Desert Dreams (12 page)

He poured water into a cloth he found on the bureau to wash
away at least some of the dirt from her arms, and hands. That accomplished, he
dipped his fingers into the jar of salve and massaged it gently over her
painfully red face. She moaned and shifted in the bed but didn't open her eyes.

The sunburn would be painful in the morning when she was
awake. For now, he was glad the doctor had given her laudanum to help her
sleep.

Avoiding the white bandage wrapped around her injured right
hand, he applied the salve to her other hand as best he could, trying not to
think how small and delicate it felt. Her skin was warm against his, and soft,
despite the calluses and scrapes caused by her struggle with the runaway wagon.
He still shuddered whenever he thought of what could have happened.

"How could you be so reckless,
chica
?"
Gently he
ran a finger over her cracked, blistered lips, his heart constricting.
"You could have died out there alone."

With his fingers, he dabbed more salve on her lips, then
rubbed it in with a feather-light touch. Her soft breath on his flesh sent a
shudder through his body. Soon he found himself imagining what it would be like
to touch those lips with his mouth instead of his fingers, and he pulled away.

For a long time Rafe sat there, watching her sleep. He touched
her forehead and smoothed the hair back from her brow.

She is a distraction
,
Jose
had said.
She will slow you down
.

He rose from the bed with a disgusted sigh. At the bureau he
poured water into the cup, then returned to the bed and slid a hand behind her
shoulders to pull her up.

"Anne-Marie, wake up," he coaxed. "You've got
to drink some water." When she didn't respond, he shook her gently.
"Anne-Marie."

"Leave me alone." She opened her eyes slightly, but
she was having difficulty focusing. "Why are you following me?" she
asked.

Ignoring her question, he held the cup to her parched lips.
"Drink." He tilted the cup and she swallowed obediently. "Good
girl. You'll be good as new in no time."

"I'm not going to tell you where the gold is."

He smiled. "I know."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No, I'm not going to kill you," he replied
soothingly, fighting against the regret that clogged his throat.

Gently he eased her back down to the bed. She closed her eyes
and smiled slightly, and he wondered if she was already asleep again. He bent
over slowly, placing a kiss on her forehead, then jerked back in shock because
he hadn't intended to do that, hadn't even known he was going to do it until it
was done.

"Good night, Papa," she murmured.

He stared at the water that was left in the cup, trying to
sort out his feelings.

Everything had seemed so clear just four short days ago. He
had been certain he knew where he was going and how he would get there. Now he
was beginning to question everything he'd done and everything he'd lived for
over the past five years. And he didn't like it one little bit.

Even so, he knew he would spend a restless night in the chair
beside her bed and watch over her through the night.

Chapter
7

Anne slowly opened
her eyes and tried to adjust to
her strange surroundings. She was accustomed to waking up in unfamiliar hotel
rooms, and this must undoubtedly be another one. But she couldn't for the life
of her remember where she was. She blinked her eyes to clear them, trying to
focus on the room, but what she saw only confused her further.

The
room was small and dark. Not a single painting adorned the walls. The curtains
at the single window were plain and drab. There was no bureau, no armoire. She'd
stayed in some disreputable hotels before, but never in a room so poorly
furnished.

The
bed was narrow and hard, the nightstand small and unpainted. A clock on the far
wall ticked the seconds as she searched her mind for some explanation. She
glanced at the clock—one o'clock. She'd slept most of the day away.

She
tried to sit up and the pain that shot through her body from head to foot
reminded her - Texas.

Yes,
she was in Texas. She'd nearly been killed in a wagon accident, and Rafe
Montalvo had saved her.

"So,
you decided to wake up!"

She
started at the voice, jerking around to see a strange man standing in the
doorway. He carried a tray as he crossed the room, studying her with
intelligent eyes behind thick spectacles. He looked vaguely familiar, but she
wasn't sure why.

"I
was beginning to think you were going to sleep forever." He smiled kindly.

Anne
barely noticed. "Where am I?" she asked as he rearranged the
nightstand so he could set the tray on it. "Who are you?"

"Well,
you're in Hondo, and I'm Doc Stone."

The
doctor touched her forehead. She closed her eyes, comparing his touch with the
one she'd felt last night. His hand was warm and soft, his touch firm but
gentle. No, it wasn't the same at all. The other hand had been warm but not soft.
The touch had been as gentle as the doctor's, but there was a natural ease in
the doctor's touch, while the other had seemed somehow tentative by comparison.

A
dream?

"How
did I get here?" Memories flashed through her mind: the wagon flying off
the road and into the wilderness, the brake failing, Rafe Montalvo raising her
head and pressing a canteen to her parched lips.

"Your
husband brought you in," he said, withdrawing his hand.

"What?"

"In
fact," he said, craning his head to look around the room, "he told me
he'd bought you a nightgown. I see he decided not to put it on you. There it is
on the nightstand, still wrapped up."

She
pulled the covers higher and sank down in the bed, trying not to think about
the possibility of Rafe Montalvo undressing her while she was asleep and
defenseless.

"I..."
she stammered, "I... there was an accident."

"Yes,
your husband told me about it when he brought you in. Said you two
eloped."

"Eloped!
No. Yes." Rafe had made up a lie, a marriage. Why? She had a matter of seconds
to decide whether to go along with it or tell this man the truth. In the end,
she decided it didn’t really matter.

"Doctor,
I want to thank you for taking care of me."

The
doctor laughed shortly. "It's my job."

"You
didn't have to sit beside me all night and—"

"I
didn't," he replied, moving to the bedside table to retrieve the dishes
he'd left there earlier. "I turned you over to your husband and he took
care of you."

Her
hand went to her forehead. No, she must have dreamed that part of it. No one, least
of all Rafe Montalvo, had kissed her on the forehead last night. It had been a
dream; that was the only possible answer.

But
there were other parts of last night that she was just as sure she hadn't
dreamed, like the gentleness of his hands as he'd held her and tipped a cup to
her lips, and the way he'd bathed her face and neck with a damp cloth and
smoothed the hair from her brow.

She
distinctly remembered the pressure of lips against her forehead. No, it hadn't
happened. She'd imagined it.

"Where—where
is he?" she asked, shaken by the memory and the revelation that Rafe had
been in this room with her all night while she slept. "My—husband, where
did he go?"

"Don't
know," Doc Stone replied. He ran a hand over his whiskered chin,
contemplating her question. "He left as soon as I came in to check on you
this morning."

The
doctor's thumb on her eyelid startled her. She flinched until she realized what
he was doing. He pulled the lid open in order to study her eye.

"Your
eyes look clear today. You'll be fine, thanks to that husband of yours."

He's
not my husband! She wanted to scream. She should tell him, so why didn't she?
Maybe later. Right now, she was too tired to face the inevitable questions.

"Here,"
the doctor was saying. "I brought you some broth."

He
picked up the tray and held it over her, expecting her to sit up, to let him
place it on her lap. She didn’t move. "I'm not hungry."

"You're
bound to be. Your husband said you hadn't eaten since night before last."

Night
before last? Was that the night of the accident? She squeezed her eyes shut
against the pain in her head. "How long have I been here?" she asked,
too tired and confused to figure it out for herself.

"Oh,
about twenty-four hours."

"I've
been asleep all that time?"

"Like
I said, you were pretty bad off. In fact, I suspect your husband saved your
life."

"I
know," she said, the taste of betrayal bitter in her mouth. "Did you
know that in some countries if someone saves your life you're their slave
forever?"

"Well,
no, ma'am, I didn't know that."

He
moved the tray toward her again, and this time she sat up and took it without
thinking.

"It's
true," she assured him, settling the tray carefully on her lap.

The
doctor turned to go. "You rest now, Miss Christina."

Her
mouth dropped open. "What did you call me?"

"Miss
Christina," he repeated. "Would you prefer Mrs. Holden?"

"Holden?
My name is Anne."

"Really?
But—" He stopped in mid-sentence and shrugged. "I could've sworn he
called you Christina. Well, then, Miss Anne, rest awhile and I'll be back to
check on you shortly."

She
watched as he crossed the room to the door and halted with one hand on the
knob. He ran his other hand across his chin before he turned to face her once
more. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

Her
heart caught in her throat, and suddenly she was desperate that he not know the
truth. She needed to see Rafe again if he hadn't left town already.

She
recalled asking him for help. They’d made a bargain. Would he honor it or had
she given him enough information that he could just leave her behind and keep
all the gold for himself? Would he do that?

After
trying so hard to leave him behind, realizing how much she needed his help was
a bitter pill to swallow.

"No,"
she said, she hoped convincingly.

The
doctor stared at her with his piercing blue eyes. It was a long moment before
he nodded almost imperceptibly and left the room, closing the door behind him.

She
lay in bed, listening to the ticking of the clock. If Rafe had gone out first
thing this morning, he’d been gone for hours. He could be anywhere. He couldn’t
go after the gold without her, or could he? Had she given him more information
than she remembered? Maybe she’d said something in her delirium.  

Maybe
he was still in town. Maybe there was something he had to do. Like what? Like
kill someone else?

But maybe
he'll come back.

Pain
knifed through her heart, and she closed her eyes against it. How many times
had she wondered if Papa would come back?

"
I
just have one thing to do
," he'd told her.

She
remembered standing alone on the crowded New Orleans dock, clutching her small
satchel and a tattered doll. She couldn't have been older than ten. She
remembered how frightened she'd been by the crowd and the noise and the
activity.

She
had tried not to cry as she searched the crowd of adults who rushed past her as
if she were invisible. She remembered jerking at the sound of a riverboat's
steam whistle, the familiar noise foreign and frightening.

He
promised he'd be there. He promised, but he was nowhere to be found.

"
I
just have one thing to do, Anne-Marie, and then I'll be there
," he'd
told her that morning.

He
was going to sell her mother's jewelry, the jewelry he'd once promised she
would have when she grew up. It didn't matter to her, nothing mattered right
now except that she was alone and frightened and her father had lied to her.

Maybe
he had left without her. Maybe he expected her to be on the boat instead of on
the dock and she was going to be left behind. Maybe—

"Are
you lost,
ma petite?"

The
man who had bent over her that day was Gaston, she later
learned
,
a man who preyed on children, taking them off the streets of New Orleans and
selling them into prostitution.

Even
now, the thought sent a shudder down her spine. But at that moment her father arrived...

She
had learned a hard lesson that day, one she had never forgotten: to trust
herself and no one else. No one was going to take care of her, no one, not even
her own father—least of all her own father-or an outlaw who only helped her
because she had something he wanted.

Closing
her eyes, she mentally counted the money she'd kept in her running bag and the
few coins she'd managed to salvage from the accident.

The
need to see the money in her bag, to make sure it was still here, overwhelmed
her. She threw the covers off and sat up quickly, too quickly. Her head reeled,
and she had to sit for several moments while her equilibrium returned. When she
was able to maintain her balance and think clearly again, she stood shakily.

Her
legs were weak, practically useless, but she managed to walk around the bed by
holding on to the bedposts.

"My
clothes!"

She
searched the room, but her clothes were gone. Gone! Why would he take her
clothes?

Her
heart pounded. She could hardly breathe. Not only was she destitute and alone,
she didn't even have clothes to wear. What was she going to do? She couldn't
stay in this room forever.

She
spotted her pistol in a chair across the room. Beside it was her running bag.
Her heart froze. Either he or the doctor must have found it inside her skirt. A
cold dread knotted her stomach. Had he looked inside, gone through her personal
belongings? Had he taken her money?

She
picked up the running bag and returned to the bed with it. When the contents
lay spread out on the bed before her, she released a sigh of relief.

He
hadn't left her destitute, just stranded. That she could cope with. She'd been
stranded before. Still, she couldn't imagine what he'd wanted with her clothes,
unless he didn't want her to leave for some reason. Probably wanted to get a
head start.

Not
that it mattered. She didn't have enough money to hire another rig and buy
enough provisions to make it to Mexico. Thanks to Rafe Montalvo, she'd have to
buy new clothes, too. She needed money.

An
idea began to take shape in her mind as she gazed at the worn-out deck of cards
that lay among the spilt contents of her running bag.

A
poker game.

As
much as she hated gambling, it was her only chance. She needed to find a poker
game. She knew how to convince a group of men to let a woman play. She’d done
it before.

She
and Papa had taken a steamboat from Natchez to New Orleans. Papa had lost all
of their money in a game, then passed out drunk. Like now, shed had a small stake,
but Papa had taught her well. She’d managed to relieve a couple fine gentlemen
of a nice pot of their money. Enough to get them a hotel room in New Orleans
and a night at the opera.

Anne
smiled at the memory. For one night she’d almost felt like a fine lady.

Yes,
Papa had taught her well. She’d done it before and she could do it again.

Some
would want to take advantage of her inexperience, others would be curious to
see if she could play at all. Either way, they'd let her in. All she had to do
was find a game, which shouldn't be too difficult. Wherever there were men,
there were gaming houses.

Deep
inside, she knew it was irrational to blame him for all her misfortune. He
hadn't caused the accident that had put her in this situation. But she needed a
target for her anger and frustration, and he was the only one at hand.