Wild Sierra Rogue

Book 3: McLoughlin Trilogy

by Martha Hix

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

SHE WAS RIPE FOR SEDUCTION If she hadn't been absolutely desperate, Margaret McLoughlin never would have hired the very rogue who'd wronged her family to guide her through perilous bandit territory...and wouldn't now be standing face to face with the bare-chested scoundrel with the six-gun strapped to his muscular thigh and his insolent gaze hotly raking her body! But her mother was trapped in the legendary Copper Canyons, and Rafe Delgado was the only man alive who could get her safely out. So the gently-bred innocent would just have to ignore the sinful half-Spaniard's seductive charms, refuse to grant him even one kiss and just pray he never learned her shameful secret: that she burned for him with a fiery yearning only he could satisfy! HE WAS READY FOR LOVE Let the lady think he was leading her into Mexico for the money. Rafe didn't need any starchy schoolteacher asking a lot of dangerous questions...especially with the country on the brink of war. He'd take her where she wanted to go--and take care that she never discovered his other identity: as El Aguila, Mexican savior! But the deeper they ventured into treacherous territory, the more the hot-blooded, onetime revolutionary craved the azure-eyed enchantress's exquisite caress. Soon, he'd sweep her into his searing embrace and plunder her hidden treasures...with a passion that would make her his for the taking--now and forever!!

Release date: November 15, 2016

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 448

Sample

Hell waited to pop. Somehow he knew it waited. While he bathed to get ready for the big blond stuff of his insatiable lusts, Rafael Delgado tried to shake the portentous unease settling heavier than his noon meal. Once before he’d had this feeling. When fate had turned on him. When the black of night and his own crimes had broken his spirit. When he’d quit being the Magnificent Eagle of Mexico.

You’re nothing. Except for your appeal to women, you’ve lost it all. And now—something bad is going to happen.

Ridiculous.

Rafe snickered at foreboding, stepped from the copper tub, and rubbed a towel along his hard hairy thighs. “You gobbled down too much chicken-fried steak,” he assured himself, “that’s all.”

He had no worries, if he kept the past buried. Burying old miseries had become a skill carefully honed, such as when he’d wielded a muleta in the bullring, in his younger days. Or as he now saw to the breeding of fatlings for those arenas of Mexico. Or as he caressed womanly curves.

The thought of such curves urged him into taking one more glance at his bedroom. Perfect. A lair. The bed fit for royalty, made with new satin sheets and scattered with petals from some of the last roses of the year. All it lacked? The delectable and delicious Mrs. Boyd.

Rafe favored females tall and fair. Looking up to women like Dolores Boyd did something good to him. One lucky hombre described Rafe, so why count fortune’s teeth? “Hurry, beautiful Dolores. This is for you.” He patted the front of his britches, wrestled with buttoning them, and sang. “Tonight, tonight, tonight. Your eyes of blue, your hair of gold, your ruby lips . . . I will behold.” Gazing from left to right and back again into the mirror hanging above his bureau, he combed his short-cropped hair away from his temples. “Yum, Do-lores. I will be true—”

Suddenly, the comb dropped. He scowled at his image, aggrieved and heartsick. Now he knew. Omen, thy name was reality. A gray hair poked through the raven-black ones.

“Look at you. Scarred and gray. Old. You’re losing it, hombre.” He plucked the offender from his scalp. “Ouch!”

Rubbing his head, he cursed any and everything that popped to mind. The strangest thought surfaced. He had a mental image of a McLoughlin triplet. Dark hair, blue eyes, and lips like cherry wine . . .

Damn. Just what he needed. A reminder of yet another failure.

Determined to get a grip, he sucked in his stomach and tucked in his butt, before he took a side view. You still have what it takes to please the ladies.

No bull’s horn, in Rafe’s glory days, had ever gouged his flesh. His muscles remained superbly toned and distinct in relief, despite thirty-nine years of abuse. Darkened by outdoor work, along with a trickle of the stock of Moctezuma, his face wasn’t a source of shame, even though the sun had begun to plough lines from the corners of his eyes. And, of course, a jagged scar cut into the right side of his mouth. Yet many a lover had enjoyed running her fingertip along this flaw. For such a lovely, he must tend his grooming, must make himself worthy.

The mirror reflected a woman entering the bedroom. He winked rakishly and blew a kiss to his cook, while he selected the pomade jar from amid the chaos of his toiletries.

“A visitor waits outside,” Ida Frances Jones announced.

“She’s early. See her in.” Rafe glazed the left side of his head. “Is the champagne chilled?”

Rafe, not getting a reply, set the brilliantine on the bureau and wheeled around. Drying her hands with a dishtowel, the stout and motherly Ida Frances met his quizzing stare with flattened lips. Obviously the visitor wasn’t the most recent apple of Rafe’s eye.

He groaned.

“She told Ida Frances she’s in a hurry for you,” the cook said in third-person delivery. Solemn as the father of Mexican independence, the sainted Hidalgo, she steepled her fingertips beneath her chin. “Poor dear, so many ladies require so much of you.”

True. Rumors ran rife hereabouts: he could serve many mistresses in a night’s stand. Perhaps so. But with a few exceptions, he was a one-woman man—one woman at a time. For a week or two, sometimes a month. While he hated disappointing as much as one of his lady friends, Dolores took precedence. Hence, he queried with hesitation, “Which one is she?”

“A new one. Someone named McLoughlin sent her. Ida Frances believes she said Gil McLoughlin.”

Rafe scowled again. Now he knew why he’d had a hunch of trouble. Neither fried meat nor a gray hair had been the cause. Trouble bore a Scottish surname. “Get rid of her!”

Simultaneous to his exclamation, two pointed ears and a tiny head popped from the nest of Rafe’s house slipper. A pair of black eyes much too big for her face rounded at her master’s shout; the small canine body, fawn in color, began to shake. One ear flopped inward. Frita yipped.

All the doting and adoring master, Rafe rushed over to scoop the elderly Frita into his palm. Her upper lip folding back in what he took for a smile, the Chihuahua dog sighed and leaned in to his fingers.

Idly noting that Ida Frances hadn’t moved, Rafe cooed, “Forgive me, little confection, for disturbing your siesta. Ah, yes, kiss Papá. There’s a good Frita. There’s a good girl. Yes, my sugar. So forgiving of a mean old Papá. So pretty. So sweet.” Such bad breath.

She raked the pad of his thumb with her tiny tongue. While he stroked her chest—he enjoyed stroking all sorts of female chests—she gazed up, worshipful.

“Papá’s baby. Brought all the way from our home in Mexico, from Santa Alicia.” Despite having earned a king’s ransom for his prowess in the arena, Rafe and his pet left with the clothes on his back, the collar on her neck, and barely enough gold to secure title to this ranch.

“You should get yourself a wife and a houseful of babies. You would make a good father.” To make him sound as sterling as Ida Frances found him, she added, “And husband.”

He tucked the now placated Frita back in his shoe. “Ah, my darling cook, my devoted friend, I thank you. But a family would be cheated, having me at its head.”

In a dozen ways he would cheat a wife, were he to take one. He wasn’t the Anglo ideal of ice-cream socials and quiet evenings by the hearth, nor did he measure up to any respectable Hispanic standards. He wasn’t sure what he was anymore.

Once, crowds parted when El Aguila Magnífico—the Magnificent Eagle, the greatest matador in the western hemisphere—strode among them. Once, respect came from his skill with the muleta and from his family name. Once, he’d been feared and revered for predatory deeds against that name. Once was nevermore. It had been eight long, trying years, since fate exiled him from the sweet bosom of his mother country.

Near the start of those years, Rafe had thought he’d found peace in the Lone Star State, yet betrayal —Forget it! Rafe asked, “Did she say what she wants? In particular.”

“She, uh, didn’t get specific.” Ida Frances cleared her throat. “Oh, I forgot. She’s daughter to Gil McLoughlin.”

“Olga?” Time tripped. Disoriented, Rafe blurted, “Charity?”

Immediately, he knew without confirmation that these were wrong guesses. He slapped his hand on his chest, feigning an attack of ill health not too far from the truth, given that the last of the McLoughlin triplets —despite her resemblance to her exquisite sisters—was enough to turn even an iron stomach.

He said, “Don’t tell me it’s Margaret —La Bruja.”

A question formed in the cook’s broad face, asking why he referred to the broom, which meant the witch in Spanish. Ida Frances asked, “This fits her?”

“Right.” His lip curled. “She’s living proof beauty can be but skin deep.”

“Beauty?” Ida Frances sounded baffled.

“Yes, she has the requisites. But I’ve always thought she’s in dire need of a good—” He cleared his throat. “To my way of thinking, Margaret McLoughlin starches her drawers.”

He reached for a flagon of men’s cologne, then splashed a goodly portion on his cheeks and armpits. His hand froze. Was he primping for La Bruja? Quickly, he replaced the stopper.

Frita crawled out of his shoe, shook herself, then, tail drooping, toddled on rickety legs through the miniature trapdoor leading to the patio. A nature call, Rafe suspected as his cook asked, “Why does the lady’s name sound familiar?”

“You’ve probably read about the McLoughlins in the Express or the Light. The broom’s father is Secretary of State under McKinley” Rafe took a fresh shirt from a drawer and twisted the subject. “Have you heard of the Four Aces Ranch in Fredericksburg?”

“Ah, the Four Aces and McLoughlin. Now your cook makes a connection. The McLoughlins own it.”

“Yes. But they live in Washington and Havana and Madrid. Or wherever else whim carries them.”

“You know the family well?” he heard.

He shrugged into the shirt and buttoned it over the golden crucifix nestled on the dense mat of his chest. “You might say I know more than I want to.”

“Tell Ida Frances more. Don’t leave her guessing. You know she can’t stand riddles.”

Rafe strode to the bed, collecting his guitar from its corner perch as he went, and settled onto the coverlet to strum a few chords of “España Cañi” before leaving his explanations at a bare minimum. “In ’89 the triplet Charity was charged with smuggling Texas silver into Mexico. I saved her good name. But she repaid me by telling Margaret about my ‘misdeeds.’ ”

In turn the witch filled the most demure of the triplets with tales of his carnal excesses—all true, why try to deny? Actually, his debauchery roused the prudish Olga’s interest, he recalled with a bittersweet smile converting to a scowl. Years had past since he’d thought of the Spanish countess of American descent. And that was just as well.

The cook bent a curious eye. “Ida Frances’s worked for you since 1895, but she doesn’t remember a mention of La Bruja.”

“I haven’t seen her in four or five years.”

Regardless, some word had reached him. Talk of a lengthy stay in an obscure place. Such gossip usually led to rumors of a bastard birth, but Margaret McLoughlin, given her disposition, would turn off even the most desperate of hombres. She had to be a virgin.

“I know the McLoughlins from the Scotsman to his Hessian wife Lisette, and on to the oldest living McLoughlin, Maisie,” Rafe said, getting back to his explanations. “It goes without saying I know the three daughters.” Especially the Countess of Granada. “Have you read about the Wild Hawks of the West show? The triplet Charity stars in it.”

“But what about the one you call Broom?”

He recalled what he knew and what he’d learned secondhand. “She’s spoiled, useless as a house cat. When she should have learned flower arranging and the proper way to treat an hombre, she had her nose stuck in tomes.” He paused, then embellished, “No doubt she studied witchery and spell-casting.”

“I suppose a young lady from such an illustrious family can do as she pleases.” The cook brushed a crumb from her apron. “Ida Frances never guessed you were close to such a family.”

“I’m not. I’ve never dined at their table, nor called on the household, nor shared a cigar with the patriarch.” He’d never even met the only son, Angus. “They have no use for this lowly Mexican bull breeder,” Rafe said bitterly, stiffly. “Except for dirty work.”

Loyal to the top of her braids, Ida Frances got one of those mama-cat looks protective women were so good at. “You are a fine and splendid man. The most exalted matador in all the world. No one should treat you with disrespect.”

Rafe laughed. “It’s been almost a decade since anyone tossed a rose into the ring for me.”

“Ida Frances will send the visitor away.”

“Wait. Don’t ask me why—I don’t know!—but I’ll see her.” Rafe rubbed his scarred mouth and glanced at the closed shutters leading to the patio. “Show her out there.”

Aiming to get Margaret McLoughlin’s goat, he would keep her waiting. He shucked his shirt, relaxed in the bed where he’d entertain Dolores, and set his fingers to “España Cañi” again.

Music, faint yet hauntingly moving, drifted from Rafael Delgado’s residence of whitewashed adobe and red-tile roof.

Aggravated at everything and especially at the situation which jerked her from the brownstone in Manhattan she called home, Margaret McLoughlin followed the Eagle’s fusby servant woman around the dwelling’s perimeter. The strains of guitar grew louder as they approached the rear.

Margaret hadn’t been asked in. It might have been nice, being spared the sun—she’d forgotten how sweltering a Texas afternoon in October could be. But no. The host hadn’t invited her inside. A gracious gesture on his part might have shown some refinement. Amazingly, Rafe did have class and breeding in his lineage, but Margaret saw him as a throwback to a darker age, of a stripe most often seen on a wanted poster.

His domestic fiddled with a rusty hasp to open a weathered and creaking gate leading into a courtyard. The moon-faced woman cast a surly nod her way. “Mr. Delgado will be with you in a little bit.”

Intent on getting the upper hand with Rafe—she figured he was the guitarist nearby—Margaret raised her voice. “Did you not give your employer my message? Tell him to be quick about it. I’m in a hurry.”

“The great Eagle is a busy man,” was the woman’s contemptuous reply. She took her leave.

Could he have earned such loyalty? Margaret wondered, doubting it. Anyway, who gave a care? She had enough on her mind without mulling Rafael Delgado’s character—he, whose greatest claims to fame were seducing vulnerable women and outwitting dumb animals.

She glanced in the music’s direction, seeing closed shutters. She dreaded confronting Rafe. Always, she’d gotten the impression he saw the worst in Olga when he looked at Margaret. “Why worry?” she said sotto voce. “Any physical resemblance is now just in passing.”

Weary from the arduous trip south, as well as from her general state of ill health, she searched for a place to sit down and make a few observations. She’d pictured his home being a veritable museum to his matador days, but there was nothing in sight relating to that faded renown. Amazing.

The patio of terra cotta tile was built in the courtyard manner, a small fountain in the center. Climbing rosebushes grew on a trio of trellises. Two hide-covered chairs circled a wrought iron table, but the setting didn’t invite her invasion.

The table had been set with stemmed goblets, a bowl of fruit, and a bucket of champagne. Black silk material, probably some sort of thin robe, lay across the back of a chair. In front of it, a single rose rested atop a china plate. No doubt about it, the offing held seduction. Forced or otherwise.

Rafe never changed.

Just as she shook her head in disgust, something moved on the flagstones. Fawn-colored, small. A rat!

Margaret shrieked, backed away. The beastie quivered and quaked, began to cower. Heart beating twice as fast as the guitar tempo, Margaret murmured, “That’s not a rat. It’s a dog.” Her father once described this breed indigenous to northern Mexico. “And you’ve scared the little thing half to death.”

Yes, and don’t you know Rafe got a thrill from your shriek. She crouched down to extend a hand. “Little doggie, can we be friends?”

The mite tottered forward. And, surprisingly, she crawled into the cup of Margaret’s hand. “Why, you’re old!”

Margaret scratched the muzzle gone white with age. She couldn’t picture Rafe Delgado as master to an ancient canine, especially a tiny one. Brutes like Rafe tied in with beasts, such as Alsatians or wolfhounds. They kept piranhas in their fishbowls. They stood up to two-ton bulls. A delicate dog such as this commanded a gentle hand.

“Little one, I’m not going to start giving Rafe undue credit.” Margaret stood and held his pet at her heart. “I’ve known him eight years. He’s a degenerate and a satyr and a bum. And then there are his bizarre political activities. Or, were.”

The one word best describing him was too awful and horrible even to whisper to a dog, though Margaret did shudder. Trying to get a look in the closed windows while pacing up and down the flagstones, she groused, “Where is he?”

Rafe didn’t deign an appearance.

“I ought to abandon this project. If only I hadn’t made Papa several promises.” Margaret didn’t renege on promises. “But if he knew the whole ugly truth, he wouldn’t put so much faith in Rafe,” she confided to the pint-sized dog now licking the cushion of her thumb. “I’d love to fill Papa’s ears, but I promised Olga not to tell her awful secret. Which doesn’t mean I am thrilled at asking for help. My father is convinced, you see, no one knows the Copper Canyon better than Rafe.”

Margaret didn’t dispute Rafe’s knowledge of that area of the globe. Yet . . . “Haring off to Mexico, especially with him, ranks one peg ahead of prancing nude through Central Park.”

Hare off she must in these times of political intrigue. Both President McKinley and Gil McLoughlin, wishing to save the lives of American boys, stood firm against the popular hue and cry of “¡Cuba libre!” With Papa embroiled in affairs of state—and with communication impossible into a spa rumored to be the Fountain of Youth—the family business of collecting a vagabond Lisette had fallen to Margaret’s reluctant shoulders.

“I’ve got to make a quick trip out of it,” she said.

Much awaited her return home. Her neat and well-ordered life, in a big city like no other on earth. A professorship, at long last. A tear spilled as she cuddled the Chihuahua under her chin. “And my two precious babies.”

She must return with all haste. What if I can’t? She froze at the mere thought. After all these years of fits and starts, she had to make something of herself this time around. It might be her last chance.

“You’re being ridiculous. You have plenty enough time to take care of family business. The rest will take care of itself.”

After being set to her paws, the Chihuahua lapped from a dish of water, licked her whiskers, and vanished through a trapdoor. Margaret tapped a toe, her irritation building as she whiled away more minutes, waiting for Rafe.

It was hard to believe she’d once thought the has-been matador terribly intriguing.

Rafe scratched his chest while ambling on bare feet to the patio to face La Bruja. Her back to him, Ida Frances’s rosebushes framing her tall form, Margaret evidently hadn’t heard his approach, for she continued to sniff the blossoms.

She wore bustle and corset beneath a drab skirt of brown and plain white blouse with puffed sleeves. Whereas her mother and sisters were big-boned and filled out nicely, Margaret had become anything but the latter. Even viewed from the rear, her appearance shocked Rafe. He remembered her as shapely, near plump. There was a frailness to her now, as if she needed to be fattened on beans and tortillas and the fruits of amour.

Fruits of amour?

He couldn’t imagine Margaret relishing so much as a nibble of passion.

One glance beyond the patio walls told him the autumn sun would set in an hour or so. Merdo. He’d been keeping Margaret waiting, when he needed to get rid of her. And fast.

“I know you’re here, Rafe.” The last red rose of the Indian summer at her nose, she inhaled and hummed a note of sensory approval. “Are you surprised to see me?”

For a moment he stood struck dumb. In his memory he’d recalled her voice as a series of braying snorts. It was nothing like that, nor did it have Olga’s little-girl quality. There was a full-bodied richness to Margaret’s husky voice, showing intelligence and strength.

He remembered her strength.

Always, strong women put him off.

Still giving him her back, she asked, “Have you no courtesy welcome for me?”

“I don’t live by courtesies.”

“My, how thoughtless of me, overlooking your ill-manners.” She smoothed hair not as richly hued nor as lustrous as he remembered it. The café noir was now just brown.

He snickered. “I see you’re still wearing your hair in a bun. Like a schoolmarm.”

“I am a school—” She turned. Her mouth dropped at the sight of his gold-adorned, shirtless chest. Then, like an old woman’s, her lips puckered into disapproval; she favored her great-grandmother Maisie at this moment. “No decency . . .”

Whereas Rafe had been shocked, he turned speechless. Maybe he’d expected to find her features unchanged, or perhaps he’d been looking for a suggestion of Spain’s loveliest countess. What he got was the awful truth.

Margaret’s complexion used to be peaches and cream, but it had faded to a waxy gray with her skin stretched across sharp bones. What happened to her once glorious radiance? All right, a semblance of her beauty remained, but Margaret looked at least a dozen years above her twenty-eight.

Hard feelings vanished. With typical gallantry toward a needy damsel, Rafe wanted to make everything right for her. Stepping closer, forcing a smile, he started to speak; she beat him to it, saying, “Speaking of hair, yours looks funny.” She smirked, not a pretty sight. “It’s all greased down on one side, and fluffy on the other. Sleep in a puddle of pomade, did you?”

No wonder the witch was skinny—she’d been living on sour grapes. Keeping a good distance from her, he rubbed some of the hair cream to the right side of his head. “State your business. I’m a busy man.”

“Yes, of course, you’re otherwise engaged.” With a blue-veined hand, she fiddled with the sole item of beauty connected to La Bruja, a cameo brooch. “At your toilette, to be sure.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to pay more attention to yourself.”

Mixing English and Spanish—both she and Rafe were fluent in the other’s mother tongue—she said pointedly, “Unlike some people, I pride myself on being above vanity.”

“You don’t say, Santa Margarita. Nice ring to saint. But saints are kind, I’ve been taught. Your disposition might honey up if you left corsets to the well-padded.” With true sentiment, he added, “Those stays must be gouging your ribs.”

She yanked at something, mostly likely the corset hem. “Ever the charmer, aren’t you?”

It was always this way with them. Mutual dislike, mutual antagonism. Which was an awkward scenario for an hombre used to charming and being charmed by the ladies. Unappreciative women gave him the shivers. Thankfully they were few and far between. But what should he do about this one? Extend an olive branch?

A long time back she’d written a book. Rafe had a grudging respect for anyone diligent enough to put something like that together. Him, he got restless just reading one. “I’ve heard good things about Columbus and Isabella.”

“Christopher Columbus and the Catholic Kings,” she corrected, then waxed enthusiastic. “You know, 1492 was a pivotal year in history . . .”

On went the oration. A yawn threatened Rafe. Long-dead Moors, Jews, and Inquisitors had nothing to do with the business of bull-breeding, or of loving the ladies. Margaret did capture his attention, though, when woe blanketed her gaze.

“Anyway”—she sniffed—“it’s ‘Mortimer’ McLughlin’s book, not mine. Not really. Not only was I forbidden from using my own name, it missed being printed during the quatercentenary of the Great Discovery. Thanks to the court action against my plagiarist, the book wasn’t published until 1893.”

“More’s the pity.” Rafe started to ask why her nabob father hadn’t used his influence in the matter, but decided to leave well enough alone. He grinned, teasing, “So what brings you to my humble abode—praise for the landholder?”

Annoyed. She got annoyed, especially when he gave his shoulders a roll and his biceps a flex. Her teeth clenching and unclenching, she said, “Praise for the landholder? You never change do you, Rafe? Ever vain and pompous.”

“Do you really expect me to answer that?”

“I expect nothing. To me you don’t exist.”

“Which is why you’re here to praise me . . . ?”

“Maybe I should laud you. Let’s see now.”

They stood glaring straight at each other. Although he’d challenged her, it aggravated him no end when she tapped her fingernail on an incisor and looked him up and down, as if he’d been swinging from a butcher’s hook for days on end.

She said, “No visible deformities or epidermal eruptions. No bucked or overlong or missing teeth. Plenty of hair atop your head, as well as on that chest of yours. Ears that don’t wave in the breeze. And—correct me if I’m wrong—but from looking at those muscles you so love to flaunt, I’d say a lady wouldn’t need to hire a woodchopper, were you in her employ.”

¡Maldición! He longed to rattle the harridan’s teeth—like his uncle Arturo did the life from the slaves who worked his silver mines.

Continuing to damn him, she pointed out, “There is one thing I admire in you, Rafael Delgado. I’m glad you’re short. I wouldn’t like looking up to you.”

His vanity slashed, Rafe ordered himself to consider the source. He knew why she hated him. It wasn’t his height, which was a couple of inches above hers, and, besides, he was tall for a mexicano, anyway. She hated him because of Olga.

Olga was also the main reason he had no use for the McLoughlins.

If it killed him, he would fire the parting shot. His voice rife with innuendo, he pointed out, “Big things come in small packages, mujer.”

Bustle bobbing, Margaret stomped over to the table. Her forefinger and thumb picked up the Chinese kimono he’d purchased as a gift for the lovely and amenable Dolores of a hundred charms. As if it were beyond loathsome, Margaret made a big to-do as she dropped the silken mass to the table. Finished, she went into the gyrations women endured to seat themselves.

She skewered him with blue eyes. And they were the sad eyes of an unhappy, unfulfilled woman.

The McLoughlin triplets may have been identical (at least they’d started out alike), but he noticed for the first time that their eyes were different shades of blue. Charity’s snapped with a turquoise tint. And Olga’s were pale, weak. Warning himself off the subject of her, he honed in on her sister again. Fringed with thick ebony lashes, Margaret’s eyes were as blue as the summer sky of his home state. To Rafe, nothing was prettier than the summer sky of Chihuahua.

Dios, when Margaret McLoughlin started looking attractive, he’d definitely been too long without a woman.

“Why did you come here?” he asked, weary of sparring.

She poked stray, wavy hairs back into the tight, dark bun at the crown of her head. “I’ll make this as brief as possible. I want to hire you. You’re to escort me and my bro—” She coughed. “Me and my fiancé to—”

“Fiancé? You’ve got a man?” Rafe had never figured her for a housewife. This was a woman of purpose, a person out to set the world afire, as he’d been when he first entered the plaza de toros. What had happened to her ambitions?

She took him wrong, took insult. “Yes, I have a man. A very fine-looking young man. Tall. Very tall. A Teutonic god, he’s been called. You’re old enough to be his father, I do believe. You are forty-five, aren’t you?”

Forty-five did it. His temper boiling like the water required for cocoa, he shouted, “¡Estoy como agua pa’ chocolate!”

“You needn’t shout. My ears work fine.”

Witch! Her novio must be a blind, deaf, and moronic Hun. On the whole, no able hombre would pick La Bruja for his own. Oh really? Rafe himself had had his eye on her, back in the beginning—back before she treated him to a large serving of her personality: colder than ice, romantic as a saddle sore, meaner than el toro with a garrocha stuck in his shoulder thews.

Keeping his voice even, Rafe asked, “What exactly do you want of me?”

“Help.”

“Tell me something I don’t know already.”

“My mother is at a health retreat in Mexico. It’s supposed to be the Fountain of Youth.”

The daughter, in his estimation, was the one in need of a miracle.

“My father wants her home. I expect you to guide me and Tex Jones to her.”

“Tex Jones?”

“My intended, of course. We must leave as soon as you can get your house in order.”

This sounded more like a demand than a job offer, which sat worse than greasy meat. “Anything I’ve done lately to make you think I’d desert my ranch to step to your tune?”

“You’ll do it. You’ll do it because you like money and I’m willing to pay you; though you ought to do it for nothing, since you’re indebted to my father.”

The woman was loco in the head. If anyone was indebted in this situation, it was Gil McLoughlin to Rafael Delgado. There was the matter of a debt of honor. A debt unpaid. Back in ’89, back in Chihuahua, McLoughlin had promised to arm the revolution, if Rafe came to Texas and testified in Charity McLoughlin’s behalf. Rafe kept his end of the bargain. And several times in the ensuing years McLoughlin had called on his good nature. For some strange reason, Rafe had never been able to say no. There was no time like the present for a change.

“For Pete’s sake, don’t just stand there frowning at me. Say something,” s