Touch the Wind (33 page)

Then her eyes saw what Juan couldn’t see; his view was blocked by the other rider and Ortega’s horse. Ortega was slowly and carefully slipping his knife from its sheath. Sheila tried to cry out a warning, but the kerchief muffled the sound. Her attempt shifted Juan’s attention to her. It was the moment Ortega had been waiting for—when Juan’s sharp eyes were not watching his every move.

With lightning swiftness, he threw the knife. Too late Juan realized his mistake. He tried to bring his rifle to his shoulder, but the knife blade was already plunging into his chest, driving him backward. Sheila’s cry of terror got no farther than her throat.

Ortega spurred his horse, yanking on the reins of Sheila’s mount. She caught a brief glimpse of Juan’s twitching body on the ground as they rode past. Then her horse was turned toward the rocky face of the canyon to climb a faint trail that suddenly appeared behind a moss-covered boulder. A second way out of the canyon. A trail that Sheila hadn’t known existed.

Once out of the canyon, they rode hard and fast to the west. Sheila could feel her mount stumbling with exhaustion, straining against the reins that persistently pulled it along.

She saw the nervous way both men watched the trail in back of them. She knew they were driving the horses to put as much distance between themselves and the canyon as was possible. Whatever their ultimate destination was, Ortega intended to reach it before any pursuers could catch up to them. Sheila could only pray that Ráfaga was on their trail now.

Ortega’s horse stumbled and nearly went to its knees. A savage yank on the reins pulled its head up as Ortega cursed the horse violently in Spanish. Sheila saw the flecks of blood in the foam around the horse’s mouth and felt a surge of pity for the wounded beast, then decided she should save it for herself. Her time would be coming when she would be on the receiving end of Ortega’s abuse, a different and more degrading form of savagery.

In the next rocky clearing they came to, Ortega halted to give the horses a much-needed rest, finally realizing if he pushed them any farther, they would all be afoot. Sheila felt as hot and tired as the horses. Her hands and fingers were numbed by the strangling rope around her wrists. Yet fear made her doubly alert.

The two men dismounted, drinking thirstily from the canteens. Sheila was conscious of how parched her throat was. The gag biting into her mouth made her jaw ache, the material drying her tongue until it felt wooden and rough. Only when they had drunk their fill did they give any water to the horses.

Shifting in the saddle, she tried to ease the cramped muscles in her arms. The leather creaked, drawing Ortega’s gaze to her. His lips widened in a lecherous grin as he fastened his gaze on the front of her blouse.

The sun was hot overhead and perspiration ran profusely from her pores. It drenched the blouse, causing the material to cling stickily to her skin. Sheila tensed, aware of the way it boldly outlined her breasts, her nipples jutting against the material.

Her skin felt suddenly clammy with fear as Ortega walked to her horse. She tried to be stoic, knowing he would take delight in seeing her tremble before him. It was hard not to recoil from the touch of his stubby hands as he untied the rope from the saddle horn.

With a yank, he pulled her from the saddle. It was a deliberate tactic to make her fall heavily into his arms. His hand grasped the rounded swell of one breast. He laughed maliciously at her muffled cry of protest. Sheila tried to regain her balance, needing it to have leverage to struggle.

The other man said something in Spanish to Ortega. Sheila understood a few words, enough to know her other kidnapper did not think this was the time or the place to do whatever Ortega had in mind. But Juan Ortega continued to smile as he argued that the horses were resting. Sheila twisted helplessly in his arms, her toes barely touching the ground. The man shook his head and started to walk away.

But Ortega called him back, spinning Sheila around his arms so that she was facing the second man. The hand that had been so roughly kneading her breast reached up to grab the neckline of her blouse, ripping it down before Sheila could try to stop him.

The torn material was pulled to the side, exposing the creamy globes of her breasts, rising and falling rapidly from the panicked breaths she was taking. Ortega’s voice seemed to challenge his cohort to ignore the prize they had captured.

Sobbing against the kerchief, Sheila made a superhuman effort and broke free of his hands. She tried to run, but Ortega grabbed at a trailing corner of her blouse, ripping more of it. The second man caught her as she was trying to elude the one she feared most. While he held her fast, Ortega tore the rest of her blouse off. Sheila struggled wildly as he pulled at the waistband of her slacks.

The man had difficulty holding her, but he succeeded. Sheila felt the hard male bulge in his loins pressing against her rump and knew he would rape her when Ortego had finished with her. Her slacks were pulled nearly to her thighs.

Sheila kicked at Ortega, aiming for his groin. He caught her foot before it could deliver its crippling blow and tugged at the leg of her slacks. She was insane with fear now, screaming Ráfaga’s name over and over again, but the gagging kerchief made it indistinguishable.

She was being forced to the ground, writhing and twisting frantically like a snake on a bed of hot coals. The man grabbed hold of her bound wrists, drawing them over her head to keep her from rising while Ortega fumbled with his pants.

There was an explosion and suddenly Sheila’s arms were no longer being pinned to the ground above her head. She rolled over, trying to rise to her feet. Ortega was already running toward the horses. There was another explosion and Sheila saw him fall.

Her terrorized mind finally realized that the explosion
had been a gunshot. She turned to see Ráfaga striding into the small clearing, cocking the rifle in his hands. Behind him were Laredo and a third man.

Sheila collapsed, sobbing with relief. Her tear-filled eyes saw Ortega desperately trying to crawl. There was another shot and he stopped moving. Then Ráfaga was standing above the body, rolling him onto his back with the toe of a boot, the rifle muzzle pointed at his head.

Then Sheila was aware of Laredo kneeling beside her. He stripped the jacket off his back and laid it over her nakedness. She thanked him with her eyes.

“Thank God you’re all right,” Laredo murmured and reached to untie the kerchief from around her mouth.

“Do not touch her!” Ráfaga growled the warning. His white teeth were bared in a snarl as he pivoted to bring the rifle muzzle to bear on Laredo.

Laredo, who knew him, stopped instantly, keeping both hands in view as he moved them slowly and carefully away from her head. Sheila, who loved him, felt a cold shaft of fear at the icy savagery etched in the lean features. The steely black look in his eyes was frightening. She couldn’t help cringing uncertainly when he walked to her.

Without saying a word, he bent down to untie the gag. His touch was gentle, but it didn’t alter the ruthless set of his jaw. A long, sighing sob of relief came from her mouth when the kerchief was removed. Tears slipped from her lashes, but Sheila couldn’t cry as she wanted to. Ráfaga slid a knife blade between her wrists, cutting the rope that bound them before he straightened to walk away. She was too numb with shock to rise to her feet.

Neither Laredo nor the other rider dared to make a move to help her. She lay there, not knowing what to do. She wanted the warm comfort of Ráfaga’s arms, but he seemed encased in ice, insensitive and hard.

He returned to the clearing, leading three horses and carrying a blanket in his hand. Handing the reins to the third man, Ráfaga walked to where Sheila lay on the ground. After shaking the blanket out to its full length,
he crouched beside her, holding it like a screen while he removed the jacket and tossed it in Laredo’s direction.

Sheila didn’t make an attempt to help him as Ráfaga covered her with the blanket, swaddling Sheila like a baby. And, like a baby, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to his sorrel horse.

Laredo stood at the sorrel’s head. “What about them?” He indicated the bodies of the two men.

“Let the scavengers have them.” Ráfaga’s reply was drawn through clenched teeth. He turned curtly to the third man and ordered him to bring the dead men’s horses.

Sheila trembled and his arm tightened around her, crushing her to his chest. She huddled deeper inside the blanket, the only place where she seemed to find warmth. The ride back to the canyon was long and oppressively silent.

At the house, Ráfaga swung agilely from his horse. Still carrying Sheila, he nodded to the man on guard to open the door. Over his shoulder, Sheila saw Laredo start to dismount, but Ráfaga was kicking the door shut the instant he carried her through. He carried her straight to the bedroom and stopped just inside to set her down gently.

His face was a hardened mask, etched in bronze, with steel-black eyes that were emotionless and cold. “Stay here,” Ráfaga ordered.

Not knowing how literally he meant it, Sheila didn’t move. She doubted if she could have, anyway. She was too numbed by all that had happened. There were sounds of him moving around in the kitchen. Fleetingly, Sheila wondered where Consuelo was, then remembered the knife that had pierced Juan’s chest.

When Ráfaga returned, she wanted to ask about Juan, but the question became lodged in her throat. Steam rose from the basin he set in the center of the floor. He spread a towel out beside it and walked to Sheila. Her rounded, unblinking eyes stared at him as he took the blanket from her and tossed it aside. Carrying her to the towel, he let her down to stand on it.

With a bar of soap and the warmed water, Ráfaga began methodically washing every inch of her with the indifference of a physician. Sheila stood silently, like a mannequin, remembering another time when she had been the one to scrub her body clean of Juan Ortega’s touch. Perhaps Ráfaga, too, was remembering that time and was washing her now to make up for the fact that there was cause to do it a second time.

When Ráfaga had toweled her dry, he carried her to the bed, laying her down and drawing the blanket over her. He sat on the edge of the bed beside her for a minute. Sheila ached for him to take her in his arms and give her the safety and warmth of his embrace. She gazed helplessly into his dark eyes. Their aloofness was cruel. She wanted to beg him to hold her, but she couldn’t say a word.

A tear slipped from her lash, seeming to freeze in a crystal drop on her cheekbone. His fingertip wiped it away, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Without a word he rose and walked from the room. Sheila turned her face to the wall and curled into a tight ball of misery. She heard the closing of the front door and shut her eyes.

After the sun had gone down, Ráfaga returned to the house and brought her food. Sheila tried to refuse it, but he insisted she eat. They were the only words he spoke to her. She managed to down a third of it before pushing the rest away. He took it and left.

In the morning, the procedure was repeated, except that Sheila ate less. She didn’t know where Ráfaga had slept, but it hadn’t been with her. She retreated into a shell of her own in the face of his remoteness.

Again Ráfaga left the house as soon as she had eaten. Sheila rose, unable to have him find her a third time in bed and look at her as though she was a stranger to him. When she was fully dressed, she walked to the front door. The silence of the empty house was stifling. It made her feel half-sick.

Sheila thought to seek the freshness of the mountain air, but the guard refused to let her leave, shaking his
head sadly as he motioned her back into the house. She was a prisoner again, confined to the house.

Restlessly, Sheila paced around the house, pain tearing at her heart and making her nerves raw. She kept watching the shadows outside the window cast by the sun, waiting for noon, when Ráfaga would again bring her food. But it was Laredo who came with the peaking of the sun. The sight of him snapped the thread of Sheila’s control.

At his knock, she flung the door open and demanded, “What do you want?”

Laredo shouldered his way into the house, carrying a small tray. “I’m glad to see you’re up.” His blue eyes swept over her in quick assessment. “I brought you some food. Ráfaga said you haven’t been eating much.”

“If he’s so concerned, why didn’t he bring it himself?” Her fingernails curled into the palms of her hands, the intense hurt she felt released in bitterness. Sheila wasn’t aware of what she was doing as her arm swung to knock the tray out of his hands, sending it clattering to the floor. “I haven’t been eating because I haven’t been hungry—and I’m still not! You can tell that to Ráfaga since he obviously can’t stand the sight of me anymore!”

“Sheila, it isn’t that.” Laredo shook his head sadly, his gentle gaze meeting the flaming yellow fire of hers.

“Isn’t it?” she said chokingly. “He hasn’t spoken a word to me or so much as touched me! He couldn’t even sleep in the same house with me last night!”

“You don’t understand,” he began.

“No, I don’t understand!” Sheila cried in frustration and hurt. “Where is he now? What is he doing? Why can’t he—”

She was becoming hysterical, sobs cracking her voice. Laredo took hold of her shoulders. “He’s with Juan, Sheila,” he told her sternly.

Breathing in sharply, she stared at him for an instant, then pivoted away. He didn’t try to stop her, but Sheila was aware of his eyes watching her as she hugged her
arms around her churning stomach. Waves of nausea swept through her, but she fought them back.

“How is he?” The words came from deep in her throat.

“Still unconscious. He lost a lot of blood,” Laredo answered quietly. “The knife missed his lungs, but we don’t know how much damage it did internally.”

Sheila hung her head, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t tried to warn him, he might have seen the knife in Ortega’s hand.”

He crooked a finger beneath her chin, lifting it. “You can’t blame yourself, Sheila. Juan should have known better than to take his eyes off Ortega for even a second.”