Touch the Wind by Janet Dailey

She wanted to cower beneath the blanket, but she couldn’t take her eyes away from the towering man watching her. Laredo walked away and returned within seconds to set his saddle next to Sheila. Shaking out his blanket, he lay down on the ground beside her andpulled it over him, tipping his hat forward to rest his head on the saddle.
    “Get some rest while you can, Mrs. Townsend. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow,” Laredo said coldly. “Someone will be on guard all night, and I sleep very light.”
    Catching back a defeated sob, Sheila watched the tall figure carry their cups and dishes to the fire and return to stand a few feet away in the darkness. A match flared, cupped by a pair of hands to a cigarette. Then she couldn’t make out his shape at all, but she knew he was there, her new devil-master.
    There was no sensation of safety or relief that Laredo was merely lying beside her and not forcing himself on her. She was still quivering from the punishing arms that had held her. Closing her eyes, she doubted if sleep would come.
    The knotted rope irritated the raw skin of her wrists. Beneath her, the hard ground poked at her sore, aching muscles. Sheila caught the scent of burning tobacco. Survive, she thought, and she wanted to laugh.

Chapter 7
    Her knees were quivering from gripping the horse’s flanks. The stiff leather of the saddle skirt had rubbed sore spots on her inner thighs. Sheila’s tied hands no longer had the strength to hold onto the cantle for balance. She longed to rest her head on Laredo’s broad back, knowing it would bounce like a ball if she tried. The dark leader was beside them. He’d been in the saddle all day, yet he looked fresh and alert, not bone-tired and half-deadened with pain, as Sheila was. Her gaze hurled gold-tipped daggers at the seemingly indefatigable man.
    The ground rose sharply and Sheila had to concentrate her energies on staying astride the horse and not sliding off its rump. Rising before dawn, they had reached the mountains shortly after first light.
    Following no trail that Sheila could discern, the riders had snaked up mountains where it seemed only a mountain goat would go, then down through valleys and mountain passes and up again.
    It appeared they were solely guided by their leader’sinstinct. In a moment of bitter hatred and resentment, Sheila hoped he was lost. The feeling didn’t last long as she started to slip back on the horse’s haunches.
    “Help!” Sheila gasped.
    Laredo reached an arm behind him to pull her back. It stayed half around her waist for support as the horse began galloping to the top of a steep rise. Sheila sagged against it. Atop a narrow ridge, the horse again resumed its trotting pace.
    “Can’t we stop and rest?” Sheila protested wearily. “Or at least slow down?”
    “Hang on. We’re almost there,” he promised without sympathy.
    “Where is that? Hell?”
    It seemed an eternity later that they turned to ride through a mountain corridor. Twisted, stunted brush clung tenaciously to the rocky walls closing in on the riders. The horse quickened its stride, pulling at the bit as it sighted home.
    Looking over Laredo’s shoulder, Sheila tried to catch a glimpse of their destination. The mountain corridor emptied into a small, narrow canyon carved deep in the bowels of the Sierra Madre range. A visible trail wound down to the canyon floor, where loosely clustered adobe huts dotted one side of the canyon.
    It was in front of one of these that Laredo reined in the horse. Swinging a leg over the saddle horn, he stepped to the ground. Sheila swayed into the arms that reached to lift her down. Absently, she noted the other riders were heading off to other adobe structures, dimly hearing cries of greeting and figures hurrying to meet the returning band.
    Laredo’s arm stayed in a supporting curve around the back of her rib cage as he escorted her into the shadowed interior of the adobe building. They paused inside and Sheila