Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  "He's not hurt . . . he's gone!"

  "What?" Lance stared at him in disbelief.

  "I had just gone out to check on my own ponies and noticed—"

  "The rest of my herd . . .?"

  "Is still there. Only the golden one is missing," Wind Rider informed him.

  "I must see this for myself. How could he have escaped? Unless . . . "

  "Unless maybe Striking Snake returned during the night and took him. . . ." his friend offered as a solution to the disappearance.

  "Surely if Striking Snake had tried to touch the stallion, all would have heard it. Few could get near the rogue without a fight Only myself and . . . " Lance went suddenly still as his gaze focused on his own lodge. Trista could handle the stallion—she'd proven that the other day with the entire village watching. Would she have dared? Could she have dared? Without another word, he broke into a dead run, heading straight for his own lodge.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lance threw open the flap to his tipi and stepped inside. A strange, sickening feeling assailed him as he stared about the deserted interior. Trista was not there. . . . She was gone.

  "Surely you don't think Trista took the golden stallion?" Wind River asked derisively as he joined him inside.

  "She's gone. . . ." Lance stated the obvious tersely.

  "She is probably just staying with She Who Speaks the Truth," Wind Rider dismissed. "No mere woman could handle such a powerful, wild mount."

  At his remark, Lance realized how little his friend really knew about Trista. Trista was a resourceful, intelligent woman, and he had learned long ago not to underestimate her. Still, a part of him hoped that Wind Rider was right. Saying nothing, he turned and brushed past him on his way to the older woman's abode.

  Wind Rider was puzzled by his friend's behavior and hurried after him. "I am sure she is with my aunt and Night Lark," he assured Lance. "She has been with them most of the time since you were gone."

  As they both moved in the direction of She Who Speaks the Truth's tipi, they saw Night Lark emerge. As they approached, she smiled brightly in welcome.

  "Lance!" Night Lark called out in greeting, her delight in seeing him clearly visible on her lovely features. "It is good that you are back," she purred. "I have missed you."

  Lance ignored her insinuations. "It is good to be back," he replied distractedly. He had no interest in Night Lark. Trista was the only woman in his thoughts. "Where is Trista?" he demanded impatiently.

  Night Lark wanted to scream her frustration at the direction of his attention. How could Lance be so blind to her own love for him? Didn't he know that she would make him a much better wife than his weak white captive?

  "I have just awakened, Lance, and I do not know for sure." She shrugged indifferently as she lied.

  "Did she spend the night here?"

  "Yes. She was already asleep when I went to bed."

  "See, I told you," Wind Rider put in.

  "Where is she now?"

  "She has probably just gone down to the stream for water. . . ."

  Before Night Lark could say any more, Lance was striding off toward the creek. Seeing how eager Lance was to be reunited with Trista left Night Lark fuming. Hands on her hips, she glared at his back as he walked away with Wind Rider close by his side. It annoyed her that Lance had returned so quickly. She had hoped that it would be some time before anyone discovered Trista's absence. Now that she only had a few hours headstart, there was a very good chance that he would find her. The only happy thoughts Night Lark had about the situation were that Lance might beat the white woman for her escape attempt or, better yet, hate her for defying him so and sell her to another tribe. Those possibilities almost brought a smile to her pouting lips as she went back inside to await their return from their futile trip to the creek.

  "There is no sign of her," Lance remarked to Wind River as he found no evidence of Trista's presence on the bank of the stream.

  Wind Rider found himself beginning to doubt his own initial judgment. "Do you really think she was capable of riding the rogue out of camp without being seen?"

  Lance turned on him, his stony expression revealing none of the anger that was churning deep within him. "I learned long ago not to minimize Trista's abilities."

  The low, muted rumble of thunder came to them, and they both looked up at the threatening sky.

  "I'd better check the horses before the rain starts. . . ." Lance headed off toward the place where his herd was kept penned.

  "I will look in camp for her and meet you there," Wind Rider offered, starting back the way they came.

  Lance was livid as he stalked across the clearing. Trista was gone. He was certain of it. Earlier he had let himself hope that Wind Rider had been right and that she was with She Who Speaks the Truth, but he knew now how foolish that had been. He should have remembered how deceitful and lying the whites were, and that Trista was one of them.

  The memory of their wedding night . . . their last night together . . . scorched his thoughts, and he was hard put to control his outrage. Trista's willingness had no doubt been a ruse designed to put him off guard. He had thought that he'd won her total surrender, but he'd been wrong. He had not conquered her. He had only managed to subdue her for a time.

  As Lance reached the corral, his decision was made. He was going after her. Trista may have escaped the camp, but she would not escape him. As the thought occurred, a bolt of lightning split the heavens, and the roar of its thunderous force soon followed.

  Lance glanced up at the black, roiling clouds and cursed the storm he knew would soon burst upon the land. If he was to find Trista, he knew he had to act quickly. Circling out away from the enclosure, he searched the hard-packed ground for some sign of Fuego's trail and found the hoofprints of the stallion heading in the direction he'd suspected . . . due south.

  "She's not in the village, Lance. Did you find anything?" Wind Rider asked as he found him studying the ground.

  "It is as I thought. The stallion headed off this way." Lance stood up and gestured toward the Royal Diamond.

  "How long ago?"

  "Many hours . . . probably near midnight when the village was asleep." As he spoke, the wind picked up, whipping dust and grit about them. Lance studied the ominous black sky. "I will have to set out right away or the tracks will be lost. . . ."

  "Do you want me to ride with you?" his friend offered.

  "No." Lance was somber as he moved into the pen and captured a pony to ride. "I found Fuego on my own once, and I will do it again," he vowed. He slipped a hackamore over the horse's head and swung up on its back in a lithe, masculine motion. "Tell my uncle that I have gone after the golden one. I do not know when I will return."

  Lance wheeled his mount around and rode toward his own lodge. He stopped there only long enough to get the weapons and the few supplies he would need and then raced from the Comanche camp without looking back.

  Lone Elk regarded Wind Rider silently for a long moment. "He has gone after the golden one. . . ."

  "Yes," the warrior replied, wondering at the chief's pensive mood.

  "I just wonder which 'golden one' he really wants. . . ." The Comanche chief stared off across the hill country, his inner voice telling him that he had lost his nephew that day.

  "Surely the stallion means the most to him," Wind Rider said. "He will return soon. You will see."

  But Lone Elk, remembering Lance's golden vision during his quest all those years ago and the way the white woman's hair had shone like spun gold in the firelight the night he had joined them, was not so sure. "Yes," he replied, his tone holding more than a hint of sorrow. "Yes, I will see."

  Lance tracked the powerful stallion's trail through the rugged countryside for almost a full hour before the cloudburst that had been threatening actually unleashed its full fury. Frustrated, but knowing there was no other way, he sought shelter beneath a rocky overhang to wait out its soaking wrath.

  Turbulent emotions seethed within
Lance as he realized that the drenching downpour was washing all traces of Trista's passage from the land. He was furious with Trista for fleeing, and yet, perversely, he found himself worrying about her. She was at the mercy of this storm, and she was riding Fuego, a horse known for his wild ways. A vision of her thrown and hurt tormented him, and his hands clinched into fists as he realized just how helpless he was to go to her aid.

  As Lance realized the direction of his thoughts, he swore bitterly under his breath. He did not really care about Trista, he told himself. The only reason he was so determined to find her was because she was his property. He had struggled to capture her, he had fought to keep her, and he would not let her go . . . ever.

  The lightning subsided, and the torrential rain slowly began to ease. Refusing to be delayed any longer, Lance urged his mount from their dry haven. The track of Fuego's hoofprints had been scoured away by the gully-washing rain just as Lance had known it would be. Aware that it would be useless to try to find Trista's trail again, he headed directly for the Royal Diamond.

  Trista came upon the water hole quite by accident and stopped there to let Fuego rest and drink. Though she was bone-tired from the exhausting hours of riding, her spirits were soaring. She had made it! She was free! She had been watching carefully ever since she'd left the village, and there was no sign of anyone following.

  The distant sound of thunder interrupted her thoughts, and Trista glanced back the way she'd just come to see vicious-looking thunderheads crowding the sky. She knew she had been lucky to have escaped when she did, for the storm looked bad, and she had no idea how manageable Fuego would be under such circumstances.

  The thought of the stallion brought her attention back to the present. With a caressing, thankful hand, she stroked the rogue's strong shoulders as he drank his fill. So far he had been magnificent. She had given him his head, and he had responded beautifully, carrying her with enduring power across the rugged terrain.

  Trista knew the trip back to the Royal Diamond was going to be difficult, but somehow she felt confident that they would make it. The big rogue's complete acceptance of her made her feel safe, and she trusted him as fully as he did her. He finished drinking, then gave a nervous toss of his head, eager to be on his way.

  "All right, big guy," she crooned, grabbing a handful of mane and swinging up on his broad back again. "If you're ready, I'm ready."

  With slight pressure from her knees, she turned him toward the south and continued her journey back to civilization.

  Only when his pony was lathered and exhausted did Lance stop for the night. He had ridden at a steady ground-eating pace since the rain had let up, and though he was pleased with the distance he had covered, he was still impatient over the need to rest. He longed for his sturdy pinto but knew that, after the trek to meet with his father, the little horse had been in no shape for another cross-country venture.

  Camped in a small, desolate ravine, Lance passed the long, dark hours of the night sleeplessly. With only his troubled thoughts and conflicting emotions for company, he sat alone beneath the star-dusted heavens lost deep in thought. It occurred to him that he might not find Trista right away, and he was surprised to discover that that worried him. He found himself wondering where she was and how she was and remembering the night not so long before when they had shared pure sensual bliss.

  The memory of their mutual lovemaking sent a shaft of pure desire through Lance, and he swore between gritted teeth as he fought to bring it under control. Lance knew this was not the time to be concentrating on Trista's ability to please him in bed. Wife or not, she had defied him at every turn. She had stolen Fuego, his most prized possession, and fled his home. When he finally found her, he was going to teach her her place as a captive wife.

  The thought came to him then that she might prove more resourceful than ever and somehow locate the men from the Royal Diamond who were looking for her. The prospect of Trista being reunited with Michael filled him with an illogical fury, and though he tried to dismiss the possibility as ridiculous, it would not be so easily banned from his thoughts. She had told him over and over again that she loved only Michael—that Michael was the one she wanted, not him. Some rational part of Lance tried to point out that he didn't care about Trista, so it shouldn't matter to him what her feelings were about anything, but he found that the thought of her with any other man left him furious. She was his wife. She would not belong to anyone else.

  Unable to sit still any longer, Lance got up and climbed from his secluded camp to a precipice where he could overlook the countryside. He stood there, poised like some granite statue, staring out across the darkened land and praying that dawn would come soon so he could be on his way.

  Trista could ride no farther. The long, torturous hours on Fuego's back had taken their toll. Tugging at the lock of mane she'd been clinging to, she murmured a few words of encouragement to the stallion, urging him to stop. With the last of her strength, she slipped from his back and leaned heavily against his side as she tried to get her bearings. Fuego was puzzled by her actions and turned to nudge her questioningly with his nose.

  "I'm sorry," she told him softly as she petted him. "I've just got to get some sleep."

  He whickered low in response as Trista made her way wearily to the protection of a rocky formation nearby. Dropping down, she curled back against a boulder, seeking what little comfort she could. Hunger pains assaulted her, but she had little strength to worry about it. She knew a moment of concern over the thought that she might awaken to find Fuego gone, but pushed the thought away. He understood. He would stay. Trista wrapped her arms about herself to ward off the night's chill and closed her eyes. The last thing she saw in her mind's eye before she fell asleep was a vision of Lance, so tall and handsome, his blue eyes focused piercingly upon her.

  Cupping a half-full tin mug of coffee in his hands, Michael sat alone before the campfire as the others slept, his grief showing plainly on his drawn, tired features. A great sense of failure filled him. Trista was lost to him forever, and somehow he felt responsible. Logically, he knew it wasn't his fault. He knew he had done everything humanly possible to get her back, but the realization did little to ease the ache of loneliness that besieged him. He had loved her, and now she was dead.

  At that moment, Michael would have given anything just to see Trista once again. He remembered the night of the party and how wonderful it had felt to hold her in his arms as they had danced. He remembered the sweet taste of her as they had shared those stolen kisses on the porch, and he remembered the joy he had felt at the thought that she would soon be his wife.

  His eyes burned as tears threatened, and he was forced to choke back a sob of anguish. Getting jerkily to his feet, he tossed the remnants of his coffee aside and wandered away from the fire's protection. Needing time alone . . . time to work out his sorrow, he moved off into the enveloping darkness. When Michael returned to the camp a long time later, the bright warmth of the fire was only a memory. Only ashes remained. As Michael lay down upon his bedroll, he found the cold, gray ugliness fitting, for he felt as dead and lifeless inside as the burned-out blackened coals. Stretching out, he closed his eyes to try to sleep.

  The following day passed in a blur of strenuous, continuous travel for Trista. She had awakened at dawn to find Fuego nearby, refreshed and eager to be off again. Though every muscle in her body ached, she had maintained her determination to make it back to the Royal Diamond. Clinging tightly to Fuego through the long hours of riding, she had directed him ever southward.

  The sun was setting in the west when Trista brought the stallion to a halt at the top of a low rise. It was a secluded location, bounded on three sides by a jumble of rocks. She felt certain that it would give her the protection she needed not only from the elements, but also from the chance of being spotted. Her hunger gnawed at her as she sought some comfort on the ground's unwelcoming hardness. The few berries she'd found near a creek earlier in the day had done little to satisfy
her. Curling on her side, she sought sleep, hoping that slumber would ease the pain of her hunger and agony of her sore limbs.

  The men of the Royal Diamond made camp slowly. They were all exhausted from their many days of useless pursuit and were looking forward to returning to the ranch. Michael and George worked side by side in silence as they rubbed down their horses while the other two men took care of building the campfire and fixing what little food they had left for the evening meal. No one thought much of it when Whitey wandered off for a moment, but when the shot rang out, slicing through the quiet of the early evening, they all went for their guns. Only when Whitey's laughing call came to them did they holster their weapons.

  "Easy there," Whitey called out as he came back into the clearing where their camp was located. "I was just a little hungry tonight and thought I'd go out and see what I could find."

  The others looked up and smiled at the sight of him carrying a good-sized rabbit.

  The sound of the gunshot echoed across the land. Trista, who had been almost asleep, sat up quickly and looked around, confused. Her heart was pounding wildly within her breast as she imagined that Lance was closing in on her. Fuego was nervous and moved restlessly about. Trista, sharing his agitation, went to him to try to calm him.

  "Easy, love. Easy, Fuego," she told him softly, afraid to speak too loudly for fear that Lance was near. As she petted him, Trista let her gaze sweep out across the valley before her, and she paused in mid-motion, stunned to see a campfire flickering some distance away.

  Joy swept through her at the thought that rescue might be at hand, but it was immediately replaced by fear. She realized that she did not know whose fire it was—she only knew that there was someone out there who had made camp for the night and that they weren't worried about their whereabouts being discovered.

  Alternating between excitement at the thought of possible salvation and terror over the danger involved, Trista finally decided that she had only one choice. As quietly as possible, she had to work her way down nearer to the fire so she could find out just who was camped there. She realized that there was the risk of discovery, but as long as she was riding Fuego, she knew she would be able to make a fast break if the situation called for it. All thoughts of hunger and weariness were forgotten as she mounted the stallion again. Slowly, picking their trail with care in the darkness, they began their descent into the valley.