“I done give you one o’ them saturations, Zamora,” Russia said, unnerved by his blatant scrutiny.
He realized he’d been admiring her and chastised himself for giving the twit more attention than she deserved. “You gave me a what?”
“A saturation. You know—a greetin’. I said ‘Mornin’ ‘ to you.”
“The word,” he gritted out, “is salutation.”
She lifted her chin a bit. “Well, excuse my ignorance, but brains ain’t ever’thing, y’know.”
“In your case, they’re nothing. Now, what is the last town you visited?”
Sweatin’ sows and dirty bathwater! she thought. The man was sure riled this morning. “The last town? Why do y’want to know that?”
How dare she question him! he fumed. “Unless you know of a better way to find Avery, we’re going to backtrack to all the towns you’ve been in. We should catch him in one of them. At the very least, we might learn when and where he was last seen. Now what is the last town you—”
“Indian Rock. No, that weren’t it. It was Gray Rock. Sharp Rock. Hard Rock. Um… It was Somethin’ Rock.”
Santa Maria, Santiago thought. Dawn had barely broken, and she’d already succeeded in irritating him. He didn’t even want to think about what condition he’d be in by tonight. Instead, he tried to remember names of towns. “Was it Spring Rock?”
“No.”
“Ford’s Rock? Glory Rock?”
“Yes!”
“Glory Rock?”
“No, Rock Springs!”
Rock Springs, Santiago mused. The tiny town was a two-day ride west, but with Russia following along, it would probably take much longer. He hoped she had a fast horse. “Get ready to go. We leave in ten minutes.”
“I’ll—I’ll get your mount, Mr. Zamora!” the stableboy yelled, rushing to the stall where Santiago’s horse was secured.
“I’ll do it myself,” Santiago said, his statement bringing the boy to a dead halt. Seeing the lad’s fear, he reached out and tousled his hair, and was dismayed when the boy’s knees began knocking together. Turning away from the child, he led his horse, a sleek mustang stallion black as his master’s hair, out of the stall.
Russia stared in fascination as he hauled a huge black saddle off a hay bale. She knew the tack was very heavy, yet he lifted it as if it weighed no more than one of her silk stockings. When he finished saddling and bridling his horse, she watched him mount with motions so fluid and easy, the saddle barely creaked as he settled himself upon it.
Lord, the man was big. Seated on his horse, the top of his hat seemed to be a whole mile above her. “You look like some kinda powerful god way up there. What’s it feel like to be that high up?”
He glanced down at her, suddenly seeing the ring gleaming between her breasts. “Take the ring off. I never want to see it again.”
At his withering glare, her stomach tightened into a hard knot. And his voice…it sounded like weapons. Like guns and swords. Knives and cannons and anything else that could be used to kill.
“Mount,” he instructed her. Placing the flat of his palm on his horse’s shoulder, he pressed gently. The stallion responded to the tender command and began walking out of the stable. As he rode out, Santiago glanced at the two saddled horses tied to the door handle of the feed room, wondering which one was Russia’s.
Russia closed her hand around the ring. How dare the man give her orders concerning what she could and couldn’t wear on her own body! Her defiant side shouted for her not only to continue wearing it, but also to glue it to her forehead so he wouldn’t be able to miss it.
But her compassion defeated her will to defy him. She had no idea why the sight of the ring upset him, but the reasons were obviously strong ones. Shrugging, she dropped the ring into her pocket, vowing never to let him see it again.
Outside the stable, she stopped beside the cart, frowning when she saw the empty seat. “Feener Miner!” she yelled as loudly as she could.
At her shout, Santiago’s stallion reared in fright, but soon calmed under his master’s skillful handling. “Santa Maria, what are you screaming about?”
She looked under the cart, finding nothing but cracked dirt and a few wilted weeds. “My cat, Nehemiah. He’s gone.”
“Nehemiah? But that’s not what you—”
“Oh, I don’t hardly never call him Nehemiah,” she explained, looking all around the area for her missing pet. “He likes nicknames better, and he has about a thousand of ’em. When we waked up, he was Boodles. Now he’s Feener Miner. He’s—” She broke off when she saw the tabby bounding toward her. “Shame on you, Mr. Stripy,” she scolded him. “I tole you to stay in the cart, and you—”
“The cart is yours?” Santiago queried, his stomach sinking when she nodded. “Just how fast do you think we can go if you ride in a wobbling cart pulled by an enfeebled ox?”
“Oh, we cain’t go fast a’tall,” she replied, lifting Nehemiah into the cart and slipping in beside him. “We gotta go slow, Zamora, on account o’ Little Jack Horner’s got him a bad case o’ the dwindles. Ain’t he cute with his hat? Keeps the sun outta his eyes. He won’t budge a inch if he gits a lick o’ sun in his eyes, y’know.”
Santiago wondered if the sombrero had been payment for her services. Perhaps a hat was all she was worth. “Has it ever crossed your mind that the reason this Avery character has been able to follow you is because of your idiotic rig? Don’t you understand that people remember that stupid thing? So as Avery travels, he only has to ask if anyone has seen it. When they recall it, he knows he’s still on your trail. Get a horse, dammit!”
The thought of giving up her beloved ox made her wince with sadness. “Little Jack Horner and Nehemiah are more’n animals to me, Zamora. They’re the only family I got, and I’d rather walk through a rat-infested alley wearin’ cheese underwear than give either one of ’em up, hear?”
He rolled his eyes. “An ox and cat are your family?”
She nodded. “I’m the mama, and they’re my kids. Now let’s go.” With that, she picked up the reins and moved them sideways so that they slid gently across Little Jack Horner’s back. The ox gave a loud snort and trudged forward, his lumbering gait causing the bells on the cart to tinkle merrily.
Santiago sat motionless, staring at the back of Russia’s hat and the flowers that were jumping all over her head. His ire swelled to fury. “You’re going the wrong way!”
He didn’t wait for her to turn around. Instead, he reined his horse in the opposite direction and urged the stallion into a fast canter, leaving Russia to follow. As he rode out of town, his lips moved in silent supplication. He hadn’t prayed in years, but after dwelling on his situation, he realized that help from heaven was the only possible means of surviving this trip with Russia Valentine.
* * *
Four hours into the journey, Santiago estimated they’d traveled only three miles. Three measly miles! Scanning the distance, he saw nothing but wide open space, dotted here and there by prickly pear, tasajillo cactus, a few masses of thorny brush, and a smattering of acacia and scrub oak trees. To his right lay a dried-up stream bed peppered with rocks and weeds. His head throbbing, he lifted a hand to his temple and shuddered when Russia began to sing again. Her sour notes intensified his headache.
Santa Maria, how was he ever going to survive this journey? She’d already fallen out of her cart three times. She’d insisted on stopping so she could pick an armful of the yellow rockrose wildflowers they’d come upon. Her damn cat had gotten lost several times, and her hundred- year-old ox kept having to stop to rest. And dammit, she wouldn’t stop singing no matter how angrily he demanded she do so!
The pain in his head and the fury ravaging his body reached a pounding peak. He halted his horse, dismounted, and threw his hat to the ground.
Russia reined in Little Jack Horner and watched a roadrunner speed into the distance. Dangling from the bird’s mouth was a long green lizard. “Why we stoppin’? This ain’t Rock
Springs, Zamora.”
Calmly, Santiago pulled a Colt from his gunbelt and pointed it at her. “Because I’ve decided to go ahead and put an end to my misery. I’m going to shoot you, Russia.”
She paid no attention to his threat. “I’m glad we’re stoppin’,” she said, jumping out of the cart. “I’m hungry.”
He stood there, mouth open, pistol in hand. Yes, his threat to shoot her was an empty one, but how did she know that? Santa Maria, why wasn’t she afraid of him?
Frowning, he saw her spread a snowy tablecloth on the rocky dirt. Upon it she set two tin plates and a candle; then she scattered her wilted rockroses all around the edge of the cloth.
“I got some biscuits, cheese, ham, and lemonade with the gold you give me last night,” she explained as she took the small sack of food from the back of her cart.
He watched her try to light the candle. The breeze kept blowing it out. “Why the hell do you need a lighted candle out here in the middle of nowhere?”
She wished she could continue to defy him and keep trying to light the candle, but she’d run out of matches. Lips tightly pursed, she filled both plates with food and began to eat.
Santiago decided to make the best of an intolerable situation. Stuffing his gun back into his belt, he stalked over to the tablecloth and bent to pick up his plate.
Russia grabbed it away from him. “This ain’t your plate, Zamora! It’s Gray Man’s, see?” She moved the food away from the middle of the plate and showed him the letter she’d scratched on it. “That’s a N. N for Nehemiah. This here’s one o’ them what you call enclaved plates.”
He looked at the poorly formed letter. “Engraved.”
“Whatever.”
“The damn cat has a plate, and I don’t?”
He loomed above her; she stared up at him. Sunshine poured all over her, but it was a different kind of warmth that invaded her senses. The sight of him brought so many emotions to her all at once. She decided she’d go quite mad if she couldn’t sort through and comprehend them.
“What are you staring at?” he yelled.
His fury was about as subtle as a bolt of lightning splitting open a pitch-black sky. Lord, the man had him a quick temper!
“I asked you what you’re staring at!” he demanded again, his jaw twitching.
“You.” She cocked her head to one side. “I cain’t understand what it is you do to me. One minute I’m takin’ a fancy to your hair and all them muscles you got. I reckon you’re so strong, you can crack pecans betwixt your toes, aint’cha? I like them muscles, Zamora.”
“But in the next minute,” she continued, “you startle me so damn bad, my heart skips more beats’n a drummer with the hiccups. You git madder’n I ever seen anybody do it before, y’know. I git over bein’ jumpy, then another feelin’ comes. When I look into them black eyes o’ yours—well, I feel somethin’ I ain’t never feeled in my whole life. My stomach sorta bounces, like it’s full o’ bedsprings. I git real warm and breathy, but at the same time my throat feels like it’s closin’ up, or somethin’. I git real bumfuzzled, and I cain’t decide what’s happenin’ to me.”
He didn’t know what to think, what to say. She had no need to flatter him into doing her bidding. She’d already blackmailed him into it.
So why was she complimenting him?
And the feelings she’d tried to describe to him… Surely a whore knew lust well. It was an integral part of her profession!
So why did her confusion seem genuine to him?
He tried to convince himself she was lying. That she had some hidden incentive for such tribute. But what reason could she have to lie?
“Ain’t you gonna say nothin’, Zamora?”
What could he say? No woman had ever said such things to him and meant them. Decent women were too nervous around him to even greet him, much less give him compliments. And whores—yes, whores flattered him. For payment they’d say anything they thought a man wanted to hear.
But this harlot…this one was under no obligation to try to seduce him. She had no motive he could think of.
His confusion angered him. “Don’t say those things to me.”
“What things?”
He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Those things about me,” he repeated lamely.
“Y’mean about your muscles? Your looks, and what they do to me?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like it, dammit!” He kicked at the yellow wildflowers she’d strewn around the tablecloth.
“All right! Smack my leg with a garter, Zamora, you’re the yellin’est man I ever met up with. All’s you had to do was ask in a normal voice, y’know. If you don’t like me sayin’ nice things about your looks, I won’t.”
Satisfied that he’d intimidated her sufficiently, he inclined his head.
“You’re ugly,” she blurted, grinning. “So ugly that I reckon you gotta sneak up on a dipper to gitcha a drink. Did y’like that any better’n what I said before?” Her smile widening steadily, she soon burst into laughter.
He stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.
Still giggling, Russia picked up a biscuit. “Anyhow, like I was sayin’,” she went on merrily, “all them strange feelin’s you make me feel? Well, sure as hell’s hot, you’re gonna drive me plumb nelly crazy before all this is over with.”
Her last statement got his full attention and understanding. “I’m going to drive you crazy? Do you have any idea—”
“Quit hollerin’ at me. I know it ain’t much fun to git blackmailed, but there ain’t no way around it, hear? I done blackmailed you, and you’d best git used to it. Now sit down. I’m figgerin’ that once we talk fer a while, we’ll settle down with each other. Tell me your life’s story; then I’ll be better able to make my decision.”
He watched her stuff the biscuit into her mouth. Ivory crumbs dotted her rosy lips, and it was a moment before he could take his gaze away from her soft mouth. “What decision is it that you have to make?”
“Whether you’re a good man or a bad one. I need to know fer sure, y’see, on account o’ you and me’s gonna be together fer a while. If you’re good, fine. If you’re bad— Well, I guess that’s all right, too. I ain’t one to judge nobody. It’s jist that I’d like to know fer sure, that’s all.”
For one second, he wondered what her ultimate decision about him would be. But as soon as he caught the question in his mind, he clenched his fists. “I don’t give a blasted damn what you think about me, Russia. You have something I want, and I have something you want. That is the extent of our relationship, and once both ends have been met, we’ll go our separate ways. But while we’re together, you’d best remember that I never travel with anyone. I’m not used to having company, and I sure as hell don’t want yours.”
She licked a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “Well, you sure as hell have it anyway.”
He rammed his fingers through his hair, wondering if there was any way in the world to frighten the sassy wench. He arched a brow. “You said you wanted to get to know me, wanted to make a decision about me. All right, Russia, I’ll accommodate you.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Before arriving in Hamlett, I shot a man. He was unarmed, and I killed him in cold blood.”
Russia watched him carefully. His stance was relaxed and calm. His brows were raised in a way that made her think he was bored by what he was telling her. But when she looked beneath those black brows of his, she saw that his eyes held an emotion that was altogether different. His gaze shone with regret.
Absently, she fingered a fold in her skirt. “He musta been really and awfully bad.”
Santiago’s arms fell to his sides. How had she deduced that? Truth was, the unarmed man had been in the process of trying to strangle an old woman before robbing her. The woman had already been close to death when Santiago had come upon the scene. Shooting her assailant had been the only way to save her life, but he still felt ba
d about it.
He frowned at Russia. “I killed a dog once, too.”
Russia inhaled softly. “Oh, how sad,” she whispered. “Was he mad?”
Santiago’s eyes widened. Dammit, how had she guessed? “No, he wasn’t mad!” he lied loudly. “He was barking too loud, so I shot him!”
Russia burst into laughter. “You cain’t lie worth a damn, Zamora! You wouldn’t shoot a dog fer barkin’! You like animals. You’re real sweet to your horse, and you’ve been puttin’ up with ole Little Jack Horner. And y’know what else? I seed you ride around that little rabbit a while back. He was eatin’ them berries, and you didn’t want to disturb him, so you taked your horse wide around him. A man like that wouldn’t shoot no dog fer no good reason.”
“I… To hell with that! You—”
“Look, you’re a gunslinger, Zamora. Men like you don’t spend their days pickin’ daisies. I already know that them guns you wear ain’t no decorations.”
“Russia—” He cut short his reprimand when he felt something rub across his calf. Looking down, he saw Nehemiah. A big black beetle was clamped between the cat’s teeth.
“Well, look at that,” Russia cooed, smiling. “Whipples brung you a present. He does that when he likes somebody. ’Course, Lord only knows what it is that he sees in you. All’s he’s seen you do is holler. Take the beetle, Zamora.”
“I don’t want it.” He walked away from Nehemiah, glowering when the cat followed and continued to rub against his legs. “Tell him I don’t want the damn bug!”
Russia finished off a piece of cheese. “If you don’t take it, it’ll hurt his little feelin’s. Git down there on the ground with him and tell him you ain’t never got such a fine present.”
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