Touch the Wind

by Janet Dailey

  Juan’s impassioned plea seemed to have swayed the people to Sheila’s side until someone else spoke up. It was a moment before Sheila could locate the jeering Spanish voice. She went cold when she saw Juan Ortega.

  His broad face was contorted with the look of vengeance, his lips sneering at her, revealing his yellowed and chipped teeth. His shoulders were stiffly hunched to indicate the pain he still endured from his whipping. There was a sickly pallor about his face, indicating his recovery was not yet complete.

  Sheila’s slightly widened gaze shifted to Ráfaga, who was listening impassively to Juan Ortega’s denouncement. Then it slid to Laredo, who had turned away, a defeated look in his blue eyes. She caught his glance and held it.

  “What is he saying?” she whispered, barely moving her lips.

  Laredo walked to her side, not looking at her as he answered her question. “He’s telling them that it doesn’t matter what your reason was for leaving here or the circumstances surrounding it. He’s reminding them that he was punished for disobeying an order—an order that he had forgotten in his weakness when you invited him into the house and flaunted your womanhood in front of him. If his reason could not save him from the whip, then neither must yours. And he’s reminding them that, your flight nearly resulted in allowing a government patrol to find this canyon. If for no other reason, you should be punished for that.”

  When Juan Ortega stopped talking, there were nods of agreement all around. Some were reluctant, but most heartily endorsed the speech. Sheila didn’t need to be told that her last hope to be spared had died.

  For several seconds, no one seemed to move. Finally. Ráfaga turned to face her. A muscle was twitching convulsively in his jaw, but there was no other sign that he disagreed with the sentence. A tremor quivered through Sheila’s knees, but she steeled them to support herself as she returned Ráfaga’s impassive look.

  Not waiting for him to issue the command, Sheila turned and walked to the twin posts, standing between them, her head held proudly erect. Ráfaga signaled to one man to tie her up while another brought him the whip. A rope was slipped around her left wrist by the first man and drawn tightly against her flesh.

  Laredo was at her side in a flash, his arm barring the man from fastening the hope to the post. He glanced over his shoulder at Ráfaga, his eyes glinting with blue fire.

  “Damn it, Ráfaga, you can’t do this to her!” he snapped savagely.

  “Step aside,” Ráfaga ordered, showing complete indifference to the protest.

  “For God’s sake, man, at least let me take her place!” Laredo hurled desperately, seeking any alternative to spare Sheila.

  His demand sliced the thread. Black fury flamed to darken Ráfaga’s expression. “Do you think I would not stand in her place if I could?” he hurled with savage anger. “Move away from her!”

  Electrical currents charged the air between the two men until Laredo finally backed down, lowering his arm to let Sheila be tied to the post. Tortured blue eyes glanced briefly at Sheila before Laredo stepped away, his head bent in frustration.

  While her right arm was being tied to the other post, Sheila stared at Ráfaga, icy fear churning her stomach as she tried not to look at the whip in his hand. She wanted to cry, to beg him not to do this despicable, cruel thing. But gazing into his rugged face, again completely devoid of expression, his emotions totally controlled, gave her the strength to keep her fear silent.

  Instead of begging for a mercy she would not be shown, Sheila tipped her head with defiant pride to taunt. “Who is going to use the whip on me? You, Ráfaga?”

  “No.” He said it so quietly that she had to strain to hear it. His dark gaze slid to Laredo, his back turned to them as if trying to shut out the sight of Sheila tied between the two poles. “It will be Laredo who will have the whip in his hand.”

  Sheila had no difficulty hearing that. Neither did Laredo as he pivoted, a frown of angry disbelief lining his face.

  “You can’t ask me to do that!” he declared in a tortured breath.

  Ráfaga held out the whip, saying quietly, “I would trust the whip in no one else’s hand, amigo.”

  There was a moment of indecision as Laredo stared at him. Then he took the whip from Ráfaga’s hand and walked around the posts to a spot somewhere behind Sheila. Ráfaga looked at Sheila, meeting her eyes for a minute. Then he ducked beneath her arm to stand behind her.

  Her muscles tensed as she felt the cold metal of a knife blade slide beneath her blouse, the dull side touching her skin. Then the razor-sharp edge was slashing through material down the center of her back. He walked back to Laredo.

  “It is time,” he said, then gave a faint nod to Laredo.

  Beads of perspiration broke out on Sheila’s forehead. Behind her the whip cracked three times in rapid succession. Fear knotted her stomach as she heard the whir of rawhide whizzing through the air. Sheila braced herself, curling her fingers around the rope that tied her wrists to the poles. Nothing could prepare her for the biting lash of the whip against the bare skin of her back.

  A gasping cry of pain escaped from her throat. Gritting her teeth, she tried to swallow the scream, partially succeeding. Again she heard the snaking whir before she felt the thousands of needles stab her back in a whipping line. This time Sheila bit into her lip to smother the moan of pain.

  Tears raced down her cheeks, although she wasn’t aware of crying. There was only the excruciating pain streaking her back. She knew Ráfaga was standing in front of her, but she couldn’t see him anymore. Her senses were drowning in pain.

  Five or six times—Sheila lost count of the lashes—she endured the striking whip. The next time, her knees buckled beneath her and she sagged to the ground, all. of her weight being taken by the ropes. Her arms were nearly pulled from their sockets, but she didn’t feel her limbs.

  Her head lolled forward, hair plastered to her forehead and neck by the sweat running from her pores. In a stupor of pain, Sheila waited, half-conscious for the next cutting slash of the whip. Perspiration stung her eyes and she couldn’t see.

  There was the salty taste of blood in her mouth, her own blood seeping from the wound in her lip made by her teeth. She waited for the bite of the rawhide lash, and waited. When it didn’t come, Sheila tried to get her legs beneath her and rise.

  Ráfaga’s voice came to her. “Stay down,” he ordered hoarsely. “I can stop this if you do not get up, querida.”

  Sheila heard him. She even understood him. Somehow she couldn’t get his message to her legs. A powerful animal instinct was making her rise, as if to stay down would be to die.

  Someone swore savagely in Spanish. Erratic moaning sobs were coming from somewhere close by. Sheila wasn’t aware they were being made in her own throat. Then she was standing, swaying unsteadily.

  Her heart was pounding like that of a wild rabbit caught in the talons of an eagle. She didn’t hear the snake of the whip and her body jerked convulsively as it cracked against her skin. Sheila was nearly driven to her knees again, but the adrenaline being pumped through her veins gave her the strength to stay upright. Again and again the whip lashed her back. Sheila staggered to one knee, nearly unconscious now. She tried to rise.

  “No!” It was like a thunderclap, rolling and vibrating through the air, charged with violence.

  A pair of hands held her upright. “Don’t touch me!” A voice cried out and it sounded demented from pain. This time Sheila realized it was her own voice.

  “It is over,” Ráfaga promised in a husky murmur.

  Her arms dropped to her sides, and the ropes binding her wrists were cut. Sheila sagged against the granite support that was offered, her head resting against something solid. A trembling hand brushed the sweat-dampened hair away from her temple.

  A Spanish voice crooned softly near her ear as an iron band slid around her thighs, lifting Sheila so that she seemed to be floating above the ground.

  “Is she all right?”

  Her dulled b
rain identified Laredo’s voice. Sheila forced her heavy eyelids to open. Her blurring gaze looked into a pair of misty blue eyes, reflecting a pain that seemed equal to her own. It became too much of an effort and she closed her eyes, letting the floating sensation carry her away.

  The next conscious moment lasted longer. Sheila was propped in a sitting position on a bed, one strong arm holding her while a hand stripped the slashed blouse from her. Very gently she was shifted to lie on her stomach.

  Her lashes fluttered open, recognizing Ráfaga’s hand as it lifted the hair away from her cheeks and neck. Beyond him, she could see Consuelo hovering anxiously, her dark eyes rounded and luminous with concern. Her back felt as if it were on fire, but Sheila smiled weakly at the woman.

  ’“I’m all right.” Her croaking voice was barely stronger than a whisper.

  “Do not talk, querida,” Ráfaga reprimanded in a gently soothing tone and turned to take something from Consuelo. “We must clean your back. It will hurt you. I am sorry.”

  At the fiery sting, Sheila turned her face into the pillow to smother her gasping cry of pain. Despite his use of the word “we,” she was aware that it was only Ráfaga’s hands that touched her, carefully cleansing her back before applying a soothing ointment to her raw skin.

  With a coolly moist cloth, he wiped the perspiration from her face and neck. Wrapping the cloth around the rope burns on her wrists, he told her to sleep. Sheila closed her eyes obediently.

  When she awakened, Ráfaga was sitting beside the bed in a silent vigil. He was leaning forward in the straight-backed chair, his face buried in his hands. Sheila searched her emotions to find a feeling of hatred for what he had allowed to happen to her, but she found none.

  The strong, lean hands moved to rub his jaw, then his neck. As his gaze shifted to the bed where she lay, Sheila saw the raw pain glittering in his ebony-dark eyes. It vanished immediately when he saw she was awake.

  “How do you feel?” he asked softly.

  Sheila moved slightly and a thousand needles plunged into her back. “It hurts.” She kept her voice tight to hold back the gasp of pain.

  “It will be painful for some time,” Ráfaga told her. “You have Laredo to thank that the marks will heal without leaving scars on your beautiful skin.” He hesitated. “Do not hate him for what he did.”

  “I don’t,” Sheila assured him.

  “That is good.” There was a brief curve to his mouth, almost a smile.

  “Ráfaga.” She studied him silently, then asked, “Would you have used the whip on me if Laredo had refused?”

  He stared at his hands, a dark frown lining his forehead. “No, I could not.”

  Sheila smiled gently. “I think you would have.”

  His head jerked up at her statement, cold challenge glittering in his eyes that she should call him a liar in a matter such as this.

  “I think you would have,” she repeated, “rather than give the whip to someone like Juan Ortega.”

  “Perhaps,” he said curtly and started to rise.

  Her hand slid across the bed, reaching out to stop him. Ráfaga saw the movement and paused. His hooded gaze flickered questioningly to her face.

  “This morning,” Sheila began uncertainly, “I hated you and everyone connected with you. Now I don’t hate anyone.”

  Least of all, you, she could have added, but her heart wasn’t ready to make a full confession yet. She waited, hoping he would say something that would let her tell all that she felt.

  The coldness left his expression. His eyes were like soft, black velvet as they gazed down at her. Her heart quickened its beat. He appeared more compellingly handsome than ever before—strong, masculine, and vital.

  But when Ráfaga answered, he said nothing that would prompt Sheila to reveal the true depths of her feelings. “You must have food. I will have Consuelo fix something for you.”

  Chapter 20

  During the days following her recovery, Sheila discovered a new Ráfaga. The old masterful and autocratic man she had once known was gone. His place was taken by a touchingly gentle lover who was considerate and kind while remaining all man. Sheila hadn’t believed it was possible to fall more deeply in love with Ráfaga, but she had.

  “It’s beautiful,” she sighed at the wonder of it.

  “What is beautiful?” Ráfaga inquired.

  Sheila turned with a start, unaware that she had spoken aloud. He was smiling at her in a way that took her breath away, warm and intimate, as if there were only the two of them walking slowly through the tall grasses of the green meadow, leading their horses.

  “The day.” A hint of pink rouged her cheeks as she lied to him.

  “You are tired, I think.” His dark eyes studied the faint flush. “We have done too much. Come. Let the horses graze.” He took hold of her elbow, guiding her toward a small hillock. “We will rest for a while.”

  Not arguing, Sheila let go of the reins and the bay horse immediately lowered its head to graze. The cattle and loose horses were grazing not too far in the distance. Where the horses and cattle were, Juan’s boy, Pablo, could not be far away. Sheila looked for him, finding him sitting atop a flat rock in the shade. She waved to him and he shyly lifted a hand to return the salute.

  “Pablo is a very responsible boy,” Ráfaga commented, following the direction of Sheila’s gaze:

  “Yes, very conscientious,” Sheila agreed. “Juan is teaching him English so someday Pablo can go to the States.”

  “Poor Pablo,” Ráfaga chuckled, lowering himself to the ground and drawing Sheila down beside him, “to have Juan teaching him English.”

  “I should teach Pablo English, and he could teach me Spanish.” The thought occurred to her and she said it aloud.

  A daisy-like flower was growing in the thick green grasses. Sheila picked it, twirling it absently in her fingers. Ráfaga stretched his length over the green carpet, pulling Sheila into the crook of his arm.

  “I think you will not teach Pablo.” He turned his face toward her, a bemused smile curving his masculine lips.

  “Why not?” Sheila glanced up at him curiously.

  “Because he is coming into manhood. I would not like to have him come down with a severe case of calf-love for you,” Ráfaga answered, a glittering light dancing in his eyes. “It is an age that is susceptible to such a malady.”

  “Did you ever suffer from it?” In some ways it was difficult to imagine Ráfaga as a vulnerable young boy.

  “All boys do before they become men.”

  “What was she like?” Sheila stared at the vividly blue sky overhead. The air was startlingly clear and bright, the yellow ball of the sun shining down on the canyon.

  “It has been too long ago for me to remember.”

  “You must remember something,” she insisted.

  “I remember she had golden hair and didn’t know I existed.” There was a smile in his voice.

  “She was American?”

  “I think so, yes,” Ráfaga agreed indifferently.

  Sheila thought of her own hair, streaked with gold from the sun. A tiny glow of pleasure warmed her. Perhaps Ráfaga was still susceptible to blondes from America. She was considering pursuing the subject when Ráfaga changed it.

  “You were right.” The hand at her waist tightened slightly. Contentment was in his voice. “It is a beautiful day.”

  “The mountains look so close. It’s almost as if I could reach out and touch them.” She gazed at the sharply defined peaks etched against the vibrant blue of the sky. “Have you ever thought about leaving here?” she asked.

  “Where would I go?” countered Ráfaga.

  Sheila turned on her side, propping an elbow beneath her and resting a hand on the muscled flatness of his stomach. There was a hopeful eagerness to the look she gave him.

  “You could go to another country, start a new life, adopt a new name. You are intelligent, resourceful, a natural leader. You could be anything you want,” Sheila argued.


  “A new country and a new identity would not change the fact that I am wanted, Sheila,” he answered patiently. “If I did what you say, there would always be the risk that someday I might be exposed. If I must live by my wits, I prefer to do it here in these mountains. I know them as intimately as I know you.”

  Her hair had swung forward across a cheek. Ráfaga tucked it behind her ear, his fingertips lightly caressing her skin. Sheila felt the first quiver of desire and tried to ignore it. She had begun something and had to finish it. She couldn’t let Ráfaga distract her, no matter how much she would have liked it.

  “Ráfaga, I have money,” Sheila hurriedly said, then quickly clarified the statement. “I don’t mean money from my parents. I have money of my own. If you—”

  A silencing finger touched her lips. “Money buys things, Sheila. It buys things I have no need of. It cannot buy my freedom, not after this much time. The things that I want are here before you.” His gaze swept over the canyon. “Friends, the mountains, a place to live, a roof over my head. The only thing money does is buy clothes and whatever food that cannot be raised here.”

  Irritation flashed that Ráfaga rejected her offer before she even made it. “And when you need money, you just hire yourself out to break some criminal out of prison.”

  “You find it a contradiction, do you not, querida?” His mouth quirked gently. “We go to such lengths to uphold the laws we set for ourselves, then break those of the government for money.”

  Some of her anger melted at the Spanish endearment. She resented it, wanting to argue, but finding it difficult. “Yes, I do.”

  “We put ourselves outside the laws that you know and discovered we could not be free without laws. We made our own. It is a contradiction, but we have placed ourselves in this position—in a circle without end,” Ráfaga explained.

  “But couldn’t you leave the circle?” Sheila returned to her original statement.

  His hand cupped the side of her neck, his thumb rhythmically caressing the sensitive cord along her neck. “Some living things can be uprooted and transplanted to another terrain to flourish there. You, I think, are one of those.” His eyes darkened, looking deeply, it almost seemed, into her soul. “I could not leave the Sierras. There is no reason for me to try. Everything I want is here.”