by Bobbi Smith
The water, however, hampered Fuego's ability to move with any real agility or speed, and Lance remained on him, clinging tightly to his back. Frightened and fighting for his freedom, Fuego ran downstream, heading for some low-hanging branches in hopes of knocking the offending man loose. His head lowered, he charged toward the trees and raced beneath them.
Lance was knocked from his seat on Fuego's back and tumbled into the creek bed, where the water and the sandy bottom cushioned his fall. Sitting immobile in the shallow, slow-moving current, Lance took a moment to catch his breath and assess his injuries. Satisfied that nothing was broken, he got slowly to his feet. As he sloshed through the water to where several of the other warriors were holding Fuego, he was filled with even more respect for the rogue. He had always known that the golden one was smart and would use every trick available to fiercely guard his independence.
Walking around to face Fuego, Lance began speaking to him again in his low, comforting tones as he petted his neck and withers with easy, steady strokes. Lance drew a deep breath and then once more vaulted onto his back. Again the stallion went crazy and again, to the amazement of the onlookers, who knew of his ability to break horses, Lance was unseated and thrown into the waiting stream.
Striking Snake had been observing Lance's attempts to ride the stallion, and he was smug as Fuego threw him for the second time. "Perhaps you should forget about riding the stallion and think only of riding women, Lance! Old women!!" he shouted, drawing guffaws from the other men.
Lance ignored Striking Snake as he headed downstream to where Wind Rider again had the stallion under control. Not giving Fuego time to rest, Lance mounted him once more.
Fuego could sense Lance's fierce determination to subdue him, and he grew equally determined not to surrender. He did not think of Lance's kindness since his capture. He could only think of the hated weight on his back trying to force him to do other than his own will.
Lance held on tightly as the stallion gave vent to his rage at being mounted. Yet all of his prowess did not prevent him from being thrown again, and he watched in aggravation as Fuego successfully eluded the warriors who would have caught him.
Trista had lain awake long after Night Lark had fallen sound asleep, for she had been tortured by images of Lance making love to the other woman. Unable to bear the Indian girl's presence even in repose, Trista had fled the confines of the lodge at first light and had wandered silently through the camp, feeling very lost and very alone. She longed to escape, but knew that on foot she would have little chance of success.
The sounds of distant laughter and jeering came to her then, and curious, she headed off in the direction of the noise. The sight of the crowd gathered on the banks of the creek drew her on. Just as she neared them, they parted in frantic excitement, and Fuego came racing up out of the stream heading straight in her direction. Her reaction was instinctive as she waved her hands before the blindly charging stallion. To her surprise, he halted his flight and stood quivering before her, his sides heaving in agitation. Trista approached him calmly and took up the hackamore that swung freely before him.
"Easy, Fuego . . . " Trista murmured as he stamped and sidled slightly away from her. She caught sight of Lance striding toward her, and continued to try to calm the jittery rogue. "Easy, big boy. Slow . . . slow, now . . . " Trista felt somewhat guilty as she eased the stallion's fears, for she shared his desire to be free of this place and this man.
Lance came running up from the creek then and came to a dead stop at the sight of Trista gentling Fuego. Irate indignation flared within him coupled with a reluctant admiration of her ability to handle the horse. The indignation won out, though, and he angrily moved forward to take the rein from her hands.
"You will return to my lodge and wait for me there," he ordered abruptly.
For just an instant upon seeing him, so tall and virilely handsome, Trista had felt excitement surge through her, but she quickly quelled it as she remembered his betrayal with Night Lark. His coldness only hardened her heart against him, and she raised her chin defiantly at his command.
Lance read her expression and grew even more furious. "It would take little to encourage me to beat you this morning, woman. Do as I have commanded."
"It is no wonder Fuego will not let you ride him if you treat him as you treat me. Do you beat him for desiring the freedom you have stolen from him?" she countered. "Gentleness is a far better teacher than brutality."
"You will find no marks on the golden one or on yourself—yet!" He was amazed to find himself on the defensive.
"You have marked me, Lance! You have taken me against my will. . . . You have forced me to—"
"Wait at my lodge, woman!" he snarled, cutting her off.
Trista knew that she had pushed him as far as she could. Biting her lip to keep from crying, she hurried away.
The eyes of those gathered at the stream were upon Lance and Trista as they argued, and Striking Snake was the first to comment as Lance walked back toward them leading Fuego.
"It appears you are having trouble taming more than just the stallion!" he probed.
"She is but a woman and of little importance," he remarked, trying to keep his temper under control. "As for the golden one, he will be mine to ride within the week, but for today, he's had enough."
Wind Rider came up from the creek at his statement, and Lance thanked him for his help. The crowd began to disperse at his declaration, and only Lone Elk remained to speak with him.
"Your captive is beautiful and obviously the envy of many, but it is not a good thing to allow any woman to speak to you so before the others," the chief chided.
Lance stiffened at his criticism, yet found himself defending Trista. "She is merely spirited, as the golden one."
"Then you must break her spirit."
"I will deal with her in my own way."
"Perhaps you should sell this one to Striking Snake."
"No!" His reply came much too quickly.
Lone Elk eyed him solemnly as he judged his reaction and then stated, "I would know all of it. Now."
"There is nothing to know."
"There is much you are not saying. No woman has ever held your heart. Why is this one special? Is it because of her white blood?"
Lance turned on his uncle viciously. "I keep her because it pleases me to do so."
"I do not understand. Many times before you could have taken white slaves, but you did not. Why this one?"
He did not want to reveal the complete truth, but having never lied to Lone Elk, Lance knew he could not start now. He met his uncle's gaze as he spoke. "I followed the golden one for many miles, Uncle."
"Yes . . . so?" the chief urged.
"He led me south. . . ."
Lone Elk tensed, knowing that the Royal Diamond and all the beautiful memories of his childhood lay to their distant south. "Where did you find this woman?"
"I was on my father's land. She is the betrothed of my father's other son." His words were filled with hate.
"How do you know this?"
"She wears a ring of the Barrett brand, and claims to be his fiancée. I have stolen my half brother's woman."
The chief nodded his understanding and approval of Lance's actions. He was pleased with his nephew's bold coup. "So you have finally taken your vengeance. Does Barrett know that it was you, his own son, who took her?"
"No, and I was careful to erase any hint of my trail."
"You have done well. Does the woman know of your connection to them?"
"I have told her nothing, and I would keep it that way. I am the son of Shining Star. I am Comanche," he said more forcefully than he had intended.
"It is good you know which path you walk," Lone Elk told him, wondering at the vehemence of his proclamation. "I will speak with you later."
When the chief had gone, Lance headed back to the pen where he kept his herd. After cooling the stallion down, he released him into the corral and started toward his tipi and Tris
ta.
"Lance."
At the sound of someone calling his name, Lance looked up to find Striking Snake coming his way, leading two magnificent ponies.
"Striking Snake," he returned, eyeing him skeptically.
"I would speak to you about your white captive."
"What is it you want?"
"Though she is a troublesome woman, as we all could see at the creek, I am willing to give you two of my best ponies for her."
Lance knew the offer was a good one, for a captive seldom brought that much in trade. Still, for reasons he could not explain, he was not prepared to part with her.
"It is generous of you to offer so much for Trista, but she is mine. I am keeping her."
Striking Snake did not take his refusal well. He wanted that woman. He wanted to master her . . . to teach her her place . . . to make her his. "I will make it three ponies. You may choose the third yourself from my herd."
"Trista is not for sale, Striking Snake, at any price," he found himself refusing.
For the moment Striking Snake could do no more. "As you say," he agreed, but even as he walked away, he was plotting some other way to possess the yellow-haired, slender beauty.
Trista sat alone in Lance's lodge awaiting his return. She sat upon his bed, remembering what had happened between them there the day before and imagining what had taken place there in the hours before dawn between Night Lark and Lance. Her loathing for him was churning like a living thing within her.
At the sound of his approach, Trista went still. She remained seated where she was as he threw aside the door and entered the tipi. Though her heart leapt at the sight of him she forced herself to ignore the sensation. She did not allow her thoughts to dwell on the tall leanness of his body or the piercing blueness of his eyes. Instead, she concentrated on keeping her composure as she met his stare unwaveringly. Though she was nervous and not sure what to expect, she was resolved not to betray her true feelings to him.
Lance paused motionlessly, just inside the entranceway. He was furious with Trista because she had embarrassed him before the other members of his tribe. But as he stood there, gazing down at her where she sat on his bed, he could only think of how gorgeous she looked and remember how passionate their lovemaking had been the day before. The pale silk of her hair tumbled in wild disarray about her shoulders. At the sight of it, he longed to tangle his hands in the heavy mass as he tilted her head back to receive his kiss. Her mouth was firm, almost grim, and he wanted to plunder her lips with his own and force them to sweet submission. Her blue eyes were locked upon him, and their expression was carefully inscrutable. The only clue he had to her state of disquiet was the way her breasts rose and fell rapidly with her breathing. He let his gaze linger on the soft flesh that was revealed by her torn blouse. Distractedly, he realized that he should get her different clothing so she would be protected from the lecherous looks of the other men . . . especially Striking Snake.
The thought that he wanted to protect her from Striking Snake troubled him. He scowled darkly as he wondered why he should care what happened to her. Why did it matter that he was to be the only one to touch her? If he truly wanted to seek his revenge against the Barretts, he would share her with the whole tribe. As quickly as the thought came to him, he dismissed it. He only wanted to keep her safe because she belonged to him—for now. She was his property, and he would take care of her just as he took care of all else that was his.
Trista grew slightly unnerved when he did not speak immediately. Flaunting her false bravado, she snapped, "Have you come to beat me?"
"You have much to learn, Trista," Lance stated stonily as he remained standing over her, "and the first lesson is that a Comanche woman is obedient above all else."
"I am not a Comanche woman," Trista shot back angrily, "and I never will be!"
"It is time you recognized your fate and accepted it."
"I am just like Fuego, Lance," she told him steadily. "I will never accept your domination freely. Never!"
Her continued defiance sent his temper flaring, and in one step he reached her and pulled her forcefully up to him. His hold on her upper arms was viselike as he glared down at her, his blue-eyed gaze icy with contempt. "You will also learn to hold your tongue."
Trista felt the strength of his fury, but did not relent. "If I cause you such grief, why don't you just let me go? Let me return to my own people. Then you would no longer be burdened with me."
"No," he refused.
"Lance, let me go. I'm sure the Barretts would pay handsomely to have me back. Would you like a reward? Name your price. Horses . . . money . . . anything!"
The mention of the Barretts seared across the rawness of his fury. "I want no reward for you," he bit out.
"Why not?" Trista challenged, her eyes flashing fire. "What is the point in keeping me here when you know that I'll never surrender to you? I hate you, Lance!"
Her taunt severed what little restraint he had upon his wayward desires. "You always proclaim your hatred for me, Trista, but I can prove otherwise."
"No!!" She saw the flare of heat in his eyes and read his open intent. She tried to twist away from him, but his strength was overpowering.
Lance's anger was so great that there was no gentleness in him as he pressed her down upon his bed. She was going to pay for all the pain he had suffered. He did not bother with soothing caresses or soft words. His fury was so great that he was feeling little except the driving need to claim her completely. Despite her protests, he ripped her skirt from her and thrust deep within her.
Trista struggled to be free, yet knew that it was useless. Tears stained her cheeks as she lay still beneath his driving weight. To her horror, as Lance moved so rhythmically against her, a blossom of desire began to grow in the womanly heart of her. She fought it, tried to force the feeling from her, but it was like quicksilver flowing through her veins. How could this be happening to her? How could her body betray her this way? She despised this man, and yet he had but to touch her and she melted to his will. Trista groaned in tormented agony.
Her moan of protest affected Lance as no fighting or arguing would have. The hardness within his heart melted, and he immediately slowed his pace. Reaching down, he cupped her hips to draw her nearer. His mouth sought hers in a devouring exchange, and he was surprised by the abandon with which she responded.
"You are mine, Trista."
"No . . . " she protested weakly, but when he threatened to move away, she clasped him more tightly to her.
Together their passions spiraled to the peak of excitement. They soared to the heights and then drifted softly back, their limbs intertwined, their bodies still joined in intimacy.
Lance was smug as he moved away from Trista. So she hated him, did she? he thought with arrogant self-confidence. She certainly had a strange way of showing it. He stood up and straightened his clothing.
Trista was upset enough with herself for her weakness in giving in to Lance, but she grew outraged when she saw his expression. He might think he had conquered her, but he hadn't! Seething, she covered herself with her damaged skirt and faced him.
"You're bigger than I am, and you're stronger than I am, and you may be able to force my body to respond to you, but you'll never be able to touch my mind or my heart!"
His expression did not falter though her words struck him like a lash. He had overpowered her. He had forced her to respond. The satisfaction he was feeling at having brought her to passion's pleasure faded as he experienced a rush of unexplained guilt. Why was it that the truth as she saw it had the power to emasculate him? Angered, he needed to strike back at her.
"It is not your mind or your heart that I wanted to touch, woman. I have possessed all of you that I ever wanted. You are nothing more than a convenience for me, but you are becoming more and more trying to my patience," he sneered caustically, gauging the effect of his words upon her as she paled beneath their force. "Don't talk to me about ransom, either. I have no need of money or
horses from the Barretts. Striking Snake has just offered me an outrageous sum for you, and I regret most deeply that I did not agree to the trade." He said no more, but let his gaze rake over her in disgust before stalking from the lodge.
Trista shivered beneath the impact of his words. She had hoped to cut him to the quick with her insult to his masculinity, but he had been impervious to her attempt. With shaking hands, she picked up her ruined garment and tugged it back on. Holding it together as best she could, she made her way from his lodge and hurried back toward She Who Speaks the Truth's tipi.
The old woman saw the condition of Trista's clothing as she approached and shook her head in disbelief. What transpired between the captive and her owner was none of her business, but she now understood why Lance had come to her moments before to ask her to provide new garments for her.
"Come." She Who Speaks the Truth directed her inside the lodge and moved to sort through a small bundle at the foot of the bed. She drew out a serviceable fringed buckskin skirt, top, and moccasins. "Here." She handed the Comanche apparel to Trista.
Trista had wondered what she was going to do, and she was struck by the woman's kindness. "Thank you, She Who Speaks the Truth. I will not forget your kindness in this matter."
"Lance asked that I give you some new clothing," she answered honestly, "and I can see now, why."
Trista flushed at her observation, and her spirits sagged to find out that Lance was behind her generous offer. Was there no escaping this man? "Do you always do what Lance tells you to do?" she asked, more out of curiosity than annoyance.
The Indian woman studied her for a moment before answering. "Lance is a fine, brave warrior. I have known him for many years and think highly of him. It is my pleasure to do his bidding, for someday he will be great chief. If you were smart, you would be proud to have such a man as your owner."
"No man will ever own me!" she declared.