by Janet Dailey
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 ins
isted.
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.
“Where will we ride?” Sheila turned her head to meet Ráfaga’s gaze.
Instead of looking at her, she found him watching the bouncing of her breasts, their fullness alternately relaxing and straining against the material of her cream-colored blouse. Immediately, Sheila reined the mare in, her cheeks flaming scarlet. Ráfaga stopped his horse, too, his dark gaze sliding up to her face.
“Do not be embarrassed,” he said smoothly. “It is an altogether pleasing sight.”
“You invited me for a ride,” Sheila reminded him with icy disdain, “not to endure any disgustingly lewd looks from you.”
There was a wicked glint in his eyes, but he merely nodded once and nudged his horse forward again. “We will ride to the far end of the canyon,” he said, finally answering her first remark.
At the touch of the reins, the mare immediately moved out to match the loping canter of Ráfaga’s bay. “Can’t we go outside the canyon?” Sheila glanced to the pass through which she had entered the canyon stronghold so many days ago.
Ráfaga gave a negative shake of his head. “Perhaps another time we will.”
With the half-promise, Sheila had to be content. But the ride was a tantalizing taste of freedom. She sensed the fleetness of the mare in her long-reaching strides and perhaps the ability to outdistance his bay horse.
After cantering across the meadow to the far end of the canyon, Ráfaga turned into the trees. They wound their way through the grove, dodging limbs and thick brush at a fast walk.
Within the trees, the air was oppressively humid from the recent rain. Soon Sheila felt the clinging dampness of her blouse as disturbed branches sent minuscule showers spraying over her.
Looking through the trees, Sheila glimpsed the rear wall of an adobe building. It was the one she shared with Ráfaga. Their ride had nearly brought them full circle. Ahead there was a shimmer of silver glistening through the leaves. Minutes later, they rode into the clearing by the spring-fed pool and slowly walked their horses around it.
Sheila lifted her thick hair away from her neck, letting the small breeze cool her skin. “The pool looks inviting,” she murmured unconsciously.
“Would you like to bathe here after the ride?” Ráfaga inquired blandly.
“What?” She looked at him blankly before realizing she had spoken aloud before. “Yes, I would,” she answered quickly.
The brief nod he gave seemed to indicate she had his permission. Sheila bristled at his autocratic attitude, but he didn’t notice as he reined his horse into the lead. Soon they were riding out of the trees, with the corral just ahead. Again the man emerged from the canopy of the shed as they rode up.
“Did you have a good ride?” He held the mare’s head while Sheila dismounted.
“A very good ride,” Sheila assured him, running a hand over the mare’s long neck. “Arriba was a well-mannered lady.”
“She behaved herself, no?” he smiled. “She did not try to run away?”
“No. She was perfect.” She returned the smile.
“You like her, no?”
“I like her, yes,” Sheila laughed.
“Then she is yours.” His hand swept the air, palm upward, to indicate the mare. “I give her to you.”
“You can’t be serious!” Sheila protested. She glanced at Ráfaga, who was standing to one side, watching with distant amusement. “You’re not actually giving her to me, are you?”
“Sí, sí” he insisted. “Arriba is yours. I give her to you.”
Bewildered, Sheila looked again to Ráfaga, uncertain what to do. Amusement glittered in his eyes. There was an almost imperceptible nod of his head. Sheila took it to mean she was supposed to accept the horse as a gift.
With a confused smile, Sheila nodded her acceptance. “Gracias. I don’t really know how to thank you. She’s such a beautiful mare.”
“If she please you, that is enough,” he said.
Still, Sheila hesitated, wondering if something more was expected of her. The mare butted her head against the Mexican’s chest, wanting the bridle removed. The roan horse was now Sheila’s. Was she supposed to see to its care?
A hand closed around her elbow. “We must go,” Ráfaga stated, indirectly providing an answer to that question.
“Is he really serious about giving me the mare?” she questioned when they were out of the man’s hearing range.
“Sí, he is very serious.” The slashing grooves deepened at the corners of his mouth, as if concealing amusement. “But he will be surprised if you take him literally.”
“I don’t understand.” Sheila shook her head, more confused now than before.
“It is a courtesy gesture,” Ráfaga explained with an indulgent gleam in his dark eyes, “to show his generosity. It would have offended his dignity if you had not accepted it, but he also expected you to tactfully leave the gift behind or give him one of equal value.”
“I see,” Sheila murmured.
“It is a custom of my country, a touch of chivalry. We say ‘my house is your house,’ and we mean it very sincerely, but we do not expect that you will take it and sell it.”
“I should hope not.” She laughed briefly, glancing up to his face in time to see a faint smile touch the hard line of his mouth.
Her pulse accelerated upon seeing the way the smile changed his rough features. Sheila realized how relaxed she had become with him and immediately stiffened, pulling her arm from the light grip of his hand. How could she find him so charming?
Chapter 14
Having gathered soap and a towel from the house, they arrived at the spring-fe
d pool. Sheila knew it was useless to ask him to turn around while she undressed. Instead, she turned her back to him, stripping with disguised haste so that she could seek the concealing waters of the pool, where his appraising eyes couldn’t see her nakedness.
A sound caught Sheila’s attention. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes rounding in surprise. Ráfaga was minus his boots and shirt, his bronzed torso gleaming naked in the sunlight.
“What are you doing?” she asked accusingly.
“Do you expect me to bathe with my clothes on?” countered Ráfaga. Not expecting her to respond to his rhetorical question, he began unfastening his pants.
Sheila quickly turned her head, the heat of anger and embarrassment flushing her cheeks. There was a second in which she was incapable of movement. She should have expected this, she told herself. After last night, she should have expected anything. Foolishly, however, she had not.
She reached for her clothes, lying on the ground near her feet. “Just because you’ve forced me to sleep in your bed does not mean that I’m going to bathe with you!”
Before Sheila could make the first move to put back on her clothes, strong arms were swinging her off her feet. The bareness of her soft hip felt the hard muscles of his stomach, and her nipple was tickled by the cloud of dark hairs on his chest.
Her stifled shriek of protest went unheeded as he cradled her firmly in his arms. Holding herself rigid, Sheila glared into his implacable features.
“Put your clothes down,” Ráfaga ordered, “unless you wish to get them wet.”
“Don’t you know how much I despise you?” Sheila hissed futilely.
“Is that why you always challenge me?” The complacent glitter of his cold, dark eyes was mocking, almost daring her to fight him.
Trying to struggle would be useless. Ráfaga would simply carry her into the water, dry clothes and all. Perhaps it was overcoming her resistance that he enjoyed, Sheila thought angrily. If it was, this time she would disappoint him.