She was no longer thinking, but reacting with an animal need to escape danger. She swirled to yank open the back door, and escaped into the storm.
Instantly soaked, the gusting force of the wind made her stagger. Cold, primitive fear ran through her mind. The water was inches deep in the yard, and beneath it, the ground had churned into a treacherous sea of thick mud.
She could not begin to think of where to run. The road to town was flooded. She had seen no one this past week. The barn offered a hope of safety. But what if there was more than one? She could trap herself.
She slid and fell to one knee. Her hands found no purchase to help her to rise. The sodden weight of her long nightgown dragged her down. If she couldn’t run, she’d crawl.
The intense, needlelike rain pierced the thin cloth and beat against her skin. She couldn’t see. Her braid hung like a chained weight over her shoulder, but she kept crawling. Whatever hindered her, hindered her attacker. If she could make it to the trees, she could lose him.
Sarah felt nausea roil her stomach and send bile to her throat. She choked it back down. Her hand closed on rock, and she bore the sting of a cut without crying out. Strength flooded her body as she rose. She ran for the trees when lightning showed her how close she was to them.
Underbrush tore at her gown and welted her skin already prickling with fright. A limb slashed across her face. Sarah ignored it all in her panicked flight, seeking only to escape. The entangling long grasses beneath the water told her she was through the first line of trees and into a small clearing.
She could not hear the noise of pursuit over the raging fury of the storm, but that only served to increase her fear. She knew she was being stalked like prey.
Sarah ran blindly on, stumbling then falling over a deadfall tree. Her stomach was driven against her spine. Breath left her in a whomping rush, but she tried to lift herself frantically. Pinpricks of light danced before her eyes as she struggled to her feet, lungs sucking at air she could not find. She tore her nightgown free from the branch and took a staggering step.
She was driven down again by a hard body from behind.
Sarah lay stunned, still out of breath. Her hands and face burned from bleeding welts. She lay on the sodden ground, sobbing now, as she tried to regain her breath, helpless beneath the body of her attacker.
Her body was lifted from the ground and turned over. She lay very still on her back, and tried to see the man looming over her. The lightning denied her need to see his face. If it struck, it was too distant for her to make out anything about him.
“For you escape is impossible. I am Apache.”
Words spoken with assurance. Soft and grating on already frayed nerves. Terror seized her. Less than two years ago, the Warm Springs Apache war chief Victorio had led his band of raiders on a bloody rampage throughout the territories in retaliation for the scalp hunters who killed women, children and old men for the hair that the Mexican government paid bounty on. Victorio was killed by the Mexican Rurales, but there were others who had taken his place.
And there were the survivors of acts too brutal to remember. And for Sarah, a woman’s worst fear lived in these moments.
Her chest hurt, but air was beginning to creep into it again. Her hands clawed at the muddy earth. She swallowed painfully. Her vision was suddenly clear as his looming, dark mass blocked the rain and he bent closer to her. Darkness. Danger. The words to plead for her life waited to be said.
She filled her hands with mud and slammed her fists against his cheeks, pushing upward as she twisted and rolled away from him.
A yank on the back of her nightgown brought her up short. She gagged as the cloth neckline cut across her throat, choking her. And still she lunged, desperate for freedom. On her knees in the mud, she dug her fingers deep to aid her bid to flee. The sudden release of the pressure at her throat came as the well-washed fabric ripped from her body. Sarah used the last of her strength and rolled free.
But her escape was short-lived. He tackled her again, and this time held her down with her arm painfully shoved up between her shoulder blades.
She opened her mouth to scream, but another hand, callused and muddy, clamped over her mouth. A frantic, guttural sound, like that of a trapped animal escaped her lips.
She was flipped to her back and once more lay still as he knelt over her.
“To move now is to die.” And Rio Santee, who had never raised his hand in anger to woman or child, released his hold on his prisoner.
Cold, muddy rain dripped from his shoulder-length hair onto her face. She closed her eyes, fighting to stay calm. She felt his hand brush her cheek, touching the welt there.
“You hurt yourself by running.”
“Only a yellow dog attacks a woman.”
She stiffened as he leaned closer, his hands spread across the ground on either side of her shoulders. His knees pressed tight against the sides of her thighs as he bent his head lower. If she moved upward, she would touch him.
“No!” she cried out against the implied threat.
“No,” he repeated harshly, shaking his head from side to side, spraying her with rain. He could taste her fear, it was that strong, that real, and he hated himself for intensifying it.
“You will deny me nothing. I hunted and found prey. Just as the whites have hunted my people. So many slain. And none thought to spare our women or children. We are a proud race. But sadly diminished in numbers. Does the living child care if the body that nurtured it was willing or unwilling?”
“They hang white men for rape in this territory. You they would castrate. For a start.”
“Only if you lived to tell.” With his upper body weight braced on his arms, he shifted so that one knee pressed between her thighs. Naked and trembling, Sarah listened to the voice of reason that warned her not to provoke him.
“Get up.” His move was swift and graceful, despite the mud, and he stood tall above her, then jerked her to her feet
Sarah shivered with a bone-deep chill under the icy sting of the rain on her bare skin. She was glad the lightning wreaked its havoc on the far-off hills. She had no desire to see him gazing at her naked body.
He caught hold of her sodden braid with one hand and threaded his fingers through the loosened plait She stared at him as he bent down to retrieve her torn nightgown. If only she could grab hold of his knife…
“No more fighting. And you would be wise to obey.” Rio handed over the drenched cloth, pushing it into her hands when she made no move to take it. “Give me no more trouble and you will not be harmed.”
She opened her mouth to reply angrily, but no sound came out. Not harmed? What did he think he had done to her, running her to ground like the prey he had called her?
After a moment she jerked her braid free of his hold and turned away, hugging the nightgown to her. She stiffened as his hands came down on her bare shoulders.
Sarah felt the trembling that seized her legs. She realized her flight and struggles had only succeeded in wearing her out. She needed to regain then conserve her strength. He couldn’t watch her all the time. She ignored his other threat.
But as she started the long walk back home, she admitted to herself that she was afraid. He could rape her, he could kill her, and no one would know what her fate was until the storm was over and the floodwaters receded.
It was a chilling, sobering thought. She. had only herself to depend upon. If she tried…no…when she made her next escape, it would have to be a good one.
Much as it went against her nature to appear docile, she pretended to be just that. She offered no protest or struggle as he guided her back to the house. Several times she staggered, and twice fell to her knees, but each time his strong, callused hand caught hold of her arm and lifted her to her feet.
It was only now that she fully understood how flight had depleted her strength. She needed time to recover and plan.
When she fell a third time, he lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. Sarah used her iron wi
ll to stop the scream welling in her throat. She pushed weakly against his firmly muscled chest, distressed to note that he was not breathing hard even after their mad race through the rain.
Beneath soaked cloth, his flesh, as rain beaten as her own, still retained a great deal of heat, which warmed her along one side. She did not want to acknowledge his strength, or the way he curved his upper body over her to take the brunt of the storm. She clutched her ruined nightgown with a fierce grip as he shifted suddenly and opened the door.
The storm winds renewed their fury. The door was ripped from his hold and slammed open. They entered the kitchen in a rush, and he swung around, still holding her to push the door closed.
Sarah expected to be put down. It came as a shock that he started for the hall.
“You’d better let me go. My husband—”
“No lies. There is no man here.”
“You can’t know that.” Her voice rose on a shrill note for he unerringly headed for the stairs.
“I know. I know all about the widow woman who dresses as a man, does the work of two and lives alone.”
“Who are you?”
He paused on the stair. And even in the dark, Sarah could feel the penetrating heat of his gaze as he stared down at her.
“Who are you?” she repeated in a softer, and to her horror, weaker voice.
“I told you. I am your worst nightmare, white woman. I am Apache.”
Chapter Three
For long minutes, Sarah said nothing as she struggled to make sense of the impressions she had unknowingly gathered. She felt only a mild shock when he went directly past the other rooms to her own at the end of the hallway.
He stepped inside the room where no man had been. Sarah renewed her struggle, then, without a word, he set her on her feet.
She backed away from him, still clutching the nightgown, for it was the only thing she had to cover her nudity.
“For an Apache you speak English too well. And don’t make idle threats of killing me. If that was your intent, I’d be dead.”
“For a woman there are worse things than death.”
“You have already committed one of them. You have violated my home by breaking into it.”
“Be thankful to your God, iszáń, that until this moment, that is all I have done.”
“Do you curse me in your heathen tongue?”
“I used the Apache word for woman. Had I wished to curse you, I could do so equally well in English, and Spanish, as well as my heathen tongue.”
“Then you said it to remind me you are Apache.”
“No. I called you iszáń to remind myself.”
There was a distinct difference to his voice. Sarah shivered in reaction, and it had nothing to do with the chill left from the rain. She judged him taller than she first supposed, but it was the smooth, dangerous quality in his voice that caught and held her attention.
Smooth, like the aged whiskey that Judd had been too fond of when he could afford it, and dangerous like a coiled rattler. For all that he had spoken softly, Sarah was not deceived. She thought he could be whipped into a fury with the slightest provocation.
Sarah had no intention of provoking him to find out if she was right.
She backed up to the wooden wardrobe. With one hand she reached in behind her and took a shirt from a hook. She had drawn one arm through the sleeve when he lit the lamp.
She stared at the puddle of water on her wooden floor surrounding his moccasins. Her gaze rose to his knees where the soaked leather ended, and went no farther. Inwardly she cringed. She fought the very strong instinctive feminine urge to cover herself, and to seek the darkest corner of her room to cower in.
She won over the urge, but she was not courageous enough, or bold enough, to face him. With as much dignity as she could summon, she turned her back to him and finished putting on the shirt.
The hem of the shirt covered her to mid-thigh. It was an old, well-worn wool shirt that had belonged to Judd, one he wore before his taste and pocket allowed for a gambler’s fancy linen or ruffled silk shirts. The shirt was also one of the few things of value she had from her deceased husband, or for that matter, from her disastrous marriage. But that was a closed door she refused to open.
Sarah ignored her trembling fingers’ struggle to match button to buttonhole. All the while, she dreaded to hear his order to turn around.
The order never came.
She withdrew a pair of pants from the wardrobe.
“No. No men’s clothes. White women pride themselves on their layers of female trappings. That is what you will wear.”
Sarah squeezed the rough twill cloth in her hands. She bit back the words to tell him she would wear what she damned well pleased.
“You have a choice. Wear what I say or wear nothing at all. You will not wear a man’s clothes to make running easier.”
Somehow it did not surprise her that he knew her intent. He would do the same himself. But she would not give in so easily.
“You said it yourself. I do the work of two. These are all I have to wear.”
“No.”
Rio waited out her stillness and her silence, noting the white-knuckle grip she had on the cloth. The lamp threw a small circle of light that left her partly in shadow where she stood against the far wall.
Her hair, dark, near black, he thought, and as straight as his own, no longer resembled a neat braid. The wet, tangled hair soaked the back of her shirt.
Looking at her, ignoring his own chilled flesh, Rio felt her pride and strength come against him, and was momentarily taken aback. Instantly his anger heightened, while at the same time he became increasingly aware of her beauty. Not the delicate beauty he associated with pale-skinned women, but the beauty he could find among the Apache maidens.
She is no maiden. Rio did not need the reminder. If they were in Apacheria there was a law that no girl must be taken by a man except in marriage. When a woman was widowed or divorced she had no warrior to hunt for her or protect her. Her only way of repayment was the gift of herself. Her body would be for the asking of any warrior not married. The fact that she was no longer a virgin made the giving of her body not a sin but a duty. Following the warpath kept the death count of males high, and all women of childbearing age were urged to bear children to replace them.
Unlike the whites, adultery was all but unknown, and to take a maiden against her will was a crime punishable by death or partial dismemberment.
But this one was a widow. And he had been too long without a woman. And he reminded himself that he had not followed the tribe’s ways for many years.
He could not take his gaze from her. She stood tall for a woman, and moved with the suppleness of a mountain cat in a slim, wild beauty. His breath came faster, and he spoke harshly to hide that fact.
“I warned you to obey and no harm will come to you.”
“Yet you fill my home with your threats? Why have you come here? What is it that you want?”
“Food and shelter. For now.”
Sarah snatched her robe from the wardrobe’s hook, slipped it on and belted the tie tight. She was almost overcome by the sudden weakness of her legs, a weakness that quickly spread throughout her body. Food and shelter, he said. Such simple, basic needs. But it was the threat of that only being the beginning that made her turn around to face him.
He stood outside the pool of lamplight. She saw he had made no move to dry off. The windows rattled as the storm’s renewed fury brought eerie sheet lightning flickering its bluish tongues into the room. The howling wind seemed alive, like a ravening beast intent on destruction, intent on finding a way inside.
Where it should have been safe. But it wasn’t. Not with him standing in her bedroom, making the room appear smaller than it was.
Her gaze went to the knife he held. She knew the terror of prey with its predator close by. But she had nowhere to hide.
Sarah’s chin came up. Mentally she braced herself. She refused to show him how the intimi
dating sight he presented affected her.
Her eyes tracked the length of his sinewy arm, revealed by plastered cloth up to a curved shoulder. Broad and muscled. She would be no match for his strength.
The determined square chin with the hint of a cleft as much as told her it would be a foolish waste of time to argue with this man. There was a fullness to the shape of his lips, making them both sensuous and cruel. A straight, narrow nose, nostrils flaring as if her staring triggered some primal hunting instinct.
And then she looked into the most chilling pair of eyes she had ever seen. Clearly defined dark brown brows slashed above those eyes watching her with an intensity that made her fear he could look into her soul and know her every secret.
She fought off this thought. He could not do it. No one could. And she had secrets. Secrets she had never shared with anyone. Not even her dear Mary, and never with sweet, innocent Catherine.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The hard, set line of his lips lifted at one corner to form a smirking smile. He was enjoying her fear and that made her furious.
“And don’t tell me again that you are Apache. If you are, you are not a full-blood. Your features are too refined, and you’re too tall.”
Rio’s smile deepened before he answered her.
“Mangus, hereditary chief of the once-powerful Warm Springs Apaches was taller, and bigger. He was called handsome by many. But Victorio, ah, there was a warrior that even your army men thought to be physically perfect and handsomer than many. many men.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. And if you’re seeking to make me afraid with the mention of those names, don’t bother. They are dead. And I thought it was taboo for Indians to mention the names of the dead for fear of their ghosts coming back.”
“As you said, I am not full-blood. I follow no man’s path but my own.” He spoke the lie calmly but inside seethed for saying it. He walked a path forced on him by those men who hunted him. And he would do well never to forget it.
While he spoke, Sarah still stared at his eyes. They seemed to have no necessity to blink, because he stared right back at her without movement. She came to with a start. Those steadfast brown eyes had held her attention far too long. She shrugged.
Theresa Michaels Page 3
