Rainbows and Rapture (45 page)

Mumbled approvals filled the air.

“No!” Russia screamed, struggling to free herself from Wirt’s brawny hold. “Marshal, you’re makin’ a mistake! Santiago didn’t kill nobody! That picture was drawed by a man down in—”

“Shut your lyin’ mouth!” Wirt shouted. He raised his hand and slammed his open palm across her mouth, then kept it crushed to her lips. “No daughter o’ mine’s gonna lie fer some stinkin’ murderer!”

Santiago’s grief and fury knew no bounds when he saw Russia’s tears. They flowed from her wide, fear-filled eyes and slipped over Wirt’s huge and filthy hand. Without realizing what he was doing, he started for her. He’d taken only two steps when a hard object hammered down on the back of his head.

The pain was excruciating. Consciousness slipped slowly away. He fell to his knees. The day began to darken. He could see nothing but Russia.

He whispered to her. “I love you.”

He couldn’t hear his own words. Desperate for her to know what he’d said, he whispered them again. “I love you.” His declaration was still soundless.

His body toppled forward; his face hit hard, rocky ground. “Russia, I love you.”

His words blew across the dirt before blackness settled over him.

Numb with terror, Russia held onto the saddle horn.

Wirt sat behind her, panting into her ear, rubbing himself lewdly against her back. Moonlight illuminated the lathered sweat on his mount’s neck. The horse had been running for hours, and although Russia realized he was close to exhaustion, she prayed he’d go on forever.

For she knew that once he stopped, her nightmare would truly begin.

Had Santiago already lost his life? Was he now, at this moment, swinging from a noose? Or had they shot him? The questions battered into her, adding to her already unbearable stress and pain.

She slumped forward, her dazed eyes staring at the ground beneath the horse’s beating hooves. They sped through a smattering of wild marigolds and a thick bed of emerald clover. Moonlight cast a silver sheen upon the fragile plants. It was only this morning when she’d sat in the clover and held the marigolds Santiago had given her. God, this morning seemed like years ago.

The clover gradually gave way to spots of grass and rocks, then sandy dirt out of which grew scraggly mesquite seedlings. The labored horse crossed the border into Mexico. He began to stumble then and was shuddering for breath when he abruptly stopped. Russia’s prayer that he continue never reached heaven. She knew then that she was at Wirt’s mercy.

Muttering profanities, Wirt dismounted. Wildly, he searched the night-shrouded distance. Santiago Zamora was dead. He was almost sure of it. At the very least, the man was in jail, locked up in a cell, and he would be hung tomorrow.

But Wirt couldn’t shake his fear, couldn’t forget the horrible promise he’d seen in Santiago’s black eyes. If there were any way at all, the gunslinger would follow, even if it meant coming back from the dead. Wirt continued staring into the darkness, terrified he’d see the infamous gunman riding out of the night, maybe out of hell.

His shoulders heaving, he jerked Russia out of the saddle. “Yer gonna have to hold on fer a while, darlin’,” he told her, his hand closing around her breast, his fingers pinching her cruelly.

She pushed against his hand. “Hold on fer what, you stinkin’ son of a—”

“Fer more o’ this.” Quickly, he pulled her into his arms, his lips crushing down on hers. “Yer mine,” he growled into her mouth. “And I aim to prove that to ya in a way that ya won’t never fergit.”

On the verge of being sick to her stomach, Russia managed to turn her face away from his. Every horrible memory she had of him slithered through her mind, causing her to shake with fear and revulsion.

Wirt wrapped his sausagelike fingers around a lock of her hair and jerked her head around. “It was wrong what ya done, runnin’ from me. Ya was all I had left, and ya runned away. I lost yer ma, then I lost the farm. It weren’t fair, do ya hear me! How much losin’ do ya think a man can take? Yer gonna pay fer runnin’ away. I
own
ya, and ya ain’t gittin’ away again.”

She glared at him. “I won’t never be yours,” she whispered. “Nothin’ you do will ever make me yours.”

“Yeah?” Without warning, he slapped her. Hard.

Russia felt dizzy with pain. Her eyes seemed crossed; she saw two Wirt Averys towering above her. She began to sway.

He yanked at her arm, his beefy hand bruising her tender flesh. Burying his huge face in her neck, he kissed and nipped at her moist skin. “Ya had that comin’ to ya. Ya have to git punished fer runnin’, and I got a lot o’ punishments in mind fer ya.”

He lifted his head and struck her again, catching her in his arms when she fell. “We gotta git away. Ain’t got no horse, so we’ll walk. You come on with Wirt, darlin’,” he whispered down to her. “Come on with yer sweet ole Wirt.” Smiling, he began to walk.

Semiconscious, Russia tried to see and understand where they were going, but soon lost all sense of direction. The man didn’t tire; he walked for what seemed all night. Her suspicions were proven true by the arrival of dawn.

The weak light shone upon a battered wooden signpost. Wirt stopped beside it. “Mis—Miseri—Misericordia,” he read. “Must be the name o’ some town. Some town nearby.” Pulling Russia behind him, he continued on.

Russia closed her eyes. Nearby, she repeated to herself. Soon, very soon, Wirt would assault her. Like he had before. She’d fight him this time. He would kill her. She knew he would. She’d goad him into it. Death was infinitely preferable to a lifetime of abuse at Wirt Avery’s hands.

Misericordia, she thought dully. She’d never been there, but Santiago had. Once upon a time, he’d been born there.

And she would die there.

So much for happily-ever-afters. Defeat crept through her exhausted body, her broken heart. With it came sorrow so deep, it defied even her tears.

* * *

The noose hung from a branch of a huge oak tree. Santiago could see it from the small, barred window of his cell. Marshal Wilkens had told him last night it was there, but not until dawn had broken could Santiago see it.

He stared at it now. The hanging was set for eight o’clock.

“A breakfast hanging,” the marshal had proclaimed. “A change of pace from the usual afternoon-picnic hanging.”

A breakfast hanging, Santiago thought, his gaze riveted on the circle of rope. Women would pack hard-boiled eggs, fried ham, biscuits, and jam. Maybe he’d smell fresh bacon right before he died. Perhaps richly scented coffee as well.

The children would watch. For as long as it took him to die, they’d lay down their toys. They’d be wide-eyed and awed, but not sorry. Someone would have told them the stories, the grisly tales, and they’d be glad he was being put to death. He was the stuff of children’s nightmares.

Nightmares.

Russia’s. Had they come to pass yet? He laid his chin on the rough and rocky windowsill and closed his eyes, engulfed in helpless rage.

He’d paced his cell all night, his bootheels creating a nonstop clatter on the wood floor. The sound irritated him, but he couldn’t stop pacing, couldn’t sit, not for a second. His nerves were stretched to the point where they caused him to ache all over.

He wasn’t afraid of death; he never had been. But to die like this…like the criminals he’d hunted down. To die like this…when Russia needed him so badly…

He turned and walked to the cell door, raising his hands to the bars, curling his fingers around the cold black steel. He looked closely at his hands. It no longer mattered that they were dirty and covered with calluses.

Raising his gaze, he spied his Colts. They were still in his gun belt, which was draped over the back of a chair near the door along with his straps of bullets. His dagger gleamed from the marshal’s desktop. His hat had fallen to the floor next to a coat rack. Even from where he stood he could see the dust on it.

He watched the door. It would soon open, and in would come Marshal Wilkens. Coward that he was, the man wouldn’t come alone; he’d bring armed townsmen with him. Without his weapons, Santiago knew he stood no chance of overpowering them.

Nor could he escape before they arrived. He’d tried. All night, in between pacing.

His thoughts wandered aimlessly. He remembered Russia’s prayers. The ones she’d whispered in the church in Rosario. She’d asked Mary to keep him safe.

His shoulders slumped. If only the prayer had been heard. If it had, he’d be able to save Russia. As it was, he was powerless to help her.

More memories came to him.
And they lived happily ever after.
The words swirled through him, reverberating in his mind so loudly he could have sworn he really heard them with his ears.
Happily ever after.

The three words would never come to pass. Not for him, and not for Russia. He groaned, hearing his own despair in the sound he made. His wretched grief and impotent fury.

He pressed his hot forehead against the cold bars and waited for the hour of his execution.

In the next moment, he heard a sound that startled him. His head snapped up; he stared at the door, sure it would open in the next second.

It didn’t. But he could still hear the small sound. It was coming from behind him, he realized suddenly. He spun on his heel, his eyes widening.

There, behind the bars of the window, sat Nehemiah, a big green bug clamped in his mouth. Two long steps were all Santiago needed to reach the cat. His heart pounding with emotion, he slipped his hand between the bars, grasped the skin behind Nehemiah’s head, and pulled him into the cell. For the first time since he’d been thrown into the jail, he sat down. The rickety cot squeaked and sagged beneath his weight. The big green bug fell to the floor.

Santiago held the tabby close to his chest. Here, he mused sadly, was the last friend he’d see on this earth. Here, in his arms, was Nehemiah, Russia’s baby. Deep emotion rippled through him; he said nothing, but he had the distinct feeling there was no need for words. The cat seemed to detect his every thought. He wanted to hold Nehemiah until the marshal came, close, like he was now, next to his chest while remembering…remembering.

But Nehemiah had other ideas.

“Wait,” he said when the frisky tabby suddenly jumped out of his arms and trotted through the cell bars.

His head held high, Nehemiah padded into the marshal’s office. He headed toward Santiago’s hat.

Santiago watched the cat step into the hat. Nehemiah spent long minutes turning around in it. Then, as if bored or too wide awake to sleep, he hopped out of it. Santiago walked toward the bars, his eyes never leaving the gray tabby.

Nehemiah spied a small knot of tattered rope lying beside a cabinet. He lay flat on his belly, his pupils dilated, his tail swishing. Then he attacked, his paws landing directly upon his prey, the rope. Joyously, he rolled onto his back, his hind claws slashing at the bit of rope he held in his front paws.

And then he stilled, staring at the ceiling for a moment before righting himself and carrying the rope to Santiago.

Overcome with poignant feelings and bittersweet memories, Santiago swallowed convulsively. He bent, took the rope from Nehemiah’s mouth, and thought of all the times the cat had given him presents. He’d always refused them. He wouldn’t now. Clutching the rope in one hand, he patted Nehemiah’s head with the other.
“Gracias,”
he murmured. “Thank you.”

Encouraged, Nehemiah then brought him a bullet shell he found by the door. From the marshal’s desk he retrieved a small comb, a red kerchief, and a scrap of coffee-splattered paper. He liked the desk. Liked what was on top of it. He swiped everything off, peering over the edge as the stuff fell to the floor. When there was nothing left to throw off, he jumped down, then noticed there were things hanging from the side of the desk. He liked those, too.

Santiago stopped breathing when he saw Nehemiah batting a ring of keys. Suspended from a nail on the side of the desk, they shone brightly, clanked loudly.

They were the cell keys.

Nehemiah soon had them off the nail. They banged to the floor.

Santiago broke out in a cold sweat when the cat began swatting the keys all around the room. They slid from one corner to the next, Nehemiah scurrying after them. Under a chair they went, then next to Santiago’s hat. Nehemiah took great delight in catching them, freeing them, then sending them on their way again.

And then he tired of playing with them. He sat on them. Sat there and looked around, bored. Finally he straightened, picked up the keys between his teeth, and trotted toward the cell.

Straining to believe the miracle unfolding before his very eyes, Santiago didn’t move while Nehemiah approached him. The keys jangled from the cat’s mouth. “Bring them to me,” he whispered. “
Santa Maria
, bring them here.”

Gently, Nehemiah dropped the keys onto the top of Santiago’s left boot.

His fingers shaking, Santiago lifted the keys, squeezing them so hard that one of them sliced into his palm, drawing blood. There were five of them. The third one opened the cell.

In minutes, his Colts hung from his hips. Crisscrossing his broad chest were his bullet straps, and his dagger shone brilliantly from the leather sheath tied around his calf. He was no longer Santiago Zamora, criminal doomed to die. He was again Santiago Zamora, fabled gunslinger.

Every shred of defeat he’d felt earlier fled, replaced by a determination so great his body shook with it. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his mission, the most important one of his entire life.

I’ll find you, Russia. Wherever he takes you, I’ll find you.

Strength, like a raging tide, streamed into his body. He swiped his hat from the floor and Nehemiah into his arms. The door whined as he cracked it open. He saw a few people strolling down the street, a couple in front of the general store. Several milled about mere yards from the steps that led to the marshal’s office.