Rainbows and Rapture (11 page)

He stalked over to the fire and kicked dirt over it. Watching the embers smother and die, he decided that that was exactly what he would do with the strange feelings Russia forced him to feel. Whatever the hell they were, he’d smother them.

He’d been a fool to let her get to him. A fool to worry about her tears, hunger, and ant bites. She was a whore! As such she deserved no consideration at all. Dammit, he
hated
the girl!

“We’re leaving,” he bit out, donning his boots and weapons. “With any luck at all, we ought to make Rock Springs by this time next year.”

She decided to throw sarcasm right back at him. Her frustration and confusion demanded it. “Y’know, Zamora? I used to think you was jist a pain in the neck. Now I got a much lower opinion o’ you.”

He gave her a wrathful look. “Get your dress on. But be careful not to wipe away the medicine, or you’ll—”

He cut himself off abruptly, realizing he was showing her the very concern he’d just convinced himself she didn’t deserve. “Hell, I don’t care if you wipe it off! Wipe every bit of it off! Sting all day! And forget about begging for the food I’ve brought, do you hear me? You won’t get any! And your tears— Cry an ocean of them, but I promise you they won’t move me! And I swear to you, Russia, that no matter how much you talk to me while we travel, I’m not answering. Now get dressed!”

Because she understood the reasons for his anger, she was able to ignore it. Silently, without looking at him, she picked up her dress and lifted it over her head.

His eyes narrowed, Santiago watched carefully as she slipped the gown on. “Dammit, Russia, you’re wiping the medicine off!”

“Well, what do you care?” she yelled, her voice muffled in the dress. “Seems to me you oughta be doin’ some sorta merry little jig that I’m gonna sting all day!”

He muttered a profanity with each step it took him to get to her. Once by her side, he assisted her into the dress, making sure the poultice stayed where it was supposed to. “I don’t give a damn how bad the bites sting you,” he flared as he jerked her around and began buttoning the back of her frock. “But like I already told you, I’m sure as hell not going to be slowed down while you stop to dig at yourself.”

He finished fastening the dress, gritting his teeth when he found himself giving a final pat to the last button. Dammit to hell, he was acting like her lady’s maid! “Get that damn ox hitched.”

“Thought you said you wasn’t gonna talk to me,” she commented snippily before strolling toward Little Jack Horner.

Her smug statement and leisurely gait further angered Santiago. “Hurry up!”

She stopped. “But if I walk fast, I’ll wipe off all the medicine.”

Mother of God, how she angered him!
“Madre de Dios, como me enojas!”

The deep scowl, on his face told her he’d said something mean to her. He’d probably insulted her. Well, she’d just insult him right back! “Yeah? Well, you’re dumb. So dumb you’d pro’bly water your garden with whiskey to git stewed tomaters! If ignorance is really bliss, you oughta be the happiest feller in the whole damn world!”

“You—”

“Shut-up-o!” she yelled in her Spanish. “I ain’t-o takin’ no more lip-o off you-o! What-o do you think-o about that-o, Senior Zamora-rio?”

He couldn’t find the energy or the patience to inform her how ridiculous her attempt at Spanish was. Fuming, he stormed to the ox and performed the task of hitching the beast to the rig before gathering all of Russia’s belongings and throwing them into the bed of the cart. That accomplished, he stalked back to Russia. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her to the wagon and placed her in the seat. “You get out of this cart one single time today without my permission, and I’ll—”

A loud meow cut him off. His anger mounted when he looked down and saw Nehemiah and the piece of dried horse manure the cat had dropped on his boot.

The look of pure adoration in the cat’s eyes soothed Russia’s distress and made her smile. “Well, look what Maffy-Lou brung you this time, Zamora,” she cooed.

“Pinche gato,”
Santiago swore vehemently as he went to collect his equipment and ready Quetzalcoatl.
“Hijo de la pinche…”

Listening to his continuous muttering, Russia patted the empty space beside her and rubbed Nehemiah’s ears when he jumped onto the seat. “That’s Spanish Zamora’s talkin’, Prince Pooty, and I’m plumb nelly sure he’s goin’ on and on about what a good cat you are. I don’t reckon he’s ever got such a fine gift like the one you jist give him. He’s pro’bly gonna have it gilded in gold so’s it’ll last ferever. Ain’t that right-o, Zamora-rio?”

The thought of gilded horse manure was so obnoxious, it made Santiago even angrier. Still mumbling choice epithets, he mounted. Wishing he were anywhere else but where he was, he urged Quetzalcoatl into a full, ground-eating gallop.

The small town of Rock Springs was within view when Russia began to wonder if Santiago would ever talk to her again. “Varmint,” she whispered.

Three days had passed since he’d sworn to ignore her, and true to his word, he’d barely glanced her way. While they traveled, he rode well ahead of her. At night, he made his bed on the opposite side of the fire, refusing to answer what little she said to him. The varmint
had
broken his promise not to feed her, though. She’d feasted on leatherlike jerkey, stale bread, and warm water.

“Varmint,” she whispered again.

Staring at his broad back and the charcoal hair that spilled over his wide shoulders, she rolled the reins between her fingers. Though he was quite a way ahead of her, she could see how tall and straight he sat in the saddle. His lower torso rocked back and forth to the rhythm of Quetzalcoatl’s smooth gait.

The slight motion he made sent that sensual tingle spreading all through her. “Well, muskrats, marigolds, and marinade,” she said to Nehemiah, who was curled up in the soft nest her hair made in her lap, “I ain’t never heared o’ gittin’ all hot and bothered jist by watchin’ a man ride a horse. Next thing y’know, he’ll do somethin’ like scratch his elbow, and I’ll catch on fire! Lordy me, what is it about the varmint that gits to me the way it does? Him and my Prince Charmin’ are about as different as cinders and satin. Still, there’s
somethin’
about him…”

Nibbling at her lip, she cocked her head, her gaze still resting on Santiago. “Jist who the hell could he be, Dilly? Behind that famous name, behind them hard eyes and that varminty temper… behind the legend, who is that man? One minute nice, the next minute mad. One minute hatin’ me, the next minute worryin’ about me, and now actin’ like I ain’t even alive. I’ll be damned if I can figger.”

She fell into deep thought, but could come up with no logical answer that explained the mystery of Santiago Zamora. “’Course, I ain’t been tryin’ real hard to git to know the man, Rooney,” she realized aloud. “I been lettin’ him ignore the hell outta me on account o’ he don’t never answer nothin’ I say.”

“Well, I ain’t gonna let him do it no more,” she vowed, nodding. “There ain’t no tellin’ when we’ll find ole Wirt, and if that varmint up there thinks I’m puttin’ up with this damn silent treatment fer weeks to come, he’s dumber’n a barrel o’ hair. I’m gonna
make
him talk to me, because y’know? I think he’s jist as lonely as me. Yeah, what him and me need to do is make us a fresh start.”

She urged Little Jack Horner to a faster walk, thankful that Quetzalcoatl was walking so slowly. “Afternoon, varmint—I mean
stranger
,” she called up to Santiago. “Things’ve been plumb nelly quiet in my life fer the past days. Why don’t you and me talk fer a while?”

Santiago adjusted his black hat low over his eyes. She hadn’t said much to him in the past several days, and that had made it easier to ignore her. Now it appeared that she’d decided to end the silence. Ha! He was intent on hating her, hate her he would, and she would not get a response out of him no matter what she said.

His blank expression made Russia even more determined to make him respond to her. “Name’s Russia Valentine, stranger. That ain’t my real name, though. I got a real name that I keep a secret. I maked up Russia Valentine when this feller called Wirt Avery started follerin’ me.”

Though Santiago kept his gaze centered on the town ahead, giving Russia no sign that he was listening, he heard every word and wondered what her real name was. Not that he really cared, he told himself.

Russia gathered up some more persistence, deciding to maintain a lighthearted attitude with the stone-faced, stiff-lipped varmint. “I picked the name Russia on account o’ I always wanted to go to Russia. Did y’know that if you go there, you can see the Black Sea? Somebody tole me about that sea, but I jist cain’t make myself believe it’s really black. Them Russians mighta maked it up jist so’s ever’body else in the world would think they got somethin’ the rest of us ain’t.”

Santiago rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Before I decided to be ‘Russia,’ I was gonna be ‘Italy,’” she went on, smiling when Nehemiah began to give her hand a bath. “Italy Valentine. Wanted to go to Italy, too, see, on account o’ I heared that country’s shaped like a boot. Ain’t that funny, a country bein’ shaped like a boot? But ‘Italy’ sounds too much like ‘idiot,’ and I didn’t want folks callin’ me Idiot Valentine. And to tell you the honester’n God truth, I don’t know why I picked ‘Valentine.’ Musta had me a good reason, but I’ll be damned if I can remember what it was.”

She wished he would answer her, but when he didn’t, she tossed a wilted black-eyed Susan at him. “I’m around twenty-one years old. It’s been a while since I had me a real birthday party. But I figger I’m around twenty-one on account o’ I got big tits. Don’t y’think these tits o’ mine look to be about twenty-one years old, stranger?”

Santiago turned his face away so she wouldn’t see how close he was to grinning. He’d never heard anything so ludicrous in his life.

Damn the man! Russia cursed silently. Not only wouldn’t he talk to her, he even turned his face away! “I like your long hair, stranger. Sometime—if we ever git to be good friends—will y’let me braid it?”

“Shut up, Russia.”

She smiled broadly. Santiago hadn’t said a very nice thing to her, but at least he’d said
something.
She felt encouraged. “You ever eat hand cookies? My mama used to make hand cookies fer me. I ain’t never fergitted ’em. She’d roll out the dough and cut out the shape o’ my hand, y’see. I loved eatin’ my own hand. When I get me a sweetheart? Well, I’m gonna make that man some hand cookies ever’ day. Hand cookies is special, y’see. Mama said you only make ’em fer people you love plumb nelly to death. Has anybody ever maked you some hand—”

“No, and shut up.”

“Maybe in Mexico,” she continued, grinning, “they make hand tortillas. Do they make hand tortillas in Mex—”

“Russia, shut—”

“If they maked hand tortillas in Mexico, you could tear off a finger to pinch up the meat. One finger fer ever’ bite. You could git six bites outta ever’ tortilla. Five fingers, and one palm. I wonder if anybody in Mexico ever makes hand tortillas. Jist ’cause you didn’t never eat none don’t mean that nobody never makes—”

“Santa Maria, callete!”

“
Callete
,” she repeated thoughtfully. “I bet that’s
shut up
in Spanish. I speak some Spanish, y’know. Sometimes I have to guess at it, but I know some real words, too. Picked ’em up here and there.
Rosario
means rosary. I learned that when I was in Rosario, Mexico. I ain’t Catholic, but I always wanted me one o’ them rosaries. I’d wear it as a necklace. I bet you’re Catholic, huh? What do y’think about God’s mama appearin’ to folks down here?”

“Russia—”

“A man down in Rosario tole me a story about God’s mama comin’ to Mexico. God’s mama’s name is Mary. Yeah, Mary come to Mexico a long time ago. There was this Mexican Indian named Juan, and Mary appeared to him. I bet ole Juan was so scared he failed down and hit his head on a rock. That’s what I’d do if God’s mama ever come anywhere near me. There’s jist somethin’ about her comin’ down on clouds and stuff that scares me.”

Santiago felt his lips twitch again. He knew dozens of titles used for the Blessed Virgin, but never once had he heard her called “God’s mama.”

“Anyway,” Russia went on, swatting at a bothersome fly, “Mary tole Juan she wanted a church builded. He tole the bishik, but the bishik didn’t believe him. So Mary—”

“It’s not bishik, it’s bishop!”

His sudden shout startled her so badly, she almost fell out of the cart. “Well, excuse the hell outta me! I done tole you I ain’t Catholic! How can you ’spect me to know the names o’ all them holy folks in your church?”

“Look, Russia,” he said, giving her a quick glance, “I already know the story of Our Lady of Guadalupe, so there’s no need for you to—”

“Juan tole the
bishop
about Mary, but the
bishop
didn’t believe him,” Russia rambled merrily on, admiring a thick mass of bluebells as she passed them. “So Mary give Juan her cape, see, and she tole him to take it to the
bishop
. When Juan opened up that cape fer the
bishop
to see, Mary’s portrait was painted on it, and fresh roses failed out of it! Since it was winter, roses wasn’t s’posed to be bloomin’, so when the
bishop
seed ’em, he knowed Juan weren’t lyin’.”

“Yeah, Mary got her that church she wanted, and that cape o’ hers is still in Mexico. I’m gonna go see it someday on account o’ I figger that if you can see what Mary looks like, you’ll know what God sorta looks like, too.”

“I look like my mama,” she continued without pause. “Never knowed my daddy on account o’ he died before I was even borned. Mama died a few years back. Her name was Vivian. She’s who tole me about happily-ever-afters. Jist about ever’ character in my book o’ fairy tales had bad times till they finally got their happy endin’s. I reckon happily-ever-afters is somethin’ you gotta earn. I sure hope I earn mine one day on account o’ it’ll mean I’ll git my Prince Charmin’. Did you ever read fairy tales when you was little?”