Wild Sierra Rogue (13 page)

Where had she been?

In all her twenty-eight years, she'd never supported herself. The few dimes in royalties she'd earned from her book hadn't covered research expenses. She knew her father, feeling sorry for her, had sent errand boys out to buy the unsold copies, which meant she couldn't even take pride in accomplishment when that inflated check had arrived.

In the domestic area she had nothing to recommend herself. She neither cooked nor cleaned. Of course, ladies of her station didn't cook or clean, though they did study the art of making a home. When she should have been learning such graces, Margaret had been untangling her tongue around foreign languages, or reading about adventures and adventurers, or dreaming of discovering some heretofore unknown tidbit of history that would set the world afire.

A lot of good any of that did her now, in the middle of her own adventure. Why was it not written that past explorers had to know their way around a skillet as well as a compass?

Since her trail led to this spot, she couldn't go traipsing off, the portrait of outrage unavenged, and leave her brother a cold trail. She didn't have as much as a handkerchief to rip for markers.

“Margaret,” she muttered, “you are at a distinct disadvantage.”

Her next move? She'd rather dine on a buzzard than eat any crow whatsoever, but she'd have to turn around. A good hundred yards separated her from the shack. Rafe and the other men continued to mill around in front of the place, she saw. She took a deep breath and blew it out. Hunger panged.

A buzzard dipped to a low figure eight, sizing her up as a prospect for tomorrow's nourishment.

Ugh.

She'd simply have to go back, be honest, and beg the men's indulgence.

No!

Again she whirled around.

“Where is your pride?” she asked herself. “Your blood isn't that of craven ancestors.”

She was a McLoughlin, the get of such heroes as Robert the Bruce and King Duncan. The black Celts of the Highlands flowed in her veins, too, including that of the invincible Maisie McLoughlin. A son of that land of Scots, her father had arrived in the United States in meager circumstances, then served his adopted country in the Civil War. Afterward, with sheer grit and determination, and by the sweat of his brow, he'd become what he was today.

Furthermore, Margaret was the child of Lisette Keller, an immigrant acquainted with hard times. The Kellers knew about beating the odds. They had scratched out a living in crowded Nassau-Hesse before they undertook a harrowing trip across the Atlantic in the bowels of a hell ship, Lisette losing her mother on the ocean. Arrived on the shores of Texas, the Kellers triumphed over the arid soils to stake their claim to freedom.

Margaret herself had examined every nook and cranny in Spain and the far reaches to acquaint herself with Columbus and the Catholic kings, which was not to mention her triumphs over ill health and professional injustices.

She could darn well prepare a chicken.

 

 

Not long before dusk, Margaret gained a new respect for masters of culinary arts. Cooking was
work.
Thankfully the men, including Rafe, had disappeared; she took relief in not having witnesses to her calamitous efforts. The area in front of Villa's shack looked as if someone had sliced open a pillow and scattered the contents to the breeze. Margaret was covered with feathers and worse, but the cursed chicken and a double handful of rice were assembled to toss into the fat pot of boiling water hooked over a cookfire.

Feeling pleased with herself, she blew a hank of hair out of her eyes, as well as a bit of white fluff from the tip of her nose. “And I got most of the feathers plucked, too.”

“Most of the feathers?”

She wheeled around, catching sight of a sardonic mouth, and raised a hand of restraint. “Just get away from me. I'm not speaking with any Benedict Arnolds.” She noticed Rafe held a guitar at his side. “Pray tell, are you planning a dinner serenade for your new chums?”

“If I serenade anyone,
bruja,
it will be you.” His nostrils twitched. “What's for supper?”

She began a snide remark, but quelled it when she saw something never before seen. She would be stripped naked in front of the Villa gang, if the look in Rafe's eyes wasn't admiration!

“I'd like to help you,” he said earnestly.

“You're about seven million chicken feathers too late.” She laughed and batted at yet another piece of down that floated to her nose. “But if you've got a suggestion or two, I'm listening.”

“I rummaged around inside.” He motioned to the hideout. “Came up with a few things that might add flavor to your . . ” He leaned to the left to look at the readied ingredients. “
Arroz con pollo.”

“What kind of flavor?”

“Mexican, of course. Be right back. Start the chicken.”

He set the guitar aside, then entered the adobe shelter, leaving her to smile and wonder at the wonders of Rafe. As well, she took a moment to straighten her hair, dust her clothes, and wash her face and hands. Rafe returned with a knife, a cutting board, and a mortar and pestle in one hand; in the other, a wreck pan. The pan was filled with a cornucopia for the kitchener, that would have put the stores of her trunks to shame.

St. Nicholas, it seemed, had come to Chihuahua.

Santa's bounty included chiles both fresh and shriveled, thyme, sage, oregano, onions, and a small bowlful of dried tomatoes; naturally, Rafe had to tell Margaret what was what in most cases. Thereafter, he patiently chopped, pulverized, and explained, then allowed her to add the ingredients to her witch's brew. A delicious aroma wafted.

“What will we serve as a beverage?” she asked, complacent at their bonhomie.

“Dr. Pepper is out.” Rafe jacked up a light-hearted brow. “But I have a good substitute. Boil some water in that kettle over there, and we'll make laurel tea.”

“Laurel tea?”

“Yes. The Tarahumara Indians of the Copper Canyon swear by it. And, what luck, our friends had a tin of leaves in their cupboard.”

“Aren't we fortunate?” With childlike enthusiasm she filled the kettle and hooked it on a cleek next to the chicken concoction. “My, this cooking business is fun.”

“You are quite a woman,
bruja de dulce.
Quite a woman.” Ladling a spoonful from the pot, he blew on it. “Take a taste. See if it's pleasing.”

Actually, she was pleased at his praise, along with being called a sweet witch. Was this why that spoonful of flavored chicken and rice tasted more scrumptious than the most exquisite dish served along La Gran Via of Madrid? No. It was because the accomplishment was hers. Hers and Rafe's.

Several minutes passed as they set the table. Done, Rafe took her hand. “Margarita . . .” His every feature turned intense and solemn in the flagging sunlight. “Villa thinks we are newlyweds. He offered to turn his
casa
over to us. That means he and his men will be sleeping outside.” A black brow elevated. “Are you going to pitch a fit at bedtime?”

She ought to. She ought to be screaming right now, asking why he perpetuated the marriage charade. She ought to be begging him to help her find Tex, although, instinctively, she felt her brother was in safety's embrace.

Wanting what she'd wanted for ages, she leveled her eyes with Rafe's and answered in a firm voice, “No. I won't protest.”

 

 

An hour later, Pedro belched and said, “Señora Delgado, you are a wonderful cook.” Javier rubbed his stomach, his eyes rolling in ecstasy to the back of his head. Both Villa and Rafe added expansive praise for the chicken and rice, and not one word about the occasional feather.

She drew herself even taller than her five-eight. This afternoon she wouldn't have given a hoot about pleasing these Villanista ruffians, but in pleasing them, she pleased herself. The most satisfying part? Rafe's pride in her. Not so long ago, if anyone had accused her of wanting to please him, she would have bawled them out.

“If you grow tired of your wife, amigo,” said Villa, “I will take her for one of my brides.”

“I must disappoint you, señor. She is mine. Forever. An hombre could never grow tired of a wife like 'Rita. Or bored with her. Never in a million years.”

Rafe seemed the epitome of sincere. A tiny voice warned her not to be gullible—any decent husband would praise his wife, for goodness sake—but Margaret wasn't listening. She wanted to bask in all this glory. Her grin was as bright as the light of a crystal chandelier.

Rafe picked up the borrowed guitar, adjusted the strings, then strummed the beginnings of a beautiful tune. His silver gaze reflecting in the moonlight above, he dispensed a weighty look Margaret's way. It seemed as if they were the only two people on earth, his expression conveying want and need as ripe as her own. The tune he played was about love and romance and how nothing was finer in this world than a man and a woman together. Together in the deep of the night.

She smiled, looking forward to the privacy of Villa's abandoned bedroom.

Was this night never going to end?

The chicken had been reduced to a small pile of bones, hours ago. The moon hovered high in the star-sprinkled sky. A fire roared in the pit; the men lounged around it. The melodious tone of Rafe's serenading guitar sharpened her senses. Her eyes kept wandering to the hideout, to its promise of privacy.

Margaret, sitting at the outdoor table, faked yawn after yawn, until they were coming on their own, yet these Mexicans didn't take a hint. The best part of the situation? The meaningful gazes Rafe sent her. Frequently.

When Rafe excused himself for a nature call, he leaned to give Margaret a kiss on the cheek along with a gruff, “Later,
querida.”

She glanced up at his slate-silver gaze, at the sensual curve to his lips, and she grinned. “Oh, my, yes.”

He winked and made for the bushes.

Meanwhile, Javier and Pedro were passing a bottle of something horrid back and forth. Pulque, they called it. One taste of the milky white stuff was enough to turn Margaret off it for eternity Thankfully neither of Villa's men seemed inclined toward intellectual dialogue. They were in their own realm, making fun of the world in general and Mexico City's citizens in particular. “Chilangos” was the mocking term. Chile-eaters. Wasn't that the pot calling the kettle black?

Villa stood and walked over to fill her wineglass. Now that she had given in to cooking, he played the munificent host. “Pretty toothpick, has your husband told you about his noble deeds of yesteryears?”

“No, Señor Villa, Rafe is much too modest”—wasn't that laughable?—“to brag.”

“But surely you have heard—”

“I'm afraid I've been at a disadvantage. I haven't gotten much word of Rafe as he was in Mexico, in the bygone days.” She smiled encouragement at the brigand. “I wouldn't be offended if you told me some of his exploits.”

“I was but a
muchacho,
wet behind the ears, when he was our country's great hope.”

Even though the light fell dim, thanks to evening shade, it was unmistakable, the hero worship in Villa's dark eyes. A mad thought struck, leaving her with the oddest feeling, rather a second sight. She visualized many thousands, if not millions of people giving their worship to this Pancho Villa.

Well, she knew it was a deranged thought.

Villa answered her query. “The Eagle was born rich as a king, yet from the time of his first cry as a babe, he gave all that he had to the less fortunate.”

“Go on.”

“It is said he was in swaddling clothes when he first transformed into the great bird of Zeus. The eagle is the symbol of Mexico, I assume you know. It is said he flew from his golden bassinet and soared over poverty's reaches. In his claws were grains from the Delgado silos. He rained wheat on the hungry villages.”

Oh, yes. Of course. Right.
Tell me another.

Villa sounded very like something she'd become acquainted with since crossing the Rio Grande. Mexicans were great ones for the exaggerated yarn. But fact was fact. Pancho Villa and his men revered
El Aguila Magnífico
, as Carmelita had. The question in Margaret's mind was, what had turned a member of the moneyed Delgado family into a revolutionary?

Actually, she wondered, too, about something else. What was going through his mind and heart, now that he was back in Mexico? Doing her own embellishing, she revealed, “My father said Rafe once had an army at his disposal.”

Actually, Papa had said a cadre of sorry-looking, under-armed so-and-so's had lounged around Rafe's hacienda, close to the village of Santa Alicia.

“Sí,
he had an army. Like me, they robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. And when the defeated Yaqui Indians were given over as slaves to work the mines,
El Aguila
stood up to the Arturianos. The balladeers will always sing to his valor.”

Impressive. “Tell me about this country.”

“It is no fun to be a Mexican of low birth,” said Villa. “Most of our people live in servitude and eternal arrears to their
patrón.
Arturo Delgado could be emperor, so far-reaching are the powers Porfirio Díaz gave him. The Federales might as well be Arturianos alone.
Señor Grandero Rico
has them in his pocket. Our Eagle knew this is not fair, not right, and goes against all human dignity.”

While she made no comment—she wasn't versed in the plight of the Yaqui Indians—she, naturally, had an opinion. Rafe, courageous and brave, had been no complainer sitting on his tush. He'd shown the courage to act. And he'd had the wisdom not to take her advice and shoot these men who'd come to their aid.

“. . . And it was such a sad day, when Hernándo Delgado died.” Villa shook his head in sorrow. “He was
El Aguila's
most trusted colonel, you see.”

“Hernándo
Delgado?”

“Yes, Delgado. He and the Eagle were cousins. Hernándo worshipped your husband. So much so that he rose up against his own father, Arturo Delgado.”

The pieces of the puzzle started to come together for her.

“A terrible accident happened,” Villa sighed. “Hernándo took a bullet during an abortive raid against the Santa Alicia silver mine.
El Grandero Rico
blames the magnificent Eagle. He claims your husband's was the killing bullet. Don Arturo seeks revenge against his own nephew.”

Poor Rafe. How awful, to have such a terrible tragedy happen in his family. No wonder he shied from guns. And the revenge—

“Ah, here is your husband. He will tell you about it.”

Villa's confidences weighed on her mind, but Rafe, smiling warmly in her direction, didn't appear in the confessional mood. Once she thought about it, she realized he wasn't the kind of man to do a lot of talking about the pains of life that hurt the most.

Villa's sidekicks began to sing an off-key version of
“Jesusita de Chihuahua.”
Javier and Pedro, she observed when the song tapered off, were more than merely drunk.
“Viva Mexico!”
was their chorus, obviously a favorite ode, though tributes to Rafe, Villa, and a hoped-for revolution went along with florid praise for mothers, motherhood, and the smoothness of tequila. They moved on to slurred remarks against the President, his supporters, and foreigners wielding too much power in Mexico, namely Americans. She began to get ill at ease.

“Spain has planted spies in our home state,” Villa announced. “They use us for their Cuban gains.”

Javier lurched to unsteady feet. “The bell for freedom tolls in Cuba.” It was almost a sob.

“Down with the Spanish and the lovers of Spain!” Pedro shook his fist.
“Cuba libre!”

Now they trod on family ground.

When Villa added his like opinion, she started getting hot under the collar.

Then Rafe agreed with the idiots, and Margaret exploded. “Not one of you knows what you're talking about.” She jumped to her feet, the chair wobbling behind her. “Why should Spain turn over Cuba to a bunch of ridiculous rebels? I've been told the majority of the islanders are lazy and shiftless, that they want to be hand-fed from the plates of their betters.”

“Are you making a joke?” asked Villa. “You joke about ‘betters.' ”

“Absolutely not. I feel—”

“¡Margarita,
silencio!”
Rafe set the guitar down.

“I will not hold my tongue. I've read about your country. And my father serves the United States, so I feel I'm in a better position to gauge the political situation, in a worldly and general scope, than a bunch of outlaws. Robbing from the rich won't settle Mexico's problems.”

Villa's men looked on the verge of murder. Villa had a shocked expression. Rafe clenched and unclenched his fists. Margaret kept talking. “You ought to be thankful for President Porfirio Díaz. For the first time since you demanded independence from Spain—and that was almost ninety years ago!—Mexico is experiencing peace and prosperity.”

“Do you know that many of Mexico's children have never tasted meat?” Rafe asked in the voice of restrained fury.

His question took her aback. Yet a good debater didn't quail. Furthermore, he no doubt exaggerated. He, himself, had called her attention to the well-being of those Indian tykes in Juarez. “There are two schools of thought on the meat issue,” she said. “Many authorities believe meat bad for the digestion.”

“One authority being the ace of the Jockey Club,” Villa said with a cynical chuckle, and looked at the other men for acknowledgment. “The mestizo Porfirio Díaz has turned on his own.”

His men were not chucking. Shouting imprecations, Pedro leaped from his place in front of the fire. Javier, the bigger of the two, lunged at Margaret, his knife raised.

Her fearful side demanded she scream and cower. Her brave front took over. “Put that thing away.”

Metal glinted in front of her eyes. She flinched.

In a flash Rafe knocked the knife to the ground. All hell broke loose, Pedro pouncing at him and Javier diving to retake his possession, but Villa stopped the fray, demanding, “Enough!”

Margaret shook. Why had she felt it necessary to lower herself to their level? The drunks retreated, thankfully. Rafe shot her a look of aggravation. Great God in heaven, here she was in the middle of nowhere with Mexican desperadoes, any one of whom would slit her throat. If she made it alive to Eden Roc, she was going to give her mother a large piece of her mind for taking a holiday in this wretched country.

B
e honest, Margaret McLoughlin. You go too far with wretched.
For all his crankiness and aloofness of late, Rafe had given many glowing descriptions of this land of Moctezuma, and she found beauty in it all, thanks to his clear love for his native land.

He stepped toward her. “Margarita, back off.”

Villa shook his head in disgust.
“El Aguila,
why did you marry such a woman?”

Rafe put a protective arm around her. “Please excuse my wife. She is of a rich family, and doesn't understand the plight of the poor.” His fingers cut into her upper arm. “Apologize, so these good men will know you meant no insult.”

Since she wished to see Manhattan again, and not from the interior of a pine box, she forced down another serving of crow And, to tell the truth, she was feeling somewhat awful about that meat remark.

Margaret glanced from one man to the next. She saw pride and determination. They would fight for their beliefs. Would Rafe be among the combatants? Images of blood and fallen bodies swam before her eyes, causing her stomach to lurch with dread.
And what about a more serious threat? Rafe's uncle would have vengeance.
She lectured herself to keep such worries under control. “I apologize. This is your land. You know it better than I.”

Remarkably, Javier offered an apology, too. “For—give me for my rash temper,” he said in a surprisingly sober voice. “But, lady,
mi doña,
I do not apologize for flying to the defense of poor people.”

“We are God's forgotten.” Pedro stood tall. “But the people of Mexico will rise to fight for freedom.”

Villa suggested, “Shall we cut the evening short?”

Everyone agreed.

As the bandits made preparations for beds under the full moon, Margaret didn't worry that her life might be at stake, that Javier would slink in under the dead of night to slit her throat. Rafe would protect her, come what may.

Protect her. And more. She craved the succor of his arms . . . and trembled with expectation. If there was anything to give thanks for, Rafe was it. Twice he'd flown to her defense, even if he didn't appear too keen on his stance at the moment. What woman wouldn't be both flattered and gladdened?

“Margarita?” Her gaze climbed to Rafe's troubled visage, and he asked, “Are you so callous that you have no regard for the plight of innocent children?”

“Rafe, must you make me feel guilty?”

“Someone needs to.”

“Well, I think you overstated the situation.”

He took a backward step. “Don't blind yourself, Margaret McLoughlin. This isn't a perfect world.”

Everything in his voice spoke to her heart, and she stared at the darkened ground. “I've spent my life studying various subjects. But maybe I have a lot left to learn.”

“That you recognize this is to your credit.”

She coerced her eyes to his. “I can't understand what I don't know. I recognize little children shouldn't suffer, whatever the state around them. But I stand by what I said on other scores.”

“Which proves you have a
lot
to learn.” Rafe grimaced, took her hand, then exhaled. “No more arguing, okay? Let's go to bed.”