by Sandra Hill
Ignacio clamped his mouth shut real tight, but he pressed the gun back against her chest.
“I’m not the Angel Bandit,” Rafe repeated.
“What’s a shove-nest-pig?” the two farm boys asked.
“I wouldn’t sell you,” Pablo assured Helen ingratiatingly. “If I talk Ignacio out of selling you, will you gargle me tonight?”
“I do not gargle,” Helen shrieked.
“Yes, you do,” Rafe said. “Remember this morning . . .” His words faded off at the expression of outrage on her face.
Uh oh.
“I . . . do . . . not . . . gargle . . . men,” she said real slow, so he and all the men would get the message loud and clear.
Rafe did. He wasn’t so sure about the others.
“Exactly how does a woman gargle a man?” one of the miners asked another.
“Damned if I know,” his friend replied.
They both turned to Rafe.
“It’s a Deep Throat kind of thing,” he started to say, then stopped at Helen’s hiss of fury. “I mean, I’m sure Pablo is mistaken. There’s no such thing as sex gargling.”
Pablo turned wounded eyes on Rafe. “But you told me—”
BAM!!! A pistol shot rang out.
Everyone gawked at Ignacio, who had aimed into the air.
“Enough! I am taking the Angel Bandit into Sacramento City to collect the reward. Perhaps we weel have a hanging tonight.” He waited out the murmurs of enthusiasm at that gruesome prospect. “After that, mis amigos and I weel enjoy Elena’s charms. All night long. Tomorrow, she weel be sold to the highest bidder. One night of corkscrewing at a time.”
A loud roar of approval met that announcement.
“I am not the Angel Bandit,” Rafe repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time. “And anyone who lays a hand on Helen will answer to me.”
“Why does he say he’s not the Angel Bandit?” one man asked.
“I couldn’t even ride a horse till yesterday,” Rafe told him.
“That ees true,” Sancho confirmed, bobbing his head up and down like one of those dashboard dolls.
“Perhaps he’s not the Angel Bandit, then?” the trapper said.
“But he has the angel brand on his arse,” Pablo argued.
“He does?” The miners frowned with confusion.
“Sí. Angel wings, right here,” Sancho said, patting his own ample right cheek.
“Why are the Angel Bandit’s eyes rolling up in his head?” the trapper asked Ignacio. “Is he havin’ a conniption?”
“It’s not angel wings, you idiots. It’s a butterfly,” Rafe protested.
“Why would a man put a butterfly on his arse?” the trapper asked.
“I’m a lawyer, not an outlaw,” Rafe tried to explain. “I enforce the law. I don’t break it.”
“A lawyer!” several men exclaimed.
Then one commented, “Hell, lawyers are just as crooked as thieves.”
“Did ya hear ’bout the two farmers who went to a lawyer, each claimin’ to own a cow?” one man chimed in.
“Oh, hell, Harvey, not another one of yer infernal jokes!”
Harvey just went on. “While one farmer pulled on the head, and the other pulled on the tail, the cow was milked by the lawyer.”
Everyone laughed some more.
But one young man tapped his unshaven jaw, eying Rafe with consideration. “I don’t s’pose you could advise me on a legal matter?”
“Shut up, Hank. There ain’t no way yer gonna divorce that two-bit Mexican whore you married. Even if you was drunk.”
“Elena has the angel tattoo on her arse, too,” Sancho contributed irrelevantly to the crazy, fifty-way conversation, and was rewarded by a loud “Aaaaaah” of delight from the crowd.
“Can we see?” several men asked Ignacio. They were practically drooling.
Ignacio nodded. “Before the bidding mañana, she will show you the angel mark.”
“Have you all lost your minds?” Helen screamed. “My name is Helen Prescott, not Elena. I’m a major in the U.S. Army, and I demand to be taken to the nearest military installation. Furthermore, if anyone tries to look at my bare behind, or corkscrew me, or stick something down my throat, I swear I’ll bite it off. And don’t think I’m not serious.”
“Elena is an officer in the Army?” the trapper said, scratching his head in puzzlement. “I dint know there wuz wimmen in the Army.”
“Caramba!” Ignacio growled. “I have heard enough. She ees Elena, and he ees the Angel Bandit. And that ees that.”
With a kick of his spurs, Ignacio propelled his horse forward into the town. Their horses followed him, and about three dozen men trailed behind, scurrying to keep up.
Over and over, the word passed that the Angel Bandit was about to be hanged, and Elena the Corkscrewer had arrived.
Helen’s parade of fans increased by alarming proportions.
And Rafe decided he’d better do something soon to change the direction of this sideshow.
Heroes don’t always come on white chargers . . .
Face flaming, Helen stared straight ahead as they rode into the primitive 1850 town of Sacramento City. As dusk approached, she tried not to worry about the danger closing in on them: the dozens of lustful men following her, the threat of Rafe being lynched, the time travel itself. Instead, she concentrated on her surroundings, searching for a clue to help them escape.
The picturesque city was situated on the foggy, tree-lined bank of the brown Sacramento River, several hundred yards wide at its juncture with the American River. She’d been in the city many times before, but it had never looked like this.
Dozens of schooners and small boats formed a colorful panorama of masts along the levee on Front Street. Many of the vessels had signboards and figureheads on them, indicating they were being used as hotels or business establishments.
Pigs rooted about at the sides of the dusty street, sidestepping the busy inhabitants, little knowing they were the staple of the miners’ diet. And cows driven up from Southern California hustled along to be butchered.
Trees from the original forest—oaks and sycamores with trunks as wide as six feet—still nestled throughout the busy town, which should have given it a cozy appearance. Instead, the hometown character was destroyed by the decadent nature of the buildings. Gambling “hells,” saloons, and brothels occupied almost every canvas or ramshackle plank dwelling that lined the streets, barring a few exceptions, like general stores, restaurants, a daguerreotype shop, a newspaper office, billiard and ten-pin bowling halls, and presumably a sheriff’s facility.
The canvas-sided dwellings, with their lanterns and candles, created an eerie atmosphere of shifting light and darkness. And everywhere Helen saw an abundance of crimson calico—as curtains, wall hangings, tablecloths, even tents. Some manufacturer from the East must have had a surplus stock of the bright fabric.
Helen glanced about in utter amazement. She couldn’t believe she’d actually traveled back in time. She couldn’t believe she had a horde of men following her, believing she was a hooker.
Maybe she had died after all. Maybe this was hell . . . although she didn’t think she’d done anything that bad in her life to merit this punishment.
Helen shifted her eyes to see how Rafe was handling these new sights. He expertly guided his horse beside her and Ignacio, with Pablo and Sancho on either side of them.
Rafe didn’t look at all like a man worried about his neck.
Or her distasteful fate.
“Well, this is a fine kettle of fish we’re in now,” she finally grumbled to Rafe.
“Stop worrying, babe. Remember what I said earlier about trust.” He smiled, unfazed by their dilemma. She hated it when he smiled. Her stomach felt fluttery . . . queasy, actually. Yes, that was it, his smile made her sick in her stomach.
Hah! Who am I kidding? His smile would turn a nun to sin. And I’m no nun. Get a grip, girl. Stop gawking at him. Talk about boring, non-stomach flutter
ing things. “Can you believe this town, Rafe?” she said, motioning with her head toward the busy streets.
“No. I still have trouble accepting it, but time travel seems to be the only answer.”
“Silencio! You are my prisoners,” Ignacio snarled. “I forbid you to talk about time to travel.”
Helen shot the buffoon a withering glare over her shoulder, then proceeded to ignore his command for silence. “But what can we do?” she asked Rafe.
“Do not answer her,” Ignacio ordered Rafe.
Rafe, too, ignored the brute. “Remember how we agreed to be a team.”
“I never agreed—” Helen stopped talking suddenly when she noticed Rafe twisting his face in a funny manner, blinking his eyes rapidly, then mouthing some words at her silently.
Was he trying to signal her something? If so, why didn’t he use military codes taught in officers’ training? She knew the answer immediately. He’d probably forgotten, or never learned them in the first place. At the very least, he could have tapped out Morse code on his saddle horn.
“You got a bug up your nose?” Ignacio asked Rafe, observing his strange contortions.
“No,” Rafe snapped, seeming at wit’s end. “You told me not to talk; so, I was exercising my face muscles.”
“Son of a bitch! I weel be glad when we are rid of you. I think you are becoming loco.”
Suddenly, Rafe burst out in song, a rollicking fifties rendition of “Jim Dandy to the Rescue.” Even with his hands tied to the saddle, he rolled his shoulders and bounced his butt in the saddle to the rhythmic beat. Several pigs stopped rooting and joined in with a chorus of oinks.
He glowered at the pigs, then started on that old Elvis song, “It’s Now or Never.” In the midst of his incredible, off-key song, Rafe suggested, holding her eyes intently, “Why don’t you sing along, honey? You know the words, don’t you?”
Helen couldn’t have sung if her life depended on it. She was stunned by the phenomenon of Rafe bellowing out, over and over, “Jim Dandy to the rescue . . . It’s now or never . . . Jim Dandy to the rescue . . . It’s now or never . . .”
She narrowed her eyes. Finally, Helen nodded slightly, and Rafe breathed a sigh of relief.
Before she had a chance to digest the fact that he had successfully sent her a message, Rafe began softly to hum the music to “Wind Beneath My Wings,” her favorite song. Helen would have recognized the rhythm anywhere. At first, she was caught up in the beautiful lyrics. “Did you ever know that I’m your hero?” he sang softly, but horribly off-key. He must be tone deaf.
“Are you drunk?” she asked suspiciously.
He flashed her a look of irritation.
“Sunstroke?”
He continued to croon, “Did you ever know that I’m your hero?”
Huh? That isn’t the way the song goes.
Helen’s fuzzy brain puzzled over his odd behavior as he persisted in singing his own version of the popular song, all of the changes having to do with his being her hero. Was he trying to say that he was going to rescue her? Now?
“Why do you sing, Señor Ángel?” Pablo asked kindly. “Do you avoid thinking about the hanging? Don’t worry. If you wish, I weel shoot you when the hangman pulls the rope so you weel feel no pain.”
Rafe gave him a blistering once-over. “Don’t do me any favors, pal.”
“Perhaps he ees practicing for the heavenly choirs. Heh, heh, heh!” Ignacio joked, and some of the men who still followed laughed at his gallows humor.
Meanwhile, Helen was shaking her head rapidly from side to side, trying to signal Rafe not to take any chances. The last thing she wanted from him was some imbecile attempt at heroics.
“Now what?” Ignacio asked, staring at her head twitching. “Did the bug move from the Angel’s nose to your ear?”
Well, that was as good an explanation as any. “Yes.”
Rafe made a clucking sound of disgust, then bit his bottom lip in concentration. Finally, his eyes brightened. This time he belted out a rendition of “Band of Gold,” except that in his version, it was “Hands of Gold.”
Helen shook her head in dismay. She never was much good at charades. Okay, hands, he wanted her to focus on hands. With sudden insight, she glanced over at his bound hands and noticed for the first time that the ropes appeared somewhat loose. Her eyes shot up to his and he mouthed, “Finally.”
Still, Helen frowned. Hero. Rescue. Now. Hands. Fear gripped her when she realized Rafe planned some foolish move. Even if he got his hands free, he was unarmed and wouldn’t be able to challenge these three bandits with their lethal weapons.
“No!” she exclaimed, uncaring if the outlaws overheard. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I told you not to talk,” Ignacio said, then furrowed his brow. “What ees too dangerous?”
Rafe crossed his eyes with mounting frustration at her words of resistance. Grimacing at her, he started another song, and she groaned, but still he carried on. This time he favored them with a Bobby Darin tune, “Mack the Knife.” He tried not to emphasize the word knife in the song, but sang stanza after stanza of the old standby.
And Helen concluded that Rafe must have a knife. She squinted at him questioningly, and he tapped his booted foot lightly along F. Lee’s flank.
He had a knife hidden in his Army boot. Well, of course, he would. Old gang habits died hard.
Helen studied Rafe closely, as if seeing him for the first time. No wonder he seemed unconcerned about their safety! No wonder he kept telling her to trust him!
She felt like such a fool, thinking him a defenseless wimp. He must have been laughing at her silly misconceptions, her karate attempts to defend them, her criticism of his cowardly failure to fight off the bandits.
She pressed her lips together, forcing back the lump in her throat, and Rafe apparently thought she still didn’t understand. So, he started singing “Wind Beneath My Wings” again, promising in his weird, off-key version to be the wings behind her dreams.
And a slow tear slipped down Helen’s cheek.
“See,” Pablo told the crowd, “the Angel ees singing of angel wings to his wife.”
Ignoring Pablo and the miners’ “oooh” of understanding, Rafe tilted his head in bafflement at Helen’s tearful response to his song. Then, he continued to sing softly, “Did you ever know that I’m your hero?”
And inside, Helen wept silent tears because she knew suddenly that she—strong, independent military woman that she was—had been waiting for a hero for a long, long time.
Chapter Eight
What a team! . . .
An ominous sign loomed up ahead, SHERIFF, SACRAMENTO CITY. The fact that the sign adorned a rickety plank structure, no more than ten feet by ten feet, covered with a canvas roof and the neverending supply of crimson calico, did nothing to dispel Helen’s fears.
She glanced quickly at Rafe, who nodded significantly. Fortunately, he’d stopped his stupid singing once he figured she’d gotten his message. Rafe had a plan for their escape.
They were approaching a small alley, next to the City Hotel, when Rafe made his move. In a blink, he pretended to lose control of his horse and yanked on the reins so that F. Lee bumped Ignacio’s mare. In the melee that followed, he pulled his hands from their loose ties and drew a deadly sharp switchblade from his boot.
“I don’t believe it!” Helen exclaimed.
“Ay yay yay!” Pablo and Sancho said at the same time.
“What the hell—” Ignacio reached for his pistol.
But Rafe slid smoothly off his horse, grabbed Ignacio by the forearm from where he sat behind Helen on the saddle, and jerked him to the ground. Stunned, Helen could barely hold onto the saddle horn of the skittish horse.
“You bastard, I weel see you tortured before you hang.” Ignacio stumbled to his feet, out of Rafe’s grasp, and stretched both hands for Rafe’s throat. He was so angry that spit dribbled from his thick lips and his eyes bulged like an enraged bull.
Rafe danc
ed to the side and wrapped an arm around Ignacio’s thick neck from behind, the blade pressing against his throat. “One false move and I’ll slit your stinking throat.” He shoved the bandit’s struggling body into the alley, away from the gaping crowd, which alternately cheered and threatened to come forward and capture “the Angel.”
“Get the sheriff,” Ignacio yelled above the chaos, and Sancho scooted off. Pablo, on the other hand, stood frozen with amazement, seemingly unable to decide whether to pee his pants or run for his life.
“A hanging weel be too good for you,” Ignacio sneered. “Perhaps we weel make you watch as your wife ees raped first.” The bandit’s words were foolish in the extreme, considering his position.
Rafe pressed the knife tighter, drawing a thin line of Ignacio’s blood.
Ignacio bellowed—a loud, bearlike sound—but he couldn’t move with the blade against his throat. A steady, red stream oozed from the shallow cut toward the open neck of his shirt. He looked down and his eyes widened with panic. “Somebody do something. El hombre es loco,” he cried.
But the crowd was enjoying the spectacle too much. The exuberant men called out macabre bets right and left on the outcome of the struggle.
Easing herself awkwardly off her horse by holding onto the pommel with both hands, Helen approached.
“Get his guns,” Rafe ordered tersely.
Even with her bound wrists, Helen was able to lift both revolvers from Ignacio’s holster. She handed one Colt to Rafe, who reached out with the hand that had been wrapped around Ignacio’s wide waist. With the gun pressed against the back of Ignacio’s head, Rafe used the barrel to propel the bandit forward, face against the hotel wall, arms raised over his head. Only then did Rafe ease the knife away from the outlaw’s neck.
“Hold out your hands,” Rafe told Helen. Keeping one eye on Ignacio and the other on her extended arms, he cut the ropes tying her hands together. She flexed her wrists to get the circulation going again.
“Unbuckle your gun belt and drop it to the ground,” he commanded Ignacio. When the grumbling outlaw did as he was told, Rafe asked Helen, “Can you use a gun?”
