Desperado (13 page)

“No,” Helen stated firmly.

“Well, not for anyone but her husband,” Rafe added brightly as he buckled on Ignacio's holsters, inserted the discarded pistols, and crisscrossed the ammo belts over his chest.

“Not for anyone,” Helen emphasized.

“We'll give you five hundred dollars in gold dust,” one of the hayseed twins offered.

“Well . . .” Rafe said, tapping his chin pensively.

Helen could tell by the twinkle in his eyes that he was teasing, but she glared at him impatiently.

“Just kidding, guys. She's not for sale. Anytime. Anyplace. Anywhere.”

Grumbling, the men began to walk away.

Rafe turned back to her then. “Happy now?”

A delayed reaction set in. Trembling, she could barely nod her head. “God, I am so tired and dirty and hot. I wish I could take a bath and sleep for two days. Then wake up in the twentieth century.”

“Me, too.” He reached out a hand and brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. The expression on his face was unreadable, but the whispery caress seemed to have significance. The gesture touched her deeply.

“How did I do as a hero?” he joked, but Helen saw a vulnerable, almost needful, emotion on his handsome face.

Her heart went out to him in a way she just couldn't explain. She should have answered in the same, lighthearted tone, but her innate honesty forced her to confess, “The best.”

He smiled at her with such tenderness that Helen felt tears well in her eyes. Holding her gaze, Rafe leaned down and
brushed his lips across hers—a brush of a kiss, so brief she almost missed it. But Helen's world tilted askew, and she knew from Rafe's sharp intake of breath that he was equally affected.

Without a word, they headed for the other end of the alley.

“So,” Rafe said huskily, looping an arm over her shoulders as they walked, “we make quite a team, don't we?”

She prepared to make a prissy remark, to criticize him for the familiarity of his embrace, not to mention the kiss. Subordinate officers didn't kiss their superiors.

Instead, she laid her head on the cradle of his chest, nuzzling his warm neck, and murmured, “Yeah, we do.”

F
or more than an hour, they strolled arm in arm, through the 1850 town of Sacramento, stopping every few steps to examine and comment on the extraordinary sights. With their escape from the bungling bandits and their impulsive kiss, their relationship had entered a new phase—tentative friendship and possibly something more precious. Rafe chose not to ponder the latter too closely . . . just yet.

Darkness now blanketed the town, but bright light from lanterns and candles filtered through the open doorways of the dilapidated structures and through the fabric of the canvas tents, making them glow like golden balloons. The nighttime businesses were putting out their welcome mats—saloons, brothels, and gambling halls—the seedy establishments that fed on the Gold Rush like parasites.

And they had plenty of comers. The main thoroughfare was alive with crowds of men, and a rare woman, mostly in their twenties, laughing, talking, cursing, gesticulating. Judging by their different languages and colorful attire, Rafe
recognized the French, Irish, Italians, Australians, Chinese, Mexicans, native Californians of Spanish descent, and Blacks from the southern states.

“Talk about melting pots!” Helen commented. “I wonder how they all understand each other.”

“There's a common language where gold is concerned.” Rafe laughed. “Listen.” Interspersed throughout all the conversations were buzzwords centered on the topic of the day—gold. Exciting words, like bonanza, Eldorado, placer, diggings, mother lode, rich vein, paydirt, big strike.

Helen nodded.

They crossed the dusty street and stopped in front of a big tent from which rich odors of food emanated. A homemade signboard in front proclaimed:

BIG JOHN'S RESTERANT

Sacramento Salmon and Boiled Taters, $3

Elk Steak and Boiled Taters, $5

Fried Pork, Beans and Boiled Taters, $2

Rhubarb Pie, $10.

Coffee, fifty cents.

“Well, one thing is clear,” Rafe said. “Potatoes are plentiful and pie is scarce.”

“There's another thing clear here, too,” Helen added, biting her bottom lip worriedly. “Food is very expensive. Do you have any money?”

He pulled a wallet out of his back pocket. “Back at the landing site, Ignacio picked through my stuff but only kept the loose change. Credits cards and paper money are worthless here.”

“What are we going to do?” Helen groaned. “I was so worried about our getting free of those bandits that it never occurred to me that we have no way of surviving in these times.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that. I can work as hard as any man to earn money. I could even open a law practice.” Ignoring her scoffing look, he went on, “But our immediate problem is food and lodging for the night. Tomorrow we can investigate the work situation.”

“Maybe we could borrow some money.”

It was his turn to scoff. “Honey, I've seen the looks of disdain and the remarks about worthless greasers. No one's gonna lend me peanuts. And, unless you're willing to turn tricks, I suspect you're in the same boat.”

Helen blushed prettily. He liked that about her.

“Well, Mr. Know-It-All, what do you suggest?”

“Follow me,” he said, heading inside the open-sided, unfloored tent where a mammoth Scotsman with a bald head and ginger-colored beard stood behind a counter. Several long plank tables and rough benches filled the entire space where the dining prospectors stopped eating and stared bug-eyed at the sight of a new woman in town, especially one in pants. The first thing Rafe planned to do when he got some cash was buy Helen a dress.

Slipping a thin gold chain and crucifix out of his boot, he reluctantly plunked them on the counter. He hated to part with the only piece of jewelry he ever wore, a high school graduation gift from his mother. At the time, when their only income had come from her housecleaning jobs, the extravagance had probably represented two weeks of scrubbing other people's toilets. Well, he had no choice. “How much will you give me for this?” he inquired of Big John, who was busy ogling Helen, like every other man within a mile radius.

“Huh?” the burly restaurateur said, looking down for the first time at the glimmering item on his counter.

Helen picked up the chain and frowned. “How come Ignacio took everything I had, and he didn't take this?”

“I always stick it in my shoe before a jump.”

“Oh, Rafe, you can't sell this,” Helen cried when she turned
it over, reading aloud the inscription on the back,
TO RAFAEL, HAPPY GRADUATION, MAMA
. Placing it back on the counter, she said, “It's an important memento.”

“You can't eat mementoes,” he pointed out, seconded by his stomach rumbling.

Meanwhile, Big John picked up the cross, examined it closely, tested the gold content with his teeth, then offered, “Two pork-and-beans dinners, and five dollars in gold dust.”

“Two salmon dinners, coffee, two rhubarb pies—whatever the hell rhubarb is—and twenty dollars in gold dust,” Rafe countered, seeing the two-foot, freshly baked fish lying on a plank table behind the owner.

Big John studied him warily, then agreed. “A deal. I could use me a little fancy fer Veroneesa over at Lily's Fandango Parlor.”

“Isn't fandango the name of a dance?” Helen asked as they walked over to a far table, their tin plates piled high with food. He'd tucked the small poke of gold dust in his pocket. “Maybe we can go over there later and watch the dancing.”

Rafe began to choke and almost dropped his plate. “Oh, Helen, your naïveté continues to amaze me. Yeah, fandango is the name of a dance, but, believe me, sweetheart, the men don't go there to tango, if you get my drift.”

Her flaming face told him she did.

Big John brought their coffee over personally and sat down with them for a few moments. “Where ya from, folks?”

“My wife and I are from southern California, and we're headed for the northern goldfields.”

“I'm not his—”

Rafe sliced her a glare and she heeded his warning.

“Well, we're not sure if we're going to prospect, or go home,” Helen said sweetly. “We had the misfortune to run into a few bandits who brought us here, but now I'm trying to talk my
darling husband
into the wisdom of giving up on the Gold Rush.”

“Seen the elephant, have ya?” Big John remarked to Rafe with a rueful laugh.

“Seen the elephant? What the hell does that mean?”

“Ya never heard the sayin'?” The big man raised his bushy ginger eyebrows in surprise. “It means ya got the gold bug. Well, no, actually it means more that a man gets hisself caught up in the excitement of the treasure hunt.”

“But why an elephant?” Helen asked.

“The story goes, there wuz this farmer onct who allus wanted ta see an elephant but never had,” Big John began his story with relish. Rafe saw men at surrounding tables listening closely to the tale, which they must have heard countless times before.

“Anyways, one day a circus come ta town, and the farmer loaded his wagon with eggs and vegetables and headed fer the market. Along the way he met up with the circus parade led by an elephant. His horses bucked and run away, and the wagon overturned. There wuz a godawful mess of broken eggs and bruised vegetables, but the farmer said, ‘I don't give a damn. I have seen the elephant.'”

Helen's forehead creased with puzzlement. “And the point?”

“The point, sweet lady, is that I purely do agree with you 'bout the wisdom of gold diggin'. Mos' miners come back with nothin' more'n broken eggs and bruised vegetables, so ta speak.”

“But,” Rafe added, “you're also saying that seeing the elephant is worth it for the adventuresome man . . . or woman.”

“Yep.”

“Wisdom versus excitement,” Helen asserted.

“Caution versus opportunity,” Rafe amended.

“Ya both be right,” Big John concluded, standing. “But my best piece of advice,
mi amigo
, is that, if yer gonna prospect, go far north. Mexicans ain't welcome in mos' mining camps
these days.” Rafe bristled. “Now, now, don't go gettin' yer blood up. I offer the advice kindly, jist so ya know what yer up agin.”

Rafe relaxed a bit. “Thank you, then.”

“Ya heard 'bout the Foreign Miners Tax that the legislature passed a few months past, ain't ya?”

Rafe shook his head slowly.

“All the furriners that wants ta work a claim gots ta pay twenty dollars a month, iffen they'll even 'low you to file a claim a'tall. Mostly, furriners means you Mexicans and the Celestials, but really any man what comes from another country. Ya gots ta watch yer back, man.”

“I'm an American,” Rafe grated out.

“Son, that don't make no nevermind. Any man with dark skin and an accent is a furriner here,” Big John corrected. “Hell, even the native Californeos who bin here forever are bein' called outsiders by the Yankees.”

A muscle twitched in Rafe's cheek.

“Now, young man, lower yer hackles. I dint say I agree. I'm jist tryin' ta save ya some aggravation.”

“Hey, no big deal! I've lived with this kind of crap all my life.” Rafe raised his chin proudly, defensively.

Helen's heart went out to Rafe. Apparently, he would have to fight prejudice, even in these primitive times. And she, as a woman in the male-dominated military, knew how bigotry felt.

After Big John walked off, they consumed every morsel on their plates, even the rhubarb pie that Rafe, at first, turned his nose up at. Now they sat sipping their coffee.

The whole time they dined, Helen tried hard to ignore the gawking men and echoing whispers of “Elena” and “corkscrew” and “gargling,” and “forms.” Obviously, the miners still chose to believe she was the famous prostitute. Wishful thinking.

One of the men lit up a big smelly cigar and began to drag
on it appreciatively. She coughed in revulsion as the offensive smoke drifted toward their table. Despite her exaggerated efforts to wave the smoke away, the man continued to puff enthusiastically.

She turned back to Rafe, who was studying her with a strange expression on his face. He hadn't shaved in days, and dark whiskers covered his jaw. His uncombed black hair was pushed back roughly off his forehead and behind his ears, down to his collar.

Helen watched, mesmerized, as his long fingers traced a path around the rim of his cup. The whole time, his pale blue eyes under their sinfully long lashes held hers in question.

“What?” she asked hesitantly. The smoldering look in his eyes bothered her a whole lot more than the overt remarks of the men surrounding them, or the blatant, erotic teasing he'd subjected her to for days. “Well, spit it out. What's the problem now?” she prodded.

“I want to kiss you all over.”

H
e wanted to seize the day, and the night, too . . .

A
low strangling sound escaped her throat. “No!” she squeaked out.

His face fell. “Why not?”

“Why not? Why not?”

“Now, Helen, don't give me that commanding officer crap. I thought we agreed long ago that we're on equal footing here.”

“Rafe, you just barely escaped hanging. I'm still dodging the corkscrewer rap.” A waft of repugnant cigar smoke swept toward their table, and she shot a glare at the offending smoker behind her. Turning back to Rafe, she said, “I would sell my soul for a bath and a clean bed. Why would you all of a sudden
think
you want to kiss me?”

“There's no
thinking
about it, babe. Uh uh. I want to,
real bad
. And don't for one minute consider this a sudden inclination. I wanted to kiss you the first time I saw you sixteen years ago, and I've thought of nothing else since I saw you boarding that aircraft on Saturday.”

“You're making this up just to disconcert me, and—”

“Do I disconcert you?” His lips turned up with satisfaction.

“Not in that way, you egomaniac. Besides, you did kiss me. In the middle of our skydive. And then again in the alley.”

He hooted at her ready remembrance of those two brief kisses. “Those were appetizers. I'm looking for more, lots more. Plus, as I said, I want to kiss you
all over
. None of those five-second virgin pecks.”

“I'm not listening to another word. I don't know why you get your kicks teasing me, but it's not funny at all.”

She started to stand, but he reached across the table and nudged her back down to her bench.

“Do you see me smiling?” His voice was husky.

“Then why?”

“Well, it's like this, Helen,” he said, taking her hand in his from across the table, despite her efforts to resist. He turned it over palm side up and began to create erotic patterns with a forefinger along the lines. “I want to make love to you so bad my teeth hurt,” he admitted in a low, thick voice, his eyes holding her captive. “I don't know what's going to happen to us tomorrow, or even an hour from now. So, I'd kinda like to, well, seize the moment.”

She blinked at him with utter amazement. “When did this conversation move from kisses to making love?”

“It's a natural progression for me,” he said brashly, peering up at her through his ridiculously long lashes.

Speechless, Helen could only gape at Rafe.

Taking her silence for lack of enthusiasm, Rafe continued, “You wouldn't have to worry about getting pregnant. I already told you how I feel about kids and that I've had a vasectomy. No commitments, either. We'd end our relationship when we return to the future . . . if you wanted.”

The insensitive jerk! She was fuming. And hurt. How could he think she would want such a casual, short-term affair? With anyone. “And what about my engagement?”

He clenched his teeth and his lips thinned at that reminder. “You never talk about your fiancé. Are you really in love with Elliott?” At least he'd used his name this time. “Do you really expect you'll still marry?”

She glanced down at her ringless finger and realized that she'd failed to retrieve her engagement ring from Ignacio. How could she have not missed the symbol of her impending marriage? It was a telling lapse on her part. “In all honesty, no.”

“No what?”

“No, I'm not in love with Elliott. I care about him, but I'm not ‘in love' with him. And, no, I won't be marrying him now.”

The smile spreading across Rafe's face was so beautiful, she gasped. Battling for self-control, she told him, “Elliott and I were headed for a breakup long ago. That's probably why we've been engaged so long. But that doesn't mean I'd want to . . . to . . .”

“Make love with me?” His lips were parted sensually, and he looked as if he might lean across the table and kiss her.

She tried to wrest her hand out of his grasp. He held on tighter and laced his fingers with hers.

“C'mon, Helen, live a little. Stop thinking about what's logical and correct. Do what feels right.”

It was the most outrageous suggestion anyone had ever made to Helen in all her life, even if he was being bluntly honest with her. “I've got to admit, you stun me—”

“Stun is good.”

She gave her head a rueful shake. “—but the answer is—”

He pressed his fingertips against her lips. “I promise you this, babe, you wouldn't regret it.”

“I'm already regretting listening to you.”

“I'd make it last so-o-o long.”

She laughed. “Your humility is endearing.”

“You'd be so hot, you'd beg me to quench your fire.”

“Hah! You couldn't even ignite a spark in me.”

He flashed her a knowing grin. Surely, he didn't suspect the flames of desire that licked through her already?

“I'd teach you to come, over and over and over, till your tongue curls,” he promised.

Helen knew he was just trying to shock her, but she bit on her tongue just to make sure it stayed right where it should, uncurled.

“I'd take your screams in my mouth, and you'd take mine in yours.”

Screams?

“It might only be for the brief time we're together, but it would be the best time of both our lives. That's not bragging, honey, it's a fact.”

He pulled her hand up to his lips and kissed her wrist.

She thought her pulse would jump through the skin.

He smiled coaxingly. “So, Helen, will you make love with me?”

She should have said no, instantly.
Oh, Lord, I am so tempted
.

She should have slapped his face.
He looks so vulnerable. How can a man making an obscene suggestion appear vulnerable?

Molten need pooled between her legs, and suddenly she felt dizzy.

It must be a delayed reaction to the events of the past few hours, she told herself. She stood shakily, inhaled deeply, and almost choked on a huge draft of cigar smoke.

And then she fainted.

G
roggily, Helen swam up from the bottom of a deep pool. The wetness of the water cooled her heated face and droplets
ran down her neck. She opened her eyes slowly to the sun and saw, instead, a canvas roof. And Rafe!

She tried to sit up, but he forced her back down to the cot where she was lying. Dipping a cloth into a bucket of water, he leaned over her and gently wiped her brow. The expression of concern on his face would have touched her if she wasn't so worried herself.

“Thank God,” he said when her eyes opened. “Are you okay?”

She nodded sluggishly.

“Boy, I've known women to swoon over the prospect of making love with me, but outright fainting? Damn, that's a first for me. Do you faint when you come, too?”

She swatted his hand with the wet cloth aside and scanned her surroundings. Big John stood behind Rafe, wringing his hands. “It weren't my fish what made 'er swoon. No sirree, I don't serve bad fish.”

Behind him in the flap that separated the makeshift sleeping area from the restaurant stood a half dozen curious miners. “Mebbe she's breedin',” one of them said.

Rafe stiffened. “Are you?” he asked accusingly.

“What?”

“Pregnant?”

“No!”

His shoulders relaxed and he turned away, ordering, “All of you men, out of here! Now!”

Grumbling, they obeyed, even Big John, who was still muttering, “Don't be blamin' me. I serve fresh fish.”

Rafe sat down on the cot next to her. “Are you sure you're not knocked up?”

Her hot face felt even hotter. “I'm absolutely sure. It was the cigar smoke that made me faint. I can't stand cigars.”

“Maybe we'd better find a doctor to double-check.”

Fighting back wooziness, she forced herself to a sitting
position. “Give it up, Rafe. I'm not pregnant. It's impossible.”

“Maybe you need a few lessons in the facts of life, Helen. Men and women make love. Babies result.”

“Aaaargh! I didn't make love.”

“You didn't? Ever?”

“Of course, I've made love, you idiot. Just not . . . lately.” She immediately regretted her disclosure when a smug grin spread over his face.

“Define lately.”

“No.” She stood and tried to brush the wrinkles from her pants and blouse. It was a hopeless endeavor.

“A month?” he persisted, rising to his feet.

She refused to answer and began walking to the doorway.

“Two months?”

She made a tsking sound of disgust.

“Three months?”

Her head jerked up sharply in reflex.

“Well, I'll be damned,” he whooped. “You haven't made love with a man in three months. Not even with your Kentucky Fried Colonel.” He threw an arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. “We're gonna be so good together.”

They were still arguing, “Yes, we are,” “No, we're not,” when they hit the street and the harsh reminder that this was 1850 California, and they didn't have enough money for a bath, let alone a hotel room to make love.

But the harshest reminder came when they glanced across the street to an open lot where a large crowd had gathered.

“Oh, my God!” Rafe said and pressed her face into his chest. But not before she saw Ignacio hanging by the neck from a tree limb. Dead.

Helen gagged and made no protest when Rafe led her quickly in the opposite direction with an arm still wrapped
around her shoulder. The furious miners were congratulating themselves.

“Damned greasers! We oughta string 'em all up.”

“Horse thieves and Mexicans . . . They're all the same.”

“Dang it all, I never did meet me an honest tamale eater.”

“Let's go get a drink. Lynchin' sure does work up a thirst in a law-abidin' man.”

A
short time later, they stood in the same dark alley where they'd escaped the bandits. Braced against the wall with both hands in his pockets, Rafe brooded, trying to decide on their next move. Helen was rinsing her mouth with water from a bucket at the back door of the hotel.

“Ignacio was a vicious man, but I never would have wished this on him,” she said when she returned to his side.

“Me, neither. I should've known, though. Pablo told me about a man who'd had his head shaved and ears cut off, and was given a hundred lashes just for stealing a poke of gold dust.”

She stared at him, aghast. “Well, don't blame yourself.”

“I'm the one who told the sheriff about the stolen horses.”

“Stop the blame game, Rafe.”

He shrugged. “At least Pablo and Sancho have escaped. Helen, we've got to get out of town as soon as possible, too, before the miners change their minds about us.”

She nodded. “We'll go back to the landing site.”

“No.”

Even in the dim light from the half-open doorway of the hotel, he could see the flare of her nostrils. “It's too dangerous to stay here,” she insisted.

“I'm not going back till I have gold,” he said obstinately. “Lots of it.”

“I'll give you money if that's all that's keeping you here,” she pleaded. “I have a trust fund from my mother. Would . . . would twenty thousand be enough?”

Hurt and rage washed over him in a blinding tidal wave. “I don't want your money,” he lashed out.

“Why not? What difference does it make how you get it?”

He bristled with indignation at the insult. Did she think he had no pride at all? “It makes a hell of a lot of difference. I earn my own way. I always have. What do you take me for? Some kind of gigolo?”

“No! A gigolo gives sexual favors for money, and—”

“And I'd give those to you for free,” he finished for her with a tight smile. “So, it must be that I'm just a low-class, ignorant, ethic-less, Mexican greaser out for a quick buck.”

“Oh, get off it, Rafe. It has nothing to do with your nationality.”

He sliced her a look of disbelief. “I'm staying here till I earn enough gold to go back to the future a rich man. Frankly, I've lost my appetite for making love with you. So, do whatever the hell you want.” Rafe stomped away.

“Where are you going?” Helen asked as she caught up with him.

“To a gambling hall.”

That drew her up short. “Should we be mingling in public? People might still think you're the Angel Bandit.”

“That's a chance I'll have to take.”

“I suppose you want to gamble so you can make enough money for gold-digging supplies.”

“Yeah, but in case you haven't noticed, sweetheart, we don't have enough money even for a place to sleep. Only the twenty dollars in gold dust that Big John gave me. And look at the sign on the City Hotel. Five dollars a night, not including bath and breakfast. Per person.”

She gave him a considering appraisal. “Are you any good at gambling?”

He grinned. “Yeah.”

She shook her head with exasperation at his inflated ego. “Do you cheat?”

He flinched. “I can't believe even you would say something so offensive.”

“Lord, you're right.” Ducking her head in shame, she apologized.

“Are you with me on the gambling, or not?”

She studied him for a really long time, during which he held his breath. “For now,” she said finally.

He exhaled slowly with relief. “You won't regret it, Helen.” He patted her hand reassuringly.

She slapped his hand away. “I already regret it. And, believe me, I'm going to make you regret forcing me into this position. You'll wish you'd never met me.”