Desperado (29 page)

Helen scanned the cloth bags lining the walls—close to 150 pounds of gold nuggets and dust. Rafe had told her over and over since yesterday that their bonanza was worth almost forty thousand dollars by 1850 rates and a cool million in the 2015 exchange.

She was excited over their windfall, too, but nowhere near as much as Rafe. Helen couldn't help thinking that Rafe was headed for a major disappointment. Although he constantly criticized her for nagging, she said nothing now, not wanting to rain on his parade.

Smiling, Rafe laced his fingers with hers and pulled her up the steps. When they got to the other side of the cabin, Zeb and Hector were just emerging into the valley from the steep path up the mountain. They were followed by a milk cow, whose moos were being drowned out by the cackling of some chickens in a small crate tied to the back of Zeb's
mule. The new additions must have cost a mint and been a chore getting up the mountain.

“Hector is back,” Rafe said, casting her a significant look. Of course, she was happy that Hector had returned with Zeb, but his return meant that Pablo must not have arrived in Rich Bar yet. Therefore, no parachutes.

But that concern was put aside for now in the joyous rush of the reunion. Between hugs and clasping hands and everyone talking at once, Rafe got out that they'd hit pay-dirt, thanks to the bears, and Zeb gave them bits and pieces of gossip from Rich Bar. Hector took the horses off to the barn to unsaddle and stable them, then ran in a hundred different directions, wanting to explore all his favorite trees and birds' nests and other childhood delights.

“Don't go too far,” Rafe warned. “The bears may still be close by.”

“I'll go out and get those grizzlies tomorrow,” Zeb said confidently. “Can't have them consarned varmints tramblin' through a homestead, 'specially with a young'un about.”

Helen wanted to protest, but Rafe put a cautioning hand on her arm. After all, this was another time and culture, and they had no right interfering. Especially since they'd be leaving soon.

A short time later, they drank tin cups of fresh brewed coffee with slices of her newly baked bread, slathered with honey. Zeb had brought fresh supplies with him, including coffee beans. Hector took his honey bread outside, wanting to check on the fish lines. Rafe faced Helen across the table and Zeb moved to his rocking chair.

Swiping a fingertip over the top of the honeycomb, Rafe dipped it in his mouth, making sure she saw the gesture. When he winked at her, she knew he was remembering the same thing she was. And it wasn't bees.

The lout! A lovable lout, but a lout just the same. She made a face at him, and he just grinned.

Meanwhile, Zeb let out a loud sigh of contentment, glad to be home. And his rocking chair went
creak, creak, creak
. With each
creak
, the grin on Rafe's face grew wider and wider.

“Don'tcha just love the sound of a rocker?” Rafe mused. “It brings to mind so many . . . memories.”

“Stop it,” she hissed.

“Me? What am I doing?”

Zeb looked from one to the other of them. Then he clapped his knee and hooted with laughter. “Well, I'm mighty pleased ta see you two been workin' those bed ropes. I jist knew you two would settle yer little spat quick-like iffen me and Hector gave you some time ta frolic a bit,” Zeb whooped.

“You're right there, too, Zeb. Helen surely does love her . . . frolicking.” He dazzled her with one of his sweet smiles. “Ain't that right, honey?”

“That's enough!” She slammed her hand on the table and stood, almost knocking her bench over. “I'm going to start dinner.” She flashed Rafe a meaningful glare. “And we're having liver and onions. With carrots on the side.”

“Um um!” Zeb said, rubbing his stomach with anticipation.

Rafe looked a little green.

She turned her back on them then, pulling out the iron kettle to begin dinner.

“Tarnation, boy, what you doin' with yer feet on the table? My Effie woulda whacked me with a broom iffen I ever done that.”

Helen didn't want to look, but she couldn't help herself. Rafe had taken off his boots and pushed the bench up against the wall. Leaning back, his legs were crossed at the ankle, propped on the table, and he was wiggling his toes in their wool socks. “Liver and onions, didja say, honey-bunch?” He gave his big toe an extra jiggle in warning.

Foot sex!

“Better close your mouth, babe. You might catch a fly.”

D
inner that night turned out to be trout, which Hector brought up from one of the fishing lines, small browned potatoes, which Zeb had purchased in Rich Bar for an exorbitant price (not that they couldn't afford it now), and a sweet custard made with eggs and milk and raisins from their new extended family. Zeb sheepishly explained, “Growin' boys need their milk, and I had a yen fer fresh eggs.”

“Where in the world did you find a cow? And chickens?”

“There wuz this down-'n-out family from the states what needed some gold ta go home. Good thing you struck gold whilst I was gone, though, 'cause I jist 'bout spent my whole poke.”

She patted his hand indulgently.

Zeb picked up a sleepy Hector and laid him lovingly on the blankets before the fire.

“Tell me some more 'bout how you shot that buck. And the bear . . . Give me the whole story agin,” Zeb exhorted. “Spec'ly the gold. I love ta hear you talk on yer first glimpse of the gold.”

Rafe had already told Zeb three times, but Helen could see that he liked to talk about his adventures. Even the deer slaying had lost some of its repugnance for him in the retelling.

When Rafe finished, she sat next to him on the bench and he pulled her close, with an arm resting loosely over one shoulder. Zeb's eyes teared a bit, watching them.

“Give us the gossip from Rich Bar,” Helen encouraged then.

“Well, I already gave you the
Godey's Lady Magazine
s what Mary sent,” he told Helen. “She said that Yank feller over on Smith's Bar gave 'em ta her, and she don't have no use fer such fripperies. She'd druther read them dime novels of hers.”

She smiled. “Are she and Yank a couple now?”

“Lordy, no. She gave 'im a black eye las' Sabbath when he tried ta kiss 'er.”

They all laughed.

“And what other news?” Helen prodded.

“Well, I brought a copy of the
Sacramento Transcript
. Plenty of news in there. Of course, everyone's celebratin' statehood.”

“California just became a state?” Rafe asked in awe.

A chill ran over Helen, realizing that such an historical event was taking place around them. Rafe's wide eyes told her he shared her feelings.”

“Yessirree. We's the thirty-first state ta join the union,” Zeb went on. He lit up the pipe with some fragrant tobacco he'd been given by Yank. “Anyways, President Fillmore signed the bill on the ninth of September, but word din't reach San Francisco till October eighteenth, when the steamer
Oregon
brought the good tidings. There's celebratin' goin' on from one end of the state ta the other. Lordy, lordy, I never seed so much corn liquor drunk in all my born days.”

Next he told them about all the strikes reported during the past month or so. An eighteen-pound nugget was found at Sullivans Creek, a twenty-five-pound one just up the river from Downieville, and a fourteen-pound one at Carson Hill. The latter was just lying on the ground waiting to be picked up. Zeb said prospectors from a hundred miles around were rushing to these sites to join in the bonanzas.

Rafe frowned. “It's important, then, that word doesn't get out concerning this strike here in Angel Valley.”

“Do tell,” Zeb said, puffing away. “I'm far enough away here that those greedy buggers will stay away fer some time. But the least whiff of gold and they'll be on this sweet spot like dogs on a bone.” Zeb chuckled softly. “You won't believe the tale being passed around 'bout Carson Hill. Seems a miner died and they was burying the poor soul, but the preacher what come to do the service wuz a mite wordy. The story goes that
some of the miners got restless listenin' ta the preacher go on an' they began ta sift the dirt in their hands as prospectors are wont ta do. Well, lo and behold, one of the gentlemen yells, ‘Color!' Seems there wuz gold in the hole they dug fer the coffin.”

“Oh, Zeb, you're making this up.” Helen chortled with disbelief.

Zeb crossed his heart with a forefinger. “I swear ta God. 'Course the men couldn't bury the corpse till they dug the hole some more. It wuz two days afore the final restin' took place.”

Rafe squeezed her shoulder with shared enjoyment of Zeb's story, and his eyes flashed with humor.

Zeb's expression changed suddenly. Jumping up, he put his pipe on the mantle. “Well, tarnation, I can't believe I din't tell you the most important news of all. I brought you a present.” He rushed outside, and they heard him shuffling in the saddlebags that he'd left beside the door.

She and Rafe gasped when they recognized the objects Zeb handed them ceremoniously. He cackled with merriment.

The harness and parachutes.

“Where did you get them?” Rafe asked, fondling the fabric, which was dirty but intact.

“I thought Pablo hadn't come to Rich Bar since Hector came back with you,” she said. “I was afraid to ask.”

Zeb's face turned stormy. “Oh, Pablo wuz there, all right. The bastard! Excuse my cussin', Helen, but any man what denies his own kin is lower 'n a toadstool.”

“He didn't believe that Hector was his nephew?” Rafe asked.

“No, it weren't that. He said he don't have no time ta care fer no snot-nosed young'un. He and that Sancho wuz schemin' fer some easy way ta get rich, robbin' good folks, no doubt.”

“Poor Hector,” Helen said, peering down at the sleeping child. “He has no one now.”

“Well, now, I beg ta differ. Hector has me, and we certainly ain't poor no more.”

They all felt a glow of happiness then at the way fate had conspired to bring them together to this mutually beneficial end. Without Hector there to keep Zeb company, and Zeb there to care for the child, she would have felt guilty leaving Angel Valley.

When all the new events finally settled in, Helen watched Rafe, who was studying his coffee cup with equal pensiveness. Sensing her scrutiny, he looked up. There was both happiness and regret in his blue eyes. She felt the same way.

“What do you say we go home, babe?” he said in a husky, emotion-choked voice.

She nodded, too overcome to speak.

Home
.

T
heir good-byes were so sad because they were final . . .

T
hree days later, Helen and Rafe were prepared to leave Angel Valley, never to return.

Their saddlebags and clothing were packed with seventy-five pounds of gold nuggets and some dust. They would carry only nuggets on their bodies on their journey to the future—visions of gold dust flying through space were enough to turn Rafe white with horror—but they required the less-conspicuous flakes for spending money until they got back to the landing site.

“Make sure you don't show any nuggets to anyone you pass. Nuggets 're a sure sign of a strike. Me and Hector don't want our purty l'il valley swarmin' with unwanted visitors.”

Since Zeb's return, they'd worked feverishly to close over the hole near the stream, and stored most of the wealth in a specially devised hiding place under the barn. “I ain't doin' no more prospectin',” Zeb had declared adamantly. “This is more'n enough ta las' me a lifetime. Me and Hector's gonna
become farmers.” Zeb's split would be worth close to $50,000 at the 1850 standard.

Rafe had divided their half of the cache with Helen, despite her objections. She'd sewn pockets throughout the interior of their clothing to hold most of the nuggets. Rafe had a particular affection for one ten-pound nugget, which he'd kept as part of his share. Helen felt jealous sometimes, watching him caress the blasted rock. How he was ever going to carry it while skydiving, she had no idea, but he assured her he would.

Finally, it was time to go.

She tried not to cry, but the tears came in buckets.

“Don't you be worryin' none 'bout me,” Zeb said, hugging her tightly. “I got Hector now.”

“But you'll be lonely here.” She was sobbing.

Zeb's rheumy old eyes twinkled. “Were you and yer man lonely whilst you were alone here?”

Helen blushed as Rafe came up beside her, drawing her to his side with a comforting squeeze. His eyes were clouded with emotion, too.

“Besides,” Zeb went on, “there's this Injun woman up north aways that I bin eyin' fer some time. Mebbe . . . well, mebbe . . .” He ducked his head bashfully.

“Well, aren't you the crafty one!” Rafe laughed, leaning forward to shake his hand. Then, on second thought, he drew Zeb into a friendly bear hug.

More tears spilled down Helen's face.

The whole time, Hector hung onto Zeb's thigh for dear life, probably fearful that she and Rafe would take him away from the only real home he'd ever had. Helen kissed Hector good-bye, although she'd done so a half dozen times already. Then Rafe hauled the boy up into his arms and murmured something in his ear. Hector nodded and looked lovingly toward Zeb.

They mounted their horses.

“Will you write?” Zeb asked.

She stared at Rafe, unsure how to answer.

“We can't,” Rafe said. “I wish we could. I can't explain, Zeb, but it would be impossible where we're going.”

Zeb walked up, close to their horses, and confided, “I understand. Actually, I know who you really are.”

“You do?” Had they somehow let something slip in the weeks they'd lived with Zeb? She glanced at Rafe.

Rafe grimaced with uncertainty.

“Yessirree,” Zeb whispered. “Yer angels. Delivered by God ta help an old man who wuz ready fer the whiskey jim-jams. The good Lord sent you two ta save me and give me a new reason fer livin'.” His eyes scanned his beautiful valley and landed upon Hector, who chased a squirrel across the yard, already having put the pain of departure aside with youthful resilience.

“Angels?” she and Rafe exclaimed together, then exchanged a warm smile.

It was as good an explanation as any.

They rode off in silence, both contemplating all that had happened to them in the space of only eleven weeks. The good things far outweighed the bad, in Helen's opinion. It was going to be harder than she'd ever imagined to leave the past.

T
hey traveled leisurely through the hills of California, heading southward. Autumn was painting the rich forests and vast plains with its winter palette of rust and gold and burnt umber. The air turned brisk.

They spent their days riding, their conversation soft, skirting the important decisions to be made ahead. At night, they camped out in their tent under the stars, turning to each other
with a wild hunger, as if reassuring each other with their bodies and throaty love words that the future would take care of the problems they were unable to solve themselves.

On the fourth day, they arrived in Rich Bar. The winter exodus had already commenced, with miners by the thousands heading for the dryer lowlands. So they felt safe staying one night with Mary at the Indiana House, renewing their friendship. They told no one about their good fortune, not even Mary, fearing for Zeb and Hector's safety.

But Helen had another secret, too, and she wondered how long she could delay telling Rafe what had been troubling her for days.

She was pregnant.

This should have been a happy time for her. It was what she'd always wanted—a baby. And a child formed of the love she shared with this glorious man . . . Well, it was the answer to all her dreams.

But not Rafe's.

She kept putting off her disclosure, wanting to hold on to the priceless bond between them a little bit longer. The instant she told him, she knew their relationship would change. She didn't doubt his love for her. He wouldn't abandon her. But she didn't know whether his love was strong enough to withstand this test. And, more important, she didn't want to burden him with her dream.

“A
nd even though the town is jist 'bout deserted, we got us a padre, and Papa's hired a Mexican band to play here for the next two weeks,” Mary rambled on. “Don't that beat all? A town what won't let furriners get a mining permit puts out the welcome sign for a Spanish priest and a Mex band?”

Helen jolted back to attention. They all sat at a table in the
Indiana House dining room, where Mary had taken them before even showing them to a room.

Then the words sank in.

“Padre!”
Rafe exclaimed, casting Helen a significant look.

“Padre!”
Helen echoed breathlessly.

“We can get married,” Rafe whispered and dragged her close to his side, kissing the top of her head. They sat side by side on a bench. “Thank God, I can make you an honest woman now.” He pinched her bottom playfully for emphasis. “I wouldn't want to be jumping off a cliff with
that
sin on my soul.”

Swatting his hand away, she hissed, “Behave! Mary's watching.” Helen smiled affectionately at Rafe then, even though mixed sentiments of elation and guilt engulfed her. Elation because she would be marrying the man she loved; guilt because she was, in fact, not quite an honest woman.

Should she tell him about the baby now?

Should she wait?

“Did you see that prospector outside with eight blasted kids running all over the place?” Rafe was asking Mary.

Helen stiffened.

“That's the new postmaster,” Mary informed him.

“God! It looked like a regular baby factory.” Rafe shivered with distaste.

Helen decided her news could wait.

O
n the thirtieth of October, 1850, Helen Anne Prescott married Rafael Joseph Santiago in a canvas tent chapel in Rich Bar, California. Their only witnesses were the padre and a perplexed Mary and Yank, who didn't comprehend why they wanted to remarry.

Rafe tucked the marriage document into the jacket of the
black suit Yank had sold him from his general store. Mary had lent Helen her mother's cream-colored gown, which was of some silky material that shimmered with gold threads. It was edged with green and gold embroidery. In Rafe's opinion, there was never a more beautiful bride in all the world.

“You're mine now,” he murmured huskily as they followed behind Yank and Mary and the padre, heading toward the wedding party. He couldn't believe he'd actually gotten married, or that he was so happy about it.

“I was yours before the wedding, Rafe.”

“But it's official now.”

“I doubt whether it will be legal in the twenty-first century.”

“We'll get married again. See how eager I am to please?”

“I noticed,” she said suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“Well, I was wondering if we could skip the food and drinks and dancing and move on to the good stuff.”

“Like what?”

He whispered a few explicit “for instances” in her ear.

“RA-AFE!”

“God, my mother's going to love you.”

T
hey had, in fact, left the party early, begging exhaustion from all their travels and the necessity of an early start in the morning.

They'd fooled no one.

Helen had blushed repeatedly at Rafe's blatant efforts to seduce her in the midst of all the Indiana House guests. It had been a lovely party, which served the dual purpose of a welcoming event for the new postmaster. In fact, the celebration still carried on. He heard the band playing through the open bedroom windows.

Not that Rafe recalled many details of the day. He had no clue as to what he'd eaten or drunk or whom he'd spoken with, although he remembered vividly a slow dance with Helen.

She had shocked everyone by dipping
him
.

He needed her so much. It was frightening just how important she'd become to him.

Once they'd gotten upstairs, he'd made speedy work of removing his clothes and hers and showing her too quickly on the rag carpet just inside the bedroom door how great his need for her was. Lying in the bed now, naked and sated, he wanted her again.

There was just enough light from the full moon and a dozen lit candles for him to see his new wife.
Wife!
He rolled the word on his tongue and said it aloud softly, “Wife.”

He saw her lips twitch with a suppressed smile. The witch was teasing him.

He wrapped a long strand of her hair around a finger and inhaled the rose scent of the soap she'd used to shampoo with earlier. Actually, he was the one who'd washed her hair and combed it dry, taking great delight in all the little aspects of readying her for their wedding.

“Are you sniffing my hair again?” she said, pretending to be half-asleep.

“Yes, is there somewhere else you'd rather I . . . sniff?”

She giggled and kept her eyes squeezed shut. “You are so . . .”

“Disgusting?”

“Adorable.”

“Adorable? Adorable? Men don't want to be adorable,” he growled, sniffing her breasts, which also smelled like roses.
I think I'll take a couple of bars of that soap back with me
. “Men want to be sexy and handsome and virile and—”

“Stop fishing for compliments, you lech.” She peeked at him through slitted eyelids and reached for the sheet to cover herself.

“No way!” he laughed, flipping the linens to the end of the bed. “I'm not done sniffing yet.” In the course of his nasal excursion, he noticed some bruising on her forearms. His fingermarks. “Damn, did I hurt you?” he asked, leaning over to kiss each of the bluish prints.

“Do carpet burns on my tush count as hurting?” she said drolly.

He chucked her under the chin. “They'll look good with your tattoo.”

“Hah! I don't see you getting any wool fibers on your behind.”

“O-o-oh! Is that an invitation?”

“Oh, you!” She lifted her face and kissed his lips tenderly. The expression on her face turned more serious. “I love you so much, Rafe. No matter what happens, always know that, I love you, and I'll never stop.”

Blood drained from his head with foreboding. “Why do you say it like that? What do you think will happen?”

“Nothing. It's my wedding day, and we have so many important things ahead of us. The jump, for one thing. We can't know for sure what will happen, and I just wanted you to know . . .”

He relaxed, but then he declared adamantly, “We're going to be together in the future.”

“You don't have to convince me. I married you, didn't I?”

“Yeah, you did.” His voice came out raw and raspy with emotion. Then he grinned. “So, do you think sex will be boring now that we're married?”

She snickered. “So far it's been rather . . . quick. Hard to judge. Maybe you'd better . . .”

“Practice?” He moved over on top of her, spreading her thighs with his knees. “Oh, babe, I thought you'd never ask.”

Slowly and deliberately, he kissed her lips and shoulders and breasts and belly and inner thighs. Her wrists and palms. Even the soles of her feet. Over and over, he worshipped
her—
his wife
—and between gentle kisses, he whispered love words. Some of them romantic, others dark and erotic. English and Spanish.

She moaned and whimpered and returned his throaty endearments.

“I love you, Rafe. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“You are
mi corozón
, my heart. I will love you till the end of time.”

He twined his fingers with hers and admired the candlelight flickering over the matching gold bands they wore. He'd secretly purchased them from Yank. Surprisingly, these gold rings meant more to him than all the gold he hoped to carry back to the future. They
were
his future.

When he eased into her, braced on his elbows, he felt her ripple around him. He closed his eyes against the sweet burn and shuddered, almost weeping with the joy she brought him.

“I can feel your love flowing into me,” she purred with his first stroke.