Desert Dreams (11 page)

"Enough!" Rafe bellowed, suddenly aware that he had
begun massaging his wrist. He stopped, glaring at the other man. It would have
been easy at that moment to kill Jose. "You've made your point."

"And all your fine manners and your
aristo
blood and your fine education were
useless," Jose went on. "You were as helpless as a babe. If not for
me—"

Rafe took a deep breath, struggling to control the rage that
threatened to erupt into violence.

"You don't have to remind me, goddammit! You saved my
life and taught me to survive. I owe you my life. Is that what you want to
hear?"

Jose was intentionally pushing him, and, damn him, Jose knew
exactly how to do it and how far he could go before Rafe exploded. But even
though he recognized the game, he could not control his own reaction.

"I think you are going soft," Jose repeated,
"now that your belly is full and your wounds have healed. Maybe you don't
have the stomach for vengeance any longer."

Rafe slammed his fist on the table, nearly toppling the
tequila bottle. "The only thing that will heal my wounds is El
Alacran's
blood."

"The woman is a distraction,
amigo
," Jose
said calmly, "a beautiful distraction, but a distraction just the same.
She will slow you down. She will get in the way."

"I know. I'll handle it."

"Good."

"She's injured and sick right now. When she recovers,
I'll get her to tell me what we need to know."

*****

Rafe returned to the doctor's office around dusk, no better
off for the tequila he'd consumed. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered to
drink at all. He couldn't seem to get drunk. No matter how much he drank, all
he usually got for his troubles was a roaring headache like the one that
throbbed behind his temples now.

He pushed the door open to find the doctor sitting beside his
patient.

"How is she?" Rafe asked, dropping his saddlebags
and bedroll inside the door.

Pressing a finger to his lips, the doctor lifted a tray with
a cup and bowl on it and stood up. Rafe moved silently to the door, holding it
open as the doctor walked through into the waiting room.

"She took some broth and water," the doctor said,
indicating the tray.

"I bought her a nightgown." Rafe held a package
toward the doctor as if to prove his words. "She lost hers when the wagon
overturned."

Dr. Stone wrinkled his nose. Rafe wondered if he could smell
the liquor on his breath. "Whatever you say, mister." He turned
toward a door to the right that Rafe hadn't seen before.

"Where are you going?"

"To bed. My apartment's downstairs. Wake her every
couple of hours and see if she can take a little water. That's the best thing
for her. And keep her face and hands doused with the salve beside the
bed." With that, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

Rafe stepped into the dimly lit room and stood uncertainly
just inside the door. He listened to the soft, rhythmic ticking of the clock on
the far wall, the sound of shuffling footsteps descending an unseen flight of
stairs, the shallow breathing of the woman who lay on the small bed. The
kerosene lamp on the table beside the bed cast elongated shadows on the far
wall.

His own breathing sounded ragged in his own ears. His boot
heels scraped on the hardwood floor as he walked toward the bed, his eyes fixed
on the still, silent form under the white sheet.

“Who are you?” he asked aloud. What kind of woman drove a
team of horses into a hostile wilderness alone?

A desperate one, his gut told him, swallowed the compassion
in his throat.

He didn't want to see her sun-reddened face resting on a
white pillow or the cascade of wild blonde curls that spread around her head
like a storm cloud, or the bandaged hand that rested softly on top of the
covers. He didn't want to feel his chest constrict at her innocence and
vulnerability.

Everyone looked vulnerable and innocent in sleep. If she
opened her eyes right now and saw him standing over her, she'd probably fly
into a rage.

He smiled at the image his thoughts evoked.

"I didn't ask you to help me!" she would shout.
"I didn't ask you to care about me!"

Care? Where had that come from? She’d never accused him of
caring, and he didn’t, dammit. He couldn’t afford to. He had to focus on the
goal-on El
Alacran
. The only reason he hadn’t left
her and Hondo behind was the gold-the gold that would lure his enemy out of
hiding.

He sat in the chair the doctor had pulled up to the bed and
laid the package containing the new nightgown on the nightstand, not sure why
he'd bought it. It was an impulse. She’d obviously lost everything in the
accident, and he hadn’t had time to run all over the countryside retrieving
clothes and personal things. She needed a nightgown. He’d bought one.

Of course, now he was faced with the dilemma of how to get
the damned thing on her. He wasn’t about to change her clothes.

His jaw clenched. He had removed her shirtwaist because not
to do so would have seemed odd to the good doctor. Lying as she did on her back
with her arms over the covers, he glimpsed the much mended chemise he’d seen
earlier.

Women liked fine things, soft fabrics,
clean
clothes. It seemed a shame to leave her like that when the gown, though nothing
fancy, was clean and crisp.

He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he
released it in a great sigh.

She moaned and murmured something incoherent. Her face was
red from sunburn, her lips raw and cracked. Already her nose was beginning to
peel, but at least it hadn't blistered.

He couldn't resist the opportunity to really study her
closely for the first time. Her cheeks were hollows beneath high, delicate
cheekbones. Tiny, pale freckles dotted her nose. Her lips were full, but not
pouty like Christina's, and slightly parted in sleep. His gaze slid down her
throat to a fragile collarbone.

His hands ached to feel the softness of her skin as his heart
ached to keep her out of danger, to send her back where she'd come from.

"Why don't we live in a house like other people,
Papa?" she murmured, startling Rafe. "When can we have a house? When,
Papa?"

Rafe swallowed hard and diverted his gaze. It was then he noticed
that she was still wearing her boots. He'd glimpsed them before when he'd
pulled her up on his horse. They looked even more disreputable on closer
inspection. Ugly, clumsy boy's boots.

Grateful for something to do, he moved to the foot of the bed.
He untied the laces and pulled the first one free. A wadded-up sock fell out of
the toe, obviously put there to make it fit her small foot better. A semicircle
of red blisters ringed the back of her heel. How had she managed to walk, let
alone run?

Quickly he removed the other boot, trying to remain detached.

He carried the boots and set them next to a hard-backed chair
in the corner. Her shirtwaist and skirt lay on the seat of the chair and on top
of that, the pistol she'd bragged about being proficient with. He retrieved it
from the floor with a smile. It was an old seven-shooter. If she could
shoot—what had she said?—the head off a one-eyed jack at twenty paces with this
gun, she was a better shot than he was.

He picked up the pistol and knocked her skirt to the floor in
the process, surprised when it made noise when it fell. Curious, he retrieved
the garment and turned it inside out to find a leather pouch hooked inside the
waistband.

Pretty clever. He studied the pouch, wondering what had
prompted her to create such a thing. Maybe she had been in the path of the
enemy army at one time and had used it to guard her jewels or whatever she
prized. He remembered the locket he'd found, the locket with no picture in it,
wondering, with a twinge of guilt, if it had been a prized possession.

And in spite of his vow to remain detached, he wondered what
else she might have hidden away. Surely she wouldn't have been foolish enough
to make a written record of what Luis Demas had told her. Surely not. But if
she had, what better place to keep it than in a secret pouch inside her skirt?
And even as he argued with himself, he was drawing the pouch open, looking
inside.

First, he pulled out a worn deck of playing cards. Why the
hell would anyone care enough about a deck of cards to hide them like that? He
examined them closely to see if there was anything significant about them. They
weren't marked or made of anything precious. It didn't make sense, and his
curiosity was piqued more than he wanted to admit.

Another piece to a puzzle that didn’t fit.

The cards went on the nightstand, and he returned his
attention to the pouch.

Next he found a bent, rusted horseshoe. He almost laughed
aloud at that. She was frightened of horses, but kept a horseshoe tucked away
like something precious.

Superstitious? He wondered.

He placed the horseshoe on the nightstand with the deck of
cards. Next he pulled out a yellowed handbill that read:

OPERA COMEDIE NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA MAY 9, 1860

When he opened it, an envelope fell out. He picked it up and
read the name:
Anne-Marie Cameron.

He glanced at the girl in the bed. She wasn't just a girl
anymore. Now she was Anne-Marie, someone who kept a horseshoe and a deck of
cards in a secret pouch on the inside of her skirt.

Anne-Marie.

He closed his eyes and tried to forget, but it was too late.
The mere fact of learning her name changed everything.

He placed the letter and the handbill with the rest of her
treasures on the nightstand, then turned the pouch over, emptying the rest of
the contents on the bed. There were shells for her gun and about thirty dollars
in silver coins. So she hadn't lost all her money in the accident.

"Anne-Marie," he whispered, "you certainly are
a mystery."

The letter wouldn't contain a reference to the gold. She'd
probably brought it all the way from wherever she'd come from. Still, he took
the envelope from the nightstand and held it up to the light. The flap was
open, so it would be easy to peek inside.

She'd never know, but he would. It would seem he did still have
a conscience because it pricked him as he opened the envelope and removed the
folded sheet of paper inside.

A letter addressed to her would have to contain intimacies
and details of her life that he didn't have a right to know.

But what if it contained a map to the missing gold? Or a
quickly scrawled set of directions? He would have missed the best opportunity
he might ever have to find out the location of the gold and leave her behind
where she'd be safe.

He shook the letter and the envelope, but nothing fell out.
With a deep breath, he unfolded the letter. Nothing tucked inside. But before
he could fold the letter and put it back in the envelope where it belonged, the
first line leaped off the page at him in large, sweeping script:
Please don't be angry at me..
..
He
could not help but read on.

July 20, 1863

Dear Anne-Marie:

Please don't be angry at me for leaving you behind. I
couldn't stand being trapped in Baton Rouge with no chance of leaving the city
once the Union army occupied it. I still think it was the best place for you,
under the circumstances.

I have found a place to live in Natchez. It's not
much, but it's clean and cool in the evenings. I am sending a friend, Borden
McKenna, to bring you safely to me.

Please don't be angry, Anne-Marie. Please come. You
know I need you here.

Love, Papa

Rafe's
throat
constricted. What kind of man would abandon his daughter and leave her
unprotected in a town that was under attack by an enemy army? Maybe there had
been relatives to rely on, but even so, any father should want to keep his
daughter safe at his side.

Anne-Marie's father seemed weak and irresponsible—first
leaving her behind, then begging her to come to him when he needed her.

He folded the paper and slipped it back inside the envelope.
It was none of his concern. All he cared about was the gold, and he hadn't
found the slightest clue to its whereabouts. He put the letter and her other
belongings back inside the pouch and laid it on the table.

Remembering what the doctor had said about the salve on the
nightstand, he took the jar and sat on the edge of the bed, gazing down at
Anne-Marie as he twisted the top.

The doctor had bathed her face, revealing a simple unadorned
beauty that made him think of wildflowers growing along a mountain path. Unlike
the hothouse beauty of women like Christina, whose only occupation was her
appearance, Anne-Marie's beauty was a natural product of who she was, a
scrappy, stubborn woman with more courage than many men he'd known.