“Oh, Rafe.” This man, this infuriating man, had a way of making her blood boil with fury, then, in the next instant, making her heart melt with tenderness.
He gulped visibly and stared straight ahead, clearly upset that he’d revealed so much. Finally, he murmured, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Rafe, you are driving me crazy with your Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde moods. One minute you profess to care about me, and the next you stalk me, like a predator.”
His lips twitched with mirth.
“Can I ask you one thing, and get an honest answer?”
He shrugged. “Depends.”
“If what you say is true, if I’m more important to you than gold, then let’s go back to the landing site. I’m afraid to go into Sacramento. I have a bad feeling — ”
He turned toward her. “And if we go back… if I give up the quest for gold… Will I have you?”
His question stunned her, and she couldn ‘t speak, at first. “Of course not. I mean, I’m engaged… and, no, of course not.”
“Then we’re not going back,” he said. He was obviously not surprised by her answer. “But let’s get one thing clear. You have nothing to be afraid of if you come with me. In Sacramento or anywhere else. I promise you’ll be safe. You might not ever… Well, you might not ever care for me, but you can at least give me the courtesy of your trust.”
“Oh, Rafe.”
“Stop saying, ‘Oh, Rafe,’ like I’m a pitiful little kid.”
“Oh, Rafe.”
He made a snarling sound, low in his throat, then informed her smoothly, “Before this trek is over, I’m going to teach you sixty-seven ways to say, ‘Oh, Rafe,’ and they’re all going to be accompanied by a sigh or a moan. Guaranteed.” And the heated look he cast her way was heavy with promise.
Oh, Rafe!
Helen realized, at that moment, that she was thinking of him as anything but a little boy, and that his promise held a tremendous, forbidden appeal.
Chapter Seven
They entered Sacramento City at dusk.
Having grown up in California, Rafe knew from his school studies that Sacramento City, as it was called then, had been the gateway to the northern mines during the Gold Rush, the staging place where most travelers stopped to rest and stock up for the grueling trek into the treasure-laden hills. But he’d never pictured it quite like this remarkable spectacle.
Truly, they’d landed smack dab in the middle of living, breathing history.
As they got closer, the roads and open stretches of land became thronged with teams of worn, weather-beaten emigrants coming over the mountains from the East or up from San Francisco. Most of the roads ran parallel to the coast, connecting the missions that had been built by the Franciscan padres in the previous century. When the exhausted Forty-Niners finally reached Sacramento City, they pitched their tents by the hundreds in thickets around the outskirts of the town.
Bug-eyed with amazement, Rafe felt like he’d stumbled onto an old Gunsmoke TV set. Any minute now, he expected to see Festus saunter out of a saloon, hitch up his trousers, spit a wide arc of tobacco juice, and say, “Dag-nabbit. Marshal Dillon, let’s go round up some cattle rustlers.”
And James Arness would say, “Yep, but first I gotta go kiss Kitty good-bye. Don’t forget to bring along Deputy Santiago, too.”
Rafe smiled at the image — a boyhood dream realized.
But this was no dream, he reminded himself as his horse nickered softly in the furnacelike heat and tried to edge away from the crowded clearing.
“Easy, boy, easy,” he crooned, nudging his horse with his knees. He was getting real good at judging F. Lee’s moods and had learned he could control the fidgety horse with just the light pressure of his legs. Good thing, too, since his hands were still tied to the saddle horn. If it weren’t for his sore muscles, Rafe would have felt pretty good about his improved riding skills. And the blister wasn’t even bothering him anymore.
Ignacio led the way as their horses continued to weave through the tent city, being careful to avoid the briars and stumps of dead trees felled for firewood. Rafe followed, with Pablo and Sancho on either side of him. The stolen horses trailed behind them.