The Savage

by Nicole Jordan

  As a kid, he used to care for her father’s horses when the Weston family came to town for the day. Even then Summer’d been a charmer, all decked out in ruffles and bows, so feminine and delicate, it made his heart ache to see something so pretty. She hadn’t spoken much to him then, but she’d smiled sometimes. And she had never looked at him with contempt the way other whites did. Whites like her father, her sister, Amelia.

  Later he’d gone to work at her father’s ranch and discovered just how shallow and cruel she could be.

  He’d known better than to let himself get mixed up with her. At sixteen, Summer was headstrong and beautiful, with a well-deserved reputation for breaking hearts. He’d watched for months as she’d charmed and flirted and teased her way past anything male. He’d seen her holding court with her starry-eyed, lust-stricken beaux—and then stood in line just like the rest of them. She was spoiled and self-centered and childish, but he wanted her bad, he ached with it.

  Did a man ever get over his first love?

  He was staggered when she deigned to notice the breed hired hand. She was bored, no doubt. Probably curious to see if she could work her wiles on someone with his heritage. Her flirtations were all quite innocent—and as cruel as any taunt or insult flung at him by bigoted whites over the years. She didn’t know that she was carving up his heart inch by inch, dangling out hope, making him yearn for things he could never have, dreams he could never realize. She played her heartless little female games without regard for the consequences, without caring who she hurt—and he’d been fool enough to let her.

  He’d known the risk he was taking, meeting her at night, letting her taunt him into kissing her. Even then his only defense against her had been anger. He’d been mad as hell at himself for being unable to resist the temptation. He’d hated himself for his weakness, for giving her such a hold over him, for letting her enchant him, drive him crazy with desire for her, for letting her manipulate him with her alluring female tricks in a way no red-blooded man could resist.

  Well, he damned sure wasn’t going to make that mistake again, Lance swore. He wasn’t going to let her sink her claws into him again. He’d learned his lesson. And he’d gotten over her in the five years since he’d been driven away.

  Even so, he didn’t want to push his luck. Ever since he’d returned to Round Rock four months ago to take over the livery stable Tom Peace had left him, he had done his level best to avoid Summer.

  He’d seen her from a distance, though. Summer Weston was no longer a girl. She’d grown into a fine lady. She was not so proud now, either.

  A cynical smile twisted his mouth. Now that she needed him.

  Lance raised a hand to cover his breast, feeling her letter burning a hole in his vest pocket.

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

  She was willing to speak to him now that she needed something from him. Five years without a word, and she expected him to come running.

  His anger swelled again. Anger at his inferior station. Anger at the blind bigotry that’d kept him on the outskirts of the white community, looking in, all his life. Anger at being driven off this ranch five years ago.

  Anger had a way of twisting a man, hardening the heart—

  His horse snorted just then, splintering his brooding thoughts into fragments. With a heedless jerk on the reins, Lance turned the sorrel gelding, heading for the side of the ranch house.

  He knew what Summer wanted from him. He just didn’t know how he was going to reply.

  He circled around the house and approached from the rear, near the creek, his narrowed gaze taking in his surroundings. The outbuildings necessary for a prosperous stock ranch—barn, corrals of both stone and split rail, bunkhouse for the vaqueros, chicken coop, dairy, and tool sheds—all showed signs of neglect. But then, he would have been surprised to find it otherwise. Most able-bodied men had gone off to fight the war, leaving their women to forge on alone.

  A lot of those able-bodied men now filled the yard in back of the main house, perched on wagon seats, sitting in buggies, riding horseback.

  Keeping his distance, Lance drew the sorrel to a halt. From the sound of it, he had interrupted an argument. He recognized the man with dark brown hair, supported by crutches, who held forth on the back porch, making an impassioned plea to the crowd for support. Reed Weston was missing half his left leg—which hadn’t garnered him as much sympathy as might be expected, since he’d lost it fighting for the Union while hailing from a state that had declared for the Confederacy.

  After a single glance, though, Lance only had eyes for Reed’s sister. Summer stood beside him, looking regal and strangely vulnerable in a long-sleeved black gown that showed she was still in mourning for her brothers and father.

  Despite his best intentions, Lance couldn’t stop the fierce acceleration of his heartbeat. Even from this distance he saw that the beautiful girl he’d known had grown into a stunning woman. His memories, even as potent as they were, didn’t do her justice.

  But there were differences.

  Her hair, the color of mahogany, gleamed with red and gold highlights in the afternoon sun, just as rich and lustrous as he remembered. But instead of ringlets, she wore it swept back into a chignon, bound by black net. The wide-spaced green eyes that could flash with the brilliance of emeralds held no laughter now; instead they were solemn and somber as she gazed out over the crowd. She looked as if she’d lost weight. Her hands were slender and white, but she held them clasped before her in an attitude of nervous anticipation. Her lips—the soft pink lips he’d once been allowed to kiss on a warm August night—held no seductive, mind-bewitching smile.

  Remembering the feel of those lips, Lance involuntarily dragged his gaze away to focus on the tall pecan tree that stood to one side of the yard. The wooden swing was still there, unmoving and lifeless, a silent testimony to all that had happened since that night—

  “Thanks for coming.”

  Lance stiffened at the quiet sound, not liking the fact that he’d allowed a man to approach him without his even being aware of it. Turning in the saddle, he met a pair of grave blue eyes whose corners were lined and weathered by the sun.

  Dusty Murdock had once been a hired hand but was now the foreman of the Weston ranch. Tall and lanky, with dirty-blond hair, Dusty was older than Lance by some ten years. Fair, easygoing, nonjudgmental, he was also one of the few men Lance respected without question.

  “Miss Summer will be glad you could make it.”

  Lance nodded curtly, acknowledging the comment, but turned his attention back to the crowd and the argument that was taking place.

  “It isn’t goin’ too well, I’m afraid,” Dusty went on in his quiet voice. “Nobody quite sees it like we do. They’re sorry and all, but Miss Amelia isn’t their kin. What with the war finally over, all anybody wants is to get back to living their lives.”

  As if to underscore Dusty’s comment, an older man who seemed to be the leader of the opposition spoke again. “Reed, you have to understand. All we want is a chance to put our lives back in order, fix up our farms, start rebuilding again.”

  Lance recognized the older man as Harlan Fisk, one of the acknowledged leaders of the community, but there were others he didn’t know who obviously shared Fisk’s view.

  “You’re asking us to leave our families,” another man added. “These are dangerous times. Who’s gonna protect our families from all the vagrants roamin’ around while we’re gone?”

  “Yeah. We’d likely be gone a long while,” someone else chimed in. “It’s near three hundred miles to Indian Territory.”

  “I hate to dash your hopes, Reed,” Harlan Fisk said, “but the likelihood of finding her isn’t very good, even if she’s still alive. And getting her back is going to be nigh impossible. Once the Comanches take a captive, they won’t give ‘em up easy. We could get killed just trying.”

  “I know the attempt will be dangerous,”
Reed replied with strained patience. “And you have a right to be afraid. But—”

  “I ain’t scared of no Injuns,” one man interrupted. “I rode against them savage devils once for a massacre they done. But that don’t mean I’m stupid enough to go courtin’ trouble with ‘em.”

  “Besides, it’s so far away. We can’t afford to be gone for that long, not on some wild-goose chase.”

  Harlan Fisk spoke again. “Reed, son, you’re just asking too much.”

  “Is it too much?” Reed demanded. “I’d do the same for you if it were your sister who’d been taken.”

  “Says the man who turned on his own kind during the war,” somebody muttered.

  Reed visibly stiffened, even as his eyes narrowed. “I did what I felt was right, which is what every one of you did. You followed the dictates of your conscience. Still, if you won’t do it for me, then do it for the memory of my father and brothers. They were on your side.”

  The silence that followed his impassioned speech told its own tale.

  After a long moment his sister spoke, the anguish in her quiet voice clear. “We are leaving tomorrow for Fort Belknap. I can only ask that some of you will find it in your hearts to join with us.”

  Slowly, pointedly, Summer searched the individual faces of the crowd, moving from one to another to another, focusing on men who abruptly lowered their eyes, apparently uncomfortable with meeting her green gaze.

  Lance’s mouth twisted sardonically as he watched. Some of these men were the same ones Summer used to lead around by the nose as boys, the ones who used to pant after her, eager to do her bidding. Lance had little doubt that she could persuade them to help her now if she put her mind to it.

  Beside him, Dusty muttered an oath. “Miss Summer was going to ask you to lead the posse, but at this rate, it doesn’t look like they’ll be able to raise much of one.”

  Lance didn’t answer, for Summer had suddenly caught sight of him. He saw her give a slight start—and then recover—before her gaze moved on. But her action caused some of the others to finally notice his presence.

  “Well, if it ain’t our resident Injun,” a sneering voice remarked.

  All eyes turned in Lance’s direction.

  “Yep, sure is,” he drawled in return. “You gonna make something of it, Prewitt?”

  The man he’d recognized as Will Prewitt glared back at him.

  Harlan Fisk was the first to interrupt the suddenly tense silence. “You should ask Calder to go after your sister, Reed. He’s likely to have better luck than the rest of us, what with it being his people who took Amelia.”

  “I intend to,” Reed replied slowly, evidently choosing his words with care. “I appreciate the fact that Mr. Calder was kind enough to respond to our invitation to come here today. Welcome, Mr. Calder.”

  “So it’s Mister Calder now, is it?” Will Prewitt jeered. “You making deals with savages now, huh, Reed?”

  “Shut up, Prewitt!” Reed snapped back. “I’d deal with the Devil himself if I thought it could help get Amelia back.”

  Prewitt gave a harsh laugh. “Well, maybe it ain’t such a stupid notion after all. Only an Injun would be crazy enough to ride into Injun Territory an’ face them Comanche devils.”

  Lance felt his fact stiffen, drain of all expression. As usual, the sting of the slur wasn’t as bad as hearing them talk about him as if he weren’t there, but both made the lifelong resentment flare in his gut.

  He surveyed the crowd with a cold stare, returning the same contempt they’d offered him. “You let me know when you’re ready to deal with the Devil.”

  Picking up his reins, he backed the sorrel a few steps, then turned abruptly, riding away without another glance. He heard Dusty utter another oath, thought he heard Summer cry out his name, but at the moment he didn’t give a damn. Let Weston and his ilk figure out how to solve their problems, and leave him out of it. Sister Amelia could rot in captivity for all he cared. At the moment he just didn’t give a fucking damn.

  Summer went after Lance; she had to make amends for the inexcusable way he had been treated, especially if she had any hope at all of persuading him to help her. Instead of taking the long route around back, however, she cut through the house, hoping to intercept Lance on the main road.

  Picking up her crinolined skirts, she raced down the front steps and across the overgrown lawn of bluestem prairie grass. She could see his retreating figure on horseback disappearing around the line of post oaks that flanked the road.

  “Lance! Wait! Please…”

  At first she thought he meant to ignore her, but when she cried his name again, he tugged on the reins and halted his horse.

  He didn’t turn, though. He sat rigidly in the saddle, his back to her. From the looks of it, he was in no mood to listen—or to forgive.

  She was panting for breath by the time she reached him; her corset was too tight for such exertions. She stood there beside his horse, one hand held to her heart as she tried to catch her breath.

  “Lance…please…I’m sorry…” she managed to get out. “Will Prewitt had no right…to say those hateful things.”

  He turned the full force of those black eyes on her, and she could see the smoldering anger there. It was the same look he’d given her five years ago, the same anger. Apparently he hadn’t forgotten what she’d done—luring him into a reckless embrace and then getting him fired for it.

  She winced at the impact of that fierce gaze. He had every right to be angry with her. Her father had been justifiably incensed at him for pulling a knife on Reed, but it was her fault Lance had done it. She had caused the fight, and then hadn’t defended him. She hadn’t stood up for him with enough fervor, hadn’t protested his dismissal strongly enough. She had tried later to find Lance and apologize, but by then he had left town for good. She’d asked both Reed and Dusty to let her know if they discovered where Lance had gone, but it was nearly a year later before she learned he’d taken up driving stages again somewhere out West.

  She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She had wanted to bring him to his knees, yes, but not that way.

  “You interested in making a deal with the Devil, too, princess?”

  His handsome face was dark, hard, unsmiling. Harder than she remembered, but just as compelling. The coal black hair beneath his hat was a bit shorter, more civilized, but he still looked at her in that same intense, brooding way: part resentment, part contempt, part desire for her as a woman.

  She was feminine enough to recognize that desire. And respond to it. No man but Lance had ever made her knees go weak with merely a look. She still felt the pull of sexual attraction between them.

  It gave her reason to hope. As long as he felt something for her—even if he was fighting it—she still stood a chance of persuading him to help her.

  “Reed…didn’t mean it the way it sounded. You have to understand…he’s out of his mind with worry for Amelia.”

  “Oh, I understand just fine. Treat the savage redskin gentle-like as long as he can be of some use. Your pa felt the same way.”

  Lance heard the hostility in his voice, but he couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to try. He couldn’t hold Summer to blame for everything the white world had done to him. Still, there was a part of him that bitterly resented everything she stood for, that wanted revenge for every slur, every insult, every hateful word thrown at him and his mother over the years.

  She bit her lip at his retort. “I tried to convince Papa to change his mind, but he…I’m sorry, Lance. I never meant to cause trouble for you. I wanted to apologize to you, but you left town so suddenly…When I looked for you, you were gone.”

  Lance clenched his jaw. Had she really tried to find him? Had she defied her father for his sake? Her look of pain and regret was so real, he almost believed her.

  “I’ve been back in town four months now. Plenty of time for you to look me up.”

  She knew exactly when Lance had returned to town; Dusty had informed her, just as she�
�d asked him to. But she hadn’t known quite how to approach Lance after all this time. And she’d spent most of her energy nursing her brother, Reed, after his terrible injury. “I know.... It’s just that the war… Things have been difficult lately.”

  “Have they now, princess? Well, isn’t that a damned shame.”

  She shook her head in denial at his tone, at his scornful diminutive for her. She was a princess no longer. It had taken that terrible injustice to Lance to make her realize just how shallow and selfish she’d been, but she had changed. She’d been forced to. The safe, sheltered world she’d known was gone, collapsed in devastating ruin around her during the interminable war. She was older now, both in years and experience. She’d aged a decade since the war began. Facing hardship and loss had made her grow up. Out of necessity, she’d learned the meaning of hard work, of pain, of dashed hopes. Indeed, it made her ashamed to think what a spoiled, worthless darling she’d once been.

  “Please…I said I was sorry.”

  He clenched his jaw so hard, a muscle jumped. Wishing she could make him think better of her, Summer gazed up at him, searching his harsh, strong-boned face for any sign of softness. “I heard that after you left, you drove a stagecoach for a time. The Overland Route. It must have been dangerous.”

  He shrugged. “It was a living. Better than getting shot on a battlefield.”

  “You didn’t join the Army?”

  “The Confederacy? Nope. Couldn’t agree with their politics. Something your brother, Reed, and I have in common. I went back to breaking horses again. Sold them to the Union Army.”

  “I’m glad you came home.”