Touch the Wind (24 page)

He led her away from the hollow toward the corral. Confused, Sheila would like to have questioned him further, but it was obvious Juan didn’t want to talk about it. She already knew that one of Ráfaga’s rules was that no one left the canyon without his permission. The person who did was evidently taken to the hollow and punished.

That much she could surmise, but the form of punishment . . .? Considering Juan’s reaction to it, Sheila decided that maybe it was better that she didn’t know. She shuddered without really knowing why.

At a shuffling walk, the horses passed the corral, Juan no longer leading the roan mare once they had skirted the hollow. They rode side by side onto the dirt path between the adobe houses. As they neared Elena’s house, Sheila noticed the invalid man sitting beneath the overhang. She was faintly surprised when Juan lifted a hand in a halting gesture.

“A
momento
,
señora
.” He excused himself to walk his horse to where the man sat.

The roan mare drifted along with his horse and Sheila didn’t try to stop her mount. She listened to Juan greet the invalid and talk to him in Spanish, his tone quietly conversational. Several times, he gestured toward Sheila as he spoke. Nothing flickered in the invalid’s vacant expression. He stared into space, as if he wasn’t aware of their presence.

Elena appeared in the doorway, darting Sheila a fiery look before speaking sharply to Juan. She walked quickly to her husband and stood behind his chair.
Her hands rested on his shoulders. The action reminded Sheila of a mother protectively comforting her child. She felt a rush of pity for Elena and knew the brunette would not thank her for it.

Averting her gaze, Sheila reined the mare to the center of the path to wait for Juan. He joined her almost immediately. Sheila nibbled hesitantly at her lower lip. Juan noticed the movement.

“Elena was angry with me,
señora
,” he said as if he thought Sheila believed the brunette’s sharpness had been because of her. “She is certain my brother doesn’t understand what I say and finds me foolish to talk to him.”

“Yo-your brother?” Sheila faltered.

“
Sí
, César is my brother. You did not know?” he asked curiously.

“No.” She shook her head, slightly taken aback at the discovery. “No, I didn’t know.” Another thought occurred to her and it tumbled from her mouth before she could stop it. “But Ráfaga and Elena, they—” Discretion intervened and she couldn’t say aloud that they had been lovers.

“It is over now.” Juan guessed the rest of her sentence and indicated that there wasn’t any need to discuss it.

Juan seemed so moral and sensitive that Sheila couldn’t believe he had actually approved of the liaison. “But she is your sister-in-law.”

“She takes care of César.” There was a closed look to his face that told Sheila, as his words hadn’t, that she was prying into something that was none of her business.

Irritated, Sheila faced front. “I don’t see how you can be so loyal to Ráfaga when he was your sister-in-law’s lover.”

“I do not blame Ráfaga.” There was a faint reprimand in his level voice.

Indignation sputtered before Sheila remembered this was a male-dominated culture. It was a society of double standards, especially in the rural areas. But
Sheila was suddenly not in the mood to argue the point with Juan.

Voicing curt gratitude for the outing, Sheila dismounted at the house and handed the reins to Juan. The roan mare nuzzled her shoulder and Sheila absently stroked the blaze-faced horse.

“Sorry, Arriba, no sugar today,” she murmured, then walked into the adobe house.

Sundown did not bring Ráfaga’s return. She would have another night and part of another day to be on her own. Lighting a kerosene lamp, she set it by a chair and picked up one of the books Laredo had given her. She read until her eyes were too tired to see, then went to bed. After two restless nights, sleep came swiftly this time.

The closing of the front door and footsteps echoing hollowly in the empty house awakened Sheila. She opened her heavy-lidded eyes and listened to the footsteps approaching the bedroom. A lazily sensuous smile touched her lips as she rolled to Ráfaga’s side of the bed. Her sleep-drugged mind was not functioning properly or it would have checked the swell of gladness in her heart.

“Ráfaga,” Sheila whispered as a dark figure framed itself in the doorway.

There was no answer. Her sleepy gaze noticed a discrepancy. The figure wasn’t tall enough to be Ráfaga. All traces of sleep vanished as her muscles tensed in alarm, her senses fully alert.

“Juan? Is that you?” She was breathing deeply, trying to check her rising fear.

“
Sí
, Juan,” a guttural voice answered.

But it wasn’t Juan—at least it wasn’t the proud, gentle man Sheila had meant. It was the other man, Juan Ortega, Brad’s murderer. Her gasping cry of terror was muffled by the constricting muscles in her throat as his menacing hulk moved into the room. But there was no time for panic.

With lightning-swift calculation, her mind registered several facts at once. The guard outside the house had
either been this man or a cohort of his; otherwise, he couldn’t have entered the house. Her screams might bring the other man in, and right now the match was even, if overbalanced in his favor.

There was no one to save her, only herself. Naked beneath the blanket. Sheila realized the bed was not the place to make her defense. As he reached the foot of the bed, Sheila scrambled out, dragging the blanket with her, and tried to run from the room. Her legs became entangled in its folds, slowing her flight.

He grabbed for her arm and missed, his fingers curling into the trailing length of the blanket, instead. Foolishly, Sheila tried to hold onto the protective cover and was pulled within his reach. He let out a low laugh of triumph as he hauled her against his broad chest.

With all her strength, Sheila tried to push away from him, forsaking her hold on the blanket to be free of his revolting nearness. One arm was firmly around her waist to hold her while his other hand moved to her front.

The wiry hairs on the back of his hand scraped at her soft flesh as he ripped the blanket from her breasts and tore it aside from the rest of her. He clamped a rough hand on one of her breasts.

The sickening smell of his foul breath warned Sheila of his descending mouth. She twisted her head far to the side, shuddering as the repulsive moistness of his mouth found the curve of her neck. Scratching like a wild animal, Sheila tried to claw her way free, breathing with gasping sobs of terror. She succeeded in partially turning in his hold, but all it gained her was the repugnant feel of his hardness pressing against her bare bottom.

He was breathing heavily in his lust, his hot, stinking breath nearly smothering Sheila. Twisting and writhing with desperate violence, she still couldn’t elude his groping hands, roughly feeling their way over her nude body.

A cry was wrenched from her throat as he propelled her backward toward the bed. The back of her knees
bumped against the mattress and her legs buckled. He followed her down, his suffocating weight pinning Sheila beneath him. Unable to capture her lips, he fastened his mouth on a breast, opening wide, as if to swallow it. Digging her fingers into his scalp, Sheila tried to force his head away from her breast by pulling savagely at his hair. His teeth sank into her nipple, biting it until the excruciating pain made her let go of his hair.

While continuing to suckle her breast, he grabbed a handful of her bottom and began to shift her more fully beneath his hips. Sheila struggled frantically, but she seemed only to succeed in aiding him in his efforts. She felt him trying to force his way between her legs. She tried to raise a knee to wound him, but his driving weight was too much for her to overcome.

Her stomach recoiled at the touch of his hand as he fumbled with his pants. Sickened and terrified beyond description, Sheila lowered her hands to push at his ribs and waist, trying with all her might to roll him off. Her right hand brushed against something solid and inanimate—the hilt of a knife.

There wasn’t any time to think. Her searching fingers sought and found the snap that held the knife in its sheath. Unfastening it, she pulled the knife free and began stabbing at his back. He stiffened in surprise at the first thrust of the blade.

With the second, he was straightening, twisting an arm behind him to grab at the pain. When Sheila plunged the knife into his body the third time, he suddenly realized where the pain was coming from.

His face was black and contorted with rage. He grunted like a maddened bull, but Sheila was sobbing in her desperate effort to stop him from raping her any way she could. She didn’t see his swinging hand until it was too late. Lights exploded in her head as he struck her jaw with the back of his hand.

A swirling black mist of pain threatened to engulf her. Sheila fought to remain conscious, knowing she had to keep her advantage or be lost to his lechery. Her hand had a death grip on the knife, but she didn’t
have to use it again as his weight left her and he staggered from the room.

He took all her strength when he left. Drained, Sheila lay on the bed, broken sobs coming from her throat, tears streaming down her cheeks. Gradually the pain in her jaw eased to a bearable level. Her skin began to crawl where his mauling hands had grabbed her.

Dragging her bruised and aching body from the bed, Sheila lurched toward the dresser. She pushed aside the lamp, wanting the darkness to hide her, and laid the knife beside it. The pitcher of water beside the basin was full. Picking it up, Sheila slowly began pouring the cool water over her shoulders and hot flesh until it was half-empty.

The water streamed down her body to form a puddle on the floor. But she was mindless to it as she began rubbing the soap everywhere his filthy hands had touched her, painstakingly covering every inch.

Still sobbing, she rinsed away the lather with the rest of the water, but the repellent sensations lingered. Grabbing the coarse towel from its hook, she tried wiping them away. She rubbed her skin until it was nearly raw and would have continued if she hadn’t heard the front door opening.

A murderous, primitive hatred seared through her veins. The towel slipped to the floor, falling in the pool of water at her feet. Her violent anger shook the hand seeking the knife on the dresser. This time she would kill him. Moving stealthily on tiptoes, Sheila glided into the hall.

The yellow gleam in her eyes was like that of a man-killing lioness. With her back flattened against the wall near the entry arch to the main room, Sheila waited for her prey. Motionless, she listened to the approaching foosteps. A feral smile curved her mouth as the bulky figure entered the hall.

Raising the knife, she aimed it at his spine and struck. But the blade slashed through empty air, her target spinning away. All her weight had been in the killing blow that missed.

Off balance, she cried out in frustration. A steel trap closed over her wrist, slamming her hand against the wall. The impact knocked the knife from her fingers.

“No!” she gasped in rage.

“I did not ride half the night to be murdered in my own home!” snapped a familiar, growling voice.

“Ráfaga? It’s you!” Sheila cried in disbelief. Her anger died as rapidly as it had flamed to life. “You’re back! Oh, God, you’re back!” She flung herself into his
arms, burying her head in the comforting solidity of his chest. “I’m so glad! So glad!”

He slipped the saddlebags from his shoulder, letting them fall to the floor. It had been the saddlebags that had lent bulk to his figure, disguising his lean build. His arms didn’t immediately go around her, although she clung to him tightly.

“Sheila—”

She heard the anger and confusion mixed in his voice and moved her head in protest. “Hold me.” Her own voice throbbed with the need to feel his strength. “Please, just hold me.” There was refuge in his embrace and Sheila didn’t question why.

He hesitated, then let his arms close around her. His hands moved along her spine to mold her more firmly to his length. He bent his head down, rubbing his chin and jaw against the tousled silk of her hair.

The hard feel of his body was beginning to blot away the lingering traces of Ortega’s touch. Her lips began pressing kisses against his chest. The steady beat of his heart reassured Sheila of the rightness of what she was doing.

Lifting her head, she let her kisses move to the hollow of his throat. Her fingers moved aside the collar of his shirt, unfastening buttons to slide her hands over his warm chest.

His mouth brushed her temple and Sheila quivered in sudden longing. She tilted her head back to see his strong features, her lips parting in a silent invitation. His gaze fastened on her mouth, soft and trembling, glistening moistly.

“Please,” Sheila murmured, “kiss me.”

He waited an infinite second before he lowered his head to accept her invitation. His mouth opened over hers, hard and hungry. Sheila returned the kiss with the same insatiable fire, not realizing until that moment how much Ráfaga had taught her about making love. She forced his shirt open so she could feel her breasts against the nakedness of his chest.

With practiced expertise, his hands were roaming
over her hips and rib cage, rediscovering the points of pleasure along her shoulders. His mouth moved to investigate these special passion places more fully and accidentally brushed her swollen jaw.

Pain shot through her like splintering glass. Unwittingly Sheila cried out, cupping her hand to the injured area and twisting her head away. Instantly she felt his gentle fingers touching her hand.

“I have hurt you?” There was surprise in his husky tone.

“No, I—” Sheila tried to protest.

“Let me see,” Ráfaga ordered softly, but it was no less an order as he pushed her hand aside to let his fingers explore her jaw. She flinched uncontrollably as he touched the swelling lump. “What is this?” he demanded grimly. “How did this happen to your face?”

His dark features were shadowed by the dim light, but Sheila could see the ruthless set of his jaw and mouth. Tears misted her eyes as the sordid tale spilled from her lips.