The Savage

by Nicole Jordan

  But then, he’d been fantasizing a lot lately. Ever since coming back to Round Rock, he’d thought of little else but Summer Weston.

  You didn’t remember her right, though. The potency of his recollections, no matter how vivid, paled in comparison to the real thing.

  How could his memory be so faulty? For years he’d dreamed about Summer. He’d lain awake nights, deliberately, self-destructively, forcing himself to recollect every haunting detail about her, recalling the cruel kisses she’d given him, reminding himself that he was just one in a long line of hapless males whose hearts she’d so carelessly trod on. She was so good at playing the coquette, at teasing and leading a man on.

  Yet she hadn’t always been like that. Maybe that was why he’d felt so betrayed when she’d started her damned little games with him. As a young girl, she’d been kind and gentle…never looking down her pretty nose at a half-breed, bastard kid. God, how he’d waited anxiously each week for her to come to town with her pa, hoping she would notice him, longing for her to smile at him. That smile of hers…so sweet and fresh and innocent, unsullied by the harsh realities of life, untarnished by the knowledge of her own feminine power.

  That smile, bestowed on him like a precious gift, had somehow eased his terrible loneliness. He’d discovered he could bear all the taunts and insults that whites hurled at him, knowing there was someone out there who didn’t hate him. Believing Summer could see past his birth and blood kin and look at him as a real person with feelings and dreams of his own.

  His hopes had turned out to be pure fantasy. Still, he couldn’t crush the image of Summer he’d kept hidden in his heart, or the memories he’d cherished.

  He couldn’t crush the want.

  Dammit to hell, he wanted her. This afternoon he’d nearly lost control of himself. He’d wanted to touch her and run his hands over her and fit his mouth to hers and thrust himself between her spread legs and bury himself so deep in her softness, he wouldn’t know where he ended and she started.

  Just remembering made him ache.

  Lance shifted restlessly on the hard cot. Why, after all this time, was he still so smitten? Why did he still need her so bad? He should have gotten over his infatuation with her by now. He’d been just a boy when he’d fallen for her. He was a man now.

  Trouble was, he also had a man’s lusts, a man’s hunger. The minute he’d laid eyes on her, all the old needs and desires had come stampeding back with twice the force. It didn’t help a damn knowing that his reaction was only natural. Summer Weston was the kind of woman who drove men beyond reason, the kind of woman a man could die for.

  And his case was worse than most. What he felt for her was more than just simple lust. She’d always meant more to him. She’d always been a symbol to him, of all the things he wanted to have but couldn’t, wanted to be but wasn’t She was proud, queenly, so far above his touch, he might as well be wishing for the moon. She wasn’t for him.

  He had no right to dream such dreams. He knew what he was. A man no decent woman would keep company with. Decent women, when they passed him on the street, crossed over if they could. If not, they brushed their skirts aside to avoid any contact with him.

  He could never be good enough for a princess like Summer. His Comanche blood made him inferior. And there was damn little he could do about it. He’d had that bitter lesson pounded into him over the years. A man couldn’t fight against blind prejudice.

  Nobody could. His mother had tried.

  His ma’s people were nothing to sneer at. They came from good English stock, moving from Tennessee to Texas in search of a better way of life. Charlotte Calder hadn’t found the good life, though. She’d suffered plenty as a Comanche captive, and then later, because of him. The Comanches had been bad, but her own folks had been even crueler. If she’d been willing to abandon her son, if she’d shown proper remorse for bearing a bastard child and inflicting him on the white world, then she might have been forgiven. But she’d held her head high and tried to ignore the insults and slurs, the contempt, the hurt of being shunned. And then she’d made the hardest sacrifice, turning herself into a whore in order to feed and clothe her bastard son.

  Involuntarily Lance’s fists clenched with the old rage. Sometimes as a kid he’d hear her crying at night, and he wanted to punch his fists through a wall, or take out his knife and carve out the innards of the bastards who held themselves so high and mighty above her—his savage Comanche blood at work, Lance thought without humor.

  But his savage instincts hadn’t been enough to save her. He hadn’t been able to protect her when she most needed him. Bile rose in his throat at the twenty-year-old memory, when he was almost eight.

  She was hanging out laundry in the yard behind their small cabin when the three white men caught her and dragged her into the house. Her scream of terror and pain brought him running from the woods where he was checking his traps, sent him bursting into the cabin. She was sprawled whimpering across the bed on her back while a bearded frontiersmen pumped away between her legs.

  He remembered the smell most, the stench of unwashed male bodies and filthy buckskin. He remembered the largest man’s hateful laugh as he raped his mother. Remembered his own violent, impotent rage.

  He flew at the giant’s back, but one of the others caught him and held his scrawny, writhing body.

  “Lookee here, will ya?” his captor taunted. “If it ain’t the puny little breed. Don’t get so riled, breed. We’re just havin’ us a little fun with yer ma. She don’t mind. She’s used to having them Comanche bucks fuckin’ her. Ow! Shit, the little savage bit me!”

  He fought with every ounce of strength he possessed, trying to kill all three of them, while his mother sobbed and pleaded with them to leave her son alone. Only the powerful fist that finally caught him across the face had silenced him.

  He’d come to in a daze to find his mother rocking him, her tears wetting his face. He’d cried with her, cried for her pain, for her shame, for his own shame in being unable to save her. She tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but he knew better.

  She’d taken Tom Peace as her protector after that. As her permanent lover. She needed a man who was strong and powerful enough to keep away the scum who thought she deserved to be raped because she’d once been a Comanche captive—and because she’d kept her half-breed son.

  Lance squeezed his eyes shut at the memory. He’d hated Peace for that, when he should have been grateful his mother had someone to protect her. He should have been grateful to Peace for teaching him to fight and to defend himself and to kill when necessary, too. Instead he’d been bitter at his own failure. She’d died before he was old enough to help her much.

  She’d never complained about her lot, though. She’d even done her best to make him see that he should hold his head high, too.

  You shouldn’t pay them any mind, my love. I’m proud of you, and that’s all that matters.

  Deep down, though, he was ashamed of what he was. And ashamed of being ashamed. No matter what his mother said.

  He’d tried to believe her. As a kid, he’d tried not to care what whites thought of him. He’d learned to bottle up the rage and not let himself feel the hurt. But that didn’t ease the lonely feeling of never belonging anywhere.

  That loneliness had carved an emptiness inside him. He wasn’t a part of any place. He’d gone in search of his Comanche father, trying to find somewhere to put down roots, but he hadn’t belonged to that world either. The savagery, the killing, had been too fierce for him to live with himself. So he’d come back to Round Rock, thinking maybe he could fill the emptiness here.

  He didn’t want all that much. A piece of land where he could raise good horses. A woman who stood beside him and looked at him with pride. Some friendly neighbors who didn’t act as if they wanted to spit on him when he passed by. Not much, but he wanted it.

  He wanted it to bad, he could taste it.

  Lance cursed softly in the silence. He was setting himself up
for a hard fall, letting himself hope too damn much. There was no way Summer would ever agree to become his wife. Not even to save her precious sister. And even if she did agree, only because he’d given her no other choice, there was no way she would ever see him as a husband to be proud of. He was a fool for even allowing himself to hope.

  Round Rock was hardly large enough to be called a town, but it boasted a supply store and a combination livery stable/ stage stop, since it was directly on the road north from Austin to Dallas. Many of the locals still called the settlement by its earlier name of Brushy, after the creek that ran through the county.

  In ‘48, when Brushy/Round Rock was first established, Tom Peace had given up rangering in order to start the livery stable. In his will, he’d left the business to Lance Calder.

  Summer eyed the livery now as the buckboard approached. The rough log building was faintly illuminated by moonlight, while a glimmer of yellow shone between the chinks in the shutters, indicating that someone was home.

  Her ranch foreman, Dusty Murdock, drew the team to a halt and turned to her. “You sure you want to go through with this, ma’am?”

  “No…but I don’t think I have any choice.”

  “I could maybe try to talk to him for you. He used to consider me a friend—at least, as far as he let anybody be a friend to him.”

  She tried to smile. “I appreciate the offer, but I doubt in this case he would listen to you.”

  “I’ll wait for you, then.”

  “Thank you, Dusty.”

  Summer allowed him to help her down from the buckboard and then went to the livery door. She could feel her heart pounding as she raised her gloved hand to knock. If Lance was here, he would have heard her arrival, yet he hadn’t come out to greet her. Perhaps he meant to make this as difficult as possible for her.

  When she rapped softly, there was a long pause before she heard him call out in a low voice, “It’s open.” Lifting the latch, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Lance was lounging on the narrow bed, his back propped against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. She didn’t think he’d been asleep. He still wore his boots, and he was watching her, his eyes alert and wary.

  He didn’t get up in her presence, didn’t offer her a place to sit down. Closing the door behind her, Summer stood awkwardly, uncertain how to deal with his rudeness, or this situation. She could feel his hard gaze roam over her as he took in her appearance: her traveling suit, her sturdy half boots, her kid gloves, her serviceable narrow-brimmed bonnet.

  “You came all this way to call on me, princess? I’m honored.”

  At the sarcasm in his voice, she felt her temper flare, but she tamped it down. In her circumstances, she couldn’t afford wounded pride. Besides, sparring with him would get her nowhere. “Yes, I came to call,” she said quietly.

  “I’m surprised your brother let you.”

  “Reed doesn’t know I’m here.”

  Lance’s eyes narrowed. “You made that trip alone?”

  Hearing the sharp disapproval in his tone, she could almost believe he was concerned for her safety. But no, he would care only that his terms couldn’t be met if something happened to her. “I wasn’t alone. Dusty brought me. He’s waiting outside.”

  “You always did have Dusty wrapped around your little finger, along with half the other males in the territory.”

  “I didn’t have you,” Summer was stung into retorting.

  “Yeah, and that’s what galled you, didn’t it? You had to have me on your string. You had to have me dancing to your tune. And when I wouldn’t, your pa had me run out of the county.”

  The fierceness of his eyes made her wince. Summer bit her lip, unable to defend herself. It hadn’t happened quite that way, but she was still responsible.

  The silence stretched out for a long moment.

  “So have you made up your mind, princess? You gonna sacrifice yourself for your sister?”

  “I…I can’t convince you to change your mind?”

  “No.”

  The single gruff word shriveled her last hope. “If…If I agree to marry you…you’ll find Amelia?”

  “I can’t promise I’ll succeed, but I’ll do my level best, yes.”

  She wanted to ask what would become of their marriage if they never found Amelia, but she couldn’t allow herself to voice the possibility for fear it might come true. “And afterward? When Amelia is safe? Where…would we live?”

  Lance’s glance swept briefly around the room, and his eyes took on a sharp gleam of amusement that had little to do with humor. “Your place is a bit fancier than mine, I’d say. Wouldn’t you rather live on your ranch?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know if you would.”

  “I think I could force myself.”

  “Would we…What about…” Summer could feel her cheeks flushing. “Marital relations.”

  “Would we share a bed, is that what you’re asking?” Lance’s black eyes traveled over her, touching her more intimately than his hands had ever dared. “What do you think?”

  “I…didn’t know if you were…interested in me that way.”

  Swinging his legs slowly over the edge of the bed, he rose to his feet with the grace of a wild animal and moved to stand before her. Reaching out, he caught her wrist, ignoring her startled, questioning gaze. With careful determination, he drew her gloved hand toward him, placing it directly over his groin, making her feel the hard, swollen ridge of his masculinity.

  Summer flinched and tried to pull back, but Lance wouldn’t release her.

  “Does this feel interested?”

  With a twisting jerk of her hand, she finally managed to break free, but only because he allowed it. In anger, she retreated a step and averted her gaze. He was trying to shame her—and succeeding. How did he manage to unnerve her so? He left her feeling off balance and entirely too vulnerable. “Are you trying to frighten me?” she demanded unsteadily.

  “No, ma’am. I just want you to know what you’re letting yourself in for. If you’re not willing to share a bed with me, let me know now. We’ll call the whole thing off.”

  Lance saw the struggle on her face but steeled himself against giving in. The truth was, he wanted her so bad that he was willing to take whatever Summer was willing to let him have. But he’d be a fool to let her see his weakness for her. And he’d already been enough of a fool for one day.

  “Look at me, Summer.” His whisky-rough voice held a command she couldn’t ignore. When she lifted her gaze, he held it with hard determination. “You’ll be my woman, not a princess in some tower. You’ll sleep with me. And take me into your body. And let me do things to you that no white woman would ever think of letting a savage do. You won’t deny me when I want you. Even if you aren’t willing, as my wife you’ll come to me when I tell you.”

  His explicitness, his slow enunciation of exactly what he would require of her, made her squeeze her eyes shut in mortification. “Why…why are you making this so difficult for me?”

  Lance clenched his jaw at the plea in her tone. He knew better than to let himself soften. She wasn’t beyond using her wiles to make him feel sympathy for her. And once he let that happen, it was only a short step till he was panting to do her bidding. “I just don’t want you holding the notion you can walk all over me once we’re married.”

  Summer’s own slender jaw clenched. She resented the terrible position he had put her in, resented his forcing her to make such a decision. But she made herself open her eyes. “I…I scarcely know you.”

  “You’ll get to know me a lot better when I’m your husband.”

  “I…expected to marry well.”

  His expression hardened even more, if that was possible. “I know. I’m not what you would consider a ‘desirable prospect.’ Five years ago I wasn’t good enough for you, and I’m not good enough now. But I’m all you’ve got.”

  And that was the cold truth. They both knew it.

  Summer searched
the dusky, compelling face so close to hers—the broad forehead, the high cheekbones, the sharp nose, the hard, merciless eyes. His eyes were so dark, she could see herself reflected in them. So unfathomable, she could read nothing there but determination. He wasn’t going to change his mind. She swallowed and wet her dry lips, accepting the inevitable.

  “I want to leave tomorrow,” she said, mustering her own determination. “The longer we delay, the harder it will be to find Amelia.”

  He frowned at that. “Who said anything about you going?”

  “I always meant to accompany Reed to Fort Belknap.”

  “It’s a long, dangerous trip for a woman.”

  “I don’t care. Amelia is my sister and she needs me. I’ll travel as far as her in-laws’ farm with you, so I can be as close as possible when you find her. I can stay with the Truesdales while you search for her,” Summer said, refusing to be dissuaded or to consider the possibility of failure. “The stage comes through here at half past ten. Reed checked.”

  The set of Lance’s shoulders relaxed the slightest degree, she thought. “I know what time the stage comes through town,” he replied dryly. “I supply the teams for the line, remember?”

  “Oh. Yes…well…what will you do about the livery while you’re gone?”

  He shrugged. “There’s a kid who helps out sometimes. Molly Jenkins’s boy. I can get him to stay here full-time to look after the horses and meet the stage.”

  When she remained silent, Lance pinned her with his gaze. “You’re not gonna change your mind?”

  Summer shook her head. She wanted to do it now, before she lost her courage. “No. I’d like to get it over with. Perhaps we should find a minister.”

  His expression never changed, yet she couldn’t help but believe that some of the wariness, the hardness, had faded from his eyes. It was relief she saw there, she would swear it.

  “Yeah,” Lance said tonelessly. “I’d like to get it over with, too.” He reached out and took her elbow. “Let’s go find ourselves a preacher.”