Touch the Wind (8 page)

“I’m not lying,” Sheila responded calmly. “Did you think I would?”

“You might,” he said, nodding, “to save that lovely neck of yours.”

Releasing one of her hands, he turned to take a short rope from one of the riders. The action seemed to be a signal for the others to resume their looting.

“There’s no need to tie me up,” Sheila insisted as he looped the rope around one wrist.

“It’s just a precaution.” He tugged the rope tight and wound it around her other wrist.

The fibrous strands bit into her tender skin, the rope’s snugness permitting little circulation to reach her fingers. Any attempt by Sheila to flex them chafed the rope against her skin.

Her gaze slid to the man who had believed her story. Somehow she had known from the beginning that he was the leader of this band.

As she watched, he gave an order in Spanish and the men slowly began to climb back into their saddles. Her eyes wavered to the body lying on the ground. She should feel shock or sorrow at the sight of him, Sheila thought. It was wrong not to mourn the passing of a life, especially when the man was her husband. But fear and the fierce will to survive had pushed all other emotions from Sheila’s mind.

There was a tug on her hands to pull her forward. Sheila resisted, and the rope immediately bit into her flesh as pressure was applied to make her obey.

“Wait,” Sheila pleaded. The American stopped, looking at her with a quizzical lift of an eyebrow. She cast a darting glance to Brad’s body. “You aren’t just going to leave him there like that, are you? Where the animals can—” Sheila couldn’t finish the sentence, unable to voice the horrible picture that flashed through her mind.

A harsh light glittered in the blue eyes. “We just
killed him,” he reminded her, his mouth crooking cynically. “You don’t really expect that we’ll turn into Christians and give him a decent burial, do you?”

Sheila closed her eyes at the bitter logic and opened them to stare at the lifeless figure. “It isn’t right to leave him here like that,” she repeated lowly.

A jerk of her bound wrists sent Sheila stumbling forward. One of the riders was holding the reins of the American’s horse as she was half-dragged to the left side of the empty saddle. Before she could recover her balance, a pair of hands gripped her waist and she was lifted astride.

Gripping the horn to steady herself, Sheila glanced at the American. His hand was resting on the leather saddle skirt near her leg. He gave her a long, hard look, then said something in Spanish to the man holding the horse.

Without a word to Sheila, he turned and walked to the body lying in the sandy dirt. Lifting the dead weight, he heaved it over his shoulder, carrying it like a bulky sack of potatoes to the passenger door of the car.

Magnetically, her gaze was pulled away from the scene, drawn to a pair of eyes that were as black and hard as nuggets of coal. They compelled her to look at the man, the leader of the band of renegades. Her pulse accelerated in vague alarm.

A flurry of movement and an angry Spanish voice released Sheila from the pinning gaze as his attention was directed elsewhere. Unconsciously, she had tensed in those brief seconds, and now she felt the constricted muscles begin to relax. Her gaze swung to the cause of her release.

The Mexican with the yellowed teeth, the one who had killed Brad, was astride his horse in the center of the half-circle of mounted riders. A stream of demanding Spanish was issued to the man who seconds ago had chilled Sheila with a look. The Mexican’s horse moved restlessly beneath him, reacting to his rider’s anger.

He gestured to Sheila and brought his hand back to
possessively tap his chest. At that instant, Sheila realized he had positioned his horse to block the American from returning to her. Although she couldn’t understand what he said, his purpose was clear. He was claiming her as his property.

Cold fear raced down her spine. Surely they wouldn’t make her ride with the man who had murdered Brad! her mind cried in terror. At least the American had retained a streak of compassion.

Her widened eyes sought the carved face of the leader. The decision was obviously his. He didn’t even look at her as he gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulders and reined his horse away from the circle. With a triumphant shout, the Mexican spurred his horse toward Sheila.

He reined the horse in beside her, pulling savagely on the bit. Her gaze darted to the American, hoping he would protest, but there wasn’t a flicker of opposition on his face. The arm that circled her waist snapped the grip of paralysis.

“No! No!” Sheila was dragged, kicking and screaming, from the saddle.

Her cries went unheeded as she was drawn sideways across the saddle. The iron band of his arm tightened around her waist, nearly squeezing Sheila in half. He touched his spurs to the flank of the horse. It bounded forward, throwing Sheila against the man’s chest. With each stride of the horse, the saddle horn poked her thigh.

The murderer laughed at her struggles, knowing, as Sheila did, that she couldn’t writhe free and was wasting her energy trying. Catching back a sob of frustration and self-pity, she quit fighting and stiffly held her body rigid across his lap.

The horse had slowed to a jarring trot. Her sullen, accusing eyes swept the band that had begun its exodus from the crime scene. Two stragglers were cantering to rejoin the loosely gathered group. The gold fire in her eyes flashed their resentment when the blue-eyed American
loped by. He didn’t even glance at her as he guided his horse to the leader’s side.

Her tied hands and the sidesaddle position forced Sheila to rely on the support of the man’s arm and chest. Her shoulder rubbed against his chest, the coarse weave of his poncho scratching through the silken material of her blouse. His breath was foul and Sheila turned her head to avoid inhaling it.

Saddle leather creaked as the band put distance between themselves and the dirt road. Their route through the rugged terrain paralleled the looming mountain range. An invisible command seemed to pass through the group. Almost simultaneously they all slowed their horses to a walk.

The saddle horn applied steady pressure, no longer jabbing her thigh. The man said something to her in Spanish, his tone low and suggestive, his hot breath fanning her face. Sheila flicked him a poisonous glance and tensed as she saw his gleaming eyes looking downward.

Her hunched position against his chest had caused the buttoned front of her blouse to billow out while her arms pushed her breasts together to form a deep cleavage. Sheila raised her forearms to let her tied wrists protectively hide her plunging front.

“No, no, señora,”
he denied with a leering smile and grabbed the rope to pull her hands down.

Twisting in the saddle, he wedged his elbow between her wrists, applying pressure to the knot and holding her arms away. At the first brush of his fingers on the satin-smooth material outlining her breasts, Sheila drew away, straining backward over his arm to elude his lecherous hands. The action thrust the fullness of her breasts against the thin material. His hand covered the rounded swell of one breast.

“Get your hands off me!” Sheila cursed angrily. “You filthy, ugly beast!”

He laughed again and punishingly squeezed her breast. Two riders rode closer to watch, offering words of encouragement and snide suggestions to the man they
called Juan. Sheila kicked at his leg, her feet flailing in the air in an effort to find their target. The blows landed on the stirrup leather of the horse.

His fingers moved to the buttoned front of her blouse, tugging at it impatiently until the button threads ripped. As her ripe breasts were revealed, he shouted to those looking on, as if showing off the richness of his prize.

Shamed and degraded beyond description. Sheila now struggled even more wildly than before. His exploring hands investigated his prize, his callused finger roughly caressing her flesh until Sheila gagged in revulsion.

“My father won’t pay you a cent!” she choked in humiliation. “Not a cent! Do you hear?” She screamed her warning to the man riding at the front and the American at his side.

The horse pranced sideways beneath the struggling pair on his back, tossing its head and snorting nervously. Sheila realized there would be no rescue. She had been given to this beast masquerading as a man, and she knew she would rather die than be used again.

The horse skittered again in frightened agitation. There was only one way to escape the repulsive hands, and Sheila began aiming the blows of her feet to the horse’s shoulders and neck. Whinnying its alarm at the attack, the horse half-reared, checked by the sudden sawing of the reins and the punishing jab of a spur. But Sheila kept kicking, panting, and sobbing with determination to save herself.

The horse threatened to bolt in panic. It was requiring all of the rider’s skill to hold the animal in. With the others laughing at his predicament, Sheila could see the mottled red of rage growing in his face.

Her heel hooked one taut rein. She kicked at it, jerking the horse’s head around. Its nervously shifting hooves tried to turn with the action, but the sudden change of direction was impossible. Sheila felt the horse’s legs buckling before it fell heavily to the ground. She twisted loose from the imprisoning arm as they fell and staggered free of the horse’s flailing hooves.

Off balance, Sheila stumbled forward, trying to run.
She had barely covered ten feet when she heard the heavy footsteps behind her. A hand grabbed her elbow and spun her around. Her feet went out from under her and she fell to the ground. Brad’s murderer stood above her, his broad features ugly with the look of revenge. Two riders reined their horses to a stop on either side of Sheila and dismounted.

Scooting backward, Sheila’s frightened eyes never left the man called Juan. She scrambled to her feet while he moved menacingly toward her. Instantly, the other two men moved in, grabbing her arms to hold her. She kicked wildly, biting at their hands.

Unexpectedly, she was released. Sheila didn’t question why; she just turned to run again. During her struggles the rest of the riders had formed a circle around her.

Breathing heavily from her panicked exertions, Sheila pivoted back, wary and on guard, not knowing what to expect next. Her gaze fastened on the lean-faced man who commanded the group, his expression impassive and aloof. His shuttered black eyes slid to her heaving breasts, her creamy-silk blouse hanging open. Immediately, her arms lifted to cover herself.

The slashing line of his mouth quirked at the defensive action that came too late to conceal what all eyes had seen. Dismounting, he untied something from his saddle. It looked like a blanket and a lariat. Sheila quailed inwardly, but she refused to give ground as he walked toward her.

His leanness was deceptive, she discovered. He was much taller and broader than she had first thought. He moved with the supple grace of an animal, a predatory beast. The fathomless dark eyes never left Sheila’s face, mesmerizing her almost to the point where she couldn’t have run if she tried.

Stopping in front of her, he shook out a serape. He lifted it above her, pulling the slashed opening over her head. He tucked the end through the circle of her arms, drawing her hands and arms to the outside of the coarse fabric.

His low-pitched voice said something to her in Spanish, a mocking inflection in the quiet tone. The blood was racing hotly through her veins, her nerves raw and stretched taut at the sensation of danger in his nearness.

The loop of the lariat was drawn over her head. Her heart stopped in terror as the rope brushed the side of her neck, but he pulled it down around her shoulders.

“What are you going to do to me?” Sheila gasped, unable to bear the suspense any longer.

He said nothing, not that she would have understood his answer if he had given it. Fear quivered through her as she tried to guess his intention. When the loop circled her waist, he pulled it tight, the rope acting as a belt to hold the narrow width of the serape against her body.

Her questioning eyes left the impenetrable mask to seek the lone man who could explain. “Why is he doing this?” she asked the American.

“You were so anxious to run,” came the indifferent reply, “that he’s decided to oblige your desire for some exercise.”

Her head jerked back to the glittering pair of ebony eyes. Holding the coiled rope, he turned and walked back to mount his horse. He sat for a motionless instant in the saddle gazing at Sheila’s pale face. Laying the rein alongside the horse’s neck, he started forward at a walk. The rope began to stretch taut. Sheila had the choice of walking at the end of it or being dragged.

Either one was preferable to the repellent touch of Brad’s killer, but Sheila chose to walk. Her tied hands clasped the length of the lariat tugging her along, using it for balance.

A mile, two miles, more. Her legs were leaden weights to be dragged over the rough, uneven ground. Dust choked the air she had to breathe, kicked up by the horse and rider she followed. Perspiration made her hair cling to her neck. Her face was streaked with the mixing of dirt and rivulets of sweat.

She pushed herself onward, beyond what she had thought was the limit of her endurance, stumbling more often as each step jarred her teeth. She was driven on
by hatred for the wide-shouldered man who held the rope.

Tripping over a clump of grass, Sheila fell to her knees. The rope pulled her over the rough ground. A muffled cry of pain was torn from her lips as she was dragged nearly the length of her body before the rope went slack.

Struggling, she managed to get to her knees, too exhausted to stand. Sobbing with her bone-aching tiredness, Sheila sat on her heels. Her lungs felt as if they would burst before she ever recovered her breath. A threatening blackness reeled in front of her eyes. Any moment she expected to feel the tug of the rope, but she didn’t care. She wouldn’t take another step.

A pair of dusty boots came into view of her blurred vision. Wearily, Sheila raised her head. It lolled weakly to the side. The masculine, beard-shadowed features of her tormentor swam before her glazed eyes.