by Bobbi Smith
Lance didn't bother to answer as he caught up her other wrist and quickly tied her arms together. Alarmed, not knowing what he was doing, Trista kicked out at him, but this time he easily avoided her frantic efforts. As he hoisted her unceremoniously over his shoulder, she gave vent to her feelings of desperation.
"Put me down!" she cried out, pounding on his back with her bound fists.
"You will learn to do as I say, golden one, or you will pay the price," Lance commented dispassionately, paying no attention to her pummeling.
"You aren't going to live long enough to get me to do anything you want!" Trista snapped as she furiously continued her struggles. "When Michael finds out—"
The mention of his half brother's name hardened his heart even more, and Lance clamped a restraining arm about her legs to still her writhing motions. "By the time your Michael discovers what's happened, you'll be far away from here."
"Michael will come for me!" Trista raved on. "The Barretts won't let you get away with this, you filthy savage!"
Abruptly Lance stopped and, without a word of warning, dumped her to her feet. Trista staggered, then managed to regain her balance. Filled with fright and hatred, she glared at him defiantly, but he displayed no emotion as he returned her regard.
"My people have ways to silence captives who speak too much," he said brutally, already sick of hearing the Barrett name.
Trista had wanted to keep fighting him, to never give in, but she recoiled visibly as he drew his knife from its protective sheath. Was he going to kill her here . . . now? Or, as she had heard in some horror-filled Indian torture tale, was he going to cut out her tongue? Both possibilities struck terror in her heart, and she began to quake.
Wildly Trista glanced around, seeking a way of escape, searching for someone to save her, but she realized that it was useless. Helpless humiliation washed through her. There would be no flight to freedom, to rescue. She was now a captive . . . the slave of a Comanche warrior.
A depressing resignation set in. Trista had heard the whispered stories about the white women who'd been taken by Indians and later freed by the army. Their tales of survival had been filled with misery and abuse. She faced him silently now, trying to control her nervousness and praying that she was strong enough to live through whatever it was he planned to do to her.
Lance had witnessed the play of emotions revealed so plainly on her face, and while he found himself filled with hatred for her and all she stood for, he could not deny that he admired her courage. As he reached out toward her, she tried to block him with her bound forearms. Lance brushed her attempt aside and seized the hem of her blouse. Cutting a length of material from the already ruined garment, he moved behind her and gagged her with the cloth.
Trista's imagination had been wreaking havoc on her nerves as she'd envisioned all the torturous misery the Comanche could inflict with his knife, but when the warrior only gagged her, her knees went weak in relief. This time when he lifted her over his shoulder, she did not protest or fight, but hung limply in his controlling grip.
Glad that he had quieted her, Lance headed back across the rugged terrain, his mood bitter. He had wondered in the beginning exactly what he was going to do with her, but now that he knew the truth of her identity, he was filled with a grim resolve. She was the future bride of his half brother, and since Michael had taken all that was really his—his name, his birthright, his father's love—Lance felt no hesitation in taking something of Michael's. He would keep this woman for his own. Though he knew she would not be the easiest, most malleable female, she would be his.
Trista's bruised side was aching miserably as she hung uncomfortably suspended over Lance's broad shoulder, but she was too filled with anger and fright to care at the moment. The tales she'd heard of the women who'd been taken captive were haunting her thoughts. Not many details had ever been given, but it had been widely understood without saying that torture and rape had been common.
Trista thought of Michael and his gentle ardency and wished desperately to be safe in his arms right now. Again she chastised herself for her foolishness in riding out alone, and her heart ached when she realized how worried he would be about her when she turned up missing. Though she knew that without a horse or a weapon, escape was impossible right now, Trista vowed to herself never to give up hope. Somehow, someway, she would return to Michael, and then they would have the wonderful future together they had planned.
"Mr. Barrett! Mr. Barrett!"
The sound of Poker Bradley's frantic call drew Eleanor from the front parlor, where she had just settled in to enjoy a quiet moment and drink a cup of tea. Throwing wide the front door, she stepped out into the shadows of the front porch to meet the ranchhand who was running to the house.
"What is it, Poker? What's happened?"
Poker, a tall string bean of a cowhand with thinning blond hair and a protruding Adam's apple, whipped off his hat and faced the mistress of the ranch as politely as he could in the urgency of his distress. "I need to see Mr. Barrett right away, ma'am."
"Why, they're not here right now, Poker. They rode out about fifteen minutes ago. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"It's Miss Trista, Mrs. Barrett," he began nervously.
"Trista? What about her?" Eleanor frowned. She had slept in later than usual this morning because of the party the night before and had been unaware that her future daughter-in-law had ventured out alone.
"Well, ma'am, her horse just came back without her."
"She was riding alone?" She was incredulous.
"Yes, ma'am. She went out an hour or so ago by herself, but she promised to stay close . . . "
"Good heavens!" Eleanor's concern was very real. "Send a rider out to find my husband and Michael. They were heading out to the south range to check on the herd there."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And get a group of riders together yourself. We can't waste any time waiting on Michael and George. Trista could be in trouble."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, jamming his hat back on his head and racing off to do as she'd ordered.
Michael and George had only gone a short distance when they heard someone hailing them. Reining in, they turned in their saddles to see a lone rider racing in their direction.
"Mr. Barrett! Wait up!"
"It's Whitey. . . ." George frowned as they waited for the short, heavyset ranch foreman to catch up with them. "I wonder what's happened."
"I don't know," Michael added, "but it must be something important if Whitey's the one coming after us."
"What is it, Whitey?" the owner of the Royal Diamond called out as his most trusted hand drew near.
Whitey sawed back on his reins and brought his charging steed to a strangled halt. "You're needed back at the ranch. . . ." he related quickly.
"What happened?" Michael asked.
Whitey slanted him a judging look before he spoke. "It's your fiancée, Michael."
"Trista?"
"Yes, sir. Seems her horse came back without her."
Michael felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. He had not wanted her to go out riding alone, but when she'd promised not to go too far from the house, he'd finally assented. Guilt swept over him at the thought that she might have been hurt in a freak accident, and he prayed fervently that she was all right. Without a word, Michael put his heels to his horse's sides and took off at a run back toward the house, leaving George and Whitey to follow.
George gave Whitey a worried look as they watched Michael ride off. "Were there any signs of trouble?"
"Sheba was limping. She might have just taken a tumble and unseated Miss Trista." Whitey tried to reassure his boss. "Why, Miss Trista's probably waitin' for us right now."
"I hope you're right. . . ." His troubled gaze met his foreman's.
"So do I, boss."
Without another word they put their heels to their horses' flanks and set out after Michael.
Time seemed suspended as the search party from the Royal
Diamond combed the area north of the ranchhouse. With Michael and George in the lead, they managed to locate Trista's trail and track her as far as the creek. But once her path ventured onto the more rocky terrain, they lost it. The sun reached its pinnacle and then began to dip westward, signaling the lateness of the hour as they continued to seek some clue as to her whereabouts.
Eyes squinted against the brightness of the sun, Michael never paused in his efforts as he fanned out away from the group. Though he kept up a brave, unflagging front for the others, as the hours passed, he grew deeply worried. When they had first begun the search, his concern for Trista's well-being had been real, but his confidence in her riding abilities had led him to believe that they would find her close to the ranch, a bit shaken up by the experience. But now . . . now that they were trekking farther and farther out away from the house, that sense of security had been completely destroyed. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Michael was beginning to suspect that something terrible had happened to Trista. . . .
"Yo! Michael . . . " George's call echoed across the countryside.
Looking up, Michael caught sight of his father anxiously beckoning to him. Urging his weary mount forward, he hurried to where George stood, intently studying the dusty ground.
"Look here. . . ." George spoke solemnly as he knelt beside the maze of hoofprints. "Two horses . . . neither one of them shod . . . and footprints . . . "
"Footprints . . . " A cold grip of fear seized Michael, and his vitals lurched violently. Unshod horses could only mean one thing . . . Indians. He was out of the saddle, kneeling beside his father in a split second. As he stared at the moccasin imprint, he noted the mark of the fringe in the dust and knew immediately that the wearer had been Comanche. Michael groaned, "Dear God . . . no!"
"Now, don't go jumping to any conclusions." George tried to calm him. "There's nothing here to say that Trista was here."
Michael raised dark, tormented eyes to his father. "I'll circle about and see if there's anything else."
George nodded his agreement. They both took up their reins to lead their horses as they continued to search on foot. It was Michael this time who found the damning set of tracks that led to the scene of the abduction.
"Pa! Here . . . " His voice was strangled with emotion as he stared down at the sight of Trista's booted footprints.
George was some distance away and could not see exactly what it was Michael had found, but from the sound of his son's voice, he feared that he'd located Trista herself. He rushed to his side and was slightly relieved to discover that Michael had found only the tracks.
"She was here. . . ." Michael stated numbly as the last vestige of hope he'd clung to vanished. He frowned as he looked up. "I don't know. . . . He must have carried her off since there's only the one set of tracks leading back to where the horses were."
Silence hung heavily between them for a long moment.
"It's my fault, Pa. . . ." Michael choked. "I should never have agreed to her riding out alone. . . . I should have forced her to wait for me. . . ."
"Michael, I heard you and Trista talking this morning. She's a very persistent young woman when she sets her mind to something. She wanted to ride, and she did promise you she'd stay close." George could imagine what he was feeling and wanted to comfort him. He rested a warm hand upon his slumped shoulder.
"I know, but—"
"Trista's not dead, son. If the Comanche had wanted to kill her, he would have done it here. She's still alive, and we're going to find her and get her back."
"But God only knows how much of a head start they've got on us. . . ."
"All the more reason to get going. I'll call the men together, and we'll get on back to the ranch."
"I'll leave now . . . from here. . . ." he began, thinking to tear off after the bastard who'd captured the woman he loved.
"No." George was firm.
"But, Pa!"
"You want to find her, don't you? You've been back East too damned long, boy," he growled, trying to talk common sense to his offspring. "You head out now, and you'll be on foot by tomorrow. Your horse needs rest, and you need supplies. We'll go back, gather what we need, and set out at first light tomorrow."
"That'll give them almost a full day on us," Michael argued hotly.
"I'm sorry, Michael." George's refusal was firm. "There's no other way."
Clasped tightly against the unyielding width of her captor's bare chest, her thighs and buttocks cupped by his unclad hard-muscled thighs, Trista bore the humiliating familiarity in silence, wondering all the while just how much longer they were going to ride. The sun had set long before, and yet the warrior had shown no sign of stopping for the night. Despite the darkness of the hour, he'd continued to press, driving them ever onward across the miles of seemingly endless countryside.
Though every inch of her body ached from the abuse she'd suffered that day, Trista refused to make any protest. She had no intention of letting her Comanche captor know of her discomfort. If he could stand these hours of endless travel across wickedly rugged territory, then so could she. She had had a lot of time to think since they'd ridden away from the Royal Diamond, and she knew that the only thing that mattered was that she survive until Michael could come to her rescue.
Fearful uncertainty plagued her as she wondered what the future held. Captives were often traded to other tribes, and Trista worried that Michael wouldn't find her soon enough to save her from that fate. And if she wasn't traded, she knew she would have to be subservient to this half-dressed, wild brute. Even in her fright, the thought rankled. He was nothing but an animal . . . an uncivilized, dangerous savage. She fought to suppress a shiver as she remembered the feel of his body pressed so tightly to hers as he'd pinioned her to the ground during their struggle, and wished that she could wake up and find that this was all a nightmare.
All Trista wanted to do was to get away, and she longed for just one chance to relive the day. If only she hadn't gone out on her own. . . . If only she hadn't gotten lost. . . . If only. . . . if only . . . The words tormented her until she was ready to cry out in despair just to banish them from her mind. There was to be no quick release from either her guilt-ridden misery or her captivity, though, and as the miles and the hours passed, only exhaustion managed to dull her senses enough to ease the anxiety.
Lance was tired, and his injured arm, which he had treated quickly before they began their headlong flight across the hill country, was aching, but he knew the necessity of putting as many miles as he could between himself and the Royal Diamond. He had no doubt that a search party had been sent out as soon as the woman had been found to be missing, and he had every intention of being as far away as possible before their trail was discovered.
A smile that could only be described as cruel curved the grimness of his mouth as he imagined the chaos among the whites once they'd determined that she'd been taken captive by Indians. Wanting to reassure himself that he did indeed have her within his power, Lance tightened his grip on her, his arm banded about her waist bringing her back more fully against his chest. She resisted only slightly, keeping herself stiff against him. Lance was pleased that the fight seemed to have gone out of her. He considered removing the gag, but then decided against it. She was his now to do with as he pleased, and it pleased him to keep her silent. He didn't want to hear any more of her threats about what the Barretts were going to do to him when they caught up with him. There was nothing the Barretts could do to hurt him. Nothing.
Lance dragged his thoughts away from the woman and her relationship with the Barretts and back to the present. His pinto seemed to be holding up well even under the additional weight of his captive, and he gave silent thanks for the steed's hardiness. Had his mount had less endurance, they would have been forced to rest by now, and their risk of discovery would have been greater. As it was, the pinto's energy had held steady and its pace had not slowed during the grueling hours. Even the golden stallion seemed to be holding up under the s
train, and though the wild one was definitely not docile, he had not protested Lance's lead too vigorously.
Lance considered the similarities between the horse and the woman, and smiled a smile of pure pleasure. He was going to greatly enjoy the taming and mounting of both. He knew both would fight his domination, but in the end he would prevail. A perverse satisfaction surged through him at the prospect of taking his half brother's woman. He would use her as it pleased him and then trade her away when he'd had his fill. Lance thought it quite lucky that she was pleasant on the eye, for she would bring a good price when he decided to get rid of her.
The moon had long ago begun its downward trek when Lance spotted the shadowy outline of a small grove of scrub oaks in the distance. Knowing that the pinto was straining, he quickly headed toward the shelter to seek some much-needed rest. Reining in, he quickly slipped to the ground and then reached up to clasp the woman by her waist and pull her off the horse. Even with her hands tied, Lance did not trust her not to try to escape.
Trista couldn't believe that they were finally stopping. She blinked in tired confusion at her surroundings as the warrior took her by her waist and helped her down from the horse. A part of her told her to fight his touch, and Trista did try to hold herself rigid as she slid along the hard, lean length of his body. Her legs felt lifeless as he set her upon her feet, and she could not prevent herself from leaning weakly against him for support.
Lance wasted no time wondering at her ploy. The last time she had pretended to be weak, she had stolen his knife from him, and he had no intention of falling for any such female trick again. Coldly, he pushed her away from him.
"Sit there," he ordered curtly, pointing toward a protected area beneath one tree before turning his back on her to see to the horses.
Trista staggered to the place he'd indicated and dropped to her knees on the ground. Just the thought of being able to lie down filled her with relief, and she was about to collapse upon the hard earth when the sound of his voice drew her attention. His words were indistinguishable but his tone had changed; it was soft now and crooning, as opposed to the brusque, emotionless tone he used with her. She glanced up and saw that he was approaching Fuego, his hand outstretched toward the wild stallion in a gesture of openness.