Touch the Wind (9 page)

He towered above her, a round, canvas-covered canteen in his hand. Unscrewing the lid, he offered it to her. Her throat was rasping-dry, her mouth woolly, and her lips parched and swollen.

Sheila stared at the canteen for a long moment. Raising her gaze to the lean, hard face, she searched her mouth for a tiny drop of saliva and tried to spit. It was a puny gesture of hatred.

He stared at her silently, then shrugged and lifted the canteen to his lips. The gurgle of liquid in the container tormented Sheila to near madness. Her thirsty body screamed at the moistness of his lips when he lowered the canteen. Pride was forgotten. If he had offered her the canteen a second time, Sheila would have accepted it greedily.

Instead, he screwed the lid back on and walked to his horse. Holding back a sob, Sheila stared at him. She had nearly surrendered her pride to this renegade leader, her ruthless captor. Sheila had never looked into a pair of eyes that were as black as hell and completely devoid of emotion.

She was hovering on the brink of hysteria. Her
exhausted brain and body needed only the slightest push to tumble over the edge. She was being driven by the survival instinct, the same instinct that kept her propped upright.

Her weary gaze swept the small, brush-covered clearing. The other riders had stopped, dismounting to give their horses a rest. The corners of her mouth twitched briefly as she panted to fill her nearly bursting lungs with air. The break had not been called because she couldn’t walk another step, but because the horses needed a rest.

Lifting her eyes, Sheila looked at the serrated outline of the mountains against the horizon. A blinding sun stood guard above them, shadowing their slopes until they seemed dark and forbidding. They appeared nearer than they had before. Or was she just imagining it in her exhaustion?

Her blurring gaze veered to the east and looked down. They had been climbing, probably steadily since they had left the road to the south. The thinning air explained why her breathing was so labored. Sheila was too enervated to find consolation in that.

Bowing her head, she let her eyes close. She was too tired to think. It seemed to require all her effort to keep her lungs and heart working. In a trance-like stupor, she listened to the hammering beat of her pulse.

No other sound penetrated her hearing—not the low murmur of voices conferring in the language that was foreign to her, not the stamping of the horses or the swishing of their tails as they kept the flies at bay . . . nothing but the reassuring sound that she lived.

The creaking of saddle leather and the jangling of spurs were an alarm to break Sheila’s trance. Forcing her head up, she stared dully at the fathomless black eyes gazing at her from atop the horse.

The rest stop was over. The band was mounted and ready to move on. Sheila stared into the hard, chiseled lines of the dark-eyed rider, her new devil-master.

Reaching into the dregs of her reserve strength, Sheila staggered upright to sway unsteadily on her feet. The slipknot had loosened to let the rope hang limply around her waist. She waited for it to tighten, for the horse to move forward and stretch the rope wrapped around the saddle horn.

Instead, a gloved hand picked up the rope lying across a black-clothed leg. With an expert flick of his wrist, the loop around her waist slid to the ground. The horse was nudged toward her. Groping through her dazed senses, Sheila tried to take in what was happening, but it was too much for her.

Leaning over in his saddle, he scooped her up in the
steel curve of his arm, lifting her as if she weighed no more than a child. Indeed, Sheila felt remarkably weightless, floating in a suspended state.

When he turned her in his arms to sit across his lap, she remembered the revolting and degrading treatment she had received at the hands of the one called Juan, who had shot Brad. Her listless muscles could not fend off another such assault.

Still Sheila tried. “No, please.” The words croaked from her parched throat as she strained against his arm. The tiny surge of energy was soon spent, leaving her limp and conquered in his arm. Not a gram of resistance was left. “Please,” Sheila helplessly begged in a whisper, “not again.”

No longer holding her, merely supporting her with his arm, he ignored her pleas and began coiling the rope that had pulled her the last miles. When it was again tied to the saddle, he adjusted her position so that her shoulder was tucked into the hollow under his left arm and her head rested against the solidness of his left shoulder.

The left hand gathered the reins looped around the saddle horn, then rested lightly against her hip as he urged the horse into a walk. The other riders followed in a loose group. In this position, Sheila didn’t have to exert any effort. His arms and chest supported her completely.

Through weary eyes, she peered at his face under the concealing sweep of her gold-tipped lashes. The dark stubble of a black beard forcibly accented the strong, powerful lines of his jaw and chin. There was a cruel thinness to his mouth, ruthlessly set. Slashing grooves were carved on either side of his mouth. The suggestion of patrician fineness in his nose was repeated in the jutting cheekbones rising from the lean hollows of his cheeks.

Outlined by thick, spikey lashes, the flat, black eyes moved relentlessly over the land the riders were traveling through, an ever-ready alertness which mirrored nothing of his inner thoughts. Thick, masculinely arched
eyebrows of black marked the beginning of his forehead slanting into the brim of his dust-stained hat.

It was a compelling face, too aggressively male and too bluntly carved. It commanded attention. His presence would dominate a group even if he didn’t speak a word, as it had when Sheila had immediately singled him out from the rest.

Aloof and hard, he was a man to be feared. Yet she was resting quite comfortably against him, the rippling muscles of his chest and arm cradling her. The musky male scent of him filled her senses. It seemed to drug her fatigued brain and lower all her defenses Her eyelids drooped and closed.

Something touched her cheek. A low voice, velvet-smooth and husky, murmured unintelligible words in an ordering tone. Her lashes fluttered and slowly opened, fighting through the sleep-drugged mists that clouded her vision. She was leaning against something hard and unyielding. Or was it someone?

Her eyes focused on the gloved fingers moving away from her cheek. As recognition flashed at where she was, the support was withdrawn from her. Muscles that were stiff and sore reacted slowly to keep her balance as he dismounted and reached back to lift her down.

Sheila’s knees buckled, but the hands on her waist steadied her until her legs stiffened to support herself. Immediately, he let her go and walked around to unsaddle his horse. Not trusting her ability to walk yet, Sheila glanced around.

A golden twilight was purpling to dusk. A chill seeped into her bones. They were camping for the night. She looked around the naturally formed hollow of ground serving as a campsite. Tall grass grew densely where a small spring trickled. A horse was already tearing at the thick shoots while its rider pulled the saddle off.

The murmur of water pulled at Sheila like a powerful magnet. Thirst burned her tongue and throat. She stared at the sound, her feet rooted to the rough soil.

A canteen was thrust under her nose. At the moist
scent of water, her tied hands greedily reached for it until her eyes recognized the gloved hand holding the canteen. Her gaze traveled up the poncho-draped arm to the saturnine face of her abductor.

Her parched body quivered with longing for the water, but she couldn’t bring herself to drink from his canteen. Lowering her hands, Sheila defiantly met his hooded look, knowing she would be the one to suffer from this self-destructive display of rebellion, yet not caring.

A black eyebrow quirked, permitting her a second to think it over before the canteen was withdrawn. Half out of her mind with thirst, Sheila pivoted away to encounter the thoughtful blue gaze of the American. She took a faltering step to the side, away from all of them, but was halted by a commanding Spanish voice, the one she was beginning to recognize.

“I’m too tired to run away. All I want to do is to sit down.” Her voice was hoarse and rasping, hardly recognizable as her own. “Can you understand that?”

Evidently, her message was understood, either by interpreting the weakness of her voice or from the unsteadiness of her legs. No one attempted to stop her as she started forward again, her protesting muscles providing litle coordination.

A carpet of green grass offered Sheila a cushion. She crumpled to it gratefully, not wanting to move or think. But she needed to concentrate on something other than her thirst. She tried staring at the darkening sky to find the first evening star. Her searching eyes found a man squatting beside her and holding a canteen in his hands. She breathed in sharply at the tormenting sight of it, her accusing gaze flying to the pair of blue eyes.

“Go away,” Sheila demanded huskily.

“I thought you were a survivor, Mrs. Sheila Rogers Townsend,” he mocked, “but here you are, trying to die of thirst. Have you always had these suicidal tendencies?”

“It’s none of your business.” Closing her eyes to
avoid seeing the canteen, she turned her face into the grass beneath her head.

“But it is my business. It’s everyone’s business here,” he pointed out. “You claim to have a rich father who will pay a lot of money to have you returned to him. And here you are, trying to kill yourself before we can oblige him.”

“Money.” Sheila tried to laugh, but it came out as a choked sound.

“Back there on the road, you talked a pretty good argument about why we should keep you alive. You never panicked, never lost your head. So why don’t you be smart now and have a drink?” He unscrewed the lid of the canteen and she quivered at the sound. “You don’t really want to die, Mrs. Townsend.”

Sheila flinched. “Don’t call me that.” What she was really thinking was that she didn’t want to die.

A hand curved under her neck, lifting her head. The coolness of the canteen’s metal opening touched her lips. The sweet scent of water filled her senses.

“Come on. Drink up.” He tipped the canteen, sending a slow trickle of water between her lips.

Sheila lifted her hands to tip the canteen higher and let more of the refreshing water fill her parched mouth. She couldn’t swallow fast enough and began to choke.

“Take it easy,” the American cautioned and held the canteen back. “Drink it slow—a little at a time.”

Sheila forced herself to take slow sips when she wanted to gulp it down by the gallons. There was still water left in the canteen when he took it away. She could have drunk it all and more and said so.

“Later,” he assured her, then laid her head back on the grass.

Her head moved against its pillow of grass so she could look at him more easily. She studied him silently for a minute, still wrapped in the comfortable cocoon that temporarily protected her from the reality of her situation.

“What’s your name?” Sheila asked.

His hesitation was obvious as he made a pretense of
securely fastening the lid of the canteen. When it was done, he glanced with seeming indifference at the rest of the band. There was a coolness in the blue gaze that returned to Sheila.

“They call me Laredo,” he said, indicating with a nod of his head the other members of the group. Sheila waited expectantly for him to confide his full name. His mouth thinned in grimness. “That’s as good as any,” he concluded.

Curiosity glittered cat-like in her eyes. “Are you from Laredo?”

“Not exactly,” he denied and offered no more.

“You are an American?” Sheila persisted.

“I was born there.” He glanced to the north, a faraway look in his eye. He made it sound as if he were never going back or couldn’t go back.

“Who are they?” Shadows were lengthening through the campsite, making dark shapes of the men moving about.

“Their names? Their occupations? They’ve probably forgotten. It’s better this way,” said the man who had assumed the name of Laredo. “It makes it easier.”

A small fire had been started. Its flickering light touched the malevolent face of the man named Juan. Chipped, yellowed teeth were exposed by the sullen snarl splitting his lips. He was watching Sheila intently. Her body remembered vividly his filthy, groping hands and the foul smell of his breath.

“Easier for you and your friends to steal, murder, and rape,” Sheila challenged with bitter hatred.

He had followed the direction of her gaze. His expression was bland when he looked back and tossed the canteen to the ground beside her.

“I’ll leave this with you,” he said. “I’d wait a bit before drinking more.” And he started to walk away.

“Laredo.” Sheila called him back, levering herself onto an elbow, her wrists still bound in front of her. He turned and waited for her to speak, his manner expectantly polite, yet remote. “Am I—” She found herself choking on the words, then began again. “Am I
to provide the night’s entertainment for you and your friends?”

“You said your father wouldn’t pay a cent if you were harmed.” But his answer neither confirmed nor denied her fears.

“I know what I said,” Sheila retorted. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Shrugging, Laredo turned and walked to the campfire, leaving her to imagine the worst. No longer blinded to her situation by exhaustion and thirst, Sheila pushed herself into a sitting position.

There was nothing to stop them from raping her and still demanding ransom from her father. By his actions, Laredo had made it plain he would not stand against his friends to protect her, and this marauding band had no scruples. Tied and stiff with soreness, Sheila was powerless to help herself.

Food was being dished out from a pot hanging over the fire. Beans, her nose told her, and she felt the gnawing pangs of hunger in her stomach. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since her last meal. It seemed much longer. Nightmares always seemed to last longer, and hers had only just begun, Sheila thought.