Rainbows and Rapture (23 page)

* * *

Santiago barely had enough time to get out of the church before Russia left it. Hidden in the shadows at the back of the sanctuary, he’d seen everything she did while at the altar and couldn’t believe she’d given all her gold away. It was all the money she had, and she’d given it to the people of Rosario. People she didn’t even know.

And the things she’d said… He’d listened to every word of her conversation with the Blessed Mother, and what he’d heard had touched his heart in a way it had never been touched before.

She’d prayed for him. No one but his sister, Lupita, had ever done that for him. He didn’t even pray for himself. He’d never thought it would do any good.

But Russia… She’d asked for his safety and happiness. In her own simple way, she’d petitioned for the very things he needed and longed for the most.

And she’d done it without adding a single plea for herself. Why? She, too, needed to be safe. She, too, had dreams of her Prince Charming. Why hadn’t she mentioned them? Had she forgotten? Been afraid to ask for too much?

“Santiago!” she called, waving as she skipped toward him.

Frowning with bafflement, he watched her approach.

“What’s got into you?” she asked as she arrived at the hitching post he was leaning against. “You look low enough to walk under a rug without causin’ a ripple.”

He didn’t trust himself to speak. What could he say, anyway? To mention what he’d seen and heard in the church would be admitting to having spied on her. He shifted uneasily, wondering how he would explain his actions if he took her in his arms and kissed her breathless, which was exactly what he wanted to do.

Grinning, Russia dropped her bag and raised her hands to his mouth. With her thumbs, she pushed up the corners of his lips. “Smile. Y’look real good when you smile. I’ve tole you that before. Frown when there’s somethin’ to frown about, you ole varminty varmint. Tonight you’ve got lots to smile over. It’s a real purty evenin’, Wirt ain’t here, and there’s food ever’where y’look!”

Her mention of food brought him the smile she wanted to see. Food made her so happy. And he knew enough about her now to know that the reason was because she’d gone hungry many times. Tonight he would buy her as much food as she could hold. And then he’d buy her some more. “Allow me to buy you dinner, Miss Valentine,” he invited her, offering her his arm.

Still grinning, she curled her hand into the crook of his elbow and felt giddy with pleasure as he escorted her through the lively square.

Santiago purchased every type of food the village women offered her. If she so much as
glanced
at some edible thing, it was hers. Of course, he found himself providing a lot of water, too, since much of what she wanted to taste consisted of more chili than anything else.

“If this is what heaven’s like, I’m gonna mend my ways so I can git there,” Russia told him as she swallowed the last bite of her quesadilla, a tortilla coated with melted cheese. “But y’know what the best thing is about tonight, Santiago?”

“Tell me, little dove,” he coaxed her, smiling into her big, excited eyes.

At the endearment, she released a long sigh of contentment and took his hands into her own. “Ain’t you noticed how you’re bein’ treated here? Don’t look to me like these folks is terrified of you, Santiago. They might be a little nervous, but that’s on account o’ you’re big, you’re wearin’ black, and y’got weapons hangin’ all over you. But look around. Ain’t nobody runnin’, shiverin’, or hangin’ their head when you look at ‘em. Y’know? I bet that since these here people are real holy-like, they know it ain’t right to think o’ you as the big bad wolf. Hell, I reckon if you was to talk and smile at ‘emsome, they’d even git over bein’ a little nervous with you. Ain’t that thrillin’?”

He was struck by the joy shining from her beautiful face, and realized she was genuinely happy for him. He realized also that he wanted to kiss her again. And this time he would give in to the impulse.

Taking her shoulders, he brought her close to him. “Russia—”

“Seniorita Valentine?” a young man said shyly as he stepped close to her. He removed his sombrero and held it to his chest, smoothed his black hair away from his face, and smiled. “You remember me, no? I am Zeferino. Zeferino Sanchez. I meet you when you come to Rosario before.”

Russia returned Zeferino’s timid grin with a brilliant one of her own. “Zeferino! ’Course I remember you!” Turning within Santiago’s embrace, she lay her palm on Zeferino’s smooth cheek.

At her action, Santiago felt irritation slither through his taut frame. And upon noticing that Zeferino’s huge brown eyes were brimming over with adoration, his irritation burst into anger.

Who was this Zeferino Sanchez? he fumed, glaring at the man. Had he been one of Russia’s clients the last time she’d been in Rosario? And if so, did the lovesick son of a bitch think to have another night with her?

“Santiago,” Russia said, “meet Zeferino Sanchez. Zeferino, this is Santiago Zamora.”

“Senor,” Zeferino greeted him, holding out his hand for a shake of friendship.

Santiago did not accept it. Instead, he slid his own hand over one of his Colts, his fingers tapping the cold steel. He felt a small measure of satisfaction when Zeferino took a fearful step backward.

“Zeferino and I got to be real good friends when I was here the last time,” Russia explained, completely unaware of the silent messages being passed back and forth between the men. “He likes cats as much as I do, and he really loved little Triffles.”

Nehemiah wasn’t the only thing that Russia had that interested Zeferino Sanchez, Santiago decided. Dammit, if the amorous idiot didn’t stop looking at Russia with those hungry eyes, he’d soon know what it felt like to have a fist in one of them!

“Zeferino’s a artist,” Russia continued, her hand slipping from Zeferino’s cheek to rest on his shoulder. “And he’s so good, it only takes him a few minutes to draw folks. He done my picture when I was here.”

Santiago wondered how the bastard had wanted to portray her—with, or without, clothes. And how had Russia eventually posed? At the thought, he felt his anger cross the border to fury.

“He draws ever’body who comes here,” Russia went on. “Has him a whole collection o’ drawin’s o’ folks who’ve passed through. Hangs all his pictures in the winders o’ the little town store so’s ever’body can see ‘emwhen they’re passin’ by. Zeferino, you drawed Santiago yet?”

Frightened by the light of rage , glittering from Santiago’s eyes, Zeferino gave a shaky nod. “
Si
, senorita,” he told her. “I draw him when he rides into town. Come and I show you.”

When they arrived in front of the tiny store and Russia saw Santiago’s picture hanging in the window, she squealed with astonishment. Zeferino’s talent was clearly evident. Right down to the glint in his somber eyes, the man in the drawing was almost as exact replica of Santiago. “Oh, Zeferino, it’s plumb nelly wonderful! Look, Santiago! What do y’think about Zeferino here?”

If not for the lively music that suddenly filled the square, Santiago would have told Zeferino
exactly
what he thought of him.

Spinning around, Russia saw a group of men playing flutes, drums, and guitars. “Oh, how purty!” she exclaimed, tapping her toes in an offbeat rhythm.

“The music, it is for the dance,” Zeferino explained. “We have fiesta tonight to celebrate a baptism.”

Before Santiago even had time to understand what she was doing, Russia began pulling at his hand with all the frantic excitement of a child at her first party. “Santiago!” she shouted. “Let’s—”

“No,” he objected when he realized she meant to dance with him. He hadn’t danced since he was fifteen years old, doubted he still remembered how, and had no intention of proving to everyone here that he didn’t.

“Please? I love to dance, Santiago. And I’m really good at it.”

“Russia—”

“Senorita Valentine?” Zeferino Sanchez asked, hurrying toward her. “I dance with you.”

Santiago was fairly blinded by the splendor of the smile she bestowed upon the man. Dammit, she never smiled at
him
like that! And as for Zeferino… The man was either absurdly brave or exceptionally stupid. How dare the impassioned young buck persist with his moronic attempts to win Russia’s attentions!

He tightened his grasp on her hand and began to lead her away.

“Santiago, wait!” she yelled, yanking her hand away from him. “What the hell—”

“You—”

“Zeferino asked me to dance!”

“But—” His protest went unfinished. Enraged, he watched her follow Zeferino into the crowd of other dancing couples, her bag swinging by her side. Refusing to see her in another man’s arms, he whirled and stalked toward a cluster of men who were passing around a bottle of what he hoped was strong whiskey. As he joined them, one of them handed him the flask.

He took a long swallow. It wasn’t whiskey; it was fiery tequila. And it felt good going down. He flipped the men a few coins and set off to be by himself, bottle in hand. Finding an isolated spot under an ancient oak tree, he leaned against the thick trunk, lifted the bottle to his mouth again, then noticed he wasn’t alone.

A burro was tied to the tree. He stared into the humble animal’s huge brown eyes, seeing compassion in them. “So what if she’s dancing with that panting nitwit?” he told the gentle beast. “Let her!”

He took a quick glance in Russia’s direction, clenching his teeth when he saw Zeferino whirling her around the square. “So the horny bastard can dance,” he said to the burro. “So what?”

He guzzled more tequila, hoping the potent liquor would dull his senses. As a test to see if it had, he glanced at Russia again.

She was laughing at something Zeferino had said to her. “So he’s witty as well as a good dancer,” Santiago told the blinking-eyed burro. “Well, good. I’m real glad for him, and I’m real glad for Russia.”

He stiffened when he saw Zeferino stop dancing and hand something to Russia. She looked at it carefully, poking at it with her fingers. Smiling, she dropped it into her pocket, then smoothed her hand across Zeferino’s cheek as she’d done before.

Santiago felt fury sear every fiber in his body. Money.

He knew without a doubt that Zeferino had given Russia money. Money for her services.

He flung the empty bottle into some nearby bushes and stormed toward the throng of dancers. When he reached Russia, he grabbed her elbow and gave Zeferino a shriveling glare.
“Largate,”
he told the surprised young man.

“What did you say to him?” Russia demanded, watching Zeferino walk away.

Santiago balled his hand into a knuckle-whitening fist. He’d told the infatuated imbecile to get the hell away. He wouldn’t, however, confess that to Russia. Fighting with her over her profession was the last thing in the world he wanted to do tonight, and with much effort, he managed to quell his rage.

He suspected she’d accepted Zeferino’s proposal because she’d given all her money away. Later, he’d remind her that he’d promised to finance their journey, and he’d make it clear to her that it wasn’t necessary for her to work while she was with him.

But for right now, it seemed a good lie was in order. “I—I reminded him that when attending a fiesta, a young man always owes the first dance to his mother,” he fibbed. “He seemed to have forgotten that very important and time-honored custom.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to dance?”

“With you?”

“I’m the one asking, aren’t I?”

“But you jist said you didn’t want—”

“I changed my mind,” Santiago blurted, angered anew when he noticed that Zeferino Sanchez continued to throw his foolish smiles in Russia’s direction. Dammit, did the jackass have a death wish? Scowling, he took Russia into his arms.

“What’s got you into such a frenzy, Santiago?” she asked. “You look like a lemon tastes.”

He looked down at her, his dark, flashing eyes raking boldly over her. God, she was beautiful. And so soft. She felt so good next to him, with her breasts pressed against him, her slender hips cradled within his own, her legs brushing his. His entire body flooded with desire and the need to have her to himself.

Alone. All his.

The sensuous thought made him raise his head and look at Zeferino again. The man was
still
watching Russia. In a blatant act of possessiveness, he slid his hand to the back of Russia’s neck, urging her face to his chest. Thus, he kept her, his fingers tangled in the silken mass of her strawberry-gold hair.

“I think we should leave Rosario tonight,” he murmured, anxious to get her as far away from Zeferino as possible.

“But I been havin’ a good time here. Why do we have to leave?”

Did she want to stay so she could have her night with Zeferino? “We’re leaving because I said so!”

“Well, pardon the hell outta me! I didn’t know you was Master o’ the World! I must have me a purty big brain to hold so much ignorance, huh?”

Again he attempted to calm himself. “I’m sorry,” he managed to tell her. “I didn’t mean to yell. But—”

“Why do we gotta leave Rosario tonight?” she asked once more, accidentally stepping on his foot.

He winced. “I thought you said you danced well.”

“Well… I—I’m American, y’see. This here tune ain’t American, and maybe you gotta have Mexican blood in you in order to keep up with the rhythm. What’s your excuse? It don’t appear that you graduated from no dancin’ school neither, and you’re plumb nelly full o’ Mexican blood.”

Was she comparing him to that dancing dolt, Zeferino?

“Santiago, I asked you a question.”

He was saved from having to come up with a logical answer when a nearby dancing couple whirled into them, knocking Russia out of his embrace and onto the ground.

“Well, simmerin’ sacks o’ sunburned skunk spit!” she cried. She lay sprawled in the dirt, the contents of her bag spilled everywhere. Muttering under her breath, she got to her hands and knees and began picking up her possessions.

Her ranting assured Santiago that her tumble hadn’t hurt her. He bent to help her retrieve her belongings and caught sight of something glittering near the handle of her bag. His heart slammed into his ribs when he recognized what it was.