Wild Sierra Rogue (9 page)

“Cleanliness is a cheap commodity.” Margaret, who had designed an elaborate water works at the Four Aces Ranch, envisioned several improvements that could be made right here. “I've heard—and now I've seen!—your country lacks even the basics of sanitation.”

Rafe dusted the brim of his Stetson. “Wretched it may be, but it's got lovely parts, just like any other place. Likewise, poverty isn't confined to Mexico. It's all over the United States, too. The McLoughlins just haven't seen it.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so touchy. Believe me, I meant no personal insult.”

“ ‘Sorry' has surely worked its way into your vocabulary.”

“Don't get testy.” She got to her feet, and sympathies limited to the urchins, she waved at them, then ordered Rafe, “We've got to find my brother. Let's go.”

The sun warmed her head and shoulders as she marched down a path leading to a dirt road; she didn't feel too wonderful, but another fainting spell wasn't imminent. Before long, the driver of a hay wagon offered a ride downtown, which she accepted; Rafe caught up with her. He helped her aboard, then hopped up himself. They bounced along for a mile or so with no conversation between them. Rafe rested a wrist on his bent knees, stuck a piece of hay between his teeth. As if overwarm, he rolled up one shirt sleeve, then another. Margaret couldn't help but notice the sheer masculinity of his arms and hands. Over and above the coarse black hairs and the network of raised veins, they showed strength as well as calluses.

She started to comment on those calluses, to mention that he must have taken a large part of the workaday responsibility on his ranch, but he spoke from profile. “Margarita, ever since you showed up at my
vacáda,
I've been wondering about your health. You're just not as . . . robust as you used to be. What happened,
querida?
What is wrong with you?”

“What about your uncle? I wish you'd tell me why he wants you shot. I think you owe me, as your employer, an explanation.”

“I asked first. What's wrong with you?”

She took a quick glance at Rafe. The bruise on his jaw had turned black. One thumb hooked behind his gun belt, he had a worried look to him. When he repeated his question, she said, “You ran my legs off, that's what is the matter. Ladies do not exert themselves—it's bad form.”

“No, Margarita. There's something more here. So stop being defensive and tell me.” He bent his index finger and nudged her gaze to his. Understanding and compassion softened the silver irises of his eyes, along with the aristocratic planes of his face. “Margarita,” he said in little more than a whisper, “I used to have a sister. Like you, María Carmen wasn't strong.”

“What do you mean,
used to have?
Is she dead?”

His nod was subtle as he crossed himself.

“I . . . I'm sorry, Rafe. Sincerely I am.” Twice she patted his knee in a gesture of commiseration. “I lost a brother, but we were small children at the time, so I can't promise I know what you're going through, but . . .” A panicked feeling set in, as she tried to imagine what it would be like to lose her sisters or Tex. “It must have been awful for you.”

Not even for brotherly grief would Rafe be put off his interrogation; he took her hand and forced her to face him. “You're consumptive, aren't you?”

“I am not! Never. No. Not me.” The sky fell. The earth imploded. Margaret fought hard to escape the truth that was herself. “I'm never sick.”

Shying from his scrutiny, hating that he could see through her, she squeezed her eyes closed and let her chin fall to her wizened chest. It had been a long, long time since her last night sweat and bloody cough. A whole year had passed since she was released from the sanatorium. A whole year. And yet . . .

“Lord, help me, you were right, Rafe.”

Despising her cadaverous body, yet not totally ungrateful that it hadn't completely quit on her, she buried her face in her bony hands and gave way to self-pity. Sometimes, like now, she found herself plain scared. Would she have the strength to meet the challenges of her goals and ambitions?

“We'd better find a doctor,” Rafe said.

“No, no. The doctors swear I'm over it.” She surrendered to self-pity and the shame of her illness. “But it's still obvious. I'll never be myself again. Oh, God.”

“Enough of that talk. We're headed for a fountain of miracles, remember?”

“If only I had my mother's faith in the place . . .”

“Put your faith in it. You're going to be fine.
Fine.”
He rubbed her temple with the pads of two fingers, brushing his thumb on her forehead. His touch felt as gentle as a mother with her newborn. “Margarita,
querida,
don't be ashamed of being sick.”

“What do you know, Rafael Delgado? You haven't had people run from you, lest they breathe your contaminated air. Me and my kind, we are virtual lepers.”

He chuckled, winked. “Well, sweet of my heart, I've had some experience along those lines. You McLoughlins haven't been much on
my
breathing
your
rarified air.”

Heartened that he hadn't shown pity—surprised he was so wrong about her family—she gaped at Rafael Delgado. Who was this dark, tender man? For years she'd been certain of his ignoble ways and lack of sensitivity, or at least she would have sworn so. Could it be she'd spent years suffering under misconceptions?

Not quite ready to believe she'd been so very, very wrong, she confined her comments to absolutes. “Don't want you to breathe their air? Wherever did you get such a ridiculous idea? Every time I see Charity, she goes on and on about you—as if you were the greatest man in the world, besides her husband and our papa, that is.”

“I
am
the greatest man in the world. At least at rescuing McLoughlin women.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “My parents think you hung the moon. My great-grandmother—do you remember Maisie McLoughlin? She thinks you're, well, she thinks highly of you.”

“How is the crusty old thing?”

The fondness in his tone surprised Margaret. She assured him the formidable Scotswoman remained invincible, to which he commented, “A crafty one, your
abuela.”

“That she is.” Margaret picked straw from her traveling suit. “And Olga . . .”
Should I broach the subject?
“Olga loved you very much.”

Margaret almost didn't want to witness his reaction.

The hay wagon came to a wobbling halt at the same moment she mentioned her triplet sister's name, and Margaret's relief at the interruption flowed wider than the neighboring Rio Grande. Although she'd broached the subject, she didn't feel comfortable conversing with Rafe about Olga. Margaret feared . . . well, what if some nuance gave him away, shouting his guilt?

He tossed the driver a coin, jumped from the wagon, and helped Margaret to the busy street. “I know a good restaurant near here. Let's have breakfast.”

From the tense look on his face, it was obvious Rafe wasn't eager to discuss Olga, either. And food, Margaret decided, was a capital, if not a bland enough idea.

Asking time and again if she were feeling all right, he took her hand and led her southward. Commenting at length, Margaret made observation after observation to Rafe. The general aroma left something to be desired in Juarez, a town that teemed with brown-faced people, all seemingly in no rush to get anywhere, such as the alm-seeking beggars lounging against walls and around the monument-decked plaza. As for monuments, Mexicans seemed to have an it's-Sunday-let's-erect-a-statue passion.

“Do you suppose that harks back to the days of idolatry?” she asked, dwelling on the stark difference between Mexico and her mother country.

“I never gave it much thought.”

“I'd say this place is to Spain what the West is to New York,” she theorized.

He hurried on to point out that it was a colorful and rather festive place, Juarez. Banners and flags waved in brilliance from all sorts of places, including an open-air shoe-shine stand. Vivid paint must have been in high demand over the years, being that the buildings—all crowded close together—were veritable Easter eggs of colors.

Margaret, long a watcher of people and animals, concentrated on them. Though an ocean separated the countries, this place carried a resemblance to the medinas and bazaars of the Moorish world.

Merchants unresponsive to No! in several languages hawked brightly colored clothes, knickknacks of dubious use, and lengthy leather whips, while ragged peddlers sold food and colorful fresh fruit drinks. Up and down the dirt street, burros packed goods on their scrawny backs, while fine horses carried the bejeweled to their respective fates. Chickens and goats roamed freely and ecstatically wild, children played in the open ditches, and painted prostitutes plied their trade from open doorways.

It came as no surprise when Rafe drew a lot of attention from those professional women. Even the less vocal, higher classed females cast many a covert stare at Rafe and his unmistakable strut. Each and every of those women shot Margaret envious glares.

After a few minutes Rafe and Margaret turned easterly and entered a less crowded avenue. Trees grew here, and the buildings, decorated with wrought iron, were whitewashed and spaced farther apart than on the previous street. A fine coach passed the couple. This part of town was in fact beautiful, “Rather like provincial Spain,” she commented.

“I told you Mexico isn't all poverty,” he said smugly.

“I don't believe I argued the point.”

He gestured to a one-story building with open windows and pots of cactus growing at its entrance. “May I present Carmelita's?” He sketched a bow. “Herein lies the best food in Juarez. Or it used to be, when I was last here.”

The regret when he voiced the addendum gave Margaret pause. And she wondered, probably for the first time, what his life had been like in the days before Texas. What did he leave behind?

She entered Carmelita's. The wall decor came at her, figuratively. Lithographs, faded and yellowed, graced each of the walls; those posters announced corridas of years past. “That's you, Rafe,” she said. “You're on all of them.”

He laughed. “I especially like this one.”

She added her own laugh. The poster he pointed to had been embellished by an artist of sorts. The corners of Rafe's eyes had been blackened, giving him a cross-eyed appearance. She said, “I didn't think you had much of a sense of humor about your appearance.”

“I don't. Usually. Let's eat. The food is delicious.”

The meal did prove savory, the establishment scrupulously clean, and the plump, gray-haired proprietress friendly as a cocker spaniel pup. By the time Margaret had finished the plate of eggs and tortillas, not to mention a whole pot of rich and delicious Mexican hot chocolate, her eyelids were drooping like a basset hound's.

“She's had a tiring journey,” Rafe explained when Carmelita came over to cluck and hover. “A few minutes rest and she'll be fine.”

“Ah, sí. The señorita can siesta on my little bed. You find something to do,
El Aguila.
Come back later.”

Before Margaret could say a word, Carmelita hustled her into the back of the restaurant, and led her to a narrow cot with crisp white sheets. The bed looked more than inviting, the trip having indeed caught up with her.

The proprietress scurried about, closing the window shutters. “You will find water and towels to freshen with on that table.” Carmelita indicated a commode of rough walnut standing above an enameled chamber pot. “My wrapper will go around you three times”—she pulled back the sheets—“but it is clean, and you will be comfortable.”

Margaret nodded, half asleep, and mumbled a thank you.

“At mass tomorrow I will give a prayer of thanksgiving to our Lady of Guadalupe.” Carmelita, seriousness at its zenith, bent her head and raised templed hands. “For many years I have prayed that the Eagle would return.”

“I figured from the posters that you admire him. Highly.”

“I do.” Tears glistened. “And he is here. He will save our nation.”

Her brow quirking, Margaret cocked her head. Rafe save Mexico? The only thing he'd save was Lisette McLoughlin. “How can a matador, an ex-matador, save a nation?”

“Did you not know that he left the arena to devote his energies to the needs of the people?”

Never had she put much stock in those rumors of rebellion, and he didn't strike Margaret as a magnanimous soul. Moreover, he'd said his argument had been confined to his uncle. In her state of exhaustion, wherever the truth of him was centered, she wasn't interested in giving anything too much thought.

She barely heard Carmelita say, “Did you know a Spanish spy has been arrested here in Mexico?”

It was all she could do to get out of her traveling suit and serviceable underthings, drag a wet rag over her face and other parts, and don the soft, sun-smelling wrapper. She fell upon the cot, dragging the sheet under her chin and closing her eyes.

She awoke languorously, as if she had taken too much of Dr. Woodward's cough elixir. A piquant aroma—a melange of cooking smells liberally laced with chiles—wafted to her. Opening one eye, she saw that a squat candle burned on the table next to the cot. From the doorway leading into the restaurant, Margaret heard the clink of dishes and silverware, the whir of several voices, and the strains of strumpet and guitars in symphony with a drumbeat, not unlike that heard from the tall tapering drums of the Dark Continent.

And she saw Rafe.

Rafe. In a chair pulled next to the bed, he sat with an ankle crossed on a knee.
“Buenos noches.”
Good evening.

Rafe. All smoky devouring eyes . . . and finely honed physique. His American dress had been abandoned for more traditional gear that Margaret knew had overtones of Spain, and he looked magnificent. A
faja
as red as blood sashing his waist, he wore a white shirt and dark britches, tight britches. Lastly, soft boots of black kid encased calves in no way resembling those of a pink flamingo.

Oh, Rafe. His scent was leather and smoke. He sipped from a snifter of something that was probably brandy. With his ruffled shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, it was impossible not to notice the golden crucifix. Margaret had the sudden urge to furrow her fingers through the crisp black hair surrounding the cross.
Close your mouth, lest you'll drool.

She yanked the covers up another inch under her chin. “What time is it?”

“Supper time.”

“We must get out of here. Tex will be waiting.”

Rafe shook his head. “No need to rush. He knows where we are. He's rented a hotel room, so we'll meet him tomor—”

“Hotel room? He doesn't need a hotel. Oh. I see. We've missed today's train, haven't we?”

Rafe set the snifter on the table. “Actually, we're not taking the train to Chihuahua city. Young Siegfried and I bought a wagon and team this afternoon.”

Young Siegfried. Was Rafe ever going to let her live down that Teutonic god remark? The man was a born tease! But this wasn't the time for teasing. “Excuse me? You've opted for a slow method of transport, when the train would get us there in practically no time?”

“I can't chance running into any of my uncle's men. The Arturianos.”

“Why? What is wrong between you and Arturo Delgado?”

“Shhhh.” Candlelight casting his face into interesting relief, Rafe leaned forward to press his forefinger against her lips. “You have been taxed by the trip, and we have a longer one ahead of us. Tonight we relax. And enjoy ourselves.”

“How can we do that?” she asked and brushed his touch away. “You know we're not compatible.”

On an odd twist of lips, he replied, “I suppose we can act as if we don't know each other.”

The funniest feeling came over Margaret, rather an envy. Olga had received his attentions and affections—before their final fateful night at least, and the jury was still out on that specific event—but Rafe didn't bother with his celebrated charm when it came to Olga's witch of a triplet sister.

She recalled something Tex had said.
Meskin fellers would even woo a nanny goat.
To improve her chances, maybe she ought to look into growing a beard and stalking clotheslines for sustenance.
But Rafe said he mistook Olga for you, in the beginning.

Sweet talk. Pure gibberish. But wasn't that what she sought, blandishments? Truth be known, she wanted to find out for herself just what was so exceptional about Rafael Delgado.

Struggling for life in Manoah Woodward's sanatorium for the consumptive, Margaret had prayed to walk in the sunshine once more. And not to die a virgin. Up to now no one had stirred her senses. But with Rafe . . . Her passion for him had simmered just below the surface for ages. Okay, he might be as worthless as a wooden nickel. So be it.

Going to her grave without knowing a man intimately didn't hold much appeal. Furthermore, her fainting spell had been a reminder of Dr. Woodward's prognosis. In not so many words, he'd told her not to bother socking acorns away for an old age.

She squeezed her eyes shut, turning her head to the wall. This action wasn't for romantic woolgathering, though. Neither foolish nor simpleminded enough to delude herself into thinking Rafe would ever have a romantic interest in her, she knew if he was now showing interest, it was suspect. He'd had eight years, after all, to notice Margaret for Margaret.

But, dang it, heaven was just a sin away. And whether heaven or hell was in the offing for the ever-after, she wanted her last chance at heaven on earth.

“Margarita? Are you all right? What is the matter?”

Facing him, she opened her eyes to the beauty of him.

“I bought you a new set of clothes.” He reached for a pile of gaily, gaudily printed garments. “A skirt, a blouse. A petticoat. You've got new slippers, too. Sandals, they are.”

“I can't wear that. They aren't me.”

“What is you?”

“I'm not one to wear vivid colors. They'll give the wrong impression. I don't like calling attention to myself.”

He held the skirt at his shoulder and stroked the material, as Margaret had stroked her adored babies. He said, “You'll call more attention by wearing Victorian browns.”

All she could argue was, “You didn't have to go to such expense.”

“You're wrong.” He chucked her chin lightly. “We've got the whole evening ahead of us, and I'm the one looking at you.”

There you go, Margaret. There's your reason. Don Juan gets down to the basics. He wants you spruced up for the sake of his eyesight.
Why did that have to hurt?

He rose, put the chair away, and strode to the doorway. His fingers on the fastener, he said, “Freshen up,
cariño.
I'll be waiting for you in the dining room.”