The Savage

by Nicole Jordan

  It was only a moment later that a strange sound disturbed her morbid thoughts.

  “Pssst.”

  Moving cautiously to the end of the porch, she shielded her eyes from the hot afternoon sun and peered around the side of the building—only to give a start of alarm to see a man’s broad chest. The next moment was a blur. Hard hands grabbed her shoulders and pressed her back against the stone wall with a force that made her gasp. Her heart pounding, she looked up to find Frank’s leering face looming over hers.

  “Howdy, girl. We never got a chance to be introduced proper-like, with that Injun buck hanging around your skirts.” The hot gleam of lust in his pale gray eyes made Summer shudder.

  Yarby was lounging against the wall, watching with a grin. “Hey, now, Frank, don’t hurt the little lady.”

  “She’s no lady, Jimmy.”

  “She pretends pretty good. She kept her snooty nose in the air all the way from Round Rock.”

  “She’s only an Injun’s squaw, big brother. That right, girl? You his squaw?”

  When he tried to take her chin between his fingers, Summer jerked her head away. “I’m his wife.”

  Frank grinned at his brother. “A mite touchy, isn’t she?”

  Summer drew a shaky breath, trying not to panic. “You’d better…release me at once. Lance will be back any minute.”

  Yarby chuckled. “He makes a fuss, we’ll offer him a horse for you. Horses and women are all the same to a Comanche.”

  “You just settle down,” Frank said as he gave a tug on her bonnet strings and dragged it from her head, tossing it in the dirt. “We’re gonna have us some fun.”

  Real fear filled Summer when his hand reached up to stroke her left breast. She gave a cry, which caused Frank to clamp his hand tightly over her mouth.

  Unable to breathe, Summer squirmed, trying to break free, but his lean body pushed against her, pressing her back.

  “Easy, girl.” His hand kneaded her breast hurtfully. “You should be grateful to us. After having that stinkin’ buck between your legs, you’re gonna love the taste of a real man.”

  Summer whimpered in pain and fury, hating him for what he was doing.

  “That’s right, pretty thing. Sing for me. You like me, don’t you? Soon you’re gonna be begging for it.”

  Struggling against his touch, against the sweaty hand that was smothering her, she managed to twist her head and open her mouth far enough to sink her teeth in the fleshy part of his palm.

  “Ow! Goddammit to hell—You bitch—”

  Frank drew back his fist to strike her, but his howl of outrage was drowned out by his brother’s sudden surprised grunt. From the corner of her eye, Summer saw Yarby go sprawling face-first in the dirt. The next second Frank was suddenly pulled off of her and shoved face-first into the stone wall.

  She heard the crunch of bone, heard Frank’s sharp cry, even as she drew a rasping breath in an attempt to draw air into her aching lungs. As she stumbled sideways, she realized Lance had come to her rescue. He stood at Frank’s back, one hand twisting a stranglehold on the man’s shirt collar, the other pressing the razor-sharp blade of a knife against the side of his neck.

  Frank’s right hand made a desperate half-formed movement toward his holster before Lance’s savage growl in his ear stopped him. “Touch it and you’re a dead man.”

  Frank made a choked sound. Blood was spurting from his broken nose, and his mouth had opened wide in a silent shriek of agony.

  In relief, Summer sagged against the wall, holding her stomach and gasping for breath, trying not to gag on the sour bile that had risen to her throat.

  Lance ran an assessing eye over her. “You okay?”

  She forced herself to nod.

  His mouth tightening, he glanced over his shoulder. Yarby had rolled over on his side and was reaching slowly inside his frock coat.

  Abruptly Lance jerked his hand and threw. In a blinding flash of silver the knife went flying to land with a soft snick in Yarby’s right shoulder. With a scream, he dropped the derringer he’d had hidden and clutched at his wounded shoulder.

  Unconcerned, Lance drew his six-shooter and held it to Frank’s head.

  “You touch her again,” he said softly, his tone lethal in its controlled savagery, “you come within a thousand yards of her, and I’ll gut you, do you understand me? I’ll carve out your innards while you’re still alive and leave them for the buzzards to fight over…just the way the Comanches do. They know how to make death slow and painful. By the time I’m finished, you’ll be begging me to kill you. You got that?”

  Frank whimpered and nodded once, twice, while Summer shuddered. She had no doubt Lance meant exactly what he said. His bronze face held absolutely no emotion, but his black eyes smoldered with hate.

  “You need some help here, Lance?”

  Summer started. She hadn’t even heard Jeb Burkett come up.

  Lance nodded. “You could take this scum away and hold them till we ride out of here. And get him a doctor,” he added, gesturing with his head at Yarby, who lay on the ground, moaning.

  “The only doc left town four months back,” Burkett replied grimly, reaching down to help Yarby to his feet. “But I’ll see he gets patched up.”

  “Just a minute, Jeb,” Lance drawled. “I’m a mite fond of that knife.”

  Bending over the wounded man, he grasped the knife handle and drew it out swiftly, ignoring Yarby’s gasp of pain as he wiped the bloody blade on the sleeve of the man’s fancy frock coat.

  His own pulse was still pounding in his ears, the need for vengeance still surging through his body. Yet grim satisfaction had begun to calm him. He was no longer seven years old, watching with impotent rage as those stinking bastards raped his mother. This time he had handled it. This time he had protected his woman.

  When Burkett had led the two wounded men away, Lance looked uncertainly at Summer, who was scrubbing her lip furiously with the back of her hand, trying to obliterate the suffocating taste of Frank’s sweaty palm.

  “I’ve got some soap in my saddlebags, if that’ll help.”

  She wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “Or I could hold your head under the pump for a while. Drowning’s a good way of getting clean.”

  She began to laugh, the sound caught somewhere between a giggle and delirium. Lance was trying to make her feel better, she realized. Her voice catching on a sob, Summer closed her eyes and leaned weakly against the wall.

  For the span of several heartbeats, while she tried to compose herself, Lance didn’t move. Remembering the last time he’d tried to comfort her, he kept his fists clenched tightly at his sides, not daring to touch her. It had cut him like a knife last night when she’d pushed him away; he wasn’t going to bare himself to that kind of hurt again, or give her another chance to spurn him. And yet, as if possessing a will of its own, his hand came up to tenderly brush her cheek.

  Summer flinched, an involuntary reaction to her recent assault, yet her action shattered the fragile moment; Lance went completely still.

  Awkwardly aware of the fresh constraint between them, Summer tearfully fumbled in her skirt pocket for a handkerchief. Lance stepped back, as if withdrawing from her physically, distancing himself emotionally, putting his own defenses back in place.

  And yet as he raised an eyebrow at her, his tone remained gentle—and even held an edge of humor. “It must be hard, going through life being the object of so much admiration. We haven’t even saddled up yet, and already you have fellows fighting over you.”

  She sent him a startled glance as she wiped her damp eyes. It was the closest she’d ever seen Lance come to teasing. Usually his sarcasm held a bite that stung even the toughest hide.

  Drawing a breath, Summer gave a shaky, watery laugh. “I suppose we should go.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” His mouth was unsmiling, but his dark features had softened; the smoldering fire in his eyes had eased.

  “Yes, I’ll be fine.”
r />   It might be a lie, Summer thought, but it was a lie they both needed to hear.

  Covertly Lance watched Summer as they rode north through the hills toward the Truesdale farm. Outwardly she had recovered from the assault; she looked as lovely and poised as usual. But although she mostly avoided his gaze, he saw the wariness, the fear, in those emerald eyes of hers whenever she happened to glance his way.

  For the dozenth time, Lance cursed himself. He still felt a violent rage at seeing that scum put their filthy hands on her, but much of that rage was directed at himself. He should have known better than to leave Summer even for an instant. He’d known those two bastards were hovering around like buzzards. A man with any brains or experience didn’t let down his guard for a second. A man who deserved to be called a man protected his woman.

  That was a big part of the trouble. He had made Summer his woman, his wife. As such, she was the target of the hatred and bigotry that had always been directed at him, that he’d always been helpless to prevent. Goddamn, but he’d wanted to spare her that. He’d never expected it to be so bad. He’d thought her breeding, her background, would shield her from the worst.

  He wished like hell he could stop it. Maybe he’d made a mistake, forcing her to marry him. Would he do it differently if he had the chance? Would he give up his dream?

  It might be beyond his power to control now. If Summer had to face that kind of humiliation and degradation day after day, she would come to hate him—if she didn’t hate him already. He didn’t want that. Jesus, he didn’t want that.

  That was the second part of the trouble. He wanted too much. He wanted Summer body and soul, every way there was to want a woman. He wanted her writhing in pleasure at his touch. He wanted her eyes soft and liquid with need. Her mouth—ah hell, he’d give his right arm for another taste of her mouth. He couldn’t stop remembering how it had felt under his last night, warm and soft, quivering just a little. He’d wanted so bad to stop her trembling, to take her inside him and ease his craving, to keep her safe.

  Trouble was, as long as she was married to him, she would never be safe. And as long as she had to suffer because of him, his conscience would continue to flay him with guilt.

  Burkett had given good directions to the Truesdale farm, as well as a timely warning. Summer and Lance hadn’t gotten within a hundred yards of the stone house before two fiercely barking dogs raced out to greet them, scattering the chickens pecking in the yard. A second later a male voice shouted out, telling the newcomers to “Hold up right there!”

  Squinting against the glare of the sun, Summer could see a young man half-concealed by the corner of the barn, aiming the barrel of a shotgun in their direction. Hurriedly she introduced herself as Amelia’s sister.

  He told the dogs to shut up and called them off.

  “You’re Billy, aren’t you?” Summer asked. “Amelia wrote me about you.”

  Before he could answer, an elderly woman with graying hair came out on the porch. She was dressed in black-dyed calico, and also held a long gun. Summer hoped it was Amelia’s mother-in-law.

  “Mrs. Truesdale?”

  “Yes? What do you want?”

  “I’m Summer Weston, Amelia’s sister.”

  Rather than offer a welcome, however, the woman gestured with her weapon. “Who’s that with you?”

  “This is Lance Calder. He’s…He brought me here, and he means to go after Amelia, to try and rescue her.”

  Mrs. Truesdale’s thin mouth twisted with bitterness. “That won’t bring my Mary back. Those dirty, stinking killers butchered her.”

  Summer nodded sorrowfully as she urged her horse closer. “I know, your letter said so. I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “Those stinking Comanches have Amelia,” she added dully as Summer and Lance rode into the yard. “God pity her soul. She was like a daughter to me—” Her eyes narrowing suddenly, she broke off in midsentence and gasped. “You’re an Injun!”

  Lance abruptly halted his horse, but Martha Truesdale’s face twisted in an expression that was part terror, part horror.

  Her eyes grew wild as she raised the gun in her hands. “You dirty Injun with your Injun ways. Get out! Get outa here, before I put a bullet through your godforsaken guts.”

  Billy hurriedly left his place beside the barn and ran toward the house. “No, ma! Stop! He didn’t do nothing. Nan, get out here! Ma!”

  But his mother was beyond reasoning. “Murderer! You killed her, you bloody murderer!”

  “He isn’t…” Summer began helplessly.

  A young woman came rushing through the door while Billy made a grab for the waving shotgun. Finding herself thwarted, Mrs. Truesdale burst into tears and bent over, clutching her stomach. “Merciful God…” Her anguished wail pierced the bright afternoon. “Why’d you come back to torment me? Haven’t you done enough?”

  “Ma, go inside! Nan, take her, for Crissakes. I’ll handle it.”

  Nan hesitated, sending a worried glance at Lance.

  “Go on! I’ll take care of it.”

  Making soothing noises, she shepherded her sobbing mother inside the house.

  Billy turned back to the visitors. “It’s only her grief talking. Our sister was killed by a Comanche lance in the same attack that Amelia was taken in.” The words were apologetic, but the tone held a hostile chill.

  “I’m sorry,” Lance said quietly.

  He shook his head. “We don’t want your sympathy, mister. I think you’d better get off our land. You’re only upsetting Ma.”

  “Billy,” Summer said sharply, unable to help herself, “Lance isn’t here to harm anyone. He’s my husband.”

  The silence that followed her admission resonated with shock. Billy studied her for a long moment, his consternation apparent. “Then you better go, too.”

  “Billy…” She gave him a pleading look. “Please. We can’t leave just yet. We need to know what happened to Amelia.”

  “We told you everything we know in the letter.”

  “Then…perhaps we could speak to the child who survived, the little Grice girl.”

  “They sent her back east to her kin.”

  Summer looked at Lance, not certain what to do, but his face was as expressionless as a stone. She turned back to Billy. “I had hoped to stay here with you while Lance is searching for my sister.”

  He frowned, considering. But then he slowly shook his head. “I don’t think that would be such a wise idea, ma’am, not if you’re…” He left the words unsaid, but his meaning was clear enough: Not if you’re a half-breed’s squaw. “Ma’s nerves are shaky at best—you saw what happened. She needs to try to forget about Mary, and havin’ you around…well…it would only remind her. Might even drive her over the edge. No, I’m sorry, Miss Weston…I mean Missus.... I know you came all this way, but I think it’d be best if you found some other place to stay. The hotel’s closed, but maybe somebody will put you up.”

  Summer started to reply, but Lance raised his head. “Come on, let’s go.”

  He turned his horse abruptly, leaving Summer no choice but to follow him.

  “If you find Amelia,” Billy called after them, “she’s welcome to come back here…no matter what those red devils have done to her. We’ll take her in.”

  Neither Summer nor Lance looked back.

  They rode the two miles to the Grice ranch in silence. Summer accompanied Lance mechanically, paying no attention to her surroundings as her mind battled weariness, fear, outrage.

  She hadn’t expected to be turned away from the Truesdale farm. She’d been prepared for discomfort on the part of her sisters-in-law, yes, perhaps even contempt. But not outright repudiation. Her instinctive ire at being judged so unfairly vied with her dismay at her own impotence—and neither surpassed her dread for Amelia.

  No matter what those red devils have done to her. Billy’s words echoed in her ears with terrifying clarity. She had only been fooling herself, trying to pretend that Amelia would be all right. Even if he
r sister could be rescued quickly, even if she could be found, there was every likelihood she’d been subjected to the horrible ordeals Comanche captives usually suffered.

  She had to prepare herself for that eventuality, Summer knew. Just as she had to brace herself for a future as Lance’s wife. People’s reaction when they learned the truth would be no different from Billy’s, or the Yarbys of the world: revulsion and contempt. She might have to face a lifetime of such rejection—but that wouldn’t matter if she could save Amelia. She could deal with rejection as long as Amelia was safe.

  She had to find her sister.

  She didn’t know what course to take now, though. She hadn’t thought that far ahead, couldn’t think that far. Her mind wouldn’t seem to function.

  Lance watched Summer in smoldering silence, cursing himself as much as the circumstances. She looked numb, disoriented, as if she hadn’t recovered from a deep shock. And he was to blame.

  He’d known he was making her life harder by forcing her to marry him, but he’d been wrong. He hadn’t only made her life harder. He’d branded her an outcast like him. And all the old rage came boiling to the surface, making him want to explode.

  The Grice ranch had been burned to cinders. The gaunt, soot-scarred chimneys of the main house stood silhouetted against the sky, while the blackened stone walls bore silent testimony to the brutality of the attack. An acrid stench of fear and flames still hung in the air, as dense as the cloud of flies hovering over a grimy mat of chicken feathers and the carcass of a cow the buzzards had picked over.

  Lance sat his horse for a long moment, grimly observing the devastation. Beside him, Summer stared in mute shock. When he dismounted, saying he wanted to have a look around, she nodded, yet she hardly noticed when he bent to inspect the ground.

  She couldn’t stop imagining the horror of what had happened here. Three people had lost their lives, and she couldn’t help but picture it. She could almost hear the screams of the dying, the barbaric war cries of the Comanches as they circled ever closer, the crackling flames of fire as it licked the walls. Had Amelia suffered before being taken? Dear God…