A loud meow cut him off. His anger mounted when he looked down and saw Nehemiah and the piece of dried horse manure the cat had dropped on his boot.
The look of pure adoration in the cat’s eyes soothed Russia’s distress and made her smile. “Well, look what Maffy-Lou brung you this time, Zamora,” she cooed.
“Pinche gato,” Santiago swore vehemently as he went to collect his equipment and ready Quetzalcoatl. “Hijo de la pinche…”
Listening to his continuous muttering, Russia patted the empty space beside her and rubbed Nehemiah’s ears when he jumped onto the seat. “That’s Spanish Zamora’s talkin’, Prince Pooty, and I’m plumb nelly sure he’s goin’ on and on about what a good cat you are. I don’t reckon he’s ever got such a fine gift like the one you jist give him. He’s pro’bly gonna have it gilded in gold so’s it’ll last ferever. Ain’t that right-o, Zamora-rio?”
The thought of gilded horse manure was so obnoxious, it made Santiago even angrier. Still mumbling choice epithets, he mounted. Wishing he were anywhere else but where he was, he urged Quetzalcoatl into a full, ground-eating gallop.
Chapter Five
The small town of Rock Springs was within view when Russia began to wonder if Santiago would ever talk to her again. “Varmint,” she whispered.
Three days had passed since he’d sworn to ignore her, and true to his word, he’d barely glanced her way. While they traveled, he rode well ahead of her. At night, he made his bed on the opposite side of the fire, refusing to answer what little she said to him. The varmint had broken his promise not to feed her, though. She’d feasted on leatherlike jerkey, stale bread, and warm water.
“Varmint,” she whispered again.
Staring at his broad back and the charcoal hair that spilled over his wide shoulders, she rolled the reins between her fingers. Though he was quite a way ahead of her, she could see how tall and straight he sat in the saddle. His lower torso rocked back and forth to the rhythm of Quetzalcoatl’s smooth gait.
The slight motion he made sent that sensual tingle spreading all through her. “Well, muskrats, marigolds, and marinade,” she said to Nehemiah, who was curled up in the soft nest her hair made in her lap, “I ain’t never heared o’ gittin’ all hot and bothered jist by watchin’ a man ride a horse. Next thing y’know, he’ll do somethin’ like scratch his elbow, and I’ll catch on fire! Lordy me, what is it about the varmint that gits to me the way it does? Him and my Prince Charmin’ are about as different as cinders and satin. Still, there’s somethin’ about him…”
Nibbling at her lip, she cocked her head, her gaze still resting on Santiago. “Jist who the hell could he be, Dilly? Behind that famous name, behind them hard eyes and that varminty temper… behind the legend, who is that man? One minute nice, the next minute mad. One minute hatin’ me, the next minute worryin’ about me, and now actin’ like I ain’t even alive. I’ll be damned if I can figger.”
She fell into deep thought, but could come up with no logical answer that explained the mystery of Santiago Zamora. “’Course, I ain’t been tryin’ real hard to git to know the man, Rooney,” she realized aloud. “I been lettin’ him ignore the hell outta me on account o’ he don’t never answer nothin’ I say.”
“Well, I ain’t gonna let him do it no more,” she vowed, nodding. “There ain’t no tellin’ when we’ll find ole Wirt, and if that varmint up there thinks I’m puttin’ up with this damn silent treatment fer weeks to come, he’s dumber’n a barrel o’ hair. I’m gonna make him talk to me, because y’know? I think he’s jist as lonely as me. Yeah, what him and me need to do is make us a fresh start.”
She urged Little Jack Horner to a faster walk, thankful that Quetzalcoatl was walking so slowly. “Afternoon, varmint—I mean stranger,” she called up to Santiago. “Things’ve been plumb nelly quiet in my life fer the past days. Why don’t you and me talk fer a while?”
Santiago adjusted his black hat low over his eyes. She hadn’t said much to him in the past several days, and that had made it easier to ignore her. Now it appeared that she’d decided to end the silence. Ha! He was intent on hating her, hate her he would, and she would not get a response out of him no matter what she said.
His blank expression made Russia even more determined to make him respond to her. “Name’s Russia Valentine, stranger. That ain’t my real name, though. I got a real name that I keep a secret. I maked up Russia Valentine when this feller called Wirt Avery started follerin’ me.”
Though Santiago kept his gaze centered on the town ahead, giving Russia no sign that he was listening, he heard every word and wondered what her real name was. Not that he really cared, he told himself.
Russia gathered up some more persistence, deciding to maintain a lighthearted attitude with the stone-faced, stiff-lipped varmint. “I picked the name Russia on account o’ I always wanted to go to Russia. Did y’know that if you go there, you can see the Black Sea? Somebody tole me about that sea, but I jist cain’t make myself believe it’s really black. Them Russians mighta maked it up jist so’s ever’body else in the world would think they got somethin’ the rest of us ain’t.”
Santiago rolled his eyes heavenward.
“Before I decided to be ‘Russia,’ I was gonna be ‘Italy,’” she went on, smiling when Nehemiah began to give her hand a bath. “Italy Valentine. Wanted to go to Italy, too, see, on account o’ I heared that country’s shaped like a boot. Ain’t that funny, a country bein’ shaped like a boot? But ‘Italy’ sounds too much like ‘idiot,’ and I didn’t want folks callin’ me Idiot Valentine. And to tell you the honester’n God truth, I don’t know why I picked ‘Valentine.’ Musta had me a good reason, but I’ll be damned if I can remember what it was.”
She wished he would answer her, but when he didn’t, she tossed a wilted black-eyed Susan at him. “I’m around twenty-one years old. It’s been a while since I had me a real birthday party. But I figger I’m around twenty-one on account o’ I got big tits. Don’t y’think these tits o’ mine look to be about twenty-one years old, stranger?”
Santiago turned his face away so she wouldn’t see how close he was to grinning. He’d never heard anything so ludicrous in his life.
Damn the man! Russia cursed silently. Not only wouldn’t he talk to her, he even turned his face away! “I like your long hair, stranger. Sometime—if we ever git to be good friends—will y’let me braid it?”
“Shut up, Russia.”
She smiled broadly. Santiago hadn’t said a very nice thing to her, but at least he’d said something. She felt encouraged. “You ever eat hand cookies? My mama used to make hand cookies fer me. I ain’t never fergitted ’em. She’d roll out the dough and cut out the shape o’ my hand, y’see. I loved eatin’ my own hand. When I get me a sweetheart? Well, I’m gonna make that man some hand cookies ever’ day. Hand cookies is special, y’see. Mama said you only make ’em fer people you love plumb nelly to death. Has anybody ever maked you some hand—”
“No, and shut up.”
“Maybe in Mexico,” she continued, grinning, “they make hand tortillas. Do they make hand tortillas in Mex—”
“Russia, shut—”
“If they maked hand tortillas in Mexico, you could tear off a finger to pinch up the meat. One finger fer ever’ bite. You could git six bites outta ever’ tortilla. Five fingers, and one palm. I wonder if anybody in Mexico ever makes hand tortillas. Jist ’cause you didn’t never eat none don’t mean that nobody never makes—”
“Santa Maria, callete!”
“Callete,” she repeated thoughtfully. “I bet that’s shut up in Spanish. I speak some Spanish, y’know. Sometimes I have to guess at it, but I know some real words, too. Picked ’em up here and there. Rosario means rosary. I learned that when I was in Rosario, Mexico. I ain’t Catholic, but I always wanted me one o’ them rosaries. I’d wear it as a necklace. I bet you’re Catholic, huh? What do y’think about God’s mama appearin’ to folks down here?”
“Russia—”
&nbs
p; “A man down in Rosario tole me a story about God’s mama comin’ to Mexico. God’s mama’s name is Mary. Yeah, Mary come to Mexico a long time ago. There was this Mexican Indian named Juan, and Mary appeared to him. I bet ole Juan was so scared he failed down and hit his head on a rock. That’s what I’d do if God’s mama ever come anywhere near me. There’s jist somethin’ about her comin’ down on clouds and stuff that scares me.”
Santiago felt his lips twitch again. He knew dozens of titles used for the Blessed Virgin, but never once had he heard her called “God’s mama.”
“Anyway,” Russia went on, swatting at a bothersome fly, “Mary tole Juan she wanted a church builded. He tole the bishik, but the bishik didn’t believe him. So Mary—”
“It’s not bishik, it’s bishop!”
His sudden shout startled her so badly, she almost fell out of the cart. “Well, excuse the hell outta me! I done tole you I ain’t Catholic! How can you ’spect me to know the names o’ all them holy folks in your church?”
“Look, Russia,” he said, giving her a quick glance, “I already know the story of Our Lady of Guadalupe, so there’s no need for you to—”
“Juan tole the bishop about Mary, but the bishop didn’t believe him,” Russia rambled merrily on, admiring a thick mass of bluebells as she passed them. “So Mary give Juan her cape, see, and she tole him to take it to the bishop. When Juan opened up that cape fer the bishop to see, Mary’s portrait was painted on it, and fresh roses failed out of it! Since it was winter, roses wasn’t s’posed to be bloomin’, so when the bishop seed ’em, he knowed Juan weren’t lyin’.”
“Yeah, Mary got her that church she wanted, and that cape o’ hers is still in Mexico. I’m gonna go see it someday on account o’ I figger that if you can see what Mary looks like, you’ll know what God sorta looks like, too.”
“I look like my mama,” she continued without pause. “Never knowed my daddy on account o’ he died before I was even borned. Mama died a few years back. Her name was Vivian. She’s who tole me about happily-ever-afters. Jist about ever’ character in my book o’ fairy tales had bad times till they finally got their happy endin’s. I reckon happily-ever-afters is somethin’ you gotta earn. I sure hope I earn mine one day on account o’ it’ll mean I’ll git my Prince Charmin’. Did you ever read fairy tales when you was little?”
Her question sent a sharp burst of longing through him. He recalled all the nights he’d sat by the fire listening to his sister, Lupita, read stories to him. God, he hadn’t thought of those tranquil evenings in years. Santa Maria, what was it about Russia that made him remember things he’d all but forgotten?
Russia saw the firm set of his jaw. “Do fairy tales make you mad? Why? They all got happily-ever-afters.”
Not mine, he seethed inwardly.
Aware of his growing irritation, Russia decided to change the subject. “I got a problem, stranger. I was wonderin’ if you could help me with it. I know this feller? Well, his name’s Santiago Zamora. He’s got him this reputation, see. I’ve seed him live up to it, but…Well, I’ve seed other things about him, too. He’s s’posed to be this real dangerous gunfighter. Folks cain’t even look him straight in the eye. But there’s somethin’ more to this Santiago Zamora, and ain’t nobody gonna tell me there ain’t. Do y’know there’s some real nice stuff about him? Even though he hates me, he feeds me. And he doctored up my ant bites fer me. He—”
“I dressed the bites because of the ants’ poison!” Santiago shouted. “How many times do I have to tell you that? Left untreated, those stings would have festered. The last thing I need is a sick—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, we’re almost to Rock Springs now, stranger,” she said, pointing to the main street ahead. “Before we ride in, there’s somethin’ you oughta know. You stayed in a fancy hotel back in Hamlett, but you ain’t gonna be stayin’ in no hotel here in Rock Springs. There’s rooms over the saloon fer rent, and that’s where you’ll be stayin’.” Calmly, she tucked an unruly strand of her hair into her hat.
Santiago stared down at her in complete disbelief. What nerve she had! Imagine her telling him where he could and couldn’t stay! Just who the hell did the obnoxious twit think she was?
“I’ll stay wherever I want, Russia. You’ve bent me to your will several times since we met, but I assure you, regardless of your reasons for not wanting me to stay in the hotel, I will stay in it.” He put his hat back on and coerced Quetzalcoatl into a brisk trot.
Left in the dust the stallion stirred up, Russia smiled.
* * *
From the room he’d rented above the saloon, Santiago stared at the mountain of charred wood across the street. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you burned down the hotel?”
Russia removed her straw hat and hooked it on a long, rusty nail sticking out of the wall. “You didn’t ask. Can we order us up some supper? No sense in goin’ out when we can eat right here. And can we git a bath sended up, too?”
He turned from the window and surveyed the room. What little furniture it contained was either broken or stained. The dingy wallpaper was peeling, large sections of it hanging off the wall and serving as dust catchers. A filthy throw rug lay wadded up in one cobweb-filled corner.
Everything about the place reminded him of the room in the brothel.
The brothel. Graciela. He closed his eyes, every part of him resisting memories of the things that had set him on the path that had eventually hardened him against everything good in the world.
“Zamora?” Russia asked, bewildered by his strange look. “You all right?”
He opened his eyes and looked into hers. They weren’t whiskey-brown. One was blue, the other green. And the lips he saw… They weren’t deep red, but light pink and smiling slightly. And the hair… Not raven-black, but gold like the sun. With bursts of red shimmering through it.
Graciela. Russia Valentine. They were as different as midnight and high noon, and yet they were the same.
Harlots, both of them. He felt sickened with desolation, scalded with fury.
“Zamora?” Russia asked again, unable to understand the shadow of sudden anger that darkened his face. “What’s the matter with you?”
He stared at her. She didn’t speak Spanish with a sultry voice. She spoke English with a voice soft and innocent as a baby’s sigh.
Santa Maria, if they were so much alike, why did he continue finding so many differences between them?
He squared his shoulders. “We’re not eating in this squalor,” he informed her curtly. “I saw a small cafe as we rode into town. We’ll eat there.”
His mention of eating out overcame her curiosity about his odd behavior. She began to wring her hands. “Um… No, let’s not.”
“Why?”
“Because…because I ate there once, and the food was spoiled rotten. I almost died! Y’ain’t lookin’ to git poisoned, are you?”
He watched her carefully, taking note of her extreme nervousness. “Did you cause an accident in the cafe, too?”
She shook her head.
He was determined to get the truth from her. “Then does your refusal to eat there have anything at all to do with the hotel?”
She looked at everything in the room except him.
“How did you manage to burn down the hotel?” he asked suspiciously.
“It was a accident.”
“Of that there’s no doubt in my mind. But how—”
“Wiggles got in there.”
He glanced at the cat and became instantly irritated when he saw that the animal was curled up inside his hat, which lay upon the small bed.
Russia saw the ominous glitter in his eyes and rushed to remove Nehemiah from the hat. “Don’t git in his hat no more, Figaroo.”
Santiago lifted his hat from the bed, glowering when he saw all the gray cat fur inside it. Santa Maria, how he detested that bushy-tailed, four-legged piece of annoyance! “You let that hairy thorn in my side get anywhere near my hat again, and I’ll—�
��
“Anyway, back to the story,” Russia hurried to continue, loath to hear his threat. “Pea Cakes here got into the hotel. The hotel manager ferbidded me to chase after him, but—I did anyway. Well, I couldn’t jist let him git lost in there, y’know. It taked me a while, but I finally finded him in some lady’s room. Her screamin’ led me right to him. Jungles, jewelry, and jellyfish, you’d’ve thought little Pippers was a man-eatin’ tiger the way that silly woman was carryin’ on.”
She paused a moment to kiss Nehemiah’s cold, wet nose. “He was behind the curtains. When I bended down to drag him out, my bottom hit a little lampstand. The lamp failed down and catched the curtains on fire. Sweetums coulda been killed, but as you can plainly see, he’s still alive. Nobody could git the fire out, so the hotel burned down.”
“You were held responsible, weren’t you?” Santiago asked, though he already knew the answer.
She set Nehemiah down and picked up a handful of her skirt, brushing dust from it as if that were the most important thing in the world to do.
“Russia, I asked if you were held—”
“Yes, all right? Yes! Marshal Wilkens come. Cobbett Wilkens is his name. Cobbett. Kinda reminds you o’ corn on the cob, don’t it? Anyhow, he’s this tall, skinny feller who acts like he owns the whole damn universe. I hated him right off, Zamora.”
“Well, I doubt he felt much affection for you, either. What happened when he learned what you’d done?”
She placed her hands on her hips and huffed. “He acted like I was some sorta world-round criminal.”
“Renowned.”
“Whatever. I’m tellin’ you, Zamora, he was real excited to git hold o’ me. Grabbed me, puffed all up, and tole me it’d cost around ten thousand dollars fer a new hotel. He actually said I had to fork over the money!”
“What nerve he had,” Santiago replied sarcastically, but knew his sarcasm had gone right over her head when she gave him an I-knew-you’d-understand-my-side look.
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