Touch the Wind (23 page)

“Never!” she hissed like a pathetically vulnerable kitten.

There was a glint of laughter in his dark eyes before he strode into the hallway, leaving Sheila to dress in private.

The food was on the table when she entered the kitchen area. Ráfaga made no further attempt at conversation, and Sheila ate in silence.

As she pushed her plate away, there was the shuffling sound of several horses approaching the adobe house at a walk. The creak of saddle leather was followed by the opening of the front door.

Laredo walked in, pausing just inside. “We’re ready.”

Ráfaga held Sheila’s gaze for a long moment, his features masked. Rising, he walked toward the door, stopping to remove his poncho from a hook and pull it over his head. Silently, Sheila watched him put on his hat, pulling it low on his forehead, and pick up the rifle propped against the wall. Then he turned back to Sheila.

“You will come outside,” he ordered in a flat, emotionless tone.

It was the last order given directly from him that she was going to have to obey for the next several days and Sheila rose to accompany him.

“
Señora
.” The quiet voice of Consuelo stopped her.

Sheila turned as Juan’s wife walked quickly to her, saying something in Spanish and offering Sheila a heavy rebozo. Sheila accepted the Mexican shawl, smiling her thanks for the woman’s thoughtfulness, and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Ráfaga stood at the door, holding it open for her to precede him outside. The low murmur of voices stopped when they walked out of the house together. There were more people than horses clustered in small groups outside.

Five saddled horses waited, with two riders already mounted, Laredo and another man. The other two riders, besides Ráfaga, were saying their good-byes to their families.

A firm hand gripped Sheila’s elbow, propelling her forward to the horse Juan held. For a moment, Sheila thought Ráfaga had decided to take her along with him. He kept her at his side while he slid his rifle into its scabbard. Then he turned, taking hold of her other arm. She stiffened as he started to draw her toward him.

“This is for those who stay behind”—Ráfaga spoke in a low voice that would not carry beyond her hearing range, the same flatness in his tone now as before—“so that they will know you are my woman, and to harm you is to harm me.”

Sheila didn’t protest as he pulled her toward him. Her head lifted automatically, her lips meeting his descending
mouth. It was a hard, sweet kiss, possessive in its intensity and brief in its duration.

Her lips trembled when he released them. But Ráfaga didn’t immediately release her arms, holding her against the solid wall of his chest while his hooded gaze studied her face.

“When I ride out, you will stand here with Juan and watch me leave. You will not go into the house until the others start for their homes,” he commanded.

At her nod of agreement, Ráfaga let her go and swung lithely into the saddle. Sheila stepped backward to Juan’s side as Ráfaga reined his horse away from her. The other four riders joined him, loosely grouped in no particular order. Laredo tipped his hat to her and touched a spur to his horse.

A red dawn streaked the sky as the five riders turned their horses toward the pass leading out of the canyon. Sheila watched them ride away, but Ráfaga never turned around to see if she was still there.

The small adobe house seemed so empty with Ráfaga gone. In the silence, Sheila could almost hear the echo of her own heartbeat. She wandered to the front window, feeling like a ghost rattling its chains.

Outside, a mid-afternoon sun was beginning its slide toward the western peaks. The crimson hours of morning seemed so far away. If the daylight hours passed so slowly, what would the night be like? Sheila wondered. She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle and closed her eyes.

“Perhaps you will find you miss me,” Ráfaga had taunted her.

“Never!” she had denied. But she remembered the hard strength of his muscular body lying beside hers and the practiced caress of his hands arousing her flesh, the exquisite feeling as his mouth took her soft lips.

Most of all, there was that sensual moment when he drove in his stake of possession. A hungry fire burned in her loins at the vivid memories the thought of him
had provoked. Her heart suddenly ached for the sight of him.

A beast, an animal, she had accused him of being. But was she any better, longing for the physical gratification he gave her? Sheila lifted a hand to run shaking fingers through her hair. Had she become some kind of a tramp? Would any man satisfy this lusting of her flesh?

She remembered the way she had been sickened by Brad’s mauling hands and his bestial use of her body. And Laredo’s touch didn’t evoke any prurient sensations. Ráfaga seemed to be the only one with this special power over her senses.
Why? Why?
her mind screamed, but it didn’t really want to know the answer.

“Physical chemistry,” Sheila rationalized aloud.

Breathing in deeply, Sheila opened her eyes. Her heart stopped as icy fear froze her muscles. Outside the window, leaning against a post, was the man who had shot Brad. His small, leering eyes were looking at her. There was an almost drooling laxity to his mouth.

Frightened and nauseated, Sheila backed away from the window. It had been days since she had seen him. But there he was, outside guarding the door—and guarding her.

Sheila retreated to a far corner of the room. Her trembling legs sought the support of a chair. She huddled in it, clinging to Ráfaga’s words that she was now his woman. No one would lay a hand on her and risk his wrath.

For the first time it was brought home to Sheila what might happen to her if Ráfaga didn’t come back. She prayed fervently for his swift and safe return. Any thought of escaping while he was gone vanished. A sixth sense told her that the man outside would somehow know her every move. In the house or with Juan, she would be safe and protected. Anywhere else Brad’s killer would be waiting.

A knock on the door made Sheila jump in alarm. “Wh-who is it?” Her voice was tremulous. She tried to get a grip on herself.

“It is me, Juan,” a familiar voice answered from the other side of the door.

Sheila sighed with relief, releasing the breath she had unconsciously been holding. “Come in.” Her voice was considerably more steady than before.

Juan walked in, leaving the door open, as if convention demanded it. “I thought perhaps the
señora
would like to ride,” he said in his heavily accented English. His bearing was dignified, his attitude courteous and respectful, as if he were a host seeing to the entertainment of a guest.

“Yes, yes, I’d like that.” Sheila nodded, suddenly needing to escape the emptiness of the house and the silent menace of the man standing guard outside.

The roan mare was saddled and waiting for her, the reins looped around the post supporting the porch roof. Sheila hurried to the mare, stiffly ignoring the man on guard, but she was uneasily aware of his hot eyes following her. Mounted, she waited impatiently for Juan, not feeling clean until they had ridden away from the house and the guard’s stripping look.

“The
señora
rides as if
el diablo
—the devil—is pursuing her,” Juan commented when Sheila finally slowed the mare to a walk far from the house.

She hesitated, then said curtly, “The man guarding the house, the one who is also called Juan—I don’t like him.” It was an understatement, one that did not express the fear the man instilled in her.

“
Sí
, I understand,” was the only response she received.

The ride helped to soothe Sheila’s taut nerves, the ride and Juan’s quiet company. She was sorry when it ended more than an hour later, but Juan promised they would go out again the following day. Sheila knew she would look forward to it.

The third day of Ráfaga’s absence, the emptiness of the house was oppressive. When Juan rode up, leading the roan mare, Sheila practically burst out of the door.
The guard held the mare’s head while she mounted and she smiled a quick thanks.

The man who had shot Brad had not been on duty since that first day. Although she hadn’t asked, Sheila felt than Juan was responsible. He knew how violently she disliked the man.

During their afternoon rides, she had grown to admire Juan’s politeness and quiet dignity, and his smile, which was always ready and friendly. Sheila returned it now as they spurred their horses into a canter across the canyon meadow. Not until they had crossed its width did they slow their mounts.

Sheila patted the mare’s arched neck as the horse pranced in an eager walk. She turned her face to the wind, letting it cool the flush of excitement in her cheeks.

“It’s good to get out of the house,” Sheila declared fervidly. “Sometimes I think I’m being swallowed up in its emptiness.”

“It is that way with me,” he said with a sage nod of understanding, “each time Consuelo leaves our home to cook for you. It will not be so lonely for you when Ráfaga returns.”

Her pulse leaped at the mention of his name. It was crazy, insane. But Juan would not understand if she denied his comment. Sheila knew that she missed him and that she wanted him back safely.

“How long have you known Ráfaga?” she asked, instead.

“A long time,” he answered, as if he had lost track of the years.

“How did you meet him?”

“I took care of the horses on a big
rancho.
I was very good,” he said proudly. “My brother was in jail with three others because of drugs. He told me a man was going to break them out. I want to help because my brother is going crazy in this place. I wait outside to help my brother run.”

There was a faraway look to his eyes as he talked. His voice was more heavily accented when Juan continued.
“It was hot, siesta time. Everything was quiet. Nothing was moving. I watch, thinking this man was not coming because all was so still. Then suddenly there was noise and shouts, then people running. I see my brother and shout to him to come with me. He starts to run and someone shoots. I see my brother fall down and I run to him. He is hurt very badly and I carry him away to hide. A man shows me where to hide and I stay there with my brother.

“This man comes back much later and looks at my brother. He tells me there is nothing to be done and I must leave him. But I say no, he is my brother. The man, he looks at me for a long time, then says to bring my brother and come with him. That is how I meet Ráfaga,” Juan concluded.

“He brought you here?” Sheila questioned and received an answering nod. “What happened to your brother? Did he live?”

“
Sí
.”

They walked their horses in the shade of the south canyon wall. Ahead was the sloping trail to the pass and, for Sheila, freedom. Or was it? She gazed at it, then glanced curiously at Juan.

“Why did you stay here? You hadn’t done anything wrong. There wasn’t any reason to hide.”

“My brother was here,” he explained with gentle patience. “And later Ráfaga brought our families here. He is a good man. This is not such a bad place to live. I work with the horses. There is food for my family to eat and money to buy clothes for them. My country is poor,
señora
, but we live much better than many.”

“But what about your children? There are no schools, nowhere they can learn to read or write,” Sheila persisted. “They can’t even leave this place.”

“I teach them English so that one day they can perhaps go to America.” Sheila saw the lift of pride to his chin and realized she had offended him by suggesting he was not providing the best for his family. “It is an important thing for them to learn.”

“Yes, of course it is,” she agreed with a quick smile.

Juan reined his horse away from the sloping trail leading out of the canyon and Sheila’s mare followed. They rode in silence toward the east rim of the canyon.

“Do you ever go with him—with Ráfaga?” she clarified.

“Only sometimes,” he answered, then mused, “but it is something to see. One minute all is quiet, then . . .”—Juan snapped his fingers—“. . . he is there and he is gone. Ráfaga, like the wind,” he added in explanation. Laredo’s definition sprang from her memory, when he had said that Ráfaga meant a gust of wind. Would he blow in and out of her life that quickly?

A surge of restlessness swept through her. She looked up to the canyon walls, wondering how much longer he would hold her here, his captive, his slave, his mistress.

Touching a heel to the mare’s flank, she took the lead from Juan. She didn’t want to talk anymore, not when the subject seemed to inevitably turn back to Ráfaga. He had said he would be gone three or four days. This was the third day, possibly the last hours she would have to herself for a long time. She should be enjoying the absence of his company.

Winding through the trees on the north side of the canyon reminded Sheila of the time she had ridden through them with Ráfaga. At the spring-fed pool, her flesh burned with the memory of the way he had made love to her in the water. There was no escaping him in her mind, just as there was no escaping from the canyon walls of her prison, complete with armed guards.

Frustrated, Sheila turned the mare around to start back to the house. They had ridden past the corral and were approaching it from the rear, a way Sheila had not gone before. Unexpectedly, the ground dipped to form a large, natural hollow. In the center were two tall posts about four feet apart. She reined the mare to a halt at the edge of the hollow, staring curiously at the red-earthed center.

“I’ve never seen this before,” Sheila murmured.
Glancing at Juan, she saw the troubled darkness of his eyes as he gazed at the hollow, his expression sternly sober. “What is this place?”

“It is for punishment.”

“Punishment?” She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Those who do wrong, who do not obey, are brought here for punishment.” He nudged his horse alongside the roan and reached down to grip the reins beneath the mare’s chin. “Come. I know it is necessary, but I do not like to look upon this place.”