by Bobbi Smith
A shaft of vicious emotion he did not want to identify shot through him at the sight of his half brother standing so proudly erect beside their father. Why did this son find favor with his father, while he was forsaken? Was he not the firstborn? Was he not worthy to stand at his father's side? The faint memory of his father's drunken ramblings all those years ago answered his questions. . . . It was his Comanche blood that had turned his father from him.
Lance stiffened as he regarded them. He was not ashamed of his mother's heritage. He was proud of his Indian blood.
George stared up at the three warriors in silence for a long moment, his attention riveted on the fine figure of a brave who sat so proudly on his horse. George's vitals lurched at the thought that this might be Lance, but try though he might, looking into the sun as he was, he could not readily identify him. It was just that something about him seemed so familiar. . . ."We are looking for a white woman," he finally replied.
"Chief Lone Elk sends word that you should honor your agreement of many years standing with him and turn back," Lance shot back.
"Pa . . . I didn't know you had any kind of agreement with the Comanche. Who is this Lone Elk?" Michael asked under his breath, stunned by the knowledge that his father had had previous dealings with these people.
George ignored his younger son as he answered, "I am causing no harm to Lone Elk's land. In truth, I had come to seek his help in finding the woman."
"There is no white woman here." Lance did not lie. Trista was in the village. "You are not welcome. Leave our land now, while you can." Lance and the others lifted their rifles to show the men from the Royal Diamond that they were equally well armed and just as prepared to use their weapons.
Stymied, George knew he had no alternative. A fight would accomplish nothing. "We will go as Lone Elk has bid."
"But, Pa!!" Michael was furious. They couldn't back down! They couldn't give up! They were close . . . so close . . . he could feel it!
"It is good that you leave. Do not return. We will not be so welcoming next time." Lance's reply filled the air, and when the white men looked up again, the warriors had disappeared from sight.
"I can't believe you agreed to go!! Trista's somewhere close by! I know it!"
"There's no other way, Michael," George told him. He was just as frustrated as his son, but more realistic.
"There were only three of them! We could have fought!"
"Son, we could have tried to fight them, but we wouldn't have stood a chance. We might have seen only three of them, but there could have been a dozen others just waiting for the chance to swoop down on us. They had position and surprise on their side. We're lucky they gave us that much of a chance to parlay."
"Mike . . . your pa's right. We're real lucky to still be breathing and have our hair." Whitey fully concurred with George's decision.
Michael was crestfallen. The taste of defeat was bitter, and his failure weighed heavily upon him. "I won't stop . . . I can't . . . "
"Michael, you have to. There's nothing more you can do. If you tried to go on, you'd only end up getting yourself killed," Tom added.
"Somehow, right now I'd rather be dead . . . " Michael agonized as he accepted the truth of Trista's loss.
George put an arm around his slumped shoulders. "You've done everything you could, son. None of this was your fault. . . ."
Slowly they started back the way they'd come, their hearts heavy with grief and sadness, their minds filled with thoughts of Trista, believing that she was now lost to them forever.
Lance was angry as he watched their retreat. He did not understand the fury he felt toward them; he only knew that he was filled with bitter resentment as he watched his half brother ride off at his father's side.
It had seemed as if a sharp blade had pierced him when he realized that his father did not know him. They were of the same flesh and blood, yet even separated by such a small distance, George Barrett had shown no evidence of recognition. Lance knew he shouldn't care, for he had given up that life long ago. He knew he shouldn't want the bond that had once been theirs to still exist, but the illogical part of him that hurt so badly right now gave testimony to the fact that, for some reason, he still did.
As she headed back toward the camp, Trista staggered under the weight of the water she was carrying. Exhausted, she paused for an instant to catch her breath.
"Hurry, woman! There is no time for you to rest. There is still much work that must be done before the sun sets," Night Lark snapped as she strode angrily toward Trista, intending to prod her along.
For the better part of two days now, Trista had been suffering the sharp bite of Night Lark's sarcastic criticism as she'd labored from dawn to dusk on the most demanding of tasks, and she had about had enough. Only the thought that tonight was the night she'd finally be able to escape restrained her from physically attacking the gloating female. Keeping her expression carefully blank, Trista picked up the water and started off again.
"Lance will never be pleased with you," the Indian maiden scoffed as she trailed along beside her. "Just look at you! You are too scrawny to do the work an Indian wife is supposed to do. If you do not try harder, I will see to it that you are sold as a slave when Lance and I marry."
At this point, Trista thought that the life of a slave would be infinitely preferable to the life she was now leading. Certainly it couldn't be much worse. She was the sensual plaything of a man who cared nothing for her, and she had been relegated to the lowly position of chore wife. Trista couldn't stop herself from glaring at Night Lark as she kept on walking. Night Lark saw the venom in her expression and reacted quickly at her show of defiance, shoving her with all her might and sending her sprawling into the dust.
"You are useless, white woman!" Night Lark ridiculed as she stood over Trista. "See how clumsy this new wife of Lance's is?" she pointed out to the other women in the village, and they all laughed in derisive delight.
This was the final straw! Trista reached without thought as she surged to her feet in a frenzy of fury. Grabbing one bucket with both hands, she threw the last dregs of the chilling contents on the unsuspecting Night Lark, drenching her.
The women of the camp erupted into hysterical laughter. "You cannot push that one too far, Night Lark! She is as untamed as the golden stallion. . . . Lance must like his women fiery!" they teased, and even some of the children gathered round to see the sight of the haughty Night Lark soaked to the skin.
In dripping outrage, Night Lark responded savagely. Snatching up one of the sticks the children had been playing with, she attacked Trista. Trista threw her arms up to ward off the blows and quickly turned her body away from the brunt of the angry woman's assault.
As soon as she'd thrown the water, she'd regretted it. She had not meant to show defiance; she had meant to be submissive and quiet so no one would suspect that she was going to attempt her escape. She longed to grab the rod from Night Lark and use it on her, but she knew she couldn't. She had to take this abuse just one last time. . . . There were only a few hours left. . . .
Blow after stinging blow landed on her back and buttocks as Night Lark meted out her unrelenting punishment. Only the arrival of She Who Speaks the Truth, who'd come to see what all the laughter was about, stopped her from injuring Trista seriously.
"Night Lark!" Her mother's voice cut through the titters of conversation. "Stop this at once!"
"She did this to me!!" Night Lark indicated her sodden state and raised her arm to swing at the white woman again.
She Who Speaks the Truth looked from her daughter to Trista, who was glancing nervously in her direction. When she spoke again, it was in Comanche tongue. "You are letting your jealousy run away with you, girl. What do you think Lance will say when he returns and finds this one bruised and beaten?"
"I do not care. She is lazy and—"
"I said stop! I do not want to see you raise your hand to her again."
Night Lark threw the stick aside as she glared at Trist
a. "Get moving, lazy! Now that you've spilled all the water, you must go for more. I will wait for you by the lodge." She stomped away, her head held high despite the muffled sounds of laughter that followed her.
Near exhaustion and aching from the beating she'd received, Trista slowly gathered up the buckets and headed back toward the stream to refill them. In the two days since Lance had left, her life had become a living hell. She had suffered more abuse at Night Lark's hands than she'd ever known in her life, and she only prayed that night would come quickly so she could leave this place behind forever.
As Trista lugged the water back toward the lodge, she let her thoughts drift to the night before and how she had managed to slip from the tipi undetected after everyone had been asleep. She had sought out Fuego in the corral and had been cheered by the fact that the stallion had actually seemed to be waiting for her. His manner, surprisingly, had been calm and almost trusting, and she had spent long hours rubbing him down and talking with him.
Trista hoped that Fuego's sweeter nature was a sign of his complete acceptance of her, for tonight he would be put to the test. With the whites so near, she could not let the opportunity pass without at least trying to escape. Tonight she would take the chance, for the thought of spending another day at Night Lark's beck and call left her shaking with barely controlled rage.
Trista reached the tipi where Night Lark sat waiting, clad now in a dry set of clothing. She only had time to place the water before her when the other woman began to bark out a series of different orders for her. Without a word, Trista went off to do her bidding, all the while biding her time until night claimed the land.
It was late, and day had long ago surrendered the earth to the night's hungry grasp. Huddled on the hard mat that served as her bed, pretending to be asleep, Trista waited in tense silence. Her anticipation of making her break to freedom filled her with excitement, and she was hard put to lie still. Soon she would be away from here! Soon she would be free of Lance!
At the thought of Lance, the memory of his kiss and caress threatened to destroy her will, but she fought it down. It was true that he had been able to arouse her as no other, but, she reasoned, she had been his slave and helpless to do anything except respond. She would put this time behind her and never think of him again. Tauntingly, her mind conjured up a vision of the wedding pledge the chief had pronounced over them, but Trista quickly, logically denied it. It was a heathen ceremony. He was but a savage . . . a barbarian. Michael would be her husband.
Thinking of Michael and the safety of the Royal Diamond made her eagerness to flee almost unbearable, and she quietly shifted position to look around. Given the lateness of the hour and the fact that neither of the other two women had stirred for some time, Trista felt certain that Night Lark and She Who Speaks the Truth were asleep. Silently rising, she fled into the night.
It was warm, and a heavy cloud cover screened the moon from view, leaving the night inky in its blackness. The darkness was a balm to Trista's tautly strung nerves, for without the moon's revealing light, her escape might be undetected until morning. She hurried on to where Lance's horses were penned. Even in the enveloping darkness, she could still make out Fuego's brilliant golden form, and she was relieved to see that Fuego was waiting there in all his powerful magnificence, watching her approach.
"Ah, my golden one . . . I missed you today." She rubbed his neck affectionately, and he whickered softly as if in understanding. "We can wait no longer, you and I," Trista told him. "Tonight we must seek our escape from the man who would break us . . . tonight we must help each other. . . ."
Fuego did not understand her words, but he recognized her intent as she entered the pen and came to his side. Swiftly Trista climbed onto his back, and he hesitated, not quite sure whether to accept the foreignness of her weight upon him or not. His every muscle was quivering as Trista leaned forward low over his neck and spoke to him in a soft, muted voice.
"Easy my big fella . . . easy, Fuego. We're one, you and I. . . . We both want the same thing. . . . We both want to be free of the warrior who sought to claim us and tame us. . . ."
A shiver passed through Fuego's tense body as he shifted nervously, but Trista only continued her crooning and slowly gained his confidence. When Trista gathered up a handful of his mane and tugged lightly, he responded, moving as she bid.
Trista knew a surge of joy unlike anything she'd ever experienced before. Fuego had responded willingly to her touch! Staying low over his neck, she used her knees to guide him as she edged him as quietly as possible to the gate. She leaned over, opened it, and urged Fuego out of the corral. Once freed from the enclosure, Trista maneuvered him so she could pull the gate closed behind them.
At a slow, measured pace, Trista guided the rogue away from the camp. Her breathing was strained and her hands were shaking as she expected at any moment to be discovered and possibly killed. Only when they had topped the hill and moved out of sight of the village did she breathe a deep sigh of relief. With one last glance back over her shoulder to be sure that no one had seen them escape, she put her heels lightly to the stallion's sides and hung on as he took off at a full gallop in the direction of the Royal Diamond.
As if in cooperation, the clouds broke apart, and moonlight fell unheeded across the land. A vision of moonstruck gold, the wild rogue and beautiful maiden raced across the countryside and disappeared into the night.
Night Lark smiled from where she stood hidden in the concealing shadows of the night. She had hoped that Trista would run away when she had left the tipi on the previous night, but to her disappointment, she hadn't. Tonight, however, her hopes had come true. The white woman had fled, and Lance would now belong only to her.
Feeling quite satisfied with herself, she returned to her tipi and settled in for the night. Night Lark did not know how soon Lance would be returning, but she hoped it would not be too soon. The longer the white woman was gone, the less chance he would have of finding her—not that he was going to. When he got back, Night Lark was going to prove to him that she was the only woman he would ever need.
Lightning flashed on the night-shrouded horizon, and the low rumble of thunder echoed distantly across the land as the three warriors rode for their village. Lance was lost deep in thought as he led the way across the darkened landscape. He had expected to come away from the encounter with his father and half brother feeling heady with victory at having exacted his long-overdue vengeance against them. Instead, the incident had left him feeling ungratified, as if he had lost more than he'd won. The sensation disquieted him. He hadn't lost anything. He had Trista. He had made her his wife. She belonged to him now, in all ways. . . .
Trista. . . . She filled his thoughts now, and Lance found himself spurring his pinto to an even greater speed in his desire to see her again. How great was her golden beauty . . . how silken her limbs as they wrapped around him in passion's embrace. The wedding night of love they had shared had been the most memorable night of his life, and he couldn't wait to be with her again.
Lance regretted that he'd been forced to leave her while she was still asleep that morning, but she had been resting so peacefully that he hadn't wanted to disturb her. He hoped she was waiting for him and that she would be welcoming when he returned, for the idea of another sensual night in her embrace filled him with excitement.
They crossed into the valley where the camp lay just as the sun made its dingy appearance behind the blanket of threatening thunderheads that filled the sky as far as the eye could see. Putting their heels to their mounts, the three charged at top speed toward the village. Lance longed to do nothing more than seek out his wife, but he knew that first he had to stop at Lone Elk's lodge to tell him of their trip.
The chief heard the disturbance as they raced into camp, and he came outside to greet his returning braves.
"Was your trip successful?" the chief asked as the three reined in before him.
"We did as you asked," Lance supplied curtly.
&nb
sp; "Then you have done well. Lance, come. Little Buck and Black Water, I will speak with you later." When the other two men had gone, Lone Elk led the way into the privacy of his tipi so he and Lance could speak without interruption.
"We found the whites," Lance said, offering little real information as they sat down cross-legged facing each other.
Lone Elk eyed him skeptically for a minute before pressing for more details. "And what was their reason for being on our land?"
"It was Barrett," Lance supplied curtly. "He's gone now."
"You are sure?" Lone Elk's expression was filled with loathing as he remembered the man who had taken his sister from him and hurt Lance so badly.
Lance nodded, but did not speak.
"Did he know you?"
His uncle's question astutely delved into the heart of what had been troubling Lance. "No."
"Perhaps that is best."
"It was not my concern," Lance asserted aggressively. "I am Comanche, the son of Shining Star."
Lone Elk's obsidian gaze rested on him for an unsettlingly long moment before he spoke. "You have done well."
"I only did what you asked." He stood up, uncomfortable with the direction of his uncle's probing questions.
"We will speak more later," the chief was saying when they were interrupted by the sound of someone shouting Lance's name. Lance and Lone Elk exchanged curious glances as they stepped from the tipi.
"Lance!" It was Wind Rider who was racing toward them.
"I had never expected such a warm welcome from you, my friend," Lance quipped, but his lightness of spirit soon faded as he read the anxious expression on his faithful companion's usually controlled features. He knew something was terribly wrong, and for one desperate moment he feared that something had happened to Trista in his absence. "Wind Rider . . . " He sobered. "What is it? What's happened?"
"The stallion!"
"Fuego? Is he hurt?"
"No . . . he's not hurt. . . ."
For an instant Lance was relieved, but what Wind Rider said next left him speechless with fury.