Wild Sierra Rogue (6 page)

Under a netting of stars, Margaret walked along Alpine's main thoroughfare, no other human in sight. Not bothering to bark, a fat black dog rolled in the mud surrounding a trough. A distant catfight moaned and wailed like the west Texas wind, and the solitary horse hitched to the post in front of a saloon made the sounds of restlessness. Clutching her arms against the cool of the desert night, Margaret walked with her head lowered. She never thought it would come to this, but she didn't like being unattractive and old-looking.

If Sally Belle Ashkettle saw her as peer to Tex's mother for Pete's sake, then others would be looking at her with the same eye. Maybe she ought to try to get herself together. How did Rafe see her?
Idiot, he no doubt can't stand the sight of you, after the way you dressed him down in public.

Warning herself not to get softhearted toward him, she wondered about her mother. Was Lisette safe in Eden Roc?

Heavens, there were so many things to worry about.

“I hope you're pleased with yourself.”

Rafe. She cringed at his quietly spoken admonishment, then turned to eye him. Noting that they were on the porch in front of the Land Office, she took a retreating step from the anger that radiated like heat from a red-hot stove. Her heart pounded. It wasn't from feminine weakness to an attractive man. With Rafe scowling at her—that was murder in his eyes!—she more than regretted opening her big mouth, back there in the dining room.

Rather than speak, she moved to the bench lining the porch and took a seat.

“I was wrong about you. Here I've been suffering under the impression that you wanted nothing more than the intellectual life, when all the while you've lived to make me miserable.” Rafe tossed his Stetson to the bench alongside Margaret, and stood still. “You delight in trying to unman me.”

“It does have its rewards.”

He moved in front of her, looming. His shirt, she couldn't help but notice, was unbuttoned at the throat. The gold of his neck chain and crucifix stood out against the dark of his hairy chest, pulling her attention. Her mouth went dry—nerves, of course.

His cologne bath had faded, and the lingering scent—rather musky, somewhat woodsy—had its charm. Charm? Good God.

“What would you gain from seeing me castrated?” he asked.

“Satisfaction. I hate you.”

“Strong words.”

“Move back,” she ordered. “You make me nervous, hulking like some primate straight off a boat from the Dark Continent.”

He didn't kowtow. Bending at the knee, he crouched down on booted heels to hover so closely that his breath spilled over her face. Thankfully it wasn't offensive. For some strange reason, she didn't find his presence repugnant at all, which left her confused and bewildered. Where was her strength of character? Gone. Her mother would be brokenhearted to know her daughter had fallen so far from manners, graciousness, and a clear head.

Lisette McLoughlin was a long way from Alpine, Texas, and Margaret couldn't fathom why Rafe got under her skin. But he always had, and it was getting worse.

“Do you really think I've given you good reason to hate me?” he asked. “Just because I once loved your sister.”

When was rape called
love?
Margaret could have lashed out, reminding him of his offenses against Olga. But the victim herself had explained the whole of the horror: Margaret had heard enough on the subject. Anyway, what he'd done to Olga, he'd probably done to dozens of other women, married or not.

Margaret elevated her nose. “I hate you, because you're a degenerate. I've heard you participated in alcohol-sodden org—”

“I don't deny it.”

“And you're a satyr.”

“You could say that.”

“And you're a bum!”

“It's no crime to be poor.” He straightened. The night, the porch shadowed his features. Nothing hid disgust. “I wish you could hear yourself.” His was a near murmur. “I wonder if it would bother you, hearing yourself. Your voice reeks with too much money and not enough affection. Affection from anyone or for anyone. Except for a pair of Persian cats.”

Fearing he spoke the truth, she lashed out, “You're still a bum. And that has nothing to do with being rich or poor. You took advantage of Papa.”

“A lie.”

“How do you explain him turning over prime cattle? Those crossbreeds were Papa's pride and joy!” As far as ranching concerned him anymore. “He wouldn't have parted with that stock without a darn good reason, something like being cheated out of them.”

“If that's what he told you, you ought to call him down for lying.”

“Gil McLoughlin will lie when pigs fly.”

Rafe muttered something about pigheaded females. “If you want the truth about the money situation between me and your papá, listen closely, because I'm only going to tell you once. He reneged on a promise. When things got ugly about it, he sent a couple of breeders and an elderly bull as a peace offering. I took the deal. I had my reasons, which I won't reveal, since they're none of your damned business.”

This didn't sound like her father, not at all; she said so.

“Then you don't know him. That cattle aside, I still consider Gil McLoughlin in debt. He promised to buy guns and ammunition for my people, if I would testify in your sister's behalf. He didn't pay.”

“He shouldn't have to pay for the truth.” She'd done some reading on the subject of Mexico, and putting everything into perspective, she said, “He doesn't believe in civil disobedience. That's what you meant to cause. Against the legal and peaceable government of President Porfirio Díaz.”

“Not the government. I knew I could do only so much. I was out to stop the Arturianos—those who follow my uncle Arturo Delgado.” Rafe paused. “But let's talk about this ‘legal and peaceable' you speak of. It's fair if you're as rich as Margaret McLoughlin. It's hell if you're one of the peons who sweats blood to fill a rich woman's money bucket.”

Why was Rafe trying to shame her, when . . . “You, a successful matador and a
Delgado
to boot, would shame me over money? Then again, your family cut you off.”

“I know about being poor. I saw the hell of being under the yoke of a rich man. That's how I came to want revolution in Mexico.”

She paused for emphasis. “If you're such a martyr to the cause, where have you been since December of 1889? Correct me if I'm wrong, but haven't you left your buddies to catch as catch can?”

He flinched. “Margaret, enough. I don't want to get into this with you.”

Why should she show mercy? “Olga told me all about you.” She gasped for breath. “You played at being the revolutionary, Rafe Delgado.”

“I
play
at nothing. Except affairs of the heart.” Again, he straightened, but didn't stand. His glare unmistakable, he said slowly, “You know
nothing
of how it is with the Delgados. Or with Mexico and her ruling party. Or with
me.”
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “But I know something damned well. I know I almost pity you.”

His stinging remark evoked memories. Always, someone felt sorry for her, either for having so many problems in her career, or on her lack of a wedding ring, or over her health and appearance. She would
die,
though, before she'd allow Rafe to know her sufferings. “Pity me? I don't need pity.”

“No? To my way of seeing things—since you've gotten to be the meanest
bruja
I've ever met in my life—you're not getting what you need from that hombre your papá bought you . . . possibly with
my
gun money.”

“No one bought Tex,” she came back hotly, truthfully.

She started to argue about that meanest-witch business, but he said, “If he's with you of his own free will—may the Lady of Guadalupe have mercy on the poor devil. Because you two don't act like you want to spend the rest of your lives together.”

This would be the perfect opportunity for the truth, but Margaret wasn't about to spill it. “Just because I reserve my affection for private moments, doesn't mean I don't love Tex Jones with all my heart.”

Rafe said nothing, but the intensity of his gaze made her uneasy. She fidgeted. Then a crooked finger lifted her chin, forcing her to face that intense gaze.

“I hope you'll be happy with what little you're both willing to settle for,” Rafe said quietly.

Taken aback at the lack of tension in his voice, amazed that he would offer good wishes, she didn't know what to say.

He saved the awkward moment. “You're through with Jones, Margarita. Come morning, he'll be on his way back to San Antonio. Or back to whatever rock he crawled out from under.”

“No, Rafe, no. He's going with us.” She took a breath. “That's not your decision to make.”

“I'm the chief—
el jefe—
remember? You agreed to this. Now—shall I tell Jones he's on his way? Or will you do it?”

The air between them vibrated with tension.

“I'll tell him no such thing. Neither will you!”

Rafe closed his fingers around a hand swatting his shoulder.
“Cariño,
listen to us. We argue too much.”

“We've always argued. And what do you mean, calling me an endearment?”

He laughed softly. “I'm a lover not a fighter . . . at least with
las mujeres.
And you are a woman not to be ignored.”

Directing her hand to his mouth, he centered a hot kiss on the palm. A shiver of something nice wound through Margaret, at the same moment he answered, “Would it be giving you an advantage, admitting you affect me in ways that I don't want affected?”

Rafe saying she impressed him? Something was wrong here. She shook her head to make certain her ear canals were indeed clear. His hand slid over her throat and upward, combing into her hair; she trembled at his touch. With a deft motion he freed the pins; her hair spilled over his fingers and across her shoulders. When he spoke, the irritation in his voice had vanished. Smoky was its quality. “Your hair looked lovely at dinner. I could hardly eat for wondering what it felt like, all this. It's beyond my wildest fantasy. I like your hair unbound. You're a very provocative woman, Margarita.”

“Th-thank you.” Ordinarily she would have dissected each word, but even though she knew he lied about her lackluster hair, nary a rejoinder came to mind. Liking the way he'd given a Spanish twist to her commonplace name, liking his compliments and somehow drugged into wanting to believe them, she felt the beginnings of a blush. Definitely, she felt a strange warming in her veins. And Rafe . . . oh, my goodness. He had never seemed so handsome nor appealing.

“Why am I interesting all of a sudden?” she managed to ask after gathering the minimum of reason.

“You've always interested me. When I fell for Olga, it was because I mistook her for you.”

“Oh, dear. I never imagined . . .”

The inside of his thighs settled at the outside of hers, as he angled toward her. She felt the arch manliness of him, and the impact scattered any iota of those freshly gathered wits. He took her hands, guiding them around his narrow waist. Then he slanted his lips over hers, brushing them with a feathered touch.

She liked the feel of his warm muscular back, as well. Slowly, slowly, slowly, her palms moved up and down that back. And his hands caressed her hips, then moved to her shoulders. When he kissed the curve of her throat, something strange happened, something as foreign as the country they traveled to. Tiny sparks burst within her, arrowing from her heart to her tummy—the magnetism of the sexes. This was what Charity had spoken dreamily of. This was what Olga had cried over. This refreshed her memory of that night in old San Antonio. How could a man so wrong seem so right?

“You need loving,” he whispered against her ear. “You need it bad. But not here. Let's go back to the hotel.”

Hotel got her attention. “Rafe . . . I can't believe you're saying these things to
me.”

“If Jones were doing his job, I wouldn't have to.” Rafe broke away. Despite the dark of evening, she caught the hard glint in his metallic eyes. He reached for his hat and stretched to his full height, which gave him the dominance advantage. “Dump Jones. You need a real man.”

Thinking straight for the first time in several minutes, she lanced into his remarks. “Is that what you call a libertine who ra-ravages married women? A real man?”

He chuckled sourly. “That's what the married ladies call me.”

Rafe stood and wheeled around, leaving her standing on the Land Office porch. Leaving her with the oddest sensations. She had thrown out serious charges. He'd insulted her. He'd mocked her. He'd put her in her place. He'd made her realize something dramatic. For some ungodly reason, she wished to hear more of Rafe's sweet talk.

“Admit it,” she said under her breath. “You're as silly and simpering as Sally Belle Ashkettle. And that simpleton Olga. But you're worse. You're love-starved.”

All she wanted and needed was that professorship.

“Maybe not.”

Good God.

 

 

Natalie Nash was on pins and needles to see Rafe Delgado again, tonight, and it wasn't necessarily to run her tongue along the source of that formidable bulge at the fly of his britches. If her suspicions about his identity were well grounded, she ought to be warning him of dangers ahead. Where was he? Earlier—it was now two hours after dinner—she'd gone by his room and knocked several times. In her own room, she muttered, “Damn.” “Did you say something, Miss Natalie?”