Touch the Wind (7 page)

Sheila managed a short nod of understanding, breathing deeply when the strangling pressure was removed. Tears of pain smarted her eyes. Sheila turned her head to the side window, wiping away the traces of tears with her fingertips.

“You certainly can’t take a joke, can you?” She choked out the retort, but Brad didn’t respond.

A dust-devil whirled beside the car and danced into the brush. Sheila followed its flight into the emptiness of the land. It seemed a wilderness.

Dust was whipped into a hazy cloud by a gust of wind. Her gaze sharpened as she detected movement in the haze. The air cleared slowly to reveal horses and riders. In the obscuring thickness of the brush, it was
hard to tell how many there were, a half dozen, maybe more.

Sheila didn’t alert Brad to the presence of the riders until the small band spotted the stalled car and stopped to stare curiously. A blue Thunderbird in the middle of nowhere was not a common sight.

“Brad, someone is out there,” she said finally.

“What?” He leaned toward her. “Where?”

“There.” Sheila pointed, plagued by a fear she couldn’t explain. “On horseback. Do you see them?”

“Yes, I see them,” he answered.

“Who do you suppose they are?” She continued to watch them, finding it strange that they hadn’t ridden forward to investigate.

“Mexican cowboys, by the looks of them,” Brad concluded. “I’ve heard there are a lot of ranches in this area. It’s supposed to be cattle country.”

A frown of uncertainty knitted her eyebrows. “Yes, that could be.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to take any chances.”

He leaned over the seat back and opened his travel-worn suitcase. Sheila glanced over her shoulder to see what he was doing. Her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the snub-nosed revolver he took from beneath a pile of clothes.

“What are you going to do with that?”

Brad ignored the question. He checked to make sure the gun was loaded before tucking it into the waistband of his slacks and buttoning his jacket closed.

As he opened his door, he ordered, “You stay in the car.”

Her gaze returned swiftly to the band of riders, approaching the car at a sedate walk. When Brad stepped out, one of the riders separated from the others to ride forward.

“Hello!” Brad called to him, walking around to the raised hood.

“
Buenos días, señor,”
the man returned. He stopped his horse and dismounted, his bulky shape concealed by a dirty, brightly striped poncho.

“Do you speak English?” Brad asked.

“No hablo inglés.”
The man shook his head sadly.

“Look”—Brad breathed in deeply and released an irritated sigh—“my car has broken down.” He motioned the man to come to the front of the car. “See? The water hose is busted.”

The man said something in Spanish that sounded suitably sympathetic to Brad’s problem. He was shrugging his helplessness when he moved away from the hood.

The other riders had clustered around the man’s horse, watching the proceedings. Sheila counted eight of them, nine including the man talking to Brad. She couldn’t shake the eerie sensation that sent chills down her spine. It was as if some primitive part of her had caught the scent of danger. Ignoring Brad’s command, she stepped out of the car.

“The car won’t run until it’s fixed. What I need—” Brad stopped at the sound of the car door shutting and glared at Sheila. “Get back in the car.”

Her gaze never left the riders. “I’m staying here.”

It was a motley group of men. A powdering of dust dulled their clothes, an assortment of ponchos and pants. Their horses were small and narrow-chested, nondescript compared with the powerfully muscled quarter horses common in Sheila’s home state.

Combining pantomime with an attempt at sign language, Brad endeavored to communicate with the Mexican. Sheila was aware of his action out of the corner of her eye.

“Is there a town or village close by where I can have the car fixed?” Brad said the words slowly, acting them out when he could. “I must find someone to fix the car —repair it so it will run again.
Comprendez?”

The man listened and watched him earnestly, but in the end he shook his head regretfully and lifted his hands.
“No entiendo, señor”

Brad muttered an aside to Sheila. “Why can’t these damned Mexicans learn how to speak English?” He started all over again. “Is there someone out there somewhere who can fix the car?”

Sheila’s gaze traveled warily over the group of riders, always being drawn back to one man, although on the surface there was nothing about him to distinguish him from the others. Wearing a dust-covered, Western-crowned hat with a wide brim, he was slouched in the saddle, a gloved hand resting on the protruding horn. Yet Sheila sensed an animal alertness behind the indolent pose.

Like the others, there was a shadowy darkness to his cheeks and jaw to indicate he hadn’t shaved recently. It gave him an unkempt, and vaguely disreputable, appearance. But this one man did not have the broad flatness to his face that hinted at the Mexican-Indian extraction of the other riders. His features were angular and lean. And the obsidian dark eyes staring back at Sheila were hard and cold.

“Damn it! There has to be a mechanic somewhere around here!” Brad’s patience snapped at his inability to communicate successfully with the Mexican.

“Mecánico? Si, si.”
The man nodded in sudden understanding and followed with a spate of Mexican as he pointed back the way they had come.

“Now we are getting somewhere,” Brad murmured grimly.

A puff of wind blew shimmering strands of brown-gold hair across Sheila’s face. She reached up to tuck them behind her ear, unaware that the action stretched the silken material of her blouse across her breasts. Her gaze was compelled to return again to the dark rider.

“Will you ride your horse to where the mechanic is and bring him back?” Brad pantomimed the question. “I’ll pay you for your trouble. Pay you—have you got that? Pesos. Many pesos. Don’t tell me you don’t know what pesos are?” he added cynically.

“Pesos?
Si, si.”
The man assured him of his understanding and waited.

“How much do you want?” Brad asked, reaching into his trousers pocket. “Fifty pesos?”

As he pulled out the wad of bills Sheila had given him, she went cold all over. She wanted to scream at.

Brad for his stupidity in showing the man all that money, but nothing could get past the lump of fear in her throat The Mexican laughed with undisguised delight, revealing chipped, yellowed teeth, and said something to the others.

She couldn’t believe that Brad didn’t feel the subtle change in the atmosphere—that charged feeling in the air that precedes a violent storm. Sheila faced the riders, her eyes darting to the faint smiles appearing at their compatriot’s announcement Only the one compelling rider seemed untouched by the news. Every muscle in her body was tensed for flight.

“Fifty pesos isn’t enough, huh?” Brad muttered beneath his breath, “Greedy bastard.” And he began peeling off more bills. “How about a hundred pesos? Would that persuade you?”

Sheila wanted to laugh hysterically at Brad. His singleminded desire to show how wealthy he was made him blind to the situation, and she couldn’t force the words through her mouth to warn him. The whole scene was building toward a climax, and she was powerless to stop it.

The Mexican’s left hand emerged from the folds of his poncho and reached toward the money. “I’ve found your price, have I?” Brad declared and started to separate some of the bills from the rest.

The man didn’t wait to be given the money. Instead, his hand closed over the whole amount Too late, Brad realized the danger that Sheila had sensed from the beginning. Swearing, Brad fumbled inside his jacket for the revolver tucked into his waistband.

As the butt of the gun emerged in his hand, Sheila’s horrified eyes saw the muzzle of the Mexican’s gun protruding from the right side of his poncho. A deafening explosion followed. When her eyes focused again, Brad was crumbling to the ground, the snub-nosed revolver slipping from his fingers.

You stupid fool,
Sheila thought.

She wanted to run to him, but the Mexican was
already kneeling beside him, prying the wad of money from the tightly clenched fingers.

Sheila took a faltering step toward Brad, staring at the small red hole in his chest. There was no gory, spurting of blood such as she had seen depicted in movies—just a small, deadly hole and a slow-spreading scarlet stain to betray the mortal wound.

The crack of saddle leather and horses’ hooves penetrated the dazed mist of her mind. The scent of warm horseflesh was mixing with the acrid smell of gunsmoke. As her gaze widened to encompass the scene beyond Brad’s motionless body, Sheila saw that the band of riders had moved in. Two had dismounted to join the man going through Brad’s pockets.

Her gaze swept over the menacing group. Her heart stopped beating for a second, then pounded madly in fear. They were all staring at her. Sheila flattened herself against the car door.

Two more riders dismounted and began walking toward her. There was nowhere to run. They had killed Brad and she knew she could expect no mercy, certainly none before they had killed her.

Survive! The word screamed through her veins. Survive! The panicked beat of her heart slowed instantly and the stranglehold of fear was removed from her throat. She must survive.

Sheila faced her attackers boldly. “I know how you can get a lot more money,” she said calmly. “Do you understand?
Mucho dinero.”

Her statement was met with silence. They were all looking at her, their expressions unchanged. The two men had halted their approach. Sheila knew she had their attention.

“Mucho dinero,”
she repeated.

The two men started toward her again. One was tall, his face shadowed by the wide brim of his hat. The other was short and stocky, a leering smile on his mouth.

“My name is Sheila Rogers,” she began again, ignoring the fact that her name had been legally changed to Townsend. “My father is very rich. He would pay someone a lot of money if I am returned to him
unharmed.”
Sheila emphasized the last word. “He would pay a lot of money.”

No one seemed impressed by her words. Her gaze swept the riders, ricocheting away from the hard, lean
features of one, the dark rider. Instinct said he was the most dangerous of the lot.

“One of you here must understand what I’m saying.” An angry, desperate ring entered her voice. “My father would pay a great deal of money to have me back.”

Sheila was struck by the irony of her plight. She was here in this godforsaken stretch of land, married, and now a widow because of Brad’s lust for her money. Now, perhaps her only chance of surviving was hinged on that money.

A low voice said something in Spanish, breaking her train of thought. Her gaze swiftly sought the owner of the quiet tone. It belonged to the lean, dark rider, who was watching her with a hooded look, his horse restlessly stamping the ground.

A second voice jerked Sheila’s head around. “How much?”

It came from the tall, broad-shouldered man approaching her. Sheila found herself staring into a pair of clear blue eyes, emotionless and cool. The accent had been unmistakably American.

“You’re American,” Sheila almost gasped.

He ignored her observation. “How much will your father pay?”

“Thousands,” she assured him. “Enough for all of you as long as you don’t hurt me in any way.”

Without taking his eyes from her, he directed a few sentences in Spanish over his shoulder to those behind him. It was obviously a translation of her answer. Her gaze slid to the compelling rider who had spoken first to see what effect the words had on him. His chiseled features were an impenetrable mask. He spoke again in that same low voice and Sheila’s attention returned to the American.

“Who is your father, and where does he live?” he asked flatly.

“His name is Elliot Rogers, and he lives in Austin, Texas,” she answered simply, knowing there was no point in elaborating.

“Never heard of him,” was the indifferent reply.

“I doubt if you were ever invited to the same parties.” Her cat-gold eyes made a pointed sweep of the marauding band. “You don’t travel in the same circles.”

The man chuckled softly and didn’t translate what she had said. He walked toward her. Sheila steeled herself not to flinch as he reached out and fingered the material of her blouse. He smelled of dust, sweat, and horse.

At closer quarters, Sheila could see a trace of boyish good looks behind the stubble of beard and the sun-hardened features. She tried to judge his age, but the lines of experience made it difficult. He could be in his thirties, yet Sheila had the feeling he was even younger.

His blue eyes ran over the length of her, missing nothing, yet Sheila didn’t feel disturbed by his thorough and knowing inspection.

“Those are expensive clothes,” he observed.

“That’s what my father thought when he paid for them,” Sheila answered to enforce her position as an heiress.

Smiling slightly, he released the material of her blouse and took hold of her hands, lifting them up where he could see them. His attention focused on the gold wedding band.

“Him?” His head bobbed sideways to indicate Brad’s body.

“Yes,” Sheila admitted. “My married name is Sheila Rogers Townsend. We were on our honeymoon.”

“What were you doing here?” he asked.

“Brad was told there was a shortcut across the mountains. He was trying to find it when the car broke down.”

“This isn’t it,” he told her.

Without altering his position, he said something in Spanish. The familiar low voice that answered caused a murmur of dissension to ripple through the group. Sheila held her breath as she glanced at the frowning expressions of disagreement. The dispute was silenced by the firm ring of authority in the low voice.

“You’re in luck,” the American said. “The boss
believes your story.” Although his mouth curved upward at the corners, there was nothing warm in the smile. “You do know there are ways of finding out if your father really has any money, don’t you?”