Desperado (18 page)

The insult ricocheted through him like a lightning bolt. He did not need this grief tonight. “Give me the damn whiskey.”

The bartender straightened and cast his eyes over to the corner where a wiry, mustached man in a black suit and blue brocaded vest stood eying him with disdain—probably the owner. Finally, the fancy dude nodded.

Turning back, the bartender pinched out two huge thumbfuls of Rafe's gold dust and poured the good booze reluctantly into a tin cup, sliding it forward. “Take it over there,” he ordered, pointing toward a corner on the far side. “We don't 'low no Mexs at the bar.”

Rafe stiffened and reached for the guns at his sides.

“I wouldn't do that,
señor
,” the bartender said. Rafe peered over his shoulder to see two nineteenth-century bouncers cruising his way.

Weighing his chances, Rafe moved to the back of the room. But he didn't like it one bit.

He joined a group of about two dozen men, mostly Mexicans but some Chileans, Hawaiians, and native Californians, too. They leaned against the wall, sat at rough tables playing monte, or spoke with a few of the Spanish prostitutes who'd dared to sashay over from the other part of the saloon. Apparently “foreigners” were allowed on the other side only if they were whores.

A band played raucously on a raised stage at the far end of the room—a fiddler screeching in competition with two guitar players and a trumpeter. Some of the miners were harmonizing in a drunken rendition of “Hangtown Girls.”

               
Hangtown gals are plump and rosy,

               
Hair in ringlets, mighty cozy,

               
Painted cheeks and jossy bonnets—

               
Touch 'em and they'll sting like hornets.

The miners immediately launched into another version, this one even more boisterous:

               
Hangtown gals are curious creatures,

               
Think they'll marry pious preachers,

               
Heads thrown back to show their features—

               
Hah hah hah! Hangtown gals.

Rafe raised an eyebrow at the Mexican vaquero standing next to him. He told him, in Spanish, that Hangtown girls were scarce and snooty. Then, with a smirk, he added something vulgar in English.

Looking once again at the band, which was trying to make a louder noise than the singers, Rafe noticed a sign announcing that Felicia Mantero would be performing an operatic aria that night.

He asked the same man if he'd seen anyone matching Pablo's description. The guy mumbled “No,” but his friend said that Pablo and some fellow named Sancho had left town in a hurry that morning. “They said something about a hanging and stolen horses.”

Rafe groaned with dismay. “Any idea where they were going?”

“North, I think. Maybe Rich Bar. I dunno, really.”

Great! More horseback riding. Well, I'm gonna stop and do some prospecting this time. Until we catch up with Pablo—

Taking a huge swallow of the burning liquid, Rafe stared up at the stage to see the owner motion for the band to stop playing and the men to quiet for a moment. “Uh . . . I have an announcement to make,” the nervous man in the blue
brocade vest tried to shout over the crowd, which appeared angry about something. “It is my misfortune to . . . uh . . . have to tell you . . . that, well, Felicia will be unable to sing tonight. It 'pears she's indisposed.”

Bellows of outrage greeted his words before they were barely out of his mouth.

“We coulda gone to the Palace, you worm.”

“I doan think he ever had Felicia. It were a come-on.”

“Yeah, let's string the bastard up by his toes.”

“I ain't dancin' with no more men gussied up like ladies. The las' time I got Buford fer a partner, 'n he belched the whole time.”

“How 'bout one of them Mex gals? Singin' and screwin' comes natural to them.”

“We want Felicia. We want Felicia. We want Felicia . . .” The drunken sots began to chant and stamp their heavy boots on the dirt floor.

The wily owner scrambled off the stage and out through the rear. The band started up again, more raucous than before.

Rafe let his shoulders rest against the wooden support of the canvas wall. He closed his eyes against the stench of several hundred unwashed bodies, the ear-splitting din of music and gambling and now shouting, and the heart-squeezing pain of the racial bias he felt closing in around him.

“You got some money,
señor
? Calina can show you a good time if you got gold.”

He opened his eyes slowly to see a young Spanish tart waiting expectantly for his answer, hands braced on her slim hips. She stood so close he could smell her cloying rose perfume. Her eyelashes were loaded with black goop, her lips painted crimson, and her flimsy camisole blouse hung so far off one shoulder that half her breast was exposed.

She was about fourteen.

“
Chica
, go home to your
madre
,” he scolded her in mixed Spanish. “You should be playing with dolls, not men.”

“
Bebé
,” she shot back at him, in broken English, “I ain' got no
madre
no more, and
mi padre
sold me to a gringo sailor for fifty pesos when I was twelve. Hell, eet ain' such a bad life. I eat good. I sleep on a soft bed. All I have to do ees close my eyes and hold my nose for ten minutes.”

“Yeah? How many times a night do you have to close your eyes and hold your nose?”

She shrugged. “Fifteen or twenty.”

“Shit!” He wasn't going to make any progress trying to turn this girl around.

“So, do you have the money to play with Calina tonight?” She pressed up closer and allowed the blouse to slip down lower so he could see the whole of one immature breast pressed against his shirt front. One of her hands snaked up around his neck and tried to pull him down for a kiss.

Before he could push her away with revulsion, he heard a sharp hiss. He gazed over Calina's head.

Helen
.

Oh, great! Now the you-know-what is going to hit the fan
. What was she doing here? He'd told her to stay in the room.

Her newly washed red hair was tied at the nape with a strip of lace, but soft curls spilled out around her cheeks and over her shoulders. Her face, with its sprinkling of freckles, glowed fresh and lightly tanned. She wore her military boots and the ugly green gown, which hung loosely on her, but she was lovelier to him than any woman. And more precious.

He felt like a vise was closing around his heart, and he could barely breathe. Looking down, he realized it was actually Calina who had wrapped herself around his body tighter than a Cuban cigar.
Damn!
While he tried to extricate himself from her stranglehold, Rafe attempted to get Helen's attention. Several men had approached and were saying something to her, but she gave them the cold shoulder.

Glancing back at Rafe one more time, Helen's brown eyes
grew huge with hurt and began to well with tears. But only for a moment. Anger instantly took over. She lifted her chin, spun on her heel, and prepared to rush out.

But the rambunctious miners blocked her way. “Hey, boys, lookee here. We got us a new singer. We doan need no Felicia. No sirree. Jist take a gander at this l'il redheaded filly.” They passed her toward the stage, ignoring her shrill objections.

Rafe moved to go after her, but somehow the Mexican
señorita
had twined one leg around his calf and he tripped, almost taking both of them to the filthy ground. By the time he finally got himself loose from her clinging hands and legs, Helen was being shoved up onto the stage with demands that she sing.

“I can't sing,” she rebelled. “Will you men just listen to me? I'm not a singer.”

“What
can
ya do, honey?”

Much laughter followed that question.

“She 'pears a mite like that Elena gal, don't she?” one man speculated.

“Ya mean the one that corkscrews?” another responded.

And that held a lot more appeal to this crowd than singing.

“Singin' or corkscrewin'? What's it gonna be, darlin'? Let's get on with it,” snarled a mountain man, about six-foot-five with half his face covered with slash marks. He'd probably tangled with a grizzly bear at one time.

Rafe noticed that one of Helen's short sleeves was torn, and her eyes darted wildly through the crowd, imploringly, searching for him. He tried to force his way forward toward the tightening crowd, to no avail, and the two bouncers he'd met up with earlier stood in front of him. One of them barked, “Weren't ya told before? No greasers on this side of the room. Out!”

Rafe backed up.

Since she obviously wasn't going to sing, the men now demanded
that Helen dance—a prelude to her corkscrewing the entire damn lot of them.

Rafe rapidly assessed the situation and decided he had no choice but to leave through the front door.

Helen stared at his departing back and couldn't believe her eyes. He was actually abandoning her to this mob. Well, what had she expected? Just a few moments ago, she'd come into this hellhole to give him some important news, only to see him making out with some Mexican bimbo.

She bit her bottom lip to stop its trembling and refused to allow the tears in her eyes to overflow. With more courage than she felt, she tried to outshout the obnoxious men. “Would you all just shut up for one minute and listen to me?”

The music slowly petered to a stop, and the shouting died down to a low rumble. The only sounds were the clinking of coins at the gambling tables.

“My name is Helen Prescott. I don't sing and I don't corkscrew. You ought to be ashamed—”

She heard a rustling movement behind her and saw Rafe crawling under the tent flap.
Thank goodness!

“What's that greaser doin' up there? Someone oughta put 'im in his place.”

“Yeah, let's show 'im what we do to them what tries to mix with their betters.”

“He's my husband, you blockheads,” Helen yelled.

“Her husband?” exclaimed the huge mountain of a man with a clawed face. He spit a wad of tobacco on the floor, splattering the boots of all the miners around him. No one seemed to mind. “What kind a white woman marries a dirty Mex?”

Rafe had stepped up beside her and linked his hand with hers. He gave her a quick squeeze of encouragement.

“Can we both scoot out of the tent the way you came in?” she whispered.

He shook his head, watching the crowd warily. “No time. They'd be on us in a flash.”

“Can you shoot our way out of here?”

Again, he shook his head. “Too many of them. No, we have to divert them.”

“How?”

She saw several men in the front pull out their revolvers, and the man who appeared to be the owner stood nearby wringing his hands. “Damn, they're gonna tear my tent apart any minute now,” he whined.

Helen sliced the weasel a look of contempt. No concern for their safety. Just his private property.

“Can you dance?” Rafe asked suddenly.

“Wh-what? Now? You must be drunk.”

“Not nearly enough, sweetheart,” he said, and asked the band to play a Mexican tune she didn't recognize. The band was rotten, but the song carried a sultry Spanish beat.

He began to circle her body in a slow, seductive rhythm. Hips swaying, fingers snapping, he eyed her like a virile predator, ready to pounce.

She backed up slightly.

Their audience hooted with laughter, considering it a well-planned act.

Rafe held her eyes and motioned with the crooked fingers of both hands, beckoning her closer.

She stood frozen.
She couldn't. She just couldn't
.

Rafe held open his arms for her.

“I can't do this,” she protested weakly, even as she stepped reluctantly into his embrace. “Really. I'm not a good dancer.”

“Honey, these men could care diddly-squat about the quality of your dancing. Besides, the kind of dancing we're going to do will bring the house down.”

He pulled her brusquely into his arms and looped her arms around his neck. He placed both of his hands firmly on either side of her waist.

She eyed him suspiciously. “And what kind of dancing would that be?”

“The
lambada
.”

He drew her close. Very close. Breasts pressed against his chest. Her stomach rested against his groin. Catching the slow rhythm, Rafe began to sway, then undulate his hips with hers.

The crowd stilled.

“Arriba!”
one of the Mexican musicians called out and made a loud trilling noise with his tongue. She had no time to think about that, though. It was Rafe she was worried about.

“What kind of dance did you say?” she choked out.

“The
lambada
. The forbidden dance.”

“Wh-what's that? I never heard of it.”

“It's just like . . .” Rafe smiled. “. . . dirty dancing.”

F
oreplay on a horse? Followed by . . . ! Yippee ki yay! . . .

“J
ust pretend we're making love.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said in a suffocated whisper.

“The
lambada
. . . It's like making love without penetration. Relax and let your body speak for you.”

Making love without penetration? Oh, my!

They were swaying from side to side, slowly. Hmmm. She'd never had much time for dancing, but this was really kind of nice.
Sway and turn. Sway and turn
.

“I think I've got the hang of it,” she said.

“Good. Now for some real
lambada
.”

“What? Ooomph. Stop that.”

He bent her over backward so that her upper body was flung over his arm and her breasts were arched up in a provocative pose. She had no choice but to clutch his upper arms or risk falling to the floor.

The crowd went wild with cheers of encouragement.

“Arriba!”
the Mexican guitarist yelled out, as he had earlier, following it with the yipping noise.

“What . . . are . . . you . . . doing?” she asked Rafe in a strangled voice.

“Dipping. Geez, Louise! Haven't you ever dipped before, Helen?” The jerk was laughing at her.

“Undip me. Right now,” she demanded.

He grinned and yanked her upright without missing a beat of the dance rhythm. Once they straightened and were back in the traditional slow-dance posture again, she protested, “Rafe, let's just get out of here. It's obvious that I'm no good at dancing.”

“I don't hear anyone complaining.”

In fact, the prospectors were stamping their feet and clapping, enjoying the spectacle immensely. And the Mexican musician kept repeating that stupid
“Arriba!”
yell. Helen felt like she'd fallen into a bad movie script.

“Besides, we can't leave yet,” Rafe told her hurriedly, in between two more deep dips. “I met Henry and his cousin outside. They agreed to get our stuff from the hotel and bring the horses. They'll signal with two whistles out back when they're ready.”

“Oh, Lord!”

Still in the normal slow-dance position, Rafe boldly placed both palms on Helen's buttocks and was guiding her backward and forward against him, teaching her the “dirtier” movements of the dance.

Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Get your hands off my bottom, you jackass.”

“I told you it was dirty.” His mouth lifted with humor. “C'mon, Helen, loosen up. Close your eyes. Pretend it's just you and me. Put your body into it.”

Before she had a chance to react, he flung her away from him, holding onto one hand, then twirled her under his arm
for six rotations, all in cadence to the music. John Travolta couldn't have done it better. She emerged dizzily from her spin to find herself clasped in such a tight embrace she'd probably have groove marks on her stomach from the zipper of his fly.

Belly to belly, he rotated their hips, as one, in an erotic circle. Even their breathing came in unison now. It really
was
like making love.

And Helen began to forget the cheering miners, and the coins and gold nuggets being thrown to the stage, even the nineteenth-century setting. There was only Rafe and her and the music. And the forbidden dance.

A savage sexual energy flared between them as they learned the rhythm of each other's bodies. He no longer had to show her the moves. She initiated her own. When he held her close, she felt the thud of his heartbeat against hers. When his hungry, pale blue eyes held hers, she couldn't look away. She saw the pulse leap at the base of his neck, and she thrilled that she could affect him so.

“Helen.”

Just that soft-spoken word caused a tingling ripple through her oversensitized body.

He inserted a foot between her gown-covered legs and flashed her a challenge.

Brazenly, she took up his silent dare and rode against his thigh in the undulating Latin tempo.

His gasp of pleasure was her reward.

Finally, he turned her, spoon fashion, with his chest to her back. With his left arm wrapped around her waist and his right hand holding her right hand upward, he rolled their hips together in a sweet, scandalous circle, imitating the sex act.

Her knees almost gave out.

He made a low, gurgling sound of male desperation and nipped her shoulder playfully, propelling her in a dancing
walk toward the back of the tent. Kissing the side of her neck, he then shoved her rudely to the floor.

“Wh-what?”

“Now!” he clipped out, and she realized, through her sensual haze, that Henry was whistling on the other side of the tent.

Jolted back to reality and the danger at hand, she lifted the canvas and was about to crawl under when she heard an uproar behind her. Rafe had both pistols leveled at the crowd, which was about to rush up onto the stage.

“Go!” he shouted. “I'll be right behind you.”

She bit her bottom lip indecisively, but obeyed. Henry hurried her to the horses being held by his cousin and helped her mount, murmuring several words of caution. For several long seconds that seemed like years, they waited. Then there was a gunshot, which caused all three of them to jump with alarm.

Almost immediately, Rafe emerged, unscathed. “I shot in the air,” he explained quickly as he vaulted onto his horse. He nodded to Henry's cousin, then reached down to shake Henry's hand. “I can't thank you enough,
mi amigo,
” he said thickly.

“Me, too,” Helen said tearfully. She blew Henry a kiss as she and Rafe turned their horses and galloped off, out of town in a northerly direction. She glanced back and saw that the angry miners were already swarming from the back and around the sides of the tent. Henry and his cousin melted into the shadows.

When they emerged on the outskirts of town, Rafe slowed his horse for a moment and rode next to her horse. Panting slightly, he gazed at her, a fiery expression on his face. There was anger in his glittering eyes and tight jaw—probably because she'd come to the saloon against his orders—but there was something else, too.

Without warning, he reached over and wrapped one hand
around the nape of her neck, pulling her closer. Then he kissed her hard, bruising her lips and sending a shiver of fierce longing through her body, which still hummed from their forbidden dance. The kiss lasted only a moment, but the message was clear.

Tonight
.

She had to be sure. “What?” she whispered, touching her fingertips to her lips.

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Tonight is payback time,
mi cara
.”

Nudging his horse with his thighs, he moved forward again. She did likewise.

“I thought you were going to wait until our last night,” she argued weakly.

“I changed my mind.” He smiled mischievously. “But we have to find a safe place to stop first. I don't think those drunk miners will follow us, but we can't take a chance.”

She nodded, equally concerned about the danger. “Rafe, the reason I came to the saloon was because some men were talking in the hall of the hotel, outside our room. They'd heard rumors that the Angel Bandit was in town. They planned to search for him—
you
—to get the reward. I thought there was danger.”

He listened closely. “Then there was all the more reason for us to leave Marysville. Besides, I learned tonight that Pablo joined up with Sancho. They've moved farther north.”

She sighed. “Do you think our troubles will ever end?”

He slanted her a devilish look. “Honey, one of those troubles is going to end tonight.”

“We'll talk about this when we stop.”

“No, we won't, Helen. The time for talking, and teasing, and constant hard-ons is over.”

“Constant har . . . Oh, you're always trying to shock me.”

He shook his head vigorously. “No, I'm not. I'm preparing you. And while you're
preparing,
think about this. I'm
picturing your widespread legs on that horse. With each rhythmic roll of the horse's gait, you can feel the saddle pressing against your soft hairs . . . and open folds . . . and swelling—”

“Stop it! Just stop it!” she gasped out.

“And I want you to imagine that it's me under you.”

She tried to shut out his enticing words, to no avail.

“Are you wet already, Helen? Don't lie to me. I know you were just as aroused as I was by our dance. Do you still feel the . . . throb?”

“Why are you talking like this?” she cried out. “I deal with men every day. Do you think vulgar language is something new to me? I don't expect it from you, though.”

“Vulgar? My talking about our making love is vulgar? Helen, if I were saying these things to some stranger, it would be insulting. Harassment, even. But this is you and me. A man and a woman. If it's not to your taste, fine, but don't paint it as perverted, or intimidating. Can you honestly say that my words don't excite you at all?”

She groaned. “Do you enjoy torturing me?”

“This is foreplay, sweetheart. The most delicious torture there is. By the time we stop an hour or so from now, I want you so turned on and hot, you'll blister my skin at fifty paces.”

I could probably do that right now
.

He clucked to his horse and moved into a slow gallop. Her horse soon caught up. They rode for about a half hour without talking before he slowed.

“How're you doing?” he asked.

“Fine. I'm not that tired, and my horse can probably go another—”

“Helen, Helen, Helen. That's not what I meant.” He reached over and ran a palm fleetingly over her thigh.

A shot of electricity ran from her toes to her groin to her brain. She put a hand over her mouth to stifle her telling moan.

He laughed. “Babe, we are going to be so good together.”

“I don't like it when you talk like this.”

“Why?” he asked, cocking his head with surprise.

She lifted her chin and turned her face away from him, afraid she would reveal too much, even in the dark.

“Prissy, is your loose gown rubbing against your breasts?”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she refused to answer.

“Are your nipples hard? Do you want to be suckled? Do you like it hard or soft? Wet or dry? Whatever you wish, I'll do. Everything. No holds barred.”

Her breath stopped. Every nerve ending in her body was listening to his insolent, erotic words, and increasing in sensitivity.

“I knew a woman once who could come just by having a man play with her breasts. Do you think you could do that?”

She tried to shut out his words.

“Helen,” he murmured in a cracked voice, betraying his out-of-control state, too. “Do you know what I'd really like?”

“No, don't tell me.”

He grinned at her vehemence. “I'd like you to drop your reins for a moment and look at me. Then, while you're holding eye contact, I'd like you to lift your own breasts. And touch the tips. Just for a second. That's all.”

Helen was shocked. This time, she really was.

The most shocking thing of all was that she was tempted.

Helen kicked her horse into a gallop before she actually embarrassed herself, and Rafe, by complying.

One time he caught up with her and asked, “I don't suppose you'd consider riding naked?”

“Get real!” she snapped.

After another hour, they veered off the road and up a steep mountain. Thunder had been rumbling in the distance for some time, and they needed to set up camp before the storm broke. Finally, they came to a wide overhanging outcrop of rock.

“This is the kind of place that often has some caves,” Rafe conjectured aloud. “Stay here while I explore.” He returned
shortly and motioned for her to follow. “It's perfect. Just enough room for us and the horses.”

While Rafe went out to gather firewood, Helen began rubbing down the horses at the back of the small, low-ceilinged cave. With the dampness of the “room” and the breeze from the coming storm, a definite chill hung on the air.
Or is it my fear of what's to come?
In any case, a large fire would be welcome.

She started the kindling in a space close to the cave opening so the smoke could escape. Meanwhile, Rafe went in and out five more times, carrying armloads of broken limbs, which he stacked to the side. By the last trip, he was soaking wet from the pounding rain.

“Helen, see if you can find soap in one of the saddlebags.”

She looked up from the fire she was feeding with pieces of kindling. On an indrawn breath, she asked, “What are you
doing
?”

Rafe already had his boots and socks off, along with his soaking shirt. Water ran down his face and chest from his hair. He was about to unzip his pants.

He chuckled, apparently understanding her alarm. “I'm going to wash in the rain.”

“Oh.” She found the soap and handed it to him. Oh, Lord, he was already down to his black boxers. The light from the fire highlighted his sleek body, wide shoulders, hard abs, flat stomach and narrow hips, beautifully long legs, and narrow feet.

“Want to join me?” he asked huskily, intensely aware of her scrutiny. And not at all self-conscious of his near-nudity.

Shaking her head, she kept her eyes averted, disconcerted by her reaction to him.
I'm thirty-four years old and getting flustered by a man. I'm an Army major, for heaven's sake, surrounded by men. Why should this one affect me so?

She heard him step out of his shorts and pad toward the cave entrance. Just before he went out, he said, “I'll be right
back.” A heavy pause ensued during which she refused to look up, and he added, “Have the blankets ready for us, Helen. I need you . . . real bad.”

She did look up then, but all she saw was the back of his nude body moving out into the driving rain.