The Savage

by Nicole Jordan

  It must have been a hard life for a single woman trying to raise a child of mixed blood born out of wedlock, especially in Austin, which had been a bastion of rectitude back then. It must have been harder for Lance, a defenseless child, growing up in the face of all that hostility. Texans never did anything by half measures, and they hated the Comanches with a passion. And Lance, with his rebellious nature, only made matters worse. When he was twelve, his mama had died and he’d run away to live with the Comanches for several years—his father’s people, Summer understood—and some whites never forgave him for that, either. Afterward he’d lived in Round Rock, five miles or so from the Westons’ Sky Valley Ranch, with Tom Peace, the Texan Ranger who’d offered Lance a job when he’d returned to civilization. The past several years Lance had spent catching and breaking wild mustangs farther west—an experience that made him an extremely valuable hand on a stock ranch.

  “I would never have taken you for a fool,” she replied with certainty.

  “Well, fool or no, I don’t aim to act like all the other infatuated males, fawning all over you.”

  Summer tossed her head, making her glossy dark ringlets sway. She was young, but not so young as to be unaware of her effect on men. She was the Belle of Williamson County, and as such, she deserved the respect due a lady. At least she’d always thought so until tonight, when Lance had confused her with his fierce kisses and made mock of her attempts to charm him.

  “Do you mean to say you don’t find me attractive?”

  He shrugged a lean shoulder. “I don’t mean any such thing. But you don’t need me to tell you how beautiful you are. Or to feed your vanity.”

  But she did. Her feminine heart needed reassurance. “You didn’t like kissing me?”

  “I liked it well enough, princess. What I didn’t like was you using me for your play toy.”

  Flushing, she looked away. “I didn’t.”

  “Sure you did. Why else would you invite me up here except to try your wiles out on me? You’ve been waiting for a chance to corner me all summer.”

  What could she say in her defense? That she hadn’t spent the past five months watching Lance and wondering what it would be like to have him attracted to her, to have him look at her with desire? To deny it outright would be a lie. But Lance wronged her if he thought she was only testing her own power when she had asked him to kiss her. She had wanted his kiss, more than she’d wanted anything in a long while.

  “Well, nobody forced you to kiss me. You didn’t have to if you didn’t want to.”

  “I wanted to, princess. I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t want to.” His half smile was hard, self-mocking. “But I don’t aim to become part of your collection.”

  Summer felt the bittersweetness of that smile arrow straight to her heart. She had never really seen Lance smile. Not a true smile of pleasure or joy. She wondered what it would take to coax a real smile from him. What it would take to make him look at a woman—to look at her—with love in his eyes instead of that rebellious, brooding stare that was so much a part of him. She thought she might like to try.

  Tilting her head to one side, she softened her expression, giving him a questioning look of appeal. “Do you truly think me so vain and shallow?”

  “I don’t think you want an honest answer to that.”

  She bit her lip. “Well, I think it mean-spirited of you to blame me for my circumstances. I can’t help it if I’ve never had to suffer life’s misfortunes.”

  His deliberate silence spoke volumes. Uncomfortable, Summer thought it best to change the subject—and to satisfy her curiosity at the same time. “You ridiculed me for my experience. What about yours? Where did you learn to kiss like that?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I do so. And please quit telling me what I might or might not want.”

  “Okay, then. I learned it from one of the whores in Georgetown who didn’t mind bedding down with a redskin.”

  “Oh.” Her tone was faint.

  “You asked, princess.”

  “Well, you didn’t have to tell me! You shouldn’t say such things to a lady,” she protested, even as she recognized the silliness of her rebuke.

  His hard mouth curled at the corner.

  “Have you kissed a lot of ladies?”

  “If I had, it would hardly be a gentlemanly thing to admit, now would it?” He paused. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? A gentleman?”

  “I like a man to be gentlemanly and polite, yes. My sister raised me to value good manners.”

  “I’m sure she did. Miss Amelia always put great store in such things. Why, she could write a book on manners, I’ll bet. I remember when I was a boy working at the livery, when your pa brought your family to town. Miss Amelia always looked straight through me, just like I didn’t exist. I was beneath her notice, like horse manure she didn’t want to step on. Set a prime example of fine manners, I’d say.”

  Stiffening at his sarcasm, Summer came to her sister’s defense. “Amelia didn’t mean anything by it. She was just afraid of you being part Comanche. She couldn’t forget how our mama died.”

  “And you could?”

  Summer thought about his question. “I was young when it happened, so I don’t remember it as well as she does. And I don’t think it’s fair to blame you for what someone else did.”

  “So why are you bothering with the likes of me, princess? Taking pity on the savage breed? Or trying out your latest tricks, to see if you can make me dance to your tune?”

  Summer flushed, uncomfortable with Lance’s discernment. She took refuge in righteous indignation. “Will you please stop calling yourself that?”

  “What, breed? Why? That’s what I am.”

  “Perhaps, but you don’t have to keep flinging it in everyone’s face as if it were some sort of badge of honor! Or a red flag in front of a bull!”

  She could tell by the way his obsidian eyes narrowed that she had made him angry again, but she didn’t care. If Lance was intent on plain speaking, he deserved to hear a few home truths of his own.

  “Besides,” she added more softly, relenting, “I don’t think of you as a savage. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re part Indian.”

  “It would matter if I was to come courting you.”

  The smile she had started to offer faded at his remark. It was one thing to indulge in a stolen kiss or two with a man she had no business even looking at. It was quite another to contemplate a courtship. “Well, yes…in that case, it would. Papa would never approve—”

  “What about you? What would you say?”

  She remained silent. What she thought made no difference. Even if the forbidden notion appealed to her, even if she secretly wondered what it would be like to experience passion at Lance’s hands, even if she thought it might be exciting to try and tame a man like him, she would never be allowed the opportunity. It just wasn’t done.

  “I won’t always be just a hired hand,” he said into her silence. “Someday I’ll have enough for a stake in some land. But”—his voice grew quiet—”that wouldn’t be enough, would it? A man like me could never aspire to winning the hand of a princess like you.”

  She heard the soft acceptance in his voice, the bitterness, the regret, and wanted to deny it. But there was nothing she could say. It was a simple fact of life that young ladies of good family did not marry men of mixed blood, no matter what their connections in the white world, no matter how much either of them wished things might be different. She gazed up at him in mute sympathy.

  “I guess a man can always dream,” he murmured, almost as if he’d forgotten she was there.

  He laughed then, harshly, humorlessly, and shook his head, as if to deny his wistful reflection. “What do I want with your highfalutin white ways?” he muttered. His tone was cynical, self-mocking, and yet she couldn’t help thinking he just didn’t want her to know how much he really cared about his position in society, about being as outcast. He looked at her again w
ith that damn-your-eyes stare, and yet suddenly somehow she knew, with an elemental feminine instinct, that his mockery was a mask of bravado he’d adopted for the world to see, to cover up his vulnerability.

  The silence stretched between them for a score of heartbeats. It was odd, but she could almost sense what Lance was thinking, what he was wishing. His dark face might have been carved from stone for all the emotion he showed, and yet she could feel his pain.

  Slowly then, as if sleepwalking, he pushed himself away from the pecan tree and, with the silent stride of the true Indian, moved to stand before her. Reaching out a hand, Lance stopped the lazy motion of the swing. Summer sat silently looking up at him, a question in her eyes.

  In response, he reached down and drew her to her feet.

  Disquieted by the intensity of his gaze, she placed a slender hand on his chest to ward him off.

  “You wanted a birthday kiss,” he said in a low voice.

  “Yes, but…you already…I’ve been out here too long as it is. Someone might come looking for me.”

  “Losing your nerve, princess?”

  She didn’t reply. She couldn’t, for her breath had suddenly caught in her throat.

  Lance raised his hand to her bosom, where several mahogany curls rested in teasing disarray. Gently, almost reverently, he brushed them aside, baring her throat to his hand. His fingers lifted, spread along the edge of her jaw.

  “If I can’t have the real thing…if all I can do is dream…I want a memory I can build on.”

  She could see the desire in his eyes, the longing, and felt the same overwhelming sensation flowing into her. Hesitantly, hungrily, she raised her face to this, offering her lips. She wanted it, his kiss. She wanted to give him a memory to take with him. She wanted a memory of her own to hold.

  She felt the erratic beat of his heart beneath her fingertips as his warm lips covered hers, as they began to move with hard insistence. This kiss was not gentle either, but neither was it savage like before. This was hungry and lonely and raw, with a poignant edge of tenderness that had been entirely missing in his first kiss.

  A shiver of yearning and pleasure swept through her. This was what she had hoped for from him. This bittersweet bonding that made her feel like a woman, made her feel desired by this hard, forbidden, intensely proud man—

  “What the devil?” The sharp exclamation behind her startled Summer so badly that she jumped. Breaking off the kiss, she looked back to see her brother Reed barrel down the porch steps toward her.

  She had no time to protest or explain, though, before he reached her, before he grabbed her arm and pulled her from Lance’s embrace with a strength that made her stumble.

  From the corner of her eye she saw Lance take an abrupt step in her direction, heard the soft oath he voiced, but Reed shoved himself between them and let his fist fly, connecting squarely with Lance’s jaw and felling him to the ground.

  Lance didn’t stay down. With incredible agility he rolled to his feet and balanced in a defensive crouch, his arms slightly raised to allow the greatest freedom of movement. The long knife that had suddenly materialized in his right hand gleamed wickedly in the lamplight.

  Summer screamed in fear. She wanted to do something, to intervene between the two hostile men, but she found herself frozen in horror as she watched to see what Lance would do.

  Reed stood his ground, his fists balled in protective fury. “How dare you touch my sister!”

  “R-Reed, stop!” she cried breathlessly, finally finding her voice. “Don’t! I can explain—”

  “Summer, get inside the house! Now.”

  “No! You don’t understand—”

  “Stay out of this, Summer,” Lance interrupted, just as her brother retorted, “I understand plenty. He put his hands on you.”

  “No—” Her denial turned into a gasp as Reed took a step toward the wicked knife—but then the sound of the back door slamming open made them both fall silent. Frantic, Summer glanced back to find her father standing at the head of the porch steps, her two other brothers, Jamison and Tyler, directly behind him.

  John Weston took one look at the combatants, at the knife in Lance’s hand, and stiffened with rage. “I should have known better than to trust you, you devil. I want you to clear out, do you hear me?”

  She saw Lance go rigid, saw his fingers clench as he gripped the knife more tightly.

  “Papa, no!”

  “Be quiet, Summer. You have ten minutes, Calder. Get your gear and get off my land, or I’ll haul out the bullwhip and give you the thrashing of your life.”

  “Papa—” Summer started to protest, but felt her brother’s fingers dig into her arm in warning as he hissed in her ear, “Shut up, Summer! Pa’s mad enough as it is. If he finds out Lance touched you, he’ll kill him.”

  That made her hesitate. Another look at the irrational fury on her father’s face made her realize the danger. Papa had an insane hatred of Indians after what they had done to his wife, and he wouldn’t stop at a simple whipping if she told him that Lance had kissed her, even if it was at her request. “Dammit, did you hear me, you red bastard?” John Weston demanded.

  Lance slowly straightened, any hint of emotion wiped from his copper-hued features. His face looked as if it had been carved from stone.

  “You’re finished here. And I’ll make sure you don’t work anywhere in this part of Texas.”

  Summer turned pleading eyes on her brother. “Reed, you have to do something!”

  Looking uncomfortable, Reed spoke up. “Pa, maybe you’re being hasty. We just had a difference of opinion—”

  “He pulled a knife on you. That’s reason enough to fire him.”

  “But maybe it—”

  “Shut up, son!” John Weston snapped. “I won’t have a murdering savage threatening to slit our throats whenever he takes a notion. Get going, Calder. You have nine minutes left.”

  Recognizing the finality in her father’s tone, Summer knew she was powerless to change his mind. It would be futile to try. At least right now, when he was in such a towering rage. Perhaps tomorrow she might be able to persuade him…She sent Lance an agonized look. He stood alone, apart, in the darkness, his fists clenched in defiance.

  It was all her fault, she knew. She hadn’t considered the consequences of her actions. Her vanity, her selfishness, her blind pursuit of her own desires, had led to this. She’d cost Lance his job, his pride, had hurt him dreadfully. She hadn’t meant for this to happen. She couldn’t blame him if he hated her. She held out her hand in a helpless little gesture of pleading.

  He was watching her, his expression shuttered. Abruptly he turned and headed for the bunkhouse.

  “Lance, please!” she cried after him.

  He stiffened at the sound of her voice, halting in his tracks.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry…”

  He glanced back briefly, and his eyes could have chipped flint. “Don’t bother with your pity, princess. I should have known better than to play your little games.”

  “Summer, get inside!”

  She ignored her father’s order. In turmoil, she stood staring after Lance as he walked away, her fingers held to her lips, remembering the taste of his kiss and the bitter hatred in his eyes before he turned from her in anger.

  Chapter 1

  Texas, 1865

  Dreams had a hard way of dying, no matter how impossible.

  His jaw set rigidly, Lance Calder turned his sorrel horse off the rocky trail and rode slowly toward the Weston ranch house. He’d sworn never to set foot here again, but Summer’s letter had drawn him against his will.

  I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I hope you will find it in your heart to listen to my plea.

  His mouth curled in self-mockery as he pulled his horse up. Was he about to get caught in her silken snare again?

  Except for the fading paint, the house looked much as he remembered: a graceful two-story white colonial, with slender oak columns supporting a ve
randa in front and rear, and finished with weatherboard hauled all the way from Austin. Beyond, in the near distance, he could see the sprawling hills of Sky Valley. The rugged land stretched forever, raw and beautiful, dotted with clumps of woodland and pockets of rich pasture, teeming with wild game and herds of half-tame range horses.

  Lance tried to survey the scene with cold detachment but failed. This was the kind of land that buried deep in a man’s soul—and it had gotten into his.

  He tilted his head back, looking up at the cloudless stretch of blue heaven, warmed by the September sun. John Weston had called this spread Sky Valley because the vast Texas sky seemed so close, you could reach up and grab a piece.

  John Weston was dead now. A bad heart had taken him after his two oldest sons had died fighting for the Confederacy.

  Lance felt no grief for the man. Weston had considered him no better than dirt…a murdering savage. The shaming words still echoed in his ears; the indignity of being run out of the county still stung. He’d dared to touch Weston’s white daughter and been made to pay for it.

  And Summer…It was unlikely she could have changed her father’s mind, Lance knew, even if she’d tried to defend him. But she hadn’t tried. She’d left him to hang.

  The bitter resentment still burned in his gut.

  He’d had a dream. He’d vowed that one day he’d have enough money, enough power, enough respect, that his Comanche blood wouldn’t matter. That one day he’d be able to claim his princess…

  “Damned fool,” Lance muttered to himself. Dreaming made a man vulnerable, weak.

  And yet he couldn’t stop his thoughts from returning to a warm August night and the girl he’d held in his arms for a fleeting moment. Her kiss was a blurred memory, but it still had the power to leave him shaken.

  He stared blindly across the valley, his distant thoughts all wrapped up in the past and the desire he’d once felt for Summer Weston. Summer…a girl with skin as soft and white as magnolia petals, a voice as sweet and soothing as honey, laughter as lilting and musical as wind in the trees. She was all the things he’d never had, all the things he’d always wanted. She represented everything he’d ever hoped for in life: a home, family, position…acceptance. She symbolized everything he hated—the white world that had shunned him, made his mother’s life hell.