Free Touch the Wind by Janet Dailey Page A

drew away, straining backward over his arm to elude his lecherous hands. The action thrust the fullness of her breasts against the thin material. His hand covered the rounded swell of one breast.
    “Get your hands off me!” Sheila cursed angrily. “You filthy, ugly beast!”
    He laughed again and punishingly squeezed her breast. Two riders rode closer to watch, offering words of encouragement and snide suggestions to the man theycalled Juan. Sheila kicked at his leg, her feet flailing in the air in an effort to find their target. The blows landed on the stirrup leather of the horse.
    His fingers moved to the buttoned front of her blouse, tugging at it impatiently until the button threads ripped. As her ripe breasts were revealed, he shouted to those looking on, as if showing off the richness of his prize.
    Shamed and degraded beyond description. Sheila now struggled even more wildly than before. His exploring hands investigated his prize, his callused finger roughly caressing her flesh until Sheila gagged in revulsion.
    “My father won’t pay you a cent!” she choked in humiliation. “Not a cent! Do you hear?” She screamed her warning to the man riding at the front and the American at his side.
    The horse pranced sideways beneath the struggling pair on his back, tossing its head and snorting nervously. Sheila realized there would be no rescue. She had been given to this beast masquerading as a man, and she knew she would rather die than be used again.
    The horse skittered again in frightened agitation. There was only one way to escape the repulsive hands, and Sheila began aiming the blows of her feet to the horse’s shoulders and neck. Whinnying its alarm at the attack, the horse half-reared, checked by the sudden sawing of the reins and the punishing jab of a spur. But Sheila kept kicking, panting, and sobbing with determination to save herself.
    The horse threatened to bolt in panic. It was requiring all of the rider’s skill to hold the animal in. With the others laughing at his predicament, Sheila could see the mottled red of rage growing in his face.
    Her heel hooked one taut rein. She kicked at it, jerking the horse’s head around. Its nervously shifting hooves tried to turn with the action, but the sudden change of direction was impossible. Sheila felt the horse’s legs buckling before it fell heavily to the ground. She twisted loose from the imprisoning arm as they fell and staggered free of the horse’s flailing hooves.
    Off balance, Sheila stumbled forward, trying to run.She had barely covered ten feet when she heard the heavy footsteps behind her. A hand grabbed her elbow and spun her around. Her feet went out from under her and she fell to the ground. Brad’s murderer stood above her, his broad features ugly with the look of revenge. Two riders reined their horses to a stop on either side of Sheila and dismounted.
    Scooting backward, Sheila’s frightened eyes never left the man called Juan. She scrambled to her feet while he moved menacingly toward her. Instantly, the other two men moved in, grabbing her arms to hold her. She kicked wildly, biting at their hands.
    Unexpectedly, she was released. Sheila didn’t question why; she just turned to run again. During her struggles the rest of the riders had formed a circle around her.
    Breathing heavily from her panicked exertions, Sheila pivoted back, wary and on guard, not knowing what to expect next. Her gaze fastened on the lean-faced man who commanded the group, his expression impassive and aloof. His shuttered black eyes slid to her heaving breasts, her creamy-silk blouse hanging open. Immediately, her arms lifted to cover herself.
    The slashing line of his mouth quirked at the defensive action that came too late to conceal what all eyes had seen. Dismounting, he untied something from his saddle. It looked like a blanket and a lariat. Sheila quailed inwardly, but she refused to give ground as he walked toward her.
    His leanness was deceptive, she