Rainbows and Rapture (3 page)

She stopped, wondering why she hadn’t noticed this man before. He was big. So tall she reckoned he had to bow his head when going in and out of doors. His huge hand covered his whiskey glass completely, and the only reason she knew he held one was because he brought it to his mouth and emptied it.

She stared at his massive arms, then regarded the holstered guns that lay upon his corded thighs and the long dagger that hung from a sheath tied around his thick calf. At the sight of his heavily muscled body, Russia felt an unfamiliar tremor scamper through her.

When he turned his head to look at her, she watched his midnight hair settle across his wide shoulders. As his eyes met hers, she tried to swallow, but couldn’t.

They were the darkest eyes she’d ever seen, and she wondered if they were black. Deeply set, they didn’t blink, didn’t move, just bored into her. She felt as though they touched her very soul.

Flustered, she brought her hand up to the place on her chest where she figured her soul was, then saw the jagged scar that marred the man’s left cheek. Set against his dark skin, its paleness was a startling contrast.

Taking a nervous step backward, she continued to study the scar, wishing she knew how he had gotten it. She felt a touch of pity for him before reminding herself that
she
hadn’t given him the scar and therefore had no need to feel guilty that he had it.

She decided he was Mexican. She’d never seen a Mexican as handsome as he was. For that matter, she couldn’t remember seeing
any
man as handsome as he was. His high cheekbones had deep, shadowed hollows beneath them, his jaw was strong and rugged, and his lips were generous. Oddly enough, his scar didn’t detract from his good looks. On the contrary, Russia mused, it enhanced them. His was a sinister sensuality, and despite her apprehension, she felt drawn to him in a way she couldn’t understand.

The realization astonished her. She’d known a multitude of men and had never felt a thing for any of them. But
this
man… This man did strange things to her.

Struggling with the mystifying emotions he evoked, she forced herself to consider his suitability as a client. Like many of the other men in the saloon, he looked to be a drifter. But he was too self-assured, too relaxed to be a down-on-his-luck wanderer. There was an air about him. One that whispered “money” instead of “broke.”

With that peculiar but not unpleasant tingle still seeping through her, Russia lifted her chin and headed for him.

As the girl strolled toward him, Santiago saw the impish ascent of her dainty chin and the excitement sparkling in her big, liquid eyes. He’d never seen hair as long as hers, and watched as it rippled across her hips and thighs. Her split skirt parted as she walked, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her slender leg.

She was the most beautiful girl he’d seen in a very long time. The thought almost made him smile. If her ugly voice weren’t encased in such a gorgeous body, she’d starve trying to make a living from singing.

Living,
he repeated silently. Her source of livelihood was prostitution.

Whore.
As the word exploded into his mind, unbidden memories rose, filling him with hatred, sorrow, rage, and a need to vent those painful emotions. His fingers turned white around his whiskey glass.

Eyes hardening, he continued to watch her approach.

The look he gave her slowed Russia’s advance. There was a snap in his gaze. It made her think of a whip, a black, lashing whip. She stopped, feeling a shred of fear creep through her. His ebony eyes seemed to capture her own, and try as she did, she couldn’t escape their powerful pull. Their glitter both enticed and frightened her; she tried to understand what it was about the man that so unnerved her. Biting her bottom lip, she gave him a slight nod of her head, hoping he would understand her invitation.

Santiago felt a blaze of desire when he saw her nibble at her rosy lip. He needed a woman tonight. Weeks had passed since he’d last bedded one. He’d use this one well, tell her exactly what he thought of her, then refuse to pay her. Being denied money was exactly what she and all her kind deserved. And she wouldn’t object, either. He knew she wouldn’t. Just like all other whores, just like every person he encountered, she’d be too afraid of him.

He ignored the pang of torment that thought brought and slid on his black hat. Well aware that every man in the room was avoiding eye contact with him, he walked straight out of the saloon. The girl would follow, he knew. He had but to wait. As the door swung behind him, he suspected he wouldn’t have to wait long.

Dumbfounded, Russia stared until she could no longer see him. As if she’d known the man forever, she felt his absence keenly. Hurrying to the gaping hole that used to be a window, she saw him cross the dusty street and stop before a small child. Just as he reached out to pat the little boy on the head, a primly dressed woman, who Russia presumed was the mother, raced into the street, gathered the lad into her arms, and rushed away with him. Though she couldn’t be sure, Russia thought she saw the gunslinger stiffen before he disappeared into the Hamlett Hotel.

“Come away from there before he sees ya starin’ after him, Miss Russia,” a man behind her counseled. “You don’t want nothin’ to do with that one.”

“Sure don’t,” another agreed. “That was Santiago Zamora.”

She turned away from the window hole, puzzled over what the men had said. “Who’s Santiago Zamora?”

“Who
is
he?” Mort asked. “He ain’t only the greatest mustanger who ever held reins in his hands, he’s the best bounty hunter in the land! There ain’t never been a gunman like Santiago Zamora.”

“For a damn fortune,” the first man said, “he can turn a worthless nag into the finest mount a man could ever hope to have, and he can do it quicker’n a hiccup. Some say he speaks horse. And he’s the one who brung in that murderous bastard, Uriah Oswald, last year. Got him five thousand dollars for doin’ it, too. He don’t work cheap.”

“He sure don’t,” the second man added, and took a sip of his whiskey. “I heard he charged some rich woman ten thousand for findin’ her missin’ husband a few months back. She’d already had other trackers lookin’ for the man for a year. It took Zamora a week to find him.”

“And he’s the one who brung in the Quincy gang,” another man told her. “There was eleven men in that gang, and he got ever’ damn one of ’em. There ain’t no tellin’ how much he got for doin’ it.”

Another man nodded. “He’s richer’n the dirt in a old cowpen. Keeps all his gold with him, too. He’s a walkin’ bank. Ain’t afraid to carry all that cash around on account o’ nobody in their right mind would ever try to steal it from him. Wonder what he’s doin’ here in Hamlett.”

Almost every man in the room had a tale to tell about Santiago Zamora. One even swore the gunslinger was a living legend. Russia felt confused by all the stories of heroism. “Well, if he’s so plumb nelly wonderful, why shouldn’t I want nothin’ to do with him?”

“He’s dangerous, Miss Russia,” one man explained. “Got him a temper that no man with a ounce o’ brains would want to set off. I heard tell he hates bringin’ in outlaws alive. He’d rather shoot ’em dead. But if they surrender to him, beggin’ for their lives, he tortures ’em some before he brings ’em in. Mean is what he is.”

“Did ya see that scar on his face?” someone asked. “I heard tell he got it flghtin’ a mountain lion. Zamora was mad at the cat, see, ’cause the cat stole the rabbit Zamora was gonna eat fer supper. Zamora caught the lion, killed it with one blow to its jaw, then ate the whole thing for supper.”

Mort rose from his piano seat. “Well, I been told he got the scar wrestlin’ Apaches. They filched his horse, and there ain’t nothin’ in the world more dangerous than messin’ around with that black stallion of his. Zamora fought the whole damn tribe of braves and beat every one of ’em. Got him that scar for doin’ it, but he got his horse back.”

“I say the devil gave it to him,” another man speculated. “The devil was jealous, y’see. Jealous on account of Zamora’s meaner’n him. So the devil threw his pitchfork at Zamora and scarred him for life.”

“Zamora gave the scar to his own self,” the barkeep declared. “He’s so damn bloodthirsty that once when he couldn’t find anyone to kill, he slit his own face just so he could see some blood. Honest to God, he did.”

Russia didn’t believe the barkeep’s story, but shivered nonetheless. “Well, he’s prob’ly only dangerous to outlaws,” she informed the men. “He catches criminals, don’t he? He—”

She broke off abruptly.
He catches criminals.
As the words repeated themselves in her mind, excitement pulsed through her veins so forcefully it was a moment before she could find a shred of composure.

In the next second, she was flying out of the saloon and into the street, oblivious to the shouts of the men who watched her. It took only a moment to reach the hotel. She flung open the doors and hurried into the lobby.

Her arrival was so sudden, she failed to see that the man she sought was standing only a few feet in front of the doors. She ran smack into him.

It was like hitting a tree trunk. As she staggered backward, her shoulder upset a small wall shelf of porcelain figurines. The fragile knickknacks crashed to the polished wooden floor.

“What the hell—” The hotel owner pounded his fist on the registration desk. “Look what you—”

“Oh, heavens!” his wife exclaimed. “Look what you did!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Russia yelled. Spit and spice, what on earth was she going to do now? She had not a penny to her name, and knew the irate man and his wife were going to demand payment for the smashed figurines.

“Do you have any idea how much those sit-arounds cost?” the man screamed.

His wife hurried to pick up a few shards of her ruined possessions. “My treasures! I brought them all the way from Virginia, and now they’re ruined. I’m going to die! I’m just going to die!”

“We certainly don’t want your wife to die, do we, senor?” A cheroot clenched between his teeth, Santiago threw a roll of bills at the angry man, then stared down at the distraught woman. “Buy more treasures.” Without another word, he turned and walked toward the stairway that led to the rooms upstairs, his dagger bouncing against his calf.

Russia followed.

“And just where do you think you’re going, might I ask?” the hotel owner’s wife demanded. “We don’t allow your kind in here! Get out!”

Russia turned and glared at her. “My kind?”

The woman lifted her head high. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

Russia did, indeed, know what the snobbish woman meant, but she wasn’t about to ignore the cruel remark. “Lady, your nose is so damn upturned, I reckon when you sneeze you blow your hat off. Jist where the hell do you git off tellin’ me I ain’t allowed in here? I got business with that Zamora feller.”

“Precisely my point!” the woman snapped. “My husband and I run a respectable establishment, and we’ll not have you doing that kind of business in our hotel!”

At the renewed shouting, Santiago sauntered back into the lobby. “The girl is here at my invitation. I trust you don’t have a problem with my taking her to my room?”

The woman’s eyes widened. “But she’s a…a—”

“I’m fully aware of what she is.”

The hotel owner drew himself up to his full height, his head reaching Santiago’s chest. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Zamora, but my wife is right. We cannot allow—”

“I advise you to rethink your decision, senor.”

The man began to sweat, unable to decide what was more frightening—the gunslinger’s fathomless black eyes, his flashing Colts, or the almost tangible sense of danger that radiated from him.

Santiago turned from the withering man and faced the girl who’d caused the uproar. “What is your name?”

Though he asked the question softly, Russia nearly jumped out of her gown. His voice didn’t match his menacing aura at all. It was so smooth. It made her think of deep brown velvet. “My name?”

“You do have one, don’t you?”

Clutching handfuls of her dress, she nodded.

“Then what is it?”

“I— Um…” Her mind went blank. “My name’s— It’s…”

With one finger, Santiago pushed the rim of his hat off his forehead. “Don’t you know your own name?”

“I— ’Course I know my own name. It’s jist that—well, I believe in real long introducements, and I’m draggin’ this one out so it’ll be longer.”

“Introductions,”
he corrected her.

“Whatever.” Good Lord, she thought. Why did the sight of him erase the memory of her
own name!
“It’s—Russia Valentine! Yeah, that’s me, Russia Valentine!”

Scowling, he took her hand. Ignoring the speechless hotel owner and his wife, he led her to the stairs. “As you said, Russia Valentine. We have business. Let’s attend to it.”

She decided she had no reason to fear him. After all, she wasn’t a criminal, so he wasn’t dangerous to her. That worry taken care of, she began to ascend the stairs, tripping several times. Each time she stumbled, he increased the pressure on her hand until he was holding it so firmly her fingers began to ache. She winced with both pain and the thought of his strength. “Typhus and tits, Zamora, you’re about to break my damn hand! Lemme go!” When he complied, she shook her throbbing hand and took a step backward, gasping when her foot met thin air instead of solid stairs.

Santiago grabbed her by the waist and hauled her next to his own body. “Have you ever gotten through a single day without an accident? You don’t fall out of bed, do you?”

“Bed?” She skipped a breath. The feeling of his hard torso against her breasts caused an unfamiliar tingle to course through her again.

“Bed. It’s where we’re going, isn’t it?”

She shook her head, then nodded, then shook her head again.

Her actions sent a spicy scent drifting around him. The fragrance brought him a vague memory. “What’s that smell?”

She sniffed the air. “I don’t smell nothin’.”

The scent meant something to him, but he couldn’t remember what it was. “Candy,” he muttered. “Do you smell candy?”