Desert Dreams (15 page)

He
held her around the waist with one arm while his other hand plunged down the
front of her shirtwaist, pulling out banknotes and letting them fall to the
floor.

She
struck out, slapping him hard across the jaw. As soon as the sting of his skin
against her palm brought her back to her senses, she regretted her rashness.

Rollins
howled like a wild animal. He crushed the breath from her, and this time when
his hand groped inside her blouse, it closed around a breast. His mouth covered
hers before she could twist her head away. She tasted the foulness of his
tongue as it sought to invade her mouth through her clenched teeth.

"You
got some spunk, girl!" He growled. "Goddammit, I like a woman that
puts up a good fight! I'm
gonna
enjoy taming
you!"

With
one hand, she pushed against his chest with all her might. With the other, she
groped in her pocket, her hand closing over the pistol. She was about to shove
it into his side when the change in his expression halted her. He glanced past
her over her head. Tension tightened the muscles in the arm that banded her
waist.

Before
she could react, he produced a knife from somewhere and pressed it against her
throat. She couldn't help the tiny gasp of horror that escaped her dry lips at
the feel of cold steel against her flesh. Her fingers went numb. She dropped
the pistol, well aware that he could slit her throat before she could squeeze
off a shot.

"Don't
try it, mister," Rollins warned, "unless you want her throat slit ear
to ear."

In
the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Rafe Montalvo. How had he known
where she was? Why wasn't he sleeping after all the laudanum he'd swallowed
tonight? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that he was here.

"Just
want me a drink," Rafe said, easing his hand away from his revolver. He
turned to face the bar as if he hadn't a care in the world. "It's no
concern of mine."

This
can't be happening,
she thought with the only part of her mind that was still functioning. It had
to be a dream, a horrible nightmare. Rafe had to help her. He had to keep her
alive. She knew where the gold was. Without her, he would never find it.

"C'mon,
honey." She could smell the liquor on her tormentor's breath as he
whispered against her ear. "Let's you and me go out back. You can show me
what you been doing for our friend over there."

She
gasped. He'd known all along that she wasn't alone and that she'd been lying.

"If
you're good enough, I might even pay you."

She
wanted to resist as he began dragging her toward the back door, but a slight
pressure reminded her of the blade pressed against her skin. The tent full of
patrons watched with only passing interest, among them Rafe Montalvo.

Then
he moved—slightly—but the movement caught her eye. It caught
Rollins's
eye as well and he swung back to Rafe.

"You
got any objections?"

Rafe
shrugged. "Yeah, I've got objections. You always do your fighting from
behind a woman?"

Rollins
laughed shortly. "Hell, a man needs a little security."

"I
heard that about you, heard you were a coward."

"Do
I know you, mister?"

Rafe
smiled, but there was no humor in the gesture. "You know me, all right. We
have a mutual friend, El
Alacran
."

Rollins
laughed again. It was a sound more like a snort. "
Ain't
seen him in four or five years. And I sure as hell don't remember you."

"We
met five years ago in the
Chihuahuan
desert,
remember? You and a bunch of El
Alacran's
men kidnapped
a
woman...."

The
knife shook against Anne's throat as a tremor ran through the man who held her.
"I didn't have
nothin
' to do with that."

His
grip relaxed for a fraction of a second, long enough for Anne to mount an
escape. She struck backward with her elbow, landing a blow to the man's rib
cage that caused him to drop the knife. She pulled away and tried to run but
tripped over a chair, landing on the sawdust-covered floor at his feet. Dust
and wood slivers stuck to her palms.

Frantically,
she dug in her pocket and withdrew her pistol as the men around her started
scattering. She made herself as small as possible to avoid being stepped on or
kicked. Her breath came in gasps, her head throbbed. There were voices
overhead, but she couldn't make out what they were saying.

Should
she stay where she was or get up? If she stayed on the floor, she could be
trampled. But if she rose… she didn't know what might happen.

It
was only seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. Anne decided to get up off
the floor, but she noticed the banknotes scattered around, and she started
crawling, scooping up the money with her free hand and stuffing it in her
bodice.

She
winced, nearly screamed when gunfire exploded overhead—first one shot, then
another slightly after. The man who had grabbed her fell to the ground with a
thud, landing close beside her, his eyes staring lifelessly.

Boots
walked toward the body. Rafe bent down and pulled out a piece of paper from his
own vest pocket: a
wanted
poster. He held up the likeness to the
face of the dead man, then holstered his revolver.

Before
she could think or react at all, he was on her, grabbing her by the arm and
dragging her to her feet.

"Let
me go!" she cried, trying to twist out of his grip.

"Stop
fighting or I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here," he
snarled close to her ear.

A
shiver of gooseflesh ran up her arm, and she stopped fighting. It would do no
good anyway. She didn't know if he meant what he'd said, but as much as she
didn't want to go with him, she couldn't stay here.

"What
the hell's going on here?" a voice asked.

A
man wearing a sheriff's badge walk into the tent, gazing around at the
devastation.

"It
was a fair fight," someone said. "He saved this lady from that
outlaw."

"Is
that right, miss?"

She
jerked around to face the sheriff when she realized he was talking to her.
"Yes."

Rafe
walked to the sheriff, dragging her behind him, and handed him the
wanted
poster. The lawman took it and compared it to the face of the dead man. "It's
Sam Rollins, all right."

A
man came running in, tying a white apron behind his back. His neck was long,
and he resembled a bird, with his long nose and skinny legs. He went
immediately to the dead man and took measurements with a tape he produced from
his pocket.

Bile
rose in Anne's throat at the callousness of the entire affair.

"Okay,
mister, you can come by in the morning and collect your reward. Bill, can you
get this mess cleaned up?"

The
bartender nodded vigorously. "Go back to bed, sheriff, I'll handle
this."

The
sheriff snorted, and eyed the undertaker. "Looks like everything's under
control. He'll be in the ground by morning. Of course, I'll hold out the cost
of the burial."

"Is
that necessary?" Rafe asked.

"Well,
hell, he's
gotta
be buried, and you killed him. I
always hold out the cost of the burial."

Through
a fog of nausea and dizziness, Anne glanced down at the man who leaned over the
body, measuring it for a coffin. A cold knot settled in the pit of her stomach.
She was finding it difficult to focus.

"Come
along peacefully," he said, his voice as soft and smooth as velvet yet as
lethal as a snake, "or I won't be responsible for my actions. What did you
put in my food anyway?"

She
couldn't answer, couldn't speak. It took all her concentrated effort to keep up
with him as he dragged her into the street.

The
first rays of dawn tinged the sky with pink. The early morning air was cool and
refreshing. She took several breaths, and the dizziness that had possessed her
lessened somewhat.

When
they reached the bottom of the staircase that led up to the doctor's office,
her fragile control broke. She reached out with her free hand and grabbed the
banister, taking Rafe by surprise and halting him on the bottom step. His grip
only tightened on her elbow.

"Let
me go." She'd intended it as a demand, but her words came out sounding
more like a plea.

She
tried to pull away, but he didn't seem to notice as he forced her up the step
so that she stood toe-to-toe with him.

Once
again she tried to escape, but he grabbed her free wrist, pulling her roughly
against him so their bodies were almost touching. She could feel his strength
and didn’t fight him. It was futile. His angry eyes held hers captive. There
was nowhere to run, no possibility of escape.

"Understand
me," he said, his face a mask of stone except for the tightening of a jaw
muscle. "You are going up the stairs. We can do it the hard way or the
easy way. It's up to you, but if I have to carry you, I promise you, you'll
regret it."

He
let go of one arm, turned, and began walking up the stairs. She had no choice
but to follow, though she dreaded what would happen once they reached the top.
She didn't know him, not really. She didn't know what he was capable of, except
that killing seemed to come naturally to him and he probably didn't possess a
conscience at all.

When
they reached the door at the top he opened it and dragged her through into the
waiting room. Without hesitation, he hauled her into the room where they'd been
sleeping, pulling her to the bed and turning her so that she faced him, her
back to the bed.

"Sit,"
he commanded.

She
did as he told her, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching as he went to the
corner where he'd dropped his gear. He returned with a long coil of rope.

"What
are you going to do?" Her voice cracked, despite her efforts to master her
fear. A warning glance from those pale eyes held her pinioned.

"Hold
out your arms," he told her when he was standing close before her.

She
had to tilt her head back to look up into his rage-contorted face. "I will
not."

Before
she could think or react, he dropped the rope and grabbed both of her hands in
his. She struggled with every ounce of strength she had left after her illness
and the night's events, but he easily drew her wrists together, holding them
with one large hand. Then he bent, retrieving the rope from the floor, and
began wrapping it around her wrists.

The
will to fight drained from her body. What was the use anyway? She sat
helplessly as he secured her wrists and then pulled the free end of the rope
through the wrought-iron bars of the headboard. He walked across the room to
the spot where he dropped down on his pallet earlier.

"I
need some sleep, and this is the only way I can be sure you'll stay out of
trouble."

She
waited until the room was silent except for the incessant ticking of the clock.
Then she lay down on her side, curled as best she could into a ball of misery.

"How
did you know where I was?" she asked softly.

Silence
met her question. Just when she began to think he was already asleep, an answer
came from the darkness.

"I
didn't. I just followed the noise."

"I
don't understand. I put the whole vial of laudanum in your beer."

"That
was one dose for you. Lucky for you, I weigh a hell of a lot more than you
do."

Silence
engulfed them again. A question nagged at her mind, and though she wasn't sure
she wanted to know the answer, she knew she had to ask.

"If
that man hadn't had a bounty on his head, would you have killed him to save
me?"

"Sure."
The answer came without hesitation. "You still haven't told me where the
gold is."

She
turned her head into her pillow and gave in to the tears that had been close to
the surface ever since Rafe had appeared in the saloon, silent tears that
streamed down her face and into her pillow. Tears of relief, tears of despair,
tears
of sadness for the look in his eyes when he'd accused
the man.

"You
and a bunch of El
Alacran's
men kidnapped a
woman...."

After
a while, she stopped wondering about those words, stopped feeling anything but
exhaustion, and she fell into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 10

Anne hated the way her pulse
quickened as Rafe came into view through the grimy window. He walked toward her
with long fluid strides, carrying a saddle slung over one shoulder and leading
a horse she’d never seen before.

He'd untied her without waking her
this morning and left while she slept. Was he still angry? She was angry,
humiliated, confused. How could she be drawn to such a man? It was a bitter,
frightening thing to admit, even to herself, but she couldn’t deny her body’s
reaction to the mere sight of him. It didn't make sense, but she felt safe when
she was around him, safe and vulnerable at the same time.

She remembered when he'd given her
the new boots. He'd noticed how big and worn out hers had been and been
thoughtful enough to buy new ones for her. It was a kindness she hadn't
expected. He'd taken care of her after the wagon wreck. He'd done so gently,
and she had allowed it, had leaned on him because she had no choice.

Did she want to get away from him
because she was afraid of him or afraid of her growing attraction to him? She
couldn't think clearly.

The farther they travelled from the
world she knew, the more dependent she became on him. There seemed to be no
solution to her dilemma.

She should be furious with him after what he'd done to her
last night, but she could feel herself being drawn to him against her will. He
would eventually betray her. He was a man, after all, and that was what men
did.

Remembering the money spread on the bed, she rushed over and
quickly stacked it, then stuffed it in her running bag which she attached to
the hooks on the inside of her skirt before stepping into it.

An involuntary shudder swept over her at the memory of her
near miss and
Rafe's
words. Something about the
Chihuahuan
desert and a woman... kidnapped.

Chihuahua – that was where they were going. Her mouth went
dry and she fought the tremor that seized her and settled in her stomach.

She watched him move closer and wondered about the secrets he
kept buried beneath that tough exterior. Something haunted him. If she hadn't
seen it before, she'd seen it last night.

Chihuahuan
desert…
kidnapped… a
woman....

There were so many questions, and she wasn't at all sure she
wanted to know the answers. She cleared her mind as she opened the door and
went down the stairs as Rafe drew near. He stopped before her and dropped the
saddle over the hitching post.

Was he still angry? Would he tell her or just refuse to speak
to her, as her father used to do? Punish with silence, that had been Paul
Cameron's way of dealing with anger, and she half expected the same treatment
from Rafe.

"What is that?" She nodded toward the extra horse,
choosing to ignore what had happened last night for as long as he would allow
her to.

"What does it look like? It's a horse."

At least he'd spoken to her, even if his sharp words cut her to
the bone. They stirred the anger and regret she had warred with all morning.

Inching closer, she glared at Rafe. "I know it's a
horse, but why is it here?"

"It's for you," he replied, as he tied the end of
the rope that was fastened to his horse's halter to the hitching post.

She tried to avoid his eyes, tried to pretend he wasn't still
angry by concentrating instead on the horse.

It was quite pretty, with a gleaming dappled-gray coat and
large soulful eyes. It seemed placid enough at the moment, but she kept her
distance just the same. The animal's sheer size and, to her mind, unpredictable
nature terrified her. It reminded her of the man who stood before her now,
impatiently awaiting her response.

"You know I can't ride." She was careful not to
look at him, afraid of what she would see in his eyes.

"Well, you're going to have to learn. My horse can't
carry us both all the way to Mexico. Unless you want to stay here while I go
for the gold. I'll split it fifty-fifty."

Anne ignored that absurd offer. "Couldn't we get a
wagon?"

"No. You're going to slow me down enough. I'm not going
to let a wagon slow me down even more."

She reached out to touch the horse's muzzle. "I have a
whole month to get the gold and get back to Ubiquitous with it, so I'm not in
any hurry."

"Well, I am. You don't think—"

Whatever he might have been about to say was cut off by her
cry of alarm when the horse snorted softly and moved its head toward her.

"It tried to bite me!"

"No, he didn't," Rafe assured her, in a voice
almost devoid of patience. "He wants you to rub him like this."

He reached out, stroking the horse's muzzle from between the
eyes all the way down to the tip of his nose, then withdrew his hand. He was
waiting for her to touch the horse as he had.

Tentatively, she followed suit, smiling when the animal stood
still and allowed her to stroke his smooth muzzle.

"Its nose is so soft," she murmured, enjoying the
closest contact she'd ever had with a horse. At the same time, she was all too
conscious of the large mouth full of teeth so close to her hand and of the man
beside her.

He was watching her. The pressure of his gaze upon her caused
her heart to flutter. His behavior last night was unforgivable, and yet she
felt as if she were the one who should ask for forgiveness. She closed her eyes
tightly. No, she would not apologize. She'd done what she'd felt she had to do.

"I used to love to go to the racetrack with my father
and watch the horses run," she said, remembering the days when they used
to go to the Metairie Race Course in New Orleans or the less fine but equally
exciting tracks at Natchez-Under-the-Hill. She steered her mind away from other
memories, of her father losing all their money on a single long shot, of the
euphoria of the big win and the night spent alone while her father spent his
winnings on whiskey and women. But no matter the outcome, she always loved to
watch the horses from afar. "They are very beautiful. But I've always been
afraid of them. They seem so wild and fierce."

"Horses are animals," he said, "and you
shouldn't expect them to act otherwise. But they are not unreasonable or
vicious, except for the occasional rogue. You just have to know how to handle
them."

Like you? She almost put voice to the question as she
continued to stroke the horse's silken nose. From what she knew about him, he
could have been talking about himself.

He swung a collection of leather straps down from his
shoulder. It was the first time she noticed the bridle.

"You put the bridle on," he instructed, holding it
out to her.

She took a step back. "I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?" he asked. "How
the hell did you think you were going to make it to Mexico if you can't even
put a bridle on a horse? How were you going to harness and unharness a
team?"

She winced at his tone but stood her ground. "The man at
the livery stable in Ubiquitous harnessed them for me. It was only supposed to
take eight hours to get here, and I planned to take them to the livery stable
here once I arrived —"

"Of all the stupid, irresponsible—"

"I had no choice!"

His words stung, but he was right. She had been foolish to
think she could make it all the way to Mexico without knowing how to care for a
team of horses. Still, he had no right to berate her so. She'd nearly been
killed. Hadn't she suffered enough?

"Well, you're going to learn if you're going to travel
with me. You hold the bridle like this," he said, holding one end in his
left hand, while his right hand held the edge of the bit. With his left hand, he
held the bridle toward the horse's ears. With his right, he pressed the bit
against the horse's mouth. "You nudge his mouth with the bit until he
opens it."

The sound of metal against teeth grated on her nerve endings.
"Doesn't that hurt?"

Rafe slipped the bit all the way into the horse's mouth and
the animal immediately began chomping on it. "No, it doesn't hurt."

"How do you know?"

"It doesn't hurt," he repeated. "Look, if it
hurt, he wouldn't get used to it. If a horse gets a rock in his shoe, he limps.
If a horse gets a burr under his saddle, he bucks. A horse isn't going to let
you do anything to him that hurts without putting up a fight. Okay, now you
fasten the chin strap and it's done."

Unsure how to proceed, she stepped closer to the horse. Two leather
straps dangled on either side of the animal's head. Taking one in each hand,
she drew them together just as the horse tossed its head.

She gasped and jumped back. "He won't hold still."

Rafe gave a short laugh. Leaning back against the hitching
post, his arms folded across his chest, he watched her closely. "He's an
animal, not a fence post. He knows what you're getting him ready for, and he
wants you to hurry up."

"Well, I can't!" she snapped.

"That's all right. You don't have to do what he wants. He
has to do what you want."

"Does he know that?"

"Yes, and he knows you're afraid, too. He can sense
it."

"I'm not afraid."

"No, you're just shaking all over because it's so
cold."

She moved toward the horse once again, gazing into the placid
brown eyes, wondering if this animal could really sense her fear. She stole a
glance at him. She didn't have to wonder about him. He knew when she was
afraid. She wondered if he could read her other emotions as easily.

"Don't worry about me," she said as she grasped the
two ends of the strap again. "I'll do it, all right?"

"There's nothing to be afraid of." He had come to
stand close behind her, so close she could feel the heat of his body against
her back. "I'm not going to put you on a horse and turn you
loose
."

Her fingers trembled as she managed to fasten the chin strap
while Rafe looked on.

"I told you," she said as soon as she finished.
"I'm not afraid."

"Not too tight." Rafe reached over her, leaning
into her back. A rush of heat spread like a brush fire through her body as the
scent of lye soap and male flesh assaulted her senses. He slipped his hand
between the chin strap and the horse's muzzle. "Make sure your hand fits
under it. You want to be able to control him, but you don't want to choke him
to death."

She moved away. She liked him like this—all cleaned up. Maybe
she liked him too much. He seemed almost respectable. He hadn't shaved, but she
was beginning to think she liked him better with a beard than without.

"What next?" she asked from a safe distance.

"The blanket and saddle. Blanket first. It protects his
back from the leather saddle. Make sure it's straight and high enough on his
neck so it won't slide down when you start moving."

Anne did as she was told, swinging the heavy blanket up onto
the animal's back and pulling it up to cover over its shoulder.

"Now it's time for the saddle. I'll put it on this time
and you watch."

He took a step toward the saddle, but she darted in front of
him and reached it first.

"I want to do it. It's the only way I'll learn."

"It's kind of heavy," he warned.

"Just tell me what to do." She'd show him she
wasn't as helpless as he thought.

Rafe murmured something under his breath about stubborn
women, then said, "Okay, pick up the right stirrup and the cinch. You do know
what the cinch is?"

She ignored the sarcastic question, picking up the right
stirrup and a strap of leather she assumed must be the cinch. "What
next?"

"Lay the stirrup and the cinch over the saddle out of
the way. Then pick the saddle up by the horn and the back lip and carry it over
to him."

Clearing the hitching post with the saddle was easy, but when
she tried to carry it to the horse, it became too heavy and she dropped it in
the dusty street.

Rafe came forward immediately, but she had already grabbed
the saddle again.

"No!" she snapped. "I can do it. I just didn't
expect it to be so heavy."

His booted foot in the middle of the saddle prevented her
from lifting it again. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you need help
sometimes, Anne-Marie."

She let go of the saddle and jerked back. "Don't call me
that. No one calls me that but my father, and he's dead. How do you know my
name anyway? You've never been curious enough to ask."

Her eyes widened. There was only one way he could have found
out. "You went through my things! You read my letter!"

Rafe brushed the inside of the saddle with his hand, then
lifted it. "I was looking for information about the gold."