Page 18 of Sweet Savage Love

18

T hey had been riding forever! Aching in every bone of her body, half-dazed with weariness, Ginny was sure of it. Night had fallen a long time ago, and the horses still plodded on, though more slowly now than they had at the beginning. She had no idea where they were or where they were heading, and it had, for the moment, ceased to matter. It was cold, and her clothes, soaked through from stumbling waist or neck-deep through mountain streams, clung soddenly to her shivering body. They were somewhere in the mountains, she knew that much, and already a few of the men, each carrying their share of the gold, had ridden off in separate directions.

She had wondered, in the beginning, if they were really bandits, or followers of the deposed President Juarez. She had tried to count heads, to remember how many of them there were—she had even made an attempt to notice in what direction they were travelling. But now it didn’t matter, and had ceased to matter a long time ago, when it had first begun getting dark, and the gnarled and twisted trees and bushes that grew here had begun to look like crouching animals in the half-light.

Dear God, when would they stop? The utter exhaustion of mind and body that seized her now made Ginny feel that she might faint. She had struggled and kicked earlier, trying to throw herself off the horse until Steve Morgan, his face set and cold had slapped her twice across the face, his carefully calculated blows swinging her head back and forth, making it reel. He’d forced her to ride in the saddle before him, her wrists still tied behind her back—and when he’d reduced her to helpless, angry sobs he’d held his rifle across her body, under her breasts, tightening it against her whenever she attempted to struggle again so that she felt her breath cut off.

Now, she slumped wearily and dispiritedly against him, uncaring; even vaguely thankful that he’d thrown his serape over her shoulders for warmth.

Without knowing it, Ginny began to whimper softly, like a wounded animal. Why didn’t they stop? Would they ever stop?

It seemed hours later when they finally made camp, in the shadow of an enormous misshapen boulder that seemed to loom over them like a prehistoric monster, forming a natural cave that gave partial shelter from the wind.

Steve Morgan had to carry her off the horse and prop her up against the rocky wall, for she was too stiff to move or to offer any resistance.

Working silently with their knives, the men cut branches that they tied swiftly together, interlacing other branches to form a makeshift shelter. They fed the horses from nosebags tied over their heads, speaking softly to them and rubbing their sweaty coats dry with bunches of grass. Obviously, there were to be no fires built tonight.

Ginny had begun to shiver uncontrollably, her teeth chattering from cold and exhaustion. Morgan brought a blanket from his saddlebag and put it around her, but she could not stop shaking. Squatting beside her, he cut her wrists free and began to chafe them roughly. Had she the strength, she would have pulled away from him, but as it was, she was forced to endure his careless ministration, and the agony as her circulation, almost cut off by the tight rawhide strips they’d bound her with, began to be restored.

The men, talking softly among themselves, had begun to drink from their canteens and chew on strips of dried beef. Some of them produced bottles of pulque or tequila and drank thirstily. Somehow, even in her befuddled state, Ginny was left with the impression that they were used to this kind of travel—riding by night, building no fires to attract pursuers—what kind of men were they, and what was Steve doing with them?

Morgan offered her some jerky, but she shook her head sullenly.

“Better eat,” he advised her flatly. “It’s all you’ll get.” He swallowed deeply from his flask of tequila and held it out to her, but she turned her face away.

“You’re shivering with a chill,” he said impatiently, and then with harshness creeping into his voice, “you’ll be no use as a hostage when you’re dead of pneumonia!”

Brutally, he forced her head around with his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her face, and held the bottle against her mouth. Because in a minute he would have poured it forcibly down her throat, Ginny drank, choking and gagging on the raw, burning liquor. But he’d been right, in a few minutes, she felt almost revived, the tequila seeming to form a warm, glowing spot in her belly. He offered her some jerky again, and this time she took it, realizing suddenly that she was hungry.

The men were beginning to roll themselves up in blankets to sleep, unmindful of the rough ground they lay on.

Through dull eyes, Ginny saw Steve Morgan get up and stretch elaborately.

“You’d better try to get some sleep too—we’ll be riding again in about two hours.”

She was so tired that she scarcely understood what he had said. Two hours? It wasn’t possible—he must be crazy, like them, like anyone who would choose to live in this terrible, Godforsaken country!

Now he bent over her, tying her wrists again, but more loosely this time, and in front of her. There was no point in resisting, she had learned that already. She watched him spread a blanket on the ground, and then, quite calmly, he lay down beside her and pulled her down against him as he lay on his side. She began to struggle then, although her limbs felt weighted and strangely lifeless, but his arms held her too tightly and too closely, and after a while she stopped struggling and lay there stiffly. He chuckled softly.

“Body heat’s the best thing for keepin’ warm on a night like this,” he said tersely.

Ginny was silent, miserably aware of her own helplessness. He could do anything he wanted with her, anything, and she could not prevent it. The thought made her shiver with fear and a kind of terrified anticipation; but he did nothing—continuing to hold her until she felt warmth creep into her aching body at last and slept in spite of herself.

Slept only to be awakened in what felt like almost immediately. Jerked unceremoniously to her feet and deposited once more across his saddle. The deep night-blue of the sky lightened into the paler blue of dawn as they rode deeper into the mountains, sometimes along trails that seemed no more than narrow footpaths, clinging precariously to the edge of deep canyons into which Ginny dared not glance.

The sun came up to beat fiercely down on their heads, and one of the men, with a sidelong, grinning glance, produced a battered straw hat which Ginny accepted apathetically.

She lost track of direction and time, and even, she thought, of days. When they stopped it was only to water their horses and fill canteens from tiny mountain streams. They ate jerky, and she became used to the fiery taste of pulque and tequila. At least, because they seemed to accept her as Steve’s prisoner, there were no attempts to molest her—indeed the hardbitten Mexicans seemed even to have gained some admiration for her stoicism; not realizing that it was caused simply by her own utter exhaustion of mind and body that made her feel drained of all emotion, even fear. She heard them refer to her as “ la nina, ” the little one, and when her gown had begun to fall in rags about her, one of them, a slim youth who could have been no more than eighteen or nineteen, produced from his saddlebags a rather dirty pair of colzones, the loose trousers worn by Mexican peasants, and an equally loose camisa, or shirt. He gave them to Steve, with an apologetic shrug and a torrent of words in his own dialect, glaring at some of the other men who laughed and made ribald comments.

It was late afternoon, and since they had climbed higher into the mountains, growing chilly as well. The land was almost frighteningly wild and magnificent in its bleak loneliness. The day before, one of the men had shot a puma, using only a bow and arrow. They had grinned at Ginny’s expression of mingled fear and disgust, but had been surprised when later, she had refused to eat its meat.

Now, they had paused in their relentless, headlong flight to wherever they were going—this time on a small plateau thickly covered by pine and juniper trees.

Ginny had grown used to taking orders, but she hung back rebelliously in this instance when Steve began to lead her deeper into the grove of trees, amid the good-natured gibes and laughter of the others.

“I won’t—I won’t wear those—those disgusting garments!”

Angrily she bit back the rest of the words she had been about to utter, but he gave a short laugh that sounded more taunting than amused.

“Would you prefer to ride naked? Bare-breasted, like an Amazon warrior? I’m not saying that it would not be interesting for me, but my friends back there might find the temptation too great.” His voice changed, becoming curt, almost harsh. “Ginny, don’t waste time arguing with me. Or—do you want me to tear your clothes from you? As I recall, you did not make it too difficult for me to undress you, once.”

“Oh!” The color drained from her face and she took a backward step when she saw the look in his eyes. “Is nothing too low for you? Do you dare to remind me that—that you—”

“Don’t provoke me, Ginny!” His voice held a warning note that made her grow cold with fear. “And don’t pretend any sudden modesty. You’ve taken off your clothes for a man before. For me, and for Carl Hoskins, and no doubt for your French captain who called you his fiancée. Why do you continue to play your silly games with me?”

He had untied her wrists so that she could eat, and now Ginny found her fingers curling into her palms, aching with the desire to claw at his dark, mocking face. She had clawed at him before and he still bore the faint scars—now she wished she had taken his eyes out.

“Games?” she hissed at him in a fury, “do you think I could possibly feel anything but hate and loathing for you? I hate you, hate you, hate you, Steve Morgan! You sicken me. The thought of your touching me makes me ill! Yes, I’d rather be Carl’s mistress, or Michel’s, or the mistress of any other man whom I chose myself, rather than have you touch me again, you—you dirty half-breed dog!”

His face remained as impassive as an Indian’s, but she could see from the sudden opacity of his eyes and the white lines about his mouth that she had finally succeeded in penetrating the cold control he normally kept over himself.

“You almost tempt me to find out how much you really hate me,” he said at last, and came towards her, making her recoil instinctively, her hands coming up as if to ward off a blow. But he only flung the clothes at her, laughing contemptuously when she gave an involuntary gasp.

He put his hands on his hips and gazed at her coolly, a Mexican brigand with blue eyes, the crossed bandoliers over his chest making him look even more menacing.

“Hurry up and change, Ginny. Or I’ll be forced to think your coy hesitation means something else.”

Flushing with humiliation and pent-up fury, Ginny turned her back on him and did as she was told, miserably conscious of his eyes on her, even though she could not see the expression on his face.

They rode on again, with Ginny riding astride like a boy.

But since their confrontation in the trees, the subtle shading of her relationship with Steve Morgan had changed again. Where before she had been silent and sullen, almost, at times, apathetic; now she could feel the hate and despair inside her grow and grow until she thought at times that she would burst with frustration. God, how she despised him, how she hated him! The hate seared into her, becoming as much a part of her as eating and breathing. There was not a moment when she was not aware of him—of the warmth of his body as he forced her to lean against him—the hardness of his hands when he tied or untied her—the mocking blue brilliance of his eyes against his sunburned skin.

She cursed him and resisted him at every opportunity so that he was compelled to force her onto his saddle and off; to eat, to drink, or even to lie down beside him to sleep.

“I hate you!” she would whisper to him at every turn. “Thief—half-breed!” And when he grew tired of hearing the constant invectives she hurled at him, he would tighten the rifle he held against her breast until she felt her breath cut off by its pressure and collapsed, sobbing her rage, against him.

They started to descend from the mountains, in what direction, Ginny did not know. But again, almost imperceptibly, some of the men started to drift away. They would wake up from a sleep to find someone gone—or sometimes after a whispered discussion one or two men would take a different trail. Ginny was sure there was some hidden purpose to their seemingly senseless movements. Perhaps they had all arranged to meet again, and this was merely a ruse to throw off pursuit. When the men talked among themselves, however, they used an Indian dialect that she was totally unfamiliar with.

And as they came down from the mountains into an arid, desertlike country that reminded Ginny vividly of parts of Texas, she began to be afraid again. What would happen to her? Where was he taking her? She was even more apprehensive because she knew that Steve wanted her.

It was as if by her scorn and rejection of him she had brought herself back to his attention as a woman; not merely a pawn in some game he was playing—a hostage for his own safety.

When they slept together under his blanket she could feel the rising of his desire for her, although he made no overt moves to do anything about it. And sometimes, as they rode he would let his hand brush against her breast or shoulder, or insist upon braiding her hair, as matted and tangled as it had become. She thought at such moments that he did it deliberately, to hurt her—sometimes the tears started to her eyes at his careless tugging, although she would not let him see. At times, he’d rest his hand on her hip or belly, caressing her against her will while she squirmed and struggled furiously against him, pouring out her hatred for him, her disgust at his touch. But since that first day when he’d flung the clothes at her, he would not let her taunt him into losing his temper, nor his control.

She wondered, fearfully, what he had in mind, but when she’d ask him when he would let her go, he only shrugged.

“When I’ve no more use for you, baby,” he told her once, and the note of cold finality in his voice made her shudder.

Only Pedro and the boy Juan, who had given her his clothes, remained with them on the night they rode into the small Indian village.

Juan had left his horse and slipped ahead an hour before to make sure that all was safe, but when he came back wearing an exuberant, face-splitting grin, they rode into the small clearing where thatched huts, some built of crumbling adobe, seemed to huddle together for protection.

“ Mi casa —” Juan said, speaking Spanish for Ginny’s benefit, and by now she was so tired that she welcomed any kind of shelter, even that of a mud hut.

Juan’s parents—if that was who they were—seemed very old. From the excited greetings, the abrazos, it was clear that Pedro, too, was some kind of relative. They had been warned of Ginny’s presence, for there was no more than a mild curiosity in the wrinkled face of the woman who greeted her, leading her to the small fire that filled the room with smoke and the odors of cooking.

After the jerky she had become used to, the corn tortillas she was offered seemed delicious, and Ginny wolfed them down like a hungry animal, unaware that Steve was watching her until she looked up once and caught his brooding gaze on her face. What was he thinking? She looked away immediately, but he crossed the small room to her with a stone mug that was half-full with some kind of sweet liquor that burned her throat as it went down.

The men talked, low-voiced. Juan’s younger brother, Pablo, who had run outside to attend to their horses, came back and sat by them, his large, dark eyes shining like black stones in the firelight. Beside Ginny, the woman sat silently, her occasional shy sidewise glance at la gringa her only betrayal of curiosity. Close-up, the woman was not as old as she had seemed at first. Clearly, she was much younger than her husband. But her figure was shapeless under the dark-colored reboza huddled over the shoulders, and there were wrinkles in her face, under the straggly dark hair. Ginny felt a sudden rush of pity for her. What an existence! To have to live all her life in a place like this, condemned to nothing but hard work and childbearing—to know nothing of the world outside!

She found herself growing almost overpoweringly drowsy…and then, because she was so tired, she slept, leaning her head and shoulders back against the wall.

A hand shook her roughly awake. Her eyes flew open, startled, and she found herself looking into Steve Morgan’s face.

“It’s warm enough in here—” she hissed at him, suddenly conscious of the fact that they were the only ones left awake—the others lay huddled by the fire wrapped in the inevitable blankets. “You don’t need my body to keep you warm tonight.”

“I can think of other uses for that body you try so hard to hide,” he said softly, and she went cold inside, all the way to the pit of her stomach.

“No!” she whispered fiercely, glaring her hate into his implacable face. “No—I won’t let you touch me!”

“You were willing enough before, remember?” he said cruelly.

He wrenched her to her feet, pulling her along with him.

“There’s a place back there we can use. Juan had an older brother who was studying for the priesthood, before the soldiers killed him. They fixed it up for him, so he could have some privacy, and tonight…”

He didn’t have to finish what he had started to say—his meaning was clear enough. Ginny strove to pull back, but his grip was too strong, too painful.

There was only a makeshift curtain of some rough, coarsely woven material separating them from the others. He had made preparations already, for a small oil lamp had been lighted and placed in an alcove in the rough adobe wall, and he’d spread his blankets on the floor.

He released her, standing between her and the doorway and began to take off his cartridge belts, and then his guns, placing them carefully in a corner. When he turned around, Ginny still stood there as if she had been mesmerized, staring at him with eyes that looked like bits of green glass. And something in the way she looked at him, like a terrified animal held at bay, almost made Steve Morgan hesitate. With her hair dirty and uncombed, lying in tangled ringlets down to her waist she looked like a wild gypsy. He could see the heaving of her breasts, even through the loose camisa she wore, and the thought of them, and the ease with which she had given herself, first to him, and then to Hoskins and, no doubt, to her French lover, hardened his purpose.

“Since it’s so warm in here, might as well take off your clothes before you lie down,” he said, motioning with his head at the blankets. And at that, the sense of being held mesmerized left Ginny and she gave a small cry of outrage.

“I will not! I’ll kill you first!”

She flung herself desperately for his guns, and he knocked her backwards with a sweep of his arm. She fell, hitting her head with a stunning force that left her dazed for some minutes.

“Stop fighting me, Ginny. You ought to know by now it’s no use.” She felt him bend over her, undressing her in spite of her struggles.

The lamp still burned steadily in its alcove, and somehow, being forced to see the way he looked her over made it even more intolerable. Ginny reached desperately for the blankets as she attempted to cover herself, sobbing with rage and fear.

“You animal! Dirty half-breed! Oh, can’t you see I’d rather die than have you touch me? I hate you, hate you!”

Calmly, he finished undressing and came to her. She opened her mouth to scream, and with a quick movement he pressed his hand over it, bruising her lips.

“Please—try to restrain your cries of ecstasy. We don’t want to wake our friends back there, do we?” Grim amusement twitched the corner of his mouth in a tight smile that did not reach his eyes.

She tried to cry out, to protest hysterically against his violation of her, and felt the weight of his body come down over hers. He held her immobile, taking his hand from her mouth only to kiss her savagely while his hands fondled her breasts. And now he took his time, playing with her, leaning the weight of his body on hers while she expended all her strength in her desperate, futile struggles.

Finally, when she was breathless and exhausted, her head still throbbing painfully, he rolled half onto his side, one hand over her mouth to keep her quiet, his leg over hers to hold her still.

“That’s better,” he whispered in her ear, and his hand moved slowly over her body as if they had still been lovers—caressing, teasing, by turns; exciting it subtly.

There was nothing she could do but submit—and this was much worse than she had expected. She had forced herself to be prepared for a quick, brutal rape, but instead, against her will and the silent, screaming protest of her mind, her body, vital and young, was beginning to respond to his caresses.

“No—no, please, no!” she whispered, but he laughed softly and kissed her on the ear, and then more gently on the mouth; and all the time his hands moved on her body, his fingers teased and aroused it until she was twisting and turning under him, desiring release, craving it; whimpering against his mouth while he whispered Spanish love words, sex words, and everything grew mixed up until she felt him spread her thighs with his knees and arched her hips to receive him—his hardness and maleness as he drove into her endlessly, demandingly, until she heard the crashing in her ears like sea-breakers and her body became one; gathering, rising, and falling gently, gently, back from fulfillment to reality.

Only afterwards did the feelings of shame and revulsion engulf her, so that she lay sobbing uncontrollably in his arms. She felt them tighten around her, and then as she stiffened, heard his voice sounding as cold and rejecting as her own thoughts.

“For God’s sake— now what is the matter?”

“You promised!” she sobbed. “When you took me away you promised you’d release me as soon as you were safely away. You promised you wouldn’t—that you would not.”

He leaned over her, all gentleness gone.

“I made them a threat, Ginny—not a promise. And damned if I don’t find myself reluctant to do what I threatened! But I’m not releasing you as long as having you with me might prove useful. As soon as they stop following us, maybe I’ll let you go— maybe, ” his voice grew harder, “unless they get too close.”

“Follow? Threaten? I don’t know what you’re talking about! We’re not being followed, how could we be? You’re lying to me, you’re lying because—”

“Keep your voice down, damn you!” his voice grated harshly in her ear and she shivered at the anger in it. Her mind whirled with unspoken thoughts.

He said more quietly, “We’ve been followed for the last week. And whoever they are, they’re mighty persistent, and mighty smart too. Got an Indian tracker with them, I think. And it’s you they are after, Miss Brandon. They’re Americans, about five of them. Your father works fast and he’s efficient, I’ll say that for him.”

She stared at him unbelievingly.

“But it’s not possible! How long have we been travelling? My father would hardly have time to…”

He chuckled mirthlessly. “Baby, I’ve my own means of getting information, even out here. Your stepmother went back to El Paso. They have a telegraph office there. Who knows? Maybe she wired your father. All I know is we’re being trailed. Why do you think we started separating? No one’s going to get that gold back, and maybe they’re smart enough to realize it, but they obviously want you. And probably me as well. I’ll bet your father has some real nice plans in mind for me—if he ever catches up with me.”

“It’s just not possible,” she whispered again. And then, more slowly, as the meaning of what he’d just told her began to seep into her consciousness, “So that’s why…oh, but you can’t mean it! You think to use me as bait, to lead them away from the gold, is that it? And this—the way you have treated me, is that your revenge on them for following you?”

“Revenge? Is that what you’d call this?” He kissed her again suddenly and savagely, tasting her tears, and she felt his body roll on top of hers and cried out against his mouth as he took her again; this time brutally and violently, without preliminaries.