Authors: Sandra Hill
“And this is . . . ?”
“Hell. Definitely hell.”
“Shhh,” she cautioned, pointing to Pablo, who glanced up from where he was stirring something in a kettle over the cook fire. Sancho had his back to them, tending to the other picketed horses. Ignacio sat with his back against a tree, one pistol laid over his lap. Although his sombrero tilted forward over his face, almost covering his slitted eyes, Helen was sure he was watching them closely. “I don't think they suspect anything about our coming from the future. But we'd better be careful.”
“Let's move over toward the creek,” Rafe suggested. “Maybe we'll find an opportunity to escape.”
“Do you have a plan?”
He shook his head. “We have to keep our eyes open for the right opportunity. There's no way I can take on all three of them, and we'll never get away unless we take their guns and horses first.”
“I agree. Timing is everything. The first rule of every good soldier.”
He snorted rudely. “Rules be damned. We've got to make our own rules here.” Before she could respond, he yelled over to Ignacio, “Hey, buddy, do you mind if I take a bath?”
Ignacio sat up straighter and Rafe heard the click of the safety being released on the revolver. “
Mierda!
You don't need no bath. Sit down where I can see you.”
“Take it easy now. You can keep me in your gun sights. I just want to bathe. I have enough sweat on me to salt a ham.”
“But the blister I just bandagedâ” Helen started to say.
“You can redo it,” he said impatiently. “C'mon.”
Helen grabbed a small cake of soap from the kit, along with the ointment and gauze, following Rafe slowly toward the small stream. They both held their arms away from their
bodies and moved in a nonthreatening manner so Ignacio wouldn't be tempted to shoot.
The bandit leader slitted his eyes suspiciously and stood, watching them intently, his guns now aimed at both of them.
“I'm just going to wash up a little, pal. No quick moves. No escaping. A bath, that's all. Okay?”
Ignacio nodded, sitting back down. Then he called out lewdly to Helen, “You want I should wash your
tetas
for you?”
She ignored him, turning to Rafe. “Don't you think . . .” Her words trailed off, and her jaw dropped.
The brute was already taking off his clothes, with total lack of modesty, of course. She got a real good rear view of Rafael Santiago in the buff. Her eyes traveled involuntarily from wide shoulders, down the muscled planes of his back, to a narrow waist and slim hips. Over his well-toned, hard buttocks. And long legs covered with soft-as-silk-looking dark hairs.
Helen liked what she saw. A whole lot.
He bent and took the bandage off his behind, placing it carefully on a rock.
Her mouth snapped shut. “What do you think you're doing?” Her voice had a shrill, panicky ring to it.
“Taking a bath,” he informed her calmly. “We have to bide our time. Act normal. Wait for the opening. Timing, Helen, remember?”
“Right,” she said, nodding.
Maybe I'm the one who's certifiable
.
“Can you throw me the soap?” he called over his shoulder.
She pretended not to be looking. But she had to look when she tossed him the soap.
Which was a mistake. Spinning on his heels to face her, he reached out one arm and caught the bar with the ease of a seasoned pro.
And Helen got a 360-degree picture of the most gorgeous male this side of heaven.
She tried not to gape. In fact, she squeezed her eyes shut.
Rafe laughed.
She peeped.
Another mistake. Now she got a full frontal view of a man who had a knack for turning her knees to jelly and her brain to mindless, who-cares-if-he's-a-jerk mush.
And he knew it. But Rafe wasn't laughing anymore. Instead, he studied her as intently as she avoided studying him. Then, as if making a sudden decision, he spun around and walked out to the middle of the knee-deep creek. With a splash, he sat down, bringing the water up to his chest.
“Get back to work,” Ignacio yelled at Pablo and Sancho, who'd stopped gathering firewood and preparing dinner to stare at her and Rafe. “Ain't you never seen a hombre scrub his hairy arse? Heh, heh, heh.”
“We were just waiting to see if Elena would join him,” Pablo muttered, stomping back to the cook pot. Sancho shuffled off to gather more twigs.
“Hey, this is great.” Rafe sighed loudly, beginning to soap his chest and neck, then his face and hair, ducking under the water repeatedly. “How 'bout joining me?”
Standing near the edge of the bank, Helen shook her head, although she was tempted. Her blouse stuck to her back and underarms. She felt sticky and incredibly hot. “Is it cool?”
“Very. C'mon, Prissy, live a little.” He flicked a handful of water at her playfully.
She glanced back at the three bandits. They weren't paying much attention, for the moment. “Well, maybe I'll just wet my feet.”
“Chicken.”
She took off her boots and socks and rolled up her pant legs. Then she waded into the deliciously cool water. “Ooooh, that feels wonderful.”
“Come closer and I'll show you something that feels even more wonderful.” His eyes danced playfully.
“Behave.”
“Relax, Prissy. There's no way we're gonna get those guns right now. We'll wait until nighttime when these goofballs fall asleep. Even if one of them guards us, he'll be less alert.”
“Well, I suppose.” She gave in hesitantly.
“Oh, look,” Rafe said suddenly and pointed to the left. In that split second, his hand snaked out under the water, grabbed her ankle, and pulled her forward. She fell backward with a loud splash and went completely under the shallow water. When she came up sputtering, she lunged for him, but he swerved to the side, and this time she went under, face forward.
She was more careful this time when she emerged, slapping wet strands of hair off her face. “We don't have time for this foolishness,” she chided, sloshing toward him where he sat, cross-legged, arms folded over his chest like a maharajah. She unbuttoned her filthy outer blouse and dropped it into the water. Underneath she wore a regulation green Army T-shirt.
“Would you like to see me float on my back?” Rafe asked, batting his eyelashes boyishly.
“Absolutely not!” she said, horrified.
“Oh, all right,” he replied with deadpan innocence. “Besides, I'd rather check out your . . . ah . . . attributes.” His eyes raked her body boldly.
Helen looked down and almost wept. Her wet T-shirt and slacks were plastered to her body, revealing every nook and cranny from neck to ankle.
“Well, at least one question is answered here.”
She refused to ask what question.
That didn't stop him. “You're not wearing one of those Wonder Bra things.”
“Wo-wonder? Whatever are you talking about?”
“I was trying to figure out earlier today if you wear one of those âpush up-push out' bras . . . You know, the ones that make up for lacking assets.”
“You wondered about my . . . my body parts?” she stammered.
“Yes. Purely in a scientific manner, of course.”
She sat down in the water and glared at him.
“Okay, so I wasn't being scientific. But you gotta admit you've got some body under all those sexless military clothes.”
“I think this conversation has gotten way out of hand. Drop it right now, soldier.”
“It really is too bad you forgot to tuck a clipboard in your backpack. You could've given me a couple hundred more check marks by now.” He shook his thick, black hair off his face and finger combed it back with both hands, presenting her with another marvelous view of his exposed chest and upraised, muscled arms.
Oh, my!
She made a low gurgling noise in her throat.
He tossed the slippery soap at her with a laugh. “Wanna share?”
She caught it, then turned away when he stood up, a mere three feet from her, totally, gloriously nude. She refused to look when she heard him padding toward shore and then back again.
“You can look now, Prissy. I'm decent.” He'd brought his shirt, slacks, boxers, and socks back with him, and sat in the water again with a huge splash. At her raised eyebrow, he informed her, “I'm doing laundry. I don't want to put these smelly clothes back on.”
God, that sounded good.
“Why don't you take off your pants and throw me your blouse and socks? I'll wash them for you.”
“Hah!”
“I won't peek. Honest.” He made a big production out of making a cross through his chest hairs. She almost reached
out to touch the dark curls, just to see if they were as silky as they looked.
“Rafe to Helen. Rafe to Helen,” he mocked.
“Wh-what?”
“I said that I'll turn my back and keep guard against the tiresome trio. You can keep your T-shirt and panties on.” He seemed really sincere. Then he spoiled the effect by adding, “You
are
wearing underwear, aren't you?”
“Get serious.”
“Oh, I'm serious all right. But, no kidding, you don't need to worry about me, or those three,” he promised, motioning his head toward the three men who were about thirty feet away. “I'll screen you with my body, and at the least movement from them, I'll throw your clothes back.”
In the end, despite her better judgment, Helen took Rafe up on the offer. With an eye on the three bandits, Helen managed to bathe and wash her hair. True to his offer, Rafe washed both his clothes and hers, handing them back to her over his shoulder.
She had just bent over, prepared to insert one foot in a wet pant leg, when Ignacio came storming into the water, boots and all. Apparently he'd been watching them the entire time.
Rafe tried to stop him, but he slipped on the wet stones, scrambling to stay upright.
Pointing his gun at her back end, Ignacio raged, “
Dios mio!
What the hell ees that?”
“What?” she squeaked, holding her sopping slacks in front of her French-cut bikini pants.
“That mark on your ass,” Ignacio growled. “You have the angel's mark on you, too.”
“Of course she has my mark,” Rafe declared, as if it was the plainest thing in the world. “She's my wife . . .
mÃ
esposa
.”
“What?” Helen and Ignacio both said at the same time. Pablo and Sancho sidled up, too.
Ignacio's mean eyes narrowed. “I ain't never heard of
El
Ãngel Bandido
gettin' hitched.”
“Well, the little woman and I got married this morning,” Rafe lied baldly. “In fact, this trek to the mountains was supposed to be our honeymoon. No, no, don't feel the need to rush out and buy us a wedding gift.” Beaming at her like a besotted dope, Rafe waded over and put a wet sleeve around her equally wet shoulder. Meanwhile, she still clutched her slacks to the front of her body. “Isn't that true, cupcake?”
She tried to wriggle out of his embrace.
“No, I do not believe you are married,” Ignacio asserted, scratching his head with the barrel of one gun while trying to get a closer view of Helen's fanny.
“Just play along with me,” Rafe whispered in her ear. “I know what I'm doing.”
“Hah!”
“Really. Mexicans are almost always Roman Catholic,” Rafe explained rapidly, shielding her surreptitiously with his body. “Very religious, and superstitious. Adultery is one of the biggest no-no's in the Church.”
“Are you Catholic?”
“Sometimes. Put your pants on and stop arguing.”
“Who's a Catholic? What adultery?” Ignacio looked dazed by the whole conversation.
“How can you be a sometimes Catholic?” Helen asked as she struggled to get into the wet pant legs.
Rafe waved her question aside as unimportant.
“Were you religious when you were a gang member?”
“No, I was more like a lost lamb. Get back on the subject!”
“And now you're not lost anymore?” She was truly perplexed by this apparent dichotomy in his character.
“Well, sometimes I still get lost,” he said with a grin.
“Stop whispering,” Ignacio ordered. “What were you saying to Elena?” he demanded to know of Rafe.
“Nothin',” Rafe lied. “I was just sticking my tongue in her
ear. She likes that. A lot.” He gave Ignacio one of those man-to-man looks.
Helen gasped with indignation.
Ignacio practically salivated.
“Ain't that true, sweetheart?” Rafe asked, daring her to disagree. She'd only got her one leg in the pants so far. He slapped one palm familiarly over her mostly bare right cheek.
She nodded, meanwhile grinding her heel into his instep.
He dropped his hand with a groan.
“Get out of the water,” Ignacio ordered, waving his gun.
“They are married?” Sancho asked dolefully. “I knew it! Just my luck, there weel be no corkscrew today.”
“No corkscrew! No corkscrew!” Pablo wailed. “You promised, Ignacio. You said, if I stopped bellyaching, I would get my turn tonight. You saidâ”
“Shut the hell up!” Ignacio roared, then turned angrily on Rafe. “Show me the marriage certificate.”
“Sure thing,” Rafe said. “It's in my backpack.” Then he gave Ignacio a considering scrutiny. “You did remember to bring my backpack, didn't you? It was lying on the ground back where Sancho wrestled me in the dirt and tied my wrists.”
When all three bandits looked at each other and realized that no one had picked up a pack, Rafe shrugged as if to say, hey, it wasn't his fault.
“You do not have proof of thees marriage?” Ignacio asked, clearly not buying Rafe's story. “Then Elena will do the corkscrew with us till you give us that proof.”
“Oh, but I can give you proof,” Rafe inserted glibly, “when we get to Sacramento tomorrow. The padre at the mission can verify the marriage. You know Father Fernando, don't you?”