Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  "Good evening, Night Lark," she greeted her as she sat down close beside her.

  Night Lark glanced at her and wondered at her jovial mood. "Hello, Dawn Blossom. You are happy tonight."

  "I am always happy, Night Lark, but tonight I am especially so."

  "Why? Has something happened?" she asked, but with little real interest.

  "Oh, yes . . . but since Trista has been living with you, I felt certain that you would have known about it already. . . ." She let the statement hang teasingly.

  "Known about what?" Night Lark's tone sharpened.

  "Why, the marriage, of course."

  "Marriage?"

  "Lance has married his captive. They have only just now left Lone Elk's lodge."

  Night Lark went completely still. "Lance has married the white woman?"

  "Yes."

  "But why would he marry her when she was already his captive?"

  "I do not know, nor do I care. I just thought you might want to know about it."

  "I'm sure you couldn't wait to tell me, Dawn Blossom," Night Lark snapped, controlling the urge to throttle the gloating maiden.

  Dawn Blossom was still smiling as she stood up and walked away without speaking. Night Lark was filled with rage as she watched her go. The ray of hope that had filled her earlier was extinguished. Lance had married his captive. . . . Why? The question tormented her, and she knew she was going to do all she could to find out exactly what was going on.

  They were alone in the darkness of Lance's tipi facing each other across its width.

  "Come here, Trista," Lance commanded in a tone that was both authoritative and gentle at the same time.

  Trista balked. She knew what Lance wanted, yet she could not bring herself to go to him. She had married him only because he'd given her no alternative. Her vow not to go to him willingly had been heartfelt.

  When she did not move, Lance decided to take matters into his own hands. He was going to destroy all the barriers she'd set between them. Like a stalking jungle cat, he crossed the lodge and came to stand before her. With the lightest of touches, he reached out to caress the curve of her cheek.

  "You are mine now completely, Trista." He spoke softly. "It is foolish for you to fight it anymore. Come to me, sweet one. Come to me willingly and let me show you the delights that can be yours."

  At the touch of his hand, she shivered in expectancy. Was there any use in trying to deny that she physically responded to him? Trista didn't know, but she knew she had to try. She owed Michael and herself at least that much.

  "I can't," she gasped as he trailed his hand lower and skimmed over the sensitive swell of her breast.

  "I am your husband. You are my wife," he said fiercely as he pulled her against him and pressed a hot kiss to the arch of her neck.

  "Only in your world . . . " she managed, trembling as his lips explored the silken cords of her throat.

  "Oh, no, Trista . . . our vow is binding, as was my mother's to my father," Lance murmured as he sought her lips.

  "No . . . " Her last protest was cut off as his mouth claimed hers.

  Trista had expected him to be forceful, but Lance took his time. He teased her with quick, soft kisses that soon had her begging for a deeper, more heated exchange. She felt as if he was playing with her, much as a cat toys with a mouse, but she was helpless before his masterful ways. Every nerve in her body was crying out for him. Trista struggled to remember who she was and why she was there, but it all faded into complete oblivion as his mouth settled firmly over hers. Her lips parted automatically to accept the warm thrust of his tongue. As if they had a will of their own, her arms lifted to encircle his neck.

  Lance knew a surge of triumph as he felt her opposition weaken. Lifting her into his arms, he knelt upon the bed. Together they stretched out upon the mat, and he continued his erotic assault. His every caress was designed to ignite fires within her as he fondled her sweet curves through the softness of the buckskin dress.

  Trista was on fire with her desire. She wanted to feel his hands upon her bare flesh. She wanted to know the thrill of his driving possession again. Clinging to his broad shoulders, Trista fit herself fully against his hard, masculine frame and moved restlessly against him.

  Lance slipped her garments from her, making the effort seem almost a caress. She was naked before him then, her perfect curves lush and pale in the darkness. His hunger for her was at a fever pitch as he stared down at her, but he fought against taking her too soon. Lance wanted more from this night than just the satisfaction he'd take from her body. Tonight they were man and wife. Tonight she would admit that she wanted him.

  With the utmost of care, he began to stroke her quivering flesh, and wherever his hands touched, his lips followed. He sought out her most erogenous zones and teased her to the limits of pleasure until she was panting and alive with her need. His lips and tongue worked their magic upon the sweet swell of her breasts, tasting of those burgeoning orbs and pushing her desire to ecstasy's edge, but still he did not satisfy that passion that he had created within her. Over and over he aroused her to the peak, and over and over he left her hanging on that precipice.

  Trista had never known such sensual torment. Lance's every touch and every kiss added to the spiraling passion that was threatening to push her past the brink of sanity. She wanted only Lance. She needed only Lance . . . and yet he refused to give her the joy of joining with her.

  "Tell me, Trista," came his voice, hoarse and rasping in her ear.

  "Tell you what?" she whispered breathlessly as he trailed kisses down her shoulder and across the peaks and valleys of her breasts.

  "I want to hear you say how you feel, Trista," he told her as he continued his erotic caresses. "Do you like it when I touch you here?"

  "Oh, yes . . . "

  "And here?"

  "Yes . . . Oh, Lance!" she gasped in delight at his boldness.

  "Can you tell me now that you feel nothing when I touch you? Tell me that you want me to stop. Tell me that you hate me, Trista."

  Trista felt a slight chill sweep through her at his words, but it was not enough to lessen the heat of her passion. Nothing mattered except being in his arms and sharing his embrace . . . nothing.

  "I hate you, Lance. . . ." she managed.

  Lance felt a surge of disappointment rocket through him at her words. If she could deny what she was feeling now, then he really believed that she truly did hate him. . . .

  "I hate you for making me want you so!" Trista sobbed, finally saying aloud that which she'd kept locked deep within her for so long. She clutched at his shoulders in a fever of frantic need.

  "Ah, Trista, love," he murmured softly as joy replaced the disappointment he was feeling. "You do want me. . . ." He went to her then in victory.

  "I want you, Lance. . . . I want you. . . ." she repeated in a litany of desire as he found the center of her love and claimed it for his own.

  As one, they rode to the stars. Streaking across the heavenly night in a blaze of fiery passion, they eclipsed all that had gone before. They were man and wife. They were together. They were one.

  The peak was rapturous and heart-stopping in its breathless beauty. They plummeted back to reality, cocooned in the aftermath of ecstasy's heat. There was no past between them this night, and no future loomed threateningly before them. The only words spoken between them were love words that were understood in the heart and not the mind. There was only man and woman and an elemental need that swept all else from consideration.

  All that Trista had vowed before was forgotten in the fiery web of ecstasy Lance had woven around her. Swept away by the ardor he could arouse, she went to him, willingly seeking his embrace and his kiss. Time and again, Lance nurtured her blossoming desires until they burst forth in perfect splendor and slaked both of their passions. They loved through the long night hours, sharing and giving the greatest of pleasures.

  When at last they were sated, they slept. Trista lay curled against his side
, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand resting possessively on his chest over his heart.

  The lilting, muted strains of the morning bird's song stirred Trista to wakefulness. A sigh of utter contentment escaped her as she lay with her eyes closed savoring the peace of the moment. Stretching in sensual appreciation of her current rapturous state, Trista was startled by the feel of the bed's softness against her naked flesh. Vividly heated memories of the night just past jolted through her consciousness, and her eyes flew open as she remembered all. She was surprised to find that she was alone in the lodge, and a coldness seized her heart as she wondered where Lance had gone. Trista barely had time to draw a blanket over her when the flap opened and Night Lark walked in.

  "Get up, lazy white woman. There is much work to be done," the maiden ordered.

  Trista was shocked at the other woman's unexpected appearance. What was Night Lark doing here? And where was Lance? "Where is Lance?" she managed, clutching the cover over her breasts.

  "He has left the village. Did he not tell you of his plans?" Night Lark taunted as her gaze went scathingly over her. Her thoughts were filled with jealousy as she stared at Trista. Why had Lance married her? Surely her own figure was far superior to this white woman's, and she knew for a fact what a lazy complainer Trista was. Why had he done it?

  "Lance is gone?" Trista's eyes widened at the unexpectedness of her announcement. Was it possible? Had Lance just taken what he'd wanted from her, proven that she was his completely just as he'd threatened to do, and then left without a word?

  "He rode out of camp over an hour ago," she related smugly.

  "When is he coming back?"

  "Who knows?" Night Lark shrugged. "Word came that there were white men in our territory, and he has gone out after them."

  "There are white men nearby?" Trista was jarred by the news. She was filled with expectant excitement and at the same time felt her heart grow cold and hard. Had Lance known all along that she might be rescued? Had last night only been a cruel game he'd been playing with her? The answer was obvious to her, and all vestiges of what she'd been feeling earlier were wiped away. She'd been a fool to surrender to him last night, but it would never happen again! A fierce determination settled over her. When Lance returned, he would find her gone. There were white people close to camp, and somehow, some way, she was going to make her escape and find them.

  The thought of Michael searching endlessly for her through this rugged country filled her with agony. She longed to see him . . . to be held in his warm, cherishing embrace and know the safety of the haven of his arms—only then would she be whole again . . . only then would the horrible, cold emptiness she was now feeling be erased. Once she and Michael were reunited, she would marry him if he would have her, and she would make him a good wife. She loved Michael. Yet even as she grasped that thought and clung to it, the remembrance of Lance's gentle touch and passionate possession hovered disturbingly in her mind.

  Night Lark had been watching the play of expression across Trista's face and was pleased with her reaction to the news. Perhaps, just perhaps, with the right encouragement, she could goad her into trying to escape. Then, once Trista was out of the way, Lance would be all hers. Her eyes narrowed as she considered her tactics.

  "That's what Lance said. He came by to see me earlier this morning before he left," she related.

  "He did?"

  "Yes, and he also told me that he had taken you as a wife and that he wants me to train you while he is gone."

  "Train me?" Trista stared dumbly at Night Lark trying to understand what she was saying.

  "Yes. Lance said that you warmed his bed well, but that there is much you need to know if you are to be a helpful wife to him. He asked me to teach you these things. If you are wise, you will pay attention and learn quickly. Then maybe, when Lance and I are married, we will keep you as a chore wife."

  "A chore wife?"

  Night Lark nodded, feeling particularly shrewd. "It is a better position than a slave, but not of the wifely status."

  Trista could not believe what she was hearing. Last night she had thought . . . Almost violently she pushed all memory of the night before from her. She would not think of Lance and their endless hours of lovemaking. It had all been a painful sham. He had claimed he would make her come to him willingly, and to her humiliation, she had. Now that Lance had conquered her, she was no longer important to him. Bitterly, she wondered if she ever had been. Not that it mattered to her, Trista vowed silently. She hated Lance all the more for this, and as soon as she could get to Fuego and make her break, she would be gone. Trista knew she couldn't be sure that she would find the whites, but she knew she had to try.

  "Hurry and dress, Trista. There is much to be done, and you linger there like the lazy one you are!" Night Lark snatched up the white garments and flung them at her. "I will be waiting outside. The first thing you must do is carry water from the stream."

  Trista stared down at the beautiful outfit, rumpled now from Night Lark's carelessness, and a tear of misery traced down the curve of her cheek. Angry with herself, she dashed away the evidence of her pain. Searching the lodge, she found the regular Comanche clothing she had worn before the wedding and donned it. She had started from the tipi to join Night Lark when she suddenly hesitated and turned back. Almost reverently, she took up the white garments and folded them neatly upon the bed. Then, without a backward look, she left Lance's lodge, hoping she would never have to return to it again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  At its zenith now, the sun beat down mercilessly on the small group of riders heading toward Espada Canyon. Among the rocky outcroppings on a hillside some distance away, a small band of Comanche kept track of their every move.

  "It is as I told Lone Elk. They are traveling light. Few provisions . . . many guns. For some reason, they are in a hurry to reach the canyon," Black Water remarked.

  "That they are," Lance agreed, intently studying the men who rode before him. He couldn't be completely certain until they were closer, but something deep within him told him that this was his father and Michael who were trespassing on their lands.

  "I am tired of just watching," Black Water complained. "Let's go after them. They do not know we are here. We can surprise them. . . ."

  "Not yet." Lance, the undisputed leader of the party, was firm. "They will rest once they reach the cutoff, and that's where we'll be waiting."

  "Their horses are good stock. I will enjoy taking them into my herd." Little Buck was eager at the thought of ambushing the whites.

  "We will not be raiding," Lance told them. "Lone Elk wants no bloodshed. I will handle it."

  Little Buck and Black Water looked outraged by the news. "Lone Elk has forbidden us to attack them?"

  Lance nodded. "I will speak with them. They will turn back."

  The other two warriors wanted to argue but knew better than to defy Lance. He was the bravest warrior in the camp and, as such, due all their respect.

  "And if they shoot at us?"

  "Then we will attack."

  His answer satisfied them for the moment, and they wheeled their horses about and moved off at an angle out of sight of the whites. Racing away cross-country, they arrived at the scheduled rendezvous spot in advance of their prey.

  Michael once again was setting the pace as he tirelessly led the way across the rugged Texas terrain. He was a driven man, a man obsessed with the need to find the woman he loved. Though he knew they would have to stop soon to rest their mounts, he still pushed them to the limit. Time was of the essence, for they had wasted far too much time already. Espada Canyon was so close, and it was their last and only remaining hope.

  "Michael . . . " George's call slowed him.

  Reining in, Michael waited for his father and the other two men to catch up to him.

  "The horses have to rest. There's a cutoff up ahead, and just beyond it is a small watering hole. Let's take about an hour and cool off there."

  "All right."
His agreement was less than enthusiastic, but he knew the horses came first. He would be of little help in rescuing Trista if he ran his horse into the ground before he found her.

  At a more measured pace, they traversed the final few miles to the cutoff, then headed to the watering hole. Situated at the base of a low rise, the small pond was naturally camouflaged by brush and rock. The riders from the Royal Diamond approached it cautiously. They knew they were crossing Indian land and were alert to the possibility of an ambush.

  Lance and the others waited until the whites had reached the watering hole and had dismounted. Still mounted, they urged their ponies to the crest of the hill overlooking the pond.

  Whitey had dealt with Indians many times in his life, and he had been hunkering down to refill his canteen when he felt a sudden chill shoot unexpectedly down his spine. "They're around here somewhere close . . . " he advised the others in low tones as he pivoted around to survey the area. It was then that he caught sight of the three Comanche warriors on top of the hill, their fierce silhouettes black against the brightness of the noonday sky. Automatically he reached for his gun.

  "No, Whitey." George's harsh command stopped him. "If they'd have wanted us dead, they would have killed us by now."

  "Pa . . . " Michael argued, his hand resting on the butt of his sidearm. He was ready to shoot to kill, but his father put him off, too.

  "Let's see what they want. Maybe they just came to talk. . . ."

  "But they're the ones who have Trista!"

  "We don't know that, Michael. Even if they are, killing them won't help her. You have to keep your head. Get your hand away from your gun. I'll handle this." His order brooked no comment.

  Michael relented to his father's wishes and fell silent, though it annoyed him greatly to do so. These were probably the bastards who'd stolen Trista and done God knows what to her! He wanted to kill them all!

  "White man! Why do you trespass upon our land?" Lance's tone was stern as his voice boomed across the barren land. Though he sounded fierce, deep within he was troubled as he recognized his father and Michael.