Rainbows and Rapture (30 page)

He thought for a moment.
“Rapture,”
he corrected.

She grinned. “Whatever.”

Rainbows and rapture,
he mused. He decided the vivid words described Russia, too.

How he longed to please this wonderful girl.

He smiled at her, his eyes ablaze with a passion he would release slowly. Over days and long, sweeping nights. What she’d just explained to him about his looks and what they did to her… About the flowers he’d given her… She responded intently to her senses. Whether it was something she saw, heard, smelled, tasted, or felt, she always responded wholeheartedly.

Her senses. He was going to woo them. Make love to them. He would lavish his attention on all five of them, whenever, wherever, and using whatever means he had at hand.

He felt his grin broaden.
Santa Maria
, lovemaking wasn’t only the act of joining two bodies. It didn’t even
start
in the bed, but well away from it!

And that, he mused, raising a sable brow, was the key to bringing Russia the pleasure she’d never known.

A low, mournful sound disturbed Russia the next morning. She resisted the sound, reluctant to let go of her dream.

Swirling in the mist of slumber, she remembered the way Santiago had held her all night while whispering all those sweet-sounding Spanish words to her. She didn’t recall falling asleep, but was sure she’d done so with a smile on her face.

The deep, sorrowful sound came to her again. Unable to ignore it this time, she opened her eyes and looked around. The sky was shimmering with pink and orange and yellow and the bare beginnings of blue. It was dawn. What was that sound?

She heard it again, a soft, deep bellow of longing. Frowning, she realized it came from Little Jack Horner. He was standing as straight and tall as an ox was able. In all the years she’d had him, she’d never seen him hold his head so erect. His muscles seemed rigid and tense with… With what? Fear?

Anxiously, she looked around again, sure she’d see some approaching peril. “Santiago,” she whispered loudly, giving his shoulder a shove. “Wake up. Somethin’s wrong. Somethin’—”

“It’s just your ox,” he mumbled sleepily, keeping his eyes closed.

“I know, but he looks like he sees somethin’!”

A heavyset man with red hair and a red beard crept into Santiago’s dream. In an instant, he sprang out of bed, Colts in hand. Every nerve in his body was wide awake as his keen, narrowed eyes swept in all directions. But all he saw, besides the brush-covered landscape, was a stray cow.

He smiled and slid his guns back into his belt. “Look, Russia.”

Rising, she saw the cow Santiago pointed to. Her eyes widening, she walked over to where Little Jack Horner stood bellowing and quivering. Was he scared of the cow? Excited?

She stared into his huge brown eyes. They were filled to the very brim with moisture. “Oh, he’s— It looks like he’s cryin’.” Again she turned to the cow, who was lowing as pitifully as Little Jack Horner.

Suddenly she understood. “Well, wigglin’ whirlwinds o’ whopper wonders, they’re in love.”

Santiago thought her announcement ridiculous. “Russia—”

“Little Jack Horner ain’t never been trimmed, Santiago,” she explained. “He’s a mite old, but ’pears to me he’s still got plenty o’ sting in his stinger.”

Santiago bent his head and chuckled.

Russia ignored his amusement and concentrated on the seriousness of the situation. Her mind teemed with realizations. Caressing her ox’s soft snout, she felt her heart would burst with all the deep emotion it was forced to hold. “It’s a eye-waterin’ thing I have to do, Santiago, but I ain’t gonna cry.”

He heard the suspicious quiver in her voice. “Cry? What would you cry?”

“Oh, Santiago, don’tcha see?” she asked, wondering why she had to explain something so simple to him. “As far as I know, Little Jack Horner ain’t never had him a wife. Maybe he wants him some young-uns. And maybe he wants that cow over there to be the one to give ‘emto him. Maybe she’s real sexy to him. I ain’t no ox, so I don’t know what’s purty and what ain’t to Little Jack Horner.”

Her explanation made Santiago want to smile, but her sad expression helped him to resist the urge.

Her fingers trembled through her ox’s fur. “God, Santiago, I cain’t stand in the way o’ true love. I ain’t got no right a’tall to keep Little Jack Horner and his ravin’ beauty from havin’ a life together.”

“What? Are—are you suggesting that you’re going to let him go?” Santiago asked incredulously.

“Yes.” She threw her arms around Little Jack Horner’s neck. “I cain’t believe I’m gonna do this. This is jist the hardest thing I ever done. The hardest, hardest, hardest thing.”

Despite her vow not to cry, Santiago sensed she was on the verge of tears. God, he couldn’t think of anything he wouldn’t do to keep her from weeping. “Then don’t let him go, Russia. He’ll get over—”

“I g-gotta,” she murmured, her voice muffled in the ox’s dusty neck. “Jist gotta. People need love, Santiago. They need to love, and they need to
be
loved.”

He didn’t quite know how to reply to her nonsensical declaration. “But, Russia, he’s not a person. He’s—”

“He’s jist like a person to me, and don’t you go tellin’ me he ain’t got no feelin’s, on account o’ I know he does. I love him, Santiago. And when you love somebody, you want only the best fer ‘em. Even if it hurts you to do it, you always do the right thing fer ‘em. That’s what real love is.”

He knew then that she was intent on setting free her ox, realized it was going to break her heart to do so, and wondered what he could do to lessen her pain. “I’ll get you another ox,” he swore. “One that’s exactly like Little Jack—”

“There ain’t another ox in the whole universe like him. He’s one o’ them one-of-a-kind oxes.” Straightening, she took Little Jack Horner’s huge head in her hands and gazed directly into his moist eyes. “You and me’s been together fer a right long time, boy,” she whispered. “But comes times, y’see, when love makes us do what’s right. You gotta go. Go and be happy with that purty cow out there. She’s waitin’ on you.” Shakily, she removed the ox’s halter and sombrero.

Santiago watched Little Jack Homer swing his head around to look at Russia. He was sure his eyes were playing tricks, but he could have sworn the ox really did look as sad as Russia.

“Go on now, darlin’,” she told her beast, giving him a sweet push toward freedom.

He seemed to understand. Tossing his head, he made a small sound, then rubbed his snout against Russia’s chest. After looking up at her one last time, he turned toward the cow and set off at a brisk, lively trot. Upon reaching his mate, he sniffed at her, then began to prance around her, his head and tail held high.

Fighting tears and smiling bravely, Russia waved as the animals cantered away. “There they go, Santiago, Mr. and Mrs. Little Jack Horner. Headin’ straight fer their happily-ever-after. Lord o’ mercy, that’s the sweetest thing I ever did see.”

Despite the fact that he thought her ideas concerning romantic love between an ox and a cow were ludicrous, Santiago knew she firmly believed them. He was also aware that what she’d done had been a very painful thing for her. He couldn’t help but admire her for remaining true to her convictions.

To demonstrate his respect for her, he did something he never in his wildest dreams thought he would do. And while he did it, he swore he would never do such a thing for anyone but Russia.

His hand held high in the air, he waved good-bye to an ox and a cow.

* * *

Wirt tossed so violently upon the thin corn-shuck mattress that he slid to the dirt floor. Sand grazed his cheek, some flying down his throat when he inhaled. Choking, he tried to rise but realized his legs and feet were bound.

It took him only a few minutes to loosen the ropes. His head pounding, he sat up, but it was a moment before his vision cleared sufficiently for him to see his surroundings.

A brown lizard slithered out from a hole at the end of his lumpy mattress. He watched it scurry toward the weak sunlight that entered the room by way of a crack at the bottom of the stick-fashioned door. Other than a broken chair and a small, rusty chamber pot, there were no furnishings.

He noticed that the walls were moving. After a closer inspection, he saw they were made of brush and realized the wind outside was blowing across the flimsy structure.

Where the hell was he? he wondered. And how had he gotten here? His mind still befuddled by the lingering effects of last night’s drinking, he sat there for a long moment before noticing a bottle near his foot. He picked it up and shook it, smiling when he heard its contents swishing. After spitting dirt from his dry mouth, he lifted the flask to his lips and gulped until the drink was gone.

The pulque, liquor made from fermented cactus juice, moistened his parched throat and soothed his throbbing head. His thoughts clearer now, he tried again to understand where he was.

The sound of people singing drifted into the small room. He couldn’t understand the words to the song. Moreover, the sound irritated him. It was too loud. It was too early in the morning. There’d been too little pulque left in the bottle.

He staggered to his feet, determined to stop the singing, learn of his whereabouts, and find more liquor. One powerful kick broke the rickety door to splinters. Wirt stepped outside into the bright sunlight, cursing when it hurt his bleary eyes. He saw a multitude of adobe houses with red-tiled roofs. His horse, still saddled, was tied in front of one of them.

He saw no people, but could still hear them singing. His pale blue gaze swept to the church, and he realized they were inside it. They were praising God. Praising Him for what? For giving them their pitiful existences? For allowing them to live their stupid lives in this pathetic village?

The church looked familiar. Bit by bit, he remembered why.
Rosario.
Yes, he was in Rosario. He’d stolen gold from that church the last time he was here. Gotten a good price for it, too, he recalled. Too bad there was nothing of value left in the miserable place.

He reached for his gun, intending to shoot the cross off the top of the church. He felt his gun belt but no weapons, and understood the villagers must have disarmed him before tying him up last night. He also knew that the damn bunch of peaceful peasants would not return them. Holy idiots, all of them.

He threw the empty liquor bottle at a braying donkey secured to the trunk of a shade tree. The animal’s screech of pain so delighted him that he began flinging rocks at the helpless beast. Only when his arm grew tired did he cease his game.

He noticed a building that appeared to be a small mercantile and stalked toward it. As he neared it, he saw a few goods on display between pieces of paper stuck to the windows. He doubted there were any guns for sale within, but was certain he’d find sharp knives. He would steal them and anything else he wanted.

Arriving in front of the little shop, he discovered that the sheets of paper on the windows were sketches of people, all of them signed by someone named Zeferino Sanchez. He scanned the charcoal drawings casually, wondering if Zeferino Sanchez was some Mexican lawman and if the pictures were actually posters of criminals wanted by Mexican officials.

He’d just decided he didn’t give a damn about the pictures when his gaze alighted upon one in particular that seized his complete attention. His pulse pounded in his ears; he forgot to take a breath.

An acute sense of longing tore through him. The girl’s beautiful image forced him to remember not only all the possessions he’d lost, but also the incomprehensible injustice of having lost them. Without a thought, he slammed his fist through the windowpane. His hand came away bloodied, but he held the picture within his grasp.

He stared down at the drawing of the sole piece of property he still had a chance of retrieving. She was the last thing of value that he owned in the world. “Mine,” he seethed. “Ya belong to
me!
”

Clutching the picture to his chest, he raised his head and scanned the drawings again, hoping to find a second likeness of the girl he could not, would not forget. Another portrait, one of a man, glared back at him. Wirt’s eyes were drawn to the long, jagged scar on the man’s cheek.

Santiago Zamora. There was no doubt that this was the face of the infamous gunfighter. He’d heard enough about the man’s sinister description to know for sure.

Venomous jealousy mingled with his anger. He thrust his fist into another pane and tore Santiago’s picture away. Dammit, how he wished the sketch really
was
a Wanted poster and that every lawman in the universe was out looking for the scar-faced gunslinger. It would make it that much easier to get rid of the bastard!

Hands shaking, he decided to rip the drawing to shreds. But no sooner had that thought come to him than another presented itself.

He pondered the idea. The drawing was good. Anyone would recognize it as Santiago Zamora, even those who’d only heard about him. And yes, with a few vital touches here and there, the picture could definitely be made to look like a Wanted poster.

So why couldn’t it
be
one?

Wirt smiled. His scheme would work; he knew it would. It was the best plan he’d ever had. One that would put an end to Santiago Zamora’s career.

An end to his life.

His smile splitting his face, Wirt ran his fat finger over the sketch. “So you and her have already been here in Rosario lookin’ fer me, eh?” he asked Santiago’s image. “Yer still on my trail. Backtrack to Calavera now, ya damn son of a bitch. That’s where she was before she come here to Rosario. Calavera. Come on. I’ll be waitin’ on ya.”

Laughing with utter glee and uncontainable excitement, he folded both drawings, slipped them inside his shirt, then rammed his mammoth body against the door of the store, ripping it from its hinges. Once inside, he found not a single gun, but did discover a case of kitchen knives and a razor-sharp hatchet He snatched every one of the knives, sticking several into his belt and a few into his boots. The ax he carried in his hand.