by Linda Ladd
22
Windsor did not want to wake up. She could hear the man's voice calling her name, but she didn't want to hear. It was him. He was waiting for her to open her eyes so he could hurt her again. But she wouldn't, no matter what he said or did to her. She would stay in the deep, dark world of blackness where there was no pain and no screams of terror.
For a while she waited to be overtaken by the wonderful peace that provided a safe haven for her. What was wrong? Why couldn't she sink into oblivion where no one could harm her? She lay as still as death, listening.
"Windsor, please come back to me, please hear me. I know you can do it. You're a fighter. Fight like you did against Hawk-Flies-Down—"
Windsor's mind was muddled and confused, but she tried to think what he could mean. Then she remembered. He liked for her to fight him. He always laughed when she did; then he punished her. Her entire body tensed with dread. Vaguely, she became aware of low whimpering sounds, then realized, horrified, that the moaning was coming from her. He'd know! He'd know she was trying to trick him! She must lie very still and not move a muscle. But her arm hurt so much. He must have kept her hanging from the ceiling beam all night. If only he would let her down for a little while. Then maybe the feeling would come back into her hands again.
"Windsor, try to open your eyes. Try, my love. I know you can do it. Just open your eyes and look at me."
My love, Windsor thought. Clan never said that. He liked to call her bad names, like "Kincaid's whore" and "Chinese bitch." He told her he had killed Jun-li, she remembered, a wail of grief mushrooming up inside her. And he had used his terrible whip on Nina, over and over again, until Windsor had screamed for him to stop. He might whip her, too, if she stirred. She couldn't let him know that she was awake, not ever.
Grim-faced with exhaustion, Stone leaned back in his chair. For days he had sat beside Windsor's bed, trying to reach down and destroy the black chains that held her from him. He wanted to take her hand and lead her out of her coma into the light of day, into his arms. But she still lay unconscious, for much longer than Gilberto had expected she would. Still, Stone couldn't give up. He had to keep trying.
He massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, so tired he could barely think anymore. Dimly, he became aware that someone had entered the room behind him. He lifted weary eyes, red-rimmed and bleary from lack of sleep, and tried to focus on Sun-On-Wings' face.
"Nina die."
"I'm sorry, Sun-On-Wings. I know how much you cared about her. We all did." Stone rubbed his whiskered jaw and shook his head despondently. He had killed Nina, too. He had involved her, promised to protect her from Clan when she had been so frightened. Nina was dead, and Windsor lay as if dead before him, like some battered, broken rag doll.
"Sun-On-Wings go for little man. Sun-On-Wings promise Nina."
"No!" Alarmed, Stone stood and faced the young Indian. "You can't get a man like Clan by yourself, and there's no way I will go off and leave Windsor alone right now. When she's better, when she wakes up and I know she's going to be all right, then we'll get him together. I swear it, Sun-On-Wings. You've got to trust me."
"The Evil One take Carlos too far if no go now. Sun-On-Wings go now. Arrow-Parts-Hair follow."
"Dammit, Sun-On-Wings, don't do this to me right now! You'll get yourself killed if you go by yourself, and I can't let that happen! Nina's already dead because of me!"
Sun-On-Wings was silent, his black eyes delving into Stone's bloodshot ones. "Yellow-Haired-Warrior-Woman need Arrow-Parts-Hair. Her no need Sun-On-Wings. Me go for Carlos."
Stone grabbed him by the arm, his face furious. "You're not going, Sun-On-Wings, is that clear? Clan will kill you! Why the hell can't you understand that?"
Sun-On-Wings' expression remained impassive, his angular jaw set in a determined angle. "Sun-On-Wings get little man. Sun-On-Wings kill Evil One for what him do to Nina and Yellow-Haired-Warrior-Woman. No worry. Me brave warrior."
"It doesn't matter how brave you are! Clan will kill you if you try to take Carlos. Listen to me, listen to what I'm saying! Take a good look at Windsor! She thought she could take care of herself, too!"
Silently, the Indian gazed deep into Stone's eyes.
"Sun-On-Wings come back with little man. Me give word of honor to Nina."
Helplessly, Stone watched him turn and leave the room, his moccasins silent on the wooden floor. Gripped with the uncanny sensation that he would never see the young Osage warrior again, Stone collapsed heavily into his chair as the galloping hoofbeats of Sun-On-Wings' horse died into the distance. He felt exposed, all his emotions lying on the surface of his skin. Bereft, exhausted, he sat alone beside the woman he loved, sinking deeper and deeper into the darkest depths of despair.
Windsor started violently as something cool touched her lips. She opened her eyes and looked into the face of an old man. He seemed startled, too; then he smiled widely. At that point, she remembered.
"No, don't, please don't—"
"Hush, my child, I am not here to hurt you. See, I will not even touch you if you do not wish it."
Staring at him, Windsor swiped her tongue over her dry mouth. Her eyes darted to the right of the bed when she saw a movement. A young girl gazed down at her. She looked very sad and concerned. Dazed and disoriented, Windsor pushed away from them.
"Who are you? Where am I?"
"I am called Papa Gilberto, and this is Margarita."
Windsor's heart began to thud as she thought of Clan. "Where is he? Is he here?"
"Sí. He is outside by the river. He only just left your side a short time ago. I will send for—"
"No! No!" Windsor was terrified. "Please don't tell him I'm awake. Let me pretend to be asleep. Please, help me escape from him. He's so cruel—"
"Shh, my child, you are safe here. Senor Kincaid will not hurt you. He cares for you very much. He took you from the bad ones and brought you here to us so you could get well."
Windsor didn't know whether to believe him or not. She felt suspicious, but gradually the hope she had thought to be dead began to kindle inside her heart. "Stone Kincaid? Is he really here?"
"Sí, senorita," the little girl answered, kneeling beside the bed. "He brought you to Papa nearly a week ago. He was very worried when you would not awaken."
"Would you like us to send for him?"
Windsor nodded, tempted now to believe what they were telling her. They both seemed so kind and gentle. But as Margarita ran from the room to summon Stone, she remembered what Emerson Clan had done to her, the terrible things he had made her do. Nausea came swiftly, and she turned her face into her pillow. She was so full of shame, she wanted to die. She wanted to shut her eyes and never open them again.
"The senorita's awake, senor! Come quickly!"
Down near the creek, Stone whirled around, then threw down his cigar and ran toward the back veranda of the hacienda, his heart thundering. He tore headlong through the kitchen, down the hall, then halted in the doorway, panting with exertion.
Smiling, Gilberto and Margarita stood beside Windsor's bed. Stone's gaze centered on the frail figure swathed in the white linen bed sheets. Her beautiful sapphire eyes were open, watching him cautiously. Slowly, he moved toward her.
"Oh, Windsor, thank God," he muttered gruffly, overcome with emotion. He sank down on the edge of the cot and took her hand. He pressed his mouth against her fingers, his words muffled. "I was so afraid you wouldn't wake up."
Filled with joy and relief, he was shocked when she pulled away, turning from him and hiding her face with her hand. "Go away, oh, please, go away."
Stone's face fell, and he glanced at Gilberto. The healer shook his head sadly. Stone frowned. Concerned, he motioned Gilberto and his child out of the room, and as soon as the door clicked shut, turned his regard back to Windsor. Sobs shook her shoulders, harsh sounds of misery.
"Windsor, don't cry, please," Stone whispered, leaning closer. "Let me hold you and comfort you. I've
waited so long to have you back."
"No," she cried, scrambling jerkily across the bed, "I don't want you to touch me."
Stone wasn't sure what he should do. He certainly didn't want to force her, but he couldn't endure sitting back and watching her suffer without doing anything about it. Not after all she had been through. He needed to touch her. He wanted her in his arms where she belonged.
"I love you," he muttered thickly. "More than anything in this world."
For a moment, her weeping stopped. Her answer was muffled by the pillow. "Go away."
"I'm not going away, Windsor. I know that what happened to you was very bad, but it's over now. I'm here with you. I'm going to take care of you and make sure nothing like this ever happens again. Tell me what you're feeling…let me help you."
"I don't want to talk about it," she whispered, so low and wretched that he could barely hear her. "Not ever."
"You won't have to, I promise."
Ever so gently, Stone laid his hand on her back, wincing when she flinched away from even that gentle contact. He took his hand away, afraid she would lurch off the bed if he touched her again. He listened as she began to cry, damning Clan, damning his own stupidity for putting her into such danger. He should have left her in San Francisco. He'd regret not doing that for the rest of his life.
After a time, her heartbroken weeping diminished somewhat, but she kept herself away from him until she fell asleep again. He stayed beside her all day, staring at her shorn head, aching inside as she alternately slept, then awoke, not talking to him, not looking at him.
By late afternoon Papa Gilberto persuaded her to try some chicken broth, and afterward she seemed a bit stronger and more alert. Outside the window, birds flitted from branch to branch, their chirps and calls loud in the peaceful mountain air. Farther away, Stone heard the creek rushing down the mountainside toward Saltillo.
"Is that a river I hear?" Windsor said after another long silence.
"Yes. It flows behind the hacienda."
"Will you take me there?"
Startled by her request, Stone frowned. "Why?"
"Please."
"You're too weak to walk that far. You need to rest and mend longer."
"I want to go now."
"I'll have to carry you."
"All right."
He watched her lean over and take something from the bedside table, which held a washbowl and pitcher. When she turned back, Stone saw that she clutched a bar of soap, tightly in her hand. His guts twisted into a knot of compassion when he realized what she needed to do.
Standing, he moved around the bed, picked up a clean blue-and-white quilt, and wrapped it gently around her. He lifted her into his arms, very careful not to disturb her injured arm. He shut his eyes, grieving at how tiny and frail she seemed now, when always before she had been so strong and agile. Margarita had trimmed off the ragged strands of hair Clan had left, and the bruises on her face had begun to fade. Thank God. Stone wanted Windsor never to know how bad she had looked when he had found her.
Windsor laid her head weakly against his shoulder as if already fatigued, and Stone was silent, afraid to speak, afraid he'd say the wrong thing while her feelings were so brittle.
Four of the Gomez girls were on the porch playing with a new brood of frisky brown puppies. They called happy greetings to Windsor as he carried her past them. He strode swiftly down the hill to the creek, then hesitated on the bank, not sure what she wanted him to do.
"Put me down in the water."
"Do you want me to help you take off your gown?"
She trembled in his arms and shook her head.
Stone stepped into the shallows where the water was clear and clean, then carefully lowered her to a sitting position there. She shivered as the swift current washed over her bare legs, swirling up the edge of her white nightgown and making the wet fabric below the surface cling to her thighs. Windsor said nothing, and Stone moved a few steps away. He squatted down.
"Please don't look at me," she said, with downcast eyes, her murmur nearly obliterated by the splashing water.
Stone, feeling awful, transferred his gaze to the pine trees spiking the opposite bank. Despite her request, he could not keep his eyes off her. He looked back and saw her rubbing the bar of soap across her face, as if she wanted to scrape her skin away.
For a long time she weakly continued her frantic cleansing, her broken arm held against her side as she used the other hand to wash every inch of her body. So long did she keep it up that Stone felt he couldn't stand it much longer. Her ribs weren't healed yet. What she was doing had to be painful. He wanted to jerk her up and hold her close and tell her that what had happened had not been her fault. That everything would be all right. But he didn't.
After a long time, her motions slowed and she finally sat still, staring downstream as the creek rippled over her arms and legs.
"Nina's dead, isn't she?" she asked finally, not looking at Stone.
"Yes."
"And Sun-On-Wings? Is he dead, too?"
"No. He went after—" Stone stopped, afraid to use Clan's name for fear she'd go to pieces. "Carlos. They have him now."
Tears began to roll down Windsor's cheeks, terrible, silent tears, and Stone could not stand her suffering. He went to her, picking her up and holding her close, and was pleased when she did not pull away. She cried against his shoulder as he carried her back up to the hacienda.
It was going to take a long time, he thought, but she would be all right. He would do anything, whatever it took, however long it took, to rid her of the pain Clan had inflicted upon her.
Until she was well and whole, his own heart would remain in pieces.
23
A low-slung net hammock was stretched across the rear veranda of the hacienda, and late at night Windsor sat cross-legged within its wide, roomy depths. Desirous of retreating deep into the far reaches of her mind where she wouldn't have to think, she began to murmur the familiar chant. Since she had entered the temple at age ten, the ancient words had never failed to provide her with the inner repose that gave her peace and tranquility. But now serenity was elusive.
No matter how hard she tried to focus her thoughts, her mind would not disassociate from the world around her as it had in the past. Pain and bitter humiliation struggled inside her—thoughts of the terrible things that Clan had done to her beat against the walls of her brain as relentlessly as moths upon a lantern's glass.
Stifling a sob, she opened her eyes and stared bleakly into the dark night. She sat motionlessly, listening to the faint rustling sounds. Evening breezes stirred the pine boughs just above the porch, making them scrape against the roof, and hidden in the dense foliage surrounding the house, crickets chirped a strident, buzzing serenade.
The damp, leafy smell of impending rain permeated the thick pine forest and reminded her of the Temple of the Blue Mountain when the spring rains dripped off the eaves near her pallet. She had always liked the sounds and scents of nature. Now she liked the darkness where no one could see her.
Not far away, on the long veranda that overlooked a vast mountain valley, she could hear the baritone rumble of Stone Kincaid's voice. The murmured answers came from Papa Gilberto. The old healer had been very kind to her during the past weeks of her illness.
While Windsor listened, Stone gave a low laugh, then said something she couldn't hear. He had been gentle with her, too, always attentive and sensitive to her feelings. He acted as if he didn't care what Clan had done to her. But she knew her days with Clan had changed her forever. Her body and soul were no longer pure. She didn't feel the same about herself, or about Stone Kincaid, or about the things she had been taught to believe.
No longer did the wise words of the Old One give her counsel and direction. She felt as if she had been betrayed by them, as if she were floundering on some storm-tossed, demon-haunted sea of doubt and confusion. She shivered, distraught by her loss of faith.
The chill mountain air pe
netrated her lightweight clothes, and she tugged the warm black shawl over her head, then wrapped the long ends around her shoulders. Little Margarita had given her this shawl, as well as several full cotton skirts of bright colors and low-necked white blouses that had belonged to their oldest sister, Juana, who was visiting friends in Mexico City. Papa Gilberto and his family, especially Margarita, had been good to her.
In the kitchen behind her, Windsor heard the youngest Gomez girl attempting to coax a tune from Sun-On-Wings' feather-decorated flute. As if wrung by invisible hands, her wounded heart was squeezed tightly, painfully. She missed her brave Indian friend. She hadn't even been able to say good-bye to him.
A moment later the wind brought the acrid scent of cigar smoke wafting across her awareness. Windsor's entire body went rigid. A dread memory pulled free from its shackles and flew unfettered down the dank, hidden corridors of her mind where she had locked away her worst fears. Stiff with fear, she saw Emerson Clan again, striking his match and staring into her eyes as he puffed his cigar into flame. He had always smiled when he was about to hurt her, she remembered with a shudder of revulsion, biting her lip to keep it from trembling. His teeth had been so white, as white as his long, sweet-smelling hair.
Her pulse accelerated, thumping out of control, her breath coming in short, labored gasps. On edge with nerve-tingling apprehension, she peered into the blackness that no longer seemed comforting but filled with macabre malevolence. What if he were out there, smoking and watching her? What if he captured her again? Her jaw clamped hard, she fought to steady jangled, raw-edged nerves. But all she could think about, all her mind would conjure up, was how Clan had laughed when he pressed the glowing, red-hot tip of his cigar against her bare breast. Swiftly, powerfully, panic rose inside her. She shot to her feet, heart racing, poised to run.
"Windsor? What is it?"