by Bobbi Smith
"Really, Mary Lou," Eleanor spoke up, "this is hardly the time or the place for such a discussion."
"I think it's important that she know just how wild and vicious they are." She was undaunted by Eleanor's comment. "There are whole raiding parties that sneak off the reservations just to terrorize the countryside, Trista. It's almost like they get some kind of perverse pleasure in maiming and killing decent white folks," Mary Lou recounted with relish. "So you and Michael should be real careful when you go out riding. If they've come as close as the Lawson spread, who knows where they'll strike next."
"Mary Lou!" Eleanor cut her off sharply as she saw the sudden fear in Trista's eyes. "Trista, dear, you mustn't concern yourself with these things."
"But is it true?"
Eleanor knew better than to try to make light of such a serious subject. "Yes, I'm afraid raids are a fact of life here, but the Royal Diamond is very well protected."
"I see." Trista's pleasant expression wavered only slightly as every horror story she'd ever heard about Indian attacks came to mind.
"You'll be safe as long as you stay close to the ranch."
"Of course." Trista forced herself to relax. Since Eleanor didn't seem overly worried about the possibility of a raid at the ranch and Michael had never mentioned it, Trista decided firmly to put the thought from her mind. She had come to Texas to make a life with Michael, and that was exactly what she was going to do.
She glanced up then, wondering just where Michael had gone with his father. To her surprise, she found that George was deep in conversation with several older men across the room, but there was no sign of Michael. Suddenly feeling the need to be alone with him, she excused herself from the ladies and went in search of her fiancé.
Sukie had been watching and waiting all evening for the chance to maneuver a moment alone with Michael. Her frustration had run rampant as he'd spent almost the entire evening at his fiancée's side, giving her absolutely no opportunity to approach him. It was only when Michael moved off with his father to speak with a group of men that she thought she might finally get the chance to be alone with him.
Having bolstered her fading spirits with several cups of punch, she was ready when Michael excused himself from the discussion and left the parlor. Sukie didn't know where he was going, but she knew this was the only chance she was going to have to speak with him privately. As casually as she could, she set her half-empty cup aside and followed him from the room.
The empty hall that greeted her sent her hopes plummeting, and she sagged defeatedly against the wall. A moment later the sound of Michael's deep voice coming from the study buoyed her. Straightening, she quickly arranged her skirts and then squared her shoulders as if preparing, subconsciously, to do battle. With an effort, she managed a festive smile as she started forward.
"Good evening, Sukie," Frank Madison greeted her as he left the study on his way back to the parlor.
"Evenin', Frank," she returned calmly. Her pulse quickened at the thought that Michael was now by himself in the study. She waited until Frank had disappeared back into the parlor before venturing in. "Michael . . . good evening. . . ." Sukie used just the right amount of surprise in her voice to insure that he believed their encounter was accidental.
"Sukie. . . ." Michael looked up from where he stood at the liquor cabinet pouring himself a glass of bourbon. "It's good to see you again."
Her heart ached with the thought that he didn't really mean it . . . that he was only being polite.
"It's good to see you, too," Sukie told him, her gaze hungrily devouring the sight of him. How handsome he looked to her! Desire surged powerfully through her. She longed to throw herself into his arms and kiss him madly . . . passionately. Sukie wanted to tell him of her love and beg him to make her his. "I missed you while you were gone."
If Michael noticed the suddenly husky tone to her voice, he gave no indication of it. "Well, it's certainly good to be back." He finished pouring his drink and came to stand near her. The faint, elusive scent of the perfume she used touched a warm chord within him, and memories that had long been buried stirred to life—memories of the good times they'd shared together . . . of picnics and dances and kisses stolen in the dark.
"How was Philadelphia?" Sukie asked. Before he'd gone away, they'd had many heart-to-heart talks about the fact that it was his parents' idea that he go back East for school and how he really did not want to go. She hoped she could encourage him to talk with her now, just as they had before.
"Philadelphia was—" he paused as if searching for the right word "—very civilized, I guess is the best way to phrase it." His dark-eyed gaze dropped to her upturned features. Sukie . . . he had forgotten how sweet she was and how easy it was to talk to her. He'd forgotten the glory of her red hair and the beauty of her emerald eyes. A faint frown creased his brow.
"Did you enjoy it?" She had noticed his slightly puzzled look and wondered at the cause.
"Let's just say that I did finally get used to it." Michael smiled wryly. "But it certainly wasn't home."
"I know what you mean," Sukie agreed, not wanting the conversation to end. "I spent a month with my Aunt Lea in New Orleans last year. It was nice enough, but I was really homesick most of the time. I guess we're two of a kind . . . We've got Texas in our blood."
Michael nodded. "I know I never want to leave again."
"I'm so glad . . . " she said breathlessly, the fear she'd been harboring that he might return to Philadelphia with Trista relieved.
The unexpected urgency of her tone created a tension between them. Michael felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to reassure Sukie that he was, indeed, home to stay. His gaze met and locked with hers, and an almost palpable current of awareness passed between them.
"So am I," he said gruffly, caught up in the mood of the moment.
To Sukie's complete frustration, the fragile thread of intimacy between them was broken by the sound of voices just outside the study door.
"I don't know where Michael's gone, Trista, but perhaps he's here in the study," George was saying as he led Trista into the room.
Though Trista was a little surprised to find Michael in the study alone with another woman, she thought nothing of it. This was, after all, his party, and all these people were his friends.
The mood broken, reality descended upon Michael, and giving an imperceptible shake of his head, he moved to greet them. "Pa . . . Trista. . . ."
"See, I told you he was here somewhere, Trista," George remarked good-naturedly as they joined them.
"Trista. Is something wrong?"
"Oh, no, Michael. I was just wondering where you'd gone," she told him easily as he came to her and pressed a soft kiss on her lips.
Sukie had managed to keep her expression carefully guarded until she witnessed the kiss, and then she could no longer hide the hurt and anger that were filling her. The truth of her emotions flashed in her eyes for just the briefest of instants, but in that moment, Trista looked up. It happened so quickly that Trista was not really sure she'd seen the look of utter outrage cross the other girl's face.
"Trista, Sukie . . . have you two met yet?" George asked.
"No, we haven't," Trista answered.
"Trista, this is Sukie Harris, Mary Lou's daughter. Sukie, this is Trista Sinclair." George casually made the introductions.
"It's nice to meet you." Trista smiled warmly at the other girl.
"It's nice to meet you, too, Trista," Sukie said with an ease she little felt.
Trista could detect no trace of venom in her greeting and immediately dismissed her earlier impression as imaginary. "Have you and Michael been friends for a long time?"
"Yes, we have," she told her, managing to give Michael a fond look.
"Then I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of each other. I just met your mother, and she's a lovely woman."
"You'll have to have Michael bring you for a visit as soon as you get completely settled in."
"I'd like that."
>
"You two had better get back to the party," George prodded. "There are still some guests who haven't had the chance to meet Trista yet."
"We'd better go. Sukie, we'll see you later," Michael said as he slipped an arm possessively about Trista's waist and guided her from the room, leaving George to follow.
Lost deep in thought, Sukie stared about the now deserted room with unseeing eyes. For a moment during her time with Michael, she had felt the closeness they had once shared. Though he hadn't responded overtly, she was certain that he had felt it, too. Tonight he had remembered how close they had been before he'd left, and her hopes brightened at the thought. Maybe, just maybe, she did have a chance to win him back. Encouraged, Sukie was smiling as she left the study to rejoin the party.
Chapter Four
Alone and magnificent, his golden coat glistening in the morning sun, Fuego stood atop the bluff surveying the surrounding countryside with regal disdain. The danger of the day before seemed to have gone, and once again his territory . . . his domain . . . was quiet. He gave an arrogant toss of his head as he savored the peace of the moment.
The light breeze shifted then, and with its changing direction came a revealing hint of something hidden . . . something unseen. Fuego moved restlessly, suddenly on alert. He was an animal who survived strictly on his instincts, and though he had passed a good night here, and food and water were plentiful, his innate impulses were telling him that all was not as safe as it appeared.
An uneasiness settled over Fuego, and as if sensing a closing danger, he swung abruptly about. It was that moment that saved him from Lance's carefully set trap, for in that instant, Fuego caught the true scent of his presence. Across the distance they spotted each other. Both paused . . . man and horse . . . frozen into immobility as they studied each other with measured interest. It was the stallion who broke first. Nostrils flaring, his eyes wild, Fuego bolted and raced away in a streak of golden splendor.
With a furious curse, Lance watched the powerful, surefooted Fuego bound from the bluff at breakneck speed. Though he was annoyed at his own ineptitude in allowing the stallion to escape, Lance could waste no time on self-recrimination. The horse was escaping again! Charging forth from his place of concealment, Lance ran to where he'd left his own mount securely tethered. Snatching up the reins, he vaulted onto his horse's back and put his moccasined heels to its flanks.
Frustration filled Lance as he gave chase. He had thought the plan he'd devised during his long, sleepless night to capture the horse to be nearly perfect, but he had not counted on the golden one's uncanny instincts. In spite of the fact that he had taken every precaution when approaching, the stallion had managed to elude him yet another time.
His respect for the stallion's intelligence growing, Lance knew that this was no ordinary rogue. It was as he'd always suspected. There was something very special about this animal, and it was that very "specialness" that made him such a treasured prize. The thought of how proud he'd be to return to the village with the stallion fed his need to conquer, and Lance's expression grew grim with determination. It was only a matter of time now. Today's escape would be his last. The golden one would be his.
Trista was growing more than a little nervous as she reined her mare, Sheba, in near the crest of the hill. Tipping her low-crowned western hat back, she shaded her eyes against the brightness of the sun and scanned the area in hopes of finding a familiar landmark. To her frustration, she recognized nothing . . . not the distant grove of cottonwoods or the creek that ran through them.
She silently reviled herself for having been stupid enough to ride out on her own that morning. How foolishly confident she had been to think that she could find her way around the Royal Diamond alone after only a few days! Trista realized now that she should have waited for Michael to finish meeting with his father so he could come with her, but her need to be out riding on this glorious morning had overruled her common sense. Now here she was, quite lost and quite disgusted with herself. She knew the only thing left to do was to backtrack and try to follow her own trail to the house. As tired as her mount was, though, Trista decided to ride down to the creek first to let the mare rest and have a drink.
From the distance Trista had thought the stream nondescript, but as she drew nearer, she discovered it was far more. Hidden behind the natural hedge of trees, the babbling creek fed a small, crystal-clear pool whose banks were shaded by a stately stand of cottonwoods. Dancing beams of sunlight dappled the grassy ground in a kaleidoscope of changing patterns as a faint breeze stirred the leafy branches of the guardian grove.
Enchanted, Trista dismounted and led Sheba down to the water's edge. As the horse drank her fill, Trista closed her eyes and put all thought of her predicament from her, allowing herself to be enveloped by the complete serenity of the moment. This was what heaven will be like, she thought in blissful contentment . . . clear, splashing waters, soft breezes, the scent of wildflowers blooming, and the warm touch of the sun. She could have remained that way for hours had Sheba's sudden restiveness not broken into her reverie.
"What is it, girl?" Trista patted the mare's neck comfortingly. "What's troubling you?"
Sheba quivered, every muscle in her body taut and ready for action, as her attention focused on a rocky ridge across the valley. Though Trista could neither see nor hear anything unusual, she grew uneasy as all the talk of Comanche raids the night before came to mind. Tightening her grip on the reins, she quickly swung up into the saddle, ready to take flight if need be.
It was then that he burst into view. His muscles bunching and straining, his coat foam-flecked from the ordeal of his flight, Fuego cleared the top of the hill and streaked down the slope, heading in Trista's direction.
Trista recognized him immediately. Excellent judge of horseflesh that she was, she knew that this had to be the elusive golden stallion Michael and George had been speaking of at the party.
"Fuego. . . ." She whispered his name in awe, understanding now why George had been so interested in having the rogue for his own. He was gorgeous . . . and he was heading her way.
The last realization incited her to action, for she knew she'd never have a chance like this one. She grinned as she imagined what Michael's and George's reactions would be if she returned with Fuego in tow. Taking up the rope that was attached to her saddle, Trista prepared to intercept his headlong flight. As the stallion raced ever closer, she put her heels to her mare and darted out directly into his path.
Fuego knew a moment of panic. He had just managed to evade the one who had been hounding him for days, and now here was another . . . waiting and ready. In desperation, the frightened horse changed course. Angling away from the more level terrain in Trista's direction, he headed toward the rockier, less surefooted country to the north.
Lance watched the stallion disappear over the hilltop and leaned low over his own horse's neck, giving the pinto his full lead. Though not as fast in a dead run as the golden one, Lance's mount's capability for endurance was proving an effective weapon. The stallion had never been stalked this tenaciously before, and Lance hoped that the days of constant pursuit had taken their toll on his strength and judgment.
Rope in hand, Lance topped the hill hoping to find that the stallion was slowing down. Instead, what he discovered pleased him even more, and a feeling of triumph engulfed him. The fleeing steed had changed course and was now veering off toward a rock-strewn area that would hamper his breakaway speed. Lance did not have time to consider the stallion's reason for altering his direction. He only knew that this was the moment of reckoning. The pinto was surefooted and agile and more than capable of keeping up in the rocky terrain. His concentration complete, he focused only on the stallion.
Guiding Sheba with a firm yet knowing hand, Trista gave the mare full rein as they chased after Fuego.
"We're going to get him, Sheba . . . Just a little bit farther and—" Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of another horse and rider racing after Fu
ego from a different direction. Trista automatically assumed that it was someone from a neighboring ranch, and so she didn't break her stride as they continued to give chase. She wanted to capture Fuego and show everybody on the Royal Diamond just how perfectly she could fit into ranch life. Her gaze never wavered from the rogue as she refused to back off.
Lance was closing fast, and his heartbeat quickened at the prospect of finally attaining the prize. Soon the golden one would be his. He could see himself in his mind's eye now, returning to his village with the stallion and receiving everyone's congratulations and admiration. The imagining was a good one, and it filled him with confidence as he drew ever nearer to the slowing steed. Lariat in hand, Lance directed the pinto with pressure from his knees only as they galloped steadily closer.
It was then that Trista broke into Lance's line of vision. It was a moment of confusion for him, and the pinto, reacting to his master's sudden bewilderment, faltered slightly in its stride. Lance's gaze was anxious as he looked back in the direction from which she'd come, wondering if there were others with her. Relief filled him when he discovered that she was alone, for the last thing he'd wanted or needed was a confrontation with any whites.
Recovering quickly from the intrusion, Lance swore silently over his loss of momentum, and he goaded his mount on. The pinto responded quickly and surged forward once again, picking up the pace. Lance couldn't help but wonder who the white woman was and what she was doing out riding alone, but he firmly dismissed the thoughts. Right now only the golden one mattered. He would capture him, and then worry about the white woman.
The scrub oaks and mesquite trees faded to a blur as they raced onward. Trista grew even more excited as she closed on Fuego. Nervously readying her lariat, she hoped that the little she knew about roping would not fail her. The sound of the other rider gaining on her from behind convinced Trista that she had to make her move now if she was ever to have a chance at the stallion. As steadily as she could, she rose up in the stirrups and threw the rope.