Bed of Roses (4 page)

Something hard pressed into his wrist, something that seemed to be attached to the girl’s tattered blouse. Glancing down, he saw an extraordinarily large sapphire that hung from a solid gold chain.

A magnificent jewel and a girl dressed in rags?

Sawyer’s suspicions deepened. She’d fled the convent like a thief who’d been caught, he recalled. Indeed, surprise and terror had nearly dropped her to her knees when she’d run into him.

“Stop that screaming,” he hissed into her ear, “and tell me what you were doing in the convent. Did you steal that sapphire from the sisters?”

She bit into his palm.

His own shout mingled with her muffled cries. “Dammit, woman!” Yanking his hand away from her mouth, he continued the difficult task of holding on to her. Remarkably agile and strong, her body twisted in his arms like a dozen angry snakes.

He turned her so that she faced him and winced when she began to slap at his face. Quickly, he caught her wrists and frowned down at her…

And went totally rigid. He hadn’t seen her clearly in the convent.

He did now.

Her beauty was almost unreal. For one long moment he stood there mesmerized by the snapping fire in her clear blue eyes, the blush of fury on her high cheekbones, the taut pout on her full, pink lips, and the swift rise and fall of her breasts.

He knew nothing but his name; he had no idea who he was, where he was from, or what he’d done in his lifetime. But one thing he did know: the girl who stood before him now, glaring at him with all the fear and hatred he imagined existed in the world, was the most incredibly gorgeous female he’d ever seen.

Only slightly aware of his own actions, he let go of her wrist and reached out to touch her hair.

And Zafiro seized that moment. With all the power her body held, she jerked her other arm from his hold, spun on her heel, and tore up the side of the hill. She fell twice, but made steady progress. Soon the entrance to La Escondida was within her sight.

So was Mariposa. Blending in with her untamed surroundings, the tawny cat crouched amidst a thick tangle of brush, her gold eyes narrowing, her long, sleek tail swishing through the dusty air.

Zafiro climbed past the animal and slipped quickly and easily through the passage that was concealed by boulders, scrub, and a smattering of scraggly trees. She could hear Sawyer behind her, but knew his climb had been more difficult than hers. Not only did she know the exact path to take on the side of the hill, but her ascent had created an obstacle course of sliding rocks and sticks for him to maneuver around.

Hidden by the boulders and brush, she pushed at the wide, heavy wooden doors that led into the hideaway, every part of her relieved to hear the familiar squeaks as the portals swung slowly open.

But just as the squeaking sounds faded away and she crawled inside the rocky walls of La Escondida, another noise filled the mountain air. And then another and another.

A low growl. A gruesome snarl.

A terrible shout.

Sawyer had just met Mariposa.

I
t took all three men to
carry Sawyer into the cabin. They dropped him in the yard three times, banged his head against the front door, and ended up dragging him up the stairs. By the time they finally laid him down on the bed Tia had prepared on the second floor of the house, they were completely out of breath.

And Sawyer was bleeding profusely.

“Where is Zafiro?” Pedro asked, looking all around the small, tidy room.

“She and Tia are finding bandages for his wounds.” Staring down at the bleeding man, Maclovio withdrew a flask from inside his shirt and took a long, deep swallow of his homemade whiskey. “Sawyer. That is what Zafiro called this giant. How does she know what he is named?”

“Maimed?” Lorenzo said. “Yes, he is maimed.” He sat down in a chair in front of the window. “He is also big. There is only one man I can remember who was the size of this man.
El Maestro de la Noche.”

“The Night Master,” Maclovio translated. Old memories crept through his mind. “Lorenzo, do you recall the time he stole our gold?”

Lorenzo’s loud snoring was Maclovio’s answer. “Lorenzo is right,” Pedro said, wiping his sweaty brow. “This man, he is made of nothing but muscle. He is strong as Abraham, and even has the long hair. If we cut his hair he would lose his strength.”

Maclovio gulped down more liquor and dried his mouth with his shirt sleeve. “That was not Abraham. It was Samson.”

Pedro laid his hand on Maclovio’s shoulder. “You are wrong,” he said softly and smiled. “I am Peter the Apostle, and I know the Bible better than—”

“You are both wrong,” Tia announced as she waddled into the room carrying rolls of cloth strips. Bending, she pressed a tender kiss to the unconscious man’s cheek, several of her tears splashing on his face. “He is Francisco. My dear little boy. I have finally found him again.”

“He is not a little boy, Tia.” Her scarlet gown rustling, Azucar hobbled out of the hall and into the room. Looking down at the man on the mattress, she smiled and placed her gnarled hand over the bulge between his legs. “Leave us,” she demanded of all the people gathered around the bed. “What this man has come to me for is not something I will do in front of so many eyes. He is a stallion and will probably want me for the whole night. That is fine with me. As long as he can pay, I can perform.”

Tia snatched Azucar’s bony hand away. “He is not your lover, Azucar! He is my Francisco, and I—”

“He is like Abraham,” Pedro stated once more. “Strong like Abra—”

“But the Night Master is dead now,” Lorenzo stated sleepily, just awakening from his moments-long nap. “There never was and there never will be another bandit like him.” In a reverent gesture he laid his hand over his heart and bowed his head.

“May God the Father give eternal rest to Night Master’s soul,” Pedro murmured. Clasping his hands together, he began to pray silently.

“What are you doing?” Zafiro asked as she stepped into the room, Lorenzo and Pedro’s solemn demeanors slowing her gait. Instantly, she looked at Sawyer, who lay stretched out on the bed…like a corpse. “He…he died?” she whispered.
“Santa Maria,
I did not realize that Mariposa’s attack was… She killed him? But Tia, you said he would heal! You said—”

“He is not dead,
chiquita
,” Tia quickly reassured her. “The men, they are mourning the death of Night Master.”

“Night Master?” Zafiro stared at her men, her emotions racing from confusion to disbelief and finally to anger. “There is a dangerous man here in La Escondida, and you mourn a thief who has been in his grave for months?”

“Brave?” Lorenzo rose from his chair. “Yes, Night Master was brave. He—”

“If only I could find Night Master’s grave,” Pedro murmured. “With prayer I am sure I could bring him back to life.”

“Bring him back to his wife?” Lorenzo said. “No, I do not think Night Master was married.”

Zafiro pushed past the men and handed the medical supplies to Tia—thread and needles, a small pot of salve, and more bandages. “I have told all of you about the terrible feeling of dread that has been with me,” she said, her voice so shaky that it made her cough. “C-can you not understand that the fear has come because of this man, Sawyer Donovan?”

Through his drunken daze Maclovio managed to note her genuine terror. He took hold of her trembling hand. “Then why did you have us bring him inside La Escondida? We could have taken him back to the convent. We could take him back right now.”

Zafiro looked up into Maclovio’s bleary brown eyes. “You can hardly stand up, much less take this Sawyer Donovan back down the mountain! Besides, he has already seen the way into La Escondida. There is no use in taking him back to the nuns.”

Maclovio nodded. “We could have left him outside to die.”

“Die.” Zafiro spoke the word so quietly that she could not hear herself speak. Afraid as she was of the stranger in her house, she could not bear the thought of his death.

Clasping her sapphire, she squeezed it as if she could crush it into a handful of blue powder. “I led him straight to La Escondida. I did not think, and I am very sorry. But I was so afraid! My only thought was to run from him. Now he has seen the secret entrance and knows where we hide. To others, finding La Escondida is like trying to find hay in a needle stack, but I brought this Sawyer Donovan straight to us!”

“I will smash his face,” Maclovio declared, pushing up his sleeves and balling his fists. “I will—”

“What is hay in a needle stack?” Pedro asked, rubbing his chin.

Zafiro realized she’d mangled the expression. “I mean that finding La Escondida is almost impossible. But that does not matter anyway. What is important is that this Sawyer Donovan is the worst thing that has happened to us. Maclovio, stop it!” she shouted when Maclovio pulled back his arm and prepared to deliver a punch to Sawyer’s face.

“I do not know a Sawyer Donovan,” Tia said. “But I tell you that you do not need to be afraid of my dear Francisco. We must hurry now,
chiquita
. His wounds will fester if we do not clean and stitch them.”

“I asked to be alone with this man,” Azucar repeated, unfastening her scarlet gown. “It is the pleasure he will find in my arms that will heal him of his wounds.”

Quickly, Zafiro stayed Azucar’s hand, trying to keep the woman from taking off her clothes. She then grabbed Maclovio’s arm as he again prepared to hit Sawyer. “Listen to me, all of you! The only way we will be safe with Sawyer here is if we do not say anything about who we are. He could be a lawman. A bounty hunter who would not think twice about turning you in to the law to be hanged. He could even be an outlaw who knows Luis, or—”

“When he wakes up we will ask him who he is,” Maclovio said. “Then I will smash his face and—”

“He does not know who he is,” Zafiro replied, still trying to keep Azucar from taking off her gown. “The nuns say he has lost his memory. But he could remember tomorrow, the day after, next week… When and if he remembers, we will be in even more danger. So I do not think I have to explain how important it is that he learn nothing about us. Now,” she said, turning Azucar toward the door, “out. Except for Tia, all of you out.”

Grumbling and shuffling their feet, Azucar and the men headed toward the dim hall.

Before he shut the door, however, Maclovio stepped back into the room. “But if he knows we are the Quintana Gang and that we are well-known and feared in two lands, he will be too afraid to—”

“Afraid?” Zafiro shouted the word. “Afraid of what? Of your bottle? Of Lorenzo’s naps? Of Pedro’s preaching? You will say nothing, do you hear me, Maclovio?”

He drew himself up to his full height, lost his balance again, and began to totter. “I heard you. I am not the deaf one.” With that, Maclovio shut the door.

Satisfied, Zafiro turned back to the bed and hurried to arrange the medical supplies on a small table. “I found this whiskey under Maclovio’s pillow, Tia,” she said, withdrawing a brown bottle from the deep pocket in her skirt. “If Sawyer awakens we will have him drink it so he can sleep again.”

“My little Francisco cannot have whiskey. He is too young, but it is good that you brought the liquor. Soak the threads and the needles in it.”

Zafiro did as bade, grateful that Tia knew so much about doctoring.

“Now, help me strip him,
chiquita
. His leg is bleeding, but he is a big, strong boy, and I cannot take off his clothes by myself.”

While Zafiro watched Tia tug off Sawyer’s boots and stockings, she pondered the fact that she was going to see him naked in only moments. She’d seen her men bathe in the stream every now and again during the past years, but Sawyer’s body was going to look very different from those of her men.

Her eyes wide with curiosity, she reached for the fastenings at the top of his breeches. When the buttons were opened she saw that he wore no undergarments.

Evidence of that was the thick mat of tawny hair at his groin.

Heat melted through her, a warmth that flustered her thoughts and aroused that odd feeling of yearning again, that same strange desire she’d felt while watching Sawyer from the convent window.

“Ayudame,”
Tia ordered, pulling at the waistband of the pants. “Help me.”

Her hands and fingers quivering, Zafiro assisted Tia with Sawyer’s tight breeches, rolling them over his hips, down his thighs, and finally pulling them off altogether.

“Oh, my little Francisco!” Tia exclaimed when she saw a jagged gash on his thigh, an injury much worse than the ones on his upper torso. “Zafiro, wet the cloths and help me clean his wounds!”

Zafiro didn’t move. All she could do was stare.

Naked. Sawyer Donovan lay before her completely naked, his massive frame nearly covering the entire mattress.

Hardly aware of her own actions, Zafiro took a step forward, closer to the bed, branding in her mind her first sight of true male splendor.

His whole body was tanned, his skin lighter than hers, of course, but dark for a white man. She wondered if he spent a great deal of time in the sun without clothing. Bathing, perhaps, or maybe just basking.

The thought stirred her emotions further; she felt moisture trickle down between her breasts.

She’d never seen so much muscle. His shoulders, chest, stomach, legs… Not even Maclovio—mighty as he’d been years ago—had been as strong as Sawyer.

Filled with awe, she continued to examine him, her gaze drawn to the area beneath his hips, between his thighs, where his…

She thought of all the many things Azucar had told her about the sexual intimacy between a man and a woman. Thought about what a man did to a woman when he bedded her. Thought about—

“Zafiro!”

Startled nearly out of her skin, Zafiro turned and wet several white cloths with the water she’d boiled earlier. Tamping down her heated emotions and silently chastising herself for wasting time admiring a man who might be dying before her very eyes, she forced herself to tend to the cut on the right side of Sawyer’s torso. When the wound was clean of all dirt Tia began to stitch it closed. Zafiro then moved to bathe the laceration on Sawyer’s chest and another on his shoulder.