…
Outside El Charro, the night had grown pitch black. Delaney could hardly see, but she could still feel the heat of Vic’s eyes as he’d watched her every move. The whiskey made her thoughts fuzzy, but she knew he wanted her bad, and after all her years of torment since that night so long ago, he deserved a little torture. Make that a lot of torture.
“You gonna be okay?” Carmen asked.
“Straight home to sleep,” she said. And with any luck, the alcohol would actually help keep her in bed for a change.
“Hey!” An adolescent voice slung through the air. “It’s the witch.”
Her senses went on high alert. Esperanza?
Figures crossed in front of her, circling around a silhouette.
“You gonna put a spell on me, hag?” the same kid said. Other boys laughed as they surrounded the dark woman.
“Come on!” Delaney surged ahead, Carmen trailing behind her. In the dim light, she could see Esperanza’s shoulders strain as she straightened them, pulling her shawl tightly around herself.
“Stop!” Delaney yelled, her voice cutting through the night.
Carmen shouted also, and together, their voices rose like sirens.
The boys froze. Esperanza seized the moment, yanking her cane free from their grip and swinging it, catching one of them on the thigh. He yelped, and the next minute the punks were gone, tearing off down the street, disappearing into the blackness.
Delaney moved closer, her head foggy from adrenaline and whiskey. “You’re the curandera. You live down by the river.”
Some folks said the river carried a curse in its current. Others said the town itself was cursed.
Delaney was pretty sure it was just her.
The woman turned to face her. “Thi,” she said, her voice thin in the heavy night air, an odd lisp tainting her words. “Uthed eth Delaney Wetht.”
Delaney inhaled sharply, remembering the bizarre things her father and the pastor had told her that morning. So it was no mistake. “How do you know who I am?”
Next to her, Carmen took her hand and squeezed.
Esperanza reached for her, too, her fingers outstretched. “Ten cuidado, niña,” Esperanza sputtered.
The chill of the woman’s voice sliced through Delaney, leaving her cold inside. Her skin came alive from the inside out. The way in which Esperanza’s blind eyes held such intensity caused a feeling of foreboding to ripple over her skin.
“What was that?” Carmen asked. Carmen spoke Spanish; Delaney didn’t. It didn’t matter. With the woman’s lisp, neither one could understand her.
“No clue,” she whispered. To Esperanza, she said, “No comprendo.” Her mind scrambled, trying to make sense of the curandera’s words. “I don’t understand—”
“Chupacabra. It ith after you,” Esperanza said in halting English. “It want…”
Delaney’s skin grew icy, her throat dry. “What? What does it want?”
Esperanza’s translucent eyes became more vacant. Her voice sounded harsh against the quiet sounds of the night. “Lo thiento. Be careful, my child, or you will die.”
Chapter Six
Delaney lay huddled in her childhood bed, her knees pulled up, a pillow clutched to her stomach. Her room was dark—with the cloud cover, not even cold moonlight drifted through the slats in the blinds. Be careful, my child, or you will die. She shuddered, rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Her mind was jumbled, too many thoughts racing through it. Her nightmares. The sleepwalking. The curandera. Vic. Every thought sent her spiraling further out of control.
And she refused to feel that way a second longer.
She took a deep breath and focused her mind on her problems. Her nightmares and sleepwalking were nothing new. She’d lived with them now for years.
Then there was Vic. No witch could help her deal with how her body still reacted to his. He hadn’t changed much, with his smoldering eyes, seductively dark skin, strong jaw, and raven hair. His years of ranching had broadened his shoulders and created a hard, masculine body that sent an ache low in her abdomen.
Her mind reeled as she thought again about how it had felt to have him watch her while she’d danced. Powerful. Sexy. In control. The whole thing had been just for him, and she’d experienced a sliver of satisfaction at the lust she’d seen on his face. The way he’d eyed her. The heat of his hand on her arm. The reverberation of his sexy voice saying that he wanted to sleep with her.
But she couldn’t read him anymore. His hungry eyes were those of a man in lust, but he’d been controlled. Guarded. Still angry.
And determined.
It had been obvious his proposition wasn’t really about her—that she was just a conquesta, a woman he’d never had that he wanted to purge from his system. Even so, her temperature had still shot through the roof at the image of him, naked, in her.
She’d turned him down flat, but now she had a fleeting thought—or maybe it was a wish—that Vic could be right. That taking his deal and sleeping with him after all these years would restore order to her life. That it would allow her to take charge of things she’d never been able to take charge of before. That it would help her stop sleepwalking.
If only.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered. How would sex with Vic help? Once he had her, he’d drop her just like before. There was no way she was putting herself in a position to be abandoned by Vic Vargas again. When she needed him, he wouldn’t be there. Just as he hadn’t been there before.
She’d gone to the Chain Tree to begin their new life together, and instead her life had been ripped apart by another man. Anger flushed her skin as she remembered how desperate she’d been the next morning, going to Vic, praying he’d have a good reason for breaking his promise to her. Hoping there’d been some kind of terrible mistake. That he could still save her.
And that he’d still love her despite what had happened…
She closed her eyes against the sudden rush of tears. But he hadn’t loved her. While she was being brutally raped, he’d been doing God knows what with Sheila Ramsey.
She’d be a fool to trust him again. Even if it was just for one night.
An utter, utter fool.
She stared up at the ceiling, running her hand from her knee up the length of her thigh.
Vic’s face danced behind her eyes again, his seductive smile taunting her. She swallowed. She’d never had an orgasm with a man. Had never been able to let herself relax enough to let go. Would it be different with Vic?
Unable to resist the lure of him, she slipped her fingers under the elastic band of her panties, the pads of her fingertips working their way into the swollen folds between her legs. The mere touch of skin to skin blocked every other sound and thought from her head.
She shuddered with pleasure at the thought of him touching her. Tasting her. Entering her…
She’d never know him in this way, but she closed her eyes and imagined.
What would it be like?
Her hips rocked against her fingers and she moaned. She heard his voice whispering in her ear. Felt his strong hands caressing her. Tingled as she imagined his tongue flicking against the very place she was touching.
The climax started slowly and built as she circled her fingers, catching a knot of nerves that made her breath catch. She could almost hear him: Just like that, Laney. That’s it. Her breathing grew fast and ragged as she brought herself higher.
In her mind, Vic was kissing her, whispering that he was sorry for how things had turned out. And it wasn’t her hand but his that finally made her body convulse and her nerves explode in delicious release.
So real she could almost taste him.
…
Morning light filtered through her closed eyelids, but Delaney didn’t want to open her eyes. Her body ache
d and her head pounded. Too much whiskey the night before. Way too much.
The encounter with Vic flooded back to her, followed by a rush of heat as her body reacted to the memory of his challenge. The “deal,” as he’d called it. But that implied they’d both gain something from it. She couldn’t fathom what she’d get by accepting. Other than the obvious…
She tried to block the whole thing from her mind. She couldn’t feel this way about Vic. Not again. Never again.
She shifted, cold seeping into her bones. She felt the hard surface under her and shivered.
Wait. This wasn’t her bed. She jolted up as a horse whinnied. Where the heck was she?
Shaking the sleep from her eyes, she looked around and registered the saddles on saw horses against the wall, bridles and bits, and bales of hay. Oh, God. She’d sleepwalked to her parents’ stable.
She pushed herself to standing, her heart pounding against her ribs, a frustrated scream catching in her throat. Not again! She’d give anything not to sleepwalk. To go to bed and know that she’d wake up in that same place in the morning.
She racked her brain, wishing she could remember something about the night. Anything. But, as usual, her mind was blank. She had no memory of falling asleep or of walking as she slept. She inspected herself, relieved to find she still had on the sweat pants and T-shirt she’d gone to bed in. Thank God.
A prickling sensation, like she was being watched, crawled up her back. She hurried to her feet and braced herself against the cold, dark morning, then quickly made her way back to the house, slipping in unnoticed and hurrying down the hallway to her room. Once in her room, she leaned against her bedroom door and buried her face in her hands. She needed something to help her stop this vicious cycle she was caught in.
Her parents had their church and Pastor Locke to believe in, but Delaney had long ago given up on faith. And anyone else. No one, not even God, had protected her from her attacker, from the ensuing nightmares, or from her nocturnal wandering. Who could she turn to? Who could she trust when she couldn’t even trust herself?
She went to the window and looked out at the morning sky, still dark with heavy clouds. The mass of gray let out a rumble, and she wondered when the storm was going to unleash itself fully on San Julio.
A movement by the barn caught her eye. She focused. Ash blond hair. Hunched shoulders. Alan. Had he seen her come from the barn? Was that why she’d felt that creeping sensation? She blinked, but he was gone. God, maybe she really was going crazy.
But a sense of foreboding wormed its way into her and she remembered Esperanza’s warning. Be careful, or you will die.
“Be careful of what?” she said aloud, her voice echoing in the empty bedroom. What was it the curandera had said was after her? Something strange. Doc Clinton had also mentioned it recently. Chuca-something. No. Chupacabra? That was it.
Last night, the cloud of alcohol had let her allow the woman to wander off after her bizarre proclamation. But now Delaney wanted answers. How the curandera had known Delaney was coming home. What the woman was sorry for. And what Delaney was supposed to be careful of. What could be so dangerous? This chupacabra person? Or was it an animal? Why did the old woman think it was after her? Or was she just plain nuts?
She headed to the bathroom and quickly showered. Back in her room, she dressed in jeans and a scoop-necked eyelet shirt, and then reached into the closet to grab a green vest shoved on the shelf. Something flashed, and her breath caught as she spotted the silver bracelet Vic had given her on her eighteenth birthday. She pulled it from the shelf, turning the cool metal over in her hand. For his rodeo champ, he’d said after she’d swept the barrel racing events at the county rodeo.
She’d thrown it onto the shelf in a fit of anger after seeing him with Sheila. Then she’d grabbed her already packed suitcase, made up a story so her parents would let her go, and caught the first bus for Austin.
Almost reluctantly, she clasped the bracelet on her wrist, the weight of it heavy on her arm. Somehow wearing the bracelet made her feel closer to Vic, like he was actually with her. And, right or wrong, she liked the sensation. The idea of it. Maybe she could hold on to one good memory from their past together. The thought comforted her—for a moment.
As she finished getting ready for work and drove to the vet clinic, reality set back in. She couldn’t say if it was her longing for Vic, residual uneasiness from waking in the stables, or the unnerving feeling that she was being watched that was bringing her down again, making her nerves jangle with apprehension.
Or maybe it was the curandera’s warning lingering in her head.
Determined, Delaney forced them all away. She refused to give in to the fear creeping through her veins, threatening to take hold.
There was nothing to be afraid of. Seriously.
Nothing bad was going to happen.
…
Delaney arrived at the vet clinic by seven-thirty, showing up just in time to take a desperate call from Jasper.
“I was headed to San Antonio for a stock auction and my truck broke down,” he said, his voice tight and tense. “Chris just called to say the mare’s ready to foal, but he had to take off for work. I tried getting ahold of my uncle to watch over her, but he’s not picking up, and I’m stuck on I-35 for a couple more hours at least.”
A belt tightened around her heart. “Doc Clinton’s not here. He’s out on a call.” The mare would probably be fine birthing her foal on her own, but someone really should be there—just in case.
“You go, Delaney. You know horses.”
She’d seen two foals born in her life—from a distance—and still regretted missing her own mare foaling. This felt like a second chance. She called Doc Clinton to get his okay, and minutes later she was in her Jeep, barreling over country roads toward Jasper’s ranch.
As she drove up the long dirt road that led to the barn, a thrill shot through her. She passed the tired, pre-fabricated house Jasper and Chris had inherited when they’d come of age, and parked in front of the stable.
She jumped when Pastor Locke came around the corner of the barn.
She pressed her palm to her chest. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“With that predator still loose and on a killing spree,” he said, “Jasper was worried. He didn’t want to leave the mare alone and asked me to come. Although I don’t know what use I could be. Whatever happens is God’s will.”
She smiled, trying to exude confidence. “Sometimes we can help God, Pastor.”
He leveled a disapproving look at her, tightening his lips as he led her to the stable. There she studied the mare, trying to gauge where she was in the foaling processes. The roan was still scooting hay around, nosing it, and turning. Nesting. It was just a matter of time.
Delaney crouched down to look underneath the mare. “She’s waxing. Do you see that? Her body’s getting ready.”
The pastor came up beside her, looking where she pointed. A strangled sound came from him. His Adam’s apple slid up as he swallowed, his face growing pale.
She put her thumbs in her jeans’ pockets and watched the mare gingerly lie down on her side. The horse shifted and Delaney noticed dark splotches on her coat. Sweat. Once labor started, the foal would come quickly.
She shifted into gear. “We’ll need some supplies.” After compiling a mental list, she began dictating to the pastor. “We need towels and warm water. Maybe in the tack room? And a bucket for the afterbirth.”
He paled even more, if that was possible.
The mare’s abdomen jerked. Pastor Locke took an awkward step toward the horse. “Hey there, girl, it’s okay,” he said, his bass voice pitching upward. “You’ll be okay.” The mare pinned her ears back at the sound.
“Shh.” Delaney grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “We just have to watch,” she whispered. “No
interference unless something’s wrong. We don’t want to spook her.”
“Towels, a bucket, and warm water,” he said, and turned toward the tack room. “I’ll be right back.”
The mare’s right leg flung out. “Check the presentation,” Delaney murmured to herself, mentally going over the procedure. She knew the foal’s muzzle should be between its legs.
But when she knelt and checked the foal, she caught her breath and her heart raced. It was upside down.
Oh, no. This wasn’t right.
The mare whinnied. Almost a whimper.
Delaney battled the thread of doubt rising in her. She waited, hoping she was wrong, but she wasn’t. Oh, God. She knew what she had to do. Turn the foal—a complete 180 degrees. If she could do it in the birth canal, before the foal descended any farther, the baby and the mare would both have the best chance of survival. The question was, would she be able to do it?
She breathed in through her nose, closing her eyes for several heartbeats to calm herself.
The horse whinnied again.
At the sound of distress, Delaney launched into action, racing to the sink at the opposite end of the stable. At the sink she unclasped Vic’s bracelet, tucking it into her pocket, then scrubbed her hands and arms up to her elbows with caustic soap before hurrying back to the mare. She evaluated the situation one more time. Crouching down, she saw the upside-down foal, clear as day.
She had to turn it.
Sinking to her knees, she carefully laid her palm on its top leg, sliding her hand up as far as she could. With her other hand on the bottom leg, she braced herself, digging the tips of her boots into the ground for leverage as she attempted to rotate the baby. No movement. The mare let out a groan. Delaney bit back a sob.
Tires screeched to a stop outside. Doc Clinton! He’d made it, thank God.
The mare’s stomach lurched. One of her back legs kicked out. Delaney ducked out of the way just in time.
The thud of boots sounded behind her. “Hurry!” she shouted.
Sacrifice of Passion (Deadly Legends) Page 5
