Touch the Wind (16 page)

“What is it now?” she murmured with disguised irritation.

“Don’t try it again,” Laredo said.

“Try what?” Sheila asked, being deliberately obtuse.

“Running away—as if you didn’t know,” he elaborated.

“Oh?
And why shouldn’t I?” She picked up her comb, asking the question with seeming idleness.

“Because you were lucky today.”

“Lucky?” A cold laugh came from her throat. “How was I lucky?”

“You didn’t make it out of the canyon. It wouldn’t have been very pleasant if you had,” he said soberly.

“Why?” she challenged. “Because I might have gotten lost in the storm? Or maybe I would have been eaten by wild animals? Forgive me if I find your pretended concern for my welfare just a little bit sickening.”

Laredo ignored her jeering questions. “Nobody leaves the canyon without Ráfaga’s permission, Sheila—nobody,” he emphasized.

“That sounds like a threat.” She tilted her head to a defiant angle.

“Call it a threat, a warning, whatever you like,” he replied evenly. “It’s a rule for the safety of all of us in the camp. This place wouldn’t be a secret if everybody was coming and going at will. Someone outside could discover its existence. So, nobody leaves here without Ráfaga’s permission—and, most of all, you.”

Her hand tightened around the comb, its teeth biting into her fingers. She understood the logic behind Laredo’s explanation, but as far as she was concerned, she wasn’t obliged to obey the rules.

“He rules with an iron hand, doesn’t he?”

“If he didn’t the canyon would have been discovered before this.”

“More’s the pity that it hasn’t been.” Sheila breathed thinly. “None of you would be here, and neither would I.”

“I know the circumstances aren’t the same for you,” he said. “But understand that it’s different for the rest of us. We prize our freedom as highly as you do. Here, we’re safe and free. Ráfaga does everything he can to keep it that way.”

“I’m sure he does,” she snapped.

Laredo sighed, “You won’t understand.”

“I understand.” Her eyes flashed her angry frustration. “I understand I’m a prisoner here . . . that I’m not allowed a moment of privacy . . . that you’re all a band of murderers and thieves and you don’t deserve to be free.”

His mouth tightened into a grim line. “Come on, let’s go in by the fire.”

For a moment, Sheila remained stubbornly where she was. With a faintly regal tilt of her head, she finally swept past Laredo into the hall.

A fire crackled cheerfully in the fireplace, competing with the pelting raindrops on the roof. Ráfaga was seated at the table with the third man, the stranger whose arrival had precipitated Sheila’s escape attempt. Both glanced up as she entered the room and followed her with their eyes as she walked to the hearth.

She knelt in front of the fire, the slit of the blanket revealing a shapely calf and a hint of a bare thigh. The constricting wrap of the blanket forced Sheila to curl her legs to the side to sit on the warmed stone floor in front of the fire.

Laredo moved to the table, taking a chair nearest the fireplace. The silence that had greeted Sheila’s entrance was broken when he sat down. Sheila wondered why they kept their voices down. She couldn’t understand a word they said, anyway.

Briskly, she began rubbing the towel through her hair, scattering droplets of water. The ones hitting the hot stones inside the fireplace sizzled into nothingness.

When her hair was damp-dry, Sheila began running a comb through the sleek, honey-dark strands.

The stranger seemed to be imparting some kind of information to them. The responses from Laredo and Ráfaga seemed to be yes’s or no’s or questions.

She wondered at the subject. Undoubtedly, it was important for the man to arrive in the middle of a thunderstorm and for Ráfaga to dispatch the guard for Laredo upon the stranger’s arrival.

She turned from the fire to let its radiating heat finish drying the thick mane of hair in back. The comb continued its rhythmic separation of the strands, aiding the drying action. Her hair was molten gold against the backdrop of the flickering flames.

Some magnetic force compelled her to look at Ráfaga. His brooding gaze seemed to be staring past her and into the fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames. Then Sheila realized he was watching the play of the firelight on the creamy bareness of her right shoulder and her collarbone.

With disturbing intentness, his gaze slowly traveled up the slender curve of her neck. The fathomless blackness of his eyes studied the gracefully feminine line of her cheeks and jaw, the classic straightness of her nose, before moving on to the luxurious length of her gold-tipped lashes. Retracing his route, his gaze made a detour, coming to a full stop at her lips.

The almost physical possession of his gaze sent her pulse pounding with a trip-hammer beat. Unexpectedly, his shuttered, yet compelling, eyes shifted their attention to capture her look. Sheila had the craziest, overwhelming sensation that some force was pressing her backward, laying her down beside the fire to be seduced, willingly.

Shaken by the vividness of the impression, Sheila heard him respond to a comment from Laredo, yet his concentration didn’t seem to waver from her. With effort, she broke away from his magnetic look, her breathing shallow and uneven.

Laredo rose from his chair and walked to the fire-place.
Swiftly she averted her head to the flames, hoping that if he noticed her flushed skin, he would attribute it to the heat of the fire.

Squatting, he added another log and stirred the red-hot lumps of burning wood. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he slid her a sideways look, calm and questioning.

“Have you dried out yet?” he asked.

“Yes.” She nodded stiffly and stole a wary glance at the table. She suddenly had the feeling they were talking about her, perhaps all along. “Laredo?”

His hands were on his knees, ready to push himself up, but he waited, cocking his head to the side. “Yes?”

Her gaze flickered to the man at the table. “Who is he?”

“A friend,” he answered noncommittally.

Sheila looked again at the Mexican. “Is he one of your connections?”

“He’s a friend,” was all Laredo would admit.

Sheila turned to study him. “He’s here about me, isn’t he?”

“What makes you say that?” he asked.

“It’s a feeling I have. Is he?”

“Sheila”—there was patience in his tone, calm and controlled—“you are asking questions that you know I can’t answer.”

“Why not? It concerns me; therefore, it’s my business, too,” she reasoned stubbornly. But Laredo shrugged and said nothing. “Surely you have contacted my father by now. Is that why this man is here? To tell you what he said?”

Laredo breathed in deeply, a brief glitter of impatience in the look he gave her. “Don’t push it, Sheila.” He sounded very calm. “When there is anything definite, you will be informed.” With that, he pushed himself to his feet to end the conversation.

“Tell your boss that I would prefer to go to my room now,” she requested, fighting the trapped, helpless sensation.

His blue gaze bounced to Ráfaga and ricocheted
back to Sheila. “The rest of the house is too chilly and damp. Stay here by the fire, where you’ll be warm and dry.”

“What would happen if I went, anyway?” she challenged.

“You’d be brought back,” Laredo stated and turned away.

Frustrated, she began combing her hair again, listening to the crackle of electricity that matched her own nervous tension. Again Sheila felt the disturbing absorption of Ráfaga’s gaze, but she didn’t let it capture her.

Short minutes later, the stranger rose from the table. Ráfaga walked the man to the door, giving an order to the guard. The man left his post to accompany the stranger into the rain. With the guard gone, Sheila knew she wouldn’t be allowed to go to her room until he returned.

The departure of the stranger signaled the beginning of another discussion between Laredo and Ráfaga. Certain that it had something to do with her, Sheila listened, catching a note of dissension in Laredo’s tone. He was obviously disagreeing with some decision that had been made.

When Elena arrived to cook the evening meal, Sheila didn’t get up to help. No one objected, certainly not Elena. However, the brunette’s appearance halted the discussion between Laredo and Ráfaga. Judging by Laredo’s disgruntled expression, Sheila guessed that he hadn’t succeeded in changing Ráfaga’s mind.

Nibbling at a corner of her lip, she wondered if her father had offered less money than had been demanded for her release. Perhaps Laredo was willing to settle for less. Or maybe it was the other way around.

All through dinner Sheila considered the possibilities. If her absorption was noticed, it drew no comment. No one at the table appeared to be in a very talkative mood, although Sheila noticed Elena was making subtle attempts to make up to Ráfaga.

When the meal was finished, Elena brought coffee
to the table. Sheila saw the way the brunette leaned across Ráfaga, deliberately brushing her breasts against his shoulder and arm. A shudder of disgust ran through her at the blatantly suggestive action.

Immediately she felt Ráfaga’s gaze. It sliced over her, sharp, yet strangely aloof. Sheila stared at the darkly mirrored surface of her coffee, as black and inscrutable as his eyes.

Ráfaga looked away and said something to Elena. Whatever it was ignited her temper. A vituperative, stream of Spanish was directed at him. The brunette’s hands gestured contemptuously at Sheila. Somehow, again, she was the subject of their quarrel.

After two calming replies that had no effect, Ráfaga snapped out an order. Flashing him a poisonous look, Elena turned on her heel and stormed out the door.

Sipping at her coffee, Sheila stared at the dirty dishes on the table. With a sigh of resignation, she stacked and carried them to the basin, leaving the men to finish their coffee at the table.

Sheila had barely begun washing up when the door burst open and Elena swept in, her dark hair covered by a shawl. She hurled the bundle in her hands at Ráfaga and walked out. Sheila glanced at the brightly colored cloth bundle. His dirty laundry? she wondered, and a wry smile teased the corners of her mouth.

The door had slammed shut as Ráfaga straightened up from the table and began walking toward Sheila, carrying the clothes. She stiffened irately. If he thought she was going to do his washing, he was in for a surprise.

Before he handed her the bundle, he shook it out. Sheila stared at the embroidered front of a blouse and the crimson fullness of a skirt. There were obvious signs of wear, the material thinning at the creases of the hems. They were castoffs of Elena’s, grudgingly and angrily given.

Sheila didn’t care. The prospect of wearing clothes that hadn’t had their buttons ripped off or ended
suggestively at mid-thigh was altogether too appealing to refuse because of pride.

The coarse blanket of her makeshift sari suddenly began to scratch her naked skin. She took the clothes eagerly from his hand and hurried to her bedroom, forgetting all about the dishes in her haste to change.

The blouse was a little tight around the shoulders and the skirt was short. It didn’t matter. As far as she was concerned, they were a perfect fit.

Her attitude changed with the donning of the clothes. Sheila felt suddenly, if temporarily, buoyant and carefree. Gliding back to the main room, she was unconsciously motivated by a desire to show off her new clothes. They gave her a confidence she hadn’t been aware was lacking.

Ráfaga was the first to look up when she reentered the room. His inspecting gaze traveled over her from head to toe in a clinical appraisal that was hardly the reaction her ego wanted. Sheila found Laredo halfway to the door with his rain slicker on.

“You can’t go, Laredo,” she protested and hurried to him.

He smiled at her indulgently. “It’s getting late.”

“Stay a while,” Sheila coaxed.

She was unaware of the alluring picture she made. Her face was aglow with enthusiasm, a natural smile parting her lips, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. Her hair glistened antique-gold in the firelight. The creamy whiteness of her skin contrasted perfectly with the crimson skirt flaring about her legs.

“I. . .” Laredo hesitated, his blue eyes running over her with obvious approval and a glint of something more.

“Come on.” With carefree abandon, she took hold of his arm with both hands. “I have a whole new outfit and I want to celebrate the occasion before the newness of my secondhand clothes wears off.”

“All right.” Laredo grinned and shrugged out of his slicker.

Sheila took it and hung it back on the hook near
the door. As she turned back, the skirt swirled about her legs. Framed by the firelight, her hands were on the snug waistband, her stance faintly provocative.

“You haven’t said how I look,” Sheila reminded him. “I admit it isn’t exactly chic, but—” She let it trail off, smiling up at him warmly, in the midst of a friendly and playful mood.

“It’s more than you usually wear,” he commented with mock sadness, “but it’s a definite improvement on the slacks.”

“Chauvinist!” She laughed.

His eyes darkened to an intense shade of blue. “You are stunningly beautiful, Sheila,” Laredo said quietly.

She hadn’t set out to deliberately charm him, but she readily basked in the ardent admiration of his look.

“I certainly feel more comfortable.” She smoothed a hand over her skirt, absently studying the contrast of her fair skin against the vivid red material.

“Tell me”—Laredo reclaimed her attention—“what kind of celebration are you planning for your new clothes?” Gentle mockery veiled the dark blue fire of his eyes.

“I feel like dancing,” she declared.

“Sorry.” A smile of mock regret briefly curved his mouth. “I’m afraid the musicians have the night off.”

The scrape of a chair leg jerked Sheila’s head toward the sound, suddenly reminded they had an audience. Ráfaga’s features were drawn in a harshly cold mask, dark and dangerous and decidedly Spanish.

Sheila did not need to be told that the blood of cruelty ran in his veins. It was in the ruthlessly molded line of his jaw and mouth, faintly arrogant and savagely noble. He was walking toward a rain-darkened window and Sheila followed him with her eyes.