Touch the Wind

by Janet Dailey

  “He’s down,” she answered simply and saw his mouth tighten.

  “We do not have a chance in the meadow. We will try to get into the trees.”

  Bullets whined around them as they raced the horses back the way Sheila had come. There was no time to dwell on her fear. Sheila simply knew she was afraid. They reached the trees untouched and Ráfaga turned the bay toward the pool and the narrow trail up the north face of the canyon. Almost too late they saw a handful of uniformed riders approaching through the trees, blocking their way.

  Without hesitating a second, Ráfaga pivoted the bay. Sheila guessed Ráfaga’s alternate plan was to stay within the trees until they reached the east wall, then break for the main trail out of the canyon.

  A shout from one of the uniformed riders revealed they had been spotted. To attain speed was next to impossible in the trees, with low-hanging branches whipping at their faces, trying to unseat them.

  “Sheila.” Ráfaga was behind her. She looked over her shoulder, bending low on the chestnut’s neck. “We must try to cross the meadow now before they cut us off.”

  Her sweeping gaze saw another fragment of the patrol approaching from the meadow side. Pursued from behind and threatened from the side, she knew he was right and nodded her agreement. The narrow canyon suddenly seemed very wide and the sloping trail very far away.

  The chestnut burst from the trees ahead of the bay and maintained its lead for a few strides. Both horses were flattened to the ground, running all out, but the bay began inching away. Ráfaga checked the bay’s pace to keep the distance between them from widening more.

  The riders were bearing down, the angle lessening as Sheila and Ráfaga neared the center of the meadow. Sheila realized there was a slim chance that the bay’s speed might enable Ráfaga to make it, but not if he continued to hold back the horse to stay with her. Her decision was made without thinking, purely on the instinct of survival.

  “I can’t make it!” she shouted to Ráfaga. “Go on without me!”

  “No!”

  But Sheila was already hauling on the reins of the heavy-mouthed chestnut, turning its head away as Ráfaga tried unsuccessfully to grab for the reins. Aware that Ráfaga was slowing the bay to come back for her, Sheila guided the chestnut directly toward the intercepting patrol.

  She began waving her arm and screaming at the top of her lungs, “Help me! I’m an American!” She repeated it over and over again, nearly sobbing as she prayed for Ráfaga to ride on.

  The patrol slowed as she galloped the chestnut toward their center. She brought her horse to a plunging halt in front of them. The lead rider made an assessing sweep of her, his attention stopping briefly on the golden color of her hair.

  A pointing gesture of his hand separated the majority of the patrol from the rest, sending them after Ráfaga. Finally, Sheila looked behind her and saw the bay racing for the trail. She knew then that she had gained him the time to make it.

  Shaking, Sheila tried to dismount, more or less falling from the saddle. Her legs buckling, she went to her knees, relief sobbing from her throat.

  A voice made an inquiry in Spanish, but she was too addled to make the translation. It was repeated in accented English.

  “Are you all right, señora?” The voice was calm, yet very crisp.

  Tears matted her lashes together. She wiped them away as she swallowed back the sobs in gasping breaths. At first Sheila was too weak from reaction to reply.

  Finally, her nod was accompanied by a shaky, “Yes, I’m all right.”

  A pair of polished military boots was within her vision, standing near her. Saddle leather creaked close by as a horse stamped restlessly and snorted. Distantly, Sheila could hear the sounds of other activity in the canyon.

  “You are Señora Sheila Townsend from Texas?” The accented voice asked for confirmation.

  Lifting her head, Sheila held her wind-tangled hair away from her cheek, eyeing the uniformed officer warily. “Yes, I am Sheila Townsend,” she admitted.

  The man was of medium height, with a hawk nose and piercing brown eyes. “You are the daughter of Señor Elliot Rogers?” At her nod, his thin mouth curved into a polite smile. “We have been looking for you for a very long time, señora—since we found your husband’s body in the car.” With a slight bow and an extension of his gloved hand to help Sheila to her feet, he added, “Please, I am Capitán Ramon Echeverria.”

  Accepting his assistance, Sheila rose to face the officer. He was watching her alertly, sharply curious and speculating. She was still trembling and shaky inside. It was difficult to contain her resentment toward the officer who had led the raid against Ráfaga.

  “How—how did you find me?” Her voice quivered, coming out husky and low as she removed her hand from his grasp.

  Again he offered her that thin smile that was polite and nothing more. “As I said, we have been looking for you since we found your husband, señora. At first, there were many rumors that you were being held captive by the men who shot your husband. Then there was nothing, as if the mountains had swallowed you up. A few weeks ago a routine patrol was in the vicinity and heard a gunshot. When they went to investigate, they believed they saw a blonde-haired woman with a small group of riders. We have had scouts combing the area since then. That is how we located the canyon,” he explained.

  “I see,” she murmured, then shuddered inwardly that her foolish attempt to escape had led to this.

  The Mexican officer’s gaze flicked briefly to the sloping trail out of the canyon before returning its piercing attention to Sheila. “It is unfortunate that the man was able to escape when you rode to us. He was the leader of this band, was he not?”

  “. . . Yes.” Sheila hesitated only a second before making the admission, but it was enough to intensify the officer’s look.

  “His name?” he prompted.

  “I don’t know his name,” she answered quickly. This time it was too quickly.

  A dark brow arched immediately. “This is not Riáfaga’s band?”

  Sheila argued swiftly with herself, debating whether to lie or tell the truth, but there was too much chance of being caught in a lie.

  “Yes, that is what they called him, but I don’t know his name,” she admitted tightly. “I heard him referred to only as Ráfaga, nothing else.”

  “You say his name oddly, señora.” The officer’s mouth curved briefly, a speculating gleam in his dark brown eyes.

  “Do I, Captain?” Sheila tensed instantly, feigning indifference.

  “You were here a long time, señora.” He seemed to choose his words carefully, not releasing her from his pinning gaze. “Yet there was no ransom asked, nor were you sold. You are a very beautiful woman. I do not think this criminal Ráfaga could have been blind to you.” Sheila felt herself paling. “I think perhaps he kept you to be his woman. Perhaps, after all this time, señora, you were not quite an unwilling captive.”

  Breathing in sharply, Sheila couldn’t let her gaze waver from the astute officer. But the survival instinct was still strong.

  “After all I’ve been through, how do you have the nerve to say that?” she bristled falsely.

  “I am sorry, señora,” he responded insincerely in response to her indignant challenge, “but you must realize how it appears.”

  “Do you remember the patrol that saw me a few weeks ago?” Crossing her arms, Sheila reached behind her to grasp the hem of her blouse. “I was trying to escape. This is the way Ráfaga punished me.” Sheila turned her back to the officer, lifting the blouse to reveal the marks left by the whip. She faced him again with cold challenge. “Do you have any more questions about whether or not I was a willing captive?”

  He inclined his head in a deferential nod. “My apologies, señora.” But suspicion still lurked in his eyes. He was accepting what he saw for the time being, but Sheila sensed that later he would question it. “If the señora has recovered, we shall ride to the houses where my men have gathered the prisoners.”


  Sheila nodded curtly and suffered his assistance to remount the chestnut, aware of his faintly quizzical gaze. She could not read his mind and knew he was wondering if she had been one man’s mistress or more. But she pretended not to notice, smiling coolly when he handed her the chestnut’s reins. He would receive no information about Ráfaga from her.

  Chapter 23

  It was an emotional scene that greeted Sheila when they rode between the adobe houses. The captured members of Ráfaga’s band had been herded together like cattle to be slaughtered. Their numbers indicated that less than a handful had escaped. Those who were wounded in the skirmish were there, too, moaning with pain. Sheila couldn’t see Laredo in the tightly grouped throng and didn’t dare ask about him, not yet.

  Soldiers standing guard ignored the weeping women pleading to look after their injured men. Frightened children clung to their skirts. The smaller ones wailed their fear of something they didn’t understand while the older ones looked around them, their rounded, dark eyes filled with tears.

  The officer riding next to Sheila didn’t stop where the prisoners were being held, but continued between the houses, where more of his men were systematically going through the crude buildings in search of those who might still be hiding. Sheila steeled herself not to show any emotion at the scene.

  She managed to ignore all that she saw until they came upon the last house before the corral. At the sight of Elena on her knees hugging the legs of a man slumped in a chair, Sheila reined the chestnut to a halt A rifle lay on the ground near his chair. A spreading red stain covered his chest.

  When Sheila stopped, the officer turned to see what had attracted her attention. As if sensing their presence, Elena lifted her head. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and rose proudly to face them, a hand resting on her dead husband’s shoulder. She began speaking to them in Spanish, her voice low and vibrating with emotion.

  “Do you understand Spanish, señora?” the officer asked.

  “Very little,” Sheila murmured, unable to take her eyes away from Elena.

  “The woman says she pushed his chair to the doorway when she saw the soldiers coming and put a rifle in his hands. She says the soldiers killed him as if he was a man,” the officer translated quietly. “She says now her husband is a man because he is free.”

  There was a lump in her throat as Sheila nudged the chestnut into a walk. She felt the officer’s curious glance and gave him the explanation he sought without looking at him.

  “Her husband, César, was paralyzed, a helpless baby who knew nothing and no one.”

  “You knew this woman?” he questioned.

  “As you pointed out, Capitán Echeverria, I have been here a long time,” Sheila reminded him grimly and urged the chestnut into a trot.

  When they reached the corral, he was there to help her dismount. Sheila was skeptical of his courteous concern for her welfare. She wished he would go away and leave her alone, if only for a little while.

  Like a shadow, the officer followed her to a shady spot beneath the overhang, pausing to politely inquire, “May I get you some water?”

  “No, thank you,” she refused shortly.

  He stood beside her. “We will be leaving this place soon. Is there anything you wish to take? I will have my men—.

  “Nothing,” Sheila broke in smoothly. Her hand was resting on her stomach. Ráfaga’s baby was the only thing she was going to take from here.

  “No, I do not imagine there is,” the officer agreed. “You are no doubt anxious to leave here. You have been through a great deal—seeing your husband murdered and being held by those criminals. You are a very strong woman, Señora Townsend.”

  “Please”—Sheila found his sympathetic murmurings irritating—“I don’t want to think about it.”

  “I understand,” he said, inclining his head in a gesture of deference to her wishes. “You do not wish to speak about these things.”

  “No, I don’t,” she agreed sharply.

  “If you will excuse me, I must speak to my men.”

  “Of course.” Sheila nodded and looked away as the officer smiled politely and withdrew.

  Shutting her eyes to the sights around her, Sheila wanted to close out the sounds, as well. She wished she could cry as the women and children were doing, but she had to keep silent, hiding her grief inside. There was not a trace of any pain in her expression when the officer returned to announce they were leaving.

  Again Sheila was separated from the prisoners, riding in the front of the patrol beside the officer. As they moved up the sloping trail, she looked back to the canyon, knowing she would never return to this place, her home.

  It was no longer a haven, untouched by the outside world. It had been invaded, and those who had once lived there would never find freedom and safety within its walls again. It was forever lost.

  There was sadness in her eyes, but Sheila quickly veiled it when she saw the officer watching her. The handful of soldiers that had given chase to Ráfaga met the patrol at the top of the trail. They reported he had eluded them, vanishing without a trace, as if carried off by his namesake. Her lashes fluttered briefly in relief, but she gave no other sign of gladness.

  A mountain breeze touched her cheek, a fleeting caress that seemed to say farewell an instant before they rode into the windbreak of the trees. Sheila was rocked by the sudden realization that she might never see Ráfaga again. She tried to shut out the thought as they started down the mountain.

  “Your parents are being notified that we have found you safe and unharmed,” the Mexican officer informed her.

  “How are my parents?” Sheila asked quickly, anxious to talk and distract her thoughts from Ráfaga.

  “They have been very worried about you,” he answered.

  “Where are they? Are they in Mexico?” She suddenly wanted desperately to see them. It seemed a lifetime since she had been with them.

  “Sí, your mother has been staying in Chihuahua since your disappearance,” he explained. “Your father flies down on the weekends or whenever his business will permit. I have spoken with them often.”

  “I want to see them.” Sheila murmured the wish aloud.

  “Of course, and they will wish to see you to assure themselves that you are well, as we have told them.” He smiled faintly. “I believe transportation is being arranged so that they might meet us at our night’s encampment.”

  “Thank you.” It was a genuine expression of gratitude, accompanied by a tremulous smile as Sheila urged the chestnut into a trot.

  The setting of the sun found the patrol still in the Sierras, making camp for the night in one of the valleys. The soldiers were busy picketing the horses and starting a fire. Sheila stood on the fringe of the activity, watching with absent interest.

  Her parents arrived with the last streaking rays of a red sun. Sheila rushed into their arms, laughing and crying, hugging and kissing, with all three of them talking at the same time. Yet her joy at being reunited with them was bittersweet.

  Regaining control of her emotions, Sheila finally stepped back to look at them, holding their hands tightly. She gazed at them through a blur of tears and smiled at the sight of them. Her father managed to look the part of the powerful, influential businessman despite the denim Levi’s and jacket he wore. And her mother, dressed in a pantsuit of rugged khaki, still possessed that aura of elegance that was so much a part of her.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, honey?” Her father squeezed her hand.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she assured him.

  “All these months with no word.” He shook his head briefly, his voice choked with emotion. “Your mother never stopped believing that you were alive and well.” He curved an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Even when things looked darkest, she never would let me give up hope.”

  Sheila looked at her mother, knowing the iron strength contained within that feminine shell. She felt the searching inspection of the almond-brown eyes as they probed be
neath Sheila’s expression.

  “What happened, Sheila? Did they—” Constance Rogers paused, delicately.

  And Sheila smiled faintly. “Are you trying to ask if I was raped, Mother?” she questioned gently. “I wasn’t.” There was no reason to hide the truth from her parents. Sooner or later she would tell them about Ráfaga, and she preferred to do it now. “Ráfaga made love to me, but he didn’t rape me.”

  Her father was instantly outraged. “You mean the leader of that band—”

  “Strangely enough, Dad,” she interrupted gently, “if you ever had the opportunity to meet Ráfaga, you would have liked him.”

  An odd look passed over her mother’s face. “I always believed it was nonsense, but I can see it in your face. You are pregnant, aren’t you, Sheila?” she murmured.

  “Yes, I am,” she admitted with a glow of serenity in her eyes. “Ráfaga and I were to be married tomorrow by a village priest on the other side of the mountains.”

  “My little girl marrying a criminal?” He stared at Sheila incredulously.

  “It doesn’t matter, E.J.” her mother soothed. “She’s with us now. Once we have her back home, all of this will be behind her and forgotten.”

  Sheila frowned. “I hadn’t thought about going back to Texas.” She brushed her fingers across her forehead in confusion. Her thoughts hadn’t gone as far as the future.

  “Well, of course, you will, honey,” her mother insisted with a smile. “You have the baby to think about. I presume you do want to keep it?”

  “Of course,” Sheila retorted and pressed a protective hand against her stomach.

  “You need a place to live, medical attention for you and the baby,” her mother reasoned. “What is more natural than for you to come home?”

  “I suppose so,” she conceded hesitantly.

  “There isn’t any reason to inform others that the baby isn’t Brad’s,” her father added.

  “Dad—” Sheila laughed softly—“when the baby is born with black hair and dark eyes, nobody is going to believe that Brad fathered it.”

  “After the baby is born,” Constance Rogers inserted, “you will want to go back to college and obtain your degree. After all, you now have the baby’s future to consider, as well as your own.”