Rainbows and Rapture (8 page)

Without looking up at her, he finished loading his pistols and slid them back into his belt. “I didn’t miss, and don’t ever call me names again.”

“I’ll call you whatever comes to mind,
you
, you bone-brained
booby!
”

His jaw began twitching.
No one
had ever dared to call him names! He glared at her, determined to set her straight once and for all. But before he could get the stiff admonishment out of his mouth, he was caught off guard by her eyes. One was blue, and the other was green, splashed with the same blue. He’d never seen anything so odd in his life. “You have two different-colored eyes.”

“Really?” she asked, pretending astonishment. “Well, I’ll be a witch’s titty! I ain’t never seed my own eyes before, and I sure as hell didn’t know they was two different colors! How can I ever repay you fer lettin’ me in on such a grand secret?”

He stiffened. Without a word, he mounted. Once in the saddle, he noticed something black lying on his horse’s withers, directly in front of the saddle horn.

It was the beetle. How the cat had managed to climb onto the horse without scaring the skittish stallion was beyond Santiago. He picked up the dead insect and flung it far before urging his mount into a slow trot.

Russia watched him ride away. “Licorice and lice, Zamora. You and me is sure in fer some kinda time, ain’t we?”

She climbed onto the seat of her cart. After setting Nehemiah beside her, she gave him a thorough once-over, but found no injury whatsoever. The cat was so well, he was purring.

Feeling guilty for overreacting, she sat back and thought about what Santiago had done. She’d never shot a gun in her life, but even so she didn’t think killing a mess of snakes without hurting Nehemiah had been an easy thing to do. And yet Santiago had made it look so simple.

She realized then that he’d earned his dangerous reputation. The men in the saloon might have embellished the tales about him, but they hadn’t been exaggerating his abilities. Looking up, she centered her gaze on Santiago’s broad back. Even from so far away, she could see the flash of his Colts. She now had proof that he knew exactly how to use them.

A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Wirt Avery,” she whispered, “wherever you are, you’d best say your prayers. You—”

“Dammit, Russia, come on!” Santiago shouted, waving his arm.

She set the cart in motion, her slight grin turning into a huge smile. “Yeah, Wirt, you ole bastard,” she said merrily. “I believe it’s plumb nelly safe to say that you’re about to meet your match in Santiago Zamora.”

After what had been the longest, most frustrating day of his life, Santiago decided to stop and make camp in a clear, moonlit spot. Russia had not yet arrived, but he knew she was in the near distance. He could hear her damn bells jingling. Muttering Spanish curses, he made a fire.

They’d traveled from dawn to nighttime and had covered only eleven miles. True, Russia had tried to cooperate with his demands that she hurry, but her ox was simply unable to keep up. At the rate they were going, there was no telling when or where they’d come across Avery. The ox was going to add days to the journey, and that meant spending more endless and troublesome days with Russia.

For the thousandth time since morning, Santiago wondered how he could induce her to accept a horse. He knew he’d have no trouble providing her with a fast mount; there were mustangs in the area. Not only had he caught them around here before, but he’d seen a wild stallion earlier in the day. He’d recognized the proud horse as a master stallion, one that commanded a herd of mares.

There was no doubt about it, Santiago mused while staring into the flames of the fire. The mares were hidden somewhere close by. He could turn one of them into a mount far better than any he’d be able to buy. And he’d need only a few days to do it.

The only problem was how to get Russia to agree.

“Well, it’s about damn time you decided to stop!” Russia huffed as she pulled Little Jack Horner’s reins and yanked off her hat. “I thought we was gonna ride clear through the night, and I’m so hungry my belly button’s rubbin’ a blister on my backbone!” She jumped out of the cart and looked at the fire. “Y’didn’t eat without me, did you?”

He ignored her ranting and raked his gaze down her body. The longer he stared at it, the farther his imagination began to run.

“Zamora?”

A long moment passed before he was able to move his eyes away from her. He opened his saddlebag, took out a pan, and laid it over the fire. “You’ve been eating all day, Russia,” he said, bits of his sensual fantasy still lingering in his mind. “I thought I heard you say that you didn’t like to eat while moving, but every time I turned around, I saw you stuffing something else in your mouth. How can you be hungry?”

She watched him pour a bit of water into the hot pan before he added a heap of dried meat to it. The smoky smell of the beef made her stomach growl. “I’m hungry even when I’m full,” she said, eyeing the simmering food. “If you’d gone hungry as many times as I have, you’d be the same way.”

Though she turned away quickly, Santiago didn’t miss the glimmer of sadness in her eyes. For one short moment he wondered what had caused it.

“Can I have some o’ that meat?” she asked, her back to him while she unhitched Little Jack Horner. “I done ate ever’thing I brung. I figgered it was all right to do that since you’re s’posed to be catchin’ all our meals.”

“Your caterwauling has scared every animal around into the next county. We’ll probably starve before this is over.”

She felt like smacking him. “Can I have some meat, or not? I’m feelin’ plumb nelly malflourished.”

He threw a few red chili peppers into the pan. Upon further thought, he tossed in several more. Grinning, he said, “The word is
malnourished
, and yes, you can have as much meat as you can eat.”

She finished unhitching the ox. Facing Santiago, she saw his grin. “Well, tinklin’ bracelets and slimy snail trails, look at you smilin’! You oughta show that smile more often, y’know? Them white teeth o’ yours look real good next to your dark skin.”

There she went again, he thought, complimenting him. Like before, he didn’t know how to respond to such unfamiliar flattery, nor could he come up with a reason for it.

He knew only that he’d put a lot of chili in the meat.

Well, who the hell cared if the blackmailing little twit couldn’t eat it? It wasn’t
his
fault that she’d devoured several days’ worth of food all in one day, and he was entitled to enjoy his dinner the way he liked it. His jaw clenched, he removed the pan of meat from the fire and laid a thin sheet of metal across the blaze. When it was hot, he heated tortillas on it.

Russia watched him tear off a piece of tortilla. Holding it in his fingers, he dipped it into the meat pan, pinching up a section of the softened beef with it. He then ate the entire biteful all together.

“Ain’t you never heared of a fork?” she asked.

He tore off another piece of warm tortilla. “This works better.” Again he demonstrated the Mexican use of a tortilla.

She had to admit it was practical. Wanting to try it herself, she sat down beside him and reached for a tortilla. She pulled a piece of it off and pinched up some meat just as she’d seen Santiago do. “Real nice o’ you to share with me, Zamora.” She popped the bite into her mouth and began to chew.

He saw her eyes water and widen. Her cheeks reddened. An expression of pain flitted across her face. He couldn’t believe it when she managed to swallow.

“You damn varmint!” she sputtered and pursed her lips to quickly inhale a cool breath of air into her burning mouth. “You mean-thoughted, stone-hearted, wickederer’n the devil
varmint!”

He listened to her rant and rave, glad the spitfire in her had returned.
This
Russia he could handle. It was the sweet one who baffled him. “What’s the matter? Too much chili?”

She snatched his canteen from the ground and drank deeply of the pure water. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she glared at him. “Y’know, Zamora, if you was to ever dream you was dead, the heat would wake you up. Where do you git off lettin’ me eat that—”

“This is what I like to eat. I didn’t cram it down your throat. You begged for it.”

“Well, you shoulda tole me you dumped fire into it!” She looked at the meat longingly. Her shoulders slumped when she saw Santiago reach for the very last tortilla. “Reckon I’ll jist have to go hungry tonight.”

He didn’t comment.

“I hope I don’t die o’ starvation before mornin’.”

He tore off a piece of the tortilla.

“Would you gimme a decent buryment if I die tonight?”

“Burial.”

“Whatever. Will y’give me one?”

Chewing, he studied the stars.

“I want a cross on my grave. Flowers, too.”

Without looking at her, he handed her the last scrap of tortilla.

She gulped it down, then rubbed her stomach. “God,” she muttered. “I ate so much I feel like I’m gonna explode.”

He kept his gaze centered on the star-sprinkled sky, but heard her heavy sigh. Watching her from the corner of his eye, he saw her get up and go to her cart. She rummaged through the back of it for a moment before pulling forth a wad of white cloth. He wondered what it was, but refused to ask. He continued to watch her, however, and was puzzled when she slipped behind a tangle of thick brash.

He frowned when her boots came flying through the air. One hit the side of the cart and bounced to the ground. The other got caught in a branch of a scrub oak. Following the boots, her dress came sailing out, snagging on a yucca. Her undergarments were next. They floated all around, her panties landing directly in Santiago’s lap. He picked them up, noticing the word “Sunday” stitched on them.

Holding the bit of silkiness within his callused palm, he realized they were still warm from the heat of Russia’s body. Desire stirred, bringing his fantasies back to mind. “Russia,” he called softly. “What are
you
…”

His voice faded when she stepped out from behind the thicket, dressed in a diaphanous sleeping gown. Though her long, thick hair shielded much of her body from his hungry gaze, what he could see was sufficient to make him forget to take a breath. “…doing?” he finally finished.

She returned to her cart. “I was puttin’ on my nightgown. Y’don’t ’spect me to sleep in my clothes, do you?”

Words defied him; he shook his head instead.

From the back of her cart Russia dragged a small feather tick, a tiny pillow, and a bright patchwork quilt. Unaware that Santiago was watching every move she made, she arranged her sleeping equipment near the fire, then snuggled into her bed.

He felt extreme disappointment when she pulled the quilt up under her chin. Absently, he stroked his thumb across her lacy panties.

Russia turned her head and saw her underwear in his hand. “What are you doin’ with my panties?”

He looked down and saw how tenderly he was caressing them. “You threw them at me,” he explained, crushing them into a tight ball.

“Purty, ain’t they? Most underdrawers is made o’ plain cotton, but not mine. Silky ones cost a lot more since I git ’em special maked, but I like somethin’ soft next to my— Uh…well, you know.”

He did, indeed, know. The thought was highly arousing.

Russia saw the slight tilt of his lips and blushed. “Gimme back my panties. I only got one pair that says Sunday, y’know.”

He tossed them into her cart and tried to take his mind off the fact that she was almost naked. “Where were you before Rock Springs?” he asked, desire building steadily.

She noticed a slight tremor in his voice. Maybe he was cold. There
was
a gusty wind blowing tonight, and he’d let the fire die down to only a few glowing embers.

She got out of her bed, retrieved a thin blanket from her cart, and returned to Santiago. Wrapping it around his shoulders, she made sure it was tucked in well all around him.

As she circled him, he couldn’t help but look at her body. As if the gown were made of fine mist, he could see straight through it. Her legs brushed against his arms, her hips against his cheeks. When she leaned down behind him, her breasts rubbed across his back.

And her extraordinary hair swept past his face, barely touching him. It smelled of sunbeams and breeze and whispers. Silk and splendor. It smelled like everything soft he could think of.

He burned. He longed to catch her in his arms, lower her to the ground, and feel the beat of her heart against his chest. He yearned to claim her, to know every part of her body. “Russia—”

“Your voice was shakin’,” she explained, adjusting the blanket around his neck. “I figgered you was cold, so you can use this here blanket.”

Her explanation aroused in him a feeling that transcended desire. She’d thought he was cold. Was she concerned about him? Why? What difference did it make to her whether or not he was cold?

Her consideration made him more than uncomfortable. Many years had passed since anyone had shown him any sort of care. He’d been forced to run far away from that kindness then, and he refused to accept it now, either.

He yanked the blanket off. “I’m not cold!”

She frowned down at him, baffled by his sudden anger. “Well, all right! But you ain’t gotta act so ugly about it, do you? Great and greasy gobs o’ gallopin’ goose hair, Zamora, I was only tryin’ to be nice.”

He bolted to his feet and stalked away from the dying fire. “I don’t recall asking you to be nice.”

Her frown deepened. “I ain’t never heared o’ needin’ permission to be nice to somebody. Why cain’t I be nice to you?”

He jammed his fingers through his hair and stared at the distant darkness. “Because I say so.”

“Well, that’s jist plumb nelly
dumb
. Do you tell ever’body not to be nice, or jist me?”

He broke a twig off a wilted crabapple tree. He never had to tell anyone how to act. Everyone always acted the same—afraid. So afraid that no one even got near him unless it was absolutely necessary.