Free Touch the Wind by Janet Dailey Page B

discovered. He was much taller and broader than she had first thought. He moved with the supple grace of an animal, a predatory beast. The fathomless dark eyes never left Sheila’s face, mesmerizing her almost to the point where she couldn’t have run if she tried.
    Stopping in front of her, he shook out a serape. He lifted it above her, pulling the slashed opening over her head. He tucked the end through the circle of her arms, drawing her hands and arms to the outside of the coarse fabric.
    His low-pitched voice said something to her in Spanish, a mocking inflection in the quiet tone. The blood was racing hotly through her veins, her nerves raw and stretched taut at the sensation of danger in his nearness.
    The loop of the lariat was drawn over her head. Her heart stopped in terror as the rope brushed the side of her neck, but he pulled it down around her shoulders.
    “What are you going to do to me?” Sheila gasped, unable to bear the suspense any longer.
    He said nothing, not that she would have understood his answer if he had given it. Fear quivered through her as she tried to guess his intention. When the loop circled her waist, he pulled it tight, the rope acting as a belt to hold the narrow width of the serape against her body.
    Her questioning eyes left the impenetrable mask to seek the lone man who could explain. “Why is he doing this?” she asked the American.
    “You were so anxious to run,” came the indifferent reply, “that he’s decided to oblige your desire for some exercise.”
    Her head jerked back to the glittering pair of ebony eyes. Holding the coiled rope, he turned and walked back to mount his horse. He sat for a motionless instant in the saddle gazing at Sheila’s pale face. Laying the rein alongside the horse’s neck, he started forward at a walk. The rope began to stretch taut. Sheila had the choice of walking at the end of it or being dragged.
    Either one was preferable to the repellent touch of Brad’s killer, but Sheila chose to walk. Her tied hands clasped the length of the lariat tugging her along, using it for balance.
    A mile, two miles, more. Her legs were leaden weights to be dragged over the rough, uneven ground. Dust choked the air she had to breathe, kicked up by the horse and rider she followed. Perspiration made her hair cling to her neck. Her face was streaked with the mixing of dirt and rivulets of sweat.
    She pushed herself onward, beyond what she had thought was the limit of her endurance, stumbling more often as each step jarred her teeth. She was driven onby hatred for the wide-shouldered man who held the rope.
    Tripping over a clump of grass, Sheila fell to her knees. The rope pulled her over the rough ground. A muffled cry of pain was torn from her lips as she was dragged nearly the length of her body before the rope went slack.
    Struggling, she managed to get to her knees, too exhausted to stand. Sobbing with her bone-aching tiredness, Sheila sat on her heels. Her lungs felt as if they would burst before she ever recovered her breath. A threatening blackness reeled in front of her eyes. Any moment she expected to feel the tug of the rope, but she didn’t care. She wouldn’t take another step.
    A pair of dusty boots came into view of her blurred vision. Wearily, Sheila raised her head. It lolled weakly to the side. The masculine, beard-shadowed features of her tormentor swam before her glazed eyes.
    He towered above her, a round, canvas-covered canteen in his hand. Unscrewing the lid, he offered it to her. Her throat was rasping-dry, her mouth woolly, and her lips parched and swollen.
    Sheila stared at the canteen for a long moment. Raising her gaze to the lean, hard face, she searched her mouth for a tiny drop of saliva and tried to spit. It was a puny gesture of hatred.
    He stared at her silently, then shrugged and lifted the canteen to his lips. The gurgle of liquid in the container tormented Sheila to near madness. Her thirsty body screamed at the moistness of