Authors: Nan Ryan
Thank goodness he was there waiting. They could leave immediately for the ranch.
Amy eagerly crossed the street and circled around behind the buckboard. She was just about to call his name when the seat dipped under his moving weight and he swung down to the sidewalk directly in front of her.
To her stunned surprise, Amy found she was not looking at the kindly, one-eyed Pedrico Valdez. The dark, chiseled face before her had two eyes, both of gleaming obsidian. And a long white scar slashing down the left cheek, a scar that was puckering from the lifting of wide, sensuous lips into a devilish smile.
El Capitán.
H
IS HEAD COCKED TO
one side, he stood there, handsome as the devil, his habitual air of egotism as offensive as ever. He was quite obviously enjoying her look of startled surprise and discomfort. Was insolently waiting for her angry protest at his presence. Eagerly anticipated watching her make a spectacle of herself.
Well, the cocksure bastard could wait until hell froze over! She
was
a fool, of that she was certain. But she’d be damned if the entire population of Sundown would perceive her as such.
After a split second of astonishment, Amy regained her self-control. Like a great stage actress performing before her most critical audience, she stood before him looking cool, unruffled, even pleased.
Tilting her face up to his, she favored him with one of her most winning smiles and said, “Ah, Capitán. How kind of you to wait all this time. I hope you haven’t been too uncomfortable out here in this warm April sunshine.”
Not waiting for a reply, she calmly brushed past him toward the buckboard’s front seat.
“Not at all,” came his deep, resonant voice.
And before she could climb up into the buckboard, his strong fingers encircled her waist. He easily lifted her up onto the high padded seat, his hands remaining on her waist for one heartbeat too long.
Amy was keenly conscious of people watching them, so she smiled serenely, settled her long skirts about her feet, and waited as her tall tormentor unhurriedly circled the buckboard, then swung up into the seat beside her, purposely moving too close to her. So close his shoulder and hip were touching hers. When he allowed his right knee to fall against hers, she released a quick breath but did not flinch.
All eyes remained on them as El Capitán unwrapped the long reins from around the brake handle and coaxed the team forward. Her head throbbing, her stomach afire, Amy continued to smile and to nod to old friends and acquaintances. And wondered miserably whether the entire community of Sundown was blind to the true dark nature of El Capitán Quintano. Clearly he was an idolized hero in his own hometown. No one suspected he was a cold, cruel conqueror who held her—even this very minute—against her will.
He drew open looks of approval and admiration from old and young alike, and Amy, casting stolen glances at him, found it remarkable that the dark chiseled face that loomed so menacingly above her own each lust-filled night appeared decidedly less hard, less evil now as he smiled disarmingly and nodded to the people lining the streets.
For a brief instant there was that engaging boyish quality that had been so devastatingly appealing years ago.
Amy was not fooled.
If she wore a mask of agreeableness and repose, so did he. These people thought they knew Luiz Quintano. They didn’t. Only she knew the real El Capitán, a man so cold and heartless she felt a chill skip up her spine from the dreaded knowledge that she was to be alone with him—all the way back to Orilla.
Amy was never sure whose smile vanished first, hers or his. All she knew was when finally they reached the edge of town and she scooted as far from him as possible, turning angrily to confront him, his face had lost any illusion of affability.
Amy nervously licked her lips and ran her tongue under her teeth. “What have you done with Pedrico?”
His piercing black eyes settling on her mouth he said, “Sent him home. He’s no longer a young man. You stayed a long time in town; the desert already grows hot.” His hooded gaze returned to the road.
“Everything you say is true. And I’ll supply you with some further truths.” Amy’s chin lifted, but her voice remained level. “Pedrico will get no younger. The desert will get no cooler. And I will continue to tarry in Sundown—or anywhere else I choose—for as long as I please.”
Amy quickly curled her fingers around the edge of the seat to brace herself against what she knew would come. His dark head would snap around and he’d fix her with those mean black eyes and tell her she would do just as she was ordered.
But he didn’t.
El Capitán never behaved as Amy anticipated.
For a long moment he was silent, his attention seemingly on the road ahead. Finally Amy saw the almost imperceptible lifting of his wide shoulders, and he said, “Since you know most everything, then I’m confident you’re aware the Apaches are again riding down out of the hills and causing mischief.”
Slowly he turned to her. His eyelashes swept low over surprisingly gentle eyes, and he asked, his tone as tender as his eyes, “Have you any idea what the Apaches would do to a woman like you should they catch you alone?”
It was the first time Amy had seen even the slightest trace of sensitivity in the impervious commander. It caused her heart to race with excitement.
She wasted no time in stinging him with a hateful barb. “The same thing you do to me every night?”
A curtain of coldness immediately dropped over his handsome face and any residue of gentleness was swept away by it. At once all was deathly still and quiet in the afternoon heat, the steady
clip-clop
of the horses’ hooves the only sound in the strained silence.
Amy automatically inched farther away from him, far enough that her right arm was no longer beneath the big umbrella shading the seat.
His silence unnerved her. She would have much preferred that he shout and threaten like a normal man provoked. His cold, mute rage was far more menacing, and Amy cowered under the silent power of it.
When finally he spoke it so startled Amy, she jumped.
Without turning to look at her, he said quietly, “The danger from Apaches is the reason I object to you riding out alone. I need not remind you of the atrocities for which they’re famous.”
Off balance as always when she was with him, Amy nodded and said, “No. I understand.”
She waited for him to say more, but he did not. They rode on in silence, a summer-warm breeze suddenly stirring, blowing from out of the west. Dust devils danced across the desert floor and Amy, frowning, bowed her head against the gusts of wind and sand that stung her face.
El Capitán paid no attention to the blowing dust. Effortlessly controlling the skittish horses, he was presented with the opportunity to study the unhappy woman seated beside him. From beneath dark lashes he did just that.
He searched for defects—for anything that would prove that this woman was not the girl he had dreamed of for years—but there were none. Her golden hair, though restrained now in a white crocheted snood, was as long and silky as ever. Her pale skin was still smooth, young, and glorious to touch. Her high, intelligent brow gave her a look of haughty aloofness. Most appealing. Her eyes—those magnificent sky-blue eyes—still flashed and signaled her eruptible passions. The mouth was a perfect Cupid’s bow of such sweetly curving sensuality she looked, constantly, as if she needed to be soundly kissed.
His narrowed, scrutinizing gaze drifted down to her delicate, white throat and lower, to her firm, full breasts pressing insistently against the snug bodice of her clean, starched, but slightly faded cotton dress. Her waist was trim. Beneath the full skirts, her flaring hips and pale thighs were nothing short of perfection.
He forced his eyes back on the road.
She was breathtakingly beautiful.
He told himself he was glad. More than delighted to find her still so temptingly lovely. He could now enjoy her beauty as never before, since he no longer cared. Since she meant nothing to him.
Until he was summoned back into battle, he could possess her whenever he chose. Could undress her at will and leisurely admire her naked golden charms. Could relish their hours of heated lovemaking for exactly what they were: gratifying physical release. Sweet, meaningless diversion.
And always, regardless of how intense the joy, the ecstasy would involve only his body; it would never touch his heart. Never. And when it came time to ride away, she’d be cast aside and quickly forgotten, just as she’d forgotten him that last summer of his youth.
After what seemed a lifetime to Amy, she realized they were finally back on Orilla land. But they were not headed for the hacienda. They were moving steadily upward over the sloping land toward the northeast. She turned and gave El Capitán a questioning look and opened her mouth to speak. Those icy black eyes kept her from saying anything.
The buckboard topped a gentle rise and Amy saw dozens of El Capitán’s men working out in the hot sunshine. Their tunics and shirts cast aside, their bare, brown backs gleaming with sweat, they were vigorously shoveling, digging in the long-unused dirt-and debris-filled canal.
The buckboard rolled past the working men who shouted and called to them. El Capitán pulled up on the reins, stepped down, and walked over to speak briefly with his men. When he returned, Amy, refusing to ask what the troopers were doing, said, “Will you take me home now?”
“Not quite yet,” he replied. “First we will go to the river.”
“The river?” Amy started shaking her head. He was taking her to the river! To the dead, dried-up Puesta del Sol! “No!” she said forcefully, her high brow knit. “I do
not
want to go to the river. There’s nothing there. The river’s been dry for years. Take me home.”
“You’ll be home by sunset.” And on he drove.
The jostling buckboard bumped on over the rough, arid ground, steadily climbing toward the river. Angry and tired, Amy held on to the seat and gritted her teeth. Every time his hard shoulder bumped hers or she was jiggled and bounced against him, she grew more exasperated.
She wanted to go home. She wanted to get away from El Capitán. She was hot and thirsty and miserable.
But she forgot her misery as the buckboard rolled to a dusty stop on the flat rocky bank of the river. A sound—familiar, yet one she’d not heard for years—drew her attention. The frown of annoyance leaving her face, Amy’s mouth fell open and she turned her head to listen.
Water!
The sound of rushing water. Falling from above and splashing into a pool below.
El Capitán lifted Amy down from the buckboard. She clung to his hard biceps and gave him a wide, questioning look. He remained silent. He set her on her feet and released her. Amy stood, staring at him.
Suddenly she whirled about, lifted her skirts, and ran toward the streambed, the blood starting to beat in her ears, her heart thumping against her ribs.
In seconds she stood on the smooth flat riverbank, her lips parted in awe, her unbelieving eyes lifted high above to where roaring, rushing water spilled over the jutting boulders and cascaded into the river below. A river that was again flowing with cold, clear water.
Amy’s hands went to her hot cheeks. She shook her head, closed her eyes, opened them, and still she saw the majestic waterfall, the limpid running river.
“But how …?” Wildly she spun around and bumped squarely into the tall, hard frame of El Capitán. The first thing her eyes fell on was the glittering gold Sun Stone resting on his bronzed chest. A shiver raced through her. Her knees turned to jelly and she felt she might fall. His strong hands came up to steady her. Slowly her wondering eyes lifted to meet his.
His answer was to take one of her cold, soft hands and bring it up inside his shirt. He placed the splayed fingers directly atop the Sun Stone. Then his own hand fell away.
Amy swallowed hard.
Beneath her palm was the hard, precious metal of the Sun Stone. And under her sensitive fingertips was the hot, smooth flesh and thundering heartbeat of its enigmatic owner.
The Sun God.
I
T WAS EARLY MORNING.
Dawn was creeping over the Chihuahuan desert.
Luiz Quintano, alone out on the far northern reaches of the ranch, sat unmoving, astride his saddleless black stallion, Noche. His unblinking gaze sweeping over the vast expanse of land, Luiz felt his bare chest swell with pride, his heart thump against his ribs.
Orilla.
His Orilla.
The Orilla he had missed so desperately all those empty years away from its arid, desolate, glorious beauty. Orilla with its sagebrush rangelands and stark furnace deserts and cool distant mountains and blue sky that wrapped itself around him.
And its pervasive silence broken only by the moan of the desert winds. Sweet solitude; a soothing balm for the troubled soul.
Luiz took a deep, long breath of the dry, clear air.
How many times had he dreamed of being back here in this, his native land. How many restless nights had he paced the floor in crowded, noisy cities, unable to breathe, unable to sleep, longing for the quiet of his desert home. How many days had he spent in thankless labor or tedious idleness, yearning to be atop a swift mount, herding a sea of bawling longhorns toward the branding fires of Orilla’s holding pens. How many stifling afternoons had he envisioned plunging into the cold, clear waters of Puesta del Sol.
While the eerie gray light of a soon-to-rise sun bathed the endless acreage of his beloved Orilla, Luiz, for the moment, was again the young, happy boy he had been. The last decade had never happened. He was again seventeen and the best horseman on Orilla.
A broad smile appearing on his dark, chiseled face, Luiz suddenly slapped his stallion’s withers and said loudly, “How about it, Noche? Think I can still do it?”
The big black neighed loudly and danced in place, and Luiz began to laugh. “The hell you say,” he shouted.
And then, with easy agility and complete self-confidence, Luiz leapt to his feet to stand atop the mount’s bare, glistening back. Making certain his moccasins were placed in exactly the right position to ensure good balance, the breechcloth-clad Luiz bent his knees a couple of times, then carefully sprang up and down until he was comfortable with his stance.