Touch the Wind (13 page)

An eyebrow lifted in query. “
Señora?
”

She stood there, staring, knowing he was asking why she was unable to sleep. But, seeing him like that, half-clothed, Sheila could only remember that minutes ago he had lain naked with a woman, performing the most intimate acts with her.

Frowning slightly, he tipped his head to the side, watching her alertly. An overwhelming desire to escape gripped Sheila. She wasn’t certain what kind of threat he was posing. She only knew she had to escape from him, and she bolted for the door.

“Sheila!” His use of her name carried the command to halt.

She ran faster, reaching the door and starting to yank it open. His hand slammed it shut before he seized her arm and spun her around.

“Let go of me!” She struggled desperately. “Pig! Animal!”

She heard the demanding ring of his low voice and paid it no heed. Kicking at his shins with her bare feet, she twisted like a mad animal to break his hold. As if sensing Sheila was teetering on the edge of hysteria, he. grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard until she thought her head would snap off.

“Pig!” Sheila breathed brokenly when he stopped shaking her. Blackness reeled in front of her eyes and she had to cling to the hard flesh of his naked shoulders to keep her balance. “You’re a depraved monster! Was Elena too easy a conquest? Have you decided to rape me now?”

Her eyes blazed with the yellow fires he had described to Elena. His mouth tightened grimly, a muscle leaping convulsively in his jaw as the smouldering black coals in his eyes gazed down at her. Before she could draw another breath, her hands were twisted behind her back and she was crushed against his bronze chest.

The musky, male scent of him was heady and strong, drugging her senses with its potency. Driven by desperate fear, Sheila writhed futilely against him, her heart hammering in her throat.

The breadth of his shoulders seemed to dwarf, following her as she bent backward over his arms. His voice hissed an angry command in Spanish near her ear. Sheila twisted her head to avoid the sound, making the mistake of turning her face toward his.

The accidental touch of his male lips froze her into immobility. She couldn’t move as she went cold all over, then fiery-hot. Time was suspended as their lips maintained the feather touch. Sheila waited in breathless fear for the bruising possession of his mouth.

Remembering Brad’s brutal assault, Sheila closed her eyes. “Not again,” she sobbed in a whispered plea for mercy.

The fragile link was broken. Ráfaga straightened up, lifting his head as Sheila blinked at his obsidian eyes. There was a faint flare of his nostrils, a suggestion of proud arrogance. His arm slid down the back of her bare legs to swing her off her feet and into his arms.

“No!” she gasped in protest and struggled wildly.

Her efforts were easily blocked as he carried Sheila to her bedroom. Letting her feet slide to the floor, he turned her into his chest. Sheila used her arms to try to wedge a space between them and thwart his attempt to crush her again in his unyielding embrace. She realized too late that he had allowed her to succeed in pushing him away, as he pinioned her arms between them.

His hand half-encircled her throat, pushing her chin up. Sheila stiffened in shock as his mouth captured hers, closing over it warmly and firmly. Rigidly, she tried to recoil, but the pressure on her throat was increased
to effectively check the attempt. He forced her to endure his kiss until he decided to end it.

When he did, he pushed her roughly away. Sheila staggered backward at the unexpected rejection, falling down hard on the cot. His stance indicated he could take her if he chose to, but he didn’t want her, and her fears to the contrary were groundless. Without a word, he turned and walked out of the room.

Shivering at his coldness, Sheila lay down on the cot and curled herself into a tight ball. Her eyes burned, but no tears slipped from her lashes. Sleep was a long time coming.

For two long days, Sheila kept to herself, retreating to her room whenever Ráfaga was in the house. Her blood simmered near the boiling point each time she saw him, hating him with an intensity that left her shaken.

Yet Sheila was powerless, his prisoner, subject to his punishment should she provoke him. There was no one to intercede on her behalf. She was alone with only her own instincts of survival to guide her.

By the afternoon of the third day, the empty, dragging minutes and the rooms that seemed to grow increasingly smaller were tearing at Sheila’s nerves. She felt she would go mad if she had to spend another hour inside the house.

Walking to the door with long, agitated strides, she pulled it open. Immediately the guard turned, the rifle in his hands held across his chest to bar the way. Sheila stopped, her head lifting like a doe scenting danger.

The guard smiled, chipped, yellowed teeth leering at her. It was Juan, the man who had murdered Brad and tried to rape her. Waves of revulsion washed over her as his gloating dark eyes traveled her length. He seemed to strip away her clothes while her flesh shuddered violently at the almost physical touch of his gaze.

“Baño, Señora?”
he inquired with a lewd gleam in his eyes.

Sheila tried to swallow the lump in her throat and
shook her head. The negative movement swung the tawny mane of hair about her shoulders, the paler streaks catching the sunlight.

He shifted the rifle in his hands, pointing the barrel at Sheila. The muzzle prodded the knotted front of her blouse, nudging her backward into the house. She retreated a step and his gaze focused on the rise and fall of her breasts, straining in deep breaths against the silky material of her blouse. Panic rose, but she tried not to show her fear.

His attention was diverted by a sound behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, the leering grin leaving his expression. Sheila’s vision was blocked by the door frame, preventing her from seeing what or who had caused his broad features to be covered by a dutifully bland mask.

The authoritative ring of a familiar Spanish voice provided the answer. Juan replied, his gaze returning to Sheila. The gleaming black light in his eyes seemed to promise that they would meet again—alone, without interruptions.

Sheila paled at the silent, ominous threat. Ráfaga came into view with Laredo at his side. Juan stepped away from the door, lowering the rifle muzzle to the ground. Briefly impaled by Ráfaga’s gaze, Sheila turned stiffly into the house, her limbs shaking from the encounter with Brad’s murderer.

“What were you doing?” Laredo queried.

What could she say? That she had wanted some fresh air, but the animal on guard had stopped her? Should she tell him that Juan had been about to force her into the house and attack her? They wouldn’t believe her.

Juan was one of them. They would accept his word before hers. Sheila guessed that orders had been given that she wasn’t to be touched, so Juan would never admit that he planned to harm her in any way, only prevent her from leaving the house.

“I’m going crazy locked up in this house!” Sheila screamed. “I wanted some fresh air, but the dog you have guarding the door wouldn’t let me out!”

“It’s better if you stay in,” Laredo said.

“For how long?” Her voice cracked shrilly on a note of hysteria. “You can’t expect me to stay inside this miserable hole forever! I’m nearly climbing the walls as it is now!”

Ráfaga made a comment in Spanish, drawing Laredo’s look. Some silent message passed between them before Laredo glanced back to Sheila.

“I’ll take you for a walk,” he announced.

“Thanks,” Sheila retorted with bitterness.

Stepping to the side, Laredo made no response to her sarcasm. Juan’s short, stocky hulk waited outside. He straightened from the porch post to bar her way again, but a quiet order from Laredo made him shift to the side.

Sheila lowered her head as she walked by, letting the length of her dark blonde hair swing forward to veil her face from his eyes. But she sensed him watching her, silently menacing.

Laredo’s hand at her elbow directed her away from the scattered collection of adobe buildings and toward the tree-shaded side of the canyon floor. Again she was being isolated from the other inhabitants of the canyon.

Behind her, Sheila could hear children playing. Birds sang gaily in the trees and bushes while horses and a few cattle grazed contentedly in the sunlit meadow, tails swishing at the flies. It all seemed so incongruous, considering her plight.

Laredo had released her arm to let her walk freely. Sheila clasped her elbows in a nervous warming gesture. She stared straight ahead, her eyes wide, a glimmer of apprehension in their depths.

“Talk to me, Laredo,” she said urgently. “Tell me who you are and how you came to be here. Tell me lies—I don’t care. Just talk to me so I won’t be able to think.”

He paused, studying her silently, then resumed his strolling pace. “Where would you like me to start?” he asked.

“I don’t care.” Sheila shrugged indifferently and breathed in shakily. “How did you come to be here—to join up with this band of renegades, or whatever they are?”

“I was smuggling marijuana across the border. The man I was dealing with tried to change the terms, up the price on what I wanted. We fought. He pulled a knife and I took it away and killed him. Unfortunately, the Mexican police arrived before I could run.” His voice was flat, without emotion. It was a bald statement of facts, nothing more.

“It sounds like self-defense,” Sheila murmured to keep the conversation going, “or, at the most, involuntary manslaughter. What were you convicted of?”

“It never came to trial.”

“What?”

His mouth crooked in a semblance of a smile. “The judicial system in Mexico is not the same as in the States. It’s the old Napoleonic Code, under which you are guilty until you prove otherwise. You’re jailed until you come to trial, which can be a long time. Keeps the criminals off the streets.”

“That’s why you’re here, then, hiding in the mountains, because you’re wanted by the police,” Sheila concluded. She felt quite blasé about the fact he had killed someone, regardless of the circumstances. “How did you escape?”

He stopped to light a cigarette and offered one to Sheila. She accepted it, hoping the nicotine in the tobacco would soothe her raw nerves. He exhaled a thin trail of smoke and watched it curl and dissipate in the clear air.

“There was a raid, a well-organized assault on the jail where I was being held. It happened so fast that I wasn’t even sure what was going on,” he recalled absently. “Cell doors were being opened. Everybody was running in all directions, trying to escape. But I saw this one Mexican raider, icy cool and controlled. He had three other American prisoners with him and he looked like he was guiding them out of the confusion. I
figured he knew what he was doing and where he was going—which was more than I did—so I tagged along.”

“Ráfaga,” Sheila said, identifying the leader.

“Yes.” Laredo nodded and studied the tip of his cigarette. “Someone on the outside had hired him to bust the three American prisoners out of jail and get them back across the border to the States. I just hitched a ride, that’s all.”

“But why didn’t you go back to the States with the others?” she frowned. “Why did you stay here with him?”

“The others were just facing minor drug charges. Mine was murder,” he reminded her. “I would have been extradited to Mexico to face trial. Besides, I killed a guard during the escape, so even if I could have gotten out of the other charge, they would have had me on the second one. The American government might have looked the other way if I had done something minor, but for the good of international relations, they would have had to search for a murderer. My family would have been notified. There would have been headlines in the local paper. Now they don’t know where I am or what I’ve done or if I’m alive. It’s better if I stay on this side of the border.”

“But wasn’t your family notified when you were arrested the first time?” Sheila questioned.

“I was jailed under a phony name with a phony passport.” Laredo inhaled deeply on his cigarette and shook his head, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “The Mexican police found out who I really was, but the wrong name is still listed with the American consul. So my family doesn’t know.”

“How can you be sure?”

“There are ways,” he answered, retreating to the mysterious phrase that implied connections.

Sheila started walking again, wandering aimlessly toward the grazing horses. “How long have you been with Ráfaga?”

“Nearly three years.”

“He seems to spend a great deal of time with you, more than with the others,” she commented idly.

“I suppose you could say I’ve become his left-hand man.” Laredo smiled lazily.

“Left-hand?” She glanced at him curiously. “Who’s his right-hand?”

“Nobody. He doesn’t trust anybody to be on his right.” Laredo paused to crush his cigarette butt beneath the heel of his boot.

A cold chill raced down Sheila’s spine. She tossed her own half-smoked cigarette into the long grass beneath her feet.

“What’s going to happen to me, Laredo?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She lifted her head to eye him warily. “Have my parents been contacted yet?”

A mask was drawn over the vaguely boyish features, making them hard and unrevealing. “I can’t answer that, Mrs. Townsend,” Laredo replied stiffly.

“For God’s sake, call me Sheila!” she declared in agitation. “I don’t want to be reminded of Brad!”

“I didn’t intend to, Sheila.” Laredo relaxed slightly.

“When the money is paid, will I be released?” she asked, quickly taking advantage of the hint of compassion in his tone.

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t be, if the money was paid.” He shrugged and began walking.

It was hardly a satisfactory answer, and Sheila sighed dispiritedly. Far off in the distance there came a lonely wail. She stopped, listening intently to hear the sound again.

“What was that?” she murmured.

Laredo glanced to the south. “A train—the Chihuahua-Pacific railroad, which runs from the Mexican side of Presidio, Texas, through the Sierras and Copper Canyon to the Pacific coast. When the wind’s right, you can hear its whistle echoing through the mountains.”