Free Touch the Wind by Janet Dailey

Sheila from the pinning gaze as his attention was directed elsewhere. Unconsciously, she had tensed in those brief seconds, and now she felt the constricted muscles begin to relax. Her gaze swung to the cause of her release.
    The Mexican with the yellowed teeth, the one who had killed Brad, was astride his horse in the center of the half-circle of mounted riders. A stream of demanding Spanish was issued to the man who seconds ago had chilled Sheila with a look. The Mexican’s horse moved restlessly beneath him, reacting to his rider’s anger.
    He gestured to Sheila and brought his hand back topossessively tap his chest. At that instant, Sheila realized he had positioned his horse to block the American from returning to her. Although she couldn’t understand what he said, his purpose was clear. He was claiming her as his property.
    Cold fear raced down her spine. Surely they wouldn’t make her ride with the man who had murdered Brad! her mind cried in terror. At least the American had retained a streak of compassion.
    Her widened eyes sought the carved face of the leader. The decision was obviously his. He didn’t even look at her as he gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulders and reined his horse away from the circle. With a triumphant shout, the Mexican spurred his horse toward Sheila.
    He reined the horse in beside her, pulling savagely on the bit. Her gaze darted to the American, hoping he would protest, but there wasn’t a flicker of opposition on his face. The arm that circled her waist snapped the grip of paralysis.
    “No! No!” Sheila was dragged, kicking and screaming, from the saddle.
    Her cries went unheeded as she was drawn sideways across the saddle. The iron band of his arm tightened around her waist, nearly squeezing Sheila in half. He touched his spurs to the flank of the horse. It bounded forward, throwing Sheila against the man’s chest. With each stride of the horse, the saddle horn poked her thigh.
    The murderer laughed at her struggles, knowing, as Sheila did, that she couldn’t writhe free and was wasting her energy trying. Catching back a sob of frustration and self-pity, she quit fighting and stiffly held her body rigid across his lap.
    The horse had slowed to a jarring trot. Her sullen, accusing eyes swept the band that had begun its exodus from the crime scene. Two stragglers were cantering to rejoin the loosely gathered group. The gold fire in her eyes flashed their resentment when the blue-eyed Americanloped by. He didn’t even glance at her as he guided his horse to the leader’s side.
    Her tied hands and the sidesaddle position forced Sheila to rely on the support of the man’s arm and chest. Her shoulder rubbed against his chest, the coarse weave of his poncho scratching through the silken material of her blouse. His breath was foul and Sheila turned her head to avoid inhaling it.
    Saddle leather creaked as the band put distance between themselves and the dirt road. Their route through the rugged terrain paralleled the looming mountain range. An invisible command seemed to pass through the group. Almost simultaneously they all slowed their horses to a walk.
    The saddle horn applied steady pressure, no longer jabbing her thigh. The man said something to her in Spanish, his tone low and suggestive, his hot breath fanning her face. Sheila flicked him a poisonous glance and tensed as she saw his gleaming eyes looking downward.
    Her hunched position against his chest had caused the buttoned front of her blouse to billow out while her arms pushed her breasts together to form a deep cleavage. Sheila raised her forearms to let her tied wrists protectively hide her plunging front.
    “No, no, señora,”
he denied with a leering smile and grabbed the rope to pull her hands down.
    Twisting in the saddle, he wedged his elbow between her wrists, applying pressure to the knot and holding her arms away. At the first brush of his fingers on the satin-smooth material outlining her breasts, Sheila