Rainbows and Rapture (40 page)

Slowly, the marshal lowered his gaze to the words printed beneath the striking picture:
Wanted for Murder—Santiago Zamora—Dead or Alive—
$10,000
Reward.

He sat back down, his eyes still riveted on the Wanted poster. “I haven’t heard anything about Zamora being wanted for murder.”

“Calavera ain’t near nothin’,” Wirt hastened to say, “and not many folks stop here. I reckon the news jist ain’t got here yet.”

The marshal tapped his long, thin fingers on the desk. “When did Zamora commit murder?”

“’Bout a month ago, sir,” Wirt replied in a low, fearful voice. “Shooted down some six people in Sharonville, Texas. Worst thing about it is that one of ’em was a three-year-old boy. Ever’ lawman in Texas is out fer him.”

“Sharonville? Where’s that?”

“It’s a small place near the Oklahoma border,” Wirt lied, having invented the town. “Zamora let loose that famous temper o’ his when a group o’ folks was admirin’ his horse. He tole ’em to git away from his mount. When they didn’t move fast enough, he shooted ‘emdead, then rided outta town. Had my daughter with him. Ya gotta help me, Marshal. Zamora’s comin’ here. He’s after me, and I’d have better luck growin’ crops by moonlight than I’ll have tryin’ to stay alive around that Mexican killer.”

The marshal stared at the Wanted poster for another long moment, then nodded. “I’ll round up some men from town and make sure they’re well armed. Don’t worry, Mr. Avery. As soon as Santiago Zamora arrives, we’ll be waiting for him. Your daughter’ll be back home where she belongs in no time.”

“You’ll arrest him.”

The marshal glanced at the small cell to his right. It was an enormous temptation to smile, but he kept his angular face stiff with seriousness. “I will. But a man like Santiago Zamora will put up a fight the likes of which Calavera has never seen. I’ve heard the stories about him. As you know, this is a small, peaceful town. As marshal, I have a duty to keep it that way. I’ll do everything within my power to prevent myself from having to do it, but if Zamora doesn’t cooperate with me, with the law—I— Well, I’ll be forced to hang him.”

Wirt could barely contain his glee. “Then me and my daughter’ll be safe again. Glory to God in heaven.” He rose and shook the lawman’s hand. “’Predate yer help.”

Still battling the strong urge to smile, the marshal nodded sympathetically. “It’s my job, Mr. Avery.”

Feigning humility, Wirt bowed his head and left quietly.

When the door closed, Marshal Cobbett Wilkens, newly arrived from Rock Springs, Texas, looked back at the Wanted poster and finally allowed himself to smile. The poster was a fake, he knew. He wouldn’t, however, let on that he was aware of its fraudulence.

His smile widened
.
Revenge.
The word sent excitement coursing through him. Santiago Zamora would now be forced to make amends for humiliating him. For causing the citizens of Rock Springs to run him out of town. Yes, the arrogant son of a bitch would pay.

The cost would be his life.

Caressing the drawing, Marshal Wilkens threw back his head and laughed until his sides ached.

* * *

Santiago tossed away the squirming caterpillar Nehemiah had just given him and cast his gaze across the campfire. Russia lay on the other side, firelight and a gentle night breeze dancing through her hair. Stretched out on the blankets, wearing one of her new sheer night rails, and surrounded by a riot of colorful wildflowers, she presented a tempting sight.

Yes, he was tempted. He had been ever since leaving Whispering Oaks that morning. But while riding, he hadn’t found it too hard to ignore the temptation. Now, tonight, it was impossible.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked.

She brushed the palm of her hand over a mound of scarlet cardinal flowers. “I’m warm.”

He rubbed the stubble on his chin, trying to come up with something else to say. “You rode well today,” he remarked, flicking pebbles into the nearby shadows.

She frowned at him. “I failed off all day long! Spended more time on the ground than I did in the saddle.”

He nodded. She was the worst rider he’d seen in his entire life. “But you always got back on. You were afraid, but you didn’t give up. I—I was proud of you today, Russia.”

His compliment made her feel beyond wonderful. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to her in years. She was so touched, she couldn’t find the voice with which to thank him. She smiled instead.

He was enchanted by that small, shy smile.
God,
she could be so bold sometimes, he thought. So outrageously blunt. And in the next second, she was blushing. There were two sides to Russia Valentine. One was the saucy and incorrigible woman who brought him the laughter he’d believed he’d never hear again. The other was the shy and uncertain girl who drew from him a tenderness he’d thought long dead.

Santa Maria
, how he wanted her in his arms tonight. How he wanted to tell her…

Tell her what? he wondered. About his feelings for her? Dammit, what
were
those feelings?

He didn’t realize how long he pondered that question until he looked at Russia again and saw that she was asleep. Disappointment rose within him, for he’d wanted to talk to her tonight. He’d been separated from her for a week back in Whispering Oaks, and he was anxious to make up for that time.

He thought about waking her, but decided against it. They’d been riding all day, and no doubt she was exhausted.

His mouth quirked when Nehemiah trotted to his side and dropped a hawk feather on his stockinged foot. With a twist of his ankle, Santiago got it off. “Why do you keep bringing me things I don’t want?” he asked the purring cat. “The only thing of value you have that I want…is Russia.”

His dark gaze alighted upon her sleeping form. He heard her breathing. Frowning, he realized it wasn’t peaceful breathing. She was still asleep, he knew, but something was wrong.

He hurried to where she lay and watched her stir restlessly in her sleep.
The nightmare.
He realized then that those sleeping monsters were awakening inside her. Kneeling beside her, he swept his finger across her hot cheek. “Russia?”

She began to thrash beneath her blankets. “No!”

Her shout ripped through Santiago. The need to protect her from whatever haunted her dreams was the most powerful thing he’d ever felt. He lifted her into his arms. “Russia, wake—”

“Stop! Don’t—”

“Russia! Open your eyes!” He hugged her to his chest, cradling her head on his shoulder. “Russia!”

Russia.
The name swirled into her dream, causing her confusion. Why was he calling her Russia? That wasn’t her name. And why did his voice seem to be coming from a hundred miles away? He was standing right in the threshold of her room, a mere five feet from the foot of her bed. “Don’t—don’t come in here,” she murmured shakily.

“Who, Russia?” Santiago demanded. “Who’s coming?”

She watched him take a step into the room.
Come to Wirt, darlin’. Come to yer sweet ole Wirt.
“No! God, please, no!”

Santiago saw her stomach heave and realized she was on the verge of retching. Quickly, he held her up, supporting her chin in the cup of his hand. He waited. Nothing happened. “Russia? Russia?”

Russia,
she heard. He was speaking to her again, calling her by that strange name. He was touching her. Wirt. With his big, scary hands. He was pinching her. Making her breasts ache, her nipples sting. “You’re hurtin’ me!”

Santiago knew he wasn’t holding her tightly enough to hurt her and realized she was dreaming of pain. Someone was hurting her in her dream, just like last time. He laid her back down in his arms. Taking her chin in his hand again, he moved her head from side to side. “Russia! Open your eyes, do you hear me? Open your eyes!”

He felt no relief when she obeyed his command. One look into her beautiful eyes told him she was far, far away from him. He saw her stark terror and knew she remained asleep, those monsters holding her fast. Bending closer to her face, he shouted, “Russia! Dammit, Russia, wake up!”

She recoiled in wrenching revulsion. Wirt was bending over her. She tried to get away, but his fat body kept her flat to the bed. Pain flooded through her. She felt broken. Ripped and mangled. “Blood! Oh, God, blood! Stop!”

Santiago felt her horror. It shook his arms as it ravaged through her slender body. He hated the way it felt, hated that he wasn’t in that dream to protect her from whatever heinous thing it was that was hurting her, making her bleed
.
“Madre de Dios,
Russia!”

He quickly subdued her when she began pummeling his chest; he was afraid to let go of her even for a moment for fear she’d injure herself. Astonished by the unusual strength with which she battled him, he held both her wrists and wrapped his own leg around hers, which were kicking violently. “Russia, for God’s sake!”

“No! Let me go! Don’t!” Wirt was turning her over now, but keeping a bone-breaking hold on her. His terrible hands, sticky with her blood, were sliding down her back. He climbed onto her again. This time from behind.

She stopped fighting him. She couldn’t win. But still she cried. Silently.

When she suddenly ceased her struggles, when she became absolutely motionless in his arms, Santiago straightened and looked down at her.

Soundless though her tears were, they seemed to scream out her torment. Agony poured through him. Gently, he laid her back down again, seizing the opportunity to retrieve his canteen. “Russia,” he murmured to her, sprinkling water on her face. “Russia. Russia. Russia.”

Russia.
The name wafted through her mind again. She wished she could understand why Wirt was calling her that.

She felt something cold on her face. Her tears were hot. What was cold?

“It’s me, Russia,” Santiago cooed. “Please wake up.” He poured water into his hand and smoothed it over her cheeks, down her neck, across her chest. “Open your eyes again and look at me. Look at me, Russia, and see who I am.”

She shivered, unable to understand what was making her cold. Someone told her to open her eyes. He called her Russia again.
Russia. Russia.
The name began to sound familiar. She opened her eyes, trying to ready herself for the horrible visage she knew she would see.

The image wasn’t horrible. It wasn’t Wirt’s. Whose was it?

“Paloma,”
Santiago whispered.

Paloma.
The word ribboned through her.
Paloma.
It meant “dove.” She knew that, but how did she know?

She could see sable hair. Why wasn’t it red anymore? It fell close to her cheeks and smelled good.

She saw a pale scar on dark skin. A knife had caused it. She couldn’t understand how she knew that. She loved the scar. Why? What did it mean to her?

She felt fear leaving her and tried to call it back, unable to understand why it was going away. She was supposed to be afraid. Terrified. Instead, she was beginning to feel warm and cared for.

She caught the scent of a blazing fire. It was nearby, snapping crisply. She didn’t have a fireplace in her bedroom. So where was the fire?

She saw the flames reflected in midnight eyes. She’d seen those eyes before. She’d gazed into them often. Whose were they, and why was their soft glitter so beautiful to her?

“Are you waking up now, Russia?”

“Russia,” she repeated softly. “Russia…Valentine. Santiago. Santiago Zamora.”

She was safe. The knowledge propelled her even closer to the man who offered that safety to her. She wound her arms around his back, pressed her cheek to his chest, and knew astonishing security at the sound of the heartbeat beneath her ear.

Santiago felt his shirt grow moist and hot. She was crying again.
“Santa Maria,”
he groaned, his voice thick with emotion, so many emotions. “Russia, please tell me what—”

“Jist hold me.”

“I am, but—”

“Hold me. Tight.”

He did. As tight as he could without hurting her. “Russia, tell me what you’re thinking. For the love of God, tell me.”

His powerful embrace made her sigh. Things she’d never told a soul broke free of their chains and began floating around inside her. She couldn’t recapture them. “Did— Did y’know I cain’t never have no babies?”

He frowned, his bewildered mind trying desperately to digest this new and unexpected bit of information. “No,” he whispered down to her. “I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

“I love babies. I love children. But I won’t never have none.”

When she began trying to curl her body into a ball, he helped her do it, adjusting his own body so that the tight form of hers fit securely to him. “Why, Russia?” he asked softly. “Why can’t you have any children?”

She felt her eyes sting, but didn’t cry. There were no more tears left inside her. Thousands of thoughts, thousands of memories, sped through her. It was impossible for her to sort through them.

Santiago saw so many emotions in her eyes. They were all tangled. “Russia, what does your dream have to do with your inability to have children?”

Because her thoughts and memories were so hopelessly intertwined, she didn’t know what else to do but speak whichever ones came to her lips. “I almost died. But I didn’t die. A woman finded me. I was layin’ on the side o’ the road. She was drivin’ by in her wagon, and she picked me up. I didn’t weigh very much. I never had enough to eat, so I didn’t weigh very much.”

He didn’t reply. He was too confused to think of any words.

“I shoulda leaved home when Mama died, Santiago. But I was so young. I didn’t have no money a’tall. And where would I have gone, anyway? The farm was far, far away from ever’thing, out in the middle o’ nowheres. I remember there weren’t nothin’ but miles o’ fields and woods ever’where I looked. But I shoulda leaved. If I had… If only I had, none of it woulda happened.”

He felt her body grow rigid again. His own tensed when he realized she was returning to the subject of her nightmare.

“The woman who finded me on the side o’ the road, Santiago? Well, she drived me a long way. There weren’t no nearby towns. There was blood ever’where. It maked me sick. I emptied my stomach till there weren’t nothin’ but pain left inside me. I was so afraid he’d come after me. I begged the woman to drive faster, but she only had a old mule, and he didn’t do nothin’ but walk real slow. I ain’t never been so afraid. I jist knowed I’d look over the side o’ the wagon bed and there he’d be.”