by Janet Dailey
Outside the adobe house, a man lounged against a pole supporting a porch-like roof, a rifle in his hand, the muzzle pointed toward the ground. At Sheila’s appearance in the doorway, he straightened, the muzzle swinging toward her as he took a step to block her exit.
When the other two men appeared behind her, he relaxed his alert stance slightly. He didn’t look familiar to Sheila. She was almost positive he hadn’t been a part of the band that had just ridden in moments ago. Ráfaga stepped ahead of Sheila, signaling her to wait while he spoke to the stranger.
“Who is he?” Sheila watched the two curiously while Laredo waited with her. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s the guard. There’ll be someone outside the door as long as you are here.”
“For whose protection?” she retorted. “Is Ráfaga afraid I’ll steal another knife and attack him?” She caught the flicker of surprise in the blue eyes upon her use of the bandit’s name. “He told me that was his name,” she explained coolly.
“Ráfaga? Yes, that’s what he’s called.”
“You seem surprised.” Her head tipped to the side in a challenge.
“Only that you got the message across, considering the difficulty you had with ‘bath.’” Amusement glittered in his blue eyes again.
“‘Me, Tarzan, you, Jane’ is much easier to act out.” Sheila shrugged, knowing it had been even simpler than that. “I don’t suppose that is his real name any more than Laredo is yours.”
“No, it’s a name given to him by the men.”
“What does it mean?” Sheila looked at Ráfaga. A panther perhaps, she thought, considering his animal grace and that feline aloofness with a touch of predatory ruthlessness thrown in.
“I think it translates into”—Laredo frowned as he searched for the English equivalent—“a gust of wind or a flash of light.”
The descriptive term suggested something fleeting, something that was elusive and volatile. Considering his occupation, it was probably appropriate, Sheila thought wryly, and she wondered if it was true or wishfully portentous.
“What is his real name?” she asked curiously.
“I don’t know.” Laredo removed his hat to run his fingers through the thick brown of his hair and then put it back on, pulling it low on his forehead. “It isn’t a question that a man likes to be asked around here.”
The guard was listening to what Ráfaga was telling him, but watching Sheila intently. She seemed to be the object of their discussion. She realized that yet again Laredo had avoided giving her a direct answer to her question about the guard.
“You never did explain what the man was guarding,” she reminded him. “Me or Ráfaga?”
“Diego will be there, or someone else, to make sure you don’t decide to take any long walks.” Tipping back his head, he peered at her from beneath his hat brim.
Her gaze swept the mountains ringing the canyon. “Where would I go?” Sheila sighed bitterly.
“There isn’t any place you could go.” Laredo agreed, “but Ráfaga thinks you would be foolish enough to try.”
“Do you?” she countered.
“You forget. I’m the one you stole the knife from. Yes”—Laredo nodded—“I think you would try to run, but you won’t be given the chance.”
Sheila realized she was well and truly trapped. Her prison came complete with walls, guards, and a warden. The only thing lacking was the bars at her window. She felt her frustration mount and knew it was only the beginning.
His conversation with the guard concluded, Ráfaga turned to rejoin them. Sheila’s eyes shimmered with bitter resentment as he motioned her to the left side of the adobe building. Laredo touched fingers to the brim of his hat in a mock salute and walked in the opposite direction.
“Do you trust yourself alone with me?” Sheila flashed at Ráfaga’s hooded expression. She knew he didn’t understand a word she said, but she had to release some of her temper or choke on it. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll do something desperate like scratch your eyes out?”
As if he knew how impotent her venom was, he didn’t blink an eye at her poisonous tone. He used hand signals to guide her beneath the shading trees behind the clay-colored building. Subtropical growth hid the dammed pool below the spring until they were nearly on top of it.
The sun-kissed surface of the water glittered cool and inviting. Birds flitted from branch to branch, crying out alarm at the human intrusion. Sheila forgot her anger of a moment ago, abandoning it in the surging desire to feel her body cleansed of the grit and grime from the last two days.
Laying the towel and soap on the bank, she started to pull the dirty serape over her head, then remembered the man behind her and turned. He stood watching and waiting.
“Would you please turn around?” She made a circling motion with her hand.
His dark gaze remained shuttered and unrevealing, but it didn’t leave her. Stubbornly, Sheila made no move to undress, determined not to be the one who ended this staring contest.
“Baño” Ráfaga said crisply and motioned to the pool.
“I am not getting into the water until you turn around,” Sheila insisted with a flash of temper.
He took a step to a tree near her and indolently leaned a shoulder against its trunk. His dark gaze didn’t waver from her face. Speaking in Spanish, his hand pointed to the pool, then over his shoulder the way they had come.
Sheila caught the words “Baño” and “casa” The latter she knew meant “house.” She guessed he was telling her if she didn’t bathe, they would return to the house. Fuming inwardly, she realized her choice was either to remain dirty or undress while he watched.
Turning her back to him, Sheila tugged the serape over her head, fingers trembling with her inner rage. “If you were hoping for a private performance, you’re going to be mistaken,” she ground our Savagely. Holding the torn front of her blouse together, she turned and threw the serape at his impassive face He caught it with one hand. “My clothes are just as dirty as the rest of me.”
Sheila sat down to remove her shoes, then slid from the grassy bank into the pool. The shock of the ice-cold temperature of the water drew a sharp gasp of surprise. But there was no turning back as Sheila immersed herself completely in the pool. Surfacing with a toss of her wet mane, she smoothed the strands away from her face, her teeth chattering from the cold.
Half-sitting and half-floating on the shallow bottom of the pool, immersed up to her neck. Sheila fought her way out of the entangling looseness of her blouse and tossed the sodden garment onto the bank. She tugged free of her slacks, as well, leaving her underpants on. Inching her way to the edge of the pool, she deposited her slacks beside her blouse and reached for the soap. The water was too cold for Sheila to waste time congratulating herself on successfully thwarting Ráfaga. She soaped down briskly, feeling the dust and grime float away.
By the time she had rinsed the lather from her hair, her arms and legs were becoming numb from the frigid temperature of the water. Awkwardly. she moved to the bank and reached for the towel. Shaking out the fold, she held it in front of her breasts with one hand as she scrambled out of the icy pool and wrapped it around her.
Briefly she looked at Ráfaga. His shoulder still rested negligently against the tree trunk while he watched Sheila. Tucking the ends of the towel beneath her arm, she knelt beside the water to scrub her blouse and slacks clean. She shivered uncontrollably, a mountain of goosebumps covering her naked skin. Wishing for clean, dry clothes to put on, Sheila settled for clean, wet clothes.
Keeping her back to Ráfaga, she tugged on her slacks before abandoning the towel. The blouse was minus its buttons, so Sheila tied the loose front in a knot. The plunging vee exposed the cleavage between her breasts while the saturated, clinging material emphatically outlined every curve of her breasts. Its coverage was dubious, but Sheila couldn’t bear the thought of putting on the dirty serape.
Wrapping the towel in a turban, she straightened up and turned to Ráfaga.
Her shoulders were squared, the lift of her chin proud, as she tried to control the shivers of cold racing over her skin.
Indolently pushing himself away from the tree trunk, Ráfaga made a low comment in Spanish and glanced pointedly at her shoes. A flush of pink briefly colored her cheeks as Sheila bent over to put them on. She felt the touch of his gaze and realized how much she revealed when she leaned over like that. She quickly turned away to squeeze her wet feet into the shoes.
Her toes were squishing noisily with each step by the time they retraced the path back to the house. The guard stared curiously at her shivering, besodden state, but Sheila was too chilled to feel self-conscious. Without waiting for him to motion her toward her room, she hurried there on her own. Entering it, Sheila began sneezing. Ráfaga disappeared from the doorway.
“What’s the matter?” she taunted after him. “Are you afraid of catching cold?”
Kicking off her wet shoes, Sheila walked to the bed, intending to remove the thick blanket and wrap it around herself for warmth. Ráfaga returned, carrying a man’s white shirt. He handed it to her, speaking in low, rolling Spanish. Unable to suppress the shivers that quaked through her cold body, Sheila accepted it.
“Gracias.” Sheila doubted that the gesture had been motivated by anything more than a selfish wish not to have a sick female on his hands.
“Por nada,” was the crisp response he gave before he pivoted and left the room.
Hesitating only a second, Sheila quickly removed the wet clothes and tugged on the warm, dry shirt. Her shaking fingers had just fastened the last button when Ráfaga reappeared, his dark gaze skimming her from, turbaned head to her bare toes, dwelling briefly on the bare length of her shapely legs. The trails of the shirt ended at mid-thigh.
He said nothing as he tossed a comb onto the bed and picked up her wet clothes lying on the floor. He left the room, taking her dripping clothes with him. Sheila started to protest, then sighed at the futility of it, and she began combing the snarls out of her hair.
The crude cot looked remarkably inviting. She slid beneath the blanket, the coarse fabric rough against her freshly scrubbed skin. But it was warm, and soon Sheila drifted into a light sleep.
The sound of a woman’s voice awakened her. The sun was still up, so she couldn’t have dozed for long. She listened for several seconds to the lilting Spanish voice, the woman’s tone happy and faintly teasing.
Curiosity made Sheila push the blanket aside and she rose. With barefoot quietness, she wandered into the hallway, pausing in the archway of the main room of the adobe house. Her inquisitive gaze looked for the source of the attractive voice.
Ráfaga was standing in the kitchen. Heat waves stirred the air above the cup he held in his left hand. His right arm encircled a slender brunette. Large, sparkling, dark eyes were gazing laughingly into his face, provocative and playful as the woman leaned against him. Her hands were spread inside the front of his shirt, half-unbuttoned to give her access to his naked chest and the vee-shaped cloud of curling dark hair.
The stubble of beard had been shaved from his strongly carved jaw and cheeks. No wide-brimmed hat covered the ebony blackness of his hair growing with rakish thickness away from his forehead. The slashing lines on either side of his mouth had deepened into sharp grooves, hinting at an amused smile. His enigmatic dark eyes were looking at the girl, accepting her attention as if it were his due.
A hard, male vitality now over-stamped the powerful and ruthless set of his masculine features. And it made him seem, to Sheila, more dangerous than before. Her heartbeat quickened, sending her pulse hammering in her throat.
She hadn’t moved since halting in the archway, yet something betrayed her presence to Ráfaga. His dark gaze swung to her, its rapier thrust pinning Sheila where she stood.
The vivacious brunette turned to see what had distracted his attention. Her eyes widened at the sight of Sheila standing in the hallway, semi-clad in a man’s shirt. She noted the dark honey color of Sheila’s hair.
The brunette’s eyes began snapping with black fires of hatred. She stepped angrily away from Ráfaga’s side, turning on him with a vengeance. A spate of rapid-fire Spanish burst from her lips. Her hand gestured at Sheila in Latin temper.
Unaffected by the raging outburst, Ráfaga offered a low comment, which didn’t pacify the girl’s anger. She stormed over to Sheila, a vitriolic flow of Spanish spewing forth again. She was obviously incensed to have Sheila in the house, especially so scantily clothed.
From the contemptuous tone and the sharpness of the girl’s dark gaze, she surmised that the brunette was making derisive comments about her. Unconsciously, Sheila let a smile touch her lips, amused by the unnecessary jealousy.
The action caused the already enraged brunette to draw in her breath with a hiss like a deadly viper. The next second she was spitting in Sheila’s face. All amusement at the situation vanished at the wet drops on her cheeks. Sheila reacted without thinking, hot anger surging through her veins as her opened palm struck the brunette’s face.
There was a momentary shriek of pain and surprise as the girl cupped her stinging cheek. Then she was flinging herself at Sheila, pulling at her hair and hurling words of Spanish abuse. Stunned for only a second, Sheila retaliated instinctively, fighting and clawing while fending off the brunette’s scratching fingers. The sharp command from Ráfaga had no effect on either of them.
“Sweet Jesus!” Laredo’s startled voice sounded through the barrage of Spanish.
The kicking, hair-pulling fight had barely begun before the two men intervened to break it up. An arm circled Sheila’s waist from behind and forcibly dragged her out of reach of the other girl. Her feet flailed the air a few inches above the floor.
“Put me down!” Sheila pushed uselessly at the muscled forearm across her waist.
Ear-splitting shrieks came from her opponent, held fast in Laredo’s arms. Sheila stiffened as she realized who held her. Ráfaga’s voice barked an order near her ear and the brunette stopped struggling, although the fire of jealous hatred blazed as brilliantly in her eyes now as before.
Sheila was half-turned in his arm, his thumb and forefinger gripping her chin and twisting it up so he could see her face. She strained away from his chest, her amber eyes flashing their loathing of his touch. His expression was masked. Faint mockery gleamed in his fathomless eyes.
He said something in Spanish to the brunette. Sheila sensed by his tone that it was uncomplimentary to her. Seething, she wrenched her chin from his fingers.
“What did he just say?” she demanded of Laredo.
“He was reasoning with Elena,” he answered after a hesitant glance at his boss, “asking her why he would take a clawing wildcat with yellow eyes to his bed when he could have an eager, purring kitten instead.”
The explanation snapped the slender thread holding Sheila’s temper in check. “Pig! You filthy animal!” She struck at his implacable face, but the blow was blocked by an upraised arm. “As if I would ever let you touch me! Murderer!”
Her raining blows fell harmlessly on his arms and shoulders, never reaching the face that was their target. Growing tired of her struggles, Ráfaga swung her into his arms.
“Your bed?” Sheila spat. “I would sleep in a snake-pit before I would lie in your bed!”
His gaze narrowed at the glowing hatred in her eyes. The line of his mouth thinned as he turned, carrying her in his arms, and walked to her room.
Stopping beside the cot, he dropped her unceremoniously and stood above her for several seconds. He didn’t say a word, but everything about him seemed to cry that if he wished, he could force her to lie in his bed. As the color washed from her face, he left the room.
Chapter 8
Nearly an hour later, Laredo had come to her room, announcing it was time to eat. She was hungry, but she had no desire to return to the main room of the house, where Ráfaga and his hot-tempered woman were.
“Nobody is going to wait on you or carry trays of
food to your room,” Laredo stated calmly. “If you want to eat, you have to come to the table or go without.”
He, too, had washed and shaved, his appearance decidedly American now, but Sheila knew he felt no special bond with her just because they shared the same nationality. He was a member of the band. He belonged to the opposite side.
Sheila stood at the small window, holding back the curtain to watch the sun hovering on the point of a mountain peak to the west. Letting it fall, she turned to look at Laredo, the sensual outline of her lips grimly tight.
“All right, I’ll go to the table to eat, but you keep that little Mexican cat away from me,” she warned.
“Ráfaga has calmed her down.”
Sheila remembered the angry banging of the pans and doubted it. “He better have, or he might find himself sleeping with a dark-haired girl whose face is all scratched.”
“It would more likely be you who would come away from a fight all scarred up.” A bemused smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Elena fights dirty. You wouldn’t stand a chance against her in an all-out brawl.”
“You’d be surprised at what I’ve learned in the last few days,” Sheila said, then stalked past him into the hallway.
When she entered the main room, Ráfaga was seated at one end of the table. His dark gaze noted her presence, although Sheila deliberately ignored him. The young Mexican woman was dishing food onto the plates, made of pottery.
There were four chairs around the table, three empty. Sheila chose one that put her back to the living area and on Ráfaga’s right.
The atmosphere crackled with tension. Sheila knew the volatile brunette was not reconciled to her presence. Her eyes hurled daggers each time she looked at Sheila.
The animosity emanating from the girl across from her was almost tangible. It tainted the food, making it nearly impossible to enjoy the meal. Exasperated, Sheila set her silverware on the table.
Turning to Laredo, she demanded, “Will you explain to this jealous little witch that I am not interested in her lover?” She darted an irritated glance at the girl. “You can also tell her that if she’d give me a knife, I’d make sure he’d never get any closer to me than he is right now.”
