by Sandra Hill
Swatting his hand away, she hissed, “Behave! Mary’s watching.” Helen smiled affectionately at Rafe then, even though mixed sentiments of elation and guilt engulfed her. Elation because she would be marrying the man she loved; guilt because she was, in fact, not quite an honest woman.
Should she tell him about the baby now?
Should she wait?
“Did you see that prospector outside with eight blasted kids running all over the place?” Rafe was asking Mary.
Helen stiffened.
“That’s the new postmaster,” Mary informed him.
“God! It looked like a regular baby factory.” Rafe shivered with distaste.
Helen decided her news could wait.
Dum-dum-dee-dum! . . .
On the thirtieth of October, 1850, Helen Anne Prescott married Rafael Joseph Santiago in a canvas tent chapel in Rich Bar, California. Their only witnesses were the padre and a perplexed Mary and Yank, who didn’t comprehend why they wanted to remarry.
Rafe tucked the marriage document into the jacket of the black suit Yank had sold him from his general store. Mary had lent Helen her mother’s cream-colored gown, which was of some silky material that shimmered with gold threads. It was edged with green and gold embroidery. In Rafe’s opinion, there was never a more beautiful bride in all the world.
“You’re mine now,” he murmured huskily as they followed behind Yank and Mary and the padre, heading toward the wedding party. He couldn’t believe he’d actually gotten married, or that he was so happy about it.
“I was yours before the wedding, Rafe.”
“But it’s official now.”
“I doubt whether it will be legal in the twenty-first century.”
“We’ll get married again. See how eager I am to please?”
“I noticed,” she said suspiciously. “What do you want?”
“Well, I was wondering if we could skip the food and drinks and dancing and move on to the good stuff.”
“Like what?”
He whispered a few explicit “for instances” in her ear.
“RA-AFE!”
“God, my mother’s going to love you.”
The honeymoon was spectacular . . .
They had, in fact, left the party early, begging exhaustion from all their travels and the necessity of an early start in the morning.
They’d fooled no one.
Helen had blushed repeatedly at Rafe’s blatant efforts to seduce her in the midst of all the Indiana House guests. It had been a lovely party, which served the dual purpose of a welcoming event for the new postmaster. In fact, the celebration still carried on. He heard the band playing through the open bedroom windows.
Not that Rafe recalled many details of the day. He had no clue as to what he’d eaten or drunk or whom he’d spoken with, although he remembered vividly a slow dance with Helen.
She had shocked everyone by dipping him.
He needed her so much. It was frightening just how important she’d become to him.
Once they’d gotten upstairs, he’d made speedy work of removing his clothes and hers and showing her too quickly on the rag carpet just inside the bedroom door how great his need for her was. Lying in the bed now, naked and sated, he wanted her again.
There was just enough light from the full moon and a dozen lit candles for him to see his new wife. Wife! He rolled the word on his tongue and said it aloud softly, “Wife.”
He saw her lips twitch with a suppressed smile. The witch was teasing him.
He wrapped a long strand of her hair around a finger and inhaled the rose scent of the soap she’d used to shampoo with earlier. Actually, he was the one who’d washed her hair and combed it dry, taking great delight in all the little aspects of readying her for their wedding.
“Are you sniffing my hair again?” she said, pretending to be half-asleep.
“Yes, is there somewhere else you’d rather I . . . sniff?”
She giggled and kept her eyes squeezed shut. “You are so . . .”
“Disgusting?”
“Adorable.”
“Adorable? Adorable? Men don’t want to be adorable,” he growled, sniffing her breasts, which also smelled like roses. I think I’ll take a couple of bars of that soap back with me. “Men want to be sexy and handsome and virile and—”
“Stop fishing for compliments, you lech.” She peeked at him through slitted eyelids and reached for the sheet to cover herself.
“No way!” he laughed, flipping the linens to the end of the bed. “I’m not done sniffing yet.” In the course of his nasal excursion, he noticed some bruising on her forearms. His fingermarks. “Damn, did I hurt you?” he asked, leaning over to kiss each of the bluish prints.
“Do carpet burns on my tush count as hurting?” she said drolly.
He chucked her under the chin. “They’ll look good with your tattoo.”
“Hah! I don’t see you getting any wool fibers on your behind.”
“O-o-oh! Is that an invitation?”
“Oh, you!” She lifted her face and kissed his lips tenderly. The expression on her face turned more serious. “I love you so much, Rafe. No matter what happens, always know that, I love you, and I’ll never stop.”
Blood drained from his head with foreboding. “Why do you say it like that? What do you think will happen?”
“Nothing. It’s my wedding day, and we have so many important things ahead of us. The jump, for one thing. We can’t know for sure what will happen, and I just wanted you to know . . .”
He relaxed, but then he declared adamantly, “We’re going to be together in the future.”
“You don’t have to convince me. I married you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you did.” His voice came out raw and raspy with emotion. Then he grinned. “So, do you think sex will be boring now that we’re married?”
She snickered. “So far it’s been rather . . . quick. Hard to judge. Maybe you’d better . . .”
“Practice?” He moved over on top of her, spreading her thighs with his knees. “Oh, babe, I thought you’d never ask.”
Slowly and deliberately, he kissed her lips and shoulders and breasts and belly and inner thighs. Her wrists and palms. Even the soles of her feet. Over and over, he worshipped her—his wife—and between gentle kisses, he whispered love words. Some of them romantic, others dark and erotic. English and Spanish.
She moaned and whimpered and returned his throaty endearments.
“I love you, Rafe. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“You are mi corozón, my heart. I will love you till the end of time.”
He twined his fingers with hers and admired the candlelight flickering over the matching gold bands they wore. He’d secretly purchased them from Yank. Surprisingly, these gold rings meant more to him than all the gold he hoped to carry back to the future. They were his future.
When he eased into her, braced on his elbows, he felt her ripple around him. He closed his eyes against the sweet burn and shuddered, almost weeping with the joy she brought him.
“I can feel your love flowing into me,” she purred with his first stroke.
“And yours comes back to me,” he answered as he withdrew and her hips lifted in pursuit.
With each thrust, he held himself rigid inside her until the ripples started again. Then he stopped. “Tell me.”
“I love you.”
He started again. Then stopped. “Tell me.”
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you.”
Over and over, he controlled her, setting the pace, urging the love words he needed to hear.
They were magicians that night, creating enchantment in a room that seemed worlds apart, separated by time and distance from the rest of humanity. Only they existed. Rising higher and higher under the magic spell, they climbed to new plateaus of sexuality. His arousal was the magic wand, her sheath the charm, but the sorcery was in the love that permeated them.
> When he finally thrust his release into her body, she pulled his face down, taking his cry into her mouth. And her body clasped him hotly as they both spun and spun and spun. Splintering into perfect ecstasy.
For one split second, they were given a vision of eternity.
And harmony.
Babies made him grumpy . . .
After dawn the next morning, their horses were saddled, ready to leave Rich Bar. And Helen couldn’t find Rafe.
They’d already eaten breakfast in the dining room. Then Rafe had gone out with Yank while she finished packing.
“Do you have any idea where Rafe is?” Helen approached Mary now as she scrubbed the dining tables.
“Yank said something about taking Rafe to see a grove of redwood trees.”
“Trees? Rafe wanted to see trees? Now?” she exclaimed.
Mary laughed. “Yep. I thought it was mighty peculiar, too.”
They walked out onto the porch together and saw Rafe and Yank walking toward them, though a considerable distance away.
The postmaster’s wife, Julie, strolled up then, balancing an infant in one arm and a toddler in the other. Helen offered to hold the baby while Julie engaged Mary in a conversation about curtains.
Helen closed her eyes and savored the precious scent of baby skin and talcum powder. With a sigh, she cuddled the gurgling baby onto her shoulder.
“Well, I guess that’s what happens when you marry them. They just dawdle around.”
Helen turned at the sound of Rafe’s teasing voice and saw him flinch at the spectacle of her holding the baby.
He was not pleased.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” he grumbled, walking away from her and over to his horse.
Her eyes widened with hurt at his harsh tone. But then she gave the baby a soft kiss before handing her back to her mother. Making a face at Rafe’s back, she said, “Hey, you’re the one who went off tree watching.”
“Nag, nag, nag.” He was observing her again, but lovingly now that she no longer cradled the infant in her arms.
“I love you, too, you dope.”
“You can’t get on my good side with sweet talk, babe.”
“Wanna bet.”
Yank and Mary burst out laughing behind them.
“Ain’t marriage grand?” Rafe remarked rhetorically.
“Yes!” they all said.
Clueless! The man was clueless . . .
Helen had been somber and weepy ever since they’d left Rich Bar three days ago. Ever since he’d snapped at her. But, hell, it had been such a shock seeing her holding that baby, her eyes misty with longing. She’d looked so . . . so right with a baby.
Damn! Damn! Damn! He had to make things better with Helen. “Honey, do you want to stop for the night?” It was only late afternoon, but they’d been riding since early morning. Her face looked white and drawn. She nodded.
Rafe dismounted in a small clearing, much like the one where they’d camped with their three captors more than eleven weeks ago—it seemed like aeons. He reached out his arms for her, and she slipped off her horse.
When she made to move out of his embrace, he closed his arms around her waist. Tipping up her chin, he asked, “Helen, what’s wrong? You’ve been moody for days. If it’s about Rich Bar, well, I’m sorry if I bit your head off. It was the sight of you with that baby—”
“Forget it!” she clipped out and pushed out of his hold, leading her horse toward the stream.
He stared after her in confusion. “What the hell’s wrong with you? You’re behaving like a woman with a bad case of . . .” A sudden thought occurred to him, and he brightened. “. . . PMS.”
She inhaled sharply and glared at him.
“Are you getting your period?” he asked. He couldn’t keep the hope out of his voice.
“You don’t have to be so happy about it.”
“Helen, I’m not exactly happy—”
“Liar!”
He scowled with exasperation. “I’m not exactly happy,” he repeated, “but you and I need time to iron out our problems. Maybe later babies will be a viable option. This is the best way. Really. You’ll see.”
“Sometimes you are so dull-headed,” she sputtered. “Viable option? We’re not talking legal briefs here. We’re talking human life. And you, my friend, had a vasectomy. I’m assuming that reproduction won’t be a viable option in the future.”
He grimaced, knowing this was his cue. He at least had to make the offer. “I could always have the operation reversed.”
She laughed, and it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I wish you could have seen your face when you said that. Green. Green as Kermit the Frog.” She shot him another glare. “You frog!”
He caught up with her and grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and her lips quivered.
His stomach lurched. I don’t want to hurt her. “Helen, don’t do this now. We’ve just found each other. We have time to resolve all these things. Just don’t force this issue now.”
Tears spilled out of her eyes and streamed down her face.
He felt like crying himself.
“You’re right.” She sobbed, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I’m just being silly. We have lots of time.”
Rafe wasn’t so sure, though. That night, they slept in each other’s arms, but they didn’t make love. He didn’t want to initiate anything that would result in a pregnancy at this late date. And Helen knew that he didn’t want to make a baby with her.
Not now. Not yet. Oh, hell!
He had to plan for their future. At least he’d taken one step in that direction. While still in Rich Bar he’d asked Yank where he might find a young redwood tree. Rafe wasn’t sure that carrying the gold nuggets back to the future on his body was going to work. So, he’d sought insurance. Some place in the past that would endure into the future. He’d thought and thought, trying to come up with some hiding place that would last into the future, but be free from pilfering hands.
A redwood tree.
Yank had watched with interest as Rafe climbed the young tree and placed an object in the crook of two limbs—his favorite ten-pound nugget. Luckily, Yank hadn’t asked any questions, and he’d promised not to go back after they’d gone. Yank undoubtedly thought Rafe was batty, but, for some reason, Rafe trusted him.
It had been a stupid thing to do, he supposed, leaving a ten-pound nugget in the past where someone might find it. Although he couldn’t imagine too many people would go climbing redwood trees.
Yep, it had probably been a stupid thing he’d done.
They would either travel back to the future, or end up as roadkill . . .
It had not been a stupid thing.
Rafe came to that conclusion the next day when they approached the landing site and ran into bandits. Not Ignacio and Pablo and Sancho. Ignacio was dead, and the other two yahoos were reportedly off to Mexico to join up with Joaquin Murietta.
No, this was Rafe’s nemesis—the Angel Bandit—and his notorious sidekick, Elena, along with a half-dozen mean-looking scoundrels. Within minutes, his ancestor relieved them of every blessed piece of gold they’d worked so hard to gather. It was a good thing he’d already put his crucifix and wedding band in his boot, and Helen had done likewise with her ring, or the bandits would have taken those, too.
They’d made them remove their clothing and torn off all the concealed pockets. Luckily, Elena took Helen into the bushes for a private strip search, but not out of consideration. Elena didn’t want Helen’s nude body to attract her lover, the Angel Bandit.
There was no question this dude was Rafe’s ancestor. Possibly his grandfather many times removed. Except for the cruel cast to his features, they were the spitting image of each other, right down to the blue eyes—an anomaly in Mexicans.
“You can’t do this,” Rafe protested. “You’re my . . . my grandfather.”
“Are you loco?” the Angel Bandit asked. “I am only thirty-four years
old. How old are you, señor?”
Rafe snorted with disgust. “The same. What’s your name, by the way? I can’t call you Angel.”
“Why not?” Turning his sultry eyes on Helen and surveying her body with appreciation, he asked her, “Do you not think I look angelic, my pretty one?”
His mistress, Elena, clouted him on the back with a tambourine, shrieking, “I weel cut off your balls, Gabriel, if you even look at that puta.”
At the same time Helen ripped out, “Get a life!”
Both women glanced at each other with understanding. They turned up their lips in one of those “Men! The slimeballs!” expressions of contempt.
All the time they’d been talking, the Angel Bandit’s gang aimed deadly weapons at Rafe and Helen. These were no nincompoop outlaws. These men were vicious and competent.
Rafe took a deep breath for patience and tried again. “Listen, Gabriel, (Was it a coincidence that they both had angel names?) you’ve got to see the resemblance between us.”
The bandit peered closer. “Sí, you do have my mother’s blue eyes. The people in our village called her a witch.”
“Lucia Sanchez was a bitch,” Elena commented snidely.
“Sí, sí, she was that. A witch and a bitch. But that ees not for you to say.”
“See, see,” Rafe interrupted, “my mother’s maiden name was Sanchez, too. That proves you’re my grandfather. So, give me back my gold.”
“Thees gold ees mine, Señor Santiago. The only question here ees whether I let you live or die. I want to know why you have been impersonating me. My reputation ees suffering badly.”
“How did you learn the secret of my corkscrewing trick?” Elena demanded of Helen. The hardened prostitute didn’t look at all like Helen, except for her obviously dyed red hair. “And what ees thees gargling and forms?”
Helen started to laugh. At first, Rafe thought she was going off the deep end, but then he realized the ludicrousness of the situation. They’d come full circle, back to a scruffy group of nitwits and a comedy of misidentification and miscommunication.
