Desperado by Sandra Hill Page A

out like the prow of a ship and a huge back end that went up and down in his tight trousers as he walked.
    Pablo, the youngest of the bandits, and Sancho, the older man with a head of thick, curly gray hair, glared at their leader for assigning them the dirty work.
    Suddenly, the absurdity of the whole situation struck Helen. “The Three Stooges of the Wild West!” she murmured. Her eyes connected with Rafe’s, and they shared a smile.
    Lord, he is gorgeous . What was it about Rafe that a mere smile could set butterflies fluttering in her stomach?
    â€œWhat does that make us?” he asked drolly. “The Two Stooges of the Tame West?” He winked at her.
    And the butterflies targeted another part of her body, much lower down. She was in big, big trouble if she didn’t pull herself together right away. Forcing the wobble out of her voice, she said, “Really, Rafe, it’s time to give up the joke. Couldn’t you get any better actors than these?”
    â€œYou think I staged this comedy? Why?”
    â€œBecause you’re brain dead. Because you enjoy teasing me. Because—”
    â€œYou don’t suppose . . .” he proffered hesitantly “. . . you don’t think we could have possibly landed in another time? 1850? I mean, look at those ancient Colt revolvers. And the saddles.”
    â€œWhat? Did you land on your head? Don’t be ridiculous.”
    Time travel! It was an outlandish notion. Anyone could buy an ancient firearm if they had the money, she concluded. And the animals and the fine-tooled leather saddles were, no doubt, borrowed from some rancher or movie set in the area, one of Rafe’s friends. Nope, Helen wasn’t buying the time travel nonsense. No way!
Whoever said, “Ride ’em, cowboy” wasn’t a cowboy . . .
    A short time later, Rafe put on a false front of bravado, letting Sancho and Pablo help him onto the back of the black horse. He was, unfortunately, too unnerved by the skittering horse under him to try to escape when they released the ropesaround his wrists and retied them in front so he could hold onto the reins.
    As if I know what to do with reins! He clutched the saddle horn and eyed the rearing beast. Well, maybe not rearing, but definitely shifting.
    Helen, on the other hand, looked perfectly calm and capable, sitting on the pinto. Not that he knew what a pinto was. The only pinto he’d ever heard of was a car.
    Ignacio began to move out, followed by Helen and Rafe, then Sancho and Pablo in the rear, then a string of five other stolen horses they planned to sell in Sacramento City.
    The only problem was that Rafe’s horse didn’t move.
    â€œGiddyap,” he urged his horse, and Helen giggled.
    He was beginning to hate her.
    â€œGiddyap? Why not yippee-kay-aye?”
    â€œI was gonna try that next,” he grumbled, meanwhile shaking his reins, using his knees to nudge the sides of the heaving horse—Mr. Ed was probably laughing, too—bouncing up and down on the saddle, then finally yelling, “Move, you son of a bitch!”
    The horse glanced back at him over its shoulder, and he could have sworn it snickered. God, it looked just like F. Lee Bailey. The legendary barrister had spoken to his law school class once and he’d worn a condescending expression the entire time, just like this horse with an attitude.
    â€œI think I should get some spurs,” he concluded, “like Ignacio and the others. What F. Lee Horse here needs is a good swift spur in the ass.”
    â€œNo, no, no,” Helen said, moving her horse closer. “You have to be gentle. Whatever you do, don’t kick the horse. Just nudge his flanks gently with your heels. Like this.”
    â€œAnd how do I make him stop?”
    â€œPull on the reins.”
    â€œOh, yeah. I get it now.”
    The horse started to move, and Rafe was feeling really good . . . until Helen warned him to stop shaking the