by Bobbi Smith
"The woman?"
"Trista will be all right," Lance answered tersely, still tense over what had happened. He was puzzled by his uncle's request to see him, and he wondered what it was he had to say.
Lone Elk had always hated whites, and he voiced his feelings openly regarding the trouble her presence was causing. "This woman . . . this Trista is only a lowly captive, Lance."
"She is my captive," he bristled.
The chief was caustic as he spoke. "She is a white. She is the betrothed of the white man you call your half brother. You claim you hate her. You claim you took her captive and brought her back here because you wanted to punish her and those who hold her dear."
"That is so." Lance met his uncle's gaze steadily as he wondered what point he was going to make.
"Would not her punishment have been greater had you shared her with Striking Snake?"
The thought still had the power to send anger racing through him, but he betrayed none of his fury as he sat respectfully and listened to his elder.
"There would have been no need for the violence had you done so. No woman is worth such trouble, Lance, especially not a white one. Unless . . . " It troubled Lone Elk to even consider that Lance might be coming to care for the female. He had lost his sister to a hated white man; he did not intend to lose his beloved nephew to a white woman.
"Unless, what, my chief?" Lance asked coolly.
"Unless you are coming to care for this woman." Lone Elk's black eyes were riveted upon his face, trying to decipher some of what he was feeling, but Lance had learned long ago to keep his deepest feelings locked within him. His wooden expression revealed nothing to his uncle's probing gaze.
"Your question is ridiculous. I hate whites as much as you do," he denied vehemently as he got to his feet. "Do not worry that I shall come to care for her, Lone Elk. I care only for the pain and suffering I can cause those who are associated with her." Yet even as he said it, he remembered Trista helpless in his arms, and he wondered if he truly meant it anymore.
For the moment, the chief seemed satisfied with Lance's answer. "Go then. We will speak of this no more."
"Good night, my uncle."
The chief lifted a hand in dismissal as Lance left his lodge.
When Lance returned to his own lodge and slipped silently inside, he was troubled. His conversation with Lone Elk forced him to face up to the special way he was treating Trista. Normally, if a friend admired something you owned, you gave it to him. Generosity was a very admired trait among his people, and since captives were considered possessions, it was not unusual for them to be used by the others. Still, he could not stand the thought of anyone else touching her, and the force of that emotion left him puzzled and confused.
He paused just inside of the tipi to watch Trista as she slept. His breath caught in his throat as he stared down at her, and he noticed for the first time how wonderful she looked in the Comanche clothing. As she lay on her side facing him, the soft buckskin of her V-necked shirt molded to her curves, hinting at the lush fullness beneath. The fringed skirt hugged the swell of her hip, and her long shapely legs were bare to his gaze.
When Lance looked at her face, though, the passion that had filled him faded. She looked childlike and innocent in her slumber, and he knew he would not slake his desire upon her tonight. His uncle's words returned to badger him. . . . You claim you took her captive and brought her back here because you wanted to punish her . . . unless you are coming to care for her.
Lance knew the jumble of feelings that he had for Trista made no sense. He hated her, yet could not bear the thought of her being hurt by anyone but himself. Annoyed by the seeming impossibility of his situation, he crossed the distance between them and lay down beside her, taking her in his arms.
Trista did not wake as he drew her close, but softly sighed his name in her sleep. "Lance . . . "
Without conscious thought, he tightened his hold on her. He loved the feel of her pressed so softly, so willingly, against him. Trista stirred, and her left arm shifted, her hand splaying out beside her on the bed. In the dimness of the night's light, Lance saw the ring. What had been a tender moment for him was transformed to one of bitterness as he stared at the gem-encrusted symbol of his father and his way of life. His hatred surged anew, and he moved away from her. Rolling to his other side, he put a little distance between them on the bed and then courted sleep, all the while trying to ignore the memory of her sweetly murmuring his name, and the inviting warmth of her still so nearby.
Chapter Thirteen
The new day dawned to find Michael already mounted up, waiting for the others in the search party to join him. Fatigue was deeply etched into his handsome features, and the effect aged him considerably. No longer was he carefree. His subdued manner reflected his seriousness and single-mindedness of purpose.
He scanned the horizon, his dark eyes clouded with worry. Trista was out there . . . but where? His heart was heavy with sorrow as he realized that they were about at the end of their rope. They had only enough supplies left for three more days, and he knew they would have to return to the ranch soon.
The trail had virtually disappeared several days before. They had been combing the area ever since in hopes of turning up some clue as to the direction the Indian had taken, but had met with no success. It was almost as if Trista had vanished off the face of the earth.
"Ready, son?" George rode up beside him and reined in to discuss their plan of action for the day.
Michael nodded and glanced back toward their camp. "What about the others?"
"They'll be along," he assured him. "I just came on ahead to talk with you for a minute."
"What about?" he challenged sharply. He knew that the time had come to decide whether or not to keep on with the search.
"Michael . . . there isn't much more we can do. We've been over this entire area with a fine-tooth comb, and we haven't managed to turn up a thing."
"Don't you think I know that?" he agonized.
"We're going to have to call the search off soon."
"I'm not going to give up looking for her," Michael vowed.
"Michael . . . it's pointless. The Indian's probably a hundred miles away from here by now, and Trista—"
"You and the rest can head back any time you want, but I'm going to keep on until I find her or die trying."
George recognized some of his own obstinacy in his son's answer and knew there would be no deterring him. "Well, let's hope that we find something today."
"There's got to be some clue . . . some little thing that we've been overlooking. This Indian can't have been that good at covering his tracks . . . "
Trista came awake slowly. She had slept well and was feeling deeply contented. She felt so comfortable nestled where she was that she didn't immediately open her eyes, but lay perfectly still enjoying the peace of the moment. Only when Lance moved in his own slumber, tightening the arm that held her possessively about her waist, did the realization dawn that Lance had returned and they had slept together in his lodge. Silently she cursed herself for abandoning herself and resting so completely with him near. He was her enemy! Yet in her sleep she had instinctively sought him out.
Her eyes flew open as he pulled her back against him so that they lay together intimately. Her back was to his bare chest, and her thighs were cupped by his thick, powerful ones. Awareness of him as a man shot through her along with the memory of the heat of his touch, and Trista knew she had to free herself. Trying not to disturb him, she inched slowly away.
For a moment she actually believed she was going to make her escape, but her movements woke Lance, and he clamped his arm more tautly about her, stopping her progress. The bitter feelings that had possessed him the night before disappeared as wisps of fog before the wind as he woke to find Trista warm and soft against him. Without conscious thought, his manhood responded to her nearness.
"Trista . . . " He groaned her name as he lifted a hand to caress the silken curls that
lay tousled upon her shoulder. "Trista, love . . . "
She knew she should try to get away. Desperately she sought Michael's image, but the only face her mind could conjure up was Lance's . . . his dark hair and blue eyes dominating her very soul. She didn't want this! She couldn't! Yet his sensual assault, when it came, was so tender that she was defenseless against it. His lips were warm and gentle as they explored the sweetness of the back of her neck. Shivers of excitement raced down her spine, and she found herself arching backward against him. The heat of his desire pressed firmly against her bottom, and Trista could not prevent the little whimper of need that escaped her.
His hands were everywhere then, caressing her even as he pushed her skirt up higher. When he brought her full against him then and taught her a new way to accept him, she knew a surge of forbidden delight at the different position. Lance slipped his hands beneath her shirt to cup her breasts. He teased the peaks to hardness as he began to move within the womanly sheath of her.
Trista moved with him, glorying in the blossom of her passion. This felt right, so right. She covered his hands with hers . . . holding him, holding her. They reached the crest as one and strained together, wresting from the moment all the pleasure they could.
A physical peace engulfed them, but their thoughts, once the haze of ecstasy had faded, could not be ignored. In silence they lay, each caught up in their own agonies . . . their own guilts . . . their own regrets. . . .
Trista had fought it. She had not wanted it, but the truth could not be denied any longer. She responded physically to Lance as to no other. None of the few stolen embraces she'd shared with Michael had ever given her the rapture she experienced in Lance's arms.
Her guilt over betraying Michael was oppressive. She didn't want to want Lance. Yet even now as she kept her eyes tightly closed against the reality of the moment, his visage haunted her. . . .
Lance was stunned by the beauty of what had just occurred. Trista had not fought him. . . . There had been no denials of passion . . . no vows of hatred. She had surrendered to him, and they had shared love's greatest pleasure. He marveled at how responsive she was to his touch. No woman he had ever known before her had ever demonstrated such capacity for passion.
As he lay quietly with Trista in his arms, their bodies still linked in love's embrace, he thought of Michael's ring upon her finger and he smiled. There was no bitterness in him this morning. Today she had given herself to him without fighting, and that was a triumph for him. He had stolen Michael's woman in more ways than one.
Lance ignored the fact that he had wanted Trista as badly as she had wanted him. He told himself that every time she gave herself to him so willingly, he was making her pay for the sins of his father.
Trista stirred, and just that slight movement of her satiny hips against him sent a hot rush of fiery excitement through him. He strengthened within her. Trista had thought to move away, but the feel of him, hot and hard, filling her once again made her gasp.
Lance, too, was surprised by the power of his need. He wanted her again, but this time he wanted to see her face as he took her. He wanted to read the passion in her eyes and know that she was giving herself only to him. He moved away from her for just an instant.
Trista realized she should take this time to try to flee, but the sight of him kneeling over her, so proud and so very masculine, sent her pulses racing. She lay perfectly still beneath his hungry gaze.
Lance helped her strip off her clothes, and when she was naked before him, he paused to drink in the beauty of her slender, enticing body. When he moved over her, he spread her thighs and fit himself deeply within her. His mouth sought hers in a devouring kiss that promised much. Their hands roamed at will, Trista's exploring the sculpted muscles of his back and shoulders, and Lance's stroking the velvet curves and hollows of her breasts and hips.
They were so caught up in the splendor of their mating that they did not hear her coming or her call asking for admission. The entranceway to the lodge opened unexpectedly as Night Lark entered and the sunlight poured brightly within, scalding them with its brilliance.
"Lance . . . your captive has fled and . . . " Night Lark called out as she stepped inside, and what she saw there left her stunned. The sight of Lance and Trista making love was like a physical blow to her.
"By what right do you barge into my lodge, Night Lark?"
She recovered her composure quickly. "I'm sorry, Lance. I called out to you, and I thought I heard you tell me to come in . . . " Her black eyes narrowed as she stared at Trista lying naked beneath an equally unclad Lance. There was no doubt about what they were doing, and she grew furious. Lance was hers! She had offered herself to him, and he had refused! Why had she been denied his passion, and yet this lowly white slave was not?
"What is it that was so important?" he ground out.
"I came to tell you that Trista had disappeared during the night. Now that I know where she is and why she is here, I can tell my mother and she can relax. My mother was very concerned, Lance. She thought your captive had run off."
"Tell She Who Speaks the Truth that there is no need to worry. Trista is with me."
"As I see. It is good to know that you are using her for something . . . " she sneered, giving Trista a hate-filled look. "She does not work very hard for us. Perhaps this is the best way she can serve her master."
"Leave us, Night Lark," Lance commanded as he felt Trista tense and begin to tremble beneath him.
"I'll go now," she replied, her light tone disguising her jealousy over the fact that it was Trista in his embrace.
Trista was destroyed. Never in her life had she suffered such degradation or been so humiliated. It had been bad enough to bear her shame privately, but to be actually seen glorying in Lance's possession . . . and seen by his future wife . . . All vestiges of desire drained from her. She went cold inside, and all emotion died within her.
As far as Lance was concerned, Night Lark could not leave quickly enough. His need for Trista had not abated, but had grown even stronger as he'd held himself embedded within her. As soon as the lodge's opening closed behind the other woman, he began to move again. His passion was so far gone that her lack of response did not touch him. He thrust avidly into her, unmindful of her quietude. Shudders wracked his body as he reached the pinnacle of release, and he collapsed heavily on top of her, his own desire sated.
When he raised up moments later to gaze down at Trista, he was shocked to see tears staining her cheeks. "Why do you cry, woman? Did you not enjoy our joining as much as I did?"
Trista lifted her gaze to meet his, and he was shocked to see the dullness in her expression. "I felt nothing, Lance. You know I hate your touch. Why do you take your pleasure with me when you know Night Lark would spread her thighs for you gladly? She will one day be your wife. Why don't you bed her?"
Her statement sent his temper flaring. He had thought that he had completely conquered her, but he had been wrong. He had touched only her body . . . nothing else. By her claim, she had been merely a vessel for his needs. He moved away from her, his tension obvious in every action as he straightened his clothing.
"Return to She Who Speaks the Truth," he ordered abruptly. "I have no more need of you . . . for now. . . ." He added the last ominously, and without so much as a backward glance, he strode from the lodge.
Night Lark was miserable as she raced away from Lance's tipi. She hated the white woman! She hated her with a driving passion! She didn't know just yet how she was going to do it, but she was determined to get rid of Trista. Night Lark felt certain that that would be the only way she would ever be able to claim Lance as her husband.
The sun was high in the sky as Michael and George gathered with their men. Their morning search had yielded nothing, and their hopes were growing dimmer by the minute.
"I think we're going to have to give it up, Michael," George told him, his heart aching for his son's loss.
Michael flashed him a scalding look. "I told you
this morning how I felt about quitting!"
"Mike—" One of the hands tried to reason with him, but Michael cut him off.
"I'll tell you what I told Pa. If you want to go on back to the ranch, go on. I'm not going to give up."
"It's not a point of wanting to go back to the ranch, it's a matter of having to go back. We've got a big spread to run, son. These men are needed on the Royal."
Michael softened. "I know that, Pa. I'm sorry. Look, do what you have to do. Just know that I'm not going back."
George looked to his men. "Whitey, you and Tom stay with us. The rest of you take what supplies you need and go on back to the ranch. Tell my wife that the four of us are going to continue the search."
"Yes, sir."
Half an hour later they had parted company, and the four remaining men were sharing a midday meal as they plotted their next move.
"Since we really don't know where they could have gone, we're going to have to guess. . . ." Whitey was saying.
"And there seems to be little doubt where they probably went," George remarked as he drank deeply from his canteen.
"Espada Canyon." Michael stated out loud what the other men were thinking.
"Yep. It's secluded, and the creek runs fresh all year."
"Let's mount up and head out. We want to travel fast and light. We've wasted enough time already," Michael urged.
As they headed out, only George was troubled by the direction their search was taking.
It was dusk, and Black Water crouched low among the rocks as he watched the small group of white men setting up a cold camp below. They carried only the basic essentials with them, and the sparseness of their encampment clearly indicated that they were intent on traveling rapidly.
Knowing that Lone Elk would want to know of their uninvited presence in their territory as soon as possible, Black Water retreated from his hiding place and swung quickly up onto his pony's back. Racing through the night, he headed back toward his village to warn his chief of their approach.