Desert Dreams (5 page)

Anne doubled her effort to ignore her fellow passengers and
searched the hotel and the sidewalk around it for the driver. It had to be 8:00
by now. The sooner they got underway, the sooner she could get away from this
annoying pair. She had enough to think about without becoming involved in
someone else's life, even for the duration of a stagecoach ride. But whenever
she let her mind wander unchecked, it took her back to last night and the words
Rafe Montalvo had spoken to the undertaker, and a cold chill crawled up her
spine.

Why had Rafe Montalvo, a killer of some notoriety, a man who
had ridden casually down the street in broad daylight only hours earlier with a
body slung over his horse, come to her aid? Why had he been there at all? It
didn't make sense, unless—unless—

She remembered how fiercely he'd demanded to know what the
dying man had said. Maybe the Mexican hadn't been the only one who knew about
the gold. The thought was unsettling to say the least. If he suspected that she
knew the location of that much gold—she didn't want to find out how far he would
go to have it.

Maybe she should just tell him what she knew. As tempting as
it might be, she didn't need a million dollars in gold and she had no way of
getting it even if she did. Her life was in Ubiquitous with her aunt. A fresh start.
She leaned back against the seat, a smile curving her lips.

She didn’t want to think about it. She'd probably never see
Rafe Montalvo again, which was just as well, considering the way she had
instinctively reacted to him. Even if he hadn't been the most dangerous man she
had ever encountered, bitter experience had taught her to distrust her own
desires where men were concerned.

Never again would she allow her heart to overrule her mind or
cloud her judgment. She'd let that happen once and lived to regret it. What a
fool she'd been!

Borden McKenna had been charming and handsome enough to melt
the heart of any innocent girl. But she should have known better. She'd grown
up on riverboats and in river towns and she'd seen countless charming, handsome
young men by the time she was eighteen. And though he'd possessed a silver
tongue, she had learned from her gambler father to judge a man by what he did
rather than what he said.

"Look into a man's eyes," Paul Cameron had told
her. "You can see into a man's soul through his eyes."

But she had forgotten everything she'd ever been taught about
judging character and integrity the minute Borden McKenna had turned his green
eyes on her and wooed her with that soft Irish brogue. He'd said he loved
her... and he'd shown it by murdering her father.

"Boy, you must be a hundred miles away."

Anne glanced up at the smiling young man in the seat opposite
her. Her eyes narrowed and she gave him her best don't-bother-me look, then
gazed out the window again.

"I was just asking—"

"Don't." She jerked her head around, glaring at
him. "I am not in the habit of talking to strangers, and I don't plan to
start now."

The irritating young man had every intention of pursuing the
conversation despite her harsh words, but at that moment the stagecoach rocked
as something was thrown on top. In the next instant, the door close to her flew
open and a shock flashed through her as she found herself looking into the ice
blue eyes of Rafe Montalvo.

He'd shaved his beard, but she recognized him without it.
There was no mistaking those eyes.

At first her jumbled mind couldn't understand what he was
doing there, but when he looked from one empty seat to the other, his
intentions became all too clear. He meant to ride to Ubiquitous in the coach.
The realization turned her blood cold and her flesh hot at the same time.

No matter where he sat, he would be close to her. She didn't
know if she could bear to ride for the next several hours in such close
quarters with this man who stirred her blood more than any man she had ever
encountered. He represented everything she wanted so desperately to put behind
her: danger, uncertainty, instability. And yet... and yet...

One corner of his mouth curved upward at sight of her, but
she couldn't tell if he were surprised to find her there or not. He tipped his
hat, causing the heat on her face to increase. She turned away, mortified by
the gesture and by her reaction, her breath heavy in her chest.

"Ma'am," he said, removing his hat. He climbed
inside and lowered his large frame into the seat directly opposite her.

She quickly shifted her legs to avoid contact with his, but
he was so tall, he seemed to fill the entire coach.

The vehicle lurched forward suddenly, causing her leg to
brush against his knee. She recoiled from the contact, struggling to control
the rapid rise and fall of her chest by concentrating on something else,
anything else, but it was impossible with him so near.

He smiled crookedly at her, and she turned her gaze to the
window. Again her leg brushed against his, and again she jerked away as if
she'd been burned.

A deafening silence fell over the occupants. Even the
annoying young man seemed to have nothing to say. He sat stiff and straight
beside Rafe Montalvo, pulling his collar away from his throat as if it were
suddenly too tight.

The heat in the tiny space increased. Anne fanned her burning
face with her hand. She crossed her arms over her chest and ran her hands up
and down her arms. What if he knew about the gold? The menace she'd glimpsed in
his pale eyes last night on the street when he'd demanded to know what the dead
man had said caused a tremor that ran down her spine.

She also remembered the shadow of pain she'd seen pass across
those eyes. He was too dangerous, too complicated,
too—too
unpredictable. She didn't want to admit that he intrigued her nearly as much as
he frightened her.

Was he following her? Maybe he was just traveling the same
way. Why would he follow her...?

A million dollars. She wrote the number in her mind and
counted the zeros: six. It would be heavy. She had a twenty-dollar gold piece
in her reticule. It would take fifty thousand of them to make a million.

It didn't matter. She didn't care that a million dollars
would allow her to live like a queen. Today she would be starting a new life
with her aunt in Ubiquitous.

Then why did you lie?
Why didn't you just tell him
what the Mexican told you about the gold?

She couldn't answer her own question. Maybe when she was safe
and sound in her aunt's house, if he was still around, if he was indeed
following her, maybe then she'd tell him.

Leaning back against the seat, she tried to relax, tried to
forget the man who sat across from her, his long legs practically wrapped
around hers, his knees nearly touching her seat. She tried to think about Aunt
Marguerite and the life that awaited her in Ubiquitous.

The image she had created of her aunt's house floated before
her closed eyes, an image she'd carried with her all the way from Natchez. It
would be cozy and full of nice furnishings and bric-a-brac, things her aunt
would have picked out lovingly and chosen just the right place to display. Once
she reached Ubiquitous, she would be living in the kind of place she had only
glimpsed from outside.

What would it be like to sleep in the same bed every night, a
bed that didn't roll and pitch with the river's current? She would eat off the
same dishes every day, sit in the same parlor every evening, and wake up in the
mornings without that disoriented feeling of not knowing exactly where she was.

A million dollars. No one could find it if they did not know
already where it was.

Carefully she peeked at the gunfighter through
slitted
eyes. He'd pulled his hat down over his forehead.
He was staring at her. The hairs on her arms stood on end and her mouth went
dry. And she knew in her gut that he was following her.

* * * * *

Just before dusk, the stagecoach pulled up in front of the
depot in
Ubitiquous
. Anne climbed down practically
before it stopped rolling. She didn't know why Rafe Montalvo hadn't spoken to
her during the excruciatingly long stagecoach ride, but she wasn't about to
give him a chance now.

A little man with round wire-rimmed spectacles and thick,
straight, nondescript hair peered back at her from the cool, dark interior of
the stagecoach ticket office.

She glanced around to make sure Rafe Montalvo wasn't close
enough to hear her before she asked, "Can you tell me how to get to
Marguerite Tremaine's house?"

"Well, yes ma'am. Turn left two blocks up the street.
It's a big white house on the right. But—"

She didn't wait to hear what else the man had to say. This
was the last leg of her journey, and nothing was going to get between her and
her goal. She grabbed her carpetbag, stepped onto the planked sidewalk, and
headed up the street, limping slightly because of the blisters on her feet.

Again she glanced up and down the street, her skin prickling
with the sensation of watchful eyes. But only a few people braved the heat on
the streets. Her other traveling companions walked across the street toward the
hotel, and Anne smiled. She would have no need of a hotel tonight. Maybe she
would never have to stay in a hotel again.

There was no trace of Rafe Montalvo.

Anne breathed a sigh of relief. Soon this would be over. She
would be safe. She would have no need of gold or adventure.

Now that she had arrived in Ubiquitous, the first thing she
planned to do, once she was safely settled in her aunt's house, was buy a good
pair of boots. In Natchez, there hadn't been time to purchase anything. She'd
fled in the dark of night, fearful that Borden McKenna might make good on his
threat and come to the apartment where she and her father had lived to get the
money he claimed her father had cheated him out of.

In Texas, she'd found that the wartime shortage of supplies
had driven prices sky high. She'd been reluctant to spend the money as long as
the boots she had didn't have holes in them. It didn't matter. She was just a
couple of blocks from her new life. She'd walk there barefoot if she had to.

Dusk darkened the sky just enough to see the flickering lamp
lights within the windows of the houses that lined the street. The scent of
cooking food from those houses filled her senses and set her stomach rumbling.
She smiled, her step quickening. The desires to laugh and weep warred within
her as she rounded the corner and looked up at the large two-story white house
on the right. She couldn't have missed it if she'd tried. It was the only white
house on the street.

Finally she'd come home!

Joy swelled in Anne's heart and clogged her throat. She
walked toward the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the house. Inside that
fence was everything she had ever longed for. Once she walked through the gate,
her life would never be the same again. This was where she belonged, where
she'd always belonged.

The sight of boards nailed to the front door stopped her in
her tracks. She glanced around to make sure she hadn't overlooked another white
house, but her initial assessment was correct. This was the only one on the
entire street.

The gate creaked open under her hand, and she walked slowly
toward the front door. As she drew closer, she could see that something had
been tacked to the door. She stepped up onto the veranda, and the bold print
leaped out at her.

PUBLIC NOTICE

ESTATE OF MRS.
MARGUERITE TREMAINE

PROPERTY FOR
SALE BY BANK OF UBIQUITOUS, TEXAS

She couldn’t focus on the words that floated before her
blurred vision. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and she wiped it away with the
back of her hand. It couldn't be.
Estate
of
Mrs. Marguerite Tremaine? Aunt Marguerite was dead? She read it again, and
stunned disbelief slowly gave way to rage. She'd come all this way for nothing.
Nothing!

She beat her fist against the boards.

Slowly, she looked around at what her mind hadn't allowed her
to see before: the chipped paint on the house's facade, the weeds that choked
whatever flowers might once have bloomed in the small garden.

Across the street, a light burned in a curtained window.
Would whoever
lived
inside that house know what had
happened? When? And how? There were so many questions.

Wrapping her anger and sorrow in a blanket of determination,
she stepped down from the veranda and strode toward the large brick building,
halting uncertainly at the door. Behind her, her aunt's house sat in the midst
of its ruined yard.

She knocked, tentatively at first, but when there was no
answer she knocked again, more insistently this time. Torn between the need to
stay and wait and the urge to turn and leave, she slowly backed away. She had
nearly reached the edge of the stoop when the door swung open and a small
fragile-looking woman stood peering at her.

"May I help you, young lady?" the woman asked.

"Mrs. Tremaine," was all Anne could say past the
tears that clogged her throat. Her voice trembled and she took a deep,
steadying breath, gazing away from the sympathy in the little woman's face.