Touch the Wind (31 page)

“No!” It was like a thunderclap, rolling and vibrating through the air, charged with violence.

A pair of hands held her upright. “Don’t touch me!” A voice cried out and it sounded demented from pain. This time Sheila realized it was her own voice.

“It is over,” Ráfaga promised in a husky murmur.

Her arms dropped to her sides, and the ropes binding her wrists were cut. Sheila sagged against the granite support that was offered, her head resting against something solid. A trembling hand brushed the sweat-dampened hair away from her temple.

A Spanish voice crooned softly near her ear as an iron band slid around her thighs, lifting Sheila so that she seemed to be floating above the ground.

“Is she all right?”

Her dulled brain identified Laredo’s voice. Sheila forced her heavy eyelids to open. Her blurring gaze looked into a pair of misty blue eyes, reflecting a pain
that seemed equal to her own. It became too much of an effort and she closed her eyes, letting the floating sensation carry her away.

The next conscious moment lasted longer. Sheila was propped in a sitting position on a bed, one strong arm holding her while a hand stripped the slashed blouse from her. Very gently she was shifted to lie on her stomach.

Her lashes fluttered open, recognizing Ráfaga’s hand as it lifted the hair away from her cheeks and neck. Beyond him, she could see Consuelo hovering anxiously, her dark eyes rounded and luminous with concern. Her back felt as if it were on fire, but Sheila smiled weakly at the woman.

’“I’m all right.” Her croaking voice was barely stronger than a whisper.

“Do not talk,
querida
,” Ráfaga reprimanded in a gently soothing tone and turned to take something from Consuelo. “We must clean your back. It will hurt you. I am sorry.”

At the fiery sting, Sheila turned her face into the pillow to smother her gasping cry of pain. Despite his use of the word “we,” she was aware that it was only Ráfaga’s hands that touched her, carefully cleansing her back before applying a soothing ointment to her raw skin.

With a coolly moist cloth, he wiped the perspiration from her face and neck. Wrapping the cloth around the rope burns on her wrists, he told her to sleep. Sheila closed her eyes obediently.

When she awakened, Ráfaga was sitting beside the bed in a silent vigil. He was leaning forward in the straight-backed chair, his face buried in his hands. Sheila searched her emotions to find a feeling of hatred for what he had allowed to happen to her, but she found none.

The strong, lean hands moved to rub his jaw, then his neck. As his gaze shifted to the bed where she lay, Sheila saw the raw pain glittering in his ebony-dark eyes.
It vanished immediately when he saw she was awake.

“How do you feel?” he asked softly.

Sheila moved slightly and a thousand needles plunged into her back. “It hurts.” She kept her voice tight to hold back the gasp of pain.

“It will be painful for some time,” Ráfaga told her. “You have Laredo to thank that the marks will heal without leaving scars on your beautiful skin.” He hesitated. “Do not hate him for what he did.”

“I don’t,” Sheila assured him.

“That is good.” There was a brief curve to his mouth, almost a smile.

“Ráfaga.” She studied him silently, then asked, “Would you have used the whip on me if Laredo had refused?”

He stared at his hands, a dark frown lining his forehead. “No, I could not.”

Sheila smiled gently. “I think you would have.”

His head jerked up at her statement, cold challenge glittering in his eyes that she should call him a liar in a matter such as this.

“I think you would have,” she repeated, “rather than give the whip to someone like Juan Ortega.”

“Perhaps,” he said curtly and started to rise.

Her hand slid across the bed, reaching out to stop him. Ráfaga saw the movement and paused. His hooded gaze flickered questioningly to her face.

“This morning,” Sheila began uncertainly, “I hated you and everyone connected with you. Now I don’t hate anyone.”

Least of all, you, she could have added, but her heart wasn’t ready to make a full confession yet. She waited, hoping he would say something that would let her tell all that she felt.

The coldness left his expression. His eyes were like soft, black velvet as they gazed down at her. Her heart quickened its beat. He appeared more compellingly handsome than ever before—strong, masculine, and vital.

But when Ráfaga answered, he said nothing that would prompt Sheila to reveal the true depths of her feelings. “You must have food. I will have Consuelo fix something for you.”

During the days following her recovery, Sheila discovered a new Ráfaga. The old masterful and autocratic man she had once known was gone. His place was taken by a touchingly gentle lover who was considerate and kind while remaining all man. Sheila hadn’t believed it was possible to fall more deeply in love with Ráfaga, but she had.

“It’s beautiful,” she sighed at the wonder of it.

“What is beautiful?” Ráfaga inquired.

Sheila turned with a start, unaware that she had spoken aloud. He was smiling at her in a way that took her breath away, warm and intimate, as if there were only the two of them walking slowly through the tall grasses of the green meadow, leading their horses.

“The day.” A hint of pink rouged her cheeks as she lied to him.

“You are tired, I think.” His dark eyes studied the faint flush. “We have done too much. Come. Let the horses graze.” He took hold of her elbow, guiding her toward a small hillock. “We will rest for a while.”

Not arguing, Sheila let go of the reins and the bay horse immediately lowered its head to graze. The cattle and loose horses were grazing not too far in the distance. Where the horses and cattle were, Juan’s boy, Pablo, could not be far away. Sheila looked for him, finding him sitting atop a flat rock in the shade. She waved to him and he shyly lifted a hand to return the salute.

“Pablo is a very responsible boy,” Ráfaga commented, following the direction of Sheila’s gaze:

“Yes, very conscientious,” Sheila agreed. “Juan is teaching him English so someday Pablo can go to the States.”

“Poor Pablo,” Ráfaga chuckled, lowering himself to the ground and drawing Sheila down beside him, “to have Juan teaching him English.”

“I should teach Pablo English, and he could teach me Spanish.” The thought occurred to her and she said it aloud.

A daisy-like flower was growing in the thick green grasses. Sheila picked it, twirling it absently in her fingers. Ráfaga stretched his length over the green carpet, pulling Sheila into the crook of his arm.

“I think you will not teach Pablo.” He turned his face toward her, a bemused smile curving his masculine lips.

“Why not?” Sheila glanced up at him curiously.

“Because he is coming into manhood. I would not like to have him come down with a severe case of calf-love for you,” Ráfaga answered, a glittering light dancing in his eyes. “It is an age that is susceptible to such a malady.”

“Did you ever suffer from it?” In some ways it was difficult to imagine Ráfaga as a vulnerable young boy.

“All boys do before they become men.”

“What was she like?” Sheila stared at the vividly blue sky overhead. The air was startlingly clear and bright, the yellow ball of the sun shining down on the canyon.

“It has been too long ago for me to remember.”

“You must remember something,” she insisted.

“I remember she had golden hair and didn’t know I existed.” There was a smile in his voice.

“She was American?”

“I think so, yes,” Ráfaga agreed indifferently.

Sheila thought of her own hair, streaked with gold from the sun. A tiny glow of pleasure warmed her. Perhaps Ráfaga was still susceptible to blondes from America. She was considering pursuing the subject when Ráfaga changed it.

“You were right.” The hand at her waist tightened slightly. Contentment was in his voice. “It is a beautiful day.”

“The mountains look so close. It’s almost as if I could reach out and touch them.” She gazed at the sharply defined peaks etched against the vibrant blue of the sky. “Have you ever thought about leaving here?” she asked.

“Where would I go?” countered Ráfaga.

Sheila turned on her side, propping an elbow beneath her and resting a hand on the muscled flatness of his stomach. There was a hopeful eagerness to the look she gave him.

“You could go to another country, start a new life, adopt a new name. You are intelligent, resourceful, a natural leader. You could be anything you want,” Sheila argued.

“A new country and a new identity would not change the fact that I am wanted, Sheila,” he answered patiently. “If I did what you say, there would always be the risk that someday I might be exposed. If I must live by my wits, I prefer to do it here in these mountains. I know them as intimately as I know you.”

Her hair had swung forward across a cheek. Ráfaga tucked it behind her ear, his fingertips lightly caressing her skin. Sheila felt the first quiver of desire and tried to ignore it. She had begun something and had to finish it. She couldn’t let Ráfaga distract her, no matter how much she would have liked it.

“Ráfaga, I have money,” Sheila hurriedly said, then
quickly clarified the statement. “I don’t mean money from my parents. I have money of my own. If you—”

A silencing finger touched her lips. “Money buys things, Sheila. It buys things I have no need of. It cannot buy my freedom, not after this much time. The things that I want are here before you.” His gaze swept over the canyon. “Friends, the mountains, a place to live, a roof over my head. The only thing money does is buy clothes and whatever food that cannot be raised here.”

Irritation flashed that Ráfaga rejected her offer before she even made it. “And when you need money, you just hire yourself out to break some criminal out of prison.”

“You find it a contradiction, do you not,
querida?”
His mouth quirked gently. “We go to such lengths to uphold the laws we set for ourselves, then break those of the government for money.”

Some of her anger melted at the Spanish endearment. She resented it, wanting to argue, but finding it difficult. “Yes, I do.”

“We put ourselves outside the laws that you know and discovered we could not be free without laws. We made our own. It is a contradiction, but we have placed ourselves in this position—in a circle without end,” Ráfaga explained.

“But couldn’t you leave the circle?” Sheila returned to her original statement.

His hand cupped the side of her neck, his thumb rhythmically caressing the sensitive cord along her neck. “Some living things can be uprooted and transplanted to another terrain to flourish there. You, I think, are one of those.” His eyes darkened, looking deeply, it almost seemed, into her soul. “I could not leave the Sierras. There is no reason for me to try. Everything I want is here.”

Pressure was applied to her neck, drawing Sheila down. His hard lips tantalizingly brushed the soft curves of hers, teasing them with the promise of a kiss. Yet
when Sheila would have moved to accept, his hand tightened on her neck, holding her away.

“Everything I want is here,” Ráfaga repeated huskily against her mouth, his breath mingling warmly with hers. “All I could ever want, I have found.”

It seemed the time. Her heart was aching with need to give. Sheila whispered softly, “I love you.”

In answer, the pressure of his lean fingers along the back of her neck increased, drawing her the half an inch down as his mouth opened over her lips. Her senses were assaulted by the intoxicating mixture of aromatic tobacco smoke clinging to his skin and the, musky scent of his masculinity. The deepening kiss touched off the passionate core inside her, spreading a yielding fire through the softness of her body.

With quivering rapture, Sheila swayed onto the solid cushion of his chest, her full curves molding themselves to his muscled contours. Her hands hugged his rib cage, fiercely possessive. His tongue parted her lips to explore the intimate hollows of her mouth. Desire flamed with a golden fire to run molten-hot through her veins.

A hand at her hip shifted her more fully atop of him, then slid up to cup the underside of one breast. Lean fingers tugged the rippling gold of her hair away from her neck as his mouth scorched a fiery trail to the hollow of her throat. Ráfaga retraced the route, pausing at intervals to nibble at the curve of her shoulder, the sensitive cord along her neck, and an earlobe.

Again his hard mouth returned to consume her lips, tasting their sweetness and claiming them as his alone. Sheila could feel the rapid beat of his heart, a wild serenade in tempo with her own racing pulse.

Without warning, Ráfaga rolled Sheila onto her side. His fingers dispensed with the impediments of blouse buttons with an urgency that excited her. A shiver of sensual delight danced over her skin as the material was pushed aside to expose her breasts. The sensation of coolness was brief, dissipating under the warmth of
his hand that was closing over the rounded firmness of her breast, swelling at his touch.

Sheila slipped her own hands beneath his shirt, unashamedly glorying in the feel of his hard flesh beneath her fingers. Her nipple hardened to a rosy peak under the manipulation of his fingers. Ráfaga released her lips to investigate the erotic bud with his mouth and tongue. She shuddered with longing. The feeling was intensified as his hand slid over her bare stomach to her aching loins. Her hips moved in response to his suggestive caress.

Pressing her backward to the grass, his strong fingers sought the snap of her Levi’s. Sheila moaned softly, unknowingly. Ráfaga immediately hesitated. The sensual fires blazing in his dark gaze swept over her face.

“Does the hard ground against your back cause you pain?” There was the husky rawness of desire to his voice, yet it was a desire that he could control. Sheila had long ago learned that his ability to control himself was a mark of his expertise in making love.

“No.” She whispered the shaky denial, sliding a hand behind the strong column of his neck. “Only your teasing causes me pain.”