“Answer me or not. It really doesn’t matter.”
“Rio. Rio Santee.”
Was that a true caution she heard behind his whisper of his name? Sarah couldn’t be sure. “Rio is Spanish for river.” His smirking smile was back, and she wished she had not spoken. She was standing in her bedroom in the middle of the night with a drenched, dangerous half-breed, commenting on his first name? Shock. That was all she could blame it on.
No, that was not entirely true. There was something uniquely formidable about Rio Santee with his highcheekboned face, smooth of hair, as most Indians were, the straight brown hair held by the red cloth band tied Apache-style around his head, and those narrow, staring eyes the color of cinnamon.
Her judgment went beyond the sheer physical size of him, though that was enough to intimidate, with the way the drenched shirt, cloth belt and pants outlined his strong, lean, muscled body.
Sarah was not sure of the right word—a stillness perhaps—whatever it was, it set him apart from anyone she had ever met.
She had to take back control. She had lived alone a few years before her marriage when she lost her grandmother to illness and her father to a storm such as the one that swept the land tonight. And then there were the best forgotten years of her marriage with Judd Westfall without having any say.
Until the end. She had found the courage at the end when it was too late.
Sarah closed her eyes briefly and wrapped her arms around her waist as if she could contain the painful memory. In the hollow pit of her stomach the toofamiliar acid spewed its burning path up to her throat. She swallowed repeatedly, but the burning remained.
Yes, she had regained control over her life at the end. She had needed to be strong enough to go on living when all she had wanted to do was die.
But death had not wanted to claim her. She had slowly built a new life for herself, one she had shared with Mary and Catherine. Having control was the solid cornerstone of this life. She would not allow anything or anyone to disturb the peace she had found. It had been too hard won. For these few minutes, lost in her thoughts, she felt the old raw and empty feeling of helplessness.
Never again. It was a vow made and paid for in blood. She would die before she broke it.
“You said your name as if it should mean something to me. It doesn’t. There are too many loose renegades—”
“Yes, there are some who call me that.”
Sarah didn’t want to be drawn in, she didn’t want to know him, or care, even if some of her sympathy went to the Apaches forced to live where little could survive.
“I don’t want to know. I’ve gone several times to the reservations with the Ladies’ Aid sewing circle to bring clothing. I’ve seen the hollow eyes, the shrunken, starved bodies. We’ve complained to the army and to the Indian agent. I know I’ve looked at the remains of a once-proud warrior race whose most heinous crime is to roam and hunt the lands of their fathers. But I’ve seen firsthand the atrocities that have been committed by both sides. Both are wrong, and yet both are right. It is a question without an answer. The problem is broken trust, and violence, and will likely end that way.”
She could read nothing in his stare or the hard set of his mouth. Nor did he respond.
“Look, you said you needed food. I’ve never turned away a hungry man. Take what you want. As for shelter, you can stay in—”
“No. You will not do the telling of how it will be. It is against the harmony of life for a woman to act as a man.” Rio had done some assessing of his own and added it to the little he knew of the widow woman who bought wild stock from whites and Indians alike, paying fair prices, then Indian-gentling the horses to the saddle while living alone. He frowned and searched his memory for some talk that there had been other widows here not long ago. But that did not concern him.
Sarah cast a quick look toward the window. Water fell from the roof in solid gray sheets. Thunder shook the house as if to remind her what waited outside. Wind whistled through the cracks of the old two-story frame house.
“You should have let me finish. Take the food, and you can wait out the storm in the barn. It’s dry there and warm if you light the woodstove in the tack room. I’ll get you some blankets. You need to dry off. I’m sure you don’t want to get sick and linger here longer than necessary.”
Head high, she walked to the doorway. He stepped aside to allow her to pass. At any moment she expected to hear his order to stop, or to have him physically do it. He didn’t come after her and said nothing as she went out into the hallway landing to the linen closet. For a wild moment she toyed with the idea of racing down the stairs and fleeing. But to where? The barn. She could. Her mare would ride out into the storm if Sarah asked it of her. But then? The roadway was flooded with every creek and stream, and the rivers overflowing their banks. It was the last news she had had.
And he would come after her. No, she had to deal with him with reason, not show how afraid she was. Either that, or she had to disable him.
That still left the problem of where to go.
Sarah opened the closet door and reached up to the shelf where she kept the spare blankets. Only there weren’t any. She searched for the quilts. They were gone, too.
The noise! The sound that woke her earlier. It wasn’t the storm at all. Then she wasn’t sure, but now…Sarah whirled and found Rio standing in the doorway of her bedroom, watching her.
“You’ve already taken the blankets.” The import of her accusation hit her. “You stole up here earlier and took them. Where are they? What did you do with them? Who…” She had to stop and swallow against the sudden dryness of her throat. “Who else is here with you?”
He stalked her. There was no other way Sarah could describe the pantherlike walk of his coming toward her.
She held her place, but not with any great surge of bravery. It was the fear that he was not alone that shook her.
Chapter Four
“Answer me!” Panicked and shrill, her voice rose on the last. She despised herself for giving way to a new fear.
When had he unbuttoned his shirt so that it was almost opened to his narrow waist? Dangling to midchest from a chain worn around his neck was an intricately worked silver disk set with chunks of turquoise, and from a piece of rawhide hung a small leather pouch. A medicine bag, she thought.
With mounting anxiety, she willed her heart to settle down and stop drumming against her ribs. Her palms were damp. She scrubbed them against the sides of her robe. A cold sweat broke out over her body and that she could do nothing about.
He reached out and slammed the closet door closed.
“W-what are…you…oh, Lord, what are you doing?”
He spun around and pinned her between the door and his unyielding body. She stared at his lips as he closed his hand around her throat just under her chin and bent his head down low over hers.
“What is your fertile white woman’s mind thinking that I am going to do?”
“I…don’t…my mind thinks the same way any white or Indian woman’s would when threatened by the likes of you.”
She turned her head away and he let her, but he did not let her go. If anything, he moved closer, lewdly pressing himself full against her, imprisoning her against the door with his hardness and his strength.
Sarah drew a sharp breath. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to stop the whimper escaping her lips before she bit down hard on the lower one. His long, tapering fingers stroked her throat, while she was bathed in fear and humiliation.
She was afraid to move, afraid to breathe deeply, afraid, too, that he would stop his fingers moving up and down in a sensual rhythm on her throat and touch her in far more vulnerable places.
“It has been a long, long time since I have been with a woman. The territory jail does not offer much comfort for the likes of me.” He said the last with a mocking taunt for her earlier words. His fingers slid down the center parting of her robe. He toyed with the top button on her shirt. She held her brea
th. His face was too close. His shoulder-length wet hair touched her cheek. She felt his breath warming her skin. The button popped open. She released her breath only to inhale sharply, hating him for forcing her to the intimacy of breathing the very air he expelled.
“Take this warning to heart. Behave, iszáń, or you will set my mind on a path you would never willingly walk.”
She heard the silken sound of his voice and then realized what he had said. She looked at him, at those intense eyes of his. Their gazes clashed, both a meeting of strong wills, and a small male and female battle of tempers. The moments stretched as they took each other’s measure, probing beyond for the weaknesses and the strengths.
Suddenly he backed away from her. Sarah was so relieved she almost collapsed on the floor.
“We understand each other now.”
She hadn’t the strength to argue with him. But she didn’t understand anything about him.
He threatened her, verbally and by his forceful masculine presence, and yet, when he had her well and truly cornered, vulnerable as only a woman alone can be, he suddenly backed off.
Sarah had to believe what he said. He wanted food, rest and shelter from the storm, and then he would leave. She wanted so badly to believe that he would not hurt her.
Could she believe anything he told her?
She needed to get away from him. The violence of the storm, her mad dash for freedom, the incredibly tense minutes that had just passed, all had drained her. She had amassed confused impressions about this man. There was no time to sort them out.
She rubbed her arms. “The others with you, are they all in the barn?”
Rio looked away before he answered. His sons were safe. Warm and dry, their hunger satisfied, they had fallen immediately asleep. It was then that he had left them for the second time to return to the house.
“Of course they are,” Sarah answered herself. “Where else could they be.” If she had run to the barn she would have blundered into them. She didn’t even know how many there were. Lord, help her survive this night.
“You’ll need dry clothes. There are some in the wardrobe in the spare bedroom. My cousin’s husband is about your size. He left some things there.”
Rio smiled grimly. Her voice was softer, less steady than it had been at first. She was frightened of him. That much he had accomplished.
Dry clothes. It sounded good. But what could he do with her while he changed? Those minutes in her room when he could not turn from the sight of her smooth, probably sweet smelling skin, were all the torment he would visit upon himself.
Part of him wished she were old and ugly. He did not want the problem of dealing with this strongwilled woman. He did not want any more regrets, or guilt, or the complication of being responsible for another’s life. The odds of being followed here were in his favor. The rain wiped all tracks away. But those men were still out there, still waiting to kill him.
And Coyote was still up to his tricks. She brushed by him to get the lamp from her room, and left him with the scent of rain-washed hair and skin. Rio watched her enter the room across the hall. He did not immediately follow her.
He had to think of his sons. The very fact that he needed the reminder set his teeth on edge. Rio entered the room. As soon as he had cleared the door, he closed it behind him.
Sarah spun around. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll accept your offer to make coffee after I have changed. You did not think I had forgotten your rifle is down there?”
The slight widening of her eyes, the tightening of her lips before she turned away told him he had guessed right. A sly little fox to be carefully watched. The thought of having to guard her, with the toll exhaustion had taken, was almost enough to make him think of quitting the house. He had brought out enough food to keep him and his sons for a few days. There were good horses to ride once the storm ended. She could not go anywhere.
But he did not leave. He took the shirt and pants she held out to him. He watched her walk to the window and stand with her back to him. The room held a bed stripped of linens and a dresser where the lamp rested.
Rio remained where he was and pulled off his shirt. He unwound the cloth belt, squeezing the water from it, then set it on the floor in front of him with his knife on top.
He knelt on one knee to untie his moccasin, all the while keeping his eyes on her back. It would not surprise him if she whirled around and attacked him. For her sake, he hoped she would not do anything so foolish.
Sarah stood as motionless as a statue, staring into the window’s glass, where his every move was reflected. She knew she should close her eyes as he peeled his shirt off his shoulders and shrugged out of it. There was no hair on his chest. The brown skin was stretched tightly over curved muscles that looked incredibly hard. His nipples were small and dark. The skin of his belly was taut. His hair brushed his shoulders before he bent down and she lost sight of him. Then she closed her eyes, listening to the whisper of cloth falling to the floor. She was overcome by a wave of dizziness and gripped the windowsill to keep from swaying.
She should be insulted, outraged by his daring to undress in the same room as her. She thought she had been overcome by his masculine presence before, but this was an assault on every feminine sense she had.
She could no more stop herself from looking at his reflection than she could stop breathing. His limbs were long and leanly muscled. The smooth skin appeared almost bronze, but so alive, warm and touchable. She took several deep, steadying breaths.
“Does my nakedness offend you, iszáń Surely you have seen your husband? Or is it that I am Apache that upsets you?”
Sarah turned around to face him, stung by his mocking voice, but words failed her. She could not make a sound as he drew the cotton soft denim pants over his long legs, and calmly, as if she were not there, began to button the fly. He was of a height with Rafe McCade, Mary’s husband, but Rio Santee stressed every well-worn seam of both the pants he wore and the shirt he put on.
“Stop putting words to my thoughts. You can’t see into my mind. You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“You are wrong, widow woman. A man has only to gaze into your eyes to know the thoughts behind them.”
“Then look into my eyes and see that I am a woman who judges no man by the color of his skin or his beliefs. There are good and bad among all peoples. Even among men and women. I judge a person by their acts.”
“And there I stand condemned in your eyes.”
It wasn’t a question, and Sarah did not try to answer him. “I am going down to the kitchen.”
She issued both daring and defiance in the lift of her chin, in the way she pushed herself away from the window and started across the room toward him and the closed door.
His gaze rose from her bare feet washed as clean as her hair of mud due to his carrying her through the slashing rain. And her body, Coyote whispered in his mind.
Rio gave a rough shake and yanked the door open. He stood aside and followed her with the lamp.
Sarah reminded herself that she was not going to lose her life. She moved without hurry to stoke the fire in the woodstove, light the coal-oil fixture over the table and then make coffee. From pumping the water to measuring out the ground beans, she was aware of the way Rio Santee watched her every move.
Her nerves were drawn taut by the tension between them. She stopped counting the times she went to the window and stared outside to where the rain had slackened, but the wind still whipped the trees in gusts. She couldn’t seem to get warm and wished she had taken the time to put on socks or her slippers.
The coffee began to perk. “Won’t your friends want something hot to drink, too? My barn is dry and there is plenty of hay, but they must be cold.”
“You forgot to remind me of the blankets I have stolen for them.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“No. A woman like you would not forget.”
“Stop saying things as if you know me. You do
n’t.” She went to the cupboard and took down two cups, then looked over her shoulder at him. He still held the now-empty single shot rifle, having grabbed it when she entered the kitchen. “I made the offer, what you do is your concern.”
“You are generous to think of their comfort. I will fetch them.” Rio started for the door.
“Take the slicker. It won’t keep you completely dry, but it will help.”
After he left, she glanced at the closed door, wondering why she had made the suggestion. Why should she care? She ran to the window, but could barely make out his staggering walk against the wind while the water still rushed through the open yard.
What had possessed her to think of the others? He was going to bring them into the house. Wasn’t one enough to deal with? And her without a weapon.
She rubbed her forehead. Think. There had to be something she could use to protect herself. Her gaze lit on the cupboard’s drawer. She gave a last look at the window, then hurried across the kitchen.
How long had he been gone? She was wasting time. Yet she hesitated before she reached into the drawer and withdrew the thin-bladed boning knife.
Sarah stared at the knife. She held it tight, trying to think of where she could conceal it yet still be able to reach the weapon easily.
Would she have the courage to use it on him or one of the others if the need arose?
“Lord, I don’t want to make such a decision.”
She could not say what alerted her that Rio was back just a second before the door behind her opened. He came with the wind, sweeping a chilling dampness into the kitchen.
Sarah whipped her hand gripping the knife down to her side. The folds of her robe hid it from his sight as she turned around.
Rio pushed the door closed with his body. He carried a blanket and quilt-wrapped body. At least she thought it was a body. From the depths of the bundle came a frightened sound. She heard Rio’s whisper in what she thought was Apache to his squirming burden. The blanket fell back.
Theresa Michaels Page 4
