Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  "Ah, but Lance already does," she pointed out. "You are his, and you have been lucky so far."

  "What do you mean, 'lucky'?"

  "Not all captives fare as well as you have. The ones who resist our ways are generally put to death. You would be wise to obey him. Do as he says. Lance can be very kind, but in the ways of the warriors, he can also be very cruel."

  "She Who Speaks the Truth?"

  The older woman looked up questioningly.

  "What do you know of Lance's background? I mean, it's obvious that he's part white—"

  She bristled at Trista's query, and told her sharply, "To our way of thinking, Lance is all Comanche. His mother was the chief's sister. He denied his white past long ago. We do not speak of it."

  Her answer did not satisfy Trista, yet she said no more. Stripping off her tattered clothing, she donned the Indian outfit.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was late. Darkness had long ago staked its hold on the hill country. In the lodge of She Who Speaks the Truth, both mother and daughter slept. Only Trista lay awake, recounting in her mind all that had transpired that day.

  She had not seen Lance since their ugly encounter that morning, and the hours since they'd parted had passed with excruciating slowness. Judging from the way he'd acted when he'd left her, Trista had truly believed that he'd hurried off to find Striking Snake and take him up on his offer for her. Her fears had run rampant all day as she'd anxiously expected the savage brute to show up at any moment and claim her for his own. To her relief this hadn't happened, but still the long hours of constant worry had left her too tense to rest.

  The sound of horses stirring restively outside drew her thoughts to Fuego. She wondered how the big stallion was holding up after his traumatic run-in with Lance that morning. Trista suddenly knew a great longing to see the golden rogue. The moccasins she wore permitted her to move soundlessly, and so, carrying the remnant of her skirt with her, she crept from the tipi and through the camp without detection.

  The moon pointed out the way for Trista, and as she approached the corral she could see the magnificent rogue standing alone at the far side of the enclosure. He looked so aloof and so disdainfully regal that Trista could only stare at him in awe.

  She called out to him in hushed tones, "Fuego . . . my golden one . . . "

  Fuego lifted his head, and his ears came forward at the sound of her voice. Shifting his stance, he glanced in her direction and paused as he spotted her.

  "Come, fiery one," Trista coaxed.

  He took a hesitant step toward her, then stopped again, unsure of her and her intentions. His ears flattened, and he remained motionless, staring at her from across the distance.

  Trista admired his perfect form and thought he looked much like a bronze statue she had once seen in a museum back home. "You are gorgeous, Fuego. Solid strength and masterful intelligence, it is no wonder that it took so long for a mere man to catch you."

  Fuego, as if agreeing with her statement, snorted and moved slightly closer. His ears went up again as he picked up her scent and remembered her calm ministering that morning. His gaze remained fixed upon her.

  She sensed that he was warming to her. Not wanting to make any sudden moves or do anything that would frighten him, Trista began to hum a lilting melody she remembered from her childhood. The soft refrains were a balm to the horse's jittery state, and he edged ever nearer.

  "That's it, my golden beauty. Come, let me love you."

  The gentle caress of Trista's voice broke down the stallion's last barrier of resistance, and Fuego loped straight to her. Thrilled by her success, she stroked the powerful lines of his neck as she continued to sing to him.

  "You will come to know me, Fuego. We are alike, you and I . . . hostages of a cruel twist of fate. We have only each other."

  Over and over she petted the sweeping curve of his body. As he grew more and more relaxed with her, she took up the cloth that had once been her skirt and began to rub him down with it. It was a trick she had learned from her father's master trainer, and she knew it worked well. The more familiar a horse became with your scent, the more easily he would be mounted when the time came.

  The memory of Lance's futile attempt to ride Fuego occurred to her then. It had been difficult for him to admit defeat that morning, but what a blow it would be to his warrior's pride if she was the one who tamed the stallion! Her smile was tinged with cunning as she devised a plan. She would come to Fuego whenever she could and work with him. Then one day, before the entire tribe, she would mount and ride the golden rogue!

  "We'll show him, Fuego. He cannot conquer us, no matter how hard he tries!" Trista stayed on with the stallion for a long time, gentling him with her crooning and rubbing, and talking with him of her plan.

  Striking Snake's fury with Lance over his refusal to sell Trista kept him restless and awake all night. He wanted Trista with a passion that defied reason, and he meant to have her, one way or another. He did not know why he desired her so fiercely. He had had white women before and had always thought them lifeless and cold. Somehow this one, with her golden hair and lovely body, was different. He had wanted to possess Trista from the first moment he'd seen her riding double on the trail with Lance. She was brazen in her ways and needed a firm-handed man to control her, and Striking Snake knew he could be that man.

  As he lay in his tipi, he thought of the way Trista had looked that morning when she'd caught the golden stallion. Her hair had been loose and flowing about her like liquid gold. She had still worn the torn blouse, and the creaminess of her flesh had been exposed for all to see. Striking Snake remembered the feel of her slender thigh beneath his hand the other day, and he felt himself grow hard with desire for her. He had to have her!

  Getting up from his bed, he escaped the heat of his lodge and strode toward the tipi where the white woman was staying. It was as he was crossing the camp that he heard the unusual sound of someone singing. He did not immediately recognize the voice, but followed it anyway out of curiosity.

  Striking Snake was completely surprised to find that it was Trista and that she was now wearing traditional Comanche garb. He stood in the night shadows and watched her as she talked to the golden stallion and boldly rubbed him down. He had thought her desirable in her white woman's clothing, but the sight of her dressed as one of his own people only served to whet his appetite for her even more.

  He waited in silence until she bid the horse good night and started to walk away before making his presence known. Stepping directly out to block her path, Striking Snake smiled down at her. He felt huge and powerful as he noted the fear in her expression.

  "It would seem, white woman, that you have many talents."

  "Striking Snake . . . " Trista gasped. Caught off guard, she was unable to hide her terror.

  "I have come for you. I will make you mine."

  "No! Lance—"

  He cut her off as he grinned evilly. "What Lance does not know, does not matter." His hand closed around her upper arm, and he started to drag her off, away from the camp.

  Trista's mind was racing as she hung back, trying to resist his lead. Had Lance sold her to this man? For some reason she didn't think so. Why would he feel the need to steal away with her into the night if he had bought and paid for her? And why would he say, "What Lance does not know, does not matter?" There was no doubt in her mind about what her fate would be at this man's hands, and in desperation, she screamed.

  Her cry rent the air. At the sound of her distressed call, Fuego neighed and reared wildly. Racing about the enclosure, he stirred the other horses to action until they were all pacing and whinnying at the disturbance.

  "Stupid woman!" Striking Snake snarled, clamping a hand over her mouth as he lifted her up to carry her.

  Trista tried to break free, but he held her pinioned to his chest as he strode off into the darkness with her.

  Lance had lain awake for a long time and had just managed to fall asleep when the sound of Fu
ego's scream woke him. In a flash he was out of his lodge, running toward the corral. He found the horses restive, but not endangered, and wondered at the cause of their upset. Poised for action, he waited in silent vigil, hoping to discover the reason for the disturbance.

  Striking Snake didn't stop until he'd sought out a secluded spot among the trees near the creek. He knelt and, without removing his hand from Trista's mouth, lay her down on the rocky ground. She squirmed and fought to ward off the warrior, but there was no way her feeble efforts could thwart him.

  Obsessed with the need to take her, he slipped a hand up her skirt and pawed at her tender flesh. Trista was sobbing hysterically beneath the oppressive weight of his hand over her mouth. She tried to claw at his eyes, but Striking Snake merely laughed low in his chest as he continued to roughly plunder her femininity. Pushing her blouse up, he bit at her breasts, and she cried in agony as he tortured the sensitive orbs.

  Caught up in the excitement of finally having her within his power, Striking Snake made the mistake of releasing her for just an instant so that he could free himself from his breechclout. Trista could not believe that he had unhanded her, and knowing that this was her last chance for salvation, she screamed Lance's name with all her might.

  The sound of her anguish echoed through the village, and Lance froze. Trista? Could it be Trista? He raced in the direction of the call, though he wasn't certain that he would be able to find her in time.

  Striking Snake quickly covered her mouth again as he swore at her, and it was his own stupidity in speaking to her that revealed their hiding place to Lance.

  "I will make you pay for your insolence, white woman," the warrior was declaring as he positioned himself to thrust into her.

  "Striking Snake!" The moment Lance came upon them, his heart lurched painfully. A red haze of bloodlust filled him. He launched himself at his rival, unmindful of anything save the need to kill the other warrior. He was touching Trista! No one took what was his and got away with it. And Trista was his!

  Striking Snake had no time to prepare, and he was knocked forcefully from Trista by Lance's diving attack. They rolled through the brambles and bushes, each warrior struggling for dominance. Lance fought like a man possessed, landing blow after vicious blow upon the other man. Striking Snake was not about to give up, though. With savage intent, he used all of his considerable strength to throw Lance off of him and get to his feet.

  Trista was shaken to the depths by what had almost happened to her. Lance had come! Thank God! Tears coursed down her cheeks as she scrambled to straighten her clothing. Her body was sore from Striking Snake's brutal fondling, but she ignored the discomfort. The sight of the two warriors circling each other, their expressions deadly, left her quaking with fright. Worry for Lance consumed her. She glanced around trying to find something she could use as a weapon to help him, but there was nothing. She was helpless and could only watch—and wait—and pray.

  "Lance . . . please be careful. . . ."

  Lance heard her plea and was moved to even greater anger. Striking Snake would die for what he'd dared! With the agility for which he was renowned, Lance jumped and kicked out at the bigger man. His feet made solid contact with the wide wall of the other man's chest and sent him tumbling backward. Lance fell himself, but recovered quickly and drew his knife. Just as Striking Snake made a weak attempt to right himself, Lance was upon him. His knees pinned the warrior's arms to the ground, and he held the blade poised at his throat.

  "You dared to take my woman!" He was livid with rage.

  "Your woman? Pah!" Striking Snake was contemptuous even facing death. "She is not your woman. She is only your slave."

  "Trista is mine! No other will ever touch her!" He pressed the knife to his throat and let it draw blood.

  Feeling the bite of death, the warrior lied, "Then you should tell her that. She offered herself to me. I was merely out walking through the camp, and she approached me. She begged me to take her."

  Lance did not believe his story for a minute. "If that were so, Striking Snake, then why did she cry out in terror, and why was she trying to fight you off? I think, brave warrior, that you lie to save your skin. I shall put an end to your miserable ways. . . ."

  Trista had not understood any of their words, but she knew what was about to happen as Lance raised his weapon. She was unable to stop her cry of horror that escaped her at the thought. Lance fully intended to drive it into the other man's neck, and only Lone Elk's sudden appearance stopped him.

  "Lance! Stop!" the chief ordered harshly. He had heard the noise of the fight and was glad now that he had come to investigate.

  Lance's blade was flashing in the moonlight as it began its downward arc, but at his uncle's command, he froze.

  "What is going on here?" Lone Elk demanded as he looked from Trista to the two men.

  "It is the woman! She is only a captive!" Striking Snake began, trying to weasel out of the seriousness of what he had tried to do. "Everyone knows how Lance feels about whites, so I thought it wouldn't matter if I had a taste of her, too."

  "You took what was mine, Striking Snake. You knew that I would not sell her to you, so you attempted to steal her away!"

  "Is this true?" Lone Elk's piercing, knowing gaze settled on the prone Comanche. He had known Striking Snake since he was born, and he was aware of just how devious and cunning he could be.

  "She is untouched. I did not harm her!" Striking Snake swore as he broke out in a nervous sweat.

  "But you took her against Lance's wishes?"

  He did not bother to answer, knowing that the evidence against him was overwhelming. Lone Elk took his silence as testimony to his own guilt.

  "Lance, release him!" he ordered.

  Lance was quick to comply with his wishes as his uncle continued to speak to the other warrior.

  "You are banned from our village, Striking Snake. You know that it is against our ways to steal from your own people," the chief condemned. "Be gone from our camp before morning. I have no wish to see your face in the brightness of the sunlight." With that, he turned to Lance. "Come to my lodge as soon as you have taken care of the woman."

  "I will come to you, Lone Elk," Lance promised, and he watched in silence as his uncle disappeared back toward the camp.

  Striking Snake got jerkily to his feet, and his gaze filled with loathing as he regarded first Trista and then Lance. He spoke in English deliberately so she would know of his threats. "I will never forget this, Lance. Someday I will see you dead, and Trista will be my woman."

  "I would have to be dead before I'd ever allow you to lay a hand on her," Lance declared as he watched the other warrior leave.

  Trista was amazed by Lance's declaration, and she stared at him as if seeing him for the very first time. She was confused by the myriad of conflicting emotions she was feeling. She wanted to throw herself into Lance's arms and kiss him and hold him near. He had not sold her to Striking Snake! He had saved her! He had fought off her attacker and protected her! The last thought caused her to frown. Protected her? Lance was the man who had originally taken her against her will. She hated him . . . didn't she? He was the one who had possessed her as Striking Snake had only tried to do. Yet she was feeling as if he were her hero.

  Lance's gaze met Trista's and despite her confusion, she rushed to him. A fierce gentleness filled him as he took her in his arms and held her close to his heart. He did not understand why he had reacted with such blind fury. He only knew that Trista had been in danger and that he'd had to save her from harm. Keeping her close, he smoothed her hair in a soothing motion as he spoke to her.

  "Has he hurt you in any way?" Lance was startled to find that his voice was hoarse and gruff.

  Trista shook her head as she nestled close in his protective embrace. "He was rough with me, but you saved me before he could . . . before he could . . . " Her voice broke as the harshness of what had almost happened began to take its toll on her. "Oh, Lance . . . " Her knees buckled as she th
ought of the ugliness of Striking Snake's touch and how close he had come to actually having his way with her.

  Lance swept Trista up into his arms as she went limp against him. Cradling her to his chest, he strode to his own lodge. For a reason that he could not fathom, he knew he could not take her back to She Who Speaks the Truth's home. He needed to hold her close this night. . . . He wanted her with him, now and . . .

  He needed to hold her close? He wanted her with him? A scowl marred his handsome features. He had never needed any woman since his mother had died. Why should it be this woman . . . this white woman . . . who could cause this rise of protective emotion within him?

  Lance glanced down at her as she rested against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed. Her features were wan and pinched. The sight of her so helpless tore at him. This was not his fiery Trista. This was not the woman who had defied him at every turn. This woman was soft and yielding, and the realization touched a chord deep within him. He had never known this side of her before, and it unsettled him.

  Lance entered his tipi and lay Trista carefully upon the softness of his bed. He stroked the tangled curls back away from her face, then rocked back on his heels to study her quietly for a long moment. Knowing that his uncle awaited him, he stood up. As he did, Trista opened her eyes and looked up at him, worriedly . . . questioningly.

  "I must speak with Lone Elk. You are safe here. Rest. I will be back as quickly as I can." He did not understand why he'd felt the need to explain to her. He only knew that he wanted to wipe the hurt from her eyes and reassure her.

  Trista nodded slightly, but didn't speak until he was about to step from the lodge. "Lance?"

  Her call halted him and he turned back to her. "Yes?"

  "Lance . . . " She paused, not quite sure how to phrase what she wanted to say. "Lance . . . thank you . . . "

  He regarded her expressionlessly for a brief time before nodding curtly and striding from the tipi.

  Lone Elk was waiting for Lance, and he called out for him to enter when he arrived. His stony face betrayed no emotion as he regarded his nephew across the small fire in the fire pit.