Desert Dreams (20 page)

"What happened to you?" she asked softly.

"Jesus, Annie!" He paced back and forth in front of
her.

She sat on the bedroll, watching him struggle with the
emotion so close to the surface. Something was eating him up inside. What
secret horror lived in his mind, escaping only at night to torment him? She had
thought him invincible, so untouchable that the proof of his vulnerability
overwhelmed her as it had the first time she'd witnessed it.

"It might help you to talk about it," she said
hesitantly, wanting him to tell her, yet at the same time dreading what he
might reveal. She steeled herself for whatever was to come.

"It was while I was in the army," he began quietly,
"I tracked a band of
comancheros
into
Mexico. They set a trap for me and I fell right into it. They staked me out in
the desert with wet rawhide straps." He paused, clenching his hands into
fists at his sides. "Do you know what happens to rawhide when it dries? It
shrinks. It would have cut through my wrists and ankles to the bone if someone
hadn't come along. I... I couldn't move."

He had to stop speaking momentarily to regain control of his
emotions and steady his voice. She almost asked him not to go on, but before
she could speak, he continued in a taut voice. "I couldn't—the sky was
full of buzzards. I kept slipping in and out of consciousness, but I woke up
one time to see one of them sitting on my chest looking me in the eye.
I...
I
couldn't move."

Her throat constricted as a terrible shudder ran through her.
She closed her eyes to block the images his words had evoked.

The need to touch him, to comfort him in some way, nearly
overwhelmed her. It must have cost him dearly to share what must surely be his
darkest memory. He seemed so fragile suddenly, as if he could break into a
thousand pieces at any moment.

She made to rise, to go to him, but he seemed to anticipate
her purpose and stepped back from her, holding up a hand.

"Don't. I don't want your pity. I don't want you to care
about me. Don't you understand?"

"Why?" she whispered. "Why would anyone do
that to you?"

"I made a lot of enemies when I was in the army."

"Someone would have to really hate you to do something
like that. Why didn't they just kill you?"

Rafe released a bitter snort. "That's not El
Alacran's
way."

"El
Alacran
?"

"Felipe Delgado." His eyes hardened as he spoke the
name. "He calls himself the Scorpion. He sets traps, and when he's caught
his quarry, he likes to toy with it awhile before he destroys it."

"Why does he hate you so?" She almost dreaded the
answer.

"El
Alacran
and I go way
back," he replied. "His mother was the daughter of a powerful man in
northern Mexico. She was fifteen when the Apaches kidnapped her. Fifteen years
later, the army found her and her half-breed child living with a band of
Mescaleros
in the
Potrillo
Mountains.

"Tomas Delgado identified the woman as his long-lost
daughter, Elena. The boy was so violent he had to be incarcerated at Fort
Bliss. Tomas and Elena moved into a small house close to the fort to be near
the boy while the long process of civilization began. Elena couldn't adjust to
life among her own people, and the whites would not accept her."

"Why?" she asked. Her heart pounded in her chest as
her head reeled with images of what must have happened to that fifteen-year old
girl.

Rafe smiled bitterly. "Most of them believed she should
killed herself."

She dropped her gaze from his uncompromising gray eyes.
"Do you?"

"Doesn't matter what I think."

She looked up to find him still studying her intently.
"It matters to me."

He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, running a hand
through his hair. "I don't know, Annie. How could I?" He sighed, his
gaze holding hers prisoner. "Indian captives, they're not usually
treated... they usually don't survive very long. Every now and then one manages
to assimilate into Indian society. I think that's what Elena did. I don't know.
She ran away in the dead of night, leaving her son behind.

"Tomas thought he could civilize Felipe. He took him
into his home, educated him.... Felipe repaid him by slitting his throat and
running away with all the gold and silver and jewels he could find in the
house. He became a
comanchero
. He raided into
Texas, then crossed the border into Mexico where the army would not follow,
until they decided it was time to put a stop to it.

"We followed them across the Rio Grande, right back to
their camp. We didn't know... there were women in the camp—and children.
Captives mostly, but El
Alacran
had his woman and his
infant son with him. There was so much confusion—bullets flying everywhere—the
baby was killed. There's no way of knowing if the bullet was army issue or not,
but El
Alacran
always blamed me."

"You personally? But—"

"I commanded the raid. I led the attack into Mexico,
something El
Alacran
never expected. He was ruined,
and the only thing he ever cared about in his whole damned miserable life was
dead."

"It wasn't your fault."

"No, but it doesn't matter. It took him two years, but
he finally exacted his vengeance."

She swallowed, trying hard not to think of all the unanswered
questions screaming in her head.

Five years ago... a woman... El
Alacran
.

There was more to the story, much more, but she couldn't
bring herself to probe further. If what he'd left out was worse than what he
had revealed, she decided she'd just as soon not know.

"Who found you?" she asked.

"A bandit named Jose
Carvajal
.
He nursed me back to health and taught me how to survive in the desert. He
taught me a lot of things."

"I don't know what to say. I wish—"

"Don't say anything."

He strapped his gun belt on. "Nothing's changed,
Annie."

"Everything's changed," she said, rising unsteadily
to her feet. "I understand so many things now that I didn't understand
before. If only you would let me—"

"You don't understand anything." The muscle in his
jaw flexed. His face seemed to have been carved from granite. "You can't
help me. I'm not worth the trouble anyway. There's so much... so much you don't
know, so much I don't want you to know. If you knew me, the things I've done,
you wouldn't be standing there talking to me. You'd be running as fast as you
could."

She took a step toward him, stopping at the stony look that
pierced her heart. "I know you. I know what kind of man you are. You're
the kind of man who would take me to a doctor instead of leaving me to die in
the desert."

"I couldn't leave you to die. I don't know where the
gold is."

"And why don't you?" she asked stubbornly,
determined to make him see his own goodness. "Why haven't you forced me to
tell you where it is? You could. You know it and I know it. Because of the kind
of man you are, that's why. You're the kind of man who would hold me and
comfort me yesterday in the middle of a scene that must have brought back your
worst memories."

"Let it be, Annie, and I mean it this time. Just let it
be. I'm going to keep watch for a while. Go back to bed."

With that he walked away, leaving her to stare after him
through the tears she could no longer control.

Chapter 13

Anne pulled her hat
down lower over
her forehead, shielding her eyes from the glaring sunlight. Up ahead, the
little town of San Juan Bautista slept in deceptive tranquility, its white
adobe buildings glistening in the midday sun.

She breathed in the scent of water from the river, which
seemed so like home yet so different. The vegetation that lined both sides of the
Rio Grande was sparse and pale compared to the trees and undergrowth along the
Mississippi. In every direction, the sun-scorched plains stretched to the
horizon, but a gentle breeze rustled the leaves and caressed her sun-parched
skin. For a moment, she could almost forget...

They had traveled all day in silence, reaching Eagle Pass and
crossing the Rio Grande into Mexico, then turning south to follow the winding
river.

For most of the time, Anne lagged slightly behind, allowing
Rafe the distance he obviously needed. She studied his rigid back. He was
embarrassed at having confided in her. He'd described an episode in his life
when he'd been vulnerable, not in control. It must have cost him.

He was so proud, so private. Yet he had given her a glimpse
into his tortured soul last night. She cherished it like a gift, even as her
mind recoiled in horror.

She'd known all along that he'd been through some experiences
she couldn't even imagine. One only had to look into his eyes to know he'd seen
and done things that were better left unexposed. And for the first time, she
realized that the hard, uncompromising exterior he presented to the world was
as much to keep things inside as it was to keep people out.

There were things he hadn't told her about this El
Alacran
and what had happened between them. Questions still
plagued her. Was El
Alacran
still chasing Rafe? If he
held Rafe responsible for the death of his son, would leaving him in the desert
to die have been enough to settle the score? Did he know that Rafe had
survived? And, if so, would he want to kill him now?

The sound of shouting, laughing voices struck a discordant
note. They seemed somehow eerie against the seriousness of her thoughts.

Rafe had come to a stop on the edge of the town, and Anne
drew up beside him. "Is it some kind of holiday?" she asked.

"Don't know." They were the first words he had
spoken to her all day.

As they turned onto the main road into town, they saw what
must have been the entire population lining the street on both sides, spilling
out into the surrounding countryside.

An old man in white shirt and trousers passed in front of
them, and Rafe called out to him in Spanish. The man stopped and turned to face
Rafe with a gap-toothed grin, responding in the same language.

"What did he say?" she asked as the man scurried
across the street and Rafe urged his horse forward.

"It's a wedding. The daughter of the
patron."

"Patron?"

"Probably a big ranchero whose wealth supports the
village," he explained over his shoulder.

They stopped in front of the hotel, and Rafe dismounted. A
man on the sidewalk stepped toward them with a smile. He clapped Rafe on the
back and the two of them conversed in Spanish as if they'd been friends all
their lives.

"Gracias,"
Rafe finally
said. It was the only word in the entire exchange that Anne understood.

"Do you know that man?" she asked.

"No, but it doesn't matter. Anybody who rides into town
peaceably today is considered a friend." As the Mexican returned to his
companions, Rafe continued, "We're invited to the fiesta."

She glanced around. It was like Carnival in New Orleans, only
on a much smaller scale, of course. She couldn't remember the last time she'd
been among such merry people, and she tried not to show her eagerness in front
of Rafe for fear he'd make fun of what he would surely see as childishness. He
was always so serious.

She turned to find him staring up at her with an expression
she couldn't read. Then he walked around to the left side of her horse, holding
his arms up to her.

She placed her hands on his shoulders. His muscles flexed
beneath her grasp as he swung her to the ground in front of him. His face
hovered close over hers as he held her a moment longer than was necessary. A
disturbing current ran between them, and then he pulled his hands away as if
he'd been burned.

"The hotel's full," he told her, his voice raw with
emotion. “Sorry. I know you were looking forward to a real bed.”

Anne shrugged, her heart lighter than it had been in
weeks-maybe months-maybe longer. Music filled the air and she followed the
sound to a small band that wended its way through the tables set up in the
plaza. “I’ll manage.”

"I saw a good place to make camp by the river on the way
into town." He nodded toward the plaza the townspeople were starting to
fill. "At least we can get a decent meal. You go ahead, and I'll set up
camp."

"Are you sure?" she asked, sensing that he wanted
to be alone but also a little nervous the prospect of being on her own,
remembering what had happened the last few times that had happened.

"I won't be long." He must have read something in
her expression because he added, “It’ll be all right, Annie. It’s still
daylight. Just stay with the crowd and keep that pistol of yours close.”

She watched him lead the horses off. He looked straight ahead,
but she knew he was surveying his surroundings, looking for threats as he
always did.

When had he stopped being a frightening gunfighter and become
a man she had come to rely on so much that now, watching him walk away from
her, she felt naked, defenseless, alone.

When had he changed from predator to protector?

Five years ago... a woman... El
Alacran
.

Threads that somehow made a whole, a whole so terrible they
tormented his dreams and drove him to kill over and over. How could she call such
a man protector? How could her heart have softened toward him? How could she
actually yearn for him, miss him when he’d only been gone a matter of moments?

They were connected, she knew it. The woman kidnapped.

“What makes you think I rescued someone?”

She hadn’t wanted to think about the implication at the time,
but it was clear. The woman had died, maybe like the woman they’d in the
desert, a sight that still disturbed her sleep. He’d called it a trap. Was she
someone he knew?

Was she Christina?

“No.”

She couldn’t let the images form. She didn’t want to know,
even though she knew she had to. Or did she? Her relationship with Rafe
Montalvo was finite. They would find the gold and she would use her share to
buy her aunt’s house in Ubiquitous. And he would go on fighting the demons that
drove him. She didn’t have to delve any deeper into his secrets than she had
already.

And yet…

It was long moments before she tore her gaze from the place
where he’d disappeared and made her way to the celebration in the plaza, her
heart telling her to follow him instead and her head telling her to let it be.

***

Leaning against
a tree beside the river, Rafe gazed toward San Juan Bautista. He could hardly
see the town for the trees and the uneven terrain. But that was why he had
chosen this spot: isolated, private, defensible. He could hear the sounds of
music and laughter, of happy, shouting voices.

He closed his eyes, and his mind forced him back in time to
another wedding. God, it seemed so long ago, a lifetime ago. She had been so
beautiful, so ethereal in her flowing white dress, her face flushed and
radiant.

They'd danced the first dance together. Then he'd lost track
of her as the men vied for a dance with his bride, while he stood talking with
his brother about duty and responsibility and family. Every now and then he'd
catch a glimpse of her as she whirled across the plaza, and she would beam a
smile like sunshine in his direction.

He wished he could remember her like that: happy, beautiful,
innocent. He wished he'd never met her. If he'd never met her, she'd still be
alive.

"Damn you to everlasting hell!" Michael's words
still reverberated in his head. "If you had been a true husband to her,
she wouldn't have had to come here."

He had reacted without thinking, striking out with his fist,
hitting Michael hard enough to knock him off his feet. His brother had lain on
the floor, gazing up at him with eyes full of loathing as he blotted the blood
from the corner of his mouth.

"She wouldn't have been on that indefensible road,"
Michael had murmured.

"Just what went on here between you and my wife,
brother?" Rafe had demanded.

He'd never really thought about it before: Michael and
Christina. He'd been too busy to pay much attention to Christina's comings and
goings, and he'd seen her friendship with Michael as a godsend. It kept her
occupied, gave her something to fill her time when he was away.

But then he'd gone to Michael to tell him what had happened.
It was six months after her death. He'd been more dead than alive himself, and
he'd gone to see Michael as soon as he'd been able. Perhaps he wanted
absolution, he didn't even know anymore. All he knew was that Michael had
attacked him with such venom and such passion that he had been forced to
examine that relationship for the first time.

Of course Michael had denied his accusations, but Rafe had
spent the past five years wondering, vacillating between nagging doubt and the
sure knowledge that there couldn't have been anything between his brother and
his wife. His brother was a priest for God’s sake.

But it did no good to speculate. His brother hated him, and
his wife was dead.

"You are no brother of mine!" Michael's words still
reverberated in his mind, adding to the pain and desolation. Even his own
brother had turned his back on him....

"Amigo."

Rafe spun around, his pistol drawn, to see Jose
Carvajal
standing behind him with another man, one who was
bound, his face bruised and bloodied.

"Damn, Jose, I could have killed you! What the hell were
you thinking, sneaking up on me like that?"

Jose stepped forward, dragging his prisoner with him. When he
was only a few feet from Rafe, he shoved the bound man forward and he fell to
his knees in the dirt.

Rafe glanced past Jose to see another captive astride a horse,
his hands bound behind his back and a gag in his mouth.

"I brought you a gift,
amigo
.”

“You’re supposed to be keeping an eye on Annie.”

“Si, I was – both eyes. That’s how I found these two. They
have been following her."

Fury surged inside Rafe. He wanted to kill them both right
then and there. It took everything he had not to. He needed them to talk first.

Rafe walked to the captive on the ground, lifting him to his
feet by the collar. The face he gazed into was much younger than he would have
guessed. In fact, he was more boy than man, probably no older than fifteen or
sixteen.

"Don't you recognize him,
amigo
?" Jose
asked. "Look closely."

Rafe studied the boy intently: his dark eyes and boyish
mouth, his high cheekbones and hawk nose. Realization dawned, and a cold
violence settled on his heart.

"Carlos." Rafe breathed the word.

"Si, Carlos Delgado, El
Alacran's
cousin." Jose motioned over his shoulder. "The other one is Diego
Munoz, El
Alacran's
right-hand man."

If there was one human being in the world whom El
Alacran
loved, it was his cousin. When his own son had died
seven years ago, El
Alacran
had kidnapped the son of
his mother's brother. Carlos had been eight years old at the time, and since
then El
Alacran
had raised the boy as his own.

“Are they alone?”

Jose nodded. “There are others but I don’t think they are
together.”

Rafe snapped around to face Jose. “Others?”

“A group of gringos. They’ve been trailing you since
yesterday. But they are a good day behind and very disorganized. They can’t stop
fighting long enough to make any progress.”

Satisfied, Rafe drew his knife, pressing the cold metal to
the youth's throat, gratified by the look of terror in those dark Delgado eyes.
It would be so easy to kill the whelp. Slit his throat and send him back to his
uncle. Blood for blood.

"Why were you following the woman, boy?" Rafe
ground out. When the boy didn't reply, Rafe increased the pressure, nicking the
skin. "I'd like nothing better than to kill you, so if I were you I'd
start talking."

Carlos Delgado began to pant in fear. "My cousin wants
to... to talk to her."