Desert Dreams (22 page)

And then he moved, and she released a long, low gasp of
surprise mingled with pain and pleasure as he entered her further, pushing
deeper, her body stretching, opening to receive him until he lay fully inside
her. She felt the sleek caress of his naked body as he withdrew from her in a
long, silken movement, his mouth trailing along her collarbone, his lips
teasing their way down the valley between her breasts.

He stopped the slow retreat from her body, remaining inside
her. His mouth continued its feast, extending its quest to the soft mound of a
breast. She arched her hips toward him and he remained still, so that it was
she who took him.

Her breath came in soft, painful gasps as she felt herself
stretching once again to accommodate him. She sank back down to the ground and
he followed her, maintaining the connection between their bodies, deepening it
when her hips rested on the ground.

He didn't have to pretend this time that she was someone he
cared about as he had with the countless whores he’d lain with. He didn't have
to keep his eyes shut tightly to block out the reality. She was soft and sweet
and guileless, and she'd given him the most precious thing she had to give—her
innocence.

All the emotions and all the memories he'd kept so carefully
buried for so long rose inside him and devoured him. He felt himself slipping
into a black hell as all of his defenses began to crumble, leaving his soul
open like a raw wound.

Her hand on his face brought him back from the abyss. He
closed his eyes, leaning his cheek into her palm.

Wetness touched her fingers and her heart constricted.
"It's all right," she whispered, because she didn't know what else to
do, to say.

He pressed a kiss into her palm. A hand slipped beneath her
shoulders and lifted her up against his chest. Her arms went around his strong
muscled back, clinging to him as he moved inside her. The cadence of his
breathing turned shallow and raw. It frightened her, his wildness, his loss of
control. She tried to remind herself he would never intentionally hurt her, but
it was all she could do not to cry out as the rhythm of his body increased and
the thrusts became fiercer. He needed her, and tonight his need outweighed
hers. He clung to her, devoured her with the fervor that grew to a shattering
climax, and cried out with the release that tore through him.

The music from the village faded away. Somewhere in the
distance a coyote howled, sweet and sorrowful.
Rafe's
heart hammered against hers as she listened to his rapid, shallow breathing.

His breath quieted eventually, and he turned on his side,
drawing her soft, moist body against him, her back pressed against his chest.
She came into the fold of his embrace so sweetly, so eagerly, that his heart
plunged into his stomach with regret that he could never be what she needed,
while she was everything he wanted.

He wrapped an arm around her, his hand closing over her soft,
vulnerable shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Annie," he whispered against her hair.
"I hurt you and I'm sorry."

"My father's mistress told me it always hurts the first
time."

What
Terese
had said was that there
were always tears the first time, but they were supposed to be her tears, not
his.

"I could have been gentler. It's just been so long....
Why, Annie?" He finally asked the question that had plagued him throughout
their lovemaking.

"I wanted it to be you," she murmured.

"I don't understand. Why me?"

She hesitated. Her heart knew the reason, but she wasn't sure
how he would react if she told him.

He waited in silence until she finally replied. "Because
I love you."

A slow, bitter sigh hissed between his lips. She regretted
her truthfulness when his arms fell away from her. She pushed herself up,
bracing her weight on an extended arm so she could look down into his eyes. Her
long, loose hair brushed against his chest. He lifted it in his right hand,
caressing it. He refused to look at her.

"You can't love me."

"But I do. You don't have to—to say anything. You don't
have to feel...."

"You know what I am." His voice sounded as dry and
coarse as desert sand.

"Yes."

"Don't tell me you believe in me or that I'm something
I'm not."

"And don't you try telling me you're not! You kill
people for money. You have no home to speak of. You've lived a harsh, rugged
life by any standard, yet you waltz as if you were born to it."

He turned to face her. "A whore taught me."

"I don't believe you. No whore could have taught you to
dance like that. It's as if there's another man deep inside you—"

"He's buried in the desert, Annie. There's no one else
in here now but me."

"All right. I don't care. I love you anyway."

He began to rise, but she tried to block him.

"Don't!" she cried. "Don't leave me, not now.
We won't speak of it again, I promise."

She wrapped her arms around herself as if suddenly aware of
her nakedness.

Rafe cursed himself silently. He must be the most insensitive
son-of-a-bitch who ever lived. He'd taken his pleasure, and now that she needed
him, all he wanted to do was escape. He took her by the shoulders and laid her
down on the ground, reversing their positions.

"Don't move," he whispered.

He rose and walked to the spot where he’d dropped their
saddlebags and fumbled inside his until he found what he was looking for. He
retrieved the other bedroll and walked back toward her, touched by the way she
averted her gaze from his nakedness. He couldn't get used to this new Annie.
She was always so self-assured, so bold and intrepid, it was odd to see her so
timid.

"Here," he said, dropping to the ground beside her.

She sat up with a gasp at the feeling of something cold
against her breast. It was her lost locket. She opened her eyes, gazing at him
in confusion.

"You can add theft to the list of my sins," he
said, wrapping the bedroll around her trembling shoulders. "I wanted to
give it back to you before, but I started thinking of it as my good-luck
charm."

She touched the locket with a sad smile. "My father gave
this to me the night he died. He'd won it gambling, and when he gave it to me
it still had someone else's picture in it."

"You once said something about the man who killed your
father. I got the impression you knew him."

"Borden McKenna." The name was like a curse on her
lips. "My father befriended him when he was down on his luck. Papa was
always bringing home strays of one kind or another. I was in Baton Rouge and
Papa was in Natchez when they met. Papa sent him to fetch me to Natchez when it
was safe."

Anger surged through him at the thought that her father would
have sent a stranger to escort his daughter anywhere. How had he known he could
trust the bastard? "But he hardly knew the man, from what you've
said."

"My father's judgment wasn't the best. But Borden was a
handsome, charming Irishman. He didn't have to resort to molesting women. They
fell at his feet."

"Including you?" He wasn't sure he wanted to hear
the answer to that one. He didn't want to think of Annie loving another man.

"I should have known better."

"You were innocent. Your father should have known
better. He should have kept you away from a man like that."

"Borden McKenna could charm a drunk out of his last
drink. He deceived my father as he deceived everyone else. He told me he loved
me, and then he shot my father in cold blood."

"Both of them were fools." Rafe said in a low,
pain-filled voice.

"I loved my father. He had his faults, but he loved me.
My mother died in childbirth in St. Louis when I was five. My father blamed
himself. He was never the same after that."

Rafe was silent. The muscle in his jaw tightened, as if he
was having a hard time controlling himself. She wanted to comfort him, to make him
tell her what he was thinking, but he would only become angry if she asked.

She held the locket out to him. "Here. You keep
it."

He blinked his eyes, focusing on her with an effort. "It
belongs to you. It holds special meaning for you."

"But if it brings you luck..."

"It's yours." He settled on the blanket beside her.
His arm encircled her and he pulled her closer.

A sense of peace filled her heart. She cursed herself for her
inability to stop herself from asking the one question sure to raise his ire
again.

"Who is Christina?" she asked softly.

He stiffened. It was a long time before he answered, in a
flat voice, "She was my wife."

"What happened to her?"

"She's dead."

Tension gripped his body, belying the detachment in his arid tone.
Anne felt it in her own body.

"How?"

"
Comancheros
."

She shuddered at the violence in that one word, remembering
the man in the saloon in Hondo and
Rafe's
accusation.

Five years ago... a woman... El
Alacran
.

So that had been El
Alacran's
revenge. He had killed
Rafe's
wife. That was the part
of the story Rafe had left out.

"I'm sorry," was all she could think of to say.

He heaved a great sigh. "Where are we going, Annie?
We're in Mexico now. Do we just keep going south until we get to Bolivia or do
we change directions?"

"I don't know," she said truthfully. "The gold
is behind the altar of a small church in a place called Concepción."

Rafe could hardly believe she had told him her most guarded
secret, the location of the gold, and he had nearly told her his. She trusted
him, damn her. He wasn't worthy of her trust, but she had given it to him
anyway. Now he could ride away and leave her behind, didn't she realize that?
Didn't she know what he was capable of?

"Do you know where Concepción is?" he heard her ask
softly.

It was a moment before he could speak, and when he did, his
voice sounded raw and unfamiliar in his own ears. "It's about a hundred
miles southwest of here in El
Alacran's
territory."

Anne's skin crawled.
Five years
ago...
a woman... El
Alacran
.

"Is he involved with the gold?"

He laughed bitterly. "Involved? He stole it first, and
then one of his own men stole it from him. Luis Demas. El
Alacran
wanted him alive. If Demas had had any accomplices, you can be sure they would
have told him anything he wanted to know."

He thought of Carlos Delgado, and his mission to take Annie
to El
Alacran
, and knew that the
comanchero
still hadn't learned the location of the gold.

"You don't want the gold at all, do you? You want El
Alacran
," she said.

"Maybe you're right."

"I know I'm right."

"Annie, I want you to promise me something. If anything
happens to me, I want you to promise me you won't go after the gold alone. You
can't face a man like El
Alacran
."

She trembled against him and murmured through her tears,
"Nothing's going to happen to you."

"I know," he said, not wanting to frighten her,
"but I need you to give me your word. If anything happens to me, take the
money in my saddlebags and go west to Las Cruces. My brother's name is Michael Holden.
He'll take you in."

"I thought you said he hated you."

"He does. But he won't turn you away. He is a man of
honor."

"But there's nothing there for me."

"There's nothing here for you but death. Don't you
understand?" So much for not frightening her. Why did she have to be so
stubborn? "Promise me."

"All right, I promise."

Rafe smoothed a strand of hair from her face. "You're
right, Annie, nothing's going to happen to me. I promise."

He crawled inside the bedroll with her and they lay side by
side, bare chest to bare chest. A familiar heaviness gathered between his legs.

Tears glistened on her long lashes, and he kissed them away.

"Hush, Annie, don't cry. I didn't mean to upset you.
Nothing's going to happen to either of us. Don't cry." He kissed her eyelids,
her lips, her cheeks. Her tears tasted salty on his mouth.

"Did you love her very much?" she asked in a small,
jerky voice.

"Who, Annie?"

"Your wife. Did you love her very much?"

"I don't remember." Pain, like a knife, twisted in
his heart. "Yes, I loved her."

Chapter 15

The sun felt warm
on her face
when Anne opened her eyes the next morning. She stretched like a lazy cat,
wincing at the slight pain between her thighs. Memory returned in a rush and she
sat up, clutching the rough blanket over her naked body.

Suddenly wide awake, she glanced anxiously around the camp
until she saw Rafe kneeling at the edge of the river. A heavy sadness settled
on her heart as she watched him stand and screw the top onto the canteen he'd
been filling.

He was in pain, she'd known it before last night. But last
night all the barriers had come down. She had seen past the pride and anger
into his dark, tormented soul.

She remembered the other parts of last night, his gentleness,
his fervor. And even though there had been pain and a little embarrassment, she
wanted it again, wanted to feel connected to him again,
wanted
to hear his voice full of passion whispering her name. Her stomach fluttered.

He walked toward her, and her breath caught in her throat.
What did you say to someone who'd seen you naked, who'd touched you intimately,
who'd been inside you? How could she face him, knowing he knew all her secrets?

Her face flushed as their eyes met. Quickly she turned away,
adjusting the blanket, feeling vulnerable in her state of undress, especially
since he was fully clothed. He appeared so at ease, so normal, as if nothing
had happened last night, as if he was accustomed to such things.

How many other women had he been with? His wife, for one, and
he had loved her. He'd admitted it, even though the admission had cost him
dearly. Was Anne just another woman to him? Just another body?

He hunkered down beside the remnants of a fire. She watched
from the corner of her eye as he poured coffee into a tin cup.

"Coffee?" he asked calmly.

She looked directly at him for the first time, and the glint
in his pale eyes set her heart pounding. She reached out with a trembling hand
to take the cup, careful to hold the blanket in place, concentrating on his
steady hand because she could no longer hold his gaze.

"There aren't a lot of towns where we're going," he
told her matter-of-factly. "I'll need to buy a pack mule to carry
supplies."

The coffee was tepid and bitter, but she drank it, hoping it
would steady her nerves.

A long silence wrapped around them. The pressure of his eyes
drew her like a magnet, but she refused to look at him.

"Annie," he said softly, "I... last night...
I'm sorry. If I could undo—"

"Please don't say that." She looked at him, her
throat burning with unshed tears. "I'm not sorry. I don't want to undo
it."

He ran a hand through his hair, staring into the distance.
The muscle in his jaw moved and he cleared his throat. "You deserve
better."

"I wanted it too. I could have stopped you—" He
turned his gaze on her again, and something in his eyes made her shiver.
"Tried to stop you. Please don't apologize. I don't want you to be
sorry."

He gave a crooked smile. "I don't know if I'll ever
understand you." He stood, stretching his long legs. "We need to be
leaving soon. The horses are saddled."

"I...
I need
privacy," she stammered. "Will you turn your back?"

That crooked smile deepened, and she knew what he was
thinking. He'd already seen everything there was to see of her. But it was
broad daylight now, and she didn't think she could bear to have him watch her
dress.

He picked up the coffeepot, kicked dirt on top of the fire,
and started toward the river. "I'll finish packing."

She waited until he reached the river before standing. With
the blanket still carefully wrapped around her, she managed to step into her
pantalets and had her shirtwaist firmly in her hand before she dropped the
blanket. She had never dressed so quickly in her life, and in no time she was
fastening her breeches.

The sound of footsteps behind her told her he had not waited
for her to tell him she was ready. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him
walking to the nearby horses.

She brought him the blanket as he stuffed the coffee pot
inside his bedroll. Without speaking, he took it from her, folded it, and
crammed it inside the bedroll with the coffee pot.

"How long were you married?" she couldn't help
asking.

"A year."

He finished securing the bedroll, then mounted up.

"We don't have any more time to waste. Let's get our
supplies and get moving."

Rafe kicked his horse into a slow trot, stopping far enough
away that she couldn't ask any more questions. A sickening knot formed in the
pit of Anne's stomach. He had loved a woman once and, judging by the fact that
he wouldn't discuss her, he must love her still.

She walked to her own horse and mounted after a moment's
struggle, turning the animal and starting toward him.

He'd been married, this man who wanted the world to believe
he needed no one and felt nothing. He'd been in the army and he'd been married.
And he'd nearly been eaten alive by buzzards. He danced like an aristocrat and
killed people for a living. He was from New Mexico and his brother hated him.

That was the extent of her knowledge about Rafe Montalvo,
that and the fact that he had a conscience, no matter what he wanted people to
think. He had a conscience, and he could be gentle, and he cried when he made
love.

She didn't think she would ever understand him. There were
too many shadows, too many contradictions. It was as if he were two men at
once, the man he presented to the world and the man inside.

He's buried in the desert,
he had said.
How true was that? Did she really want to know all his secrets?

Leaving their horses tied outside, they entered the
general store and walked around inside, surveying the merchandise. She looked
longingly at an ivory-handled hairbrush and ran a hand over the bristles. When
she noticed Rafe watching her closely, she returned the brush to its place on
the table, blushing in embarrassment.

But instead of scowling at her and reminding her that
she didn't belong in the desert, he smiled. "I'm going to the livery
stable to buy that pack mule. You stay here and look around. Don’t leave this
store until I get back.”

He tempered his stern words by adding, “Get anything
you need. I'll be back."

Rafe stepped into the street, his heart almost light.
For the first time in years, as he walked along he actually noticed things
about the world around him other than whether or not it held any danger. A
dozen or more men worked in the plaza, restoring it to its normal state after
last night's festivities. Half a dozen women gathered at the well in the center
of town to draw water. An old man sat in the shade of a tall tree in the plaza.

The darkness was still there, but it seemed distant
this morning, like something that belonged to someone else. He'd seen the way
Annie had looked at the hairbrush with such yearning, and he decided right then
and there to buy it for her as a surprise.

Once inside the stable, it took a moment for his eyes
to adjust to the relative darkness. At first the barn seemed empty, but then he
caught a movement near the end of a long row of stalls. A big, powerfully built
man walked slowly toward him, wiping his hands on a soiled apron.

"What can I do for you?" the man asked as he
reached Rafe.

"I want to buy a pack mule."

"Got two out back. I'll bring them around if you
want to wait here."

Rafe nodded. The man walked back in the direction he'd
come, and
Rafe's
thoughts returned to Annie. Just
remembering their lovemaking sent the blood pounding through his body.

She was like light in a dark tunnel, drink to a
thirsty man. He'd even thought of telling her everything, but if he did she
would never let him touch her again. He never wanted to let her go, and an
acute pain stabbed his heart when he realized that one day he would have to.

The slight noise behind him didn't penetrate his
consciousness at first. When it did, it was too late. It was the sound of a gun
cocking. Was he about to be shot in the back? If so, he'd try going for his
gun. He just might have time—

"Turn around real slow," a voice said behind
him. "Lift your hands where I can see them."

Damn, he'd been taken completely unaware. He'd let
down his guard for a few minutes, and it might well have cost him his life—his
and
Annie's, he realized with a
sick dread.

He turned slowly, and the man who held the gun proved
to be no stranger. Tom McCoy smiled broadly, flashing a row of uneven yellow
teeth. "Long time no see, Montalvo."

"What the devil do you want, McCoy?"

"I think you know. Hell, I been following you all
the way from San Antonio, you and that pretty little gal of yours. I wonder if
she'll like me as much as she likes you."

Rafe made an involuntary move toward the outlaw, and
McCoy lifted his gun in warning. "Wouldn't do that if I was you. I'm
supposed to bring you in alive, but I could say you drew on me. Now, pull that
pistol out and drop it real slow."

"He
ain't
come out of
the barn yet!" A voice called from outside.

McCoy glanced away for a flicker of an instant, long
enough for Rafe to pull his pistol. He fired, and the bullet tore through
McCoy's chest. The other man drew, but Rafe didn't get off another shot before
his head exploded in pain and the world went dark.

***

Anne strolled between the rows of merchandise, running
a hand over crisp red-and-white calico, fingering a length of satin ribbon,
touching the soft bristles of the hairbrush she'd admired earlier. She picked
up a small bar of lilac soap and held it beneath her nose. It smelled sweet and
clean.

How she longed to bathe in it, wash her hair with it.
What would Rafe think if she smelled like flowers instead of trail dust and
sweat?

With all her heart, she wanted him to love her, and
she knew he did not. He didn't even believe she loved him, for that matter.

She couldn't forget the tears he'd shed last night.
They haunted her. She wanted to know everything about him, but there were
things he hadn't told her, terrible things.

Her thoughts were shattered by the sound of a gunshot.
It could have been anything, anyone, but a prickling of fear brushed the nape
of her neck and the hairs on her arms stood on end. Dropping the bar of soap,
she ran for the door.

In the street, people were pointing toward the livery
stable. Her heart skipped a beat.

Rafe!

She stepped down from the sidewalk, but before she
could take another step, someone seized her from behind, covering her mouth
with an iron hand.

He dragged her into the alley beside the store, in
spite of her attempts at escape. Her booted foot made contact with her
assailant's shin, and he cursed in Spanish, tightening his hold on her. She
tried to bite his hand, tried to twist out of his hold. He kept his hand
clamped over her mouth and pinched her nostrils shut.

She couldn't breathe. She struggled in panic, her
lungs aching for oxygen. In the depths of her mind, she knew she was going to
die, and there was nothing she could do about it. Her head began to spin, her
body weakening until darkness consumed her.

Another blow smashed into
Rafe's
face, and he welcomed the blackness that followed. He relished it. It took away
the pain, the awareness that Annie was in danger and there was nothing he could
do about it.

The next instant he was sputtering and gasping for
breath. Water covered his head, his shoulders,
his
chest. He blinked his eyes open to see one of the outlaws standing over him
with an empty pail.

Someone jerked him back up on his knees and a man he
knew as Braxton hunkered down beside him. "Rafe, ole buddy, you don't look
too good. You feeling all right?"

"Why don't we just kill him?" someone asked.
"He don't know
nothin
'."

"No," Braxton growled to the man without
taking his eyes off Rafe. "I've been
waitin
' a
long time to have Rafe Montalvo where I want him. I'm
gonna
enjoy this before he dies. Besides, I
ain't
so sure
he don't know
nothin
'. Charlie, let's see how fast
our friend here can run. Bring me a rope."