Wild Sierra Rogue

by Martha Hix

  “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.

  Nine

  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 p
ink 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.”

  Collect your wits. So you’re not his ideal. Why should he want a chalky-faced scarecrow? Don’t let him get the better of you.

  Rafe was getting the better of her. It was a pastime for him—like a game of solitaire, just something to kill time—his attentions. Yet Margaret had difficulty keeping him in the proper perspective, for this was a night of a thousand sighs.

  Every time she looked at him, she sighed.

  Under a cap of starlight, in the cloak of evocative music and two dozen posters featuring El Aguila Magnífico, they dined in the open-air courtyard, off-side to a cage of parrots. At first it seemed as if the eatery’s business was slow, but Margaret learned that Carmelita, assuming lovers were in her midst and in honor of the adored El Aguila, had rejected all comers for dinner. Except for the supposed lovers.

  A waiter, the epitome of discretion, served a main course of baked cabrito, young goat. With the meat came Spanish rice, refried beans, a piquant tomato-onion-and-cilantro relish called pico de gallo plus piles of corn tortillas. They washed down this repast with glass after glass of chilled sangria. And all the while the music played . . .

  Attentive as Don Juan in the flesh, Rafe stared into Margaret’s eyes. “Mexico becomes you.”

  She sighed. “Th-thank you.”

  She lowered her gaze to comb his broad chest, and she had a mirthful thought. What would it be like to study for an advanced degree in the difference between a golden cross and the texture of pitch-black chest hair?

  Some nagging, shrill little voice—her conscience—kept shouting at her. Why couldn’t she find the wherewithal to get down to business? Her baby brother was somewhere in this foreign city, probably scared for his sister—while she wasn’t moving so much as a hair to put him at ease. Half-dressed—decked out in revealing soft cottons and negligible foundations—she ate and drank . . . and ignored shrill little voices.

  Contemplating that intriguing scar at the corner of Rafe’s mouth, she spilled a goodly amount of sangria.

  “Something wrong?” Rafe inquired and sopped up the mess.

  “Wrong . . . wrong . . . something wrong? Chirp.” A green wing flapped. “Chirp. Besame culo.”

  Margaret and Rafe both laughed at the bird’s profanity. “I don’t imagine he knows what part of his anatomy he’s proposing we kiss,” she said, faking a casual air. “But he, she, it is a beautiful bird.”

  Fingers warm, callused, smoothed across her cheek. Rafe’s gaze didn’t waver from Margaret. “Yes, a beautiful bird.”

  She swallowed. Such a glib tongue had he, even to woo a nanny goat . . . or perhaps a colorless and lovelorn imitation of the beautiful and serene Lady Hapsburg. How does he feel about her, after all these years? To cover her discomfiture, Margaret said, “About my brother, shouldn’t we pay up and get on to meet him? I’m sure he’s lonely, and—”

  “Margarita, lonely? A young hombre in a town like Juarez? Tex is not lonely.”

  Recalling those tarts who’d issued catcalls to Rafe, Margaret took a quick look around to make certain no one could eavesdrop. They were alone, save for the occupied musicians. “Tex may be an adult, but he’s green, Rafe. Green as grass. I shudder to think of him being corrupte
d by women of the night.”

  Rafe threw back his head, laughing in his easy fashion. “Silly sweet, you are too old for such innocence. Hombres his age are already corrupted.”

  “You can’t know that for sure.” Margaret blushed. “Anyway, I don’t think of him along such lines. He’s my kid brother, he’s in my care, and I don’t want anything to happen to him. This is a vulgar city, so I think we should take our leave.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Right. No. And don’t worry about the jades of Juarez amusing your young lion.” Rafe winked. “Your brother swears he’s glad for the delay, and I have no reason to doubt his sincerity. Understand, he wishes to meet the train in El Paso tomorrow. Need I say he seeks Miss Nash?”

  “Well, I think we should go by the hotel and make certain he’s all right.”

  “He is all right.”

  “You’re playing an evil game with me, Rafe, and I want you to stop it at once. Now. Where can I find Tex?”

  “I’ll tell you. Later.”

  “Oooh, you can be exasperating.” She squared her shoulders. “On the train you told me you don’t enjoy games, yet you are playing me for a mouse in the cat’s paw.”

  “If you’ll remember, I qualified my remark. In affairs of the heart, I love a challenge.”

  Affairs of the heart—bah! It was tempting, the urge to argue, but it would be futile. She figured he, a master in the tournament of amusements, loved nothing more than contests of any sort, and he was better at them than she.

  Resting her chin on laced fingers, she eyed the musicians. “I can’t peg the music. It isn’t quite the sound of the mariachi.” It’s too lush, too sensual, too provocative. Too much in the wild style of Rafe. “It’s somewhat akin to the flamenco of the gypsies, yet it doesn’t mimic the sounds of Spain, not precisely, although it does have a flavor of the bolero. Would you agree this has North Africa—black and Moorish Africa—and the melange that is the Americas to it?”

  Rafe bent across the table to trace his finger down her cheek . . . and she trembled. “Must you always figure everything out? Can’t you ever let anything be, and live for the moment?”