Rainbows and Rapture (39 page)

“Fine, but why are you askin’ from the hall? Git in here.” She pulled him into the room and shut the door. “I ain’t seen you in a week, Santiago. What—”

“I told you I’d be busy with the horses. Your mare is ready for you to ride.” God, but she was gorgeous, he thought. She wore a yellow gown, and he noticed it brought out all the gold in her hair.

He noticed other things, too. Every available space in her room was filled with roses. Atop her dresser, he saw several satin-covered boxes of fine candies. Princely gifts, he mused miserably. Pushing his fingers through his hair, he walked further into the room.

Russia followed him. “We went to see Little Miss Muffet the other day, but she weren’t in her stall. We figgered you had her out. Then I seen you. Out in the distance. You looked…looked real good out there doin’ all them things with her.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering that day. The wind had been blowing. Even from the distance she’d seen it whipping Santiago’s hair around his face and shoulders. As always, he’d been dressed in pure, somber black. He’d looked more than good that day. He’d been superb. Though she herself hadn’t seen a single one of his commands, the mare had responded to every one of them. It was like he was magic, or something.

“Yeah, real good,” she said again.

Unwilling to allow himself to enjoy her compliment, Santiago stuffed his hands into his pockets and thought of other things. “I bought you a saddle and bridle. I even fashioned a little wooden box that can be attached to the saddle. It’s for Nehemiah. I thought you might like to have him with you when you ride.”

His thoughtfulness touched her deeply. “Thanks, Santiago.”

“Have you made any women friends here?” he asked, recalling that decent women usually spurned her. The few she’d met on the day of their arrival had warmed to her immediately, and no one knew what her line of work was, but her language often raised brows, and it went completely against his grain to allow someone, even a woman, to mistreat her.

“I meeted a real nice lady yesterday. Her name’s Trudy Lawson. Her and her husband, Cody, raise chickens nearby. Trudy wants to teach me how to sew.”

Things were going very well for her here in Whispering Oaks, he mused, glad for her, miserable for himself.

“Trudy’s gonna have her a baby in three months’ time,” Russia went on. “Says if it’s a boy she’s namin’ him Paul, and if it’s a girl she’s namin’ her Sarah. Cody made the crib all by hisself. I seed it, and it’s real nice. Trudy— Trudy knitted baby blankets.” She laid her hand across her lower belly. “Them baby blankets is purty. Real soft and real purty.”

He heard the suspicious quiver in her voice and caught the fleeting sadness that crossed her face. “Russia? What’s the matter?”

Still dwelling on the upcoming birth of her new friend’s child, Russia realized Santiago had recognized her melancholy. “I— Can you believe I might go to church this comin’ Sunday, Santiago? I didn’t never believe I’d one day be able to set foot in a church and actually be welcomed. But Ben wants me to git some good Bible learnin’.”

“Why?” Santiago demanded, with a deep and sudden sense of foreboding.

“Ben wants him a good God-fearin’ wife. He asked me to marry him last night. Got down on his knees and ever’thing. I almost failed outta my chair.”

She smiled, thinking of how surprised she’d been by Ben’s proposal. He was such a nice man, she mused. She would turn him down in the gentlest way she could. Tapping her chin with her finger, she tried to think of a way to do just that.

Santiago felt as though his heart had dropped out of his chest and plummeted to the floor. It was painfully obvious to him that Russia had accepted Ben’s proposal. And if by some remote chance she hadn’t, she was certainly considering it. He had only to look at the smile on her face and the faraway look in her eyes to know that.

God, he had to leave. If he didn’t, he’d forget his vow to help Russia find her happiness. Indeed, it took a tremendous effort not to grab her right now, throw her over his shoulder, and gallop out of town with her.

He clenched his fists and knew what he would do. He’d simply leave. Without Russia, and without telling her. He’d go to Calavera, take care of Wirt Avery, then send Russia the message that all was well. She’d marry her prince, have her happily-ever-after, and that would be that.

To hell with the information she could give him concerning the vaquero who’d once worn the ring. He didn’t care anymore.

He didn’t care about anything. And without Russia, he
never would again.

He spun around and stalked toward the door, unable even to say good-bye.

“Santiago! Wait!” Russia cried. “Where are you goin’? What—”

“I left a few horses out in the paddock, and I can’t remember if they had water or not,” he lied. “I’m going to check and—”

“I’ll go with you.” She began searching for her shoes.

He watched her, yearning filling every comer of his heart. God, how he wished she really could go with him. Wherever he went.

“Well, lacy lumps o’ leapin’ leech livers!” Russia exclaimed, peering beneath the bed. “How the hell’d my shoes git under here?” Muttering curses, she lay flat on the floor and inched her way under the bed in an effort to reach her shoes.

Her flailing legs were the last Santiago saw of her before he quietly left, closing the door softly behind him.

Standing in the hallway, he stared at the doorknob. She was going to marry that dandy! The man was going to have Russia for his very own! He was going to hold her. He was going to kiss her. He was going to…

He was going to do all the things a husband had every right to do.

Jaw clenched, he fairly raced down the corridor. He stopped at the head of the stairs, gripping the mahogany banister. A myriad of questions burst into his mind.

What if Ben didn’t feed her enough? Considering Ben’s thin body, it was obvious the man barely ate enough to satisfy a flea. Would he expect Russia to live off such meager amounts of food, too?
Santa Maria
, she’d die of starvation!

And what of her accidents? What if she broke some expensive object in their home? Would Ben yell at her over something she simply couldn’t help?

And her hand cookies. He knew she’d soon be baking them for Ben. Would the man know the meaning behind those special cookies? Would they be sweet to him? Would he understand
why
Russia made them for him? Would he be sure to tell her how much he appreciated them and all the love that went into making them?

Her nightmares… What if she continued having them, and Ben couldn’t calm her down after waking her? For that matter, would Ben even be
able
to wake her? It was next to impossible to do so, he remembered. Hell, what if Ben simply ignored her, allowing her to deal with her night monsters alone?

And, dammit, what did Ben Clayton know about Russia’s frustrating problem regarding lovemaking? Would he even realize how sensitive she was? Would he take the time to ease her fears and anxieties? Would he be patient enough to arouse each and every part of her before consummating the marriage? What if he thought only of his own pleasure, like so many other men in Russia’s life had done?

His questions burned him with fury. Before he even realized what he was doing, he was running down the hall again. He didn’t bother to knock on Russia’s door. With one firm kick, he sent it flying open.

It banged against the wall, scaring Russia so badly that she screamed. “Santiago!”

Her shout came from beneath the bed. She was still under it.

“Russia, come out of there.”

“I’m
stuck!
I done tole you that a hunnerd times! What the hell are you doin’ over there?”

He realized she hadn’t been aware he’d left and come back. “We’re leaving Whispering Oaks.”

“Git me out from under this—”

“Ben will just have to understand. It’s important that we leave. Today. Right now.”

“Hang black crepe on your nose, Santiago, on account o’ your brains is dead! Dammit, are you plumb bereft? I asked you to git me out from under here! Now grab my feet and pull me out!”

Grinning broadly, he ambled over to the bed and took hold of her bare feet.

“Stop! You’re pullin’ me in half! Oh, God, I’m stuck under here tighter’n skin on a
damn
sausage, Santiago!”

Calmly, he moved to the bottom of the bed, bent, and curled his hands around the frame. With one smooth motion, he lifted the bed from the floor. “All right, Russia, get out.”

She turned her face and saw the bed hovering above her. Instantly, she scrambled away, scooting to the middle of the room.

Santiago lowered the bed back to the floor.

“What if you’d dropped that damn bed?” Russia hollered. “I’d’ve been smashed flatter’n a fritter! I’d’ve been—”

“But you weren’t, because I didn’t drop it. He entered her closet and soon emerged with her gowns draped over his arms. “I know
you like Whispering Oaks,
Russia, but you have to
go
with me
to
Calavera. I—I have only a scanty description of Wirt Avery, and I need you to come and make a positive identification.” It was a bald-faced lie, but even if he had to tell it a thousand times over again, he would.

Russia stared at him. Why was he telling her that? she wondered. All along, the plan had been for her to go to Calavera with him.

Santiago shoved her dresses into her bag. “Do you think Ben will understand?”

Watching him smash her gowns into the bag, she thought about how terribly wrinkled they would become. “The leastest thing you coulda done with my dresses is fold ‘em, Santiago,” she scolded. “They’re—”

She broke off when someone knocked at the door. “Who is it?” she called.

Santiago stared at Russia. “What will you tell him? You
do
have to go with me to Calavera.” He said the words gruffly, defying her to argue with him.

Russia bit her bottom lip, tried to think of something she could tell Ben that wouldn’t hurt his feelings, then rose to let him in. “Ben, we’re leavin’,” she blurted out the second he walked into the room. “Y’know we’re lookin’ fer ole Dickito Zamora. We been here too long already, and Santiago says it’s time to git back on the trail. He’s our cousin, Ben, and we gotta find him.”

Ben paled and turned to Santiago. “Please don’t—”

“I’m sorry, Ben,” Santiago said firmly, “but we’re leaving within the hour.”

Ben held out his hands in a pleading gesture. “You’ll bring her back, won’t you? Santiago, I— Swear to me that when you find your cousin, you’ll return Russia to me.”

“When I find my cousin?” Santiago smiled. No such cousin existed. “Oh, I swear, Ben. By the life of my long-lost cousin, I swear.”

Calavera was just how Wirt remembered it. Nothing much ever happened here. The isolated town was smaller than small, home to only about a hundred people. The lack of a saloon enticed few travelers to stop. Therefore, news of the outside world was slow in reaching Calavera.

It was the perfect location in which to pull off his plans.

Standing in front of the Calavera marshal’s office, he removed a carefully folded piece of paper from his coat. Unfolding it, he stared down at Santiago Zamora’s image. Beneath the drawing were words he’d bribed a professional printer into printing.

On the whole, Wirt mused, everything about the picture looked authentic. Smiling, he spat into his hand, smoothed back his hair, and strolled into the marshal’s office.

The lawman looked up from the plate of food on his paper-strewn desk. “Yes?”

Wirt forced himself to appear distraught. He shuffled his feet on the floor and wrung his hands. “Name’s Wirt Avery, Marshal. Jist got to town. I need yer help.”

The marshal tossed a well-gnawed chicken bone back on his plate and motioned to a chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, Mr. Avery.”

Wirt lumbered to the ladder-back chair and sat down. “I’m lookin’ fer my daughter.” He took out the tin locket and handed it to the marshal. “She’s growed up some since that there little paintin’ was done, but she’s still real purty like that. She runned off, y’see, and I been follerin’ her ever since. She—she was such a good girl. Deep down inside, maybe she still is. But she’s done failed off the path o’ goodness, sir. She’s— Lord, it shames me somethin’ awful to say it, but she’s livin’ a life o’ sin now. May God Almighty fergive her, she’s been sellin’ her body to any man who has enough money to pay fer the use of it.”

The marshal stared intently at the face in the locket.

“I gotta find her, Marshal,” Wirt went on, his pale blue eyes darting around the room. “She’s done tuk up with a murderer. Her and him’s gallivantin’ around the countryside, and they’re comin’ here to Calavera. They’ll be here soon, sir, and I… Marshal, please help me git my daughter. Ya gotta keep both her and me safe.”

The marshal stood and leaned forward, his knuckles pressed to the desk. “How do you know they’re coming here, Mr. Avery?”

Wirt closed his eyes, pretending extreme nervousness. “The man she’s with, he knows I’m lookin’ fer her. He’s done turned the tables on me, Marshal. Now
he’s
trailin’
me.
He don’t want to give her up, y’see. I know he don’t. I reckon if he finds me, he’ll kill me. He’s a killer, sir. A cold-blooded killer. Wanted all over Texas. You prob’ly heared of him.”

Forcing his hand to shake, Wirt laid the charcoaled sketch of Santiago on the marshal’s desk. “That’s him, sir. I—I cain’t even hardly look at his picture without curlin’ up my toes in pure bone-shakin’ fear. Jist look at them eyes o’ his. Ever seed such viciousness in all your born days?”

The marshal’s face furrowed. Staring up at him from the Wanted poster was the exact image of Santiago Zamora. The artist’s name, Zeferino Sanchez, was written in the lower left-hand corner. Whoever Zeferino Sanchez was, the marshal mused, he was extraordinarily talented.

Santiago Zamora.
The long dark hair and jagged scar were well-known and unmistakable characteristics of the infamous gunman. Zeferino Sanchez had even managed to capture the dangerous glitter in Santiago’s eyes.