Desperado (23 page)

She stood and walked over to him. Although he remained stiff and unresponsive, she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. Only when he relaxed a bit and mumbled something about her cutting off his circulation did she let him loose. He smiled grimly at her attempt to comfort him and palmed her bottom, rubbing intimately.

“Ra-afe!”

“Just checking to see if it was still there.”

At least his humor was back, even if it was at her expense.

Mary chuckled and Hector giggled, the first sound of amusement she'd heard from him. Zeb added sagely, “A man should pinch his wife's arse at least onct a day ta show 'er who's boss. That's what my pappy allus said.”

Mary guffawed, leaning down to give Zeb a whack on the back.

The old man cringed. “Tarnation, girl, you got the boomiest voice in the whole valley. Even worse than that feller of yers . . . What's his name? Hank?”

“Not Hank. Yank. And he's not my feller.”

“Hah! He follers you around like a randy bull. Givin' you those yellow dime novels to get yer juices risin'. Yep, I'd say he's yer feller all right. Jist waitin' fer the right moment ta corner ya, he is.”

They all laughed then, forgetting for the moment the somber situation they were in.

T
hat evening, very late, Helen sat up waiting for Rafe to finish his shift at the gambling hall. She tried to read one of Mary's dime novels,
The Maiden and the Knave
, by lantern light, but was too distracted by her many worries.

Zeb and Hector slept soundly on the floor, wrapped in the extra blankets Rafe had brought from the house.

Helen needed to talk to Rafe about their future. So many things were happening to them so quickly. Maybe now he'd agree to go back to the landing site. But what about Pablo? And the parachutes? Exhaustion soon overtook her, and she decided to lie down, just for a minute.

It was already daylight when she awakened to a loud pounding on the door. The first thing she did was look to her left in the bed.

No Rafe.

Oh, my God! He never came back from work. Something must have happened. Oh, my God!

“It's that Indiana Girl,” Zeb said, sitting up groggily on his floor pallet.

“Helen, open up. It's me, Mary.”

Helen opened the door. “What? What's happened?”

“It's yer husband. He's been hurt. Now, don't get yerself all in a fret. He ain't dead.”

Dead?
That thought had never occurred to Helen. Helen dressed and hurried over to the Indiana House with Mary. Despite her admonitions to stay behind, Zeb and Hector followed after them.

Along the way, Mary informed her, “We found him in the back of The Lucky Dollar. He wuz beaten up mighty bad, but don't you be worryin' none. Papa and me strapped up those cracked ribs and cleaned up the blood from—”

“Blood?” Helen squeaked out.

Mary waved her hand with unconcern. “Mostly jist from a wallop to the nose. He has a few loose teeth, but he din't lose none. Lots of bruises, though.”

Well, that's reassuring
. “Who did this?” Helen asked icily.

“I don't rightly know, and I don't think yer husband does, either. Too dark las' night.”

“But why?”

“To teach 'im a lesson, and cuz he's a Mexican, I s'pose. Mos' addlepated men don't need much reason fer a fight.”

Helen seethed with indignation. The slimy bigots!

“You know you two have got ta leave Rich Bar, don't you? Tain't safe fer you here.”

Helen nodded. Maybe this would be the push that would convince Rafe they should try to go home.

“Course, you got to head north fer a bit,” Mary added, as if reading her mind.

Helen shivered with foreboding, sensing she would not like Mary's next words.

She didn't.

“Some men come up from Sacramento City yestiddy, and they claim yer husband is some outlaw—the Angel Bandit, I think—and yer some soiled dove by the name of Elena.” She eyed Helen suspiciously. “I don't s'pose you know anythin' 'bout that?”

Helen's chin dropped before she started to howl with laughter, probably hysteria. She was still laughing when she and Mary, arms linked, entered the room where Rafe had been taken.

“Great! I'm dying, and she's laughing,” Rafe slurred, his eyelids fluttering in an effort to fight sleep, or unconsciousness.

Helen looked at Mr. Stanfield, who sat near the bed. “We gave him a few dollops of whiskey ta kill the pain,” he explained sheepishly.

“A few dollops!” Mary whooped. “'Pears ta me you dumped the whole durn jug down his gullet.”

Helen moved closer to the bed, and her laughter died. Mr. Stanfield had removed all Rafe's clothes, except for his boxers. To her horror, she saw that most of Rafe's body, from forehead to calves, was covered with cuts or bruises or swellings. Tight strips of linen had been wrapped around his ribs.

Rafe moaned.

In that instant, Helen made a decision. It was the only decision she could make, of course. She had to get Rafe somewhere to recuperate, where he would be safe until the time was right to return to the future.

“Zeb,” she said, turning to the old man standing behind her in the doorway, twisting his hat in his hands. Tears misted his eyes, witness to the affection he'd come to feel for Rafe these past few days.

“Yessum?” Zeb answered, stepping forward.

“Is your offer still open for Rafe and me to work your claim with you up in the mountains?”

Zeb's rheumy eyes brightened with sudden hope. “Thanks be ta God! It surely is.”

“Then it looks like we're all going to be gold prospectors together for a while. Partners.”

“God sent you two ta save me,” Zeb declared vehemently. “I jist knew Effie would have a talk with the good Lord, and He sent you, sure as shootin'.”

Helen smiled at his whimsical words.

Hector tugged on Zeb's hand, and both of them looked at Helen.

Helen hesitated for only a moment. “Heck, why not! Yes, Hector can come with us, too.”

In a spirit of camaraderie, they turned to the bed, where Rafe was snoring lightly. At least, they thought he was snoring until he cracked one eye open and tried to grin through his split lip. He held out a hand for Helen, and she sat down next to him on the bed, barely stifling a cry over his pitiful condition.

“Am I still a handsome devil?” he teased. He looked like a battered Rocky after the worst of his fights.

“Oh, yeah.”

He crooked the fingers of one hand at her, motioning her closer. When her face was near his, he whispered, almost
knocking her over with the fumes from his whiskey breath, “Did Zeb tell you the name of his claim?”

She shook her head slowly, wary of the gleam in Rafe's eyes.

“Angel Valley,” he informed her with a laugh that came out more like a choke. “It must be fate.”

She pressed a soft kiss on his cheek and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. It was matted with blood.

“Helen, my tongue feels funny.”

“It's probably numb from the booze.”

“Nope,” he said, attempting to shake his head but groaning with the painful effort. “I think my tongue's having a hard-on.”

Helen laughed through her tears. “You're delirious.”

“No, I'm not,” Rafe argued. “Come and lie down with me, Helen. I want you to check my tongue.”

She pulled her hand out of his and eased herself off the bed. “Behave, Rafe.”

“We're all partners now, aren't we?” Rafe asked with a little sweep of his hand that encompassed her and Zeb and Hector.

“Yes,” she agreed.

His eyes were serious then. “Are you my partner, Helen?”

She knew the question had meanings beyond the mere words, but she didn't need time to consider. “Yes.”

C
ould this be paradise? . . .

H
igher and higher they climbed, for four long days, into the thickly wooded Sierra Nevada mountains.

As the bird flies, it should have taken them only one day, but there wasn't any road up the pine-scented, sometimes impenetrable terrain. The higher they climbed, the cooler and thinner the air became. No wonder the number of prospectors dwindled to almost zero as they moved farther from civilization.

“Don't you be worryin' none,” Zeb kept reassuring them. “You'll see, it's the bes' spot in all Californey. A real paradise, Angel Valley is.”

Helen
was
impressed with the splendor of their surroundings. Pine trees rose to monumental heights. In the safety of age-old solitude, deer stood surprisingly near, watching their progress with limpid eyes before bounding off.

But what a crew we are!
Helen thought with a rueful shake of her head.

First, an aging prospecter cussing out his stubborn mule, and spitting.
Spitting!
Zeb had given up boozing, but he persisted with his equally deplorable habit—tobacco chewing.
Yeech!

Second, an eight-year-old Mexican boy whose brooding silence melted away layer by layer the farther they traveled from Rich Bar. Hector's constant, youthful chattering amazed them all. You'd never know the resilient boy had just lost both parents and a little sister. The child took great delight in every little animal—the tiny lizards who peered up from mossy rocks, the pastel-colored butterflies flitting amongst the numerous wildflowers, and the saucy squirrels nibbling on sweet acorns.

Third, a battered, infuriating, gorgeous L.A. lawyer who rode his F. Lee horse stoically up the punishing incline. One eye was swollen almost completely shut. His bottom lip was split and seeping blood. At each rest stop, Helen checked his ribs and drew the bandages tighter. But, as they traveled, his tight jaw and occasional blue language were his only concessions to what must be unbearable torture for his beaten body.

And finally, her—a presumably sane, level-headed military officer skipping off into the wilderness with a stranger, who could be Freddy Krueger for all they knew, and an even more dangerous male who melted her heart with the smallest glance.

She smiled. A little while ago, they'd started to travel downhill, and the riding was easier.

“There it is! There it is!” Zeb shouted and kicked his mule to spur it down the remainder of the sloping path. Hector galloped quickly after him on his pony.

“Oh, my God!” Helen and Rafe exclaimed at the same time.

It
was
paradise, just as Zeb had boasted. She and Rafe exchanged a look of incredulity.

Zeb's crude cabin nestled at the bottom of a tiny valley,
surrounded on four sides by the verdant blue fir trees of the Sierra Nevada. The cabin was surrounded by colorful flowers and bushes that Effie had transplanted from the woods. A small garden, overrun with weeds, held prominence behind the home.

On the far right, melted snow from the high summits rippled down through the mountain channels to cascade into a small, picturesque lagoon. The blue pool then meandered off into a stream that bisected the valley about twenty feet from the home.

Another, smaller dwelling—a rock-and-sod hut—was built right into the side of the mountain, with only rocks visible in the front and a plank and canvas roof. It was probably the original cabin, but now served as a makeshift barn.

Rafe nudged his horse slowly forward. Helen moved up alongside him.

“This is the homestead me and Effie built fer ourselves ten years ago,” Zeb said in a wistful voice, walking up to them. His mule and Hector's pony grazed on the soft grass near the creek bank. Hector was already running about, examining everything with boyish eagerness. “It was a new beginning fer us after our children passed on. I know it ain't much right now, but we allus dreamed of buildin' a bigger place, 'specially onct the Gold Rush commenced.” He peeked up at them, obviously seeking approval.

“It's wonderful, Zeb. You and Effie must have been very happy here.”

His eyes welled up and he put a big red handkerchief to his nose to honk loudly.

Helen slid her right leg over the back of the horse and stepped to the ground. Every muscle in her body revolted and she could only imagine how Rafe must feel. She turned to him. “You'd better dismount and let me check your ribs again.”

When he didn't answer but continued to press his lips together, Helen moved closer, little alarm bells going off in her
head. Rafe's dark complexion appeared grayish white, and his eyes glazed over. When she touched his forearm in concern, a feverish heat emanated from his skin.

“I can't move,” he gritted out and slumped forward.

“He must be in shock,” she cried to Zeb.

After she and Zeb somehow managed to get Rafe off the horse and into the cabin, he collapsed, unconscious, onto the dusty bedstead built into one wall. It was not a promising introduction to their new life in Angel Valley.

A
month later, Rafe lay on his back in the cozy bed, a homemade quilt drawn up to his waist. Zeb and Hector were out at the stream, trying some nighttime fishing. At dusk, he and Zeb had finished their nineteenth straight twelve-hour day of back-breaking gold prospecting. Thus far, they'd only accumulated a grand total of three hundred dollars in gold dust—about one-twenty-fifth of its 2015 value.

But Rafe was still hopeful.

He was supposedly still recuperating—thus his early retiring to bed—but he was really relishing their bucolic surroundings, a real switch for a city boy who usually only heard police sirens and honking horns from his L.A. home. Closing his eyes, he listened to the night sounds—a breeze whispering through the trees, crickets chirping, coyotes and wolves howling, the occasional hoot of an owl or scream of a wildcat, deer rutting, and always the bubbling stream.

With an odd contentment, he opened his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the smells of pine and wood smoke and Helen. Mostly, he was watching Helen as she moved about the lantern-lit cabin, tidying up from their evening meal—baked mountain quail with mushroom stuffing, wild endive garnished with vinegar dressing, fresh bread, and even a
dried-apple tart for dessert. She'd adapted well to their primitive surroundings.

He, on the other hand, felt the usual raging fever boiling just under the surface of his skin. Oh, it wasn't from his injuries; he'd recovered from the beating within a week of their arrival at Angel Valley. This fever had bloomed out of control since the day they'd arrived at Zeb's cabin and Helen had put aside her nineteenth-century gown for the sake of practicality, donning camouflage pants, tight green Army T-shirt,
and no bra
.

Her perfect Vargas breasts drew his eyes like a honing device. All the time.

They swayed as she bent over the fireplace to check the contents of the iron kettle.

They jutted out, perfectly still, as she stood at the stream giving him constant advice on how better to pan for gold. Even her nagging and the icy cold water up to his thighs didn't tamp down his need for her.

They pressed into his back like branding irons in the middle of the night. Because Zeb and Hector believed they were married, they slept on makeshift pallets near the fire. He and Helen shared the big bed, which was entirely too small for both of them and his nonstop arousal.

They were a visual reminder of the night they'd spent in the cave and their perfect lovemaking. He wanted desperately to be inside her again, to hear her whisper that she loved him, to take her shout of his name into his mouth at her climax.

But he had no condoms, no sure-fire methods of birth control, and he could not,
would not,
take the chance of impregnating Helen.

“I'm going to go brush my teeth,” Helen informed him.

Good! Maybe the grating sound of her gargling will get rid of this hard-on
. He stared at her, unblinking. “Maybe you should meditate out there, too, honey.”
Yep, gargling and ooohms should put a damper on my dipper
. “Maybe I'll join
you. Remember when I meditated with you back at the cave.”
Naked
.

A pink blush spread across her face and down her neck. Probably spread over her breasts. And lower.
I'm losin' it here, St. Augustine. Are you sure this celibacy stuff is the best route? Maybe just a little foolin' around would be okay? Maybe if we didn't take our clothes off, we could kiss, and fondle, and—

“Oh, well, it's probably too late for meditating tonight,” Helen interjected blithely. He could have fried an egg on her face.

Thank you, Auggie
.

Zeb came in while Helen was still outside gargling. Within seconds, he heard a different gargling sound and realized that Hector had joined Helen.
Gawd!

“Uh, Rafe . . . uhm . . . there's somethin' I bin meanin' ta say,” Zeb stuttered, shucking down to his long underwear and spreading several blankets down on the plank floor by the fireplace.

“Yeah?” he prompted suspiciously.

“You see, I couldn't help noticing how tense you been lately. And I know a man's got his drives—”

“Drives?” Rafe sputtered out.

“Yessirree,” Zeb said, nodding his shaggy gray head. “A man's juices don't never stop flowin' when he's yer age. Anyways, I jist wanted you ta know . . . Uh, gol-durnit, Hector falls fast asleep onct his head hits this here pallet. And me, well, I'm a heavy sleeper. Tarnation, son, what I'm tryin' ta say is, you don't need ta worry none about me hearin' the bed ropes squeakin' through the night. Jist go to it.”

Rafe started to laugh, and his chest was still shaking when Helen slipped in beside him a short time later.

“What's so funny?” she asked, making a point of keeping her distance from him in the bed. Her nightly ritual always started out the same—prissy to the point of ridiculous—but
by morning she'd be climbing all over him like grapevines on an arbor. And his arbor couldn't stand much more. She always defended herself by saying she wasn't aware of what she did in her sleep, but sometimes he had his doubts.

He moved closer and whispered close to her ear. “Zeb had a man-to-man talk with me tonight.”

“Oh?” she whispered back, her fresh breath fluttering against his lips.

Shock waves moved in reaction down to his personal seismograph. It was registering about ten-point-five on his Richter hard-on scale.

“Zeb said that a man's got his ‘drives,' and when the juices are flowing, a man and his wife should just ‘go to it.'”

Her mouth curved into a smile.

Blood roared in his ears, and his “scale” went up another notch or two.
If a smile can do that, she'd damn well better not touch me
.

“What about a woman's drives? Did Zeb mention those, too?” She shimmied a little closer, not touching, but near enough that he could feel her body heat. And he could imagine all the rest.

“Do you have drives?” he groaned, closing his eyes against her allure.

She didn't answer, so eventually he turned on his side toward her and cracked open one eye. She was gazing at him with such longing he felt his defenses crumbling.
Help!

“Rafe, I want you so bad. Let's make love.” She moved against him, one hand caressing his face, a leg thrown over his hip. Before he could see past the stars splintering behind his eyelids, she began to plant soft kisses on his bare chest.

With a growl of surrender, he flipped her on her back and rolled on top of her tempting body, between her legs. The nightgown and his boxers were no barrier at all to the consuming passion that melded them together. He ground
himself against her center and felt her dampness. He almost climaxed then.

A soft cry filtered through the night air, then died. At first, he thought he or Helen might have moaned. But it was Hector whimpering in his sleep. His cry sounded just like a baby's, a signal Rafe had heard over and over throughout the thin walls of his childhood homes in the L.A. projects. A call to responsibility, and distasteful duties, and neverending problems.
Babies
.

With a jerk, he lifted himself off Helen and stood beside the bed. Drawing on his pants, he stared resolutely down at her, his trembling hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Where are you going?”

“For an icy swim,” he said, panting. “If I don't come back, you'll know I've swum all the way to the Pacific Ocean, and I'm still rock hard and wanting you.”

“Oh, Rafe.”

“Save the ‘Oh, Rafe's' for later, babe. There's gonna come a day of reckoning when I collect for every damn one of these days of abstinence. But not now.”

“But what if our time never comes?” she murmured under her breath just before he went out the door. But he heard her.

You wouldn't do that to me, would you, God? Yo, St. Augustine?

Rafe heard no God or St. Augustine giving him heavenly reassurance.

He was on his own.

T
he next morning, Helen and Hector sat at the rough oak table in the center of the cabin. She was peeling carrots she'd managed to salvage from Effie's long-neglected garden out
back. The vegetables and some wild onions would taste delicious cooked in the juices of the huge trout—at least eighteen inches long—that she planned to bake later that day.

The boy was bent over a piece of paper from her tablet, diligently writing out the letters of the alphabet. His tongue peeked out between his lips as he concentrated. Although the eight-year-old could speak fluent English and his native Spanish, he'd never been taught to read or write. At Zeb and Rafe's urging, she'd initiated two-hour daily lessons for Hector. She enjoyed the chore immensely.