Rainbows and Rapture (21 page)

She cut short her train of thought. Santiago wasn’t her decent gentleman any more than she was his decent lady, so why had she thought to live happily ever after with him? Theorizing that it was because he’d rescued her from her nightmare just like a fairy-tale champion would, she dismissed the matter from her mind.

She yawned and looked at his big, tanned hand. It lay upon her lower arm. There was dirt beneath his nails.

It was clean dirt, though, she decided. Not dirty dirt. It was the kind a man got from riding, and building fires, and handling weapons, and hunting. It was honest dirt.

Still staring at his nails, she squirmed deeper into the warm, solid curve of his body and yawned again. Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was that the dirt didn’t look that bad at all.

* * *

As Wirt lumbered down the boardwalk toward the Rock Springs Saloon, he spied a little girl sitting against the front of the dressmaker’s shop, a pink-nosed puppy lying beside her. In the girl’s small arms, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, was a porcelain baby doll.

Wirt stopped before her. “Ya love that doll, girl?” he asked, bending closer to her.

The girl’s brown eyes widened; she tried to scoot away.

Wirt’s foot blocked her way. “Does that there baby doll make ya happy?”

The girl gave a shaky nod, her blond braids swishing across her slim shoulders. She clutched the doll to her thin chest.

Wirt jerked the doll out of her arms. With one quick yank, he tore off its head and threw it down. It rolled a few feet away before he slammed the heel of his boot down on it, crushing it. “It don’t make ya happy no more, does it, girl? It’s gone now, ain’t it?”

When she began to cry, her puppy growled and snarled at Wirt. Wirt gave it a swift kick before sauntering down the boardwalk again. As he walked, he smiled at the sounds of the girl’s sobbing and the puppy’s whimpering.

He soon reached the saloon, pushed open the swinging doors, and stepped inside.

Wiping spilled beer off the counter, Hilda watched the huge man approach her. He was overweight, but she saw slabs of muscle beneath the fat His red hair and bushy beard were foul, and his small eyes were out of proportion on his big, fleshy face.

He wore two revolvers at his sides, a smaller pistol was strapped to his barrellike chest, several knives glittered from sheaths on his legs, and in his hairy hands he clutched a rifle. He was so well armed, she wondered if he carried dynamite in the leather pouch dangling from his gun belt. She took a step backward when he arrived at the counter.

“Avery’s the name,” he said to her. “I’m lookin’ fer a girl with long red-gold hair. Goes by the name o’ Russia Valentine. I jist come from Hamlett. A stableboy there tole me she was comin’ here.”

Hilda nodded. “She did. She’s been here twice. The first time she was here, she burned down the hotel.”

Wirt licked his thick lips. “So she’s here?” he asked, excitement pounding through him.

Hilda shook her head. “She left two days ago.”

Wirt slammed his fist down on the counter, causing several mugs to shake and clatter. “She left Hamlett with Santiago Zamora. Is she still with him?”

At the terrible look in his small eyes, Hilda felt a wave of apprehension. “Yes.”

“Did—did they share the same room?”

“Yes.”

Wirt hung his head, staring at the dusty floor. His chest heaved. “Gimme that room. The same one she stayed in while she was here.”

Hilda searched the shelf beneath the counter, then handed him a key. “Room two.”

“Bring me a bottle o’ whiskey. And see if ya can find out where the girl went. There’s twenty dollars in it fer ya if ya can tell me.”

The second Wirt walked into room two, he could smell her. The scent of clove still lingered. It was faint, but he recognized it for exactly what it was.

It was always like this, he mused, yearning coursing through him. Wherever he went, he sought out the room where she’d stayed. Once in it, he never failed to smell the fragrance of whatever essence she’d worn there. She liked the flavoring oils. He’d discovered that when he’d once found an empty bottle of ginger oil in a room she’d rented.

Walking further into the room, he stopped by the bed and fingered the tattered spread. She’d lain here.

With Santiago Zamora.

Rage smashed into him. He lifted the mattress from its frame and hurled it across the room. “It ain’t fair!” he roared, his own shout making his head pound.

Taking a deep breath, the scent of clove filling his wide nostrils, he walked to the window and parted the filthy rags that served as curtains. Watching a group of townsmen clear away rubble that had once been the hotel, he concentrated on the information he’d gleaned both in Hamlett and here in Rock Springs.

“Santiago Zamora,” he growled, his hand turning white around the curtains. “Ya left Hamlett with him. Ya come back to Rock Springs with him. Ya left with him again.”

Santiago Zamora, he mused angrily. The legendary, cold-blooded gunfighter. Reputed to be the most ruthless bounty hunter and expert tracker in the land.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted his murderous thoughts. “Mr. Avery,” Hilda called from the corridor, “I’ve brought the whiskey. And I’ve also found out the information you asked for.”

Wirt rushed to open the door. Ignoring the bottle Hilda held out to him, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the room. “Where’d she go?”

Hilda tried to escape his hold, but his strength far surpassed hers. “Cecil—he…”

“Who the hell’s Cecil?”

“He—he owns the livery. Cecil heard her ask Mr. Zamora how long it would take to get to Rosario, Mexico. Cecil, he… Cecil reckons that’s where they were headed. And like I already told you, they left two days ago.”

Wirt snatched the bottle from her, uncorked it, and drank until he’d swallowed half the whiskey. “Ain’t fair,” he murmured, staring fixedly at the bottle.

When he made no move to pay her for the whiskey or the information, Hilda fiddled nervously with the top button of her gown. She waited for a long moment. “Uh…Mr. Av—”

“I used to have ever’thing.” He hugged the bottle to his chest. “Ever’thing a man needed to be happy.”

Hilda feigned a look of sympathy, anxious to get away from the strange man. “Mr. Avery—”

“I ain’t got nothin’ no more,” he continued, then took another gulp of whiskey. “It’s all gone. Vivian. The farm. The livestock. And…her.”

Raising his head, he saw that Hilda was staring at him. With one tremendous shove, he pushed her out of the room.

“What—what about payment for the whiskey?” Hilda dared to ask from the hallway. “And the tw-twenty dollars you promised me for finding out—”

Wirt slammed the door in her face. The old woman wouldn’t get a penny out of him, and there was nothing she could do about it. He’d learned earlier that the town marshal, Cobbett Wilkens, had been run out of town. Rock Springs would be without a lawman until its deputy returned.

He ruminated on the information Hilda had provided. “Rosario,” he muttered. “Rosario.” Only two months ago, he’d been there and discovered that
she
had been, too. His darling.

He began to walk aimlessly around the room, questions and suspicions hurling through his brain like dangerous and continuous lightning.

And when at last he stopped pacing, the whiskey was finished. Gone, too, was all his confusion.

He dug into his pocket, drawing forth the tin locket. He glared at the portrait within it. “From Hamlett ya come back to Rock Springs. From Rock Springs ya set off fer Rosario, Mexico. Yer turnin’ the tables on yer sweet ole Wirt, huh, darlin’? Yer trackin’
me
now. And ya’ve hired that friggin’ killer to help ya. Well, I ain’t afraid o’ the son of a bitch. His blood might be cold, but mine’s colder. Yer
mine
. Yer all I got left, and no Mexican scum’s gonna take ya away from me.”

Rosario.
His mind spinning, he calculated that an old ox would need at least three days to make the trip to the border town. A fast horse like the one he had would need only one.

Smiling, he realized that they would all meet in Rosario on the very same day.

* * *

After three days of traveling, Santiago finally caught sight of Rosario, Mexico, a little village sleeping right across the border. A soft, gentle breeze ruffled through the tall and graceful oak trees surrounding it. The ebbing light of evening darkened the red-tiled roofs and painted the sides of the white adobe buildings with the cool and tranquil freshness of approaching nighttime. The metal cross atop the small church welcomed one and all with a lustrous gleam. Barefoot children singing songs in Spanish darted through and around a vine-covered fence, a group of yapping puppies nipping at their heels. From somewhere within the tiny town a donkey brayed, and though he was still some distance away, Santiago could smell the tantalizing scent of simmering chili.

From all appearances the town seemed peaceful. But something, some gut instinct, made him wary, and the longer he stared at the village, the stronger his perception of danger became.

He stopped Quetzalcoatl. “Russia, before we ride into Rosario… Did anything happen here that I should know about?”

She tossed the yellow daisies she’d picked hours ago into the breeze, absently watching the dead flowers scatter across the dry dirt. “Nope.”

His instincts continued to nag him. “Can we eat in the cafe without having to worry about your being arrested?”

“There ain’t no cafe here.”

His eyes widened. “You burned it down.”

She shook her head, pieces of the straw in her ragged bonnet flopping around her forehead. “There weren’t no cafe to
burn
down. They jist ain’t got one here. The women like to cook in the street. Travelers wanderin’ through can git food from whatever woman has the best to offer.”

“Is there a hotel?”

“A little one.”

He raised a brow. “Why is it little? Did you destroy part of it?”

“Slobberin’ sauerkraut and burpin’ bedpans, Santiago, why—”

“
I’m
asking the questions.
You
answer them. Do you have anything at all to do with the fact that the hotel is small?”

“No! It’s jist a tiny little inn with only two rooms!”

“Did you break anything while you were here?”

“No!”

“Knock over anything?” he continued, watching carefully for any signs that would tell him she was lying. “Did you sing and shatter every window Rosario had? Did you—”

“Dammit, Santiago, I didn’t burn down or knock over nothin’ in Rosario! I remember trippin’ and fallin’ down in the street, though. Stumbled over a pitchfork in front o’ the stable. Does that count?”

His fingers tightened around the reins; his imagination soared. “And when you fell, you shouted in pain,” he guessed. “You screamed so loud that you scared the stableful of horses. Terrified, they kicked at their stall doors until the doors broke, then they ran away. Because of you and your fall, not a single man in Rosario possesses a mount. Every person in town is out for your blood.”

She glared hotly at him. “It must be wonderful to have brains. Then again, how would you know? I didn’t scare away no animals! That’s the dumbest thing I ever heared!”

“I’m sorry, but no, it’s not dumb.”

She huffed angrily. Hell-bent as he was on believing she’d done something bad in Rosario, the man wasn’t going to back down no matter what she said. “Y’know what, Santiago? You’re so narrer-minded that if you was to fall down on a needle, it’d blind you in both eyes. Didn’t nothin’ happen in Rosario, hear? I got along real good with the folks here.”

With that, she slid the reins across Little Jack Horner’s back and proceeded toward Rosario, feeling rather good at leaving Santiago to bring up the rear, as he was so fond of doing to her. “There ain’t a bit o’ danger here,” she called over her shoulder. “Now come on.”

He had no choice but to follow. But while trailing behind her, he couldn’t shake the distinct feeling that she was wrong.

As they rode into Rosario, Santiago kept Quetzalcoatl close to Russia’s cart and keenly examined every person milling about in the
zocalo
, the village square. He missed no one.

“Ain’t it purty here?” Russia asked merrily, waving to a little girl who was smiling at her. “I tole you there weren’t nothin’ to worry about.”

Santiago would decide that for himself. He remained silent, watching everything going on around him.

Dotting the
zocalo
were several women sitting by small cook fires. Upon the fires sat clay pots bubbling with thick, chili-laden stews. Other pots were filled with rich black beans. A few of the women were busy patting out balls of fresh masa. In seconds, their experienced hands molded the soft, moist balls of ground corn into tortillas. These they placed on
comales
, thin sheets of metal that lay across the fires.

He felt a touch of nostalgia. In his own hometown of Misericordia, women enjoyed cooking outside just as these were doing. The small kitchens within the little adobe houses could get stifling hot, and preparing a meal outside in the cool evenings was a welcome respite from the heat.

The women themselves were a familiar sight to him. And though he didn’t know them personally, he felt as though he did. They all wore their black hair in braids that nearly reached their hips. Ebony shawls were draped over their shoulders and tied around their waists. Their white blouses were elaborately embroidered with bright, multicolored threads, and their long, generous skirts had pockets in them in which they carried their rosaries. Most were barefoot, but some wore sandals. Their tanned faces were deeply lined with wrinkles brought on by years of smiling and worrying, and by hours spent in the relentless sun.

They were grandmothers and mothers, he mused while watching them. Their husbands labored in the nearby fruit orchards. They stayed home, tending children, small gardens, and caged livestock. They attended Mass every morning at five o’clock, and the highlight of their day was making meals that brought smiles to the faces of their families. They were good, hard-working people, these pious women.