Saints and Sinners

by Tatiana March

  On his way back to The Watering Hole, his gaze fell on the loose board of timber in the wall of the livery stable next door. He retraced his steps to Main Street and bought a jug of cream from the barber’s wife who kept two milk cows.

  Returning to the livery stable, Joaquin entered through the back door into a cavernous barn that didn’t connect with the stalls for the horses. He set down the saucer he’d borrowed from the barber’s wife and poured it full of cream. Then he sat on a bale of hay to wait.

  Around him, large shapes loomed in the shadows. Carts, pony traps, even an old Concord stagecoach in the far corner. Most people in town didn’t keep a horse. When they wanted to take a trip, or visit one of the surrounding ranches, they hired a horse, sometimes with a vehicle.

  Darkness had thickened by the time the kitten appeared, stalking through the shadows, following the scent. Greedily, it lapped up the cream. A pointed pink tongue peeked out as it licked the last drops from the saucer. After yawning wide, it washed its face with a paw and headed back among the carriages.

  Joaquin followed. He kept his steps light. The kitten climbed along a board propped up against the side of the battered stagecoach and disappeared in through the window. The opening was covered with a heavy wool curtain that bore the same pattern as his blankets.

  He circled to the other side. The door had fallen off its hinges, but another curtain made from a blanket protected the entrance. He pushed the edge a fraction with his index finger. Eliza Hargreaves slept on one of the seats, curled up in the remaining piece of the blanket. A knife lay on the floor. He guessed she’d gripped the handle for safety, but it had slipped from her fingers when she fell asleep.

  Something white on the opposite bench caught his eye. He climbed in for a closer look. A square of muslin, with a few grains of oats caught in the fabric. Pity clutched at his heart. She had tried to ease her hunger from the barrel of feed for the horses.

  “Eliza?” He sat on the edge of the bench beside her and touched her shoulder.

  She came awake slowly. Her eyes were red and swollen. Deep grooves of exhaustion marred her features.

  “Go away,” she said, and tried to pull the blanket to cover her face.

  “I want to help you.” He ran his hand up and down her arm in a soothing gesture.

  “No. You don’t have to force yourself.” Her voice grew muffled as she huddled against the bench. “When I asked before, you turned away in disgust. I know I’m plain, but it hurts to know that you think less of me than you think of the saloon girls. You deny me the comfort that you offer them.”

  His body tensed, as though Eliza had picked up the knife from the floor and rammed it into his gut. Joaquin exhaled a sigh. Earthquake moments. He’d known she’d change his life. Maybe she’d been sent by God to bring him redemption, to ease his guilt by allowing him to make peace with his past.

  “I think you’re beautiful,” he told her softly.

  “I’m a murderer.”

  “It was an accident. You told me.”

  “I told you a pack of lies.”

  Unsure of how to respond, Joaquin sat in silence. The bench beneath him began to vibrate, like rippling water, and he realized that her body was shaking with silent sobs. “Eliza, sweetheart.” The long unsaid word slipped through his lips. He bundled her into his arms and folded her against his chest. “It’s all right,” he said, and then crooned in gentle Spanish as he rained tiny kisses over her hair.

  Her grief flowed out like a spring torrent that swept everything in its wake. Hacking sobs tore from her lungs. She tried to speak, but the words broke into incoherent sounds.

  “It’s okay,” he kept telling her. “Just let it out.”

  When she stilled in his arms, her body heavy from fatigue, Joaquin started to talk. “I want to tell you a story,” he said. “It’s a story about a beautiful, rich girl called Manuela, and an impoverished but well-born young man. They were childhood friends. The young man’s father had accepted the task of teaching fencing and riding to Manuela’s brothers, and this responsibility kept the two families in close contact.”

  Eliza’s head lifted, long enough to look into his face and know that he was talking about himself.

  “Manuela received an offer of marriage from a very important man,” Joaquin continued. “Her family was overjoyed. Manuela shone with pride, but when she got to know her future husband, she had second thoughts. He was much older, and had a cruel way with people. She grew afraid of him. The family didn’t allow her to break off the engagement. So, she went to her childhood friend. She asked him to lie with her, to take her virginity. If her first time was gentle, she wouldn’t be so afraid. She could take it, even if her husband took her with violence.

  “The young man said no. It would have betrayed the trust between the families. Sleeping with another man’s fiancée lacked honor, and he put his honor before easing her fears. On Manuela’s wedding night, terrified screams were heard from the bridal chamber. No one interfered. They were newly married, and the groom was a very powerful man.

  “The next morning, Manuela dressed in her torn nightgown and robe and went out to the balcony attached to the bedroom. She liked to do that, to welcome the new day by breathing in the morning dew. Her husband was still asleep. Manuela tumbled over the railing to the stone patio below, where she bled to death.

  “The husband says Manuela tripped. Everyone else believes that her wedding night was such a nightmare that she couldn’t bear the thought of him touching her again.”

  Eliza leaned back. Her eyes were shadowed, like dark pools in the faint light. “Did you love her?” she asked.

  Joaquin shook his head. “No. Manuela was nineteen. I was only sixteen, too young for her. But we were friends, close friends, and if I had granted her wish, maybe I could have saved her. I was a coward, and because I failed her, she died a terrible death.”

  “You don’t know that,” Eliza told him softly. “If you had done as she asked, the husband might have realized that she wasn’t untouched on her wedding night, and to punish her he might have treated her with even greater cruelty.”

  “But she would have had the memory of a gentle, loving night to give her strength.” Joaquin cupped his palm around Eliza’s cheek. He felt the wet trail of tears on her skin. “That’s why I turned away from you when you asked me last night. I couldn’t face the memory of my guilt. But now, you’ve given me a chance to right the wrong I did back then. I’ll help you overcome your fears. I’ll offer you the comfort I give to saloon girls.”

  Eliza’s lashes came down to shield her eyes, but Joaquin felt her nod against his palm.

  He recalled the long hours he’d spent on the trail, trying to forget her. In truth, she’d been with him as he sat awake beneath the stars. Every night, as he’d stretched out on his bedroll, she’d been with him, like a ghost curling by his side, tempting, alluring. Now, despite her tangled hair, and the worn clothing that hung on her thin frame, she sent a jolt of desire through him, tugging deep in his gut, surging hot in his loins.

  He’d been a fool to think that he could keep away from her.

  ****

  The emotional strain of the past few days had wrung every drop of strength from Eliza. Meekly, she let Joaquin Pereira help her down from the broken wreck of a stagecoach. When he gathered her in his arms and carried her out to the alley between the two buildings, she pressed her face into the crook of his neck and sighed with pleasure at the feeling of comfort and warmth.

  What did it matter if anyone saw? She had no reputation left to protect. The widow Redwood had kept her promise to testify on her behalf and she’d escaped a prison sentence, but she’d been branded a violent, lunatic killer. People believed she had an evil temper that she couldn’t control. A week from now, she’d be a whore. Being seen with a man without a chaperone didn’t even register on the scale.

  “I haven’t had time to fix the lock I broke,” Joaquin said as he swung her to her feet outside The Watering Hole. H
e kicked aside the stump of wood he had used to secure the entrance and pushed the door open, holding it wide for her.

  When they were inside, he lit an oil lamp on the bar counter and gave her one of his flashing smiles. “I figure you already know where everything is. How about you fix some supper while I heat water for a bath?” He rubbed his unshaven jaw. “I reckon we both need it. I’ve been too busy today to shave and wash away ten days’ worth of trail dust.”

  Eliza forced her mind to shut out everything but here and now, everything but the young man who’d held her gently in his arms as he carried her. After tonight, she expected there to be little kindness in her life. She’d create one perfect memory. One night when the stars shone for her. Tomorrow she would be like Manuela, only she wouldn’t leap to her death.

  She’d jump to what she expected to be a living hell.

  “I’ll make an omelet,” she suggested. “You have a few eggs left.”

  “I got a delivery today.” Joaquin bent to pick up a steel bucket from the floor and pointed to the store room. “There’s new stuff on the shelves. Take a look. I’ll go and fetch water from the well.”

  Humming a tune, Eliza set to work. It surprised her how easily her fears had retreated. She was simply too exhausted to worry, to do anything but live one second at a time.

  Tonight she’d dream. Tomorrow, reality would return.

  Back to Contents

  Chapter Six

  “Your bath is ready.” Joaquin’s voice came through the open archway.

  Eliza untied the apron she’d used to protect her dress. It’s only a dream, she told herself. Do not be afraid.

  “I made a casserole with dried vegetables and beef jerky,” she said as she walked out of the kitchen.

  In the restaurant, three tables had been pushed aside, leaving the last one to stand beneath the shuttered window, flanked by a pair of chairs. A big steel tub sat in front of the fireplace, where flames licked at a pile of logs. By the makeshift altar, candles flickered in front of the painting of the Madonna and the postcards of the saints.

  Joaquin stood by the chimney, leaning one elbow on the mantel. “I lit the fire, so you’ll be warm after your bath.”

  “Thank you.” Shyness coiled around Eliza, making it hard to draw a breath. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks, and she couldn’t even blame it on the heat, as the fire had barely caught.

  “Why do you not come to the church?” she asked. “You like to listen, and several other Catholics come too because there is no separate chapel for them.”

  A shadow passed over Joaquin’s face. “The priest wouldn’t bless Manuela. The Padre didn’t go as far as refusing to bury her in the cemetery, the family was too powerful for that, but he refused to say a mass for her. I swore I’d never set foot in a church again.”

  Eliza nodded. “I like your altar. There isn’t such a beautiful painting at the church.”

  “No.” He smiled, a little bitterly, she thought. “I like the painting too.”

  “Well, then.” She fiddled with a buttons on the front of her plain calico dress. “I’d better get in the water.”

  “I’ll help you.” With three long steps, he crossed the floor and stood beside her. Although he was no more than medium height, he had several inches on her. His head bent as he started on the buttons. “I know,” he muttered, his voice drifted up. “My hair is filthy and needs cutting. I’m giving you the worst possible view of my manly charms.” He flicked a quick grin up at her. “Are you really sure you want to go ahead with this? I’m in barely better shape than that stagecoach you were hiding in.”

  A chuckle left Eliza’s chest, and she recognized his efforts to put her at ease with humor. “Oh, you’ll do,” she whispered and ran a hand through his heavy locks. “You’ll do.”

  He paused in his task of undoing her buttons. Straightening, he curled his hands around her waist and pulled her close. She tilted her head to study every detail of his face. The dark eyes and the thick black stubble on his chin made him look like a bandit, disreputable. Her heart lurched as she recalled how she’d dreamed of him, had waited for the service to end on Sundays so she could rush out and see him sitting near the church.

  “What?” he said. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “How am I staring at you?”

  “Like I’m a bill of sale that doesn’t add up.”

  She smiled. As if reciting a poem, she said, “When I dream, love wears your face.”

  “Stop talking in riddles,” he said, and lowered his head until his lips met hers.

  The stubble of a beard was long enough to feel soft instead of bristly, like an artist’s brush. He slanted his mouth over hers, gently coaxing. With a ragged sound of acquiescence, Eliza opened her lips, reached up, and linked her hands behind his neck.

  Heat gathered inside her. It centered low in her belly, accompanied by a tight, heavy sensation, as if those parts of her had suddenly swelled. Her head tipped back. His lips traced the curve of her throat, and then drifted along the side of her jaw.

  “Bath,” he whispered into her ear. “Before the water gets cold.”

  With a little laugh, she pulled away. Her hands shook as she quickly dispatched the buttons, flapping away his efforts to help. “I’ll never get in that bath if I allow you to undress me,” she told him. “You’ll take forever.”

  Her movements slowed when it came time to slide the dress down her shoulders and step away from the bundle of fabric. Standing before him in only a thin, much washed cotton drawers and a chemise, she shivered under his hungry gaze.

  “Turn around,” she ordered.

  “I intend to help you wash. You’ll be wearing nothing then.”

  “I’ll be wearing water.”

  Grinning, he shook his head, but he obeyed and turned. “You say the damnedest things.” He spoke with his back to her. “I expect I’ll never get tired of listening to you.”

  Her pulse skittered at the careless reference to a shared future, but she clamped a lid on the thought. There were some dreams that were too bold to dream. Here and now, she told herself. Don’t spoil tonight by wanting more.

  “I’m in the water,” she announced, as if the splashing sounds hadn’t already alerted him.

  “And I am turning,” he replied.

  Closing her eyes, Eliza pressed her face to her folded knees, but she heard his sharp intake of breath. “Dios Mio,” he whispered. She heard a shuffling sound and knew he’d knelt beside her.

  Gentle fingers began to trace down her spine. One by one, he caressed each vertebra, sliding warm water over her skin, until his trailing hand dipped below the surface.

  “Lift your head, Eliza,” he coaxed. “Lean back in the tub.”

  Not daring to open her eyes, she straightened and reclined, sinking deeper into the water.

  His hand left her spine. A moment later, one fingertip pressed to the hollow between her collarbones. “Your pulse is beating as if your heart is a bird caught in a cage,” he told her.

  “Then let it free,” she said, and opened her eyes.

  She found Joaquin leaning over her. The steam from the water had curled the ends of his hair and beaded into droplets at his brow. His intent gaze roamed her body. Splaying one hand at the top of her chest, he slowly trailed the fingertips downward, a feathery touch that ignited a thousand fires inside her. When he had reached far enough, Eliza shuddered and twisted, so his calloused hand cupped her one of her breasts.

  His thumb flicked across a puckered nipple. She could never have imagined that such bliss existed. Water splashed to the floor as she arched her back, seeking more of his touch. “Do it again,” she whispered.

  Impatiently, she shifted in the tub, wanting the same attention for her other breast.

  Joaquin continued the slow caresses that rendered her into a writhing mass of need. His dark head lowered. The bristle of his beard brushed along her skin, sending a shiver of sensation along every nerve ending. Then his
mouth closed over the tender peak, and she let out a hoarse cry as glorious rays of pleasure jolted through her.

  Low, incoherent sounds rose in her throat. Her hands tangled in his hair, anchoring him close as he drove her into the dark recesses of her mind where a physical hunger lurked, hunger for the kind of pleasures that the world had taught her to think of as sinful.

  Needing to slow down, needing to understand her own reactions, Eliza fisted her hands in the coal-black strands and pushed his head away from her breast.

  “I never knew,” she breathed, “I never knew it could be like this.”

  “Neither did I.” Joaquin met her gaze with a pair of cautious, guarded eyes. He shook his head, then rocked back on his heels, forcing her to release her grip on his hair. “I’ll wash you now,” he said, and rose to get a soap and cloth from the table.

  In silence, he soaped the flannel and began to bathe her, washing her skin in long caressing strokes. Shoulders, each arm down to fingertips. Feet, working his way up her legs, but pausing before he reached the apex of her thighs. His slippery hands followed the contours of her body, the narrow waist and the flare of hip, until he finished at her breasts again.

  “Did one of the saloon girls bring the soap?” Eliza asked as she inhaled the floral scent and let herself sink into the dreamy haze of pleasure.

  He replied in a casual, faraway tone. “I guess I ought to explain about the saloon girls.”

  “You don’t need to,” she told him, although a small barb of jealousy stung her.

  “I guess I’m not without vanity.” He bent to kiss her lightly on the lips. “I like the idea that the other men in town think I’m such a skillful lover that I can make even the jaded whores want me. In truth, it’s nothing like that at all.”

  Puzzled, she watched him through half closed lids as she lay back, enjoying his ministrations. “Then what is it like?”

  “It’s so simple, really, that anyone could figure it out. I’m surprised they haven’t.” He stood, looking a little embarrassed. “All women get their monthly flux, right?”