Once A Wolf (16 page)

"Ram6n says there's still no pursuit," he said. He drew a pair of red neckerchiefs from his coat

pocket and passed one of them to Tomás. "I'll handle the girl."

His pointed stare toward Hope left no doubt as to his meaning. Rowena had noticed him

watching the girl several times during the past few days. On each occasion she'd deliberately

put herself between him and any view of Hope.

"What is he talking about?" she asked.

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"It's necessary for you and la muchacha to be blindfolded from now on," Tomás said, "as are all

those who first come to El cañon del Rito de las Lagrimas."

"You've brought other captives here?"

He smiled. "Wait and see."

"I can hardly do so if you blindfold us."

Kavanagh dismounted, tossed his reins to one of the other men and stalked toward the

oblivious girl. Rowena forgot her own concerns. If any of Tomás's men seemed most like the

savage killer wolf of myth, it was Sim Kavanagh.

"Leave her alone!" she ordered.

Hope turned at the sound of her voice. She shrank from Kavanagh, who was preparing to grab

her.

Rowena all but jumped from her saddle, stumbled on her skirts, and started for Kavanagh.

"Hope—"

For an instant she and Kavanagh stood face to face. Rowena's heart pounded with dim

understanding of her own recklessness and untoward aggression. She could not think clearly

any longer. The civilized worlds of New York and England might have been in another universe.

"Don't touch her," she said, forcing her voice to a near-whisper.

She fully expected Kavanagh to ignore her. She didn't know what she might do if he did. Attack

him? The mere notion was ludicrous.

But he did not ignore her. His hand went to the gun at his waist; his icy, pale eyes bored a

burning path into hers.

And then he backed away. His mouth turned up in a contemptuous snarl, but he was the one to

retreat. Rowena was stunned at her primitive exaltation in the victory. Just as if she, like her

elder brother in England, had fought a deadly battle with tooth and claw…

Her voice shook when she spoke. "Come with me, Hope."

"If you wish, you can blindfold her."

Tomás stood at her shoulder. She hadn't even been aware of his approach. Her momentary

triumph burst like an overfull balloon; surely Tomás had driven Kavanagh away, not she. He

would not need to use words.

She turned on him. "How can you abide a man like that in your company?"

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"Don't outlaws belong in the company of outlaws?"

"But he is… you are not—"

"Not like him? It's true, I never hired out as a pistolero to fight other men's battles." His face

grew serious. "Do I seem different to you, Rowena?"

She swallowed and tried to regain her sense of moral superiority. "No. Not at all."

"You are right." His smile was almost harsh. "It is simply that our methods differ." He

brandished his neckerchief. "The girl?"

"Her name is Hope." She snatched the cloth from his hand. "Hope, child—" The girl stood as

frozen as she'd been when Kavanagh went after her. "It's all right. Oh…" Pride was useless now.

"Tomás, would you explain to her—kindly, if you please…"

"Of course." He spoke to the girl in musical Spanish, drawing from her the rare hint of a smile.

He ended with a question. Hope nodded solemnly.

"She agrees that you can blindfold her," he said. "She isn't afraid." There was real gentleness in

his voice. "Hope, you say? It is a good name. Esperanza." He passed his neckerchief to her.

Esperanza was a much prettier name than Hope, Rowena decided; she wouldn't quarrel with

Tomás's choice. Trustingly, Hope—Esperanza—turned about and let Rowena tie the blindfold

over her eyes. Then strong, graceful hands were on her own hair, sliding cloth over her head

and into place, adjusting with light touches until the blindfold rested as comfortably as possible.

Rowena knew a moment's panic. This was what her blind brother, Braden, lived with every day.

But two sets of warm fingers grasped hers like lifelines—Esperanza on one side, Tomás on the

other. An unexpected sense of serenity stole through her, as if she had become whole for the

first time in her life.

"I'll help you mount," Tomás said. "Esperanza first." She heard him move away. Her body

hummed in anticipation of his return; without sight, her other senses doubled in acuity. She

could feel him draw near before she heard his footsteps.

"Trust me," he whispered in her ear. He lifted her easily and set her in place, adjusting her legs

and skirts. Her mouth was too dry to allow protest. "Hold onto his mane," he said. "Gobernador

knows the way to our canyon."

She had little choice but to trust the horse—and Tomás. She clung to Gobernador's mane like a

child on her first riding lesson. "Esperanza?"

"She does very well," Tomás said ahead of her. "I will look after her."

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She found that she believed him. The horses began to move. For a time they traveled on flat

ground, and then the trail begin to descend sharply. The distinctive smells of the pines and

cedars of this country, and the ever-present reddish dirt, filled her nose. She heard the constant

song of birds, and the increase in their numbers told her that they must be approaching the

watercourse.

If she gave way to her wolf side, she would be able to discern the path almost as if she could

see it. It would be so easy to do, so natural. Small animals scurried out of their way. A hawk

cried out overhead. Saddle leather creaked, and the men talked in low voices. Tomás whistled a

song; the sound bounced from rocky walls that closed in about them.

Smells, sounds, sensations. They became her world—a world that bore no resemblance to the

sweet wet green of England. But she was not afraid. She was not even angry.

Anger had been so much a part of her life. She'd been angry since Tomás, in his guise of Mr.

Randolph, had abandoned her on the train. And if she looked farther back in time, she had been

angry all during her last years in England.

Only in New York, with Cole, had she found a kind of peace. She must remember that. This

contentment was illusion.

The path continued to descend, and then reached a level space. Rowena sensed that they were

in a narrow canyon, with great cliffs to either side; they had descended from those very cliffs.

She could smell water and growing things more lush than any on the plateaus and mesas.

"I will ride ahead now, to prepare for your arrival," Tomás said beside her. "Esperanza will come

with me."

"No!" Her horse sidestepped in response to her sudden agitation.

"You'll see her again." His fingertips brushed her cheek. "Soon." He spoke in Spanish to his men.

Some of them rode off with him; two others remained.

One of them was Sim Kavanagh.

"I know what you are," he said in a sibilant whisper.

She held herself very tall in the saddle. "Do you, Mr. Kavanagh?"

"You're trouble, Lady Rowena Forster. You're Tomás's big mistake."

"As incredible as it may seem, we are in agreement," she said. "However, it does you no good

to speak to me. Tell your friend—"

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"He is my friend." His horse pushed into hers, causing both animals to snort and jostle. "You're

a woman. No woman ever brought anything but grief. And one like you—" She heard him spit.

"You're the worst kind."

His hatred was palpable. Tomás had told her that he had no use for women, but this went

beyond so simple an explanation.

"You have considerable gall to criticize the worth of another," she said, "given your profession."

"My profession," he said. His voice was as flat as the top of a mesa. "Do you know what that is,

sweetheart? I'm a killer."

"Like… like Tomás."

"Nothing like Tomás. He doesn't know what the word means."

"That's not what I've heard."

"From the MacLeans?" He grunted. "I don't give a damn what you believe. You and MacLean

deserve each other."

"Thank you."

His hand shot out to grip her wrist. "Tomás has some crazy ideas about you, woman. It's like

he's walked right into a trap with his eyes wide open. I'm not going to let you destroy him." He

jerked her, hard. "Do you hear me?"

"I could scarcely avoid it."

"You're one uppity bitch. If I had my way, you'd never have come this far. But you won't be here

long enough to make any difference."

"I am delighted to hear it."

He released her. "You wouldn't be the first female I've killed."

He meant it. Rowena suppressed a shiver. "Your friend might object."

"He'd never know." He pulled his horse aside. "Stay away from him, woman. Keep up your high-

and-mighty airs. Just stay away from Tomás."

Before she could answer he was riding off down the trail, leaving her wreathed in a cloud of

dust. She coughed behind her hand to hide a curse.

"No se preocupe, señorita," said a soft accented voice. "He… will not hurt you."

"Mateo?"

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"Si. I… speak un poco de ingles."

"A little English." That meant he'd understood Sim's threats, and had chosen not to interfere

though she'd been left in his care. Was he afraid?

It was hardly fruitful to ask. "How long are we to wait here, Mateo?"

"No more waiting. If you will come…" She thought he must have attached a lead rein to

Gobernador's bridle; in moments they were on their way again. She found that her heart was

still racing from the confrontation with Kavanagh.

Coward, she accused herself. He is only human.

And then she shuddered that the thought had come so easily. For it meant that she was more

than human. It meant that she had gone one step closer to forgetting what she had sworn years

ago.

She tried to put the whole thing from her mind. The path was level now, traveling the length of

the canyon she could not see. The scent of water grew stronger, and there was moisture in the

air. The trail passed under areas of cool shade as well as open sky. Several times she heard

distant voices. But just when she thought Mateo was leading her toward them, he veered aside

and began to climb again.

They stopped at another flat area. Rowena sensed a wall or cliff very close, as if she could reach

out and touch it.

"Aqui, señorita," Mateo said. He helped her dismount.

"Where are we?"

"The place where you will sleep tonight," he said. "Por favor. "He took her hand and placed it

on a smooth wooden pole. "We must climb."

She felt the length of the pole and found the horizontal rungs that joined it to a parallel shaft. A

ladder. A primitive ladder leading up the face of the cliff.

"Climb this?" she said.

"If you please, señorita."

She did not please, but neither would she be compelled. Gingerly she put her foot on the

lowest rung. Mateo set his hands at her waist and gave her a boost. Too late she remembered

that she would be at a disadvantage with Mateo below her. There was no help for it but to

climb as quickly as possible.

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Her skirts were a substantial hindrance and she had to feel her way, but climb she did. The

ladder reached above ten feet. At the top she found the well-worn edge of a natural rock

platform. On hands and knees she crawled onto it. The sense of being surrounded by rock was

overwhelming. She stood carefully, wary of banging her head on a low ceiling.

Mateo came up behind her. She heard the scuff of his boots, his breathing, and then the creak

of what might have been hinges. Just as she was about to ask him the first of several urgent

questions, she heard the unmistakable closing of a door.

"Mateo?"

She tore the blindfold from her face. The room in the cliff was a cave, shaped by nature and

enhanced by human hands. The floor was rock, as was the blackened ceiling and two of the

"walls." The only light came from small windows left in the outward-facing wall, built of fitted

bricks that nearly blended in with the rock itself. The threshold, where she'd first entered, was

fitted with a plain wooden door. A door that was closed, and undoubtedly locked.

She was quite alone.

Her first instinct was to find any way of escape. She could see well enough in the semidarkness,

but the confinement reminded her far too much of her last months in England as her brother's

prisoner at Greyburn.

She tried the door first. It was, indeed, locked. If she called on her werewolf strength, she could

break the lock— or the door itself. She backed away before the temptation became real.