Desert Dreams (2 page)

His gaze inched downward over the redhead’s voluptuous body.
The way her skirt was cut in front, her long straight legs were visible to just
above the knee. The heaviness in his groin reminded him how long it had been
since he'd been with a woman.

The bartender eyed the money, then nodded and reached under
the bar for a key. "Room Two-B at the top of the stairs."

Rafe looked away from the woman. He took the key in one hand,
the bottle and glass in the other, and moved toward the staircase. There he
halted, glancing back at the bartender.

"What're the chances of getting a bath around
here?"

The bartender smiled. "I'll see to it."

* * * * *

Less than fifteen minutes later, Rafe was relaxing in a large
tin bathtub. He'd positioned the tub so he faced the door, a precaution he
always took. His gun belt hung from a coat rack above his head within easy
reach. A wooden chair stood beside the tub, the whiskey bottle and glass on the
seat.

He closed his eyes, laying his head against the hard metal
rim of the tub. Warm water soothed his sun-parched skin, washing away the
tension along with layers of grit and grime. He relaxed for the first time in
weeks, letting his thoughts wander.

Gonzales. When he'd ridden into Gonzales a few days ago, he
hadn't been looking for trouble, but then he'd seen that familiar face on the
street. He hadn't known the man's name until he read it on one of the old
wanted
posters he carried with him and studied faithfully, but he
could never forget that face.

"Madre de Dios,
don't kill
me," the outlaw had pleaded. "I have a family, a wife and
children." The bandit fished in his shirt pocket and held up a fistful of
banknotes.
"Mira,
I have money. I will
pay you!"

"You're worth three hundred dollars dead," Rafe had
informed him evenly.

When the outlaw went for his gun, Rafe had all the reason he
needed to shoot him down like the animal he was.

Looking back on it now, he couldn't help but feel a certain
disappointment. He'd wanted the bandit to die slowly, to suffer awhile. But
then, he supposed, dead was dead.

Rubbing a bar of soap between his palms, he worked up a
lather and massaged the bubbles into his itchy beard. He tried focusing on more
pleasant thoughts, but those were few. The future was barren, empty. He lived
from day to day, driven by demons he didn't dare stop to contemplate for fear
they would overtake him.

The past was dangerous territory and best avoided. He hadn't allowed
himself to think of it in a very long time—until he'd seen the girl on the
street. Something about her had jarred his memory and shaken him to his core. A
heavy sadness settled on his heart as her image returned to him. He steeled
himself against it. One image led to another until he found himself thinking of
the old days when his world had been as soft and civilized as the one that
young woman had undoubtedly left behind.

He lowered himself farther in the tub, submerging his head,
as if by doing so he could wash away the memories that clung to him like trail
dust. Resurfacing, he concentrated on scrubbing the dirt from his hair and
body. He emptied his thoughts of past and future and surrendered himself to the
present, to sensation: warm water, coarse sponge, waning sun through dirty,
torn curtains.

The bathwater was cool by the time he stepped out and toweled
his body dry. He dug in his saddlebag and found a slightly wrinkled clean
shirt. Smiling wryly, he shook it out as if that would help smooth it.

"
Not that one, mi
amor
.
"
The female voice floated through his mind, along with the scent of jasmine.

She smiled, her dark eyes sparkling as she reached into the
wardrobe, her chestnut curls brushing against his chest.

Christina. She turned and came into his arms easily, softly.
He lowered his mouth to hers --

Rafe reeled backwards and loosened his grip on the shirt. The
world righted itself and he was able to breathe again. He brushed the sweat
from his brow with his forearm before shrugging into the shirt. It had been a
long time since the past had broken through his careful defenses with such
power and vividness.

Maybe it was the girl on the street. Or maybe it was seeing
Jose again. Of all the people he could have run into in San Antonio, Jose
Carvajal
was the last one he would have expected or wanted
to see. Seeing him again brought all his secrets crawling from their dark
hiding places.

A knock sounded on the closed door as Rafe fastened his
pants. He whirled around, drew his revolver from the coat rack, cocked it, and
leveled it at the door in one smooth reflex action.

"Who is it?" he called.

"It is me, Jose!"

Rafe
uncocked
the gun with a
muttered curse. Without waiting for an invitation, Jose opened the door and
stepped inside. His eyes widened as he watched Rafe holster his gun.

"It has been a long time,
amigo
," said the
Mexican. He turned around to stick his head out into the hall, then closed the
door behind him. "I have worried about you."

"Why is that,
amigo
?" Rafe asked, not even
trying to keep the sarcasm and irritation out of his voice.

Jose had an annoying habit of calling everyone
amigo
,
a habit Rafe mimicked in the vain hope the Mexican would get as tired of
hearing it as he did and drop it.

Jose laughed, wagging a finger at Rafe. "Because I know
you too well. I know how reckless you can be." He lifted the whiskey
bottle, studying it with a shake of his head. "Rotgut." Jose wrinkled
his nose, then uncorked the bottle and took a swig. "So, what brings you
to San Antonio?"

"I ran into some trouble outside Gonzales," Rafe
replied, wishing Jose would just get to the point. And there was a point. He
was as sure of that as he was that Jose being in San Antonio was no
coincidence.

"Who was it this time,
amigo
?"

Rafe dug out the
wanted
poster he had shown to the sheriff earlier and handed it to Jose. The truth
was, Rafe couldn't recall the man's name even now, but Jose would recognize
him. Jose knew every
bandido
and
comanchero
between the Red River and the
Rio Grande and beyond into Mexico

Only Jose knew the truth about what had happened that day in
the desert, which made being around the Mexican almost painful. He couldn't
pretend it didn't matter. He couldn't keep the memory from rising to the
surface as long as Jose was around. Not that either of them spoke of it
directly. Jose was just a living, breathing reminder.

A sly smile curved Jose's lips as he unfolded the poster and
studied the familiar face. Light from the open window glinted off his
gold-capped tooth. "You always were the one to take advantage of
opportunity. That is why I have always liked you."

He studied Jose in the mirror as he tossed the
wanted
poster on the bed and poured whiskey into the glass. The Mexican's eyes danced
with mischief, like a cat that had just swallowed a fat mouse.

Short and round, Jose didn't look at all like a ruthless
bandido
.
Many men had underestimated him, because of his
almost comical appearance, and many had lived to regret it. It was only because
of his reputation that he was allowed to roam freely in this, a white man's
saloon.

Jose held the glass out to Rafe, but Rafe reached for the
bottle instead. The Mexican laughed heartily, then tossed down the glass of
whiskey with a shrug. Rafe upended the bottle, relishing the fiery liquid trail
that burned down his throat.

"But I think it must have been providence that brought
you here," Jose said. "Si,
la
Providencia
."
His hand shook as he turned the
empty glass in his palm, studying it with a frown before continuing. "I
have an amusing story to tell you,
amigo
."

Finally! Rafe turned to place the bottle on the bedside
table. The sound of bedsprings creaking told him Jose had made himself
comfortable, and he realized his visitor meant to stay awhile. Resigned, Rafe
turned back to the mirror to trim his beard.

"A ship arrived in Matamoros two months ago, a French
ship carrying six million dollars in gold for the Confederate cause."

In the mirror, Rafe watched the Mexican rise from his seat on
the bed and move to peer out the dingy window. He couldn't remember when he had
last seen him so jittery. It had something to do with the gold.

Jose turned and looked at Rafe again, shrugging at the
question in his eyes. "I might have been followed, amigo. You can never be
too careful. A million dollars is a lot of money."

"A million? A minute ago it was six million."

"Be patient,
amigo
. You see, this gold was
received by a Confederate agent who found himself without means of
transportation. Who could he turn to but the governor of Tamaulipas province?
Of course, the good governor was more than happy to help. Like France, Mexico
is neutral in the American war."

Jose sarcasm wasn't lost on Rafe. He could well imagine how
eager the "good governor" would have been to take a fortune in gold
off the unlucky agent's hands. And although he didn't pay attention to
politics, it wasn't a secret the French occupiers in Mexico were squarely on
the side of the Confederacy.

"When the gold was delivered to the agent in Eagle
Pass," Jose continued, "it was a million dollars short."

"And where is this gold now?" Rafe asked, his
interest piqued in spite of his best efforts to remain uninvolved.

"I do not know,
amigo
, but I know the only man
who does, and he is here in San Antonio."

"Who might that be?" He glared at Jose through the
mirror, damning him for his theatrics.

"Luis Demas."

Rafe surveyed his own reflection in the glass, his expression
carefully indifferent. He ran a hand through ink-black hair that fell to his
shoulders in wet, unruly strands.

"The name sounds familiar," was all he said. He had
never met Demas, but he knew everything he needed to know about him from his
reputation and the company he kept. "Why are you telling me this?" If
this was another of Jose's wild schemes, Rafe wanted no part of it.

"I have a proposition for you, amigo. All you have to do
is help me find the gold."

"Hell, why should I help you? You don't know where the
gold is. Luis Demas does. What's to stop me from finding Demas and going after
the gold myself?"

"You owe me, amigo. Besides, I can give you something
you want very badly. You help me and I'll help you. Surely you know who Luis
works for. The Confederate agent entrusted the gold to the governor who hired
El
Alacran
to transport it. El
Alacran
delivered the gold a million dollars short. Who know how it all happened but
the million dollars ended up in the hands of one of El
Alacran’s
most trusted men who is here in San Antonio now.”"

El
Alacran
. The name was never far
from
Rafe's
mind, but hearing it spoken aloud hit him
with the force of a blow. His heart began to pound as tension built in every
nerve and sinew of his body. He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to hold back
the memories. In his imagination, he was in the desert again, a land wavering
with heat. A column of smoke curled skyward in the distance, beckoning him....

He pulled his mind back to the present, but not soon enough,
not in time to avoid the tormented stare of those damning eyes.

"I don't need or want your help," Rafe said in a
voice that sounded strange in his own ears. "But I suppose I do owe you
something. I'll help you get your gold as long as nothing gets between me and
El
Alacran
."

"Si,
I understand," Jose said quickly. "But if you find
the gold, you will find El
Alacran
. El
Alacran
wants Luis alive. He doesn't just want to find out
where the gold is, he wants to make an example of the thief. You know better
than I that if El
Alacran
gets to Luis first, there
won't be enough of him left for the buzzards. I wouldn't want to trade places
with him right now, not even for a million
dol
—"

Jose fell silent at the sound of a knock on the door. He
swung around, drawing his revolver from the holster at his hip, while Rafe
stood ready to reach for his own weapon, should the situation warrant it.

"Come in!" Rafe called.

As the door opened slowly, the noise from the bar downstairs
preceded the saloon girl Rafe had seen earlier into the room. Jose lowered his
gun and turned to glance quizzically at Rafe.

Rafe ignored him, focusing on the woman who had stepped over
the threshold and halted just inside at sight of Jose.