Authors: Janet Dailey
Sheila realized she was on dangerous ground. If she continued to deride the way Laredo rationalized his guilt feelings, she might alienate him completely. There was still a chance she might persuade him to help her escape, despite what Ráfaga had said.
“How did Ráfaga get started in this?” She subtly altered the subject in a less personal direction. “What did he do?”
“I don’t know,” he answered curtly.
“Surely you must know something about him,” Sheila insisted. “Does he have a family? Was he an orphan? Where did he learn to speak English so well? You said you’d been with him three years. In that time, you’d have to have learned something about him.”
Laredo tipped his head to the side in disagreement. “Ráfaga doesn’t answer many questions, especially about the past. I asked him once and he told me he didn’t live in yesterdays.”
Sheila hesitated, her curiosity fully aroused by Laredo’s apparent lack of information. Granted, Ráfaga was enigmatic, a law unto himself, but Laredo had to know something. It seemed impossible that he wouldn’t.
“You must have heard stories about him—from the others, maybe.” Her sideways glance studied the closed look on Laredo’s face.
“I’ve heard stories,” he agreed in a clipped tone. “I don’t know how true any of them are.”
“Such as?” Sheila queried.
It was Laredo’s turn to hesitate. “Some say his mother was the mistress of a wealthy American. Other stories have it that he is the younger son of a prominent.
Mexican family. Another story claims that he slipped across the border as a child to live with an uncle in the U.S., passing himself off as his uncle’s son for a number of years.” He paused for a few minutes, walking silently. “And there are stories that he was in prison for taking part in anti-government actions or for smuggling guns to some reactionaries. It’s definite that he committed some crime. All of them convey the fact that he is educated, account for his fluency in English, and his knowledge of prisons and what they can do to a man if he’s in there too long.”
“Which one do you think is true?”
“None of them.” Then Laredo qualified his answer. “I imagine one of them is probably close to the truth, but only Ráfaga could tell you which one.”
“When?” Her voice was tinged with bitterness. “When we’re alone at night in bed?”
“Look.” Laredo stopped, taking Sheila by the shoulders and turning her to face him. “Basically, you haven’t been treated that badly. You could have been raped and killed, with your body left beside that of your husband’s. You talked your way out of that and it was Ráfaga who intervened to keep you from being raped by some of the others.”
“He didn’t do it to protect me,” she retorted. “He did it because he was afraid my father wouldn’t pay the money if I was harmed.”
“Be realistic, Sheila,” Laredo said grimly. “Your parents would pay the money no matter what condition you’re in. I know that, and so does Ráfaga. As a matter of fact, you could be raped and killed now and chances are we could still collect the money.”
Paling, Sheila realized that what he said was probably true. It could still come true. It was sobering to discover that the one person who stood between her and that fate was Ráfaga. But Laredo wasn’t finished.
“You’re lucky to have as much freedom as you do. Sure, there’s always someone with you on guard. But, as Ráfaga pointed out, you could be confined to your room. Or”—Laredo paused for emphasis—“you could
be kept tied up all the time. So Ráfaga has decided that you’re going to share his bed from now on. You’re damned lucky he’s not a fat, slobbering bastard like Juan. You haven’t been beaten or starved. In fact, you’ve damned near been treated like royalty. Things could be a hell of a lot worse. And it’s about time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself and realized it.”
His hands dropped from her shoulders to his sides. Laredo started to walk again, gazing straight ahead. Shaken by his lecture, Sheila fell into step beside him, her head slightly downcast.
“You are a survivor, Sheila.” Laredo spoke more quietly, his tone firmly gentle. “You get to be one by making the best of a bad situation. I’m not suggesting that you should like it; just make the best of it.”
Put that way, it sounded very much like surrender, and Sheila wasn’t certain that she was ready to admit that. But she had to acknowledge there was some wisdom in what Laredo said.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
The thud of cantering hooves turned Sheila’s head. The casual erectness of the rider and his easy grace in the saddle instantly identified him as Ráfaga. His bay horse was loping directly toward them.
A check of the reins slowed the horse to a trot, then to a head-tossing stop in front of Sheila. With hands crossed atop the saddle horn, Ráfaga nodded briefly to Laredo, then turned the full darkness of his gaze to her upturned face.
“Would you like to go for a ride,
señora?
” The horse stomped and shifted restlessly beneath him.
“Yes, on a horse of my own,” Sheila said.
“Come.” He slid his left foot from the stirrup and offered an arm to pull her up. “We will find you a mount.”
Hesitating, Sheila glanced at Laredo. His expression seemed to be telling her: “Remember what I said.” Using the stirrup as a step, she covered Ráfaga’s outstretched hand with her own. His sun-browned hand encircled her forearm in a firm grip. Sheila felt the
steel-hard muscles in his arms flex as he pulled her astride the saddle in front of him.
Shifting the reins back to his left hand, he reined the horse in a half-circle, his arm brushing lightly against her body. Her shoulders rubbed against the solid wall of his chest as the horse sidestepped nervously under the additional weight before breaking into a canter toward the group of adobe houses.
His muscular thighs burned the backs of her legs. The earthy smell of him awakened her senses, producing a reaction that was purely physical and beyond her control. His warm breath stirred the hair at the back of her neck.
“Are you certain you wish a horse of your own to ride?” He spoke near her ear.
“I am very certain.” But the husky tremor in her voice revealed her disturbed state, and she knew Ráfaga had heard it.
Nearing the cluster of crude houses, he slowed the horse to a shuffling trot. It was the first time Sheila had been permitted anywhere near them. She tried to ignore the physical contact with him and look around her with interest.
“What were you and Laredo discussing so earnestly before I rode up?”
“We were plotting how we might escape.” She lied deliberately just to irritate him.
“You make a joke,
señora
” There was a mocking laughter in his tone and a suggestion of arrogance at how certain he was of his control over the situation.
“
señora?
Don’t you think such formality is a little ridiculous under the circumstances?”
Turning in the saddle to eye him coldly, Sheila found his face disconcertingly close to her own. Her gaze slid to his mouth and the deepening grooves of satyric amusement on either side. She looked quickly away as her pulse raced in sensual alarm. Rigidly, she faced the front, fighting the sudden weakness in her limbs.
“But, of course, you are right.” After a slight pause, he added, “Sheila.”
Something in the way he said her name added to the erotic confusion of her senses. A slight movement of his left hand brought the horse to a walk as they came to the first adobe building.
As they rode slowly between the rows of small, crude buildings, his right hand slid around her waist to rest on the bareness of her stomach just below the knotted front of her blouse. Her muscles contracted at the searingly intimate touch, her breathing shallow and sporadic.
She loathed Ráfaga completely in her mind, yet he had this strange mastery over her flesh; he merely had to touch her to make her want him.
She was painfully conscious of heads turning to look at them, men and women alike. Some of them nodded or lifted a hand in greeting to Ráfaga, an obvious sign of respect in their attitudes.
Even the few children playing outside the houses stopped to stare. Sheila knew that her blonde hair and fair skin were an unusual sight. Ráfaga’s darkness was a perfect foil to contrast with the lightness of her complexion.
A dog raced forward to bark and snap at the horse’s heels. His ambling walk never faltered, although the horse laid an ear back at the sound. At one house, a man sat in a chair beneath the wide overhang. He neither moved nor looked up when they drew level with him.
Sheila noticed the brightly designed blanket draped over his legs and remembered that Ráfaga had told her Elena’s husband was an invalid. Her gaze shifted curiously to the door of the house to find Elena standing in the shadowy opening. Jealous hatred burned in her eyes as she stared at Sheila.
They had ridden past the house and were approaching the small corral before Sheila realized the true cause of Elena’s jealousy. It hadn’t simply been the sight of
her riding with Ráfaga. It had been the intimately possessive arm around her middle.
That realization prompted another. Ráfaga’s invitation to ride had not been made because he desired her company, nor to provide her with a diversion. He was making his statement of last night come true. “By tomorrow,” he had said, “everyone will know you are my woman.”
Rumor would have spread quickly through the small population concerning her changed status, and Ráfaga had visibly confirmed it by riding with her through the center of their small enclave.
When Ráfaga halted the horse in front of the fenced horse enclosure, Sheila immediately swung her leg over the saddle horn to dismount. She was eager to get away from the disturbing contact with him that had temporarily blinded her to his true purpose for the outing.
But his arm remained firmly around her waist, lowering her to the ground even though he knew she didn’t want his assistance. She started to walk stiffly to the corral, where the horses were gathering to greet Ráfaga’s mount.
“
Buenos días
, Señor Ráfaga. Hello,
señora
.” The heavily accented greeting in English stopped Sheila.
A Mexican was walking briskly from beneath the canopy of a shed. His strongly gentle features held an expression of deferential respect without being ingratiating. She had seen him before on guard outside the house.
“What is it that I can do for you?” he asked in heavily accented English.
“I want a horse saddled for the
señora
,” Ráfaga answered.
The Mexican looked to the five horses bunched together at the fence rail. “Which one?” He was asking Sheila’s preference, but it was Ráfaga who answered.
“The bay with the star.”
Sheila’s gaze swept over the horses, finding the bay with a white star on its forehead, Roman-nosed and
placid looking. She found little about the animal to arouse her interest.
“The bay? No, no,
señor.
” The man seemed to share her opinion of Ráfaga’s choice. “The
roano
.” Instantly, he translated for Sheila’s benefit. “The roan mare is better.”
A blaze-faced chestnut marbled with white stretched its neck over the corral rail. There was a suggestion of thoroughbred breeding in the mare’s long-legged, racy build, although she lacked the grace Sheila had seen in American counterparts of the breed. Her eyes were large and luminously brown, curious, yet gentle.
“No, not the roan.” Ráfaga refused the suggestion.
Frowning, the man gave him a confused look, obviously believing that he had selected the best horse from the group and not understanding why Ráfaga preferred the bay over the roan mare.
“I think he means,” she explained to him, “that he wants me to ride a horse that is less apt to run away with me, or vice versa.”
“Run away? Oh, no,
señor
, the mare is very gentle. My son, Pablo, he rides her all the time,” he insisted.
A black eyebrow was arched thoughtfully at Sheila. Coming to a decision, Ráfaga made it known in Spanish. The satisfied smile that curved the man’s mouth told Sheila she would be riding the roan even before he led the mare from the corral.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll try to escape?” Sheila taunted softly, keeping her voice low so only Ráfaga would hear her words.
He studied her with lazy, half-closed eyes. “You will think about it.” His voice was husky, yet hard, like velvet over steel. “But you will not try.”
He was right. Sheila would not attempt to get away while he was with her. Ráfaga was much too ruthless. He would stop at nothing to ensure that she didn’t escape from him. It was irritating the way Ráfaga always seemed to know how she thought.
Piqued, Sheila turned away and walked to where Juan was saddling the mare. She stood at its head,
stroking the velvet nose, aware that Ráfaga had followed her, but she ignored him. He leaned negligently against a fence post beside her, hooking a heel on the lowest rail. The back of her neck tingled where his gaze rested on her.
The mare nuzzled her shoulder in seeming affection. Sheila patted its neck. “Does she have a name?”
“
Sí
.” He pulled the cinch tight, expertly securing the strap. “She is called Arriba!”
“Arriba?” Sheila repeated, and the mare pricked her ears.
“
Sí
. Her mother was very old. For a very long time, the mare have no babies. Then she have this one and we say:
‘Arriba! Arriba!’
So that is what we called her,” he explained with a broad, friendly smile.
When the mare was saddled and bridled, the Mexican held her head for Sheila to mount. It was Ráfaga who stepped forward to give her a leg up and adjust the stirrups to a comfortable length.
Sheila found herself studying his features, so aggressively male and so forbiddingly handsome. She looked quickly away when he finished. Why did she find him so compelling?
The mare tossed her head, signaling her eagerness to be off, but she waited tractably for Sheila’s command. Not until Ráfaga was mounted on his own horse did Sheila touch a heel to the roan’s flanks.
Riding side by side, they skirted the edge of the dwellings, not going down the middle as they had when they arrived at the corral. The flatness of the meadow beckoned, its narrow width marked by the rising canyon wall. The two horses moved through the tall grasses at a reaching trot.