Touch the Wind by Janet Dailey Page A

disinterestedly inspected the room.
    A primitive kitchen and eating area occupied half of the room. She supposed the crude furniture in the nearest half depicted a living room. An arched opening in one wall led into a hallway, suggesting rooms beyond.
    A familiar Spanish voice spoke behind Sheila. She turned as Laredo’s arm dropped from her back to meet the shuttered dark eyes of her captor. Cold metal slid between her wrists and she glanced down as Laredo cut the rope that bound her hands.
    A word of thanks started to form on her lips until she remembered what Laredo had told her before. He was only following orders. So she flexed her stiff fingers and said nothing. Sheathing his knife, Laredo walked to the door.
    “Where are you going?” she asked with a slight toss of her head, trying not to show her apprehension at being left alone with the renegade leader.
    Laredo paused, glancing from Sheila to his boss, then back again to her. “To take care of the horses.”
    He walked out and her gaze ricocheted from the pair of glinting, dark eyes. She had the uncanny sensation that he was reading her mind and pivoted away. Her spine prickled with awareness. Sheila wasn’t surprised when she heard him speak only a foot behind her.
    “
Señora
.” The low, commanding tone was accompanied by a hand appearing alongside of her to motion her toward the hallway.
    It branched into two rooms. He indicated with a gesture for Sheila to enter the last room. Surveying it, she guessed it was to be her new prison. The monk-like cell consisted of an uncomfortable-looking cot, a crude dresser with a basin and water urn on top of it, and a chair. A coarsely woven curtain in a dull orange material hung at the lone window.
    Her sweeping gaze stopped at the rectangular mirror hanging above the dresser. Sheila stared at her reflection in shock. She looked like a haggard tramp. Her face was streaked with grime and sweat. Her hair was matted and straggly, its glossy sheen hidden beneath clotting layers of dust. The dusty serape covering her made her figure seem shapeless.
    Unconsciously, Sheila touched a hand to her cheek, as if to be certain the reflection she saw really belongedto her. She felt the grit that coated her usually creamy-smooth complexion. It awakened the rest of her senses to the filth that soiled the rest of her body and the stench of perspiration and horse odor that clung to her skin and clothes. She barely looked human and turned from the mirror in distaste.
    “Is there somewhere I can clean up?” Sheila asked quickly.
    Not a flicker of understanding crossed the carved mask of his features. Sheila sighed impatiently, wondering how she was going to get her request through to him.
    “I want to wash. Do you understand?” She rubbed her hands together in a cleansing gesture. “Wash. Take a bath.”
    He studied her miming action and walked to the dresser to pour water from the urn into the basin. A wave of his hand indicated Sheila was to use it to wash.
    “No. No.” She shook her head determinedly. “Look,
Señor
—whatever your name is.” She hesitated before filling in the blank with a disinterested shrug.
    “Ráfaga,” he interrupted blandly. Not a whisper of emotion was evident in the lean, masculine face or the flat, black eyes.
    Sheila stared at him curiously, not certain if he had actually furnished his name. Considering the way Laredo had avoided giving it, she had almost decided it was going to remain a secret.
    “Señor Ráfaga?” she repeated to determine if it was his name. There was a faint slightly arrogant inclination of his head in acknowledgment. “Señor Ráfaga.” Sheila began again, “I don’t want to just wash my hands.” She again repeated the rubbing gesture. “I want to wash all over—my hair, my clothes, all over. Do you understand?”
    His expression was inscrutable. Surely he could understand what she meant, Sheila thought in irritation. She wondered if he wasn’t deliberately being