Desert Dreams (14 page)

As
soon as he was gone she dug in her pocket, taking out the vial she'd hidden
there while she dressed in the doctor's office. She grabbed the cap and
twisted, but nothing happened. Her gaze darted to where Rafe stood peering out
the window. Her hands began to sweat, and she wiped them on the napkin in her
lap. He'd be back any moment. If he caught her, she didn't even want to think
about what he'd do.

She
twisted the cap with all her might. Nothing. It wouldn't budge. Orange light
reflected on
Rafe's
face as he talked with the man
next to him.

"Damn!"
she whispered.

Her
heart pounded with the urgency of the situation. This might be her only chance
to make sure Rafe was safely out of her way tonight, and she didn't even want
to contemplate what he would do if he returned and found her attempting to drug
him. She held the cap in her mouth, clamping her teeth on it, then twisted with
her hand.

The
cap gave.

She
finished untwisting it and dumped the entire contents into his beer mug. His
even footfalls echoed behind her as she secured the cap, and he sat down just
as she slipped the empty vial back into her pocket.

"What
was it?" she asked, hoping her voice didn't tremble.

He
picked up his fork and knife before replying. "They've started a bonfire
in the middle of the street."

"Isn't
there any law here?" She watched Rafe cut his steak and put a piece in his
mouth.

He
chewed and swallowed, shaking his head until he could speak again. "Just
one man. Better eat if you plan to keep up with me."

She
picked up her fork, but she'd lost her appetite. Staring at the mug, she
wondered belatedly if she'd given him too large a dose. What if it killed him?

"You
know, I can move faster and safer alone," he said.

Unbelievable!
He seemed to actually think she would trust him enough to let him go on without
her. Maybe she shouldn’t care if it did kill him after all.

"And
you can be all the way to South America before I know what's happened. I
need
that money."

"I
told you... look, I'm only trying to save your hide."

"My
hide is not your responsibility, Mr. Montalvo. I will take it wherever I want.
If you try to leave me behind, I'll just strike out again alone."

He
dropped his fork on his plate, the loud clatter causing her to jump. She could
see anger in his eyes, in the clenching of his jaw, before he regained his air
of indifference. "Why is this gold so important to you? Important enough
to risk your life for?"

"Haven't
you ever cared enough about anything that you were willing to die for it?"

She
watched in amazement as the carefully constructed wall around him cracked, and
for a fleeting instant she sensed she was seeing past the facade into the heart
of the man. It was like that night in San Antonio when he'd caught her up in
his arms and she'd glimpsed the unmasked pain in his eyes.

Then
it was gone as if it hadn't been there at all. The crack closed and the
hardness returned to his eyes.

"No,"
he said. "You about through wolfing down that steak?"

"You
haven't finished your beer."

He
picked up the half-full mug and downed the contents, then slammed the empty mug
down on the table. He dug in a pocket and took out several silver coins, which
he dropped beside his plate. When he rose, she knew he intended to walk around
to her side of the table and help her up. She stood before he had a chance. He
smiled knowingly as he took her arm, guiding her out of the cafe and into the
dark street.

The
bonfire the revelers had built in the street had died to embers. The men who
had been responsible for unwittingly providing her with the diversion she'd
needed to drug
Rafe's
drink must have drifted off to
find other amusement.

Dozens
of men wandered aimlessly in the darkness, their elongated shadows reaching
from one side of the street to the other. Gunshots rang out sporadically, and
voices shouted unintelligible words.

Instinctively,
she moved closer to Rafe, who responded to her nervousness by tightening his
hold on her elbow. It was a small gesture, but strength and confidence flowed
from his body into hers. For a moment, she almost regretted what she'd done.

How
long would it take for him to start feeling the effects of the drug? Would he
make it back to the doctor's office? She certainly hoped so, since she'd never
be able to carry him—or even drag him. What would she do if he collapsed now?

She
didn't want to think about it. Instead, she turned her attention to the men
milling about on the street.

"Why
aren't those men fighting in the war?" she asked, more to take her mind
off what she'd done than out of any real curiosity.

Rafe
snorted in the darkness. "No future in it, no money to be made, too many
rules."

The
sound of raucous laughter across the street grated on her already frayed
nerves. They were the same kind of men as the ones she'd encountered that night
on the street in San Antonio, the same kind of men who roamed the streets of
riverfront towns.

"But
don't they care about the Confederacy?" she heard herself ask.

"Some
claim to be loyal to the Confederacy, and some are Unionist to the bone. Of
course, none of them are as loyal to any cause as they are to themselves.
Whichever way the wind blows—"

"And
what about you, Mr. Montalvo?" she asked. It was a question that had
nagged at her almost since the first time she'd seen him. There was a war going
on, yet this man seemed completely unaffected by it. "Why aren't you in
the army?"

"The
Confederate army?" he asked with a mocking smile, his white teeth flashing
in the darkness. "Well, for one thing, I'm from New Mexico, not Texas, and
New Mexico is Union."

"Then
you're a Unionist."

She
hated this war, hated both armies for disrupting the routine and fiber of her
life, for adding to the hardships that had already been a part of her
existence, but her heart remained loyal to the Confederacy. The South was her
home.

"Didn't
say that."

She
couldn't see his face clearly, but she could feel his gaze on her, holding her
with its magnetic power so she found it impossible to look away from his
shadowed visage.

"Then
what are you saying?" she asked a bit breathlessly.

He
was silent for so long she thought he wasn't going to answer. Finally, he said,
"I'm saying it's not my fight."

"You
mean you have no opinion whatsoever?" Everyone had an opinion about the
war.

"Didn't
say that either."

"You
certainly are being vague this evening." A loud burst of laughter drew her
attention to the tent she'd seen earlier. Two men staggered out, their arms
locked together for support. "Maybe you're like those men. Maybe there's
no money in it, and that's why you don't want to get involved."

"So
you think you've got me all figured out."

She
heard the sarcasm in his voice. Though she couldn't make out his features, she
could well imagine his expression. His eyes would be narrowed, his lips curved
up at one end in a mocking smile. The image of those lips touching her forehead
flashed across her mind and she took an involuntary step back.

It
couldn't have been him. It couldn't!

"I...
I don't know anything about you, Mr. Montalvo,
except that the first time I saw you, you rode into town with a body slung over
your horse. Not a very good first impression, you must admit. And after that,
you began to follow me."

"Was
that when I saved your life?"

"You
and I both know why you saved my life, don't we? I'm valuable to you. You need
me alive because I know where the gold is and you don't. That's the only reason
I trust you at all, you know. You need me."

Rafe
untied the horse from the hitching post and swung up in the saddle. Someone
fired a lamp near the window in the cafe. A shaft of light fell across his
sardonic features as he reached his hand toward her and smiled.

"We
may soon find out which of us needs the other more."

Chapter
9

Anne's hand closed
around the pistol in the pocket
of her newly laundered skirt as soon as she reached the bottom of the
staircase. She glanced up the street toward the sounds of drunken laughter.
Lights blazed from the big tent where she'd seen the prostitute earlier, and it
was toward that structure that she made her way, her heart hammering a warning.

She
wasn't sure what was more frightening – the abject silence that followed her up
the street or the raucous sounds ahead of her. A tent. It wasn't even a
building. She'd seen some disreputable saloons, but nothing like this. The air
would be stagnant with cigar smoke and whiskey.

She
didn't want to do this. She didn't want to be here. More than anything she
wanted to go back to Natchez and the life she had so disdained. If only…

There
was nothing there anymore. She couldn't go back, not to Natchez and not to the
room where Rafe lay sleeping.

He
hadn't moved, even when she'd nudged him with the toe of her new boot. He
should sleep the night away, after all the laudanum she'd given him. In the
morning, he'd never even suspect she hadn't been in bed all night or that she
had enough money to leave him behind.

Stopping
at the door, she dug in her pocket for the piece of onion she'd taken at
dinner.

Courage,
Anne-Marie.
Her
father's voice rang in her ear. There was no comfort in his words. Usually when
he encouraged her to be brave, it was because he was about to put her in some
kind of danger. She couldn't blame him this time. She’d been dealt a losing
hand-father dead, aunt dead, no money. The only choice she had was to play that
hand. Her survival depended on it.

She
took a deep breath, wishing there was another option. "Courage,
Anne-Marie."

She
rubbed it over her fingers and tossed it on the ground. One of her father's
women, an actress, had taught her the trick. You rub onion on your fingertips,
and then when you need tears, you just touch your fingers to the corners of
your eyes.

To
her shame, she’d used it more than once to sway Papa from some self-destructive
path. Then again, if she’d used it more often, maybe he’d still be alive today.

With
a deep breath, she pushed memory aside and made her way through the door. This
had to work.

As
she expected, she was engulfed in offensive odors. The hour was late, but the
saloon wasn't nearly as deserted as she'd hoped. There were two poker games in
progress and about twenty spectators spread out between them.

She
studied the faces of the men at the first table. They seemed bland and harmless
enough, except for one man with black slicked-back hair and sharp shrewd eyes,
like those of an eagle or a hawk. He chewed on the stub of a cigar beneath his
thin mustache, his lips curling in an unpleasant smile as he placed his cards
on the table.

From
the reactions of the other men at the table, she knew he'd won and she guessed
that he was cheating. He looked the type.

There
were four players at the other table. The dealer looked like a farm boy, with a
round face, dull eyes, and chubby fingers that fumbled over the cards. She
couldn't help wondering what he was doing here in this place. His round sun
darkened face and large brown eyes revealed his inexperience. There was an air
of naiveté about him that made her feel sorry for him even as she calculated
ways she could use him. He would probably feel obligated to protect her honor,
should he sense it was in jeopardy. And beyond that, she would have no trouble
enlisting his help for the next leg of her quest. He might not be as deadly
with a gun, but he would be much less dangerous, much more reliable and easily
controlled than Rafe Montalvo.

To
his left was a small clean-shaven man dressed like a dandy. He seemed more interested
in the saloon girl who stood behind his chair massaging his shoulders than he
was in the cards. He would be a source of income. Overconfidence emanated from
him. He would see her as an easy target and she would let him think that until
she relieved him of that stack of money in front of him.

Next
to him was a huge brute of a man who kept drinking from the bottle at his side.
His eyes were red, his hands unsteady. He stunk of alcohol and sweat, and
judging by his appearance, he hadn't had a bath or changed clothes in days. He
was too drunk to put up a challenge. The last player was a man who resembled
the ticket agent in Ubiquitous: small-boned, thin, with wire-rimmed glasses so
thick they made his eyes appear twice their size.

She
stifled a smile and made her way toward the second table.

"Do
you have room for one more?" she asked.

The
farm boy started as if he'd been prodded with a hot poker. He leaped to his
feet, dropping his cards face up on the table—a pair of sixes, jack of
diamonds, three of clubs, four of spades.

The
room fell silent, all eyes on her. A hot breathlessness filled the tent.

"Ma'am?"
the farm boy said, grabbing his cards and overturning a beer in the process.

"Jesus
Christ!" the drunken brute said, coming to his feet quicker than she would
have thought him capable of doing.

A
man in a white apron hurried over and mopped up the spill while the spectacled
gambler apologized profusely and the brute cursed.

"
Ain't
no women allowed in here," the drunkard growled.

She
looked pointedly at the saloon girl.

The
man in the apron said, "You
wanna
dress like her
and serve drinks, fine. Otherwise..."

With
a practiced sob, she touched her fingers to the corners of her eyes and the
tears started.

"I...
I don't know what to do."

"There,
there, miss," the spectacled man said. He came to stand beside her and
guided her gently to his own chair.

She
was as good as in. She only hoped she could see the cards once they started
playing. Her eyes burned as if they were on fire, and the tears kept coming, which
was good for her ruse but not so good for seeing.

"My...
my
pa...
he went to join the army. Got killed at Vicksburg. I need money to get to my
uncle's in California."

"You
ever played poker before?" the dandy asked.

She
sniffed theatrically. "Well, no, but I—used to watch my pa play and—and
I'm a real fast learner." She withdrew the money pouch from her reticule.
"I have thirty dollars." She dumped the money on the table before her
to prove her words.

"I
wouldn't feel right, taking your money," the dandy said. "Deal the
cards, farm boy."

"But...
but fifty dollars won't do me any good. I'd just as soon be broke. If I don't
win enough tonight to get to my uncle, why, I... "—she gazed at the
painted woman behind the dandy—"I suppose I'll have to find employment and
stay here."

"Let
her play," the spectacled man said. "Can't you see she's
desperate?"

The
dandy's gaze crept from her face down her throat to her breasts in a slow,
assessing manner. She clutched her hands to her bosom and gave him a look she
hoped was a mixture of affronted modesty and shock.

The
drunkard who had remained silent so far blurted, "Hell, I know how you can
make twenty dollars real quick!"

"You
shouldn't talk that way," the farm boy interjected. "Can't you see
she's a lady? I say we let her play."

"Me
too!" It was the man with the glasses. He dragged a chair from an empty
table and she sat beside her. She beamed at him appreciatively.

"Deal,"
the dandy growled. He turned to Anne. "You know how to play five-card
stud?"

She
gaped at him mutely.

"I'll
explain," the spectacled man offered, and she was treated to a long,
boring explanation of a game she'd been playing since age eleven.

She
was careful to lose the first couple of hands, staying in the game long after
she should have folded. Several spectators had drifted to their table,
undoubtedly drawn by the sight of a woman gambler. Some stood behind her,
looking over her shoulder at her cards, and she didn't want to appear too
knowledgeable.

"Now,
tell me again," she said, studying her cards intently. "Does a full
house beat three of a kind?"

"Yes,
ma'am, it does," the farm boy responded. She gave him her sweetest, most
demure smile and he flushed and gazed away sheepishly.

"And
what is a straight?"

The
dandy slammed his cards down on the table in disgust. "Haven't you lost
enough money yet?"

"Leave
her alone, dude," the farm boy warned.

She
fingered her cards as if in indecision. She was holding two tens and three
throwaways. She'd never be able to win outright with a hand like that, but if
they fell for the bluff, she wouldn't have to show her cards.

"I'll
hold on to these," she said with a smile.

"I
fold," the spectacled man said.

"Me too," said the farm boy.

The
dandy glared at her uncertainly, then gazed back at his hand. "Shit! I'm
out too."

All
eyes turned to the last man, the brute who sat slumped forward in his chair.
His eyes had rolled back, and his head lolled from side to side.

"Mister,
you in or out?" the farm boy asked.

When
there was no response, the dandy poked him on the arm. "What's it
gonna
be?"

The
drunk man belched loudly, then slammed his beefy fist down on the table.
"I'm
out...
for good."

"You
quitting?" the dandy asked as the drunkard began raking in his money.

"Yep.
Much as I'd like to stay for the fun, I've had it."

He
stood unsteadily and stumbled away from the table. Anne placed her cards face
down and reached for the small pot in the center of the table.

"What
did you have?" the farm boy asked.

"Oh!"
She turned to her mentor in feigned confusion. "But you said that if no
one called, I didn't have to show my cards."

"Well,
yes," the man with the glasses agreed, "but if you don't show us your
cards, how will you ever learn?"

"The
lady's right."

She
gazed up to see that her champion was the black-haired man from the other
table. He smiled down at her, and her stomach turned over.

"Mind
if I sit in?" The man lowered his tall, lean frame into the recently
vacated chair without waiting for an answer.

Her
throat constricted. She tried to think of some excuse to turn him away, but the
others were already welcoming him into the game and the cards were already
being dealt.

Almost
immediately, the luck seemed to move around the table to Rollins, the
lean-faced, black-haired newcomer. Something in his eyes made her skin crawl.
They were cold, bottomless eyes, as clear and sharp as a hawk's.

She
played carefully, remembering to keep up the pretense of helpless ignorance,
although she didn't think the new player believed it. He'd called her bluff
more than once, and she'd had to change her tactics.

It
wasn't long before the pile of money before her started to grow and the piles
in front of the others, including the newcomer, began to dwindle. She decided
to quit while she was ahead, something her father had never been able to do.

"Gentlemen,"
she said as she raked her winnings toward her, "it has been a pleasure,
but I'm afraid I'm getting tired."

Rollins
grabbed her wrist, his long fingers wrapping around it like a steel band. What
she saw in his eyes made her blood run cold.

"Not
so fast, girl. I think you cheated. I know you cheated, and I want my money
back."

"Just
a minute, mister," the farm boy broke in.

"Shut
up and stay out of this, kid," Rollins growled, without taking his eyes
off Anne, "unless you're ready to fight. This little lady's
gonna
give me back my money, and nobody's
gonna
get hurt,
ain't
that
right?"

She
moistened her lips and jerked her arm away, and he released her. There had to
be a way out of this. She wasn't about to give this man anything. She'd won
every penny of the money in front of her fair and square.

"I...
I don't know what you're talking about," she
said, stuffing money into her reticule and down the front of her bodice.
"Why, I wouldn't know how to cheat."

Rollins
snorted. "Don't try that innocent greenhorn act with me. You know the game
all right. If you were a man, I'd shoot you on the spot."

There
was still a good bit of money on the table—
her
money—but she set her sights on the door. Her heart pounding in her chest, she
stood quickly and lunged for the door. But Rollins was too fast for her.
Grabbing her by the arm, he pulled her against him, laughing at her futile
struggles.