Desperado

  Helen refused to talk to him all day.

  While she was in the shower, he hid her clothes. All of them. Now she had only a blanket to keep her warm. And him. She declined his latter offer with a silent, contemptuous lift of her chin.

  She ate the tortilla he made for their dinner, but wouldn’t react to his ongoing monologue on love. And it was really good.

  He threatened to sing to her, “Wind Beneath My Wings,” and she put her hands over her ears. He liked that because it made her blanket slip.

  So, he decided to tell her exactly how corkscrewing was done, in explicit detail. She didn’t say a word, but he could tell she was interested.

  After that, she declined his offer of a glass of wine. So he chugged down a beer, and she sipped at a lemonade.

  It was time for his “Hail Mary pass.” His long shot. His last chance. Going to the closet, he took out several burlap sacks and placed them on the table in the center of the room. Then he started to take off his clothes.

  Helen was sitting in a wingback chair near the fireplace. She pretended she didn’t notice when he took off his boots.

  “God, my feet hurt. How do cowboys wear these high-heeled boots all the time without getting fallen arches?”

  No response.

  “I don’t suppose you’d massage my feet.”

  She scowled.

  “Maybe later.” He chuckled.

  Next he took off his shirt and saw her eyes widen. Good. He stretched and rubbed his face with a palm. “Do you think I should shave, hon?”

  She cast him a double scowl.

  Good.

  He undid the buckle on his belt, and she stood abruptly. The blanket slipped again.

  Good.

  Loosening the top button of his jeans, he said, “Where do you want to live, Helen? After we get married again, I mean. My practice is in L.A., but if you want to live in Sacramento or anywhere else, let me know.” He pulled the zipper down and her eyes followed its path.

  Good.

  “I’ll even live in a little house with a white picket fence if you want. Buy a lawn mower. And a barbecue grill. We can even get a birdhouse. Yeah, a birdhouse would be great.” Rafe gave himself a mental pat on the back. He was on a roll.

  Her mouth formed a little “o” of incredulity. He wasn’t sure if she was reacting to his words or his pants sliding to the floor. He wasn’t wearing any underwear. That was a good, last-minute touch in his opinion.

  Her eyes about bugged out.

  Good.

  He walked over to the table, nude, and opened one of the sacks. “As for the baby, well, I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, but if it’s a girl, I want to call her Angel.”

  She made a choking sound.

  Good.

  “If it’s a boy, you’ll probably want to call him Zeb or—”

  “No son of mine is going to be named Zebediah,” she said, then bit her lip, realizing she’d inadvertently spoken to him.

  Good. “Well, we could always call him our little desperado. Hmmm. I like that. Desperado Santiago.”

  “Get real!”

  “What’s wrong with that? If people can name their kids Storm or Rock or Ridge, why not Desperado?”

  She cut him a Prissy scowl. He was making headway.

  “Or . . .” Rafe turned serious, finding it really difficult to make this concession, “you can call him Elliott if you want.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Rafe.”

  Hey, “Oh, Rafe,” was good. Real good. Later, they would discuss visiting arrangements for Elliott, but he wasn’t feeling that magnanimous today.

  “Put some clothes on,” she snapped.

  “Why? Do I make you nervous?”

  “No.”

  “I need to have my clothes off to show you something.”

  “I’ve already seen it.”

  “Not this way, babe,” he laughed. Then he dipped a hand into the sack and came out with a heaping scoop of gold dust. With a dramatic gesture, he sprinkled it over himself.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Crazy for you.” Scoop after scoop, he sprinkled over his body, even his hair.

  “That must be worth a mint. Stop it. What’s the point?”

  He threw a handful of the gold dust toward her, and it landed on her hair and shoulders. He stopped momentarily, dazzled by the beauty of her fiery hair and creamy shoulders covered with the sparkling dust.

  He forced himself to speak above a croak. “The point is, sweetheart, that money, or BMWs, or fancy vacations, or bachelorhood—none of those things—mean anything without you. Someone famous once said that a life lived just to satisfy yourself never satisfies anyone. It was probably St. Augustine; he’s been the plague of my life lately.” He threw out his hands helplessly. “So, to hell with the gold.” He gazed at her with open longing, then smiled. “How about opening that blanket and letting me share the gold with you?”

  Her lips twitched with a grin. “You’re impossible.”

  “Do it,” he coaxed in a raspy voice.

  She raised her chin, resisting.

  “I love you.”

  “Would you really live in a house with a white picket fence?” she asked, taking a step—a tiny step—toward him.

  “Babe, I’d live in an igloo with a white picket fence and penguins for pets if that would make you happy.” He clenched his fists to keep from grabbing her. Don’t push her. Take it easy. Let her make the move.

  “And the baby,” she said shakily. “You could love another man’s child?” She widened her eyes to keep the tears from overflowing and moved a step closer.

  “I would love your child, Helen.”

  One tear slipped out and crept slowly down her cheek. He wanted to reach out and catch it on his finger, or mouth, but he was afraid he’d scare her off.

  “You would hate my body when it grew big and ugly with another man’s child.”

  “Sweetheart, I would love your body, no matter what.”

  “I’m already changing,” she confessed, her teary eyes trying to communicate something important to him.

  He frowned, unable to get the hidden message. “Show me,” he said huskily.

  She dropped the blanket, and her eyes closed with her innate modesty. Someday, he’d like to cure her of that self-consciousness, but he was too busy now trying to keep his hands off Helen’s enticing body.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, “and the changes are so small only a lover . . . a man who loves you . . . could see them.”

  She opened her eyes, questioning.

  “Your breasts are fuller. God, I want to hold them.” Instead, he sprinkled gold dust over them. The flakes settled on the upper mounds, the puffy aureoles and the taut nipples.

  She moaned and looked down. “I’m beautiful,” she sighed with surprise.

  “That’s what I always said, babe.” Then he sprinkled gold dust over her stomach. The only evidence of her pregnancy was a slight swelling. Some of the flakes settled on her hips and in her belly button. Even on her red curls, turning them into golden flames.

  Every atom in his body yearned for her. He wanted an end to their problems, a healing of the pain, and, more than anything, he wanted their bodies united in lovemaking to seal the future.

  She giggled. “This is the most outrageous thing you’ve ever done.”

  “No. No, it’s not, babe. The most outrageous thing I’ve ever done is almost lose you.”

  She whimpered. “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll make you sure. Don’t be afraid, honey. Please.” He was stalking her magnificent body, taking handful after handful of gold dust from the sacks and covering her with it. Her tattoo got extra attention. A gold butterfly. He liked it.

  Then she was scooping out the gold dust, too, tossing it at him. It was a playful game, but somber, each circling the other with smoldering, tentative eyes. The feel of the dust sweeping his body was like a sensuous caress.

  Finally, he could stand no more. H
e held his arms out for her. “Let me make love to you, Helen. Let me make love to my wife. Because that’s what you are to me. Regardless of the legalities. Before God, we’re man and wife.”

  “That’s what your mother said.”

  “Oh, no! Now you’re going to quote my mother.” He was still holding his arms open for her. Moving up to her, he put his hands on her forearms, trying to pull her into his embrace. She had gold dust on her lips. He wondered how gold dust would taste and lowered his head.

  She pressed her hands against his shoulders. “Wait.”

  He groaned. “I’ve been waiting so long.”

  “I have to tell you something.”

  The stiffness of her body told him it was something important. He tilted his head, waiting.

  “You said you would love another man’s child . . .”

  “Yes?”

  She licked her lips nervously. “And if it were your child?” Her eyes probed to his very soul.

  He blinked at her, not understanding. When he did, finally, conflicting emotions churned within him.

  My baby!

  Then, She was going to give my baby to another man!

  His hesitation wounded her. He saw that in her shocked eyes before she spun away.

  He fought a silent battle in his head. A part of him wanted to forgive and forget. Another wanted to yell at her for her deceit. He chose the former, and yanked her back against his chest, burying his face in her neck. Then, wrapping one arm around her waist from behind, he laid the palm of the other hand against her tummy. “I love you, and my child.”

  He swung her into the circle of his arms then and carried her to the bed. Laying her on the comforter, he kissed her gently, then kissed her savagely. She gave herself freely to his kisses, her surrender a silent affirmation of the life she chose to share with him.

  Their first coming together was tender and slow. His grainy endearments. Her breathless whispers. When he entered her silky sheath on a hissing inhale, they both gazed at each other, stunned by the power of their joining. Love seemed to surround them in every touch and stroke and mindless, soul-searing kiss. They rose and rose to each higher crescendo, then splintered together to the skies.

  Only later, after their first fierce coming together, when they lay sated and murmuring softly, did Helen remember Rafe’s promise.

  “What promise?” he asked, nuzzling her breast.

  “A corkscrewing lesson.”

  He laughed and rolled over on his back, taking her on top of him. “The trick is in the twist of the hips, and the Kegels, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said, teasing, as she eased herself on top of him. Very slowly. “Like this?” she asked sweetly.

  Rafe made a gurgling sound of assent.

  Then she noticed something and flicked a piece of gold dust off his eyelash. “You rat! This isn’t gold dust. It’s dime-store glitter.”

  He grinned and put his hands on her hips, holding her in place.

  She punched his chest, which was heaving with amusement, at her expense. “You didn’t throw away your gold, did you?”

  “Now, honey, I may be a fool, but I’m not a gold-plated fool.”

  With a lot of convincing, she agreed.

  Epilogue

  God has a sense of humor, don’t ever doubt that . . .

  In a place far, far away, St. Augustine turned to the Celestial Majesty, who was leaning back on His throne, legs propped on a cloud.

  “We did good, didn’t we?” the former reprobate beamed.

  “Yep!” God said, but not in a boastful way. Boasting was not God-like. Still, He added, with a little chuckle, “Another one for our side!”

  St. Augustine started to give his boss a high-five, but stopped himself (the grace of humility still came hard for him). Instead, he handed God a clipboard, and He made a huge check mark with a golden marker. God had a thing about clipboards.

  “Who’s next?” God said, rubbing his hands with anticipation. “Has anyone seen that fourth Wiseman? The one who got lost on the way to Bethlehem?”

  Reader Letter

  Dear Reader:

  Did you like this updated version of Desperado? After all these years, I think Rafe holds up well.

  When I first wrote this book eighteen years ago, cell phones were not essential as they are today (I remember a clunky big thing in a pouch), and people still used tape cassettes for recording. Mel Gibson was considered a hottie. Jeff Bezos and his brainchild, Amazon, were just about to come on the scene, and Facebook wasn’t even on the radar yet. Times changed dramatically during that relatively short period, largely due to computers and the Internet.

  I had already been writing Viking books for several years before Desperado came out in 1997; so, a California Gold Rush time-travel book with a Hispanic L.A. lawyer and a female Army major was a departure for me. In revising this book and reading it again for the first time in ages, I was struck by how much I like Rafe and his big Mexican family. I always thought there were stories to be had in Antonio, Ramon, Eduardo, even the sisters (Rafe’s mother could be a Hispanic Tante Lulu), but I got diverted by Vikings, Cajuns, Navy SEALs, and vangels. Maybe someday.

  If you’d like to know more about my books, contests and raffles, and other good stuff, check out my website at sandrahill.net or my Facebook page at Sandra Hill Author. As always, I wish you smiles in your reading.

  Sandra Hill

  Can’t get enough of USA Today and New York Times bestselling author Sandra Hill?

  Turn the page for glimpses of her amazing books. From cowboys to Vikings, Navy SEALs to Southern bad boys, every one of Sandra’s books has her unique blend of passion, creativity, and unparalleled wit.

  Welcome to the World of Sandra Hill!

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