Wild Sierra Rogue (31 page)

“Last chance, hombre. We're leaving as soon as we can get Diablo and Penny saddled up.”

“Do come with us,” his sister appealed.

“I've gotta talk with Natalie. Got to.” Fear clawed Tex's heart. “I'm worried. I'm afraid something's happened to her.”

Rafe set their grips on the ground. “We can wait awhile, can't we,
querida?”

“Absolutely.”

Tex didn't know how long he could stall his sister and her man. He knew he shouldn't, period. They were on pins and needles to get Xzobal to a safe harbor. “Why don't y'all go on without me? I ain't gonna give up on Miss Natalie.”

As soon as Tex finished speaking, Isaiah rounded the bend that led to the lift contraption.

Something was wrong.

“Oh, dear,” Margaret murmured.

There were tears in Isaiah's angelic eyes. His shoulders shook. His hand trembling, he put it on Tex's shoulder. The elderly man, who had always seemed so young, was now broken and sorrowful. “Come to the main house with me, Son. You and I need to talk.”

“What's wrong?” Shards of ice shaved Tex's veins. “What's the matter? It's Natalie, isn't it?”

Rafe said, “Hombre, we—”

“What's wrong with Natalie!” the Texan demanded.

Margaret faced the path Isaiah had taken; she paled. Rafe captured her hand. She stepped toward her brother. “Oh, Tex, I'm so sorry.”

Tex started to take a look, but with determined force, Isaiah shoved Tex in the opposite direction. “Let's get on back to the main house, Son. I've got some Tennessee sour mash—the good stuff, out of Lynchburg—hidden.”

“I don't want nothing to drink. I want to know about Natalie!”

Isaiah gestured with his head to Rafe, who grabbed Tex's upper arm.

“Every once in a while,” Isaiah said gravely, “a man needs a shot of good whiskey.”

Tex jerked out of his bonds. He spun around, intent on finding out what Isaiah shielded him from. The elevator. It topped the canyon wall, swaying like a bottom-heavy bell as it came to rest at its berth. No passengers were visible in the basket seat. Tex ran toward it. A putrid smell rolled toward him, making him gag. And what he saw stayed with him all the days of his life.

Broken and bloody, two bodies covered the litter's floor.

That of the funny little Indian Netoc.

And that of Natalie Nash.

They had thrown themselves from the cliff.

On the same brisk morning that the elevator deposited its gruesome burden at the crest of the canyon's eye—and in back of the heartsick young cowboy being delivered into the numbing embrace of Jack Daniel's Old No. 7—Isaiah Nash took to his bed.

Not a tear fell for his only child. But as each moment passed, as morning became afternoon and afternoon changed to the pale gray of twilight, his skin turned lax and gray, his hair the color of snow, and a haunted expression—like that of a traumatized soldier—settled in his eyes. His spirit gone, the magic of Eden Roc was no more for him.

When Margaret went to awaken him the next day, so that he could pay last respects to poor Natalie, he lay dead of a broken heart.

 

 

When the burials were complete, Tex McLoughlin went to his sister. His eyes bleak and red-rimmed, both from alcohol and mourning, he said, “According to Papa, the U.S. Navy has a ship anchored in Tampico. It's headed for Cuba. I think I'll get on outta here, join up.”

Margaret didn't know what to say. She understood Tex's grief. She understood how hurt he'd been upon learning Natalie and the likable little Tarahumaran man had been in love for many, many years. What to say to her brother was beyond Margaret.

Frantically, her eyes implored Rafe; she hoped he had the answer.

“Do you know much about sailing?” he asked.

“Nope.” Studying the floor, Tex buried his hands under his armpits. “I didn't know nothing about a broken heart, but I done come by experience quick enough.”

There was no arguing his logic. Margaret hoped and prayed her brother would be all right. “If that's what you feel you must do, then Rafe and I support you. Don't we, Rafe?”

He tightened his hand on her shoulder. “We do.”

She stepped away to throw her arms around her baby brother. Her tears scalded her eyes as she buried her face in his shoulder. “I love you, kid brother. Please don't let this be the last time we see you.”

“I'll come back so's you can sign me a book.”

What a strange remark.
“Christopher Columbus and the Catholic Kings
has been out of print for years. And you have a copy already, back home at the Four Aces.”

“Maggie, I mean the new one. Sign the new one for me.”

“What new one?”

“The one ole Rafe here says you're gonna write.”

She turned a questioning gaze to the culprit, who had a deceptive innocence in his silver eyes. At last Rafe replied, “Mexico is every bit as interesting as Columbus or Isabella or her husband Fernando. We've got a rich history. Somebody smart needs to write our story.”

“And when will I write a book?” She exhaled and shook her head at Tex, saying to him, “Why is it that everyone thinks a book just writes itself, when there's nothing better to do?”

“You can do it,” said Rafe. “You can do anything.”

His faith added to her height. “Yes, I think I can.”

“Well, folks, I better hit the road. You, too.”

Rafe clasped Tex's hand, but both men stopped in the middle of the handshake, then went into a brief back-patting hug. “Adios, young lion. Take care of yourself.
Vaya con Dios.”

Tex departed.

 

 

More misery came to Eden Roc. It was time to leave for the western coast, but where was Xzobal Paz? Gone. Had he left of his own accord, or had Arturo Delgado—with no Netoc to protect the premises—breached the walls to capture one of the Santa Alicia's troublemakers?

And what had happened to the Count of Granada? When he surfaced from his sulk, day before yesterday, he had ranted and raved, making a nuisance of himself by berating his wife over her shortcomings, especially that of being a promiscuous commoner undeserving of her exalted station in life.

Everyone did their best to ignore him.

In the outcome of Olga leaving him, he continued to behave in a deranged manner, alternately justifying his own stance, shouting his innocence in her desertion, and not understanding how she could desert a member of European royalty. It all trailed into sobs of not knowing how to live without his Olgita.

Frankly, Margaret began to see the beauty in her sister's game of enjoying his suffering.

But where was he? Where had he gone?

In the stable Rafe groomed Diablo to ready the stallion for wherever the search for Xzobal would lead him and Margaret. When she questioned Rafe on both men's disappearance, he surmised, “I'll bet the count is chasing Olga.”

“Oh, dear. I'd hoped she could get out of the country without trouble from him.”

“Don't worry,
amorcito,”
Rafe assured Margaret. “Your family's got a generous head start. Even if that wasn't so, their Federale escorts won't let him near her.”

Margaret kicked some hay aside. “Let's hope so.”

“Let's hope his absence and Xzobal's isn't tied in with Tío Arturo. Last thing Netoc told me, my uncle and his hombres have been lurking around the gate to Eden Roc.”

“Hola.”
Hipólito strolled into the stable and offered up information. “Your brother the priest, he is at Areponapuchi.”

“He wouldn't go there,” Rafe said.

“Areponapuchi. Where have I heard that name before? Areponapuchi. Snake pit!” Margaret shivered. “Hipólito, what makes you think he's there?”

Lifting shoulders as well as his upturned hands, the peculiar Indian replied, “The drums in the canyon say the Federales that come with the
gran señor
your papá, they find the
padre.
They arrest him. Take him to the jail in Areponapuchi.”

“Rafe!” she exclaimed. “Whatever shall we do?”

“Pack light.”

 

 

Now that the excitement had died down, Arturo Delgado needed to relax. A cigar stuck between his teeth and a nubile whore at work between his legs, he lay smiling in the warren of Señora Pilar's whorehouse. Hunting the foxes, Mexican style, had always fascinated him, and today's hunt set his heart to tripping. “Ah, yes. Ahhh, yes, señorita.”

A voice from the doorway snatched his attention. Cantú. “It is done,
patrón.”

“My nephew and the McLoughlin girl have been flushed from their nest? Excellent.” Arturo smiled with malice. “The yellowbelly will get his punishment. Soon.”

Cantú got a strange look on his face. “You never called him a coward before.”

“It's taken him all these years to brave a showdown with me. Form your own opinion.”

Back in the old days, Arturo never would have imagined calling Rafito a disparaging name. Matter of fact, he used to wish that Hernán had had his cousin's backbone. “By
La Santisima Virgen,”
Arturo murmured under his breath, “my son so loved his cousin.”

A knot formed in
El Grandero Rico's
throat.

Suddenly restless with the smacking and sucking from his lower regions, he shouted, “Get off. I have business to take care of.”

He thrust his knee into the naked girl's midsection. And, wailing, she flew across the room. The back of her hand brushed across her mouth as she scrambled away.

“Cantú?” Arturo called out. “Where are you?”

“Right here.” He remained standing in the doorway.

“The other matter . . .” Brushing his hands, Arturo shot to his feet and gathered his discarded clothes. “Is he dead and buried?”

“He is.”

“Excellent.”

 

 

Hipólito on a burro to the rear of their mounts, Caballo's muzzle peeping from Margaret's saddlebag, she followed Rafe along the twisting, rocky mountain path. They reached Areponapuchi just before sundown. Until today she hadn't given this village much thought, but she remembered it with all clarity: this was where Rafe had called on the local
curandera
.

Margaret shivered.

Once, Rafe had asked if she'd used the quackery he'd sent to Areponapuchi for. She'd hedged answering. And now she was glad she hadn't taken it. No telling what went into the stuff.

It was a strange little village, this. An eerie air prevailed. The children appeared subdued. No dogs or cats or goats wandered the streets. The only light poured from a few scattered shacks. Sobs—the wails of many women—emitted from the little church. Margaret hoped against hope—
Please don't let them be grieving for Father Xzobal.

She alit Penny as Rafe tied Diablo to a hitching post in front of a stucco cantina. Caballo jumped to the ground to relieve himself, then yipped to be put back in the saddle.

Rafe frowned. He'd been frowning for hours, ever since Hipólito relayed the rumor of Xzobal's capture. Peacemaker in hand, Rafe filled and spun the cylinder.

Margaret ached to go to him, to comfort him, to express the depth of her love and concern. But a warrior's job was to get in, get out, and be victorious with both. This was no time for hearts and flowers.

“See after the horses,” Rafe ordered Hipólito, then limped toward the main plaza,
el zócalo.

She followed. All five pounds of Sir Colt dragged from the gun belt at her waist.

A stooped—cowed?—middle-aged man, wearing a sombrero and a serape, shuffled past them. He didn't gaze upon Margaret. When he looked up at Rafe, his eyes flashed with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty, the expression of a person faced with someone they think they might know.

“Hombre, halt,” Rafe called to him. “I have a question.”

The
mexicano
stopped, turned back on the toe of a sandaled foot.
“¿Que?”

“The priest Xzobal Paz. Is he here?”

“Sí,
señor.” He pointed a timid finger. “Outside the cemetery.
El Grandero Rico
, he would not let the
padre
be buried in hallowed ground.”

This was their worst fear come true.

Arturo had done Xzobal in.

Margaret's heart plunged.

Hope blighted, Rafe blanched and was swaying on his uneven legs.

She took his hand as he rationalized, “It couldn't be him. Not even Tío Arturo would work that fast.”

“Let's find out.”

In the fading light, they moved as fast as Rafe's legs would carry him. They turned the corner. The cemetery crowned the hill; Rafe and Margaret charged up it. This side of the gate, a tiny nun, rosary in hand, knelt in front of a fresh grave. Her prayers mingled with her wails.

Rafe froze, a garbled “No” rising from his throat.

Margaret looped one arm around his, and squeezed the other wrist. “We don't know that it's him. We have no proof.”

Leaves crunched nearby. Then everything happened at once. Figures lunged from the shadows. Arturianos! The ones who'd chased her and Rafe at the mine. The ones who'd shot him.

Margaret screamed. A strong arm grabbed her waist. Fingers grasped her throat. Another ruffian lent a hand to bind and gag her, then to snatch Sir Colt away.

Meanwhile, three men had lunged at Rafe; the one from behind had kicked the Peacemaker out of Rafe's hand. It landed a dozen feet away. Rafe fought with all his might, landing blow after blow, but the marauders prevailed by falling upon and knocking him to the ground. A noiseless scream vibrated in Margaret's throat, as one of the thugs pinned Rafe's arms behind him, while his accomplice hammered a pistol butt on Rafe's head.

He went unconscious.

Continuing to scream behind her gag, Margaret struggled to get away. She kicked. She grappled. No use. The assailants dragged her away from her fallen Eagle.

They took her to a place beyond horrible.

Shoving her into an odd and squat building of many rooms, she sprawled trussed on the dirty red carpet. The music of guitars, an accordion, and several mariachi singers beat through her ears. Red surrounded her. Chairs upholstered in red velvet. Draperies of heavy red material. Red-flocked wallpaper. Whereas the red satin coverlet of Rafe's bed at El Aguilera Real had sent her on a sensory magic-carpet ride, this place just looked tawdry and cheap.

And roses. Everywhere, roses, some of them real.

The smell of too much attar of roses clung to the air, funereal and dank.

Margaret's stomach roiled.

A harlot walked through the beaded doorway. Red plumes that had seen better days topped her dark head. Rice powder and kohl caked her face, a fake mole dotting her cheek. She wore heeled shoes, and a red corset over some sort of abbreviated red silk pajamas. In her hand she carried a riding crop.

She minced over to Margaret, then unfastened the gag. A disgusting display of bosom jiggled as she worked.
“Hola, muchacha.
I am Pilar. Welcome to my house of many surprises.”

“Proving that a house isn't always a home,” Margaret, inhaling great lungsful of air, shot back, and got a slap from one of her assailants. “Let me go!”

Another slap.

“Stop that,
niños.
” Pilar scratched a flea.
“El Grandero Rico
won't want her bruised.”

El Grandero Rico
. Arturo Delgado.
What hell have I toppled into?
Margaret struggled with her fetters, but they seemed to tighten with each of her efforts.

Pilar motioned to the men. “Stand her up, Cantú, Martin. Up, up. There. That's better.” She motioned toward the beaded doorway. “Take her to the fourth door on the right.”

Margaret resorted to a different tack. “Let me go. Please, Pilar. Call off these dogs. I've done nothing to you. I've done nothing to them.”
Where is Rafe? What have they done to him?
“Let me go!”