by Martha Hix
“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.
Did he?
Didn’t he?
All she could be positive about was, she’d been awfully hateful to Rafe. Yet with valiant intentions he took up for her, and like David with Goliath, he went after a taller opponent. This bespoke an ingrained goodness, a strength of character flagrant in fiction, but rarely witnessed in real life.
She at least owed Rafe an explanation. Could she say it? Could she admit that she, a drab if there ever was one, had been vain enough to think she needed protection from men, mostly from Rafe himself? Oh, he had kissed her, but that was to make a point. His passions weren’t for her.
A tiny tug of emotion pulled at her heart.
Yet Margaret couldn’t help feeling a vitality that refreshed her blood, bones, muscles, and soul. As a survivor of a terrible sickness, she rejoiced in the privilege of vitality.
“Cupcakes. Anybody wanna cupcake?”
The vendor’s announcement roused Rafe. Or it could have been Margaret’s voice, or the rattling of her change purse as she answered in the affirmative. Feeling hungrier than she had in ages, she bought two pastries plus a string of jerked beef, and handed one cupcake across the aisle.
“Keep it,” Rafe groused, as she bit into the other icing-covered cake. He turned his head.
“Rafe . . . I know you’re a bit upset, but—”
“I’m more than a bit upset.”
His cupcake in hand, she stood and crossed the aisle to take the empty seat facing him, but he turned his attention to something on the other side of the window. The dark of night?
“I’ve apologized to Tex a dozen times. And I want you to know how sorry I am about . . . about, well, you know what I’m talking about. Oh, Rafe, I had no idea you’d fly to my defense.”
“That’s right. You always figured me for a no-good, so why would you think I could act chivalrous?”
His boyish pout caused her to sigh in frustration and set the foodstuff aside. “Would it help if I apologize for deceiving you?”
“No.”
“My mother swears that sweets make for sweet.” She smiled—an unfamiliar expression. “I bet this cupcake would make your mood all better. Want to try it?”
“No.”
“Would you like for me to get back in my old seat?”
“Yes.”
Scowling at the hard set of his battered jaw, she exhaled. “If that’s the way you feel about everything, why don’t we consider our contract null and void? You can catch the return train, once we get to El Paso.”
“If I do, I’m keeping the money you paid me.”
Her Scottish thriftiness and Teutonic respect for money reared. “You will not.”
“Not much you can do about it, is there, bruja?”
“You would like to think not!”
She realized something, and it hit her quite suddenly, right in the face. It was stimulating, arguing with Rafe. The nasty, hateful sort of pitched battles of the past weren’t fulfilling, but small skirmishes did have their charm. She announced, “You’ll either repay me, or you’ll live up to your end of the bargain.”
They argued for a good half hour, until Sally Belle Ashkettle complained to the conductor, and he threatened to put Rafe and Margaret off the train.
The train pulled into El Paso in the h
our before daybreak. Every bone in his face aching, Rafe gathered his belongings and stomped down the aisle, past yawning and stretching passengers, plus Tex and his broom of a sister. Repay her—huh! Like her father, she owed him.
Making a fool out of him, letting him think she was engaged to her own brother—he ought to wring her scrawny neck. Last night, after they had argued over money and were forced outside to the undulating connections between the cars, she admitted her reasons. They made Rafe damned furious. ¡Estoy como aqua pa’ chocolate! Damned furious. The witch had thought he would rape her, had even hinted he might have touched Olga in anger.
Holy hell, rape Margarita!
Rafe Delgado didn’t rape women. Never had, never would. And to tell the truth, he’d never been in a situation even to give it consideration. Yet he’d refused to give Margarita the satisfaction of a defense against such absurd charges. Nonetheless, he had assured her in lengthy terms that he had absolutely no interest in her, even if she tore her clothes off and begged him to ease the misery of her voluptuous lusts.
“Have no fear,” she said snootily. “I would sooner bare my bosom to Jack the Ripper, than to the likes of you.”
“What a nasty thing to say, even for a witch. That Ripper is a monster.”
That was last night. Today Rafe remained in bad temper. Witch. Broom! Harridan. Virago. He hated arguing, had had enough of it for a lifetime, thanks to the perdition of Chihuahua in late 1889, but arguing was all Rafe and Margarita seemed to do. Angry he might be with her, yet he would carry on to Chihuahua state with the McLoughlins, only because he was headed there anyway, thanks to that divine signal pointing southward. Once they reached the city of Chihuahua, though, he was history.
Why? Things could get ugly, once Arturo discovered the prodigal nephew returned, but Rafe had known this all along. To the point, Rafe had had his fill of the McLoughlins. For years they had been the death of him; this latest insult was the final blow.
As he descended the steps, he flipped a coin to the nearest porter. “You need to help the skinny lady behind me. She’s got a lot of luggage in the baggage car.”
“Sí, señor.”
Rafe tossed his valise across his shoulder and hastened down the platform. Tex’s voice slowed but didn’t stop his forward pace. “Rafe, can I buy you a cuppa coffee?”
“Not thirsty.”
“A shot of whiskey?”
“I told you, I’m not thirsty.”
“Wanna just hold up for a dad-blame minute?”
Turning to Margarita’s brother, Rafe saw that the young hombre looked like the bowels of hell on a Saturday night; he had to feel even worse than Rafe, and that was more than awful. “What do you want, Jones? Uh, McLoughlin.”
Passengers, including La Bruja and her not inconsiderable pile of possessions, passed by before Tex replied, “You’ve gotta forgive Maggie. She didn’t mean no harm, playing like we was sweet on each other. You see, Rafe, she’s kinda funny, my Maggie. She didn’t like setting herself up to get hurt.”
“You’ve lost me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She’s scared of men. Well, I mean she’s scared of getting tangled up with one, so she does whatever she can to make sure that don’t happen.”
“Why? She have a taste for women?”
“Naw, not Maggie. She ain’t got no taste for nothing.”
“Why?”
Tex spat a wad of tobacco onto the ground. “ ’Cause she tied in with a feller up New York way, and got herself hurt real bad. That was a long time back. Myself, I wanted to go after him with a rope, but—”
“Wouldn’t be that Frederick hombre, would it? The one who stole her manuscript.”
“Yep. That’s him.”
Rafe’s first instinct turned out to be sympathy. Since he knew about being betrayed, he understood what she’d gone through. But his sympathy didn’t last long. All sorts of scenarios tumbled in his brain. He grinned. She might have experience in passion. His loins stirred once again, his insulted pride taking a back seat to lechery. Bedding the virago between here and Chihuahua city had possibilities, especially if she did some good old-fashioned begging before he allowed her nine inches of heaven.
Well, eight inches.
“Any chance your sister is a fallen woman?” He’d never had a taste for virgins. Yet, oddly, he had a contradictory urge to be the first man to sample from the font of her womanly delights. You are one mixed-up hombre, Delgado.
“I don’t rightly know what all she’s done or ain’t done, but I can vouch for one thing. She’d rather be an old maid than let down her hair with the fellers. That’s why she’s got a real tart tongue.”
Rafe took a cheroot from his coat pocket, extended it to Tex; the offer declined, he stuck it between his teeth and lit the end. Staring at the ground, Rafe swung the valise slowly from his shoulder, dropping it. Like Margarita, he knew what it was like to hurt. He knew it well.
The latter part of 1889 was hell turned heavenly. . . turned hell. He’d wanted to right Delgado wrongs—and there were many wrongs, including a bad, bad situation at the Santa Alicia silver mine. A contingent of Yaqui Indians had been given as gift to Tío Arturo. Rafe and his cousin Hernán—and to a certain extent, Rafe’s half brother, the newly frocked Father Xzobal Paz—had opposed slavery in any form.
While this was going on, Gil McLoughlin asked Rafe to testify in his daughter’s behalf. Uninterested in saving the rich gringa from herself, he’d sent her Texan papá packing.
McLoughlin had barely left the hacienda before Xzobal Paz brought news to El Aguilera Real. The slaves had arrived. Rafe and his followers had ridden to the Santa Alicia, had meant to make certain the slaves would receive fair treatment. The entrance to the Santa Alicia was lined with hired guns. Arturianos. They fired on Rafe and his men. And they fired back. A man stepped out of the office. Hernán walked into the line of fire.
Hernándo, my cousin! We didn’t mean to hurt you! I . . .
Rafe squinted at the rising sun. That’s what Olga had been to him—the rising sun. The day breaking into the abyss of night. Gentle, patient, easy to be around—Olga had been the beauty of Margarita without the threat to his masculinity.
“Rafe? You all right, old buddy?”
He gave a curt nod to Tex Jones. Correction. Tex McLoughlin. “How is your—?” A fist tightened in Rafe’s chest; a vision of loveliness and serenity formed in his mind, as he finished asking the question that he couldn’t pose to Margarita. “How is your sister?”
“Ain’t you heard nothing about Charity? She’s right famous. She and Hawk, well, that Wild West show they got together has done real good. And Ole Hawk, he took to Europe like a duck does to water. They’re happy as a cuppla ducks in water.” He laughed at his own slim attempt at humor. “ ’Course, they got ’em some younguns now. Twins. A boy and a girl. And another babe expected.”
“I, uh, that’s nice, but I didn’t mean Char—”
“Rafe, I sure do thank you for helping our Charity, back when she was in trouble.” Tex offered a hand for shaking. “I didn’t get to thank you then, but I wanna now.”
That out of the way—both men winced when their skinned knuckles made contact—Rafe got insistent. “How is your sister Olga?”
Suspicion worked its way into Tex’s open-as-a-book expression. “That’s a funny look you’ve got on your face for a feller just making small talk about my sister. How well do you know Olga?”
From the funny look in Tex McLoughlin’s face, another trial by fists might be in the cards. Enough of that, Rafe decided. “We got to be . . . friends, when she arrived from Spain to be with Charity at the trial.” As events played out, the trial was over in record time, even before Olga could arrive. Charity had gone free, had taken off with her man for Europe. Apparently the two sisters had passed on the Atlantic.
“Olga’s a married woman,” her brother stated, disapproval evident. “Leonardo’s a right nice feller.”
Rafe didn�
�t repeat his question on her well-being. It was better not to know.
Picking up his valise, he stepped around Olga’s brother and started again for the depot. Maybe Olga was the reason Rafe flew to Margarita’s defense. Could it be that he still harbored feelings for the brunette beauty? Again and again—after he’d realized she wasn’t coming back to Texas—he’d told himself his feelings for her were nil. His present interest spelled curiosity, pure and simple. Olga wasn’t the reason he’d wanted to help her sister.
His actions had been for Margaret alone. She was the one female who didn’t want him, and that had a powerful allure.
How would he handle her?
His gaze traveled to a wagon and the tall, thin woman standing beside it. A grin curved Rafe’s mouth. “I’m going to make a sweet little pussycat out of that hissing she-cat,” he promised himself. “She’s going to be purring in my arms between here and the city of Chihuahua.”
Whistling, he waved to her. Yes, Margarita was his intention . . . and Olga was simply a four-letter world.
Eight
Deep in Mexico, between Texas and the Gulf of California, amongst the series of canyons that gouged deep and wide into the high plateaus of the Sierra Madre mountain range, Tarahumaran drums echoed mournfully to greet the morning, while a light rain pattered against the roof of a cabana built in the Eden Roc compound. These sounds and the fingers of dawn beaming through a window to the east awakened the brown-haired male occupant.
As a representative of the Spanish government, he had duties to perform for the Queen Regent and her son Alfonso XIII, the only boy to be born a king. Thanks to the rabble of the United States becoming more and more sympathetic to the Cuban insurgents, the border between Mexico and the United States must be covered.
Unfortunately, the local patrón, known colloquially as El Grandero Rico—the richest baron among the rich—wasn’t enthused about cooperating. Soon the master spy would sidestep Arturo Delgado by traveling to the Federal District, where he would call on the President.
Business, though, placed second in the Spaniard’s desires.
