Desperado

by Sandra Hill

  “That’ll be three hundred and fifty dollars,” Mr. Huntington announced finally.

  She and Rafe both blanched, although the total wasn’t a real surprise, considering the exorbitant prices listed on a wooden board on the wall: sugar, $2 a pound; flour, $1 a pound; shirts, $30; socks, $2; wool blankets, $30; rum, $20 a quart; apples, $1 each.

  The problem was that they still had to purchase two horses and saddles for their trip into the goldfields.

  “That leaves us only one hundred and seventy dollars. Will that be enough for the horses?” Helen asked.

  Rafe turned to the storekeeper, who nodded. “Should be able to get yerself two good animals and saddles fer ’bout a hundred dollars or so.” He directed them over to the horse market at the bottom of K Street.

  They made arrangements to leave their supplies at the store while they went horse shopping. Just before they exited, Rafe said, “Don’t say I never give you anything.”

  She stared at the small tablet and pencil he shoved into her hands. “What’s this?”

  “A present.” He chuckled. “Sort of a substitute clipboard.”

  She tried to cuff him on the shoulder but he ducked out of the way, laughing.

  “Oh, I forgot something. Wait right here.” He ducked back into the store and sought out Mr. Huntington, who was dumping miniature cucumbers into a large barrel of brine. At first, the merchant’s eyebrows rose in question.

  Rafe was talking earnestly, gesticulating with his hands. Once, he pointed at his groin. Finally, the storekeeper shook his head vigorously and Rafe shrugged with resignation.

  When Rafe opened the door to return to her side, she heard Mr. Huntington hooting with laughter as he shared the joke with a group of miners milling about the store. Only one word stood out in his conversation. Condoms.

  “You didn’t?” she accused Rafe as heat suffused her face and neck. “Oh, don’t tell me you tried to buy condoms in a nineteenth-century store.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

  “Did you?”

  “Hey, it was worth a shot.”

  “I told you we aren’t going to make love.”

  He flashed her a look that said, loud and clear, “Wanna bet?”

  “Ooooh, you are the most insufferable, crude, womanizing—”

  “Who says I’m a womanizer?” he asked with affront.

  “I can read you like a book.”

  “Really? Hmmm. I don’t suppose you like to read in bed?”

  “Aaargh!”

  “Actually, I’m a serial monogamy kind of guy,” he continued blithely. “By the way, how many lovers have you had?”

  Her chin dropped at his unexpected question. He was always disarming her like that. “Hundreds,” she lied.

  “Good,” he said. “I won’t have to teach you any old tricks. Just the new ones.”

  “Oh, oh, oh . . .”

  “You say that a lot, Helen. Is it a speech impediment?”

  “Ooooh, you make me so mad. I feel like I’m hanging from a cliff by my fingernails here, and I’m not getting a whole lot of help from you.”

  “Try Jell-O.”

  At first, she didn’t understand. When she realized he was suggesting that she strengthen her fingernails, she seethed. “Don’t talk to me, you slob. For the rest of this trip to hell, I don’t want to hear another word from you. I’ll go to the goldfields with you; I have no choice. But I refuse to talk to you ever again.”

  “Well, now, this should be interesting. Actually, I always was better at body language, babe.” He smiled sweetly.

  She pressed her lips tightly together. Then she noticed the large horse trough on the edge of the street. It was filled with muddy water. Dead bugs and scum floated on top.

  “On second thought, I’ve changed my mind. I will talk to you.”

  “You will?”

  “Yep, ’cause I’ve got a message for you, babe.” With one quick karate move, she swung out her right leg, hitting him behind the knees. His legs began to buckle.

  “What the hell—”

  Helen used his momentary surprise to shove him with a side hip thrust and an elbow against the side of the shoulder. Losing his balance, Rafe landed smack dab in the middle of the trough.

  When he came up sputtering, she smiled at him. “How’s that for body language, lover boy?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Oh, baby! . . .

  “Put me down,” she shrieked.

  “What, you don’t like my body language?” Rafe inquired as he adjusted her squirming body over his shoulder and strode angrily toward the horse market. “How about this?” He deliberately settled a wide palm over her behind and gave it a few good rubs and a whack before holding it there.

  She screeched and howled, flailed out her arms, but to no avail. Once, she almost booted him in the crotch.

  In retaliation, the wretch nipped at her right buttock with his teeth. Even through the fabric of the dress and slacks, she felt the sting. “Try that again and I’ll put a permanent bite mark around your tattoo.”

  Gritting her teeth, she pressed her hot face against the wet flannel of his red shirt near the lower back. She could see that his miner’s pants were sopping, too, and his leather shoes squished with each step. Even his suspenders dripped. Good!

  Once they got to the busy horse market, which was situated in the middle of a grove of oak trees at the bottom of K Street, Rafe turned with her still draped ignominiously over his shoulder.

  Her continual screams to be put down were drowned out by the cacophony of braying mules, neighing horses, and a half dozen auctioneers selling their animals around the clearing. Helen craned her neck from her upside-down position behind Rafe’s back, but all she could see were the blue-and-white canvas tents of the auctioneers and an open-sided livery stable. The smell of fresh hay and manure permeated the air.

  Rafe walked beyond the horse market and up a small rise with a screen of bushes, then dropped her. Before she had a chance to spring to her feet and claw his face, he followed her down to the ground, pinning her with his heavy body, soaking her with his wet clothes. His slicked-back hair drizzled onto her face, and her gown blotted up the extra water from his clothes.

  She tried to push him off, but he threaded his fingers through hers, forcing both hands to the ground above her shoulders. Digging in her heels for leverage, with bent knees, she bucked against him, but only managed to shift his body so his hips were more firmly wedged against hers.

  Closing her eyes briefly, she stopped struggling and took several deep, calming breaths. When she finally lifted her lashes, she expected to see him gloating, or grinning.

  Instead, he stared down at her somberly, bracing himself on straightened arms, his hands still linked with hers. His lips were parted and he panted from their exertions. Blue eyes that had been angry only moments before swept her face with an expression Helen could only describe as wistful.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Fighting for sanity in an insane situation, Helen complained, “You shouldn’t have carried me through the streets like that. It was humiliating.”

  He nodded. “You’re right, but you shouldn’t have pushed me in the horse trough. That was humiliating.”

  “You deserved it, you brute, for trying to buy condoms.”

  “I’m a brute for wanting to protect you?” He tilted his head quizzically.

  “That’s not the point. Mr. Huntington and all these goofball miners will think you and I . . . that . . . I mean . . .” Her face turned hot. In fact, she was feeling real hot, all over.

  “Make love?” he finished for her. “Helen, we’re supposed to be married. I’m supposed to be a bandit. You’re supposed to be a whore. Of course, they think we make love.”

  “Oh, you twist everything I say,” she snapped and tried to look away, but his compelling eyes held hers.

  “You’re not making sense.”

  No kidding! Suddenly, the air resonated with tension, and Helen was acutely aware of
the sun, the singing birds, and Rafe. She felt sensuous and sensitized and sensational, lying under him. No wonder she wasn’t making sense. “You shouldn’t have tried to buy condoms because you’re not going to need condoms.”

  “Why is that?” he asked huskily as he released her hands and cupped her face.

  Her arms remained frozen to the ground in a posture of surrender. “Because . . . because . . .” Oh, Lord! His face was lowering to hers, his breath fanning her face. His mesmerizing eyes were half-shuttered and smoky with desire. Oh, my! “Because I found out you were using me. Because we’re not going to make love. Remember?”

  “Honey, we’re making love right now.” He sighed against her lips.

  “We are?” she choked out, and couldn’t believe she opened for him, helping him shape her lips to his gently coaxing kiss. She touched the tip of her tongue against his and boldly invaded his mouth, seeking his taste, his heat, his wet hunger.

  This wasn’t her—not Major Helen Prescott, a model of propriety and stern emotional control. No, this was a dream woman, a wanton, who was plunging her tongue into a man’s mouth, making those vulgar sounds, demanding . . . Oh, my goodness! What was happening to her?

  With a low, male sound, Rafe met her arousal with his own.

  Her breasts swelled, the tips hardening. At the same time, her lower muscles constricted, then melted into a needful, quivering pool.

  She moaned.

  He hissed through clenched teeth.

  With a jerk, he dragged his mouth from hers, burying his face in her neck. “Oh, God, oh, God . . .” he muttered, as if in pain. His chest heaved against hers with each soughing breath he took.

  She understood completely. Grabbing his hair in both hands, she pulled his head up so she could see his face. “Rafe, let’s go back to the hotel.” Her voice was so hoarse with passion, the words came out as a sultry whisper. “We can stay here another night. Please.”

  He studied her for a long moment, his blue eyes throwing off sparks. “Why?”

  She hadn’t expected that question. The answer was obvious, wasn’t it? “Because I want you,” she admitted, glancing to the side, unable to face him after her too-honest response.

  He tipped her chin up, urging her to meet his eyes. “Do you love me?”

  “Huh? No. Of course, not. Don’t be ridiculous.” Maybe. Oh, my God! Maybe I do. “I mean, why would you ask such a thing?” She thought briefly, then added, “Do you love me?”

  “No,” he said flatly, but he didn’t seem too sure, either.

  Blood roared in her ears and her heart expanded in her chest until she could barely breathe. “Don’t make this complicated. I want to make love with you, Rafe. That’s all.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  She made a small mewling sound of distress, and he kissed the side of her mouth . . . softly, soothing. “Shhh, it’s all right, honey. Don’t worry.”

  “We’re not going to make love, are we?”

  He shook his head sadly. “Not now, babe.”

  “Why?” she cried out, appalled at her pleading tone, but unable to accept his words.

  “It’s too dangerous to stay in Sacramento. But, even so, there are other reasons why—”

  “Oh, don’t bring up those stupid condoms again. I don’t care about that.”

  “But I do,” he said with grim finality.

  “Well, what difference does it make if we use those three damn condoms now, or the night we go back?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I know myself. If I have you one time, or three, I won’t be able to stop. You’re my Achilles’ heel. But I care too much to make babies irresponsibly,” he said, laying a flat palm over her stomach for emphasis.

  Helen had a sweet image then of her growing big with Rafe’s child. Would it be a rascal of a boy with black hair and brown eyes? Or a darling redheaded pixie with Rafe’s mischievous blue eyes? The mental picture was so beautiful and poignant that tears welled in her eyes.

  “Why are you weeping, Helen? Don’t cry. Please.”

  “I’m not crying,” she lied, wiping at her eyes. “Let me ask you this. You’re a gambler—why not take a chance in our making love? Let the chips fall where they may?”

  “Uh-uh,” he said, shaking his head vehemently. “That’s Russian roulette, and I don’t take chances with contraception. No babies! No way!”

  Helen felt a sense of shattering inside as all her unconscious hopes were crushed. When had she begun to form illusions about a life with Rafe after returning to the future? Had she carried unconscious feelings for him all these years?

  No babies.

  They had no future together, that was certain. While she yearned for the day she would have children, a warm home, a large family, Rafe wanted none of those things. Her maternal instincts were so strong she’d almost married a man without loving him—Elliott. Perhaps she still would.

  No babies.

  She shouldn’t care.

  She did.

  “. . . so you don’t need to be distressed.” Rafe had been talking in a soft murmur, stroking away her tears while she was lost in her painful thoughts.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said that you don’t need to be upset. I can bring you just as much satisfaction with my hands, and mouth, if you want.”

  At first, his meaning didn’t register. When it did, she gasped and shoved his surprised body off her and to the side. “You big baboon! You blathering idiot! You . . . you . . .” She stood and towered over him. “Do you really think that’s what I want from you?” Without waiting for an answer, she stomped through the bushes and down the rise to the horse market.

  For a moment, Rafe just stared after her.

  That had been a crude, cruel suggestion he’d just made to Helen. But deliberate. He’d known she would be affronted. A tongue job or a finger flutter wouldn’t be Helen’s idea of making love. Hell, it wasn’t what he wanted from her either.

  But he was coiled tighter than a Slinky, and tempted beyond his normal restraint. He doubted he would have been able to hold out against Helen’s pleas to make love to her. He’d felt like an out-of-control train racing down the tracks, all cylinders firing, bound to crash. And the only way he could think to stop the train was to turn Helen off.

  But he’d wanted her so bad. Still did.

  “And another thing . . .”

  “Huh?” Rafe looked up to see that Helen had returned. She rested her hands on her hips, belligerently. Her red hair billowed out from under the cowboy hat Pablo had given her. Her normally creamy complexion was mottled with rage, and freckles. The ugly, green, flower-sprigged dress he’d bought her earlier hung loosely over her frame, and her military trousers and boots peeked out, incongruously, from the antique gown.

  She should have looked silly.

  God, she was beautiful.

  He rose to his feet to face her.

  She jammed a forefinger in his chest.

  He backed up slightly, laughing.

  “And another thing,” she started again, giving his chest another jab. “You’d better stay away from me from now on. No more seducing me. No flashing that sexy smile. No—”

  “Sexy smile?”

  She gave him one of those you-are-a-toad looks and continued with her litany of orders. “No more suggestive remarks. No sweet talk. No more singing ‘Wind Beneath My Wings.’ No touching, at all. Definitely no touching.”

  “Because?” he prodded.

  “Because I’m warning you, Rafe, now that I’ve decided I want you—though God knows why, I must have lost my mind—I’m probably going to have you.”

  He laughed, despite himself. She wants me.

  “Unlike you, though, I have scruples. So, I’m giving you fair notice. I want babies, and I wouldn’t mind having yours, even—”

  “Oh, my God!” She wants my baby.

  “—even if you are a louse.” She peered at him closer. “Why are you turning green? Oh, I see. You think I want to marry you. Don
’t worry. I wouldn’t deliberately get pregnant. I’m not trying to trap you.”

  “I never said you were trying to trap—”

  “You made me give up my plans to marry Elliott just to have a baby.”

  “What? I did?”

  “I’m drawing a line in the sand here, mister.”

  “Are you saying this is war?” His lips twitched with suppressed amusement.

  “In a manner of speaking. You pushed and pushed and pushed till you got me turned on. Well, I’m not a faucet to be turned on and off at will.”

  “Prissy, don’t challenge me. Ask me to back off, but don’t issue ultimatums. I’ll have to fight back, and I fight dirty.”

  “I’ve had too many years in the military to be afraid of a battle. Maybe I know how to fight dirty, too. Furthermore, you can stick those condoms on your ears for all I care. Consider yourself forewarned. Kiss me again, and I’ll corkscrew or gargle you or whatever it takes to make you forget you don’t like babies.”

  He grinned. He couldn’t help himself.

  She gave his chest one final poke with her forefinger and walked away again.

  And for the first time in ages, Rafe wished he didn’t hate babies.

  Whistling, and ooohming, and farting, oh, my! . . .

  Rafe’s warm, fuzzy feelings for Helen didn’t last long.

  At first, he was in a good mood, having been fortunate enough to buy F. Lee Horse from its original owner, Señor Salerno, at the outdoor auction, along with a beautiful gray mare for Helen, all within their budget, and with fifty dollars to spare.

  And, despite all his misgivings, he couldn’t deny being flattered that Helen wanted to make love with him. It wouldn’t happen, of course, until their last night in the past, but it was nice to know he still had the old sexual appeal. Even so, every once in a while, she gave him one of those little Mona Lisa smiles—the kind that said I-know-something-you-don’t—and he wondered if he was taking her threat too lightly.

  But he had other worries now. Señor Salerno had pulled him aside to give him a bit of friendly advice. The Angel Bandit had escaped the jail in San Francisco, and because of their similarity in appearance, he advised Rafe to hotfoot it out of town, or else join Ignacio in that great gold mine in the sky.