Wild Sierra Rogue (7 page)

“I did not.”

Dabbing a lamb's-wool puff that stirred a cloud of scented talcum powder through the air and onto her porcelain-white bust, Natalie sat in her dressing gown at the making-up table and watched Tex Jones from the corner of her eye. The scent of his bay rum filled the hotel room. His hair parted down the middle, he sat on the edge of the bed with his knees spread and his laced fingers dropped between them. He was well dressed for a cowboy. He meant no doubt to make a good impression.

“Guess I ought to be going,” he said sans conviction.

In her throat she made a little noise of agreement, but he dawdled. A few minutes earlier she'd answered his knock, hoping it was Rafe Delgado calling. How was she going to get rid of Tex Jones without causing a scene? She yawned, hoping he'd be bright enough to understand.

“Sure am thirsty.” He eyed the bottle of bourbon she'd gotten from the desk clerk.

Obviously he wasn't going to leave like a gentleman. On a frown she took another look at him. He was a lot more than passably attractive, given his Nordic features, frame, and coloring, but she didn't care much for cowboys. While she was in no position to be choosy, she liked a better class of man; more particularly, a man of means.

Or a man like a particular smoky-eyed Latino.

Rich or poor, Rafe Delgado had what it took to turn any woman into no more than a bowl of pudding. If a hundred people milled around, he would stand out in that throng, what with his virile good looks and the-world-is-my-bedroom sensuality. When he had looked Natalie in the eye, it was love he made to her. Sweet, wild, hotter-than-sin love.

But was he the celebrated
El Aguila
of the ring, the notorious Eagle of the rifle? She should have met the Eagle; their paths should have crossed when Arturo had courted her, but somehow she'd never seen him in person. Of course, there were posters to his homage, but five years had passed since she'd seen one, and she hadn't paid that much attention to begin with.

Natalie's ample bust heaved as she considered her uninvited companion. Since Tex wasn't budging, how could she get something out of him? Mulling this, she invited him to help himself to the liquor. He tossed down a shot; she started to speak, but he beat her to it.

“Miss Natalie, you're prob'bly wondering why I knocked on your door,” he said, his voice clear and sharp. “It's like this. My mother, er, in-law is down at Eden Roc, and I got the impression at dinner . . . well, that things might not be right down there. Now, I don't mean to put you on the spot, ma'am, but I don't want anything happening to Lisette McLoughlin.”

“You've nothing to worry about,” Natalie replied, vaguely recognizing the name.

“Then why do you get a funny look in your face ever' time I mention the place?”

Natalie Nash—failed actress and falsely accused embezzler returning to Mexico with an arrest warrant biting at her ankles—owed this young man nothing. But she wasn't without compassion; she responded to the honest concern in Tex's plea.

“I promise you, your Lisette McLoughlin will be fine at Eden Roc. It's a cosseted refuge. Isaiah invites but a select few to share his paradise.” He'd allowed no guests in the beginning. “Guests are treated as royalty.”

“Phew. Boy howdy, am I glad to hear that.”

She studied the cowpoke. “You seem truly concerned for the lady. She must be special to you.”

“That she is. That she is.”

Natalie picked up her hairbrush. Running the bristles through long strands of peroxide blonde, she said, “Your lady Lisette. I've heard this name. She is of Washington, isn't she? Isn't she wife to a highly placed government official?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Which meant Tex's fiancée was daughter to a whole bunch of money. What brought the cowpoke and the wealthy spinster together? A more unlikely pair, Natalie had never met. Tex was lariats, campfires, and muscles as refined as a racehorse—or perhaps Loki, longboats, and North Sea gales—while his fiancée seemed a colorless female too long on the vine.

Natalie pitied the worry and anxiety she'd seen in Margaret McLoughlin's pinched face. Several times Natalie had had the urge to offer friendship, to offer a kind word, or at least conversation. But she was a man's woman, and knew nothing of how to talk with those of her own gender.

Anyway, Margaret McLoughlin was rich enough to buy a husband and have her choice in the doing. So why did she choose a cowboy who picked his teeth with a knife and spoke too slow and too cattle-trail for the drawing room? Why did she settle for a man who would sit on another woman's bed?

Natalie said to Tex, “I wish you happiness in your upcoming marriage, but don't you think Miss McLoughlin might be embarrassed to find out you've come to my room?”

“I reckon she'd be more than embarrassed.” He licked his lips and ran spread fingers through his hair, the latter action leaving the mass of it sticking straight up. “Don't get the wrong idea about me calling on you. I mean you no disrespect. Don't mean Maggie none, either. What I'm wanting is, well, you see, I've gotta find out about that Eden Roc place. I'm all het up, worried about Lisette.”

Natalie's low opinion rose. This was a good man, kind and caring, this cornpone Tex Jones. And while he and his intended were a strange pair, Natalie decided he had potential.

She set her hairbrush aside. “At dinner, you asked if I'm related to Isaiah Nash. I am. I'm his daughter.”

“Thought that might be the case.” Tex poured another whisky. “I'd sure appreciate it, ma'am, if you'll tell me about Eden Roc. And about your pa. I know a few things. He was a mine owner in the Virginias. He went to Old Mexico to do business, but didn't invest in silver mines. He bought property in the middle of a bunch of deep canyons in the Sierra Madres. And he's been pretty much of a hermit ever since.”

For twenty-five years. “You heard right.”

“What's so special about Eden Roc?” Tex asked.

“Ponce de Leon searched for it. But Isaiah found the Fountain of Youth.”

Skeptical, Tex shook his head. “Ain't no such thing.”

“On the contrary. Eden Roc is a site of . . . special powers. The water. The caves.” Incredibly, Natalie found herself missing the damned retreat. “There are many wonders to behold.”

She recalled her friends among the Tarahumara Indians living closeby. The poor Tarahumara. They seemed immune to the restorative powers of Eden Roc, for they aged at a swift speed. Her first love, a Tara brave, had grown old before her very eyes. It hurt to think of Netoc.

“I've always hated Eden Roc,” she said honestly. “Isaiah bought the property when I was a motherless fifteen. He took me from the things a young girl longs for. Her peers. The familiar.” Her eyes burned as she recalled how it felt to be uprooted at a tender age. “And the opportunity to be courted.”

“Sorry to hear that, Miss Natalie. But I guess you did leave.”

“I did. It took several tries,” she said, a bitter taste rising. “Isaiah would have kept me there forever, but I had to get away. The bright lights of the theater beckoned me. Or at least, I thought they did. As it happened, I'm not an actress.”

“I'm right sorry, Miss Natalie. You're sure pretty enough to be anything you please.”

“You're a dear to say that.”

“Are you . . . are you going back to Eden Roc?” he asked.

She came to her senses. What was she doing, confessing everything? She must not tell Tex Jones anything about her plans, which hinged on Arturo Delgado marrying her and giving her the protection of his name and considerable influence.

Hinged?

Of course, he'd marry her.

Arturo adored her. For five years he'd been waiting for her. Arturo would save her from the law. Answering her telegram, he would meet her at the depot in El Paso. Once they crossed the border, left U.S. jurisdiction, and his ring adorned her finger, she could breathe easier. No one defied the Arturianos. Not even the United States government.

“Miss Natalie, you all right?”

She nodded. Yes, she'd be fine. But what about that other fugitive from justice? She had to make certain Rafe and Arturo's Rafael were one and the same. Since Tex knew him . . . “Tell me about Rafe Delgado.”

A scowl moved across Tex's remarkably handsome face. “What's he got to do with anything?”

“I know a man by his last name in Chihuahua. Arturo Delgado. Surely you've heard of him, he's one of Mexico's most prominent men. He has a nephew named Rafael, who lives in San Antonio. This Rafael was a matador. Is this too much of a coincidence?”

“My sister said—Aw, damn.”

“Your
sister?
Wait a second. Aren't you engaged to Miss McLoughlin?”

“I, uh, I didn't say my sister is Maggie.” His face turning red, Tex got to his feet. “I—I'd better be skedaddling outta here, let you get some rest.”

“Not so fast.” She went to him, using the heel of her hand to push him back to the bed. And she saw Tex in a whole new light. This cornpone was
son
to a fortune. What if . . . ?
Natalie, you're forty years old. He's a boy and you need a man. A man like
Arturo. “Mr. Jones—Tex—surely you aren't making a long journey into Mexico with a stranger.”

“Rafe's an okay feller.”

If he was Arturo's Rafael—this had to be the case—“okay” might not be true. According to Arturo, his nephew was not only a troublemaker and an outlaw, he was a killer. Of his own cousin. Arturo's son, Herna
. If this Rafe was that Rafael, he'd be smart to stay away from Mexico. Arturo was living for revenge's sweet day.

Wait. If she warned Rafe, she'd be betraying Arturo. There really was no contest. Arturo—and her own freedom!—came first. Best she remove herself from the Rafe situation with all haste. Best she stay over in Alpine a day or so.

“You got any tequila?”

The barkeep, a smallish hombre with a handlebar mustache growing below paltry strands of dun brown hair combed over his bald spot, answered in the negative, so Rafe ordered a beer. It had been thirsty work, trying to find a hayseed to send packing.

The beer came sliding down the bar top on the crest of the announcement, “Two bits.”

Thankful for the quiet of the near-empty saloon—the one down the street had a soprano in red satin and all the drinkers—Rafe forked over the money, hitched his booted foot on the brass rail, and leaned his elbows on the bar. Normally he wouldn't mess with his hair, but tonight Rafe raked fingers through it. He finished one tankard, then asked for another, which he made short order of. Loco. He'd gone loco. What was the matter with him, making sweet nothings with
La Bruja?
The woman was a witch, dried-up hag and all.

Damn. He was getting hard again, thinking about her. Skinny she might be, but there was a willowy quality to her, a grace that held his attention. And he couldn't ignore her expressive eyes. Little hid in those big, big eyes.

If only she'd rest up, fatten up, do a bit of relaxing, Margarita might bloom again. If Eden Roc lived up to its reputation, she ought to benefit from it. Damn. Double damn.
¡Merdo!
Why in the name of all the fiends in hell should he be trying to reclaim a lost cause? He didn't even like her,
por el amor de Dios.
Besides, women didn't degrade him like she did, not and get his lusts up. So why was she any different?

Did it have to do with her incredible straightforwardness? Or was it because she was so damned much braver than he was? She wouldn't have allowed eight years to go by, with a cousin unavenged.

“Ya look a mite troubled, buddy.” Rag in hand, the bartender wiped dry a glass and held it up to the light for inspection purposes. “Got woman troubles?”

“Me? Never!” Rafe took a comb from his suit coat and gave his hair a grooming. “I never have woman troubles.” Oh, yeah? What about Olga? “I am
muy hombre.
All the women say so.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Rafe said nothing. He kept his own counsel. Always had. He ought to just get out of here. But. As mankind had done since the first bazaar had purveyed spirits to the woebegone, Rafe confessed all, opened up like a book with a broken spine, spilling his pages to the bartender. “I have had woman troubles.”

“What happened?”

“She chose her husband over me.”

“Happens all the time.”

“I suppose.” Rafe rubbed his scarred mouth. “A strange one, that Olga. Prim and modest. But night after night she came to me.” She held herself back on each of these occasions, offering intimacy yet allowing her inhibitions to rein in base desires. “One night was different.” By the Alamo and on the banks of the San Antonio River, she wore perfume of violets. A band played in the distance. There wasn't a cloud in the midnight sky . . . when she got hot and warm, got to be a real tigress in his arms. “I never forgot that night.”

Despite the bad ending to their affair, he persisted in remembering that night as special above all others. There was an honesty to her, the way she acted and reacted, that he'd never found before. It was as if she truly loved him, and wasn't simply sampling forbidden fruit. If he lived to see his great-great-grandchildren, he would never quit regretting that distinctly special night had been intruded upon.

He lit a cheroot only to take no more than a puff from it. “I decided I was in love with her. I wanted to spend the rest of my miserable life with her.”

“Yours is an age-old tale, buddy.”

“I imagine. But things changed the next night. She informed me she wouldn't divorce her husband.”

“Divorce? Man alive—that's serious.”

Rafe took a reflective swallow of beer, his thoughts retreating to a cold winter night. Riding in the carriage he'd borrowed to impress her, she'd said the words that had lanced his spirit. She wouldn't give up being a countess. “Oh, Rafael, I'm so sorry—I wouldn't hurt you for anything, you are so sweet and dear—but I can't ask Leonardo for a divorce. It just isn't done, not in royal families. And it would hurt him even more if he knew I left him for a—now, please don't take offense—for a man without rank.”

The countess returned to Granada, to her highborn husband. “That was the last time I ever saw her.”

Funny, how that didn't hurt as it once had. “After I put some time behind me, I was glad she spurned me. Even if she'd gotten a divorce, we were too different for the everlasting love sort of thing.”

What he didn't confess was the contents of Olga's letter, received after she sailed for Spain. “You and I are going to be parents.” Swearing she had acted in haste and promising she would return to him, she instilled false hope. For Olga and their expected child, he'd stayed in Texas and beggared himself to Gil McLoughlin. For nothing he had let his people down. He'd let Hernán's memory go unavenged. She never even bothered to send word whether the baby was a boy or a girl. “She's nothing but a fickle-hearted woman of empty promises.”

“Life's nothing but a bouquet of fickle-hearted females. How 'bout another beer?”

Rafe glanced up, nodding. It was then he caught sight of the painting that hung on the wall behind the bar. The scantily dressed, overblown woman was typical decor for this sort of cantina.
I wonder what Margarita looks like, naked?

Holy Mother, what was he going to do with her? “There's this woman . . . I can't stand the sight of her, yet I can't get my mind off her. She's got a
novio,
but he doesn't treat her right. I've been looking for him.”

“This lady, is she kin to you?”

“No.”

“Work for you?”

“No.”

“You in love with her?”

“Hell, no!”

The barkeep hooked the rag over his shoulder and parked a forearm on the bar, leaning forward. “You just want to bed her.”

“I do. I got it up tonight, wanting her. Damn good thing, too, since there's this
chiquita
on the train who's wanting her tonsils tickled, but I've been soft as mashed potatoes around her. I was beginning to get worried.”

“You've got the lovesick blues, man.”

Rafe waved a palm in denial. “It's not that bad. I want to spread the
bruja's
legs is all. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. She's mean as a rabid dog, and looks like one, too. Well, she's not that bad.” Once, she'd been heavenly beautiful. What were looks, anyway? A lot of his women weren't raving beauties, and once he thought about it, he preferred them that way. “When I told Margarita she needed good loving, I meant it. I even volunteered to help her out.”

“What did she do after you said that?”

“Same old thing. Insulted me.”

“If I was you, I'd find that other gal. Do your business with her. Just pretend she's the ornery one.”

Rafe laughed. “No. Those two aren't mixable.”

Natalie reeked of passion. Margarita, well, if that dry, amateurish kiss she'd given him was any benchmark, she never even thought about copulation, much less engaged in it. Still and all . . . Being a master at lovemaking, Rafe felt confident he could rouse the passions in the harpy from New York City.

First, though, he needed to get shut of Tex Jones.

He left the bar, made his way back to the Edelweiss by way of the town's other saloon. Jones wasn't to be found. Intending to check the hombre's room one more time, Rafe headed for that section of the hotel.

He heard a male voice coming from Natalie's quarters.
“Merdo,”
Rafe muttered and neared the door, “that's Jones.”

The bastard.

It wasn't enough, trifling in the same hotel where Margarita slept, Jones wasn't even trying to be discreet about it. Rafe pounded on the door. “Open up!”

Natalie, frocked in a dressing gown, answered the summons. “Well, hello—”

“Jones.”

Without further ado Rafe pushed past her, charged forth, and crossed the room in nothing flat. This is where a sensible hombre would have engaged in a stern reprimand, but Rafe's marbles were scattering to kingdom come.

He grabbed Jones by the shirt lapel, and even though he was outweighed by a bunch of pounds, Rafe hauled the slack-mouthed, wide-eyed Jones from the edge of the bed and to his feet. “Damn you to hell for doing 'Rita this way!”

He drew back his fist and slammed it up into Jones's face. He caught his jaw. Natalie screamed. Jones landed on a chair that collapsed with a bang, his shoulder crashing against the bed's foot rail. He spat blood and shook his head, but Rafe advanced. The moment Jones got to his feet, Rafe drew back his fist again.

“Stop!” That was Natalie. She started bawling.

Jones did his own screaming; he shouted, “D-don't. You've gotta—” Again Rafe's blow connected. “Listen.” Jones spewed blood. “She's my—”

“Take your hands off him!” Margarita. That was Margarita. “Rafe, don't you dare hurt my baby brother!”

At this same moment Rafe's knuckles smashed into Jones again, this time in the gut, which caused his quarry to double over. Rafe's brow wrinkled.
Her brother?
Rafe went still. And when he did, Jones decked him—hit him with all his superior weight and height and force. Rafe, his jaw and head in misery, fell hard on the floor.

From far, far away, he heard Natalie say, “He was standing up for you, Miss McLoughlin.”

“Oh, my goodness.”

“Tex, Tex honey, you poor thing,” Natalie wept. “Let me help you.”

Brushing her skirts out of the way, Margarita bent over Rafe. She had the strangest look on her face, as if she really was concerned. “Oh, Rafe. Whatever got into you? So sweet of you. But look at you, all beat up.” She wiped his bloody jaw with the hem of her skirt. “Whatever am I going to do with you?”

Right then, he didn't care. The lying, conniving—

Black closed in on him.

 

 

Eighteen hours passed from the time Rafe had charged into Natalie's room, but Margaret still found it difficult to believe he would go to such lengths. Difficult, perhaps, but she could barely contain her grins. Shameful grins. Here she was, wanting to smile over Rafe, when a despicably brutal yet wholly noble deed had been perpetrated against her kid brother.

And Tex had been thwarted in his quest for Natalie.

When the westbound train had
finally
pulled out of Alpine, hours past schedule, it lost one passenger. Miss Natalie Nash refused to go on, and Tex had pouted over the loss, even now, as the train rumbled on toward El Paso and into the night.

As it was, he'd taken himself—all bruises and injured dignity—to a seat well away from Margaret and Rafe, his wounds probably hurting more inside than outside. Poor Tex, he ought to have the right to court Natalie. It was with the hope of Natalie surfacing at Eden Roc (coupled with his concerns over their mother) that had kept him from turning back.

Margaret felt sorry for the romantic fool.

Sally Belle Ashkettle left her seat, walked toward the water closet. As she passed Margaret, she jerked her nose up. If not for the compassion and the jar of salve she'd offered Tex and Rafe, Margaret still would have hurt over the woman's snide remark about her age.

Margaret glanced across the aisle to get a covert look at Rafe. Her champion. Bless his knightly heart.

She wanted to acknowledge his act—she shouldn't go so far as
thanking
him for beating her brother to a bloody pulp, should she? Since he'd been indisposed to let her form so much as a syllable to him, apologetic or not, between the fisticuffs and the present, she settled for taking a good look. His black Stetson pulled low on his brow, he napped with his chin dropped to his collarbone. His boots crossed, he'd hitched a heel on the rail. With those muscular legs stretched out like that, it was impossible not to notice the very manly lines of him, especially in the crotch area.

Crotch area—good grief!

What was she doing, ogling him like that? Never had it been her way to gaze upon a man's privates. Well, there was that one time with Frederick, in the newborn days of this decade, when she'd returned to New York from Charity's trial. On the heels of having Rafe shatter all her romantic illusions by raping her sister, she'd set out to talk her former professor—former confidant!—out of stealing her dissertation and having it published under his name.
Frederick, you crumb
.

Whatever the case, she had allowed von Nimzhausen too many liberties. The seduction scene had come to a grinding halt, when she laughed at the white cotton of his voluminous drawers and the pink flamingo legs beneath. Under her breath, she said for the thousandth time, “Thank God for those drawers.”

Rafe groaned in his sleep, then fidgeted. The bruise on his jaw had turned black and angry, the darkness highlighting the white scar above it.
How did he get that scar?
Thinking of scars all the while he lay injured—gracious. Where was her compassion?

Poor Rafe. Poor Tex.
Poor me.

Margaret pressed her knees together and laced her fingers. Everything had gotten complicated. Getting Mama back to Papa wasn't going to be simple, nor swift, if these last few days were any bellwether.

Again she glanced at Rafe. Her knight in black Stetson.
I bet he never raped Olga! Olga probably made everything up to save her marriage. Who could blame
her? Devotion to her triplet fought with that voice of reason, leaving Margaret in a quandary.