by Janet Dailey
“I’m not going anywhere until you answer me,” Sheila warned and reined the mare away from the trail.
He turned the bay around to face her, urging the horse forward until his leg was brushing against hers. His impassive features met her wary expression.
“You will stay,” Ráfaga said briskly, pausing a second to add, “for a while.”
“For how long?” Sheila insisted. “Until you get tired of me? Then what will you do? Turn me over to your men? Sell me?”
His mouth tightened in an uncompromising line. “You ask too many foolish questions.”
“Foolish!” Her voice cracked. “Why is it foolish to want to know what’s going to happen to me when you’re finished with me?”
“When that day comes, you will be free to leave,” he snapped.
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“I give you my word.” His voice was cold and harsh, its pitch deep.
The ominous glitter of his eyes dared Sheila to challenge his statement. She swallowed her words, doubting that she would believe anything he told her at this moment.
“Do they—do my parents know I’m alive?” she asked instead.
“I do not know.”
“Surely you must,” Sheila insisted. “Your network of informants would have told you if they were making inquiries about me.”
“I have heard nothing.”
“Can’t you get word to them?” Tears misted her eyes as she realized her parents probably believed she was dead. After all this time, what else could they think? “Can’t you at least let them know I’m all right?”
“It is not possible.”
“It is possible!” Her voice shook traitorously. “Laredo has told me countless times that there are ways to find things out. Those same ‘ways’ can be used to notify my parents.”
“It does not work in reverse,” Ráfaga told her curtly.
“My God, don’t you have any feelings at all?” The constriction in her throat made breathing painful. “You must know what they’re going through—knowing I could be dead, but not knowing for certain either way.”
“It would also be painful for them to know you are alive and not know where you are or be able to contact you,” he pointed out roughly.
“Please, Ráfaga, please get word to them,” she begged.
“It is not possible.” He took the reins from her hand, backing his bay and turning to lead her horse. “We will not discuss it anymore.”
“God, how I hate you!” She breathed shakily, knowing it was only the black of a deeper emotion.
“So you have said many times,” he mocked coldly. “Your words are beginning to pall with repetition.”
Chapter 18
The soothing notes of the guitar softly serenaded the starlight outside the window. Sheila tried to ignore the song being played, her mind racing as it had done these last weeks, scheming and plotting to find a way to escape.
There was no hope with Ráfaga here. He kept her constantly at his side, taking her everywhere, aware of her every minute, as if he knew exactly what was going through her mind. Sheila had been counting on finding an opportunity when he left to raid the prison he had scouted.
As the days turned into weeks and Ráfaga had given no indication of setting up the raid, Sheila had begun to grow anxious. Tonight, at the supper table, she had finally asked with assumed casualness when he would be going.
It had taken every ounce of her poise not to react when he told her, with equal casualness, that there would be no raid. The prisoner’s trial had been held and he was being transferred to an American prison to serve his sentence.
Sheila was back to square one and her every move seemed blocked. There was no way out. And there was no one to help her.
The last note of the guitar faded into silence, filling the room with pregnant stillness. An irresistible force compelled Sheila to look over her shoulder. Her pulse leaped at the smouldering darkness in Ráfaga’s narrowed, watchful gaze. She felt the strongest urge to go to him, not to plead for her release but to experience the searing fire of his embrace.
It was always like this. The power he had over her body was disturbing. Each time he took her. Sheila rediscovered the pure ecstasy of his possession. Ráfaga had totally mastered her senses; he could lift her to heights of passion she hadn’t known existed.
The guitar was set aside. With cat-like grace, Ráfaga rolled to his feet and crossed the space to where Sheila stood by the window. She became lost in the dark fires in his eyes. Although he wasn’t touching her, she could feel his seductive prowess. Strong, lean fingers curved around the soft flesh of her upper arms. Sheila felt her bones melt as he drew her against him. Her heart was hammering crazily against her rib cage.
Its erratic beat made a mockery of her thought to escape. She was in love with him. She probably had been for a long time.
Her heart was reminded of what he was, a leader of a band of desperadoes. He held her captive, used her as his woman without regard for her wishes. But Sheila knew all that. She had known it for a very long time, and it made no difference. The heart was never logical or wise.
His hand was pushing aside the collar of her blouse while his hard lips sought the sensitive spot on her shoulder. A delicious quiver danced over her skin when he found it. The inner struggle between what was wise and what was fact ended. This time love won as Sheila arched her spine to give him greater access to the area he was exploring.
Soon he was lifting her into his arms and carrying her into the bedroom. This time, when Sheila lay naked beside him, she held nothing back. In the sweetness of surrender, she found fulfillment for her love. Tomorrow was soon enough to dwell on the consequences of her emotional involvement. Tonight she gloried in the passionate fires of his possession.
But cold reason did come on wings of fear. Her last bastion of defense had been breached and Sheila was no longer heart-whole. She lived in terror he would discover how completely she was enthralled by him. There was no future for her love. Sheila knew she had to flee from Ráfaga while she still had the chance to forget him.
Ráfaga touched her arm and Sheila jumped, her widened eyes racing to him to see if he could tell what she had been thinking. A dark brow was quirked in mockery at the way she had recoiled so violently from his touch.
“You said you wished to ride this afternoon. Juan has brought the horses,” he told her in a voice dry with amusement.
“Good,” she said tightly.
But she was trembling badly. Sheila jammed her shaking hands deep in the pockets of her Levi’s to conceal them from Ráfaga’s alert gaze. She stepped carefully around him, avoiding unnecessary contact. She was living on the raw edge of her nerves. It couldn’t last long.
The roan mare whickered as Sheila approached, thrusting her blaze face forward to have her velvet nose stroked. Sheila obliged, the taut muscles around her lips relaxing into a smile.
“Hello to you, too, Arriba,” she murmured, watching the mare’s ears prick at the sound of her name. “Ready for a run, are you?”
Juan leaned from his saddle to hand Sheila the reins. Taking hold of the saddle horn, she put a foot into the stirrup and swung aboard before Ráfaga could offer any assistance. He took the reins to his bay from Juan and walked to the horse’s side to mount.
His hand closed around the saddle horn. Glancing over the cantle, Ráfaga saw Laredo striding toward them and waited. Sheila sensed the urgency in Laredo’s stride and listened curiously to the low exchange in Spanish between the two men.
After an impatient nod of agreement, Ráfaga stepped from the saddle, hitching the bay to the nearest post, before his gaze flicked to Sheila.
“I have something I must do,” he told her. “Ride with Juan. I will join you later.”
“Of course,” Sheila murmured. The smile she gave Juan was tremulous. Her stomach was twisted in knots. “Shall we go?”
“Sí.” He nodded with a wide smile and turned his horse toward the meadow w
here the horses and the small herd of cattle grazed.
Sheila clicked to Arriba and the roan mare followed, moving out eagerly. Aware of the dark pair of eyes watching her ride away, she rigidly kept her head facing front, refusing to look behind her, although she knew Ráfaga was expecting it. Juan kept his horse at a walk and Sheila didn’t attempt to hurry the pace.
“The señora is troubled about something, no?” His heavily accented voice was gentle with concern as he studied her strained face.
“No. No, of course not.” She repeated the second denial more forcefully and touched a heel to send the roan cantering across the meadow.
Cows trotted out of her path in irritation. A calf kicked up its heels and raced away, its tail high in the air. The long-legged mare had a reaching stride; even in a canter, the animal began outdistancing Juan’s slower, stockier mount. Sheila glanced over her shoulder, knowing he would soon urge his horse into a gallop if she got much farther ahead of him.
In previous carefree times, Sheila might have chided him for his horse’s slowness. Today she merely observed it with an absent look . . . at least her look was absent until she saw Juan’s horse stumble. A full stride later, it went down, tumbling forward.
Her startled eyes saw Juan kicking free of the saddle as the horse went heavily to the ground. Immediately, Sheila reined the mare in, spinning Arriba around to race back to her fallen companion. Juan was already up and walking when she reached him.
“Are you all right, Juan?” she asked anxiously.
“Sí.” His answer was absent as he urged his downed horse to stand.
With kicking, flailing legs, the panicked horse finally rose, his eyes flashing white, his head tossing nervously. The horse was shifting about, favoring its right front legs.
“He’s hurt,” she said, but Juan had already noticed and was running an exploring hand over its leg, crooning softly to the horse in Spanish to calm it down. “Is it very bad?”
“It is . . .”—Juan hesitated, frowning as he groped for the English word—”. . .—a bad sprain, I think.”
Sheila sighed deeply in relief. “That’s good. I was afraid for a moment—” She didn’t finish the sentence.
“I will have to take him back to the corral, señora,” he said, his expression apologizing that the ride had to end so soon.
“That’s all right, Juan. I underst——” She didn’t finish this sentence, either.
It flashed like a lightning bolt through her mind. This was just the chance she had been waiting for, her opportunity to escape. Juan’s horse was lamed. He couldn’t possibly stop Sheila or come after her.
Without giving herself a chance to think, she reined the mare in a half-circle, pointing her toward the sloping trail leading out of the canyon. There were tears in her eyes and she didn’t have the slightest idea where they had come from.
“Señora!” Juan called out to her in surprise. Her heels were dug into the mare’s sides, but she still had a tight hold on the bit. The roan plunged sideways, leaping and rearing, not knowing which command to obey. “Señora! Don’t go! No, señora!”
Her chin trembled as she glanced over her shoulder. She could see the desperate look of fear on Juan’s face. He ran toward her. She leaned forward in the saddle, letting Arriba take the bit as she whipped the trailing ends of the reins across the mare’s haunches.
“Come back!”
But Juan’s shouting voice was already fading. The mare was charging up the slope, bits of rock and dirt sent flying by driving hooves. Sheila looked back once near the top to see Juan running across the meadow to raise the alarm.
Through the pass, Sheila pointed the mare down the mountain and gave the roan her head. There was a faint trail through the thickly forested mountain, winding and twisting its way down. Sheila hugged closely to the mare’s neck, dodging and ducking the branches that tried to unseat her.
The obstacle course of tree trunks reduced the pace to a canter, the roan mare making fluid changes of leads with each curve of the trail. They seemed to go down forever. When the ground leveled out, the mare slowed to a trot, blowing hard, with nostrils flared wide to drink in the air.
Sheila’s impulse was to whip the horse into a gallop, knowing that Ráfaga would soon be coming after her. Common sense refused to let her do it. There was still a long way to go to reach any kind of civilization. She had to conserve the mare’s strength.
As she slowed Arriba to a walk, there was a reassuring spring to the roan’s reaching stride. In the mountain valley, Sheila turned south, taking the avenue of least resistance. To the east, there were more mountains to be crossed, which would mean a slower pace and drain the mare’s stamina. The valley stretched northward, but as far as Sheila knew, the land was rugged and barren and sparsely populated. South was the right choice. There were towns and cities, logging and mining camps in that direction. Besides, the valley floor was relatively level. It would give the fleetfooted roan a chance to use its speed to outdistance any pursuit.
Glancing over her shoulder, Sheila couldn’t see or hear anyone following her. Ráfaga’s image flashed in front of her mind’s eye and her heart constricted with longing. She shook her head to block out the image.
Sheila stroked the roan’s damp neck. They rode on, alternately cantering, trotting, and walking. Sheila had no idea how many miles they had traveled, nor how much time had gone by. The sun had begun its downward arc to the west. There were only a few daylight hours left.
Then something alerted Sheila. She turned to see half a dozen horses and riders galloping toward her at an angle. She recognized Ráfaga instantly. For a split second, she could only stare, unable to react.
Her heels dug into the roan’s flanks and the mare shot forward. In two leaping strides, the horse was galloping. Ahead, Sheila saw a long and very level stretch of ground. If she could reach that, she knew the fleet-footed mare would leave the riders behind.
But Ráfaga must have already seen it and made the same deduction. He wasn’t underestimating the speed of Sheila’s mount. They were riding hard at an angle to cut her off before she reached the level area. It was too late to wish she had seen them a minute sooner.
Leaning forward in the saddle, she buried her face in the horse’s flying mane. Sheila felt the mare flatten out, as if the animal sensed the desperate need of its rider for greater speed. Every muscle in the mare was straining, driving to win the dash for freedom.
Sheila tipped her head to the side, looking through the blur of the light mane to see how close the riders were. She saw them, still some distance away, the angle widening.
“We’re going to make it, Arriba!” she cried exultantly. “We’re going to make it!”
There was no possibility that Ráfaga could intercept her before they reached the flat stretch of ground. Pain stabbed her chest. For a second, Sheila wanted him to catch her. She wanted him to take her back to the canyon. But she didn’t check the mare’s pace in that moment of weakness.
As she and Arriba raced past the invisible line that gave them victory, Sheila saw Ráfaga rein in his horse, admitting defeat. She glimpsed the bay’s plunging and rearing movements as it slid to a stop. Then she looked quickly away. She remained low in the saddle, crouched over the mare’s neck, but her hands were no longer urging the mare to top speed. Still, the roan didn’t slacken its stride.
Simultaneously, an explosion ripped through the air and the mare staggered, breaking its stride. The horse tried to recover, laboring to get its balance. Stunned, Sheila tried to help, tugging at the reins to bring the mare’s head up and get its legs beneath it.
But it was too late. The mare was tumbling to the ground. Sheila barely had time to kick her feet free of the stirrups and push out of the saddle. She went flying through the air. Then everything went black.
When she opened her eyes, Ráfaga’s face glowered above hers. For a dazed moment, Sheila didn’t know where she was or what had happened. She tried to move and pain shot through her head.
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“You were a fool to try to escape,” he snarled, his mouth thinning.
Sheila closed her eyes. “I know,” she agreed with a tiny sob.
There was the sting of tears in her eyes. She didn’t know if she wanted to cry because she had failed in caught up with her. She was a fool for many reasons. her attempt to get away or because she was glad he had “Do you have pain?” he demanded roughly. “Yes,” Sheila moaned, her lungs burning with the effort.
“Where?” There was still no compassion in his tone, only anger.
“My head.” She tried to raise a shaking hand to touch the place and found a million other places that hurt. “Everywhere,” she gasped.
“Lie still,” Ráfaga ordered.
Despite his anger, his touch was amazingly gentle as his hands explored for specific injuries. Sheila took comfort from that. The numbness was beginning to wear off. Except for the ache in her head, she didn’t think she was seriously hurt anywhere else, just one big bruise from the fall.
Ráfaga reached the same conclusion. “There is nothing broken.”
“Arriba—” Sheila started to ask the condition of her valiant mare, but Ráfaga was slipping an arm beneath her shoulders to help her to her feet.
Her bruised body protested and Sheila had to concentrate on making her muscles obey. His arm stayed around her in support as she wavered unsteadily. Her gaze was caught by a large, roan-colored object lying motionless on the ground. It was Arriba, stripped of saddle and bridle, inert in death.
With a stifled cry, Sheila staggered to the mare, falling to her knees beside the dead horse. Her disbelieving hand touched the long neck, the dampness of sweat clinging to the horse’s hair. The body was still warm, but no longer pulsing with life. She didn’t know exactly when she saw the hole and recognized its cause.
Sheila glared accusingly at Ráfaga, mindless of the pain spinning through her head. “You killed her! You shot her!” Sheila’s voice broke as Ráfaga loomed above her.
He reached down and hauled Sheila to her feet. “Did you think I would let you get away?”
