Claire weighed it up for a moment. “No,” she said in the end. “I won’t accept his money, but make him pay something to the children whose dog he shot.”
“Can you ride?” Susanna asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“In that case, I’ll send the buggy for you. I’ll leave Garrett and Ramirez here while I ride back to Circle Star with Pete. By tonight, we’ll have turned the place into a fortress. I’ll send word out to Connor in San Francisco that he needs to return at once.”
“No.” Claire said curtly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Susanna sighed, a forlorn sound. “I can’t leave you here.”
“I want to stay.”
When Susanna opened her mouth to protest, Claire held up a hand. She spoke sharply. “When you needed me, I came. Now I need you to do this for me. Leave me in peace. I’m asking you to answer to my need, just as I answered to yours.”
Not waiting for Susanna to reply, Claire turned to face the wall and refused to continue the conversation. She had made up her mind, and she wouldn’t be swayed. She needed to break away from everything familiar. That would allow her to cling to the sense of unreal that cushioned her from the pain and the shame.
“Three days,” Susanna said. “I’ll give you three days. Then I’ll come back.”
Claire listened to the clatter of footsteps across the floor as Susanna walked away. A moment later, she heard the thunder of departing riders and knew she was alone again.
****
Claire couldn’t tell how much time had passed when a single set of light footsteps approached the bed. She turned to look over her shoulder. It was the man who had brought her into this strange house.
“Thank you for letting me stay,” she told him. “Why do you live here alone, rather than in the bunkhouse with all those other men?”
“I prefer it here. Hartman doesn’t know who I am. He hired me because I’m good with horses.”
“He called you a halfbreed. You look like an Indian.”
“My grandfather was half Apache.”
Claire eased around on the straw mattress, flinching when the raw skin on her buttocks chafed against her clothing. The halfbreed was standing by the bedside, looking down at her. His expression seemed gentle. Apaches were supposed to be fierce, but the things he’d told her were getting all muddled up in her head, and she couldn’t remember if he was really an Indian or not.
“I can give you something to make the pain go away.” He crossed the room to a rough wooden table and poured something into a cup. Then he came back and handed the clay cup to her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Mescal. Alcohol made from a cactus.”
“Is it like whiskey?”
“Much stronger, and it has a narcotic in it that will dull the pain.”
Claire tipped her head back and drank, watching the man over the rim of the cup. The bitter liquid burned in her throat, but she hardly noticed. Her attention was riveted on the halfbreed, mesmerized by the strange way his gaze drew hers. His eyes appeared so black the iris blended seamlessly into the pupil. His skin was dark, and the hair spilling out beneath the red bandanna tied around his head glinted blue-black in the rays of sunshine that filtered in through the gaps in the walls.
“Have you always worn your hair long like that?” she asked.
“No. I used to be in the army. It was cut short then.”
“I didn’t think they took Indians in the army.”
He shook his head and smiled. Claire realized she really must be getting it all muddled up, but her mind was refusing to work properly. She felt part of her brain shutting down. She wanted to forget everything that had happened to her, but she knew she mustn’t forget. It was important to remember. Remember, face the truth, and move on.
The man crouched beside the bed.
“Rafael?” she said in a tentative murmur, not sure if he’d told her his name.
“Yes?”
She nodded. It had been right. She was not losing her mind after all, at least not entirely.
“Can I have some more?” She handed him the empty cup.
“One more cupful. No more than that.” He rose, went to fill the clay cup again and brought it back. Claire drank. Languid warmth spread into her body, starting from her belly and radiating all the way to her toes and fingertips. The pain started to recede.
“Thank you.” She gave him the empty cup. “It’s helping.”
“I have something else, too. Something for your scraped skin. Lotion that will make it heal. It will also stop the stinging.”
“Yes,” she said.
“You’ll have to take off your pants. I’ll have to put the lotion on your skin.”
Claire looked up at him. “You saw everything.”
“Yes,” he said. “I saw everything.”
She gave him a small nod. Then she climbed out of bed, and he helped her, settling one arm around her waist and holding her steady while she scrambled awkwardly to her feet.
She undid her pants and inched the garment own her legs. “The fabric hurts when it rubs against my skin.”
“It will be easier if you step out of the pants completely.”
“It will hurt too much to sit to take my boots off.”
He knelt on the floor in front of her and lifted up her feet, one at a time, and removed her boots. She braced her hands on his shoulders for balance. When she squirmed out of the pants, the hem of her wool coat grazed the cuts on her buttocks, and she let him help her out of it too, leaving her dressed in only the torn shirt and chemise.
“Lie down on your stomach,” he instructed when she had finished undressing. He folded the wool blanket aside and helped her to settle on the bed.
Claire rested her chin against her crossed forearms. Her body felt warm now, so warm and relaxed. “I’m floating,” she muttered. “Floating on air.”
“It’s the mescal,” he said as he bent to inspect her bare buttocks. “I need to wash your skin. You have bits of grit in the cuts.”
“Will it hurt?”
“It might, but it needs to be done. It will keep the scratches from getting infected, and if the skin heals over the dirt, it will leave a permanent mark.”
Claire studied the man as he went about the business of heating water on the simple metal stove. He took a clean shirt from the washing line strung between the walls and tore it into rags. Although his body was erect and lean, with broad shoulders and long limbs that lent an unusual grace to his movements despite the limp, he seemed quite old. Close to fifty, Claire guessed, judging by the tiny lines that crisscrossed his face.
“I’ve made the water quite hot,” he said as he lifted the pan from the stove and carried it over to the bed. “I’ll use a lot of it, so I don’t have to rub so much.”
“It will make your bed wet.”
“It’s only straw. I can change it afterwards.”
He knelt on the floor by her side and began to wash her buttocks where the skin was scraped raw. The gentle touch of his fingers felt drugging. Claire pressed her face into the small pillow as a strange heat built inside her, growing stronger and stronger. For what felt like forever, he bathed her with tender hands.
“I’ll let your skin dry before I put on the lotion. Turn over.”
She obeyed the softly spoken command. Her limbs felt liquid and loose, and her breathing had grown light and swift.
“If you open your legs wide, I can wash between them.”
“I don’t think you should do that.”
“It needs to be done, and it will be easier if I do it. I can see where you’re sore.”
Claire swallowed, gave a hesitant nod. “Do you have a wife?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I haven’t found her yet.”
A flash of humor pierced her pain. “Aren’t you running out of time?”
He frowned at her, and then he lifted a hand up to his face and smi
led. “I’ll show you a miracle.” He returned to the stove and poured fresh water into another bowl. After scrubbing his features, patiently going over each plane and contour, he dried his face with a small towel and walked back to the bedside.
The brown skin appeared completely smooth now, and twenty years had vanished. Claire held her breath. She’d never seen a face so exquisitely beautiful, either male or female. “Can you do the same for me?” she asked, amazed that despite everything that had happened to her she could manage an attempt at humor.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m going to use aloe on you. The plant makes a clear sap that heels damaged skin. For myself, I put on a thick layer mixed with mud every morning. When it dries, it pulls my skin into wrinkles, and the tension alters the shape of my face just a little. I do it so people won’t recognize me from when I grew up around here. For you, I’ll mix the sap with a little olive oil, to keep it from drying on your skin.”
He resumed his kneeling position by the bed and said, “But first, I must wash you.” Reaching down, he curled his fingers over her ankles. “It will be easier if you bring your feet up, like this.”
She resisted a little, but he coaxed her feet closer to her buttocks, and automatically her knees fell apart. “That’s good,” he said. “Now I can get you clean again.”
“I’m sticky down there.”
“Some of it is blood.” He moved up along the bed, so he could look into her eyes. “But when a man does that to a woman, his seed comes out into her. It leaks out of her again when she stands up. It’s on your thighs now, mixed with your blood.”
“I didn’t know,” Claire said. Her face tightened. “Clean if off. All of it.”
A gentle smile touched Rafael’s lips. “Yes. I’ll clean him off, and he’ll be gone.”
Claire closed her eyes. He started with the inside of her thighs and moved upward, until he was touching the delicate folds between her legs.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he prompted.
“It doesn’t,” she replied. “Not at all.”
“I’ll wrap my finger in the cloth and slip it inside you. Will you let me do that?”
“Yes.”
Her heart pounded as she recalled the piercing pain from before. Now there was only pleasure, as though she were drowning inside a dreamy sensation. She felt his finger explore between her legs, and then gently ease into her. Her hips jolted on the bed.
Rafael stopped. “Is it hurting?”
“No. Not hurting,” she told him. “Do it again.”
He complied with her request, and this time the probing finger went deeper. Pleasure radiated all over her. Her back arched in an effort to get more of his touch.
“What is this?” Claire asked. “What is happening to me?”
“This is how it should be. Will you let me show you more?”
Alarmed, she raised her head on the bed to look at him. “What that man did?”
“No.” His voice was soothing. “Not that. Just for you, what pleasures your own body can bring to you.”
“Yes,” she said. “Show me.”
“I’ll do it with the lotion that will help your skin heal.”
He fetched a small jar from the jumble scattered on the rough timber table across the room and opened the lid. “This will make you feel better.” Using his fingertips, he spread a slippery coat of cooling salve over her delicate tissues. Then he put the jar away and began to rub the lotion into her skin, playing with the sensitive folds between her legs.
Claire fisted her hands in the thick cotton sheet that covered the straw mattress. Small, whimpering sounds rose in her throat. She rocked restlessly on the bed, unable to stop, even when the motion aggravated the sting on her buttocks.
“I’ll put some lotion inside you now.”
His finger slipped into her again, but this time without the cover of the abrasive cloth, sliding smoothly. She strained to meet his touch.
“Yes,” she said, a husky, breathless sound. “Yes.”
“Has anyone ever touched your breasts?”
“No,” Claire replied, scorn in her voice. “But I’m told everybody wants to.”
“It would give you pleasure, too.” He withdrew his hand and leaned over her, looking into her eyes. “Will you let me show you?”
“Yes,” she said, drugged so deeply with the pleasure he was giving her, and so relaxed with the mescal she had drunk, that she would have agreed to anything—even if he had asked to get inside her like that other man had.
But instead, he moved along the bed and pulled aside the edges of her torn blouse and chemise. He stroked her breasts, until the nipples tightened into sharp points and Claire felt as if her body were on fire. Then he took each peak between his forefinger and thumb and rolled them, increasing the pressure, guided by the tiny, incoherent sounds of pleasure she made.
She writhed on her bed. “Do it again inside me with your finger.”
He did as she had asked, and soon the tension inside her grew unbearable. “What is this?” she asked in a frantic cry. “Am I dying?”
“Yes,” he told her. “You’re dying, and you’ll be reborn without the pain and the hurt.”
And she did. As the waves of release rippled over her, she shut her eyes tight, plunging the world around her into darkness. Then, when she opened her eyes again, the rays of sunshine streaking through the flimsy walls of the barn seemed like beacons of light that reaffirmed life.
Darkness and light.
Death and rebirth.
Just as he had promised.
Afterwards, Rafael held her, whispering gentle words in her ear while her breathing grew calm and her body ceased trembling. Then he touched her and stroked her again, driving her from peak to peak, until what had happened in the cobblestone courtyard that morning was only a distant memory.
“What time is it?” Claire asked much later.
She was lounging on the bed, her knees wantonly apart to allow the cool night air to soothe her tender skin. The room was shrouded in darkness, except for two golden circles from a pair of oil lamps, one on the table, the other propped on the floor a few steps away. Rafael sat on a wooden chair beside the bed, gazing down at her.
“It’s past midnight,” he told her. “You’ve slept a few hours. I lit the lamps at sundown.”
“It’s already tomorrow,” Claire said, startled by the thought. “A new day. What happened in the morning is now yesterday.”
“That’s right. It’s only a memory now.” Rafael’s black eyes glittered in the flickering light as he reached out to touch her cheek. “Go back to sleep. I’ll watch over you.”
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Chapter Twenty
When Claire awoke, she couldn’t remember anything at first. Her curious gaze swept the cavernous room as she studied her strange surroundings. The ramshackle double doors stood closed, but streaks of sunshine through the chinks in the rough timber walls provided muted rays of light.
She shifted on the bed, and cried out in pain as her damaged skin scraped against the folds of the tangled sheet beneath her. At that moment, it all flooded back. The pain—the terror—the shame. She shrank deeper into the rustling straw mattress and shut her eyes as tightly as she could.
“How are you feeling?”
Claire turned away and pulled the coarse blanket over her head, ignoring the question. Although she refused to look, she couldn’t help hearing the light footsteps that approached the bed.
“You’ve got to face it.”
She wanted to ignore the voice, but instinct told her it wouldn’t stop. It would continue to question her, gentle yet insistent, until she replied.
“I don’t have to face it. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to,” she muttered into the folds of the blanket.
“You’re wrong.” The blanket lifted away from her face. When she opened her eyes, looked up, she met the opaque gaze of the dark stranger who had carried her from the courtyard the night before. The man who had…she di
dn’t dare to complete the thought.
She wasn’t sure which was the greater shame, what the tall man had done to her with such violence in front of the leering crowd, or how wantonly she had offered herself to the mysterious halfbreed when he had touched her so intimately after she drunk the bitter intoxicating liquid he called mescal.
“You need to go on living,” he told her.
“What if I don’t want to?”
“You’ll have to, whether you want it or not.”
Claire frowned up at him. “You heard me talking to Susanna yesterday. She is going to write to my family and tell them I’m dead.”
“Putting the words into a letter doesn’t make you dead.” He reached out with one hand to stroke the wisps of hair that curled around her face. “You will still be alive, and you’ll have to find a life to live. A life that you can make your own.”
Claire turned her head a little, curious to see more of him. Her gaze drifted over the long black hair, the worn but clean cotton shirt and the faded denim pants, before returning once more to the finely crafted features.
A sense of peace radiated from his serene expression. It puzzled her. This young man had the aura of someone who possessed everything he wanted in life, and yet, judging by what she had learned of him, he possessed nothing at all.
“Rafael?” she said.
His dark brows lifted. “Yes?”
“I wasn’t sure if I could remember your name.”
A fleeting smile lit up his face. “It doesn’t matter.” His fingers ceased their stroking motion in her hair. His eyes searched hers. “Do you remember anything else?”
To her surprise, the shame she ought to feel about what he had done to her turned into longing. A tingle crept over her skin. Her breath came out a little rushed. “I remember,” she told him. “You got me drunk and took advantage of me.”
She heard her voice and knew she sounded like a petulant child. The corners of her mouth quivered as she recalled the comfort he had given her, how completely she had given herself to him. She fought another burst of dreamy longing and covered up her confusion by scowling up at him.
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