Desperado (30 page)

“And yours comes back to me,” he answered as he withdrew and her hips lifted in pursuit.

With each thrust, he held himself rigid inside her until the ripples started again. Then he stopped. “Tell me.”

“I love you.”

He started again. Then stopped. “Tell me.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

Over and over, he controlled her, setting the pace, urging the love words he needed to hear.

They were magicians that night, creating enchantment in a room that seemed worlds apart, separated by time and distance from the rest of humanity. Only they existed. Rising higher and higher under the magic spell, they climbed to new
plateaus of sexuality. His arousal was the magic wand, her sheath the charm, but the sorcery was in the love that permeated them.

When he finally thrust his release into her body, she pulled his face down, taking his cry into her mouth. And her body clasped him hotly as they both spun and spun and spun. Splintering into perfect ecstasy.

For one split second, they were given a vision of eternity.

And harmony.

A
fter dawn the next morning, their horses were saddled, ready to leave Rich Bar. And Helen couldn't find Rafe.

They'd already eaten breakfast in the dining room. Then Rafe had gone out with Yank while she finished packing.

“Do you have any idea where Rafe is?” Helen approached Mary now as she scrubbed the dining tables.

“Yank said something about taking Rafe to see a grove of redwood trees.”

“Trees? Rafe wanted to see trees? Now?” she exclaimed.

Mary laughed. “Yep. I thought it was mighty peculiar, too.”

They walked out onto the porch together and saw Rafe and Yank walking toward them, though a considerable distance away.

The postmaster's wife, Julie, strolled up then, balancing an infant in one arm and a toddler in the other. Helen offered to hold the baby while Julie engaged Mary in a conversation about curtains.

Helen closed her eyes and savored the precious scent of baby skin and talcum powder. With a sigh, she cuddled the gurgling baby onto her shoulder.

“Well, I guess that's what happens when you marry them. They just dawdle around.”

Helen turned at the sound of Rafe's teasing voice and saw him flinch at the spectacle of her holding the baby.

He was not pleased.

“Let's get this show on the road,” he grumbled, walking away from her and over to his horse.

Her eyes widened with hurt at his harsh tone. But then she gave the baby a soft kiss before handing her back to her mother. Making a face at Rafe's back, she said, “Hey, you're the one who went off tree watching.”

“Nag, nag, nag.” He was observing her again, but lovingly now that she no longer cradled the infant in her arms.

“I love you, too, you dope.”

“You can't get on my good side with sweet talk, babe.”

“Wanna bet.”

Yank and Mary burst out laughing behind them.

“Ain't marriage grand?” Rafe remarked rhetorically.

“Yes!” they all said.

H
elen had been somber and weepy ever since they'd left Rich Bar three days ago. Ever since he'd snapped at her. But, hell, it had been such a shock seeing her holding that baby, her eyes misty with longing. She'd looked so . . . so right with a baby.

Damn! Damn! Damn!
He had to make things better with Helen. “Honey, do you want to stop for the night?” It was only late afternoon, but they'd been riding since early morning. Her face looked white and drawn. She nodded.

Rafe dismounted in a small clearing, much like the one where they'd camped with their three captors more than eleven weeks ago—it seemed like aeons. He reached out his arms for her, and she slipped off her horse.

When she made to move out of his embrace, he closed his arms around her waist. Tipping up her chin, he asked, “Helen, what's wrong? You've been moody for days. If it's about Rich Bar, well, I'm sorry if I bit your head off. It was the sight of you with that baby—”

“Forget it!” she clipped out and pushed out of his hold, leading her horse toward the stream.

He stared after her in confusion. “What the hell's wrong with you? You're behaving like a woman with a bad case of . . .” A sudden thought occurred to him, and he brightened. “. . . PMS.”

She inhaled sharply and glared at him.

“Are you getting your period?” he asked. He couldn't keep the hope out of his voice.

“You don't have to be so happy about it.”

“Helen, I'm not exactly happy—”

“Liar!”

He scowled with exasperation. “I'm not exactly happy,” he repeated, “but you and I need time to iron out our problems. Maybe later babies will be a viable option. This is the best way. Really. You'll see.”

“Sometimes you are so dull-headed,” she sputtered. “Viable option? We're not talking legal briefs here. We're talking human life. And you, my friend, had a vasectomy. I'm assuming that reproduction won't be a
viable option
in the future.”

He grimaced, knowing this was his cue. He at least had to make the offer. “I could always have the operation reversed.”

She laughed, and it wasn't a pleasant sound. “I wish you could have seen your face when you said that. Green. Green as Kermit the Frog.” She shot him another glare. “You frog!”

He caught up with her and grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and her lips quivered.

His stomach lurched.
I don't want to hurt her
. “Helen, don't do this now. We've just found each other. We have time to resolve all these things. Just don't force this issue now.”

Tears spilled out of her eyes and streamed down her face.

He felt like crying himself.

“You're right.” She sobbed, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I'm just being silly. We have lots of time.”

Rafe wasn't so sure, though. That night, they slept in each other's arms, but they didn't make love. He didn't want to initiate anything that would result in a pregnancy at this late date. And Helen knew that he didn't want to make a baby with her.

Not now. Not yet.
Oh, hell!

He had to plan for their future. At least he'd taken one step in that direction. While still in Rich Bar he'd asked Yank where he might find a young redwood tree. Rafe wasn't sure that carrying the gold nuggets back to the future on his body was going to work. So, he'd sought insurance. Some place in the past that would endure into the future. He'd thought and thought, trying to come up with some hiding place that would last into the future, but be free from pilfering hands.

A redwood tree.

Yank had watched with interest as Rafe climbed the young tree and placed an object in the crook of two limbs—his favorite ten-pound nugget. Luckily, Yank hadn't asked any questions, and he'd promised not to go back after they'd gone. Yank undoubtedly thought Rafe was batty, but, for some reason, Rafe trusted him.

It had been a stupid thing to do, he supposed, leaving a ten-pound nugget in the past where someone might find it. Although he couldn't imagine too many people would go climbing redwood trees.

Yep, it had probably been a stupid thing he'd done.

I
t had
not
been a stupid thing.

Rafe came to that conclusion the next day when they approached the landing site and ran into bandits. Not Ignacio and Pablo and Sancho. Ignacio was dead, and the other two yahoos were reportedly off to Mexico to join up with Joaquin Murietta.

No, this was Rafe's nemesis—the Angel Bandit—and his notorious sidekick, Elena, along with a half-dozen mean-looking scoundrels. Within minutes, his ancestor relieved them of every blessed piece of gold they'd worked so hard to gather. It was a good thing he'd already put his crucifix and wedding band in his boot, and Helen had done likewise with her ring, or the bandits would have taken those, too.

They'd made them remove their clothing and torn off all the concealed pockets. Luckily, Elena took Helen into the bushes for a private strip search, but not out of consideration. Elena didn't want Helen's nude body to attract her lover, the Angel Bandit.

There was no question this dude was Rafe's ancestor. Possibly his grandfather many times removed. Except for the cruel cast to his features, they were the spitting image of each other, right down to the blue eyes—an anomaly in Mexicans.

“You can't do this,” Rafe protested. “You're my . . . my grandfather.”

“Are you loco?” the Angel Bandit asked. “I am only thirty-four years old. How old are you,
señor
?”

Rafe snorted with disgust. “The same. What's your name, by the way? I can't call you Angel.”

“Why not?” Turning his sultry eyes on Helen and surveying her body with appreciation, he asked her, “Do you not think I look angelic, my pretty one?”

His mistress, Elena, clouted him on the back with a tambourine, shrieking, “I weel cut off your balls, Gabriel, if you even look at that
puta
.”

At the same time Helen ripped out, “Get a life!”

Both women glanced at each other with understanding. They turned up their lips in one of those “Men! The slimeballs!” expressions of contempt.

All the time they'd been talking, the Angel Bandit's gang aimed deadly weapons at Rafe and Helen. These were no nincompoop outlaws. These men were vicious and competent.

Rafe took a deep breath for patience and tried again. “Listen, Gabriel, (
Was it a coincidence that they both had angel names?
) you've got to see the resemblance between us.”

The bandit peered closer. “
Sí
, you do have my mother's blue eyes. The people in our village called her a witch.”

“Lucia Sanchez was a bitch,” Elena commented snidely.

“
Sí, sí,
she was that. A witch and a bitch. But that ees not for you to say.”

“See, see,” Rafe interrupted, “my mother's maiden name was Sanchez, too. That proves you're my grandfather. So, give me back my gold.”

“Thees gold ees mine,
Señor
Santiago. The only question here ees whether I let you live or die. I want to know why you have been impersonating me. My reputation ees suffering badly.”

“How did you learn the secret of my corkscrewing trick?” Elena demanded of Helen. The hardened prostitute didn't look at all like Helen, except for her obviously dyed red hair. “And what ees thees gargling and forms?”

Helen started to laugh. At first, Rafe thought she was going off the deep end, but then he realized the ludicrousness of the situation. They'd come full circle, back to a scruffy group of nitwits and a comedy of misidentification and miscommunication.

“They are both
loco,
” Gabriel said, backing away.

In the end, after an hour of arguing and exchanging insults, the Angel Bandit and his mistress, Elena, rode off into the hills with their band of desperadoes, generously leaving Rafe and Helen alive, for “the sake of family.”
“Hasta la vista!”
they yelled as they departed.

Rafe and Helen were left wearing their camouflage BDUs, but nothing they'd gathered in their travels to the past remained with them. No guns. No horses. No gold.

Surprisingly, Rafe wasn't devastated by their loss. It was probably fated to end this way from the beginning. And he had Helen; that was the most important thing.

“Well, babe, are you ready to go home?”

She nodded.

“We're going to have to go down without jumpsuits,” he said as they spread the parachutes out on the ground and inspected them for rips.

They could have waited another day, but neither of them wanted to put off the inevitable. Rafe donned the harness and repacked chute. Walking to the edge of the cliff, they took one last glimpse back, trying to assimilate all they'd seen and done.

“I'll never forget Ignacio and Sancho and Pablo,” he said. “They were the catalysts into our adventure.”

“And Sacramento City. Remember your gambling success and our unusual ante?”

He grinned. “After that, we rode to Marysville and met up with Henry. We'll have to look up his name in a history book when we get back. Maybe he became a famous writer.”

Her lips curved up at that thought. “I will never, ever, forget the cave,” she whispered.

His eyes held hers. That went without saying. Then he turned the mood. “But I taught you to dip. That's something. Do you think we'll go dancing a lot when we get back?”

She shrugged. “If you want. Will you go horseback riding?”

“NO! Do you want me to get bow-legged?” Chuckling, he
put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her close. “Most of all, there were Mary and Zeb and Hector.”

Her lips parted on a sigh of agreement. “And the cabin. Our time alone at the cabin.”

For one long second, they gazed at each other, remembering.

Finally, he swallowed hard. “It's time. Hop on, babe.”

Helen jumped up, locking her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. “I love you, Rafe,” she said against his ear.

“I love you, too, babe,” he said and stepped off the edge of the cliff.

Within seconds, their parachute bloomed out above them, like a celestial cloud.

T
hey were back, but not like they expected . . .

D
isoriented, Rafe lay perfectly still for several moments, eyes closed, trying to figure out what the hell had happened.

He'd been in an airplane preparing for a skydive when Prissy Prescott had ripped her harness and veered close to the exit. He'd lunged forward to rescue her—that's the kind of guy he was, a flaming hero—and they'd both fallen into space.

Holy Hell!

He was alive; so they must have landed all right.

But why did he feel so fuzzy? And what was that whirring noise in his head? Probably the headache he'd had earlier was blooming into the mother of all migraines.

He couldn't think anymore. Too many questions. Later.

But what about Prissy? Had she survived?

He forced his eyes open. Everything was black.
Oh, shit! See what happens to heroes? I'm blind. Please God, not that
.

He flailed about with his hands, and discovered he was covered with the parachute material. He wasn't blind, after all. He would have giggled if he was a giggling kind of guy.

Thank you, God!

He tossed the fabric off, over his shoulders. That's when he realized he was lying on top of his commanding officer, Prissy Prescott, who was spread-eagled, flat on her back on the ground.

She didn't look too happy.

But, whoa, something didn't seem right about this scenario. It was almost as if it had been played out before. Nagging, senseless images flickered into his mind—Mexican bandits, gold miners, a secluded cabin, Helen . . . Oh, my God! Helen and him,
naked
, doing The Deed. He'd like to freeze-frame that image, but his head throbbed when he tried to hold a thought. Maybe he'd suffered brain damage from lack of oxygen.

You're losin' it, buddy. First, blindness. Now, retardation. Slow down and think
.

Helen moaned and put a hand to her forehead as if she, too, had a headache.

“Are you okay?” he asked, raising himself slightly on outstretched arms.

“No, I'm not okay, you imbecile. You are going to be court-martialed for this, soldier.”

Huh? This is the second time she said that to me
.

“Hey, I saved your life,” he said with affront.

I've said that to her before, I know I have
.

“Saved my life? Captain, you caused me to fall out of that freakin' airplane,” she raged irrationally, her face turning a decided shade of purple.

“Tsk, tsk. Watch your language,
Major
.”

“Oh . . . oh . . .” she stammered heatedly, no doubt searching for the right adjective to describe him. “You're going to be in the stockade for a year. I'm going to sue you for assault.
I'm making it my personal mission to see that you pay for this debacle for the rest of your worthless life.”

She absolutely, positively, has said those exact words to me before. In fact, this whole dialogue took place before, verbatim. Is there an echo in my head? Or am I going nuts?

Ignoring his uncomfortable thoughts, he asked, grinning down at her, “Is that all?” He'd just realized that a certain part of his body hadn't understood that the
uplifting
thrill of free-falling was over, and it was time for some
downlifting
.

Helen's mouth forced a delicious little “o” of surprise as she made the same discovery. Her windblown hair looked like she'd been pulled through a keyhole, backward, and freckles stood out like tobacco juice on her pale skin. But she was damned near irresistible, in Rafe's estimation. She frowned and darted a suspicious glare at him. Was she having the same feelings that something strange was going on?

He adjusted his hips against hers and whispered, “There's something I've always wanted to do, Helen. From the first time we met.”

“So you said before.”

“I did?” He leaned down, preparing to kiss her.

“I wouldn't, if I were you, Captain,” a stern voice said behind him. “Unless you want to be seeing bars for the next year or two.”

Rafe rolled off Helen and into a sitting position. He was staring at enough brass to fill the Pentagon, not to mention a dozen soldiers with weapons raised.

“Why aren't they Mexican bandits?” Helen murmured, sitting up beside him.

“What?”

He and Helen blinked their mutual confusion at each other.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

She shook her head as if to clear it. “I don't know. It just popped into my head.”

“Helen! Oh, thank God you're all right,” one of the brass
shouted. The ranks parted for the general—her father—who reached out a hand and drew her to her feet, hugging her in relief.

“Daddy,” she cried, burying her face in his chest for a moment before she remembered herself. Within seconds, she pulled on her military mask. Until another high military mucky-muck showed up—this one younger, about forty. Helen ran into his arms and they embraced, like lost lovers. It must be the colonel . . . her fiancé.

A raging, totally-uncalled-for jealousy swept over Rafe as he observed the trio march off to a waiting helicopter. The chopper must have made the whirring noise he'd heard in his head.

“What happened, honey?” he heard her boyfriend ask as he kissed her cheek.

How dare he kiss Helen? She's my wife
. Rafe's mind came to a screeching halt.
Wife? Wife?
Yep, he was suffering brain damage.

“I don't know, Elliott. Everything happened so fast. It's starting to come back to me, but it's so . . . so confusing.” She glanced back at Rafe over her shoulder then, and their eyes connected and held, questioningly.

Her father put an arm around her shoulder, drawing her away. “We'll talk later. The important thing is you survived.” Helen and her fiancé climbed into the waiting chopper with some other officers, while General Prescott said a few words to another general standing by. They both gazed at Rafe, and their expressions were not congenial.

Almost instantly, the craft was airborne and he was left alone. Well, not quite alone. The other general and a squad of goons were looking at him as a likely target.

“Young man, you have a lot of explaining to do,” the general said in a you-are-dogmeat kind of voice. He motioned for several military vehicles to come forward, and Rafe was hustled to his feet.

I am in deep shit. And I don't even know why
.

T
hat evening, after being interrogated in a conference room back at military headquarters, he was finally released. His memory was back, totally, and he was madder than a bull, threatening to sue every screwball officer on the base, and to go to the newspapers with the story of his treatment, or both.

For five hours, they'd harassed him with their questions.

“Why did you push Major Prescott out of the airplane?”

“Have you ever been treated for psychological disorders?”

“Do you understand the meaning of ‘behavior unbecoming to an officer?'”

“Have you ever spied for a foreign government?”

On and on, the stupid questions had gone. Oh, they'd covered their asses in some regards. They'd had him examined by military doctors to make sure he was physically unharmed by the incident. And they'd fed him some gross Army food, and allowed him to use the toilet facilities. If they hadn't, he'd have sued them for that, too.

It was when he'd stripped in the base hospital for the checkup that he'd seen the items in his boot. The usual knife and the crucifix, but two more items, too—a wedding band and a piece of aged paper that said he and Helen Prescott had married on October 30, 1850.

Everything came back to him in a flash then. That was when his memory returned, and along with it, his anger over his treatment.

He'd demanded to see Helen, her father, probably the president of the United States, too. He'd turned into a raving maniac. No wonder they'd called in the psychiatrists then and begun asking him whether he'd ever suffered delusions and all that psycho mumbo jumbo.

He was dressed in his civilian clothes now, preparing to go home—Uncle Sam had decided to release him from this
year's National Guard duty for service beyond the call and all that crap—when General Prescott walked into the room.

The general saluted. Rafe and the military types in the holding room returned the salute. “At ease,” the general said, then asked the others to leave the room.

Stepping forward, Prissy's father walked toward him, extending a hand. Reluctantly, Rafe shook it.

“Captain Santiago, my daughter tells me I have a lot to thank you for.”

What kind of bullshit is this now? More Army mind manipulation?
“Where's Helen? I want to talk to her. Now!” Rafe paced the room, anxious to be off this looney-bin base.

Her father laid his hat on the table and ran a hand through his close-clipped gray hair. He was a good-looking man with Helen's eyes, Rafe noted idly. And her temper . . . the general was clearly displeased by his churlish tone. “Major Prescott has gone home with her fiancé,” he informed Rafe. “She's been relieved of duty for the time being . . . to recuperate.”

“Recuperate? Is Helen hurt?” he asked.

The general's head shot up at his distress, and his cool demeanor slipped, but only for a second. “Helen is fine physically, but she was distraught when her memory started to come back. She made it clear to me . . . well, actually to a lot of people—” he smiled in remembrance—“that you were her rescuer. Actually, I think she called you her hero.”

“Helen said that?” Rafe's spirits lifted for the first time that day.

“Yes, but, as I said, she was distraught.”

“I want to see her.”

“That's impossible. I just wanted to thank you for saving my daughter. She's left the base, and I think it would be best for everyone if you didn't try to contact her in the future. Just know that we are all thankful for a job well done. I'll be recommending you for a medal.”

“I don't want any damned medal,” he stormed, ignoring
the general's stiffening body. “I want Helen, and I'm going to have her.”

“No, Captain Santiago, you are not.” On those words, the general left the room, and Rafe was free to go home.

Home? Where the hell is home now?

T
he next day, Rafe sat in his office, a desperate man.

The press was hounding him with rumors of his being some kind of Rambo military hero. A publisher had called to offer him a book deal. Matt Lauer wanted him for the
Today Show
. His mother and his family clamored for attention. Clients were bugged that he didn't return their calls. Lorenzo was near tears with anxiety.

Worst of all, he'd been unable to contact Helen last night or all day today. And she hadn't called him, either. Her private residence, as well as her father's home in San Clemente, had unlisted numbers. Military headquarters wouldn't reveal private information. He'd asked his sister Inez and his brother Antonio to use their police contacts, but they hadn't come through for him yet.

“Are you sure she didn't call while I was in court?” he asked Lorenzo for the fiftieth time.

“No, sir. I gave you the list of all your calls.”

“Stop shaking. I'm not going to bite your head off.”

“Yes, sir.” Lorenzo's teeth were chattering so loud he could barely speak.

I guess I did yell at him a little
, he chastised himself.
I'm just so damned upset
.

Actually, his office was running better than he'd expected.

His secretary, Phyllis Manno, who had been out on maternity leave, had come back today to help them make some sense out of the shambles Lorenzo had made.

“A disaster . . . a disaster,” she kept muttering as she waded through the piles of paperwork. She was only here for the day, so he'd have to hire a temp for the next month. Lorenzo had been told to contact the agency last week. But he couldn't think about that now.

Although Rafe's time travel—Lord, he couldn't believe he'd actually traveled in time—had taken about three months in the past, only one day had been lost in the present. That, on top of the two days he'd already spent at the military base before that, meant he'd only been away from the office for three days.

Incredible!

The phone rang, and he picked it up before Lorenzo or Phyllis could answer. “Hello.”
Please, God, let it be Helen
.

“Rafe, is that you? Geez, didn't Lorenzo give you my message? I've been calling all day.”

He let out a sigh of disappointment. It was his brother, Ramon.

“What now?”

“I'm in jail.”

“Damn! Where?”

“Mexico. A little village in the hills. These local
policía
are nuts, Rafe. You gotta get me outta here.”

“Okay, slow down. What did you do?”

“I didn't do nothin'. I was just helpin' the migrant workers unionize, and—”

“Damn it, Ramon, I warned you about this before. When will you ever—” He stopped talking when he heard a rough voice barking out orders, followed by Ramon arguing, then a cracking sound, like a punch or hard slap.

“Ramon . . . Ramon, are you there?” Rafe spoke into the phone, panicking now.

For a long time there was only silence, then Ramon's voice came on again, weaker this time. “I need your help. Real bad.”

“Tell me where you are and what the charges are.” Ramon spat out the information quickly.

“It's three o'clock. I'll hop the first plane I can get.”

“Hurry.”

“I will. Take it easy, Ramon. Don't say anything. Just tell them you'll talk when your lawyer gets there.”