Touch the Wind (32 page)

There was a brief flash of white as he smiled in satisfaction and lowered his mouth to her parted lips. “That is the way it should be,
querida,”
he said against her lips.

A moment of sanity claimed her as she felt the gliding release of her zipper. Her hands fluttered against his chest in weak protest while she twisted her lips from beneath his.

“Pablo can see us, Ráfaga,” she reminded him in a breathless murmur.

He lifted his head. “Do you want me to move away from you?” The glitter in his eyes knew the answer before Sheila gave it.

“No.” She rubbed her cheek against his jaw like a kitten wishing to be stroked again.

“You want to stay in my arms, but you don’t want me to make love to you.” There was the wry inflection
of mockery in his tone. “That is not possible for either of us.”

“I know.” Sheila sighed with the aching need she felt.

Moving away from her, Ráfaga grabbed hold of her, wrists, pulling Sheila to her feet as he rose. Her mouth opened to protest, but he fluidly swept her off her feet and into the cradle of his arms. Carrying her as if she weighed no more than thistledown, he walked toward the canyon wall on the other side of the hillock.

“Where are we going?” Sheila glanced around, her view limited.

“There.” Ráfaga inclined his head toward a point in front of them.

Their destination was a cave, hollowed out of the rock wall. Part of its entrance was obscured by brush. The angle of the sunlight chased away much of the darkness. Sheila glanced around curiously, noting the man-made marks that widened the entrance.

As if reading the question that was on her mind, Ráfaga said, “A Tarahumura family once lived here.”

As he set Sheila on her feet, she forgot all about the past inhabitants of the cave. His hands pushed the blouse from her shoulders. Her arms quickly slipped out of the sleeves. There was a sudden, primitive urgency to her need for him, and Ráfaga seemed to echo it. A shooting fire was in his hard kiss, demanding and possessive. Their passion was a volcanic eruption, the white-hot heat fusing them together.

It was the chill of the setting sun against her nakedness that finally drove Sheila from the wild, sublime peace of his arms much, much later, seeking the covering warmth of her clothes. She was conscious of his dark eyes watching her dress, but she felt no shyness or need for modesty.

There was a sense of pride in the shape of her body, a pride that Ráfaga found beauty in her nakedness and carnal satisfaction in her flesh. She was proud of the translucent creaminess of her skin, the slimness of her hips—as Ráfaga had once described them, wide enough
to receive a man—and the ripe roundness of her breasts, their nipples tilting upward.

Dressing with unhurried movements, Sheila heard a rustle of clothing behind her. She slipped into her blouse and turned to see Ráfaga tucking his shirt into the waistband of his denims. He walked to her side, saying nothing, but the dark glow of his eyes was warm and admiring as they gazed into hers. Sheila felt she would be content to bask in that light for the rest of her life.

The back of his fingers lightly stroked her cheek in a feather caress. “I will bring the horses here.”

A ghost of a smile curved the male line of his mouth before he walked out of the cave. Sheila watched him leave until he was out of sight. She continued to stare at the place she had last seen him, her hands poised on the buttons of her blouse, fastened a third of the way up the front.

Her fingertip accidentally brushed the curve of her breast and stayed there to lightly trace the hollow formed by her breasts, remembering the way Ráfaga’s hands and mouth had stimulated them. Her heart was filled to overflowing with a love that was not just physical.

There was a movement in the thick foliage, but it came from the opposite direction Ráfaga had taken. Still, Sheila turned expectantly, assuming she would see him leading the horses. Her eyes widened in alarm, her fingers curling protectively to clasp the front of her blouse together.

Juan Ortega stood near the entrance, his leering, dark eyes mentally stripping her naked. Sheila wondered how long he had been there. Something in his look told her that he had not just arrived. She felt sickened that he might have witnessed the private interlude. He said something to her in his guttural Spanish and took a step toward her.

From outside the cave, a clipped demand pivoted Juan away from Sheila. Ráfaga had returned. She leaned weakly against the wall, gulping in the air she
had been afraid to breathe a moment ago. Her amber-flecked eyes closed in relief as she listened to the low, lashing reprimand issued by Ráfaga and the hurried response from Juan Ortega. She stayed in the shadows even after she heard Juan leave.

“Sheila!” Ráfaga called to her, a harshness remaining in his voice.

“Yes.” It was a shaky response, but it enabled him to locate her in the darkened interior of the cave.

His hands seized her shoulders, pulling her from the wall. “What are you doing back here?” It was half-demand and half-question.

“He—he was coming after me. I thought—” She swayed into his arms, trembling with reaction.

“He was looking for me,” Ráfaga stated. His arms circled her when he felt the tremors quaking through her. “Pablo had told him that he saw us walking in this direction. Ortega heard a noise in the cave and came to investigate. When he saw you, he said he asked for me. You started going back into the cave and he thought that was where I was.”

Sheila drew her head back, trying to see Ráfaga’s face in the shadows. “Do you believe him?” she asked with accusation.

“It is possible.”

“Yes,” Sheila agreed tightly.

The man was cunning and she didn’t trust him. Restraining her shattered nerves, she moved out of Ráfaga’s arms, quickly buttoning the rest of her blouse. She knew Ráfaga was studying her, but she avoided his eyes.

“Are the horses outside?” She changed the subject, not wanting to talk about Juan Ortega anymore and wanting to get out of the cave that had become contaminated by his invasion.

“Yes, they are outside.”

As Sheila hurried into the waning sunlight, Ráfaga’s long strides easily kept pace with her. Two horses were ground-hitched near the entrance. A sorrel stood, loose-hipped, an ear indifferently swiveling at their
approach while the bay lifted its head and blew softly. Sheila walked to the bay, gathering the hanging reins to loop them over its head. But Ráfaga caught her arm, stopping her.

“You are frightened of Ortega. Why?” He closely studied her upturned face.

“I have always been frightened of him—since the first time I saw him,” she answered stiffly, “regardless of what you think to the contrary.”

“What does that mean?” A dark brow arched in a demanding inquiry.

“It means I did not invite him into the house the night he tried to rape me, although I know you don’t believe that. My skin crawls every time he’s anywhere near me.” A repulsive shiver raced over her flesh as she said it.

Ráfaga took Sheila by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “You do not need to fear Ortega. He will not come near you again. He knows too well what I would do to him.”

He was trying to reassure her and he believed what he was saying. But Sheila didn’t and she didn’t know why. It was just an uneasy feeling she got whenever she saw Juan Ortega. It was something she couldn’t explain.

Ráfaga’s grip tightened when Sheila didn’t answer him. “Do you understand me, Sheila?”

“Yes.” She nodded and smiled to conceal the fact that she couldn’t believe him.

The bay horse nuzzled his arm. Sheila used the action as an excuse to change the subject. “Why don’t you ride him anymore, Ráfaga?”

“Because he is yours.”

“Not literally, of course.” Sheila smiled more naturally this time, remembering his explanation when she had been given Arriba.

“The bay is mine to give. It is not a gesture that I make,” Ráfaga corrected. “The bay is yours. I have told this to Juan. The bay will be the horse he saddles for you when you wish to ride.”

“Because of Arriba,” she murmured.

“Yes, because of the mare. I cannot replace the fondness you had for the mare, but I can give you a horse that is her equal.” He rubbed the bay’s forelock. “The bay is not as fast as your mare,” he qualified, “but he can carry you over a hundred mountains and have the stamina to try a hundred more. At night, he has cat eyes that can see the way that is safe.”

“But—” Sheila frowned. He himself had proclaimed the bay to be the best horse. Had Ráfaga given him to her as a sign of trust? Sheila didn’t have an opportunity to ask.

“We must go.” He turned, gathering the reins of the sorrel and mounting. “A rider has come and I must speak with him.”

Looping the reins over the bay’s head, Sheila swung into the saddle. She could only second-guess his decision as he immediately turned the sorrel toward the house.

Sheila recognized the rider as being the same man who had ridden in during the thunderstorm weeks before. This time the man didn’t make any attempt to disguise his interest in her, and she had the impression that he had come because of her.

Whatever information he had brought with him displeased Ráfaga. When she tried to confirm the suspicion that the news was about her, Ráfaga denied it flatly, but he refused to tell her the reason why the man had come—so far and so fast, judging by the weary, lathered horse tied outside the adobe house.

It was one of the few times during the gentle days of her recovery that Sheila remembered Ráfaga shutting her out. And the hours of closeness far outweighed the moment when an invisible barrier came between them.

The change in their relationship was apparent to all who saw them together. In consequence, Sheila found herself receiving the friendly respect of those in the canyon. Even the guards at the door reflected it, no longer snapping to alertness when she stepped outside, but nodding and smiling politely, instead. The adobe
house and the canyon were no longer a prison she wanted to escape from, and they seemed to know that.

With soap and a towel in her hand, Sheila walked out of the house. Using a combination of sign language and the smattering of Spanish she had picked up from Consuelo, she explained to the man and guard that she was going to the pool to wash her hair. He nodded his understanding and motioned for her to go. She smiled to herself, remembering when her way would have been barred with a rifle.

Only rarely did she have a twinge of longing to see her parents or reassure them she was all right. It seemed years since she had lived in their house. She felt as though they lived in another world where she no longer belonged. Sheila didn’t mind. She was content in this world with Ráfaga.

Humming absently, she knelt beside the pool. She shivered even before she dunked her head into the icy water. Her hair had grown much longer. It floated in the water like a dark gold fan. She rubbed soap into her scalp until it tingled, then worked the subsequent lather through her hair.

Rinsing it, she had the feeling someone was nearby. She turned, half-expecting to see Ráfaga, but there was no one in sight. Shrugging, Sheila lowered her head into the water, closing her eyes against the stinging soap.

The day was too beautiful to return to the house immediately. Sheila moved to a spot near the pool where the sun pierced the thick stand of trees to warm the earth. Unwrapping the towel, she began rubbing the ends of her hair dry.

A faint rustle of grass caused her to turn her gaze to the left. A man stood watching her. Sheila had seen him in the canyon, but she didn’t know his name. There was something about him that made her uneasy.

She smiled hesitantly. “
Buenos días
.”

The man didn’t return her greeting, but he motioned to Sheila to get up. She did so warily, trying to decide whether Ráfaga had sent him to fetch her when she hadn’t returned sooner. Somehow she didn’t think so.

When the man took a step toward her, Sheila backed up.

An arm circled her waist from behind. A hand over her mouth stifled the scream of alarm. Kicking and clawing, Sheila tried to break free. The first man moved quickly to her, a rope appearing in his hand. Her wrists were bound tightly and she was dragged deep into the woods to a place where three horses were tied.

The smothering hand clamped over her mouth permitted little air for her to breathe. What Sheila could inhale was tainted with the hot odor of the hand. Her nostrils were widely distended, trying to drink in oxygen, but her breathing was labored by fear and exertion.

As the hand was taken away, Sheila screamed.

“Ráfa——” A soiled kerchief was roughly jammed into her mouth, nearly gagging her. Another piece of material was bound around her head to hold the gag in place. It was tied tightly at the back of her head, and strands of hair were caught in the knot, adding to the, pain in her scalp.

When Sheila was forcibly hoisted onto a saddle, she glimpsed her second kidnapper. It came as no surprise to see Juan Ortega. Somehow it had all been leading up to this since the day he had killed Brad on the road. The terrible sense of inevitability frightened her.

His leering grin seemed to be laughing at the terror in her amber eyes, his chipped and yellowed teeth looking like the fangs of a hungry dog. He tied her hands to the saddle horn, giving her no chance to slide from the horse and run.

Holding the reins, he mounted his own horse. The first man was already in the saddle, waiting. He followed as Ortega led the way. Instead of working their way through the trees to the east, they were heading back toward the pool. Hope glimmered. If they didn’t take her out of the canyon, there was a chance she could alert someone.

They were nearly level with the pool, hugging close to the north face of the canyon. Abruptly, Ortega reined in his horse, stiffening. Sheila glanced ahead to see Juan
blocking the path, a rifle in his hand. The second man rode quickly to the front, as if to shield Sheila from Juan’s sight, but he had already seen her and was making a cold demand in Spanish.

Her heart pounded with relief. There were tears swimming near the edges of her eyes. Juan knew how much she despised and feared Ortega. He would never believe any tale the cunning man might make up. Her gaze shifted to the loathsome animal masquerading as a human. This time, too, he would be stopped.