by Janet Dailey
The man didn’t wait to be given the money. Instead, his hand closed over the whole amount Too late, Brad realized the danger that Sheila had sensed from the beginning. Swearing, Brad fumbled inside his jacket for the revolver tucked into his waistband.
As the butt of the gun emerged in his hand, Sheila’s horrified eyes saw the muzzle of the Mexican’s gun protruding from the right side of his poncho. A deafening explosion followed. When her eyes focused again, Brad was crumbling to the ground, the snub-nosed revolver slipping from his fingers.
You stupid fool, Sheila thought.
She wanted to run to him, but the Mexican was already kneeling beside him, prying the wad of money from the tightly clenched fingers.
Sheila took a faltering step toward Brad, staring at the small red hole in his chest. There was no gory, spurting of blood such as she had seen depicted in movies—just a small, deadly hole and a slow-spreading scarlet stain to betray the mortal wound.
The crack of saddle leather and horses’ hooves penetrated the dazed mist of her mind. The scent of warm horseflesh was mixing with the acrid smell of gunsmoke. As her gaze widened to encompass the scene beyond Brad’s motionless body, Sheila saw that the band of riders had moved in. Two had dismounted to join the man going through Brad’s pockets.
Her gaze swept over the menacing group. Her heart stopped beating for a second, then pounded madly in fear. They were all staring at her. Sheila flattened herself against the car door.
Two more riders dismounted and began walking toward her. There was nowhere to run. They had killed Brad and she knew she could expect no mercy, certainly none before they had killed her.
Survive! The word screamed through her veins. Survive! The panicked beat of her heart slowed instantly and the stranglehold of fear was removed from her throat. She must survive.
Chapter 5
Sheila faced her attackers boldly. “I know how you can get a lot more money,” she said calmly. “Do you understand? Mucho dinero.”
Her statement was met with silence. They were all looking at her, their expressions unchanged. The two men had halted their approach. Sheila knew she had their attention.
“Mucho dinero,” she repeated.
The two men started toward her again. One was tall, his face shadowed by the wide brim of his hat. The other was short and stocky, a leering smile on his mouth.
“My name is Sheila Rogers,” she began again, ignoring the fact that her name had been legally changed to Townsend. “My father is very rich. He would pay someone a lot of money if I am returned to him unharmed.” Sheila emphasized the last word. “He would pay a lot of money.”
No one seemed impressed by her words. Her gaze swept the riders, ricocheting away from the hard, lean features of one, the dark rider. Instinct said he was the most dangerous of the lot.
“One of you here must understand what I’m saying.” An angry, desperate ring entered her voice. “My father would pay a great deal of money to have me back.”
Sheila was struck by the irony of her plight. She was here in this godforsaken stretch of land, married, and now a widow because of Brad’s lust for her money. Now, perhaps her only chance of surviving was hinged on that money.
A low voice said something in Spanish, breaking her train of thought. Her gaze swiftly sought the owner of the quiet tone. It belonged to the lean, dark rider, who was watching her with a hooded look, his horse restlessly stamping the ground.
A second voice jerked Sheila’s head around. “How much?”
It came from the tall, broad-shouldered man approaching her. Sheila found herself staring into a pair of clear blue eyes, emotionless and cool. The accent had been unmistakably American.
“You’re American,” Sheila almost gasped.
He ignored her observation. “How much will your father pay?”
“Thousands,” she assured him. “Enough for all of you as long as you don’t hurt me in any way.”
Without taking his eyes from her, he directed a few sentences in Spanish over his shoulder to those behind him. It was obviously a translation of her answer. Her gaze slid to the compelling rider who had spoken first to see what effect the words had on him. His chiseled features were an impenetrable mask. He spoke again in that same low voice and Sheila’s attention returned to the American.
“Who is your father, and where does he live?” he asked flatly.
“His name is Elliot Rogers, and he lives in Austin, Texas,” she answered simply, knowing there was no point in elaborating.
“Never heard of him,” was the indifferent reply.
“I doubt if you were ever invited to the same parties.” Her cat-gold eyes made a pointed sweep of the marauding band. “You don’t travel in the same circles.”
The man chuckled softly and didn’t translate what she had said. He walked toward her. Sheila steeled herself not to flinch as he reached out and fingered the material of her blouse. He smelled of dust, sweat, and horse.
At closer quarters, Sheila could see a trace of boyish good looks behind the stubble of beard and the sun-hardened features. She tried to judge his age, but the lines of experience made it difficult. He could be in his thirties, yet Sheila had the feeling he was even younger.
His blue eyes ran over the length of her, missing nothing, yet Sheila didn’t feel disturbed by his thorough and knowing inspection.
“Those are expensive clothes,” he observed.
“That’s what my father thought when he paid for them,” Sheila answered to enforce her position as an heiress.
Smiling slightly, he released the material of her blouse and took hold of her hands, lifting them up where he could see them. His attention focused on the gold wedding band.
“Him?” His head bobbed sideways to indicate Brad’s body.
“Yes,” Sheila admitted. “My married name is Sheila Rogers Townsend. We were on our honeymoon.”
“What were you doing here?” he asked.
“Brad was told there was a shortcut across the mountains. He was trying to find it when the car broke down.”
“This isn’t it,” he told her.
Without altering his position, he said something in Spanish. The familiar low voice that answered caused a murmur of dissension to ripple through the group. Sheila held her breath as she glanced at the frowning expressions of disagreement. The dispute was silenced by the firm ring of authority in the low voice.
“You’re in luck,” the American said. “The boss believes your story.” Although his mouth curved upward at the corners, there was nothing warm in the smile. “You do know there are ways of finding out if your father really has any money, don’t you?”
“I’m not lying,” Sheila responded calmly. “Did you think I would?”
“You might,” he said, nodding, “to save that lovely neck of yours.”
Releasing one of her hands, he turned to take a short rope from one of the riders. The action seemed to be a signal for the others to resume their looting.
“There’s no need to tie me up,” Sheila insisted as he looped the rope around one wrist.
“It’s just a precaution.” He tugged the rope tight and wound it around her other wrist.
The fibrous strands bit into her tender skin, the rope’s snugness permitting little circulation to reach her fingers. Any attempt by Sheila to flex them chafed the rope against her skin.
Her gaze slid to the man who had believed her story. Somehow she had known from the beginning that he was the leader of this band.
As she watched, he gave an order in Spanish and the men slowly began to climb back into their saddles. Her eyes wavered to the body lying on the ground. She should feel shock or sorrow at the sight of him, Sheila thought. It was wrong not to mourn the passing of a life, especially when the man was her husband. But fear and the fierce will to survive had pushed all other emotions from Sheila’s mind.
There was a tug on her hands to pull her forward. Sheila resisted, and the rope immediately bit into her flesh as pressu
re was applied to make her obey.
“Wait,” Sheila pleaded. The American stopped, looking at her with a quizzical lift of an eyebrow. She cast a darting glance to Brad’s body. “You aren’t just going to leave him there like that, are you? Where the animals can—” Sheila couldn’t finish the sentence, unable to voice the horrible picture that flashed through her mind.
A harsh light glittered in the blue eyes. “We just killed him,” he reminded her, his mouth crooking cynically. “You don’t really expect that we’ll turn into Christians and give him a decent burial, do you?”
Sheila closed her eyes at the bitter logic and opened them to stare at the lifeless figure. “It isn’t right to leave him here like that,” she repeated lowly.
A jerk of her bound wrists sent Sheila stumbling forward. One of the riders was holding the reins of the American’s horse as she was half-dragged to the left side of the empty saddle. Before she could recover her balance, a pair of hands gripped her waist and she was lifted astride.
Gripping the horn to steady herself, Sheila glanced at the American. His hand was resting on the leather saddle skirt near her leg. He gave her a long, hard look, then said something in Spanish to the man holding the horse.
Without a word to Sheila, he turned and walked to the body lying in the sandy dirt. Lifting the dead weight, he heaved it over his shoulder, carrying it like a bulky sack of potatoes to the passenger door of the car.
Magnetically, her gaze was pulled away from the scene, drawn to a pair of eyes that were as black and hard as nuggets of coal. They compelled her to look at the man, the leader of the band of renegades. Her pulse accelerated in vague alarm.
A flurry of movement and an angry Spanish voice released Sheila from the pinning gaze as his attention was directed elsewhere. Unconsciously, she had tensed in those brief seconds, and now she felt the constricted muscles begin to relax. Her gaze swung to the cause of her release.
The Mexican with the yellowed teeth, the one who had killed Brad, was astride his horse in the center of the half-circle of mounted riders. A stream of demanding Spanish was issued to the man who seconds ago had chilled Sheila with a look. The Mexican’s horse moved restlessly beneath him, reacting to his rider’s anger.
He gestured to Sheila and brought his hand back to possessively tap his chest. At that instant, Sheila realized he had positioned his horse to block the American from returning to her. Although she couldn’t understand what he said, his purpose was clear. He was claiming her as his property.
Cold fear raced down her spine. Surely they wouldn’t make her ride with the man who had murdered Brad! her mind cried in terror. At least the American had retained a streak of compassion.
Her widened eyes sought the carved face of the leader. The decision was obviously his. He didn’t even look at her as he gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulders and reined his horse away from the circle. With a triumphant shout, the Mexican spurred his horse toward Sheila.
He reined the horse in beside her, pulling savagely on the bit. Her gaze darted to the American, hoping he would protest, but there wasn’t a flicker of opposition on his face. The arm that circled her waist snapped the grip of paralysis.
“No! No!” Sheila was dragged, kicking and screaming, from the saddle.
Her cries went unheeded as she was drawn sideways across the saddle. The iron band of his arm tightened around her waist, nearly squeezing Sheila in half. He touched his spurs to the flank of the horse. It bounded forward, throwing Sheila against the man’s chest. With each stride of the horse, the saddle horn poked her thigh.
The murderer laughed at her struggles, knowing, as Sheila did, that she couldn’t writhe free and was wasting her energy trying. Catching back a sob of frustration and self-pity, she quit fighting and stiffly held her body rigid across his lap.
The horse had slowed to a jarring trot. Her sullen, accusing eyes swept the band that had begun its exodus from the crime scene. Two stragglers were cantering to rejoin the loosely gathered group. The gold fire in her eyes flashed their resentment when the blue-eyed American loped by. He didn’t even glance at her as he guided his horse to the leader’s side.
Her tied hands and the sidesaddle position forced Sheila to rely on the support of the man’s arm and chest. Her shoulder rubbed against his chest, the coarse weave of his poncho scratching through the silken material of her blouse. His breath was foul and Sheila turned her head to avoid inhaling it.
Saddle leather creaked as the band put distance between themselves and the dirt road. Their route through the rugged terrain paralleled the looming mountain range. An invisible command seemed to pass through the group. Almost simultaneously they all slowed their horses to a walk.
The saddle horn applied steady pressure, no longer jabbing her thigh. The man said something to her in Spanish, his tone low and suggestive, his hot breath fanning her face. Sheila flicked him a poisonous glance and tensed as she saw his gleaming eyes looking downward.
Her hunched position against his chest had caused the buttoned front of her blouse to billow out while her arms pushed her breasts together to form a deep cleavage. Sheila raised her forearms to let her tied wrists protectively hide her plunging front.
“No, no, señora,” he denied with a leering smile and grabbed the rope to pull her hands down.
Twisting in the saddle, he wedged his elbow between her wrists, applying pressure to the knot and holding her arms away. At the first brush of his fingers on the satin-smooth material outlining her breasts, Sheila drew away, straining backward over his arm to elude his lecherous hands. The action thrust the fullness of her breasts against the thin material. His hand covered the rounded swell of one breast.
“Get your hands off me!” Sheila cursed angrily. “You filthy, ugly beast!”
He laughed again and punishingly squeezed her breast. Two riders rode closer to watch, offering words of encouragement and snide suggestions to the man they called Juan. Sheila kicked at his leg, her feet flailing in the air in an effort to find their target. The blows landed on the stirrup leather of the horse.
His fingers moved to the buttoned front of her blouse, tugging at it impatiently until the button threads ripped. As her ripe breasts were revealed, he shouted to those looking on, as if showing off the richness of his prize.
Shamed and degraded beyond description. Sheila now struggled even more wildly than before. His exploring hands investigated his prize, his callused finger roughly caressing her flesh until Sheila gagged in revulsion.
“My father won’t pay you a cent!” she choked in humiliation. “Not a cent! Do you hear?” She screamed her warning to the man riding at the front and the American at his side.
The horse pranced sideways beneath the struggling pair on his back, tossing its head and snorting nervously. Sheila realized there would be no rescue. She had been given to this beast masquerading as a man, and she knew she would rather die than be used again.
The horse skittered again in frightened agitation. There was only one way to escape the repulsive hands, and Sheila began aiming the blows of her feet to the horse’s shoulders and neck. Whinnying its alarm at the attack, the horse half-reared, checked by the sudden sawing of the reins and the punishing jab of a spur. But Sheila kept kicking, panting, and sobbing with determination to save herself.
The horse threatened to bolt in panic. It was requiring all of the rider’s skill to hold the animal in. With the others laughing at his predicament, Sheila could see the mottled red of rage growing in his face.
Her heel hooked one taut rein. She kicked at it, jerking the horse’s head around. Its nervously shifting hooves tried to turn with the action, but the sudden change of direction was impossible. Sheila felt the horse’s legs buckling before it fell heavily to the ground. She twisted loose from the imprisoning arm as they fell and staggered free of the horse’s flailing hooves.
Off balance, Sheila stumbled forward, trying to run. She had barely covered ten feet when she heard the heavy footsteps
behind her. A hand grabbed her elbow and spun her around. Her feet went out from under her and she fell to the ground. Brad’s murderer stood above her, his broad features ugly with the look of revenge. Two riders reined their horses to a stop on either side of Sheila and dismounted.
Scooting backward, Sheila’s frightened eyes never left the man called Juan. She scrambled to her feet while he moved menacingly toward her. Instantly, the other two men moved in, grabbing her arms to hold her. She kicked wildly, biting at their hands.
Unexpectedly, she was released. Sheila didn’t question why; she just turned to run again. During her struggles the rest of the riders had formed a circle around her.
Breathing heavily from her panicked exertions, Sheila pivoted back, wary and on guard, not knowing what to expect next. Her gaze fastened on the lean-faced man who commanded the group, his expression impassive and aloof. His shuttered black eyes slid to her heaving breasts, her creamy-silk blouse hanging open. Immediately, her arms lifted to cover herself.
The slashing line of his mouth quirked at the defensive action that came too late to conceal what all eyes had seen. Dismounting, he untied something from his saddle. It looked like a blanket and a lariat. Sheila quailed inwardly, but she refused to give ground as he walked toward her.
His leanness was deceptive, she discovered. He was much taller and broader than she had first thought. He moved with the supple grace of an animal, a predatory beast. The fathomless dark eyes never left Sheila’s face, mesmerizing her almost to the point where she couldn’t have run if she tried.
Stopping in front of her, he shook out a serape. He lifted it above her, pulling the slashed opening over her head. He tucked the end through the circle of her arms, drawing her hands and arms to the outside of the coarse fabric.
His low-pitched voice said something to her in Spanish, a mocking inflection in the quiet tone. The blood was racing hotly through her veins, her nerves raw and stretched taut at the sensation of danger in his nearness.