The Savage

by Nicole Jordan

  Shock turned to horror as Amelia stared. “You’re…”

  “Yes, I am going to have his baby.”

  “Oh, God…a Comanche…”

  Summer’s jaw hardened as she stepped close to Amelia. “Yes, Comanche. Feel this, Melly.” She grabbed his sister’s hand to press it hard against her stomach. “There is a life growing inside me! My child and Lance’s. And yours, too, in part. You are going to be this baby’s aunt.”

  “No…”

  “Yes. He is your family, your flesh and blood, whether you like it or not.”

  “No!” Amelia recoiled, jerking her hand away.

  Summer smiled coldly, relentless in her scorn. “I’d even go so far as to say you share responsibility for his conception. In order to save you, Lance married me—and this baby is the result. This child will be born because of you.”

  Amelia covered her mouth with her trembling hands.

  Summer’s fierce glare softened. “I don’t think you mean to be so cruel, Melly. I can’t believe you would condemn an innocent child to the terrible life of an outcast.”

  Amelia’s eyes filled with tears, but her only response was to turn and grope blindly for the door.

  Summer’s quiet voice stopped her from leaving, however. “Don’t do this to Lance, Melly. Please…I’m begging you. Don’t hurt him any more than he’s already been hurt. I love him, Melly. It may not have started out that way. I resented him at first, for forcing me to marry him. But that’s all changed now. I want Lance as my husband. I want him as the father of my child.”

  With a choked sob that was almost inaudible, Amelia pushed open the door and fled.

  When Lance faced Amelia some ten hours later in the front parlor of the Weston house, she looked pale and subdued. In the deceptive lamplight, he found it hard to tell whether sleeplessness or weeping had caused the dark circles under her eyes.

  Amelia wouldn’t meet his gaze, although now and then she risked a fearful glance at him. Lance watched her with similar wariness as he stood inside the parlor door.

  To say that he had been surprised by her peculiar summons would have been an understatement. Calvin Stapp had found him out on the range just before dusk and told him that Miss Amelia wanted him to come to the house, that she had something to show him. She wouldn’t say what it was, though.

  His first reaction, absurdly, had been hope. The irrational, foolish hope that the woman had somehow relented in her attitude toward him and was willing to take the first step toward making amends.

  A stupid hope, obviously, he realized as he recognized that look of fear and contempt twisting her features.

  Now, as he’d done too many times to count when confronted with white prejudice, he masked his disappointment behind a hard stare. If he was making her nervous, he didn’t much give a damn. His own unease at being here was only increasing, the longer she remained silent.

  Amelia was clutching a crumpled piece of paper between her fingers, and kept looking at it, as if she couldn’t quite make up her mind about what to do with it. She didn’t immediately satisfy his curiosity, but instead, asked him in a small voice if he knew how to read.

  The cold fury he thought he felt for this woman dissipated into weariness. What difference did it make what the ignorant savage knew or didn’t know? “Well enough,” he replied gruffly.

  She handed him the paper, careful not to let his fingers touch her. When he unwadded it, he could see a message printed in uneven block letters.

  Miss Summer, If you want proof that your Injun stole all them beeves, meet me at midnight at the old Paxly place near the three oaks.

  His gut clenched at the damning words. Somebody was going to a lot of trouble to pin the blame for the stolen stock on him—and dragging Summer into it. A note like this would only make her believe the worst about him—and somehow that hurt more than knowing her sister hated him enough to plot his downfall.

  “Did Summer give you this?” he asked Amelia.

  “N-No, she doesn’t know about it yet.”

  The relief he felt was absurd, considering the danger he was in. “Then where’d you get this paper?”

  “I…I found it…lying on the front porch, tied around a rock. I thought…you would want to do something about…” She faltered, as if unable to continue the lie.

  He looked at her a long moment. “About destroying the evidence, you mean.”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “That’s right kind of you, Miss Amelia. You wantin’ to help me and all.”

  His tone was cool, drawling, and made her flush. The note was a setup, Lance knew. Amelia Truesdale hadn’t suddenly had a change of heart and become willing to embrace him as her brother-in-law. If he went to the Paxly place, he’d be walking into a trap. He knew it, as sure as whites hated red men.

  But he no longer was certain he cared how this trouble ended. His life here was over. His dream of building a place with Summer was just that, a foolish dream. Clearing his name was likely beyond his reach with so many of the good citizens of Williamson County in league against him. So he’d settle for what he could have. Finding out who was behind the thefts—and making sure whoever it was paid.

  “Why the change of heart?” Lance asked Amelia softly, without emotion.

  “What…what do you mean?”

  “A week ago you did your best to get me run out of the county, telling those lies about me in front of the entire community. Why are you suddenly willing to help me out now?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, Amelia covered her mouth with one hand while her eyes filled with tears. “I…I…” With a broken sob, she turned and fled from the room.

  Lance stood looking after her for a long while, slapping his hat against his thigh, weighing his choices.

  He rode cautiously through the darkness, his guns loaded, his knife loose in the scabbard at his waist. The old Paxly homestead had been deserted some twenty years ago, burned out by raiding Comanches, but the land, which had been bought up by John Weston, now made up the southwest corner of the Sky Valley spread. The three oaks mentioned in Amelia’s note were a familiar landmark to anyone in the county, since they’d been planted beside the graves of the Paxly family.

  There was enough moonlight to see by. Lance’s gaze swept the surrounding hills, noting any of a dozen places that would make a good location for an ambush. He didn’t think they would spring one on him yet, though. They would wait to catch him with the evidence.

  There were still three hours to go till midnight, but he’d decided not to wait. Prewitt and his gang—if it was Prewitt—would likely be prepared for him in any case, not knowing if and when he would show, but any element of surprise was better than none.

  He’d ridden straight from the Weston house, passing the cabin he’d shared with Summer without stopping, ignoring the light burning inside that told him she likely was home. The need to see her one last time had burned in him like fever, but he’d refused to acknowledge it. He didn’t think he could take facing her again, not with her suspicion, the pleading accusation in her eyes. The last time had near killed him.

  Too, if he went near her, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from holding her one last time. And then he would have to tear himself away. And when he tried to leave, she would ask questions. She would want to know where he’d been, where he was going, and then there would be explanations to make, her reaction to deal with. If she knew what he planned, she might try to stop him. And he didn’t want her to stop him.

  His jaw clenched, Lance kept his horse at a steady walk as he rounded a rocky outcrop. Up ahead lay the meadow with the three oaks where the Paxlys were buried. It was surrounded by hills that offered plenty of places for a man to hide. He didn’t want to hide, though. He wanted to draw Prewitt out. If he was going down, he would go down fighting. And if he was going to die, he intended to take Prewitt with him.

  The cold gust of wind blew in his face, carrying with it the scent of livestock. A prickle of awareness traveled up hi
s spine at the smell. Silently Lance slipped his six-shooter from its holster and thumbed back the hammer.

  He heard the cattle moving restlessly in the dark before he saw them. There had to be two or three hundred head, grazing peacefully. He would bet his life they would be marked with Harlan Fisk’s brand, and maybe others as well.

  He skirted the herd slowly, keeping away from the long, wicked horns that could rip a horse’s belly with a single stab. It was maybe a minute later when his instincts told him he wasn’t alone with the steers. He brought his horse to a halt, waiting.

  In the silence, he could feel the slow, harsh pounding of his heart, the gathering of nerves as he waited for a possible attack.

  “Okay, Prewitt,” he called out finally. “I’m here. Now what?”

  A group of shadows peeled away from the hill to his right. He counted four riders, but he suspected there were more.

  Prewitt wasn’t one of them, he saw as they approached him cautiously, pistols and rifles down. He recognized Bob Blackwood, and one of the Weston ranch hands whom Reed had hired recently, a kid by the name of Calvin Stapp. That hurt, knowing a man he had worked with had turned on him.

  “Put your hands on your hat,” Blackwood ordered as they came to a halt, half surrounding him.

  “Where’s Prewitt?” Lance asked, keeping his hands right where they were.

  A disembodied voice came at him from the darkness to his left. “Here, Calder.” Will Prewitt slowly rode his horse into view, followed by some half dozen other silhouettes. “What’d I tell you, boys? I said he’d show.”

  No one answered the rhetorical question.

  Prewitt halted his horse behind Blackwood, out of range. “Do as Bob says, breed. Raise your hands.”

  Lance casually rested an arm on his pommel. “I thought I’d find you here.”

  He raised his rifle menacingly. “You red bastard, get your hands up!”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you’re under arrest for thieving stock. We caught you in the act.”

  “That so?” Lance’s mouth curled. “How do you figure?”

  “You’re here, ain’t you?”

  “And so are you. You set this whole thing up.”

  Prewitt smirked. “You’ll never prove it.”

  “And you’ll never prove I had anything to do with stealing Fisk’s livestock.”

  “We don’t need to. We got all the evidence we need right here.” He waved his arm in the direction of the herd of long-horns.

  “I’m supposed to have herded all these beeves here by myself?”

  “Your stinkin’ Injun friends helped. And you’ll hang for it, breed.”

  “I don’t think so,” Lance said in a low, deadly voice.

  “Maybe we better get Fisk,” somebody said nervously—the kid named Stapp, Lance thought.

  “Yeah, get Fisk here,” Lance said aloud. “Make it look all legal-like when you do murder.”

  “It won’t be murder,” Prewitt retorted as he moved his horse closer. “Stealing stock’s a hangin’ offense.”

  Blackwood glanced at Prewitt. “Maybe we should. Have Fisk here, I mean. It won’t take long to fetch him. We should have a trial.”

  “There’s no need for a trial!”

  “I don’t like this,” someone else said. “Maybe a trial’s best.”

  A tense moment followed before Prewitt shrugged. “I can wait. Calvin, you ride for Fisk. In the meantime we’ll ready the rope.”

  “You’re planning to take the law into your own hands, Prewitt?” Lance drawled.

  “Damn right. We’re gonna have us a lynch party. You’re gonna hang, Calder.”

  “You’ll have to take me first.”

  There was a brief silence while Prewitt stared at Lance. “Suits me.”

  Without warning, he took aim with his rifle and fired.

  Lance ducked low over his sorrel’s neck and raised his own six-shooter at the same instant. He got off a shot as he dug in his bootheels, heard Prewitt cry out at the explosion, felt a long, tearing pain along his own upper right arm. As his horse leaped forward, he managed to fire another round in Prewitt’s direction before the other startled men reacted and raised their weapons.

  Lance felt sharp pain in his right side as a volley of gunfire exploded in his ears.

  A nearby steer bellowed as riders scattered.

  Then chaos followed as all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 24

  Too tense to sleep, too weary to work, Summer rocked herself slowly in the parlor rocking chair. The calls she and Reed had paid on some of their neighbors this afternoon had yielded little results. No doors had been slammed in her face, but neither had her visits been welcome. She’d been unable to persuade anyone of Lance’s innocence. His ties to the Comanche were too powerful to ignore, and the suspicion that he might have invited the vicious marauders to pillage the countryside was enough to put a lifetime of friendships at risk.

  Gently Summer laid a caressing hand on her abdomen. This was the treatment she could expect for herself and her child. And yet she knew she would endure it gladly if only Lance would come home, if he would forgive her for her faithlessness and give her a second chance to prove to him that she wanted to be his wife.

  She gave a start when a soft knock sounded on the cabin door. Lance, was her first thought.

  Leaping to her feet, she fairly flew to the front door. To her dismay and bewilderment, Amelia stood there in the dark passageway.

  “Is something wrong?” Summer demanded in breathless alarm.

  “I…no…May…I come in?”

  Her sister had never visited her at the cabin before, and Summer didn’t know what to make of it. Amelia looked pale and nervous as she stepped inside.

  Feeling a sudden chill that had little to do with the November night air, Summer drew her shawl more tightly about her. “Why are you here?” she asked warily. “I don’t imagine this is a social call.”

  Amelia wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I…couldn’t sleep. I just wanted…to see you.”

  Gesturing to indicate the small, chintz-covered settee that served dual purpose as a spare bed for visitors, Summer kept her tone cool, polite. “Please sit down. Would you like some coffee, or tea?”

  “No…no, thank you.”

  Amelia didn’t take the proffered seat. Instead she let her gaze wander around the room. “The cabin…you’ve fixed it up. It looks very nice.”

  “Thank you. I’ve made it into a home. It’s not large or elegant, but it’s ours. And it was shelter when you refused to allow us to live in the house.”

  A fleeting look of anguish crossed Amelia’s features, but she didn’t reply. Moving carefully over to the settee, the way an old woman might, she slowly sat down. Rather than making conversation, though, she clutched her fingers in her lap, staring at her hands.

  Summer resumed her seat in the rocker. She refused to ease this awkward situation by playing the congenial hostess, or to help her sister with whatever she’d come to do.

  Amelia didn’t look up when she said finally, in a small voice, “Are you…really going to have a baby?”

  “I believe so. Lance’s baby. But of course, you won’t want to acknowledge it. It will be a mixed breed, you know.”

  Amelia shut her eyes, her face contorting for a moment. “Summer…I…I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever for, Melly?” she retorted with cynical sweetness. “Why should you feel the least bit sorry? Just because you’ve made Lance’s life hell? Destroyed any chance he has of becoming part of this community? Destroyed our children’s chances of being accepted as anything but savages? Subjected them to a life of scorn and hate? Whyever should you apologize?”

  Tears welled in her sister’s eyes as she mutely shook her head. “Yes…for all that. I’m s-sorry.”

  “It’s a bit late for regrets now,” Summer observed bitterly.

  “I kn-know…”

  Fiercely she gave herself a push in the rocker, but then
abruptly stopped the sway. “Just tell me one thing. Why did you tell those lies about Lance in front of everyone? Now the whole county believes him to be a monster.”

  “I…I only…I didn’t want…people to accept him.” The tears were streaming down her cheeks by now. “I didn’t want him to fit in…b-because…then he would stay. At the barbecue…people were acting so friendly…”

  “So you deliberately ruined his chances.”

  “Y-Yes…”

  Summer leaned toward her sister, pinning her with a fierce gaze. “Lance risked his life to save you, Amelia? If not for him, you would still be a Comanche captive, enduring the horrible things they did to you. You might even be dead by now! I think you owed Lance more than treachery.”

  Her sister flinched, cringing in her seat.

  “I begged you…begged you to think about what you were doing, to see how obsessed you were with hating him, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  Amelia lowered her face into her hands and sobbed.

  Summer clenched her fingers, refusing to relent, to offer comfort for this belated attack of conscience. She was glad Amelia felt a measure of remorse for what she’d done—Melly deserved to suffer—but Summer wasn’t certain she could ever forgive her. Perhaps if Lance returned, if he could somehow put all this behind him, then she might someday consider accepting her sister’s apology.

  It was during that righteous reflection that Summer heard the distant shouts and then the sudden staccato of hoofbeats outside, as if someone had galloped up to the cabin. Rising quickly, she went to the door—this time to admit a grim-faced Dusty.

  “You’ve got to come,” he said without preliminaries. “Lance is in big trouble. Gather up any guns you have and bring them. The boys are saddling up. I’m going to find Reed.”

  He started to turn away, but Summer stopped him by clutching his arm. “What kind of trouble?” she asked hoarsely.

  “He’s been shot, but he’s still alive. But they’re talking about hanging.”

  “Who?” Summer cried.

  “Prewitt and his gang. I was keeping an eye on Stapp like you said—followed him to the old Paxly place and waited. Lance showed up and then there was a gunfight. I was too far away to help, and alone, to boot. I figured I’d better fetch some backup.”