Rainbows and Rapture (31 page)

Outside, he stormed over to the church and climbed the steps that led into the sanctuary. Inside, he saw the villagers praying in unison with their priest, who stood in front of the altar. Wirt laughed long and loud, the sound of his laughter echoing throughout the small church.

The people turned and saw him. Many gasped, others shouted, some began to cry. The sight of his weapons kept one and all from moving to restrain him.

“Damn ya all!” Wirt screamed merrily. Chuckling, he raised the hatchet and threw it.

In only seconds it found its mark. The priest and all but one of the villagers fell to their knees, crossing themselves. No one dared move until Wirt raced out of the church.

Listening to the pounding flight of a galloping horse, Zeferino Sanchez thanked God that the red-bearded criminal had left the tranquil town. His steps slow, he walked to the altar and helped the priest to his feet. His lips moved in silent prayer as he gazed up at the portrait of the Blessed Virgin.

Solemnly, he removed the ax buried deeply within her immaculate heart.

* * *

Russia felt as though her body was being held together by cobwebs and that at any second they would break and so would she. There wasn’t a spot on her that didn’t ache. Used to riding in her cart, which she’d been forced to leave behind after setting free Little Jack Horner, she was unaccustomed to riding on horseback.

After spending three days on a horse, she was exhausted. She tried to lean over Quetzalcoatl’s neck and moaned in frustration when the saddle horn pushed into her belly.

Santiago halted the stallion. Understanding Russia’s predicament, he maneuvered her so that her legs were draped over one of his thighs, her bottom rested on his other thigh, and her torso lay comfortably within the cradle of his strong arms. Gently, he coerced her head to his chest.

The new position relieved much of the pain in her back and thighs, and also enabled her to see Nehemiah, whose head was sticking out of the saddlebag.

“Better?” Santiago asked, urging his stallion forward again.

She smiled up at him. “You’re holdin’ me like a baby.”

He smiled back at her, but ruined the sweet gesture with his reply. “You’ve been acting like one for three days.”

She took immediate objection to that. “Well, your heart’s jist as big as Texas, ain’t it, Santiago? Look, I ain’t never rided a horse in my life, and I feel like I been chewed up and spit out. I’m so thirsty I’d suckle a she-bear, and my stomach’s emptier’n panties hangin’ on a clothesline. I ain’t had me a bath in four days. Lord, I prob’ly smell like I got sheepherders’ socks and dead fish in my back pocket. And worstest o’ all, you meaner’n-a-cornered-cottonmouth varmint, I miss my ox.”

He grinned. “Aside from all that, how do you feel?”

She mumbled a full minute’s worth of profanities into his chest.

An hour passed before Santiago slowed Quetzalcoatl again. A pool of muddy water lay before them, sending excitement racing through him. His mind spinning with the wonderful opportunity he’d just been given, it was a moment before he could alert Russia. “Look at that, Russia,” he finally said, his gaze still pinned to the water.

Unwilling to move her sore body, she turned only her head. There, just a few yards away, lay a small watering hole. It was little more than a large puddle, but she didn’t care. Water was water, and water meant a bath. Wiggling out of his arms, she jumped to the ground, landing on her bottom. Pain flowed through her, but her delight with the watering hole overcame it. “Fetch me my soap, Santiago. I’m fixin’ to git me a dippin’. I’m gonna scrub clean down to my bones.”

He supposed she could have a bath if she wanted one, but the water meant something much more important than that to him. “You’re
fixin’
to get a horse, too.” He dismounted, stepped over the heap she made on the ground, and ambled over to the water, Nehemiah trotting behind him. “Do you see these trees?”

Russia removed her bag from Quetzalcoatl’s saddle and began searching for her soap.

“Russia, turn around and look at all these mesquite saplings.”

She heard the voice of authority in his command. To satisfy the high-handed man, she glanced at the hundreds of saplings surrounding the water. The expression on Santiago’s face told her he expected her to be delighted by them. “Be still, my poundin’ heart!” she cried, clasping her hand over her chest in a dramatic gesture. “Lord have mercy, them trees make me jist chock-full o’ glee!” Hoping she’d satisfied him with her feigned enthusiasm, she returned her attention to the task of finding her soap.

“Russia, these mesquites mean that—”

“Jist lemme git my soap, Santiago, and I’ll go over there and turn some cartwheels over ‘em.” Digging deeply into her bag, she finally located the soap.

After shedding her clothes, she skipped to the shallow water and waded in. It rose only to mid-calf, so she decided to lie in it. “Git in, Santiago. It ain’t much and it’s a mite muddy, but if it was any better I couldn’t stand it and the sheriff wouldn’t allow it.”

His back to her, he didn’t answer. It puzzled her when he didn’t turn around. She took a moment to study him, realizing he was staring fixedly into the distance. Wondering what held his rapt attention, she sat up and looked in the same direction, but saw nothing except what she’d been looking at for days on end: masses of dry brush, rocks, cacti, withered trees, and patches of wildflowers. Figuring that Santiago was only daydreaming, she lay back down in the water.

“They’re out there, Russia,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping across the distance. Though he couldn’t see what he wanted to see with his eyes, he saw it in his mind, a vision so real he could almost hear the pounding of hundreds of hooves, could almost smell the scent of sun-heated horseflesh.

The mustangs. They were here, led by their stallion. And if Santiago had his way, that proud male would soon be forced to give up one of them.

He smiled. “What’s your favorite color?” Finally turning to look at her, he saw she was lying in the shallow pool, her face and the tops of her firm breasts the only parts of her not immersed in the water.

She ran the soap across her neck, sighing with contentment. “My favorite color? Blue.”

His smile faded; a frown replaced it. “There’s no such thing as a blue horse.”

“Horse?”

“The mesquites,” he mumbled, his mind working on what he was getting ready to do. He returned to Quetzalcoatl and removed the equipment and saddle from the horse’s back. His stallion would be unhindered without it, and speed was vital.

Russia glared at the mesquites one more time. “What the hell is it about them damn mesquites that’s got you so all-fired-up excited?”

After retrieving a long coil of rope from his saddlebag, Santiago mounted, scanning the distance again.

Russia was bewildered by his strange behavior. She staggered out of the water, soap in hand. “Where are you—”

“To get you a horse.”

Water dripped into her eyes. “
What
horse?”

Santiago twisted and tied the rope into a noseband that resembled a bridle complete with reins. “Mesquite is more abundant farther west. The fact that there are so many saplings concentrated near that watering hole proves that a herd of mustangs has been here. The horses brought them.”

She glanced at the small trees again. “Yeah, right, Santiago. Ever’body knows how them horses fancy mesquite trees. They pulled them saplin’s up over west, brung ‘emhere betwixt their teeth, and planted ’em.”

“Exactly. Only they didn’t bring them between their teeth. They ate mesquite beans and carried them here in their stomachs. The beans sprouted from manure. This area must belong to a particular stallion. He brought his herd here to water. And judging by the shallowness and murkiness of that watering hole, they haven’t been gone very long. Now what color horse do you want?”

“I—” She stopped speaking when she saw his head snap up. His gaze was directed at the horizon again. He smiled broadly.

“God, what a beauty,” he said.

She heard a loud whinny. Looking up, she watched a snow-white horse appear in the distance. He didn’t seem at all afraid. In fact, the arrogant steed trotted closer, his long mane brushing his knees. He was truly a majestic sight to behold.

Santiago tapped the rope bridle against his thigh. “That’s the master stallion, Russia. Watch how he paces. Other horses must be trained to pace like that. That one does it instinctively.”

“Oh, and here come his sweethearts!” Russia exclaimed, watching a herd of mares join the stallion. “What are they gonna do?”

Santiago saw the stallion’s ears begin to twitch and knew the pale steed was signaling to the lead mare. Instantly, a sturdy gray mare began to run. As Santiago knew they would, the other mares followed her. The stallion fell behind. Whenever one of his mares decreased her pace or began to separate from the bunch, the stallion quickly returned her to where he wanted her to be.

While the sound of their thundering flight roared in Santiago’s ears, the thrill of the challenge shimmered through his very soul. “You have five seconds to tell me what color horse you want, Russia.”

“Brown! White! No,
tan!
I don’t care! Yes, I care! A star! Git me one with a star on her head! Hurry, Santiago, they’re gittin’ away!” She began to jump up and down.

“Stay here.”

“The hell I will!” she shouted, already pulling her dress over her head and her boots onto her feet. Santiago was about to catch a wild mustang! She wasn’t about to miss witnessing the unmatched skills that had made him a legend in the eyes of other mustangers. “I’m climbin’ up on that ridge o’ rocks over there so’s I can see the whole thing!”

Santiago watched her scurry to the mound of large rocks. “Watch for Quetzalcoatl!” he shouted to her. “He’ll be coming back here once I’ve got your mare!” Shaking his head when she fell over a thick root on her way to the rocks, he urged Quetzalcoatl into a canter and finally into a ground-eating gallop. Even with a rider, the stallion caught up with the racing herd easily and soon outdistanced the bulk of it.

Santiago began running the herd, knowing that the strongest and fastest mares would lead and the others would lag behind. Then his choices would be narrowed.

After about fifteen minutes, he saw that there were only three mares who had successfully kept up with the lead mare. One was an Appaloosa, one was a bay, and the other was pitch black with one white stocking and a blazing star on her forehead. The astonishing length of her silky mane reminded Santiago of Russia’s hair.

He studied the black carefully, liking what he saw. She was small but exceedingly strong, and young enough to be Russia’s companion for a good many years to come. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence, and Santiago appreciated her excellent lines and surefootedness.

Because she was ahead of the herd, it wasn’t hard to isolate her from it. Santiago kept Quetzalcoatl racing beside her, gradually coercing his mount closer and closer to her. She kept moving over, and soon she’d moved over so far, she was no longer part of the herd.

Looking over his shoulder, Santiago noted the master stallion’s agitation, but he knew the horse was too wary of him to attempt to rescue the mare. And because Santiago hadn’t tried to steal the entire herd, the stallion would accept the loss of a single mare.

Keeping Quetzalcoatl close to the black, Santiago uncoiled the rope bridle but didn’t toss it. He didn’t believe in capturing a horse by roping any more than he believed in wearing spurs. He saw such things as cruel and unfair to the horse.

He would capture the mare the way he’d always caught these beautiful animals. He would simply mount her.

His leap to the mare’s back was quick and smooth. He threw his torso upon her neck and swept his right leg over her. In mere seconds he was riding her. His weight slowed her considerably, and before she had time to react, he slipped a loop of rope over her head and behind her ears, tightened it, then threw another loop around her nose, securing that one also. That accomplished, he took hold of the ends of the rope and the mare’s flowing mane.

She responded with renewed vigor and raw strength. Bucking violently in an attempt to rid herself of the man on her back, she snorted and shook with rage.

Her mane and Santiago’s powerful legs were his only means of staying mounted. It wasn’t easy, and the fact that it took all his expertise assured him the mare was just as strong, sturdy, and spirited as he’d suspected.

Although the flimsy noseband was his way of guiding her, he let her have her head for another quarter of an hour. She galloped furiously, her hooves beating the earth and sending dirt clouds flying all over Santiago. Then she slowed, reared, and bucked before taking off into a full gallop again. But no matter what device she tried, she was unable to pitch her rider. Finally, she slowed to a loping canter that soon faded to a brisk trot.

When Santiago sensed the beginnings of her surrender, he cooed Spanish words of assurance to her and gently tugged the ends of the rope. He knew there was a wealth of fight left in her, but he would do nothing to destroy that highly desired spirit. And so, when she began bucking and rearing again, he simply stayed mounted and continued speaking softly.

It was another half an hour before she slowed to a walk. Soon she stopped completely and stood there snorting her displeasure over what was happening to her. Santiago rubbed her shoulders firmly, all the while murmuring tender words. He even smiled at her when she turned her head and fixed her lovely black eyes on him.

The hardest part of the battle was won. Man and mare then began the journey back to where woman, stallion, and cat awaited them.

* * *

Russia fell in love with the mare the moment she saw her. Smiling with excitement, she couldn’t decide who was more magnificent—the beautiful mare or the wonderful man who rode her.

“Santiago,” she whispered. He’d been gone for only an hour and a half. When he’d left, he’d been chasing a herd of wild horses. As she’d watched him, she’d pondered the fact that he’d seemed just as feral as the horses he chased.