Ride The Wild Wind (Time Travel Historical Romance) (12 page)

He clamped his jaw
tight and said nothing, unimpressed by the practice among prostitutes of
rouging their nipples.

“Do you like my
hair,
querido
? I had it done special for you. And this gown is new as
well.” She twirled before him, the hem billowing wide. “It is patterned after
an expensive Paris original.” She struck a pose. “Enchanting, is it not?”

He stared at the
vain, selfish woman. Navajo children starved. Elders grew weaker each day from
lack of decent food, and all Elena could think of was her damned hair...her
fucking expensive dress. She’d not seen The People’s emaciated bodies, the
hollow look of near-defeat in their eyes. She hadn’t listened to the weak cry
of babies because their mothers were too malnourished to nurse them properly.
Instead, she stood before him, poised like a pampered queen in her gold and
ivory palace—a house he’d bought with De Los Santos wealth.

Goddamn it but
his grandfather must be writhing in his grave right now!

Elena had no idea
what he had witnessed these past few months. To make matters worse, the United
States Calvary had issued a warrant for his
arrest.
Dead or alive
,
the headline in the newspapers read. The reward paid more if he was delivered
alive. He was almost certain Elena didn’t know. She would turn him in if she
thought she might get a new dress or necklace out of the deal.

It was too risky
to come here again. Once he had taken a meal and loaded supplies, he would be
on his way, the red-haired woman in tow

The aromas of
frijoles
,
molé
and tortillas wafted into the room, drawing his thoughts away from
Elena momentarily. His stomach growled, reminding him he’d not eaten in two
days. Guilt gnawed at him when he thought of his family in
Dinetah
. How
could he enjoy Rosa’s tasty fare when he wondered if his own son might go
hungry tonight?

He quickly shoved
the thought away, kicked out of his pants and padded over to the wash stand. He
paused, his gaze sliding over Elena, so regal-looking in her expensive satin
gown and upswept curls. But despite her beauty, she did not compare to the
woman he now knew from the poster as Hope Brannigan.

A pang of regret
stabbed at his heart. There had been a time when coming here had felt like his
only salvation. Now, he felt like a man with a date with the executioner. This
was the last time he would see Elena for a long while. Maybe forever.

She stood quietly
by, her dark, sensual eyes searching his. He knew what she wanted— what she
always wanted. A scrap of affection. “Your hair is lovely,” he finally
commented and her face brightened like a child who’d received a long-awaited
gift. “So is the dress.”

She drew close to
him, pushed the grimy strands of hair from his face with her petal-soft
fingertips and rose up on tiptoe to kiss him hotly, hungrily. She smelled
fresh, of violets and expensive French milled soap.

In his condition,
it would have been so easy to give in, to take the release her body offered. He
tore his mouth from hers. “Elena, I told you, I’ve no time.”

“Shhh.” She fitted
her lips over his once more and he was drawn into her captivating web of
seduction. Ellie was here—so soft, so tempting. Comforting. Perhaps that was
all he needed, someone to hold him for a little while until the horrors of what
he’d witnessed these past few months subsided. He refused to think anymore.

He filled a palm
with a breast. Her skin was incredibly soft and flawless, dusted with a fine
sheen of perfumed talcum powder.

Then he thought of
Hope Brannigan and stilled.

The image of
beautiful young Hope standing in Elena’s boudoir like a goddess washed over
him, the cream-colored silk dress set against flawless skin. He recalled the
raw desire in her eyes when he held her against him. The blush of innocence
when her body responded to his. No, it had not been his imagination. She had
wanted him as much as he had wanted her.

He
still
wanted her.

Shaken, and a bit
disgusted by his behavior with Elena, he pushed all thoughts of Hope Brannigan
away and remembered the woman he was with. Desire fled, as well as his arousal.

“Antonio, what
troubles you?”

He sighed and
turned away. “Nothing. I am tired.”

Then he heard the
low thunder of hooves in the distance and the rumble of wagons. “Elena…listen.”

Elena’s dark eyes were
soft and misted with passion. She shook her head. “
Que es
?” She reached
up to pat a loose tendril of hair back in place.

He tore across the
room, hooked a finger in the drapery and eased it back. Soldiers. The bastards
were descending upon the place! He danced into his pants.

Elena crossed to
the window. “
Dios!
” She whirled to face him, her hand clutched to her
naked bosom, her gown open to the waist.

“Get dressed, El.”
He pulled on his boots, then strapped on his gun belt.

“I will hide you.”
She retrieved a pearl handled pistol from her desk. As she closed the drawer, a
small folded piece of parchment fluttered to the ground. She snatched the
paper, suspiciously easing it inside her pocket.

“What was that?”

Her eyes widened
innocently. “What?”

“The note.”

She flinched ever
so slightly. “It is nothing but some foolish request of one of my girls.”

She was lying. Had
she tipped off the soldiers, informing them of his scheduled arrival in
Albuquerque tonight?

“Quick, Antonio,
we must go to the cellar.”

He studied her
face, her expressions. She was nervous. Why? What was in that damned note that
she did not want him to see?

“I’ll hide you,
mi
amor
. Come with me.”

There was no way
in hell he was sticking around. He no longer trusted her. Besides, Carson’s men
would tear the floor boards and walls apart looking for him if they suspected
he was here.

He pulled on his
shirt and grabbed his vest, then pulled Elena into his arms. He kissed her hard
and demanding, one hand reaching up to fondle a breast. A ruse that worked.

Her arms went
around his neck and he deepened the kiss. Successful at distraction, his other
hand slipped into her pocket undetected. Note in hand, he slid it into his
sleeve’s cuff, then broke the kiss and released her.

“I have to leave.”

“Antonio!” She
hurried down the hallway on his heels, still buttoning her gown. Doors creaked
open as they passed. “Where will you go? What will I tell them?”

“Tell them you
know nothing of me. Deny everything.” Shoving aside a tall, but lightweight
book case at the end of the hallway, he yanked open a small, hinged wall panel,
ducked and entered, slamming it shut behind him. The secret exit. He heard
Elena’s shrieks, the commotion of the book case being scooted back into place,
followed by footsteps in the corridor as the shouts and booted steps of
soldiers ascended the stairs.

Hunched over, he
made his way down the low-ceiling corridor in near pitch darkness of the
stairwell. Guilt tore at him for leaving her and the ladies like this, but
Elena was a resourceful woman. If soldiers suspected her of aiding him, or
questioned her about any involvement with him, she would lie, then offer them
her finest whiskey and the prettiest girls all on the house.

He burst out the
narrow exit door, out of the suffocating darkness and into the blinding, sunlit
alleyway. His heart sank at the sight of the supply wagon. Faces of starving
Navajo children flashed through his mind and hot tears stung his eyes. He had
promised to bring food, but there was no time. The woman! He could not leave
her behind.

He swallowed the
thick lump in his throat as he set his hat on his head. Perhaps he could return
in a day or two once the soldiers left. Sounded like a plan.Ride east, the
direction they’d come, then circle back, returning for the wagon and the
Brannigan woman once they’d gone. But that would delay his meeting with Sonny
and the other men. Still, what choice did he have?

He barreled toward
Dinishwo, boots churning up red dust. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a
flash of white. He froze, blinked back a bead of blinding sweat that dripped
into one eye. Hope Brannigan stood on the back stoop, sweeping, a cradleboard
strapped to her back. A nerve ticked in his jaw. He swallowed hard. This might
be his only chance.

But why was a
child with her? Whose babe? One of Elena’s girls? He doubted so. Elena would
not suffer a squalling infant in her house. Since he had only been away three
months, he knew it could not belong to the woman, unless of course, she had
borne a child before they met.
No, that couldn’t be.
He had examined her
three months ago and noted no such changes to her breasts. Unless, of course,
she had been unable to nurse the child after birth. Perhaps she had been
reunited with the infant. He nibbled his lower lip. This complicated matters.
He could not take a baby with him!

A cloud of dust
wafted at her feet as she swept. His eyes followed the sensual sway of her
rounded hips beneath the silky dress as the broom moved back and forth, back
and forth. The sun’s rays shone through the sheer garment and his groin
tightened. She wore nothing beneath the gown—not a stitch if his eyes did not
deceive him. He stared at the erotic display like a starving man set before a
Sunday feast.

He warred with his
conscience. She was alone, except for the child strapped to her back. This
might be his only chance. He did not pause to think, to ponder the
consequences. It was now or never. He charged her.

She looked up,
froze, and threw the broom down as he rushed upon her. He did not want to frighten
her or the child, but there was no time to explain. He seized her arm and
clamped his other hand over her mouth. There was no struggle, although he fully
expected one. Whiskey colored eyes held his gaze. She made not a sound, not
even a whimper, but stilled as if she knew he would not hurt her. He peeled his
hand from her mouth, keeping one hand firmly fastened on her upper arm.

“Whose child is
this?” He nodded toward the cradleboard.

She stared at him,
unblinking. “Huh?”

“The child on your
back.”  Still, no response. Impatient, he tossed off the flap and yanked
the blanket aside. Rat dog’s head popped up to greet him.

Shit.
He
pulled the flap back over the beady-eyed dog’s head.

“Walk with me to
the horse and make no sound.” He hustled her to his mount.

“You’re him—the
one they call Whitehorse
?
”

He didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to. His silence had answered for him.

“Oh, my God.
You’re Elena’s lover. And I let you kiss me that day by the stream. You put
your tongue in my mouth. You touched my breasts.”

“And you enjoyed
every moment.”

She gasped.
Looping one arm around her waist, he hoisted her up onto the horse’s back with
him. She gripped the animal’s mane and cast a hateful glance back. “You know I
hate horses.”

He did, but did
not care. He reached around and pulled her snug against him.

“Where are we
going?”

He ignored her.
She did not need to know. A wagon in the alley sat loaded with ammunition and
food supplies and he wasn’t certain if he would return. What if this had been a
set up? Had Elena finally betrayed him?

The note.

He fished it from
his shirt sleeve and quickly shoved it into an inside vest pocket for
safekeeping, then dug his heels into the bay’s flanks and set off down the
alley at a gallop.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Arizona
Territory

Antonio removed
his hat and gazed up at limestone canyon walls rising up around them hundreds
of feet into a cloudless turquoise sky. Other than the gurgle of the shallow,
muddy wash and the cry of a red-tailed hawk circling overhead, the steep-walled
canyon was eerily quiet today.

They’d ridden hard
these past few days, he and the Brannigan woman, with many more miles of rough
terrain to go before reaching
Dinetah.
Rations were growing scarce. Once
he deposited the woman with his aunt, he would return to Albuquerque and
negotiate a higher ransom from her family. The reward money would buy newer
carbines and ammunition, as well as corn and other staples to feed The People
during the coming winter.

He slapped the
dozing woman on the thigh to get her attention and she jerked upright. The
dog’s head shot from beneath the flap on the cradle board. Two set of weary
eyes met his.

She was a mess,
her face blistered from exposure to the sun and wind. He’d offered his hat but
she refused. Stubborn female. Dried sweat and red dust stained her
cream-colored gown. Her hair had come unpinned and was matted on one side, much
like a bird’s nest.

He helped her down
from the horse. “Get into the stream and bathe. The water will soothe your
skin.”

 Antonio fought
his way out of his tight, hot boots. A warm breeze gusted through the canyon,
ruffling his hair but offering little relief from the sweltering heat.

While she
undressed a few yards away he hacked the bark off a yucca root with a small
hatchet, then split it into four pieces.  Out of the corner of his eye he
watched as she piled her clothes on the rocks and waded naked into the shallow
wash.   Her dog lapped generously at the water’s edge. Antonio
dropped his trousers, then gathered the yucca he waded into the water.

He whistled,
getting her attention. “Catch.” He tossed two chunks to her.

“When you finish
bathing, wash my clothes.” He moved a few away to put a respectable distance
between them.

She stared at the
yucca in her hand and he realized she hadn’t a clue of what to do with them.
“Rub the pieces together briskly for a few moments.” He demonstrated. “It forms
a soapy lather…like this.”

He found the cool,
but muddy water invigorating. Building up suds from the yucca, Antonio scrubbed
dirt from his face and hair, then dunked his head and slung off the water and
foam. When he came up a second time, he froze, mesmerized at the erotic display
presenting itself several yards away.

The Brannigan
woman splashed copious handfuls of water on her face and throat. White suds ran
in rivulets between her small, but firm breasts which glistened in the
sunlight. What skin hadn’t been exposed to the sun was a delicate creamy brown,
perfect and unblemished. As if she sensed his watching, she abruptly turned her
back to him. He sucked in a breath. This gave him another enticing—albeit
partial view of her buttocks. Her waist was narrow, flaring out to create
slender, softly rounded hips, most of which was concealed beneath the water.

She was doing
nothing provocative, simply bathing and rinsing their clothing and he tried to
ignore the stirrings within his body. But he was helpless to pull his attention
away. Instead, he stared brazenly and pushed an errant strand of wet hair out
of his eyes, nearly shooting out of his skin when she bent forward to rinse her
hair underwater, revealing
all
her treasures. When he could think again,
his eyes riveted on small bluish marking on her left hip— tattooed letters he
noted months before when he found her unconscious in the ravine. R.T.W.W. He
had not inquired then, but often wondered if they were someone’s initials.

Surely she must
have known he was watching. Was she doing it for his benefit? Regardless, he
dared not touch her.

He bathed quickly
and waded ashore, then headed for the scant shade of a sparse cottonwood grove.

* * * * *

Halle almost
collapsed from relief when he left, her breath leaving her lungs so quickly it
hurt. She slogged out of the muddy stream, then crouched low to conceal her
nudity as best she could. Her heartbeat pounded out a deafening tempo in her
ears. What a low low-life pimp bastard—selling women at Elena’s like property
and taking a cut of the profits. Is that why he’d watched her so intently? Was
he sizing her up like a piece of prime horse flesh, trying to determine at
which of his brothels she’d turn the most profit?

Max met her at the
water’s edge and she reached down to scratch behind his ears. “Well this is a
fine mess we’re in boy. If you have any idea how to get out of this, I’m all
ears.”

Cursing under her
breath she returned to washing their clothes, aware her captor was watching the
entire time. The sun beat down on her head as she swished each garment up and
down in the water, then rubbed the soapy root over them. How crude. After rinsing,
she spread them on the rocks. But no matter how vigorously she rinsed the white
gown, it remained filthy. The silky fabric was ruined, creased with wavy lines
of dark, red mud.

 Whitehorse
kept a safe distance away now, apparently occupied with what appeared to be a
sketch tablet. Her opportunity. She slung the sopping gown over her shoulder,
then flung his clothes on the ground. Arranging his pants face down, she waited
until he was engrossed in his doodling again and stomped the seat with muddy feet.
Nothing gave her more pleasure than the thought of the arrogant jerk wearing
her dried foot prints on his ass. What nerve he had, ordering her to wash his
clothes as if she were his servant! Even Elena had never made such a request.

Once she’d
finished with the laundry, she neatly spread her clothes own on sun-warmed
rocks to dry, aware he was now watching like a cat set to pounce on its prey.
Sadly, he had changed. Gone was the tender man who’d once saved her life, the
beef-cake with whom she’d shared her first hot kiss. Now, she only saw a
criminal. A predator.

Surreptitiously,
she smoothed her hand over the small lump still pinned in the dress’ hem,
making sure her money pouch remained securely in place.  Too bad she’d
left behind the strand of pearls and the sapphire ring Elena’d loaned her. They
could have been sold. 

Once she escaped
and returned to Elena’s, she and Molly would launch their final blackmail
assault. Once Frank Cole paid them handsomely, they’d strike out on their own
and open a hair salon and clothing boutique in Albuquerque. Elena would be
pissed, but who cared. At least she and Molly would be free.

Of course,
everything depended upon when or
if
she escaped. Her captor, the man she
now knew as Whitehorse, had taken her shoes. She’d begun to wonder if it was
even possible to get away.

Halle worried her
lip, realizing she’d chewed a raw spot. There had to be a way out of this mess.
She’d watched him closely these past few days. His well-muscled body moved with
the swift grace of a mountain lion—all stealth and muscle, fueled on instinct.
And he was damned smart—too smart for a man of his time—unless, of course, he’d
been educated. That was a strong possibility, considering he spoke proper
English. She suspected that was the case. He spoke with no accent, and he could
write, for she’d watched him make notations in the margins of his sketch
tablet. Still, she could never outrun him. Or outwit him. She sighed in
frustration, realizing she was royally screwed.

At night he tied
her wrist to his, and she’d never caught him sleeping, not deeply, anyway. One
slight movement and he’d jerk wide awake and look at her with those pale,
smoldering eyes. There wasn’t a moment during the day when he wasn’t watching.
Even when he was doodling on his stupid drawing tablet in the middle of the
night, or intently making notes out of her view, he remained on guard. How
then, could she escape?

She’d managed to
hide the small pearl handled knife Elena had given her, but concealing it was
becoming more difficult. Riding body against body, her backside snug between
his muscular thighs—she feared he’d soon detect the knife tucked in her garter.
 Stabbing him had never actually been an option. The sight of blood made
her queasy. And he hadn’t hurt her or  tried to molest her. All she wanted
was to escape, but now that even seemed a poor choice considering she was
shoe-less. She couldn’t manage his horse alone, and knew she wouldn’t survive a
trek through the desert and canyons without water and food. Besides, he’d saved
her life once. As long as he minded his manners and didn’t get touchy-feely she
wouldn’t be forced to do something rash.

 She pondered
several scenarios. Maybe she could incapacitate him in some way? Drug him and
tie him up
? Damn.
She
had nothing with her, not even the bottle
of the eighty-proof, mouth-puckering female elixir Elena gave her to ease
menstrual cramps. That stuff would knock out an elephant for hours.

Her eyes darted to
the rifle scabbard which hung from the saddle. Forget that idea. She didn’t
know how to fire it. He also kept a pistol in his left vest pocket. Good luck
wrestling that away. What other goodies did he carry in his leather bag besides
food and a few cooking utensils? Another gun? Rope? Earlier, she’d watched him
use a small hatchet.

Her mind reeled
with possibilities. Even if she succeeded in getting the pistol, she didn’t
know if it was loaded. A chill shook her at the thought of stabbing him—even if
only to incapacitate him temporarily.  

She smoothed out
the wrinkles in her dress with her palms. Max offered his help, too, trotting
across the garment and leaving tiny paw prints on one sleeve. “That’s what I
call teamwork, Max ” Smug, she lifted the dog off and set him aside.

If only she could
get Whitehorse to fall asleep, she might get a good look inside that saddle
bag. Maybe he had whiskey. The girls at Elena’s were famous for getting men
drunk enough to pass out and robbing them blind.

That was it! She’d
ask for a drink. He’d be unable to resist one, too. On second thought, he might
get too friendly once the liquor lit his fuse. Although he hadn’t made any
moves on her, he’d had several prime opportunities over the past few days.
Still, if he wasn’t interested in abusing her or selling her, what were his
intentions?

How could this man
who had been so gentle and tender with her in the beginning be so frightening
now? What had happened in his months away to change him?

Of course, she
could always level with him about who she really was and he might release her.
Oh,
by the way, I’ve really traveled back in time from the twenty-first century.
With
a tale like that he’d think she was a nut case!

On second thought, that might not be such a bad idea.

She sat at the
water’s edge and combed at her matted hair with her fingers, contemplating
doing just that. If he didn’t believe her, she could go crazy on him, Jump up
and down, babble and tear wildly at her hair like a mad woman. She could rattle
off gibberish, or swish up some spit and let the foam dribble from one corner
of her mouth. Yeah, that would scare the hell out of him. Most people of this
time period were highly superstitious. Of course, he might also believe she was
possessed by evil spirits and ride away. Or he might think she had rabies and
shoot her. No, scratch that lame idea. The object of this game was to stay
alive
.

She tested their
clothes. Hers were dry. His were still damp in areas. She flipped them over and
smiled at the size nine muddy footprints on the seat of his pants. Yes, this
was possibly the only time in her life she was proud of having large feet.

She slipped her
dress over her head and wriggled into it. Quickly, she wrapped her bare feet
with wide strips of lacy fabric ripped from the dress’ hem.

The thin material
would provide little relief from bruising stones underfoot, but would somewhat
protect her soles from being burned by sun-scorched rocks. Once she finished
wrapping her feet, she fashioned four tiny booties for Max’s feet as well.

She dared a
sidelong glanced at her captor, noting he was still leaning against a tree,
watching. Did the man have no shame, standing there naked as the day he was
born? He whistled to her, sending her heart lurching in her chest.
Calm down
Halle. He probably only wants his clothes.
At least she
hoped
that’s
all he wanted.

She reminded
herself that time was on her side. He hadn’t slept in three days. At this rate,
couldn’t hold up much longer. The more she thought about it, the more she was
convinced the key to her freedom was in his leather bag.

He motioned for
her to come. Halle tucked the small knife into the garter on her thigh, then
gathered his clothes and stood. “I hope you like the new logo on your pants,”
she whispered as she and Max made their way toward him.