Wild Sierra Rogue (34 page)

Esther smiled.
“Andele, muchacha
. Hurry, girl. Before it's too late.”

After packing the bare necessities into her saddlebags, Margaret rode hard for the Santa Alicia silver mine.
Don't let it be too late for us, Rafe, my darling!

The terrible ache of losing out on love twisted through Rafe to tie knots in his head and his muscles and his heart. When he'd been standing stalwart by his principles in the argument with Margarita, then had quit her as well as Rancho Gato, he'd neglected to consider the consequences of breaking up. He hadn't realized how much it could hurt.

A half-dozen times that day, he turned Diablo around. A half -dozen times he turned the stallion back around. Dying on the inside—dying without any help from the Arturianos!—Rafe persisted on his path to the Santa Alicia.

Anyway, it was too late to turn back.

He collected the armaments Villa had been stockpiling. He headed his band of men onward. They reached the foot of Santa Alicia Mountain just prior to the day shift leaving the mine. Already they knew Arturo had returned to the mine, thanks to a spy for Rafe's cause.

Rafe pulled in Diablo's reins. “Villa, my brother and I—Sean, too—will follow behind the slave drivers.” Any minute now the overseers would escort the night crew to the mouth of the mine. “Villa, take your men and surround the office. Clean out the safe and be gone.”

Villa waved, kneed his palomino, and pointed his men up the hill.

Rafe, his saddle creaking when he turned to the mining engineer, said, “Sean, you know what to do. Get into the mine and place the charges. But wait for my signal to set them.”

As he and his brother waited for the line of workers, Rafe couldn't help getting maudlin.
You've lost her, you fool. She was the best thing that ever happened to you. And now you've turned your back.

What if he quit right now? What if he begged forgiveness? He didn't expect her to be waiting, when he circled back to Rancho Gato. Probably-no doubt-she was long gone by now.

“I'll find her,” he vowed to his brother. “I'll make it up to her. Once I get rid of Arturo, I'll do anything 'Rita wants. I'll even move to”—he gulped—“New York City.”

“If you are alive to offer up the whole of yourself.”

“You sound like 'Rita.”

“Smart woman, your
gringa.
Wouldn't you agree?”

Rafe frowned. As if she rode next to him, he could hear her voice.
Tell your uncle what to do. He's not unreasonable. He's inclined to agree to demands.
Sure, and Porfirio Díaz would be sainted by the Mother Church! Despite his cynicism, Rafe swallowed and remembered the Tío of days gone by. He remembered his boyhood, when his uncle had been like a father to him. A fist clawed at his chest.

Xzobal glanced over Rafe's shoulder. “Here they come, the night shift.”

Rafe alit the saddle, hobbled Diablo, then replied, “Hold the drivers back. I'm going in to talk with my uncle.”

 

 

Fearing what she'd find on arrival at the Santa Alicia, Margaret put her spurs to Penny and rushed to the mine. She caught a glimpse of Father Xzobal as she started to climb the hill. A group of slaves sat on the ground, their overseers standing with arms raised in front of the clergyman's borrowed six-gun.

Margaret checked the open side of her saddlebag, making sure her passenger rode safely, then kicked Penny's flank. Pancho Villa and his men, bulging sacks thrown over their saddle horns, cheered as she approached.

Villa patted the sacks. “Ay, Señora Eagle. The poor will eat well tonight.”

“Will they now?” Arturo Delgado's finances wouldn't be ruined by one spell of robbery. And the bandit would do honor to his spoils. “Good for you, Pancho Villa!”

“Hasta luego.
pretty toothpick.” Villa and his Villanistas carried on.

 

 

Darkness. A pit of darkness, stinking and reeking of dust, sweat, vomit. Making every effort not to add her own gorge, Margaret held tight to the pulley; it creaked as she descended to the inferno of Dante.

A single lantern lit the bottom, a cavern of wide dimensions. Three cages of canaries hung from hooks in the ceiling. Slaves huddled in one corner. A man—she recognized the slave driver—lay prone and hog-tied on the rock floor. Cantú and Martín were also restrained.

A gash in his head, Sean Moynihan sat stunned, his back to a wall. Coils of detonator wire were stacked askance to his left. And Arturo had a pistol leveled on his nephew.

Likewise, Rafe had the Peacemaker trained on him.

Tension stretched even tighter in Margaret's nerves.

In the muted light she knew Rafe watched her from the corner of his eye. Those eyes demanded she leave.
I'm with you, Rafe. Come what may.

“What are you doing here, lovely Margaret?” asked Arturo.

She couldn't say, “I'm here to prostrate myself to Rafe and his any decision.” She couldn't fall to the ground and grab his ankle, kissing it over and over in remorse. Could she? This was a matter of pride.

“He forgot his dog.”

She reached into her pocket and extracted a handful of black Chihuahua, who yipped.

Arturo laughed.

Rafe groaned.

“You braved this mine to deliver a dog?” the uncle asked. “What a woman. Too bad you love this rogue. I would have enjoyed having you as my own. Are you sure you won't change your mind about me?”

“I would love to love you. As an
uncle.”

“Get out of here,” Rafe ordered her. “Get back to your cats.”

Her hopes plunged. What had she expected, though? A wet kiss, a wag of tail, and doleful eyes begging for a reconciliation?

She turned her attentions to the uncle. “Put down the gun. You can't shoot him. You can't shoot Rafe any more than he can shoot you. Thank God.” She walked up to Arturo and put her hand on his free arm. “You love him. That's why it hurts so much, isn't it? Because you lost
two
sons that night eight years ago.”

“No, Arturo, I've not said enough. Stop this infernal feud. Stop it right now.”

“I wouldn't listen to my nephew when he said these same things, why would I listen to you?”

Startled, she glanced at Rafe.
You went with my idea?
His telepathic reply: Yes. Her heart danced a jig of joy. A grin did the polka across her face. All wasn't lost!

If the Delgado men didn't shoot each other, that is.

Determined to keep at the elder Delgado, she pivoted around to face him. Caballo held to the right of her breast, she stepped up to Arturo. He held out his left hand to ward off the dog, but Caballo's long pink tongue darted out, laving the side of the human's hand.

“He likes you,” Margaret commented. “And I've found him to be a fairly good judge of character. Would you like to hold him?”

“No.”

She leaned toward Arturo's ear, whispering in a no-nonsense tone, “I am ashamed of you. Unwilling to bend with your nephew. And now you insult his little dog. I've had enough of the Delgado family feud. You
will
call it off. You
will
give Rafe his rightful legacy. And you
will
atone for your wrongs.” She straightened and held out her palm. Her voice rose. “Hand me the gun. And I mean it!”

He placed the cold steel in her hand.

Neither Rafe nor his uncle had been able to fire on the other, and, as it were, neither man ever again leveled a firearm at another person.

It was difficult to believe that the horrors of the Santa Alicia would end, but end it did. After reconciling with his nephew, Arturo Delgado went to see his attorney He renounced all claims to the estate of Constanzo Delgado.

“In Hernán's honor,” he told Rafe and Margaret after signing the documents, “and yours, too.”

The happy couple smiled at each other, Rafe snaking his arm around her waist. Once Arturo handed over the firearm, they had fallen into each other's arms.

It was Arturo who pleaded for mercy. He got it.

The Delgado family was once again whole. Even Soledad—who had hated her brother-in-law for as long as she'd known him—appeared at the fiesta Rafe organized for the people of Santa Alicia. The festivities were held on the thirteenth of February, 1898.

Yes, Arturo attended the fiesta.

Helga accompanied him.

With his personal fortune—he did have some money and property in his own right—Arturo Delgado promised to build a school for the children of Santa Alicia. He also promised to leave Mexico, to make a start in another country. Cuba might be the spot, he said. Already Cantú and Martín—both now recovered, as was Sean Moynihan—had offered to go with him to the West Indies.

Arturo hugged his nephew before he took his leave, then kissed Margaret's cheek. “Thank you, dear lady, for showing me the way.”

“I imagine your son would be pleased to know how everything has turned out,” she said.

Arturo's eyes glistened. “Yes, he would be pleased.”

 

 

On the bedside table in the master suite at El Aguilera Real, sat a Spanish-language copy of
Christopher
Columbus and the Catholic Kings
. Rafe had finished reading it an hour ago. It was the first book he'd ever finished. The author was pleased and proud, even before he had given her a left-handed compliment: “It's much better than most of the crap I've tried to read.”

Later that night, atop the erotic red coverlet at El Aguilera Real, Rafe held his
enamorada
in his arms. Lodged high in her womanly place, they were joined as he'd always wished . . . to where she could never get away. It all seemed too good to be true, life.

“Xzobal leaves day after tomorrow for Spain.” Rafe nibbled her neck, drawing shivers of excitement. “Are we, or are we not, going to ask him to marry us?”

Her fingertips drew invisible hearts into his thick mat of black chest hair, her toes making circles on the top of his feet. Oh, how she loved this man.
Thank you
,
Papa, for sending me to him!
“My darling rogue, you have the best ideas . . .” She licked the scar at his lip. “What a fabulous way to spend Valentine's Day.”

They sealed it with a kiss.

It was an hour before the doors would open to the public.

Tall stacks of
The Tears of Cuauhtémoc
by Margarita Delgado de McLoughlin lined the Manhattan bookstore. This time the publisher hadn't insisted on a male pseudonym, thanks to the author's prominence as an expert on Mexico.

Nonetheless, a nervous Margaret stood at the back of the store, wringing her hands. “Our family is so scattered. Do you think everyone will get here on time?”

“They will be here,
querida.”

Rafe had such trust in family and friends—as well as in train and ship arrivals! How she loved this husband of hers. A crashing noise to the rear drew her attention. Both she and Rafe lunged for the sturdy lads—better known as The Stairsteps—who now wailed from the center of a dislodged stack of their mother's books.

Rafe took Hernándo into his arms; Margaret took charge of young Rafael. Angus, blond and blue-eyed like his namesake, got a stern word from his father; he stuck out his tongue and marched to Soledad Paz, who doted on him as well as her other grandsons.

A helpful store clerk righted the volumes.

The front door creaked open. Addressing the clerk who had just finished stacking those books, a familiar voice filled the air like rolling thunder on the Loch Ness. “Doona ye be standing there, ye jackanapes. The way ye loaf on the job, I would be thinking ye English.”

“Actually, madam, I am.”

“Weel, fine. I will be looking for the authoress. My great-granddaughter, ye see. She wrote yon book. How much is the treatise?”

“A dollar, madam.”

“A whole
dollar?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He offered an arm. “May I escort you to your granddaughter?”

Rafe and Margaret rolled their eyes at each other. Maisie never changed. They handed the boys to their paternal uncle, who'd had second thoughts about Spain, once he had a taste of it.

Maisie, tartan cloth draping her shoulders, marched down the aisle, the lift in her step belying her age—105. “Ye've a nerve, missy, asking highway robbery for yer book. I'll be trusting ye did a good job. Ye always do. Did ye do right by the Mexican people? In yer book and on yer plantations?”

“Haciendas. We call them haciendas. And, no, we couldn't save everyone. But we've saved our own people. It's up to our friends like Villa and Zapata and
la cucaracha
Madera to handle the overall scheme of revolution. But it will happen. The whole of Mexico will change for the better.”

“I trust ye willna leave yer wee lads—me very own great-great-grandbairns!—in the line of fire?” Family pride fought with concern in the centenarian's gullied visage.

“Believe me, we'll take care of our boys,” Rafe replied.

Maisie turned to him. “Hello, lad. Ye get prettier every year.”

Rafael Delgado Senior had made many strides in his years with Margaret, but his vanity remained fair. He preened like a peacock under his great-grandmother-in-law's praise.

“Whatever happened t' that Eden Roc?” she asked.

A pang of sadness for the Nashes went through Margaret. “It's in ruin. All grown over in vines. The falls stopped flowing the day Isaiah died.”

“'Tis a pity. I cooulda used yon place.”

More of the McLoughlin clan filed into the bookstore. Gil and Lisette headed the list, she as lovely as ever. Recently, Gil had retired from government, and they had returned to the Four Aces Ranch. They were more in love than ever.

Again the front door opened. Fresh from Europe came the Hawk branch of the clan. The children, all spit and shine, bounced toward their aunt and uncle. There were the girl twins, Leslie and Sharon. And their younger brother, Narramore.

Hawk and Charity had much news to impart. The Osage nation had become wealthy beyond imagination, thanks to oil being discovered on their reservation. Charity crowed over Hawk's contribution to that good fortune. Years ago he worked diligently to retain those mineral rights for his people.

“And we're back in the States for good,” the flamboyant Charity announced. “I've just signed a contract to perform in motion pictures!”

A hum of oohs and aahs coursed around the books and through the air. But today was for Margaret, and everyone praised her devotion to her adopted country. Her love and dedication to the Mexican people shone from each page of her story.

She almost didn't hear the door opening one more time.

“Sissy?”

Margaret turned. A beautiful dark-haired woman, cane in hand, hesitated at the entrance. Dark glasses covered her eyes. Margaret rushed up the aisle and hugged her. “I was scared your ship wouldn't dock in time. It's so good to see you. And you're looking more exquisite than ever.”

“Pish-posh. I have sockets where my eyes used to be. But the pain is gone.” The Dowager Countess of Granada beamed. “For that I am thankful.”

“Where is your son?” Margaret asked.

“Outside. His Tío Arturo is showing him a display of ducks in a pet shop. They will be here in a few minutes.”

“Tío
Arturo? This wouldn't be
our
Arturo, would it?”

“One and the same. He and Helga sailed with me. They'd been on holiday at Biarritz, you see. What a great help they were. They so love little Vicente. You know how it is with childless couples.”

“What about you? Are you happy?”

“Very.” A serene smile tilted lovely lips. “I bring good news. I am in love with an Englishman. A specialist who works with the visually impaired. We'll be married in the fall.”

The sisters embraced. But Charity walked up to tap Margaret on the shoulder, and pout. “You always did love her more than you love me.”

A trio of giggles bounced through the store. The triplets loved their old joke. There were no favorites. Their love for one another remained unequivocal. Margaret scanned the faces of all her loved ones. They were all here. All but Tex.

Tears burned the back of her eyes. He'd promised to return from Cuba, if for no other reason to get an autographed copy of the book now on the shelves.

She'd dedicated
The Tears of Cuauhtémoc
to Tex's memory. On the fifteenth of February, 1898, the day after she and Rafe had married, the McLoughlins' young lion went down with the
Maine
.

The bespectacled clerk approached, dragging her thoughts to the present. Thankfully.

“Would you mind taking your seat now, Mrs. Delgado? There seems to be a line at the door . . .”

She glanced to the entrance and saw Dean Ira Ayckbourn heading the queue.
My life would have been so different if I'd said no to Papa, and had started teaching at Brandington.
And then she caught sight of another familiar face. That of Frederick von Nimzhausen. She smiled. When Academic Press had announced the release of her study of the modern Mexican people, Frederick had been the first to send a letter of congratulations.

“Stranger things have happened,” Rafe said at the time, and his wife agreed.

Rafe, his limp barely noticeable anymore, stepped forward to take her hand. “It's time to sit down,
querida.”
He leaned to whisper, “I'm so proud of you, my love.”

Her fingers lifted to his wondrous face, and her gaze welded to his. “Even if I fight my wars with a typewriter rather than with Sir Colt?”

“Don't ask ridiculous questions, woman.” In front of her family, as well as a window filled with onlookers, her wild Sierra rogue swatted her behind.

A matron near the door said to her elderly companion, “As I live and breathe! What are these times coming to, when a man fondles a woman in public?”

“Good times.”

Margaret quite agreed.