“Ah, you’re related,” Ben said, breaking into a huge smile.
She nodded. “Santiago and me are travelin’ together on account o’ we’re lookin’ fer one of our cousins. Yeah, ole Dick Zamora’s been missin’ fer nigh on two months now.”
“Dick Zamora?” Ben repeated. “Odd name.”
Russia searched her imagination for a plausible story. “His real name’s Dickito,” she clarified, thinking “Dickito” sounded very Mexican. “He’s only thirteen, Ben, and he runned off with a band o’ gypsies. Me and Santiago are huntin’ ’em down. We’re a real close family, y’see, and we ain’t gonna rest till we bring little Dickito home to his mama. Ain’t that right, Santiago?”
“Yes,” Santiago answered, anxious to agree with everything she said so he could hurry up and get her away from Ben, who was still eating her up with his hungry green eyes. “And we’re really very tired, Mr. Clayton. It was kind of you to invite Russia to lunch, but I’m sure she’d rather eat in her room. Weren’t those the doctor’s orders, Russia?”
She felt him squeeze her elbow. “Uh—yeah. I’m eatin’ in my room,” she agreed, confused over Santiago’s apparent irritation. “Nice carriage y’got, Ben. What with all this red velvet all around me, I sorta feel like a queen or somethin’.”
Suddenly, Santiago noticed the elegance of the coach. A few other things became obvious to him, too.
Ben the banker. Ben the gentleman. Ben who wore a gold pocket watch and smelled fancy. Ben who more than likely spent his free time reading poetry and studying the poets who’d composed it.
With sudden clarity, he realized exactly who Ben Clayton was—the kind of man Russia had always dreamed of finding.
Her Prince Charming.
“Ah, here we are,” Ben said as the coach halted in front of the Whispering Oaks Hotel. He opened the door, stepped down, and held out his hand to Russia.
Santiago carried her out himself.
“Thanks fer the ride, Ben,” Russia said. “You’re grateful fer the ride, too, ain’tcha, Santiago?” she asked, wondering where his manners were.
“Yes,” Santiago hissed. “Very grateful.”
Ben smiled and nodded before getting back into the coach. Once inside, he waved.
Santiago watched the white hand closely. There wasn’t a speck of dirt beneath those manicured nails.
His own were completely black with it.
* * *
Word of Santiago’s spotless character and noble deeds had reached the hotel owner long before Santiago and Russia arrived. The proprietor had already prepared the best rooms in his establishment for his guests. Hot baths, the purest of soaps, and thick fluffy towels also awaited them.
“Your room ain’t as purty as mine, Santiago,” Russia informed him when she wandered through his suite a few hours later. Freshly bathed and wearing a clean gown, she felt good all over. “Mine’s got roses on the wallpaper.”
“Did you eat the lunch I had sent to you?”
“Ever’ bit of it.”
“You should be in bed. The doctor said—”
“I ain’t got that headache no more. I feel fine, and I ain’t goin’ to bed. It’s a purty bed, though. The spread has roses on it, too. You git your bath yet?”
“Yes, and why did you accept two rooms?” he growled. She’d always wanted to sleep with him before now, he fumed inwardly. “One would have been—”
“Jist because ever’body thinks we’re kin don’t mean it’s all right fer us to sleep together,” she pointed out. “Folks here is real decent, Santiago. They’d be shocked near to death if they finded us in the same bed.”
“I don’t give a damn what they—”
“But I do,” she said softly. She examined the gorgeous vase on his dresser. “I like it here, Santiago. I thought maybe we could stay here fer a while.”
“How long?” Santiago bit out.
“Jist a while. And while we’re here, don’tcha think it’d be nice fer folks to treat us with respect and friendliness? It’d be so nice to git treated like that fer a change. If we stayed in the same room, folks’d think I was—well, you know. They’d think I was that kinda girl.”
“What?”
She raised a brow at him. “I know that’s exactly what kinda girl I am, but if it ain’t gonna misery you too much, Santiago, I’d ’predate it if you didn’t let on about it. I’ve done what I could to make sure folks here’ll treat you real good, and I’d be thrilled plumb nelly to death if they treated me decent-like, too. I don’t git much decent treatment, y’know.”
He’d have had to be blind to miss the gleam of desperation in her eyes. At that moment, he realized how important her wish really was to her.
She liked it here and wanted to stay for a while. A while. How long was a while? A week? A month? A year?
For the rest of her life?
The image of a white, well-manicured hand swept through his mind. He dragged his fingers through his damp hair, stalked across the room, and found the elixir. “Come here and take this, Russia. You’re going to sleep.”
“But I don’t want—”
“Come here and take it, or I’ll pour it down your throat.”
He wasn’t jesting, and she knew it. She took the medicine.
Santiago escorted her back to her room. There, he undressed her. Only by reminding himself repeatedly that she wasn’t well enough for what he had in mind did he succeed in keeping his hands off her.
Naked, Russia climbed into bed. The medicine was working fast. Already her eyelids felt heavy. “Don’t let me sleep long. I wanna have dinner at Mama Melly’s. I’m gittin’ roast beef, mashed potatoes, fried okra, and butter beans. I’m havin’ lemonade to wash it all down with, and then I’m gonna git a piece o’ apple pie and a slice o’ chocolate cake fer dessert. A stick o’ peppermint candy’ll be the finishin’ touch. Call me anything that strikes your fancy, but don’t call me late fer that dinner, Santiago, hear?”
He shook his head. She’d finished a huge lunch only twenty minutes ago, not to mention that she was supposed to be feeling poorly after her accident. He decided then that nothing short of death would tame her ferocious appetite.
He walked to her window and pulled the luxurious damask draperies aside. “What did you think about Ben Clayton?” he asked nonchalantly. His heart pounded while he awaited her answer.
Russia tried to bring Ben’s image into her sleepy thoughts. “Seemed purty nice. Clean. Ain’t ugly. Dresses good. I ain’t never seen a suit fancier’n the one he had on. Musta set him back a penny or two.”
Santiago glanced down at his own clothes. Black. Everything he wore was black. His fingers whitened around the curtains. He looked at his hands and frowned.
Even after scrubbing them hard, they still appeared soiled. Grime was embedded in his thick calluses. Skin had grown over it, and he knew the only way to remove it would be to cut the skin off. While bathing, he’d thought about doing that, but had rejected the idea when he realized that he’d be left with raw places on his hands. He needed those thick calluses; they served a purpose.
Dirt was also still beneath his nails, so far down he hadn’t been able to reach it even with the blunt end of the needle he’d used. Staring at it now, he understood it wasn’t actually dirt. Those were stains. And not even the growth of his nails took them out, because there was always new dirt to create more stains. They were permanent.
He’d worked with his hands for most of his life, would continue working with them during all the years to come, and knew they would never be spotlessly clean.
“I’m sleepy, Santiago.”
Her voice sounded hollow. When he turned to look at her, he saw she was already asleep. He moved to her bedside, pulled the pristine sheets under her chin, then gently swept a lock of her hair away from her eye.
He watched her for a long moment. She was smiling in her sleep. A small, sweet smile of pure contentment. It made him wonder what she was dreaming.
“Maybe about fancy coaches,”
he whispered. “About gold watches and fine suits. About…clean hands.”
As though she were awake and watching him, he kept his face blank. But he could not keep vacant his mind or his heart.
Old wounds he’d just begun to think were healing suddenly began to throb. Bitterness he’d believed was finally fading seared into him, burning him with fresh flames.
Memories of having lost something precious gripped him body and soul. He knew well that pain of loss, recognized its sharp, unrelenting torment immediately. He’d lived with it for sixteen years.
Russia had begun to soothe it. And now it was upon him once more. Russia couldn’t ease it again.
This time she was its cause.
* * *
Russia didn’t awaken until late morning the next day. Santiago was able to calm her anger over having missing her huge dinner by having a tremendous lunch consisting of the same foods sent up to her room.
“I talked to Dr. Frazier earlier, and he said that as long as you didn’t tire, you could do whatever you wanted,” he told her when she’d finished eating. “Do you feel like going shopping?”
“Shoppin’? Fer what?”
“Shopping for several things,” Santiago answered, his voice betraying no hint of the persistent and dismaying emotions he was battling inside. “Do you want to go?”
She nodded, tingling with a warm sensation when he took her hand and escorted her out of the hotel and down the street. She had a thought that holding her “relative’s” hand might seem strange to the townspeople who watched them, but she couldn’t seem to make herself let go.
In Lotty’s mercantile, Santiago bought her everything he saw her look at. Russia was amazed and speechless as he piled the counter with satin ribbons, flowered bonnets, kid slippers as well as good, sturdy boots, a new reticule, silk stockings, and a heavy sack of penny candy. When she refused to even consider the bottle of jasmine perfume he held out for her to see, he replenished her stock of flavoring oils instead. For himself he selected a new black hat, and was then forced to buy the Bible Lotty placed on the mountain of goods.
At the dressmaker’s shop next door, he found a rack of ready-made frocks that only needed hemming before they could be worn. He had the seamstress measure Russia while he examined the gowns. As if he knew everything there was to know about women’s apparel, he finally chose five that he deemed pretty, but prim and very proper. Heedless of the seamstress’s blushing cheeks, he instructed her and her assistants to add silky underwear and asked her to please sew the names of the days of the week on every undergarment.
Russia was completely overwhelmed by what he bought for her. Her arms were full of the packages from the general store, and the dressmaker had promised to have the gowns and underwear delivered to the hotel later that afternoon.
“Santiago, why’d you go and buy all this stuff?” she asked him as they walked back to the hotel. “I love ever’thing with ever’ bit o’ my heart, but I didn’t need—”
“Yes, you did. And I want you to throw away those ragged dresses you’ve been wearing since I met you.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue with me, Russia,” he said firmly, handing her up the steps in front of the hotel.
“I’ll toss out all my gowns ’cept fer my scarlet satin,” she informed him, quiet defiance edging her words.
He made no comment, but knew that if he had his way, she would never need to wear that crimson gown again. “Go to your room and lie down.”
“But—”
“Promise me you’ll take a nap. Promise.”
How could she resist the tender concern in those wonderful black eyes of his? “Oh, all right, I promise.”
Satisfied, Santiago turned and began walking down the street again.
“Where are you goin’?” Russia called.
“I’ll be back in a while.”
He increased his pace. In a few more minutes he was standing in front of the bank. Ben Clayton’s name was painted on the little window on the door. As he stared at the name, Russia’s words came back to him.
Whisperin’ Oaks is jist like my happily-ever-after town, Santiago. It’s jist the kinda place where I’ll live with my Prince Charmin’ one o’ these here days.
He swallowed. Hard. She’d done so much for him, and he now had the opportunity to do something for her. Something he hoped would be the answer to her every problem, her every dream.
He doubted he’d ever find his Princess Charming. But he could damn well try to help Russia get her prince.
He reached for the doorknob. Opening it would be opening the door not only to the bank, but perhaps to Russia’s happily-ever-after as well. Battling hesitation, he swung the door open wide and stepped inside.
Prince Ben Clayton Charming met him with a smile.
* * *
“Get dressed.”
Russia stared at Santiago as if he’d lost his mind. Ever since he’d returned from wherever he’d been earlier in the afternoon, he’d been quiet and distant, evading all of her questions and even refusing to be drawn into simple conversation.
And now he was in a hurry for her to dress. She looked at the gown he held out to her. It was a lovely shade of blue-green. Little pearl buttons decorated the front and creamy lace encircled the high neckline and wrists. She took it from him, stepped into it, and began fastening the buttons. Dressed, she put on the soft kid slippers Santiago dropped by her feet.
“We goin’ out to eat?” she asked. “It is dinnertime, y’know.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to her dressing table and picked up her brush. “Come here. I want to see if I can do something with your hair. Maybe we can pile it on your head the way other ladies do theirs.”
“What ladies?”
“The ones walking all over town.”
She slid her fingers through her hair, puzzled over his strange behavior. “But you ain’t never said nothin’ about the way I wear my hair before. You don’t like it down like this?”
If only she knew how he loved it down like that, he thought. If only he could tell her how beautiful it was. “Do you know how to put it up in one of those knots other women put theirs up in?”
She shook her head. “I ain’t never been good with my hair, Santiago. I’ve tried puttin’ it up, but I cain’t. I always wear it down.”
“Well, come here and let me see if I can do it.”
“Why—”
“Because I said so.”
Ordinarily, she’d have set him right in his place for ordering her about and acting so arrogant. But there was something in his eyes that stilled her tongue. Some sort of distress she’d never seen in them before. She walked to the stool in front of the vanity and sat down.
Behind her, Santiago looked at her mirrored reflection. Her gown was the same tantalizing color as her eyes, that odd but beautiful combination of vivid blue and startling green. Something tender seized him, holding him fast.
“Santiago? What—”
“Let’s see.” Lowering his gaze to her glistening tresses, he pretended to summon all his expertise with women. “I guess I should brush it first.”
Slowly, as if each passing moment were his last with her, he stroked the brush through her long hair. It tried to curl around the bristles and his fingers, and he knew in his heart there was no softer thing in the world than Russia’s hair.
He wanted to tell her so, but didn’t, deciding that the time to speak such things had come and gone. It made him hurt inside to remember he hadn’t taken advantage of that time when it had been his. “Clean,” he murmured instead. “It’s real clean, Russia.”
Though he did no more than brush her hair, Russia became completely undone by the sensuality of his languid actions. He stood so close to her. His hips kept touching her shoulders, his thighs caressed her back, his fingers grazed the side of her face and neck.
Her every sense began to pulse with arousal. She felt swept away by Santiago’s presence, his aura. His sultr
y gaze caught her luminous one in the mirror several times, and each time she wanted to jump off the stool and throw herself into his arms. She wanted to feel his lips crashing down on hers, wanted to feel tiny in his embrace.
She wanted the full measure of everything a man could give to a woman, and yet she couldn’t make herself show him that. She couldn’t understand his mood tonight. Couldn’t comprehend what it was that made him act so anxious, so odd.
She could only wait and hope that he would soon tell her.
A full ten minutes passed before Santiago was satisfied that he’d removed every tangle from her hair. Staring down at it, he thought of melted gold. He thought of red fire, too. Then he saw the colors of autumn. Yellow. Rust. Sun-warmed earth. He imagined satin. The luster of it, the mellow richness. God, he was thoroughly bewitched by the luxurious locks shimmering up at him.
He pushed his own hair off his shoulders, set the brush down, and took Russia’s red-gold tresses into his dark hands. After a moment of contemplation, he decided that the only way to make one of those female hair knots was to simply knot it. Just the way he did a rope.
Russia didn’t utter a word when she saw what he was doing. She only wondered how people would react when they saw the hairy lump at the nape of her neck.
Santiago stepped back and examined his work. He patted the hair knot here and there, finally dropping his hand to his side. “It looks terrible.”
“It ain’t that bad. I could wear a hat.”
“Yes, a hat.” He retrieved a perky straw bonnet from a box by the dresser and placed it on her head, pulling down the sides to make sure it would stay on.
The rim of the bonnet scratching her eyelids, Russia tried to peer up at him. “You smashed it down so low that I cain’t even see.”
He raised it, but still hated what he saw. Aggravated, he jerked it off and undid the knot he’d made of her hair. “You’ll have to wear it down. Put a ribbon in it, or something. I don’t know, Russia. Santa Maria, just make it pretty!”
His sudden outburst made her jump. She did her best to swallow her anger and confusion. “Why are you yellin’?” she asked softly. “Why is my hair so plumb nelly important tonight?”
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