Authors: Sara Craven
'Relax, señorita.' His voice was mocking. 'I am told that rape on horseback is not merely dangerous but impossible, so you need have no fears.'
She didn't deign to answer, but instead caught hold of the edge of the saddle to steady herself, while gripping a handful of Malaguenos mane with the other hand.
She was held in the circle of his arms, but casually. He made no attempt to hold her more intimately, and she was thankful, because she was finding their present proximity, the warmth of his breath on her neck and ear quite disturbing enough. The truck seemed suddenly a much safer bet, but she could hardly say at this stage that she had changed her mind.
A weird inhuman sound broke the stillness of the night air, and she shuddered, tightening her fingers in Malagueno's mane. 'What was that?'
'A coyote,' he said. 'Or did you think they existed only in movies?'
That settled it. The truck would stay where it was, unattended, although she would have to make arrangements of some kind for its recovery in Monterrey. But what, she couldn't even begin to think.
All she could in fact think about was the strange workings of fate which, had brought Ramon back into her life when she had been sure she would never see him again. In fact, she'd counted on it. His dark and dangerous attraction had roused feelings and emotions in her which she wanted no part of. And if some foresight could have warned her that she would be spending the night in his company, even if it was on horseback, then she would never have embarked on her flight in the first place. It would have been preferable to have allowed Lopez to convey her to La Mariposa and the wrath of Don Luis, she thought. She stifled a little sigh, and looked up at the dark velvet of the sky with its spangling of stars.
'No moon,' she commented, half to herself.
'Alas, no. Nor a balcony, nor a mariachi band.' The mockery was open now, and she scowled, remembering that moment in the restaurant when he had sent the musicians away.
'It was just a remark,' she said, glad that the darkness hid the sudden colour in her cheeks.
'And the sigh?'
Was there a trick he didn't miss? she wondered.
'Let's just say I've had a bad day and leave it at that.' She paused. 'Malagueno's a beautiful horse—very surefooted.'
'He suits me very well/ he said laconically. 'He bears his name because his sire came from Malaga.'
Another silence. She hastened to fill it with words. 'You said that ail this was Montalba land. It must be a vast estate.'
'It was once. Now much of it belongs to the ejidatarios, peasants who are given free grants of land by the government. Here in the north much land which was once pasture for cattle is now being turned into small 'arms.'
'You don't agree with government policy?'
'All men must live,' he said after a pause. 'And the Montalbas could well spare the land. Some of the ejidatarios work hard on their holdings, but others do not. They find the life too hard, and prefer to remain peasants, selling their labour as they can.'
'As you do yours?' Nicola asked slyly.
'As I do mine,' he agreed.
She was disconcerted. She had expected at this point that he would tell her that he was Ramon de Costanza, cousin of the great Don Luis. She could see no point in his keeping it a secret. The thought that perhaps he was not communicating his identity because she was not of sufficient importance was a riling one.
Meanwhile this ride through the darkness was playing havoc with her unaccustomed muscles, and she moved restlessly.
'Is it much further—wherever we're going?'
There was a smile in his voice. 'I thought you were used to horses, chica. But no, you will not have to suffer for much longer.'
'Where are we going?'
'So many questions.' He sounded faintly exasperated. 'We are going to a nearby ejido?
Nicola's spirits rose slightly. It sounded hopeful. A house, however primitive, occupied by a farmer and possibly his wife and family too. Food and warmth, and somewhere to lay her head. But most of all, other people, she thought with sudden unease.
She began to peer forward into the darkness, looking for a lighted window, but there was only the night, which made it all the more surprising when her companion said, 'Your ordeal is over, señorita. We have arrived at our destination.'
Malagueno had stopped, and lowered his head to crop at unseen grass. Nicola found she was being lowered to the ground beside him, and she ran her fingers caressingly down the satiny neck. 'Gracias, Malagueno,' she said under her breath.
Dismounting, her companion looped the horse's reins over the branch of a nearby tree.
'Where is this place?' She stared round her helplessly.
'You don't believe it exists?' His hand closed round her arm, and she was urged gently but firmly forward. Had she been alone, she could well have blundered into it, she realised. It was only a shape, slightly darker and more solid than the darkness around it. No lights, no dogs barking, or friendly welcome of any kind. In fact it looked—deserted.
She said sharply, 'Where is everyone?'
'There is no one but ourselves,' he said coolly. 'Believe me, chica, when you see the size of the cabin, you will be grateful.'
Nicola felt anything but grateful. She hung back as he opened the door, which creaked eerily.
'Frightened?' He was laughing at her again. 'Wait here, then, while I light a lamp, and dislodge any intruders which may have taken up residence in Miguel's absence.'
'There's no need for that,' Nicola protested. 'Other people are just as entitled to a night's shelter and ...'
'I was not thinking of people,' he said gently, and a shudder went through her, as she suddenly imagined unnamed horrors waiting there in the dark. Rats, she thought. Ugh—or scorpions—or even—snakes.
She heard the rasp of a match and saw a glimmer of light which gradually swelled into a steady flame. A moment later, and another appeared in a corner of the room. Nicola stepped gingerly across the threshold and looked around her. It was not a prepossessing sight which met her eyes. There was a blackened fireplace built into one wall, with a rusty-looking cooking pot suspended from a hook in the chimney, and in the opposite wall was a deep alcove with a wooden bedstead actually built into it. A frayed curtain hung from a rough pole above: the alcove, and could be drawn for privacy, Nicola supposed. The first lamp her companion had lit hung from the ceiling. The second stood on a square wooden table in the corner. Two stools and a lumpy mattress on the bed seemed to supply the rest of the furnishings.
Something of her feelings must have shown on her face, because her companion gave a low laugh. 'What did you expect, Señorita Turista? A room at the Continental in Mexico City?'
She looked at him, her eyes widening involuntarily. He had discarded his hat and the poncho-like garment he had been wearing during the ride. The elegant urban suit had gone too, and he was wearing close fitting dark pants and superbly made riding boots. Another of those expensive dark-coloured silk shirts moulded his shoulders and chest. He looked the business man no longer, but very much the man of action, and Nicola realised suddenly that in this guise he was even more formidable. She felt the force of his attraction before, but now she had no charade to hide behind, no outraged grandee's novia to play. She was herself alone, and she realised with alarm that he was watching her in that same speculative way as at their first meeting, as if he was both amused and intrigued.
For a moment their eyes held in silent challenge, then he gave a slight shrug and turned away.
He said, 'I'll get a fire started. There's some food in my saddle bag. Perhaps you would get us a meal while I attend to Malagueno.'
Again she rushed into speech. 'Where did you learn to speak such good English?'
'Here and there. Where I could.'
She said, 'You're not very communicative.' She forced a laugh. 'Have you got something to hide?'
'No, chica,' he said softly. 'Have you?'
He disappeared through a door at the back of the cabin, leaving her gasping. When he returned he was carrying a bundle of firewood which he arranged deftly in the fireplace, and coaxed into flame with his matches.
'You certainly know how to make yourself at home,' Nicola commented, recovering a little. 'You mentioned Miguel. Does he own this place, and is he a friend of yours?'
'He did, and he was.' He stood up dusting his hands together.
'He's dead. I—I'm sorry.'
He shook his head. 'Miguel is very much alive. I'll go and get that food.'
Nicola sat down on one of the stools and stretched her legs out in front of her. There was no real warmth from the fire yet, but the flicker of the flames was in itself a comfort. And comfort was what she needed, because her unease was deepening with every moment that passed.
Ramon had changed, and not just in exterior details like his clothes. His manner had changed too. It was cooler and more incisive. On the journey at times he had seemed a charming playboy, but there was no trace of that any more. Now, he was no one's second in command. He behaved like a man who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed.
She thought, 'But of course he runs the ranch, and he's back on his own territory. That explains it.'
But her explanation lacked conviction, and she knew it. There was something deeply wrong, something which was eluding her.
'Que pasa?' She started violently and turned to find him watching her from the doorway, frowning. 'You are very pale. Are you ill?'
Nicola shook her head. 'Reaction, I suppose.' She tried a weak laugh. 'It's been quite a day.'
And could turn out to be quite a night too. She had tried to avoid looking at the bed in the alcove. Even with the curtain drawn, it was far from being a sanctuary.
With an effort she turned to the articles he had just placed on the table—a can of some kind of stew, with, an opener, a packet of coffee, and a tin mug and plate.
He met her gaze, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. 'I regret there are no tortillas. I apologise too that there is only one set of dishes.'
That, she assured him silently, doesn't worry me half as much as the fact that there's only one bed.
'There is a well in the yard at the rear.' He pointed to another door at the back of the cabin. 'I'll fetch you some water. There is also a hut there- -for your convenience.'
'Thank you,' Nicola muttered, and he laughed.
'The word is 'gracias,' he said. 'Perhaps after we have eaten I will give you a lesson in Spanish. You can hardly hope to traverse my country on the two phrases you have used so far.'
'No,' she said weakly She had pushed her leather bag under the table hoping it would be less obtrusive there, and she saw him look at it as he turned to leave, but he said nothing and she breathed again. She debated whether or not to take off the truck driver's jacket and decided against it. In one pocket, her fingers encountered the torch which she had completely forgotten about, and its solid presence idiotically cheered her.
There was a sink in one corner of the room, consisting of a tin bowl with an attached waste pipe. Nicola decided that one priority was to give the cooking pot even a rudimentary wash. There was an enamel coffee pot, battered but usable, standing under the sink, and Nicola shook her head as she looked at it. The preparation of this meal was going to be a challenge, and surviving it could well be a miracle.
Yet, in the event, it proved simpler than she had imagined, and when the spicy savoury smell of the stew began to fill the cabin, Nicola forgot her qualms and allowed herself to realise how hungry she was.
She knew he was watching her. They were watching each other, taking each other's measure like adversaries who know battle is about to begin. She'd seen him bring in a blanket roll and toss it on to the bed, and had bent towards her cooking, glad that the heat from the fire gave her an excuse for the sudden flare of colour in her face.
She tried to remind herself of all the times she had been alone with Ewan. When she had been close in his arms, kissed and caressed by him as he tried to persuade her to let him make love to her. Yet even then she had always felt she was ultimately in control of the situation.
But not with this man, she thought. This man who was a law unto himself.
He came back into the cabin, humming softly to himself. She recognised the tune. It was the one the mariachi band had been playing at the hotel restaurant, and her face went blank as she hastened.
'Is the food ready?' he broke off the tune to ask, and she jumped.
'Er—yes, but I don't know how we're going to manage...'
'I found a fork and spoon in my saddlebag. You can have the spoon.'
Her hands were shaking as she tried to ladle the stew on to the plate, but eventually she managed and placed it on the table between them. She picked up the spoon and made herself eat, forcing each mouthful down her reluctant throat, while her mind ran feverishly like a tiny animal on a wheel.
His choice of tune had been purely fortuitous, she tried to reassure herself. He hadn't recognised her. To him, she was just a silly tourist who'd got herself into a difficult situation and wanted to be rescued.