born to f—”
“No! Don’t you dare utter that word!”
“What?” he asked with wide-eyed innocence. “I was going to say, You were born to fan a man’s flame.” He blinked at her with exaggerated confusion. “What did you think I was gonna say?”
Fan a man’s flame? She glared at him warily. He’d done it again, disconcerted her, turned her knees to jelly and her brain to mush. The cad! “So, do I fan your flame?” she let slip before she had a chance to bite her tongue.
“Oh, baby,” he said in a silky whisper. His eyes held hers, and the expression on his face turned solemn. “How can you even ask that question?”
“How can I ask? I’ll tell you how. You’re always taunting me, making fun of me. You make me feel . . . inadequate.”
His eyes shot up. “Are you serious? Man, oh, man, maybe you should learn to listen to what people don’t say sometimes, not what they do say. It might be a real education for you.”
“Stop talking in riddles.”
His eyes glittered angrily. “You’re my impossible dream. Don’t you know that?”
“No, don’t say that—”
Rafe immediately seemed to regret his impulsive words, but he went on angrily, “I’ll say it, all right. Damn it, you want to know the truth? Well, here it is. This is 1850, and thousands of men are rushing to California to find the pot at the end of the rainbow, their El Dorado. Well, you’re my El Dorado, sweetheart, and always have been. The unreachable prize.”
“Oh, Rafe.” This man, this infuriating man, had a way of making her blood boil with fury, then, in the next instant, making her heart melt with tenderness.
He gulped visibly and stared straight ahead, clearly upset that he’d revealed so much. Finally, he murmured, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Rafe, you are driving me crazy with your Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde moods. One minute you profess to care about me, and the next you stalk me, like a predator.”
His lips twitched with mirth.
“Can I ask you one thing, and get an honest answer?”
He shrugged. “Depends.”
“If what you say is true, if I’m more important to you than gold, then let’s go back to the landing site. I’m afraid to go into Sacramento. I have a bad feeling—”
He turned toward her. “And if we go back . . . if I give up the quest for gold . . . Will I have you?”
His question stunned her, and she couldn’t speak, at first. “Of course not. I mean, I’m engaged . . . and, no, of course not.”
“Then we’re not going back,” he said. He was obviously not surprised by her answer. “But let’s get one thing clear. You have nothing to be afraid of if you come with me. In Sacramento or anywhere else. I promise you’ll be safe. You might not ever . . . Well, you might not ever care for me, but you can at least give me the courtesy of your trust.”
“Oh, Rafe.”
“Stop saying, ‘Oh, Rafe,’ like I’m a pitiful little kid.”
“Oh, Ra
fe.”
He made a snarling sound, low in his throat, then informed her smoothly, “Before this trek is over, I’m going to teach you sixty-seven ways to say, ‘Oh, Rafe,’ and they’re all going to be accompanied by a sigh or a moan. Guaranteed.” And the heated look he cast her way was heavy with promise.
Oh, Rafe!
Helen realized, at that moment, that she was thinking of him as anything but a little boy, and that his promise held a tremendous, forbidden appeal.
Chapter Seven
It was a man’s world! . . .
They entered Sacramento City at dusk.
Having grown up in California, Rafe knew from his school studies that Sacramento City, as it was called then, had been the gateway to the northern mines during the Gold Rush, the staging place where most travelers stopped to rest and stock up for the grueling trek into the treasure-laden hills. But he’d never pictured it quite like this remarkable spectacle.
Truly, they’d landed smack dab in the middle of living, breathing history.
As they got closer, the roads and open stretches of land became thronged with teams of worn, weather-beaten emigrants coming over the mountains from the East or up from San Francisco. Most of the roads ran parallel to the coast, connecting the missions that had been built by the Franciscan padres in the previous century. When the exhausted Forty-Niners finally reached Sacramento City, they pitched their tents by the hundreds in thickets around the outskirts of the town.
Bug-eyed with amazement, Rafe felt like he’d stumbled onto an old Gunsmoke TV set. He and his brothers used to watch old re-runs on Saturday mornings. Any minute now, he expected to see Festus saunter out of a saloon, hitch up his trousers, spit a wide arc of tobacco juice, and say, “Dagnabbit, Marshal Dillon, let’s go round up some cattle rustlers.”
And James Arness would say, “Yep, but first I gotta go kiss Kitty good-bye. Don’t forget to bring along Deputy Santiago, too.”
Rafe smiled at the image—a boyhood dream realized.
But this was no dream, he reminded himself as his horse nickered softly in the furnacelike heat and tried to edge away from the crowded clearing.
“Easy, boy, easy,” he crooned, nudging his horse with his knees. He was getting real good at judging F. Lee’s moods and had learned he could control the fidgety horse with just the light pressure of his legs. Good thing, too, since his hands were still tied to the saddle horn. If it weren’t for his sore muscles, Rafe would have felt pretty good about his improved riding skills. And the blister wasn’t even bothering him anymore.
Ignacio led the way as their horses continued to weave through the tent city, being careful to avoid the briars and stumps of dead trees felled for firewood. Rafe followed, with Pablo and Sancho on either side of him. The stolen horses trailed behind them.
Ignacio had insisted that Helen ride with him on his horse once they neared the town, fearing the two captives would call for help or try to escape. Throwing a blanket over Helen’s shoulder, the vicious outlaw had hidden his revolver pressed against her heart, warning, “One word from either of you, or one move to escape, Señor Ángel, and Elena ees one dead puta.”
Rafe had every intention of taking care of the bastard, and soon. It wouldn’t be much longer before he made his move. Then the rotten creep would pay for every insult, threat, inconvenience, and bruise he’d delivered to either of them.
But for now, Rafe couldn’t help gaping at the men who sat about the numerous campfires, talking enthusiastically. Others leaned against trees reading letters from home or smoking thin cigars. Some strummed guitars and fiddles, singing poignant songs. A few curried horses. Many were eating meager meals from tin plates in front of their sorry tents and drinking large amounts of what must be hard liquor from metal cups or straight from amber bottles.
And while Rafe was doing all his gaping, the scruffy, sunburned, bearded prospectors, wearing the typical miner’s garb of red flannel shirt; suspenders; baggy, snuff colored trousers; and high leather boots, gaped right back at him.
Actually, not at him. It was Helen who fascinated these googly-eyed men, most of whom were in their twenties.
Their passage was marked by a domino effect. The music gradually stopped. Voices stilled. And the raucous camp noises ground to a halt at first glimpse of that rare, and highly prized commodity in an 1850 mining town—a female. And an attractive one, at that. In Helen’s wake, Rafe heard them murmur, with awe, “A woman!”
“She rides astride. Don’t that beat all creation?”
“A woman! Hell’s bells! And she carries herself like a highfalutin’ lady.”
“But she’s with greasers. Can’t be no lady, ’ceptin’ mebbe a fancy lady.”
Rafe bristled at the racist slur. He’d experienced more than his share of discrimination, but somehow he hadn’t expected to find it here, too.
“A woman! Hot diggity damn!” new arrivals to the scene chanted to Helen’s departing back.
“Would ya look at that red hair. Whooee! Bet she’s a feisty one in the saddle. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Her legs look mighty fine grippin’ that horse. I’d like her ta ride me the same way. Yessirree, I would.”
“Lordy, Lordy, I ain’t had me a good diddling in a coon’s age.”
“Me, neither,” a whole bunch of the gold seekers concurred.
“Did you see her titty juttin’ out against that shirt? Oh, damn, I bet the nipple’s pink, and I do like me a pink nipple.”
Luckily, Helen didn’t hear the remarks that were made after she passed. Her attention was centered, like Rafe’s, on the unusual historical view unfolding before them.
“Yep, redheads have brown ones, and they’re big as grapes.”
“How would you know, Zeke? You ain’t never had a woman ’cept in a haystack with her skirts thrown over her head.”
“Well, a man don’t look at the mantel when he’s pokin’ the fire.”
More laughter.
“Gawdamighty, do you think her woman hair is red, too?”
“You’ll never find out, you sons of bitches,” Rafe lashed out, finally fed up with the lewd observations. Whether Helen heard their comments or not, she was supposed to be his woman, and he couldn’t allow the insults to go on.
The miners studied him for the first time, startled by his proprietary remark. Their eyes swept over his strange shirt and bound hands, questioningly.
Sancho and Pablo edged closer, their slitted eyes warning him to remain quiet. Their unholstered guns reinforced the message.
Rafe glanced forward to see Helen’s reaction. Still unaware of the attention she was garnering or the suggestive utterances of the men, she pivoted her head from side to side, inhaling the fantastic sights from her vantage point in front of Ignacio.
Ignacio, however, noticed the dozens of prospectors who began to follow them on foot as they left the encampment and moved into the town itself, but he ignored their questions.
Pablo and Sancho were not so reticent.
“Who is she?” the miners asked.
“Elena,” Pablo announced with a wide smile.
“Elena? Really?” the miners enthused.
“Elena . . . Elena . . . Elena . . .” The name rippled excitedly throughout the campsite, like an echo.
A beautiful white woman was one thing. A beautiful white whore would be quite another to these sex-starved young men, Rafe realized.
“And she belongs to us,” Sancho told them, patting his pistol for emphasis.
“Will you sell her favors?” one grizzly trapper asked, scratching the groin of his buckskin breeches with anticipation.
“Maybe later,” Sancho said generously.
“After she’s corkscrewed us a few dozen times,” Pablo stressed. “And done the ‘gargle’ and the ‘forms’ on us.”
There was a communal sigh of, “Aaah, the corkscrew!” Then, they all inquired, at once, “The gargle? The forms?”
Pablo explained, with relish, the new sexual tricks Elena could do fo
r her customers.
“I’ll give ya fifty dollars fer one night,” the trapper offered.
“A hundred,” another yelled out.
“Two hundred, if there’s an extry corkscrew.”
“Five hundred, but she takes on the two of us,” a pair of towhead twins, better suited to an Iowa farm setting, threw in, blushing profusely at the hoots of their friends.
“I’ll buy her from you for five thousand dollars,” a steely-eyed man with a French accent offered suddenly, throwing his cigar to the ground and stomping it with a polished leather boot. Rafe heard someone whisper that this was Pierre Lamoyne, who ran a brothel in San Francisco.
That last cash figure caught Ignacio’s attention, and he halted his horse until they caught up. “She ees not for sale . . . yet,” he told Lamoyne. “And your price ees much too low.”
“Ten thousand, then,” Lamoyne countered, stepping close to examine the merchandise.
Ignacio licked his lips greedily in consideration. “Perhaps—”
“Like hell!” Rafe shouted, and Helen jumped, seeming to come out of her trance. “She’s my wife, and no one’s touching her.”
“I’ll sell the puta if I want to,” Ignacio asserted, tossing aside the blanket, exposing his gun pressed to Helen’s heart.
Rafe’s blood turned cold at the peril. Ignacio might pull the trigger on a whim. Rafe bit his tongue to force back more angry words. Calm down. Take it easy. Wait for the moment. The opening. Don’t panic.
“His wife?” the miners asked. “Who is he?”
“El Ángel Bandido,” Pablo said.
“Ooooh,” a number of the men said, and backed away.
“I’m not the Angel Bandit.”
“Who said anything about selling me?” Helen wanted to know, suddenly alert. Fearlessly, she pushed Ignacio’s pistol aside with her bound hands and twisted in the saddle to look back at the bandit. “Did you dare to tell these men that I’m for sale?”
When he just glared at her, she jabbed him in the stomach with an elbow. “You male chauvinist pig! When I get loose, I’m going to pull out your tongue and karate chop it off so you’ll never be able to lie again.”