Desperado

by Sandra Hill

  “They are both loco,” Gabriel said, backing away.

  In the end, after an hour of arguing and exchanging insults, the Angel Bandit and his mistress, Elena, rode off into the hills with their band of desperadoes, generously leaving Rafe and Helen alive, for “the sake of family.” “Hasta la vista!” they yelled as they departed.

  Rafe and Helen were left wearing their camouflage BDUs, but nothing they’d gathered in their travels to the past remained with them. No guns. No horses. No gold.

  Surprisingly, Rafe wasn’t devastated by their loss. It was probably fated to end this way from the beginning. And he had Helen; that was the most important thing.

  “Well, babe, are you ready to go home?”

  She nodded.

  “We’re going to have to go down without jumpsuits,” he said as they spread the parachutes out on the ground and inspected them for rips.

  They could have waited another day, but neither of them wanted to put off the inevitable. Rafe donned the harness and repacked chute. Walking to the edge of the cliff, they took one last glimpse back, trying to assimilate all they’d seen and done.

  “I’ll never forget Ignacio and Sancho and Pablo,” he said. “They were the catalysts into our adventure.”

  “And Sacramento City. Remember your gambling success and our unusual ante?”

  He grinned. “After that, we rode to Marysville and met up with Henry. We’ll have to look up his name in a history book when we get back. Maybe he became a famous writer.”

  Her lips curved up at that thought. “I will never, ever, forget the cave,” she whispered.

  His eyes held hers. That went without saying. Then he turned the mood. “But I taught you to dip. That’s something. Do you think we’ll go dancing a lot when we get back?”

  She shrugged. “If you want. Will you go horseback riding?”

  “NO! Do you want me to get bow-legged?” Chuckling, he put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her close. “Most of all, there were Mary and Zeb and Hector.”

  Her lips parted on a sigh of agreement. “And the cabin. Our time alone at the cabin.”

  For one long second, they gazed at each other, remembering.

  Finally, he swallowed hard. “It’s time. Hop on, babe.”

  Helen jumped up, locking her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. “I love you, Rafe,” she said against his ear.

  “I love you, too, babe,” he said and stepped off the edge of the cliff.

  Within seconds, their parachute bloomed out above them, like a celestial cloud.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  They were back, but not like they expected . . .

  Disoriented, Rafe lay perfectly still for several moments, eyes closed, trying to figure out what the hell had happened.

  He’d been in an airplane preparing for a skydive when Prissy Prescott had ripped her harness and veered close to the exit. He’d lunged forward to rescue her—that’s the kind of guy he was, a flaming hero—and they’d both fallen into space.

  Holy Hell!

  He was alive; so they must have landed all right.

  But why did he feel so fuzzy? And what was that whirring noise in his head? Probably the headache he’d had earlier was blooming into the mother of all migraines.

  He couldn’t think anymore. Too many questions. Later.

  But what about Prissy? Had she survived?

  He forced his eyes open. Everything was black. Oh, shit! See what happens to heroes? I’m blind. Please God, not that.

  He flailed about with his hands, and discovered he was covered with the parachute material. He wasn’t blind, after all. He would have giggled if he was a giggling kind of guy.

  Thank you, God!

  He tossed the fabric off, over his shoulders. That’s when he realized he was lying on top of his commanding officer, Prissy Prescott, who was spread-eagled, flat on her back on the ground.

  She didn’t look too happy.

  But, whoa, something didn’t seem right about this scenario. It was almost as if it had been played out before. Nagging, senseless images flickered into his mind—Mexican bandits, gold miners, a secluded cabin, Helen . . . Oh, my God! Helen and him, naked, doing The Deed. He’d like to freeze-frame that image, but his head throbbed when he tried to hold a thought. Maybe he’d suffered brain damage from lack of oxygen.

  You’re losin’ it, buddy. First, blindness. Now, retardation. Slow down and think.

  Helen moaned and put a hand to her forehead as if she, too, had a headache.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, raising himself slightly on outstretched arms.

  “No, I’m not okay, you imbecile. You are going to be court-martialed for this, soldier.”

  Huh? This is the second time she said that to me.

  “Hey, I saved your life,” he said with affront.

  I’ve said that to her before, I know I have.

  “Saved my life? Captain, you caused me to fall out of that freakin’ airplane,” she raged irrationally, her face turning a decided shade of purple.

  “Tsk, tsk. Watch your language, Major.”

  “Oh . . . oh . . .” she stammered heatedly, no doubt searching for the right adjective to describe him. “You’re going to be in the stockade for a year. I’m going to sue you for assault. I’m making it my personal mission to see that you pay for this debacle for the rest of your worthless life.”

  She absolutely, positively, has said those exact words to me before. In fact, this whole dialogue took place before, verbatim. Is there an echo in my head? Or am I going nuts?

  Ignoring his uncomfortable thoughts, he asked, grinning down at her, “Is that all?” He’d just realized that a certain part of his body hadn’t understood that the uplifting thrill of free-falling was over, and it was time for some downlifting.

  Helen’s mouth forced a delicious little “o” of surprise as she made the same discovery. Her windblown hair looked like she’d been pulled through a keyhole, backward, and freckles stood out like tobacco juice on her pale skin. But she was damned near irresistible, in Rafe’s estimation. She frowned and darted a suspicious glare at him. Was she having the same feelings that something strange was going on?

  He adjusted his hips against hers and whispered, “There’s something I’ve always wanted to do, Helen. From the first time we met.”

  “So you said before.”

  “I did?” He leaned down, preparing to kiss her.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you, Captain,” a stern voice said behind him. “Unless you want to be seeing bars for the next year or two.”

  Rafe rolled off Helen and into a sitting position. He was staring at enough brass to fill the Pentagon, not to mention a dozen soldiers with weapons raised.

  “Why aren’t they Mexican bandits?” Helen murmured, sitting up beside him.

  “What?”

  He and Helen blinked their mutual confusion at each other.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  She shook her head as if to clear it. “I don’t know. It just popped into my head.”

  “Helen! Oh, thank God you’re all right,” one of the brass shouted. The ranks parted for the general—her father—who reached out a hand and drew her to her feet, hugging her in relief.

  “Daddy,” she cried, burying her face in his chest for a moment before she remembered herself. Within seconds, she pulled on her military mask. Until another high military mucky-muck showed up—this one younger, about forty. Helen ran into his arms and they embraced, like lost lovers. It must be the colonel . . . her fiancé.

  A raging, totally-uncalled-for jealousy swept over Rafe as he observed the trio march off to a waiting helicopter. The chopper must have made the whirring noise he’d heard in his head.

  “What happened, honey?” he heard her boyfriend ask as he kissed her cheek.

  How dare he kiss Helen? She’s my wife. Rafe’s mind came to a screeching halt. Wife? Wife? Yep, he was suffering brain damage.

  “I do
n’t know, Elliott. Everything happened so fast. It’s starting to come back to me, but it’s so . . . so confusing.” She glanced back at Rafe over her shoulder then, and their eyes connected and held, questioningly.

  Her father put an arm around her shoulder, drawing her away. “We’ll talk later. The important thing is you survived.” Helen and her fiancé climbed into the waiting chopper with some other officers, while General Prescott said a few words to another general standing by. They both gazed at Rafe, and their expressions were not congenial.

  Almost instantly, the craft was airborne and he was left alone. Well, not quite alone. The other general and a squad of goons were looking at him as a likely target.

  “Young man, you have a lot of explaining to do,” the general said in a you-are-dogmeat kind of voice. He motioned for several military vehicles to come forward, and Rafe was hustled to his feet.

  I am in deep shit. And I don’t even know why.

  They thought he was a WHAT? . . .

  That evening, after being interrogated in a conference room back at military headquarters, he was finally released. His memory was back, totally, and he was madder than a bull, threatening to sue every screwball officer on the base, and to go to the newspapers with the story of his treatment, or both.

  For five hours, they’d harassed him with their questions.

  “Why did you push Major Prescott out of the airplane?”

  “Have you ever been treated for psychological disorders?”

  “Do you understand the meaning of ‘behavior unbecoming to an officer?’”

  “Have you ever spied for a foreign government?”

  On and on, the stupid questions had gone. Oh, they’d covered their asses in some regards. They’d had him examined by military doctors to make sure he was physically unharmed by the incident. And they’d fed him some gross Army food, and allowed him to use the toilet facilities. If they hadn’t, he’d have sued them for that, too.

  It was when he’d stripped in the base hospital for the checkup that he’d seen the items in his boot. The usual knife and the crucifix, but two more items, too—a wedding band and a piece of aged paper that said he and Helen Prescott had married on October 30, 1850.

  Everything came back to him in a flash then. That was when his memory returned, and along with it, his anger over his treatment.

  He’d demanded to see Helen, her father, probably the president of the United States, too. He’d turned into a raving maniac. No wonder they’d called in the psychiatrists then and begun asking him whether he’d ever suffered delusions and all that psycho mumbo jumbo.

  He was dressed in his civilian clothes now, preparing to go home—Uncle Sam had decided to release him from this year’s National Guard duty for service beyond the call and all that crap—when General Prescott walked into the room.

  The general saluted. Rafe and the military types in the holding room returned the salute. “At ease,” the general said, then asked the others to leave the room.

  Stepping forward, Prissy’s father walked toward him, extending a hand. Reluctantly, Rafe shook it.

  “Captain Santiago, my daughter tells me I have a lot to thank you for.”

  What kind of bullshit is this now? More Army mind manipulation? “Where’s Helen? I want to talk to her. Now!” Rafe paced the room, anxious to be off this looney-bin base.

  Her father laid his hat on the table and ran a hand through his close-clipped gray hair. He was a good-looking man with Helen’s eyes, Rafe noted idly. And her temper . . . the general was clearly displeased by his churlish tone. “Major Prescott has gone home with her fiancé,” he informed Rafe. “She’s been relieved of duty for the time being . . . to recuperate.”

  “Recuperate? Is Helen hurt?” he asked.

  The general’s head shot up at his distress, and his cool demeanor slipped, but only for a second. “Helen is fine physically, but she was distraught when her memory started to come back. She made it clear to me . . . well, actually to a lot of people—” he smiled in remembrance—“that you were her rescuer. Actually, I think she called you her hero.”

  “Helen said that?” Rafe’s spirits lifted for the first time that day.

  “Yes, but, as I said, she was distraught.”

  “I want to see her.”

  “That’s impossible. I just wanted to thank you for saving my daughter. She’s left the base, and I think it would be best for everyone if you didn’t try to contact her in the future. Just know that we are all thankful for a job well done. I’ll be recommending you for a medal.”

  “I don’t want any damned medal,” he stormed, ignoring the general’s stiffening body. “I want Helen, and I’m going to have her.”

  “No, Captain Santiago, you are not.” On those words, the general left the room, and Rafe was free to go home.

  Home? Where the hell is home now?

  Why didn’t his life ever go smooth? . . .

  The next day, Rafe sat in his office, a desperate man.

  The press was hounding him with rumors of his being some kind of Rambo military hero. A publisher had called to offer him a book deal. Matt Lauer wanted him for the Today Show. His mother and his family clamored for attention. Clients were bugged that he didn’t return their calls. Lorenzo was near tears with anxiety.

  Worst of all, he’d been unable to contact Helen last night or all day today. And she hadn’t called him, either. Her private residence, as well as her father’s home in San Clemente, had unlisted numbers. Military headquarters wouldn’t reveal private information. He’d asked his sister Inez and his brother Antonio to use their police contacts, but they hadn’t come through for him yet.

  “Are you sure she didn’t call while I was in court?” he asked Lorenzo for the fiftieth time.

  “No, sir. I gave you the list of all your calls.”

  “Stop shaking. I’m not going to bite your head off.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lorenzo’s teeth were chattering so loud he could barely speak.

  I guess I did yell at him a little, he chastised himself. I’m just so damned upset.

  Actually, his office was running better than he’d expected.

  His secretary, Phyllis Manno, who had been out on maternity leave, had come back today to help them make some sense out of the shambles Lorenzo had made.

  “A disaster . . . a disaster,” she kept muttering as she waded through the piles of paperwork. She was only here for the day, so he’d have to hire a temp for the next month. Lorenzo had been told to contact the agency last week. But he couldn’t think about that now.

  Although Rafe’s time travel—Lord, he couldn’t believe he’d actually traveled in time—had taken about three months in the past, only one day had been lost in the present. That, on top of the two days he’d already spent at the military base before that, meant he’d only been away from the office for three days.

  Incredible!

  The phone rang, and he picked it up before Lorenzo or Phyllis could answer. “Hello.” Please, God, let it be Helen.

  “Rafe, is that you? Geez, didn’t Lorenzo give you my message? I’ve been calling all day.”

  He let out a sigh of disappointment. It was his brother, Ramon.

  “What now?”

  “I’m in jail.”

  “Damn! Where?”

  “Mexico. A little village in the hills. These local policía are nuts, Rafe. You gotta get me outta here.”

  “Okay, slow down. What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do nothin’. I was just helpin’ the migrant workers unionize, and—”

  “Damn it, Ramon, I warned you about this before. When will you ever—” He stopped talking when he heard a rough voice barking out orders, followed by Ramon arguing, then a cracking sound, like a punch or hard slap.

  “Ramon . . . Ramon, are you there?” Rafe spoke into the phone, panicking now.

  For a long time there was only silence, then Ramon’s voice came on again, weaker this time. “I need your help. Real bad.” />
  “Tell me where you are and what the charges are.” Ramon spat out the information quickly.

  “It’s three o’clock. I’ll hop the first plane I can get.”

  “Hurry.”

  “I will. Take it easy, Ramon. Don’t say anything. Just tell them you’ll talk when your lawyer gets there.”

  The phone went dead before he got a response.

  Rafe glanced up to see Lorenzo and Phyllis staring at him with concern.

  “Ramon again?” Phyllis asked.

  He nodded. His youngest brother was always getting into trouble. Ramon’s ideals clashed with harsh reality. Rafe should just let him sit in jail for a few weeks to teach him a lesson, but Mexican jails were no place for an education. They could spell death for an inexperienced boy of twenty.

  “Call my mother and explain, will you, Phyllis?” he said, choking back his worry.

  She nodded and took notes as he belted out the things he needed for his trip. His mind spun with all the details to be handled through his Mexican contacts. He had to withdraw a sizable amount of money from the bank for bribes. That was the way lawyering was still done in some parts of Mexico. Plane reservations. Passports. Ramon’s birth certificate proving American citizenship.

  Then he thought of Helen, and groaned.

  “Lorenzo, I should be back here with Ramon by tomorrow night at the latest. It’s important to me that you take all my messages. Keep changing the tapes on the answering machine, not like the last time when you forget and the tape ran out. Especially—are you listening carefully?—I’m waiting for a call from Helen Prescott. If she calls, you tell her I had to go to Mexico. Tell her to leave her number and I’ll get back to her as soon as possible. Can you remember that?”

  “Sí.”

  He started to add, “And tell Helen I love her,” but decided that was not a job he wanted Lorenzo to handle.

  There were at least fifty phone calls to be returned as a result of his three-day absence—clients, friends, family—but he had no time now. He asked Phyllis to cancel his court docket for the next day.