Desperado (17 page)

He and Helen decided to head due north to Marysville, about eighty miles from Sacramento. They could have sidetracked slightly to the west and hit the colorful Grizzly Flats, or Hangtown, or Murderer's Bar, but those were busy towns with a reputation for hating Mexicans. At the least rumor that he was the Angel Bandit, he'd be wearing a rope necktie.

Once they put some distance between themselves and Southern California, the Angel Bandit's territory, they wouldn't have to be so careful. In the meantime, they rode their horses hard, avoiding the main road, which was heavily trafficked by dozens of mule teams and wagons carrying supplies, as well as hundreds of prospective miners and budding entrepreneurs, on foot and horse and mule.

He and Helen stopped only when absolutely necessary to water the animals, or relieve themselves.

That was when Helen started whistling.

And whistling.

And whistling some more.

Hey, he didn't mind a little whistling now and then. It was a visible sign that Helen felt chipper, more cooperative about their gold-seeking adventure. But after a while, with the blistering heat—it must have been 115 degrees—the incessant dust of the well-traveled road, his sore butt, and F. Lee's gas—geez, he hadn't known a horse could fart—he was not in a good mood.

To top it off, F. Lee stepped on his sunglasses. A hundred dollars down the drain!

That was the first three hours. Then Helen resumed her blasted
ooohm-ooohm-ooohm
meditating.

How could a guy go from thinking he was “in love” to thinking he was “in loathing” in such a short time?

Ooohm. Ooohm. Ooohm. Ooohm
.

“Who ever heard of meditating on a horse?” he grumbled.

She laughed, a bubbly kind of laugh, and that irritated him, too. He couldn't stand perky women.

“I never heard of it, either, but, actually, the rocking of the horse is conducive to rhythmic chanting. Don't you think?” Flashing him another one of those Mona Lisa smirks, she inquired sweetly, “Cranky, are we?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued with her hippie humming.
Ooohm. Ooohm. Ooohm. Ooohm
.“

He heard a grinding sort of noise—probably the sound of his own gnashing teeth.

Nah, on closer inspection, he realized F. Lee was farting again.

Maybe he wasn't cut out to be a prospector after all.

T
he day wore on, and Rafe decided that riding a horse was a world-class bore.
Give me first-class accommodations on a jet with a magazine and a Scotch on the rocks. Or a nice smooth-riding BMW with Aerosmith on the CD and the air conditioner blasting
. Not that he traveled first class, or had a BMW. But someday he would. That was his dream.

Occasionally, between whistles and
ooohms,
Helen pulled out the notebook he'd given her, interrupting his daydreams. She managed somehow to guide her horse with her thighs while she braced the notebook on the saddle horn to write.
Which, of course, started him on daydreams of a different sort.

Betcha she has really muscular thighs. Betcha they clutch a guy when she's ridin' him. Betcha she could control the pace of lovemaking with her thighs alone. Betcha I better get my mind on other things or I'm gonna embarrass myself
.

“What'd I do now?” he asked the third time she pulled out the notebook, figuring she must be giving him more check marks.

“I'm making a list.”

“To report my transgressions?” he teased.

She swept him with a condescending glance. “
That
list is in my head. This list is of things to do before we return to the landing site. Plus, I have a breakdown of our income and expenses thus far, with a projection of how much we need to earn. In crude spreadsheet form, of course.”

“Of course.”
Hell, I'm traveling with a human calculator
. He snorted with disgust.

“What? You don't like lists? Or planning?”

“There's such a thing as too much order.”

“Do you think so?” she asked, seeming genuinely puzzled. “I really wish I had my Franklin Planner with me. I could organize this venture much better with a daily itinerary.”

Screw your itinerary
. “I prefer spontaneity.”

“Spontaneity breeds chaos.”

“Huh?”

“By the way, exactly how much gold did you say you need to take care of your money problems?”

“I didn't say.”

“How can I plan how many days we need to stay unless you tell me? I can make a chart for our daily input of gold and output of expenses, cross-referenced with the price of gold today, compared to the market value in 2015.”

“Hell!”

“You swear too much.” She tapped her pencil impatiently on her pad. “Well?” she prodded.

“Three hundred thousand or so,” he mumbled.

“Wh-what? You're joking, right?”

“I wish I were, babe. I wish I were.” He rode ahead then, not wanting to discuss the matter further. The amount gave him a shock, too, every time Lorenzo ran it up on his adding machine.

Later, he saw a group of Indians up ahead near a riverbank and decided to stop for a break. It was well past noon and he was hungry. Besides, that should stop her whistling and
ooohm
ing and list making for awhile.

“Do you think they're friendly?”

“No, I think they'll probably scalp us, after they stop picking those flowers,” he snapped.

The dozen or so Indians, wearing grass skirt garments down to their thighs, really were picking flowers, or rather they passed large conical baskets back and forth under a bunch of wildflowers and shook the seeds into similar baskets on their backs.

While Helen went into the bushes to relieve herself, he watered the horses, then walked over to the wary “redskins.” They looked as if they would run at the first sign of a tomahawk.

None of them seemed to understand English, but finally one old Indian sitting under a tree nodded and said, “
Sí
,” when Rafe tossed out,
“Habla Español?”

Rafe threw out a bunch of questions in Spanish, and the toothless man said he hadn't seen anyone answering Pablo's description, and told Rafe it would take another day for them to get to Marysville.

Curious about the shy Indians—mostly women and children—who kept darting inquisitive peeks his way, Rafe asked, “What are they doing?”

“My people gather the flower seeds. The women crush the seeds, then mix them with ground acorns and grasshoppers for bread making,” the old man said in stumbling Spanish. “'Tis our way, taught by our ancestors.” He handed Rafe a slice to sample.

Grasshoppers? Yech!

Helen ambled out of the bushes then, hips swinging with an exaggerated sway—something she'd been doing since issuing her challenge. Rafe noticed immediately that she wore only a T-shirt over her sweat-dampened skin, having ditched her camouflage shirt and gown.

“What the hell?” He stood menacingly. “Put the gown back on, Helen, or I will.”

“It's too hot to wear all those clothes,” she said defensively, dancing off to the side to avoid his grabbing her. “Besides, no one can see me the way we're traveling off the beaten track.”

The old Indian watched them expressionlessly. He was probably thinking,
Crazy palefaces!

Damn it, Helen knew how he obsessed over her breasts, and the T-shirt called attention to them. He could see that she took great pleasure in his discomfort, especially when she smiled seductively and then deliberately tucked the shirt into her slacks, real tight.

“I guess I'd better rub the horses down before we eat,” she said. But first she rolled her head on her neck, presumably to get the kinks out, then put her hands on the small of her back and arched outward. A Vargas model couldn't have done it better.

At the sight of her perfect breasts outlined by the damp fabric, every drop of blood in his body rushed to the lightning rod between his legs. And Helen knew perfectly well what she did to him. This was all part of the new game she'd decided to play.

Well, he'd always considered himself a worthy adversary in any fight. And he wasn't about to wimp out now.

“Helen,” he said, stifling a grin.

“What?” She batted her eyelashes innocently.

Hah! She was as innocent as Eve in the Garden of Eden.

“How would you like a slice of Indian bread, honey?”

“Well, gee, I don't know.”

“Lots of protein.”

“Okay.” She reached for the bread and began to eat, at first slowly, then with relish. “Yum. This is really good.”

My point, sweetheart
.

W
omen could be so devious! . . .

L
ater that day, they met up with a man sitting next to a stream, talking to his horse. He appeared to be lost.

Rafe introduced himself as Rafael Santiago and Helen as his wife, explaining that they were heading for the northern mines to prospect for gold.

The young man—no more than twenty or so—identified himself as an author from New York, Henry Phillips. He'd been hired after graduation from Harvard College by publisher George Putnam, a friend of his father's, to write a book on the Gold Rush. Henry wore rust-colored corduroy-type pants and a purple flannel shirt in great contrast to his curly auburn hair and florid complexion.

He rode a horse, but had a mule trailing behind him, loaded not with the usual mining gear, but, instead, with dozens of journals and sketchbooks, a barometer, a compass, a spyglass, one place setting of silverware, and a pewter table service. He sheepishly admitted that his mother had insisted on the
latter refinements. In addition, he carried a special case for playing cards, like most miners did, known as “The California Prayer Book.”

“Let him travel with us for a while,” Helen coaxed Rafe. “He seems harmless.”

“More like inept,” Rafe grumbled, rubbing his butt.

“Do you have another blister?” she asked with concern.

“No, Helen, I don't have another blister. I have a sore ass. And, yes, he can travel with us. Maybe it will give you something to do besides whistle and
ooohm
.”

“Aren't you just the bluebird of happiness today?” she commented, but she was pleased with his mood. It meant her ploy was working.

Back at Sacramento, when he'd kissed her witless, then declined to make love until
he
was ready, she'd come up with a plan. What if she was the aggressor? What if she constantly made suggestive remarks? What if she deliberately provoked him with her body, which seemed to hold a fascination for him? What if she acted as if she'd like nothing better than to hop in the sack and make mad love all day long?

It was a gamble, but one that seemed to be paying off. Any moment now, she expected Rafe to throw in the towel and declare that they were returning to the landing site and his one night of making love. Really, men like Rafe were ruled by their passions, not disciplined logic. Soon he would give in.

To be perfectly honest, she was anticipating that one night, too. Rafe had a way of making her breathless with just a look or a smile. And, when he touched her, even in passing, her heart raced and blood rushed to the spot. Yes, she was sure she would enjoy their one-night fling . . . immensely.

In the meantime, she was going to do everything in her power to make him miserable. And Henry could act as the buffer between the two of them, especially this first night
when otherwise they would have been camping out in their tent, alone.

R
afe lay in his tent with his arms folded behind his neck, waiting for Helen to call it a day. She was outside teaching Henry how to meditate. For heaven's sake, it sounded like they were
ooohm
ing themselves into a trance. Every bird from here to Monterey had flown off shrieking long ago.

Not that Henry cared any more than he did about her transcendental nonsense. Nah, the cow-eyed jerk, who had a full-blown crush on Rafe's “wife,” saw an opportunity when it hit him head on. He probably would have stood on his hands and done the polka if Helen had asked him.

First, Henry had taken to whistling in tandem with Helen as they'd ridden along. Even F. Lee snorted with disgust. Later, the horse, which must be very intelligent, rolled his eyes up at Rafe, as if pleading, “Can't you shut the two kooks up?”

At dinner that night, Henry showed Helen how to make Indian johnnycakes on a shovel—
a shovel!
—over the open fire. Helen oohed and ahed as he made a hole in the middle of a pile of meal, dumped in warm water and a pinch of salt, then spooned the soft dough onto the flat shovel, putting it in the coals. You would have thought the kid had invented sliced bread.

“I can make tortillas,” Rafe said.

Helen and Henry gawked at him as if he'd said he could piss and blow smoke at the same time. He said something about needing to check on F. Lee and stomped off to feel sorry for himself.

Thinking back, Rafe had to concede that Henry had passed along a lot of interesting information as they rode, including the fact that he'd met up with Pablo, who'd been riding hard,
alone, to Marysville. He'd even noticed “the unusual silk material”—their parachute—that Helen had described for him. In fact, he'd related that Pablo was using it for a tent, of all things. Apparently, he kept getting caught in the odd strings.

Pablo had tried to rob him, Henry told them, but the bandit had dropped his gun at the critical moment and shot himself in the foot. About par for Pablo, Rafe figured. With any luck, they'd catch up with the goofball bandit tomorrow when they reached Marysville.

Henry had also shared his notebooks and sketches with them, giving a nineteenth-century perspective on the history lessons Rafe and Helen already knew. Millard Fillmore had become president in July, replacing Zachary Taylor, who'd died in office. California was not yet a state, but would be soon. Federal census takers sent into the hills were estimating that more than 100,000 males, most of them in their twenties, had flooded into California over the past two years, lured by dreams of gold.

And the exciting news to those lonely men, according to Henry, was the French government's recent decision to ship off hundreds of its incarcerated prostitutes to the California wilderness. A red-faced Henry apologized to Helen as he relayed that racy information.

Finally, Henry showed off his sketches, which were quite good. The crowded San Francisco Bay with its abandoned ships. A fiesta on a native Californian's rancho. The teeming streets of Sacramento City.

“Look,” Helen exclaimed then, drawing Rafe's attention to one of Henry's rough sketches. “It's those foothill Indians we saw earlier today gathering flower seeds.”

“Yes, they were unique,” Henry agreed, pleased at their interest in his work. “I even wrote down the recipe for that unusual bread they make with ground flower seeds, acorns, and grasshoppers.” He searched through his notes to find the recipe.

And Helen turned outraged eyes on Rafe. “Grasshoppers? You gave me bread with grasshoppers in it?”

He shrugged. “Protein, Helen. You're always yammering about protein and proper diet and yoga. All that granola crap.”

“Did
you
eat any?” she had asked.

“Are you kidding? I get my protein in a Big Mac, thank you very much.”

He smiled now. He should feel guilty, but he didn't. Hell, she probably ate bugs all the time on her Army survival missions.

Yawning widely, he stretched and felt his eyes drooping with sleep. This horse riding and adventure stuff was tiring. He'd give it up in a flash if he wasn't so damn poor. Just last week, he'd been forced to tell his sister Jacinta that she would have to go to grad school at a state university, instead of Loyola, because he just couldn't afford the private tuition. And his mother's roof leaked. And Miguel, his sister Luisa's kid, needed braces. And Lorenzo wanted a raise. And there was this really, really nice BMW he'd been eying for years.

“Move over,” Helen said waspishly.

He hadn't realized she'd entered the tent and removed her boots and gown, leaving only her slacks and T-shirt. That damn T-shirt was going to be the death of him yet.

“And stop muttering about BMWs.”

His mouth curved upward in the dark as he made room for her under the blanket. As hot as California was during the day, it got cool at night here in the mountains.

She slid in, as far from him as possible, facing away.

He chuckled.

“And don't you dare touch me, you louse,” she warned.

How had she known he was about to reach for her? He must be losing his smoothness.

“I'm not going to forget about the grasshoppers.”

“Did you write it on your list?”

She proceeded to tell him then exactly how many of his
transgressions had made it to her list. On and on she went shrewishly until his sleepy brain could take no more. She'd been teasing him constantly since she'd turned the sexual tables on him in Sacramento. She probably didn't really want to make love with him. It was a bluff. A defensive ploy.

If so, it was working, damn it.

Pulling her back against him with a jerk, Rafe ignored her squeal of protest and whispered in her ear, “How do you feel about oral sex, Helen?”

“Wh-what?” she gasped and slapped at one of his hands, which was about to fondle her breast. Then she quickly grabbed for his other hand, which already rubbed her flat tummy.

“Hey, it's the natural solution. No babies that way.” He grinned to himself at her suddenly stiff body. Not that he seriously considered oral sex a solution. Sex play of that nature was mere foreplay to whet his appetite for the real thing.

“I'd rather wait until we're really alone and can go all the way,” she lied.

She was as transparent as Saran Wrap. Why hadn't he seen through her charade earlier? “Are you sure? About the oral sex, I mean?” he inquired sweetly. “I've noticed that you seem tense, even with all that guru-schmuru inner-sanctum yodeling, and I'll bet—
I'll just bet
—I could find your real center and—”

“Oh, go to sleep,” she snapped. And she held fast to both his wrists at waist level to keep them from moving to forbidden territory.

Rafe adjusted his hips against her rear, though. If nothing else, he planned to have some super dreams tonight.

I
t was already dark by the time they reached Marysville the next day. Henry told them that the little town at the junction
of the Feather and Yuba rivers was named for Mary Murphy, a survivor of the ill-fated Donner expedition four years before. Of course, the town flourished now with the Gold Rush.

Every muscle in Rafe's body ached. He smelled his own sweat. The mother of all headaches was doing a jig behind his eyes. And he had a hard-on with a mind of its own.

Helen, on the other hand, looked cool, calm, and invigorated by their grueling eighty-mile trek from Sacramento City. She and Henry had been whistling and
ooohm
ing for four straight hours. And she and the bumbling kid had something else in common. They both liked to brush their teeth and gargle three times a day. Henry had practically salivated over the Franklin Planner Helen described for him.

Rafe felt like puking.

Thank God, Henry went off to find a cousin who owned a house in Marysville, promising to connect with them the following day.

Rafe and Helen dismounted near a livery stable. He started to say something, then forgot what he was about to say. Helen was stretching languidly, making a purring sound of pleasure.

Does she purr after she climaxes?

She'd refused to put her gown back on this morning when the sun came up like a fireball. He hadn't been able to argue with her logic about the blistering heat, but Henry had gaped at her T-shirt the entire day like a teenager at his first porno flick. Rafe noted dryly to himself that it surely took coordination on Henry's part to gape and whistle and
ooohm
all at the same time.

“Put on your gown,” he ordered now in a testy voice, “before every male with a lick of testosterone gets a whiff of eau-de-female.”

She bent over to tie her shoelace, thus giving him a fine view of her well-rounded behind. “Does that include you?” she challenged over her shoulder.

“In spades.”

He leaned against the wall of the stable and crossed his ankles lazily. His eyes roved over her body, from raised eyebrows to dust-covered boots. “Don't push me too far, Helen,” he advised silkily. “You might get a helluva lot more than you can handle.”

A
fter parking the two horses at the livery stable and Helen at a hotel, thus using up a sizable portion of their remaining gold, Rafe did the thing men who are royally pissed have been doing for ages. He headed for the nearest saloon.

By now, Helen, settled into their minuscule hotel room, had probably moved from whistling and
ooohm
ing to gargling and forms. After two days of watching her breasts move with every beat of her horse, he didn't think he could stand forms, too. Her breasts didn't exactly jiggle, he corrected himself. They swayed. And that was even worse. After a while, he'd found himself swaying on his own horse to the same rhythm.

Sometime soon, he intended to spend about two hours worshiping those perfect Vargas breasts of hers.

He would look at them. For a long time. Weigh them with his hands, molding them and reshaping them to fit his palms. He would resist kissing them or touching them with his lips for a long, long time. Only when he had brought the nipples to hard, aching points by rolling them and flicking them with his fingertips, only when she begged him to suckle her, only when she purred . . . Well, that's when he'd take her in his mouth. Hard, at first, then soft. Wet. Oh, yeah, wet. Then—

“What's yer poison, mister?”

Rafe blinked at the surly bartender standing before him, then shook his head hard to rid it of his fantasies.
The woman is driving me absolutely bonkers
. “A whiskey. No, make it a double.”

The bartender bypassed the fine labeled bottle on the shelf behind him and reached for the keg on the floor. Probably rotgut.

“No way, buddy. I'll have that,” he insisted, pointing.

“Mebbe you should take yer bizness somewheres else,
greaser
.”