“How’s your blister?” she asked.
“Fine, although my ass feels like it’s growing callouses.”
She clucked her disapproval at his language, but, even though Rafe continually ruffled her feathers, she couldn’t deny her attraction to him. If her hands were free, she’d be tempted to wipe the perspiration from his whiskered face; however, since her karate exhibition, the bandits deemed her a danger, too.
They saw more people as they neared Sacramento — emigrants in wagons who had presumably traveled the overland trail across the plains, trappers coming down from the mountains, prospectors on horses or mules, traveling singly or in groups. Always, Ignacio kept their distance, making sure that she and Rafe couldn’t make any contact with the passersby.
But even from that range, Helen could see that these were not actors in red flannel shirts and dusty homespun trousers. Huge beards covered their weathered faces, and they moved with the ease of men used to the saddle, not automobiles.
“We really have traveled back in time,” Helen concluded.
“I know,” Rafe agreed glumly. “I know.”
Even when they passed through the primitive mining town of Placerville, Ignacio refused to allow them to stop for fear someone would come to their aid before he could collect his reward.
They did stop to water the horses at a ranch in the Sacramento Valley that sported an incongruously modern sign, “The Last Chance Ranch.” As they rode up the lane, leading to the ranch house, several riders — presumably the owner and his hands — approached, eying them suspiciously. Ignacio and Sancho rode forward to talk to them.
Pablo stayed behind as guard. The three of them pulled their horses to a halt near a corral fence by the house and waited. Pablo had a cocked pistol hidden under a blanket over his saddle horn. He’d been given explicit orders from Ignacio to shoot if Rafe or Helen made the slightest move to call for help or ride away. As insurance, Ignacio warned that he’d personally put a bullet through Pablo’s head if he disobeyed the command.
Helen was tired and dirty and extremely fearful of their fate. But her attention was nonetheless captured by the lady standing on the porch of the ranch house. “Look at that woman!” Helen exclaimed. “Doesn’t she resemble that Vogue cover model, Selene?”
The tall, statuesque woman, with dark hair piled atop her head, studied them with unwarranted intensity, almost horror. Despite being very pregnant, she was absolutely gorgeous.
Rafe furrowed his brow, squinting in the bright sunlight.
“I met Sandra Selente — that’s Selene’s real name — at a cocktail party five years ago. She didn’t look at all like this woman.”
“That figures!”
“What?”
“That you’d be cavorting with the rich and famous.”
“Cavorting? What the hell kind of word is that? And, I’ll have you know, it was a barbecue. If it was for the rich and famous, I sure was out of place.”
“Hah!”
“Hah!” he threw back.
Before they had a chance to move closer and speak to the woman, she slapped a hand to her chest in dismay. Then she spoke softly to a dark-skinned man beside her and rushed into the house.
They watered their horses under Ignacio’s ever-vigilant eye. At one point, the owner — James Baptiste, they learned from Pablo — was arguing with Ignacio about his captives, telling him to release them. They heard Ignacio explain that Rafe was the notorious Angel Bandit, wanted for numerous robberies throughout California, and Helen was the prostitute Elena. Mr. Baptiste appeared dubious and walked up to their horses.
Helen saw Pablo raise his pistol under the blanket. He said in an undertone, “I weel shoot the gentleman if you misbehave.”
The handsome Creole addressed Rafe first. “Ignacio says you’re the Angel Bandit. Is that so?”
Rafe hesitated, then nodded.
Mr. Baptiste’s lips thinned angrily. “You killed an acquaintance of mine in Sonora last year.”
“I’ve never killed anyone,” Rafe asserted, despite Ignacio’s hiss of warning. Wisely, Rafe clamped his mouth shut, refusing to say more.
Mr. Baptiste turned to Elena. “And you? Are you an accomplice to this man?”
“Yes.”
Throwing his hands out hopelessly, Mr. Baptiste walked off then, muttering, “Merde! They all deserve each other.”