by Bobbi Smith
Whitey's unexpected main course, though tough and stringy, had been a welcome addition to their sparse fare, yet Michael ate solemnly, hardly tasting his portion. When the meal was over and the others retired for the night, he remained sitting before the glowing embers, his mood black. Nothing seemed to help dispel the feelings of failure and depression that had settled over him like a mantle of despair. He was as lost and alone in his misery as the coyote that howled in eerie solitude in the shadows of the night.
An inexplicable restlessness filled Michael. Though it was a dark night, the moon's light being shuttered by a high blanket of clouds, he hoped a walk would help ease his agitation. Standing up, he strode from the small camp. Michael hadn't gone far when the sound of a tumbling rock halted him in mid-step. Though not a particularly threatening noise, it put him on alert, and he slowly drew his gun as his gaze searched the area for some sign of intrusion.
Whatever Michael had been expecting, it was not the sight that greeted him as the moon slid out from behind the cloud cover. He blinked, believing himself to be dreaming, as he stared in wonder at the rider who sat on a low rise overlooking the camp. Silvered by the moon, shadowed by the night, the motionless horse and rider were a golden image that seared his very being, and he truly believed that he was imagining them.
Fuego . . . Trista? Their names shot through his consciousness, and he felt an aching tightness in his chest. As much as he wanted to think that it was Trista seated on the golden stallion, he logically could not accept it. It was only his mind and the night playing tricks on him.
Closing his eyes, he paused, then looked up again. The woman was still there, silhouetted before the moon. He studied her in silent awe, taking in the Indian clothing she wore and the graceful way she sat on the bare back of the horse, her hand tangled in the pale, lustrous mane to control the stallion's movements. It was the golden cascade of hair, though, that struck him an almost forceful blow, and Michael could not stop himself from speaking Trista's name.
"Trista?" It was a question; it was a heart-wrenching prayer.
Trista had ridden as close as she could to the strange camp. She had brought Fuego to a halt at the crest of a small hill overlooking the area and was trying to make out just who was camped there when the moon emerged from its place of hiding. Though the light helped her to some degree, she realized that it also revealed her place of observation all too well. Prepared to flee, she hesitated, studying the encampment before her.
Trista was not conscious of Michael standing slightly off to the side until the faint, indistinct sound of his voice came to her. Fuego moved nervously in tense excitement at the discovery that someone was near. Frightened now that she knew she'd been spotted, Trista urged the stallion to turn and was about to dash madly off into the night when he called out to her more loudly.
"Trista! Wait . . . Trista! Is that you?!" Michael's heart plummeted as he saw the woman turn the horse and start to ride off. It had to be Trista—it had to be!
The sound of his voice, so well remembered, sent a shiver of recognition up her spine. Michael? Confused, she hesitated in her flight, her gaze combing the land. Could it really be Michael? Her pulse was pounding erratically as unbelievable joy shot through her. "Michael?"
"Here, Trista! I'm here!" Michael charged forward through the brambly brush.
"Stay . . . " Trista whispered to Fuego as she slipped from his back. It seemed to her that she was moving almost in slow motion as she started down the incline. Trista did not know how she had come to be so blessed as to have found him, and she did not question her good fortune. All she could think of was that at last she was safe.
Michael made it to the bottom of the hill and looked up toward Trista as she descended. Watching her approach dressed in the Comanche fashion sent a shock of reality through him, and that shock registered in his eyes. Dear God, what had they done to her? She actually looked like one of them save for the golden hair!
Trista had been filled with ecstasy at the thought of being reunited with Michael, but as she was rushing to him, she saw the sudden change in his expression and knew a moment of heartbreak. She knew how much the whites hated the Comanche, and she realized how naive it had been of her to think that just by returning, everything would be the same. She paused in her descent, unsure of his real welcome.
"Michael . . . " Trista breathed his name, her uncertainty of his feelings for her reflected in her unsteady tone.
The sound of her voice, so tremulously fragile, shattered his calm. Going to her, he took her in his arms. "Ah, Trista . . . darling . . . I can't believe it . . . I can't believe I've really found you. . . ."
Trista settled against him, trembling. "Michael, oh, Michael . . . "
"God, Trista, are you all right? Trista, I . . . " The questions that had haunted him could not be held back as Michael drew slightly away to look down at her. He was still not convinced that she was really there in his arms. Staring down at her, he finally accepted that she was truly with him. A sense of overwhelming serenity possessed him, but it was peace marred by the fear that she had somehow been hurt during her captivity. With the utmost care, he lowered his head to gently claim her lips for a tentative kiss. "Trista . . . "
Trista accepted his kiss, expecting to be swept off her feet by his passion. His hesitancy left her troubled. Hadn't he missed her? Didn't he love her?
"Michael . . . oh, Michael . . . " She cried his name softly. Wrapping her arms about him, she clung to him in desperation, needing to know that he still wanted her.
Her reaction startled Michael, and thinking that she was near hysteria, he broke off the embrace instead of deepening it. "Let me take you back to the camp. . . ." he said hoarsely as he swept her up into his arms. "You must be exhausted. . . . You've been through so much. . . ."
"Michael. . . . I missed you so," Trista told him. Yet even as she said the words she felt strangely distanced from him, and she feared that maybe too much had happened for them to ever bridge the gap again.
"Pa!!"
Michael's shout woke George and the others. Not quite sure what was happening or where Michael had gone, they scrambled from their bedrolls and grabbed up their weapons.
"Michael?! Where are you?" George shouted into the night as Whitey threw dirt on the last glowing embers of the fire to afford them the shielding protection of the darkness.
"Here, Pa . . . it's all right," he called back. "I've found Trista!"
"What?" The men exchanged bewildered looks as Michael moved into the clearing carrying Trista.
George was momentarily stunned at the sight of Trista wearing the Comanche garb. A surge of pain jolted through him as he remembered another time and another beautiful woman dressed in such clothing.
"You found her . . . where? How?" George demanded as he rushed to his son's side. "Trista, are you all right?"
She met his worried gaze. "Yes, now."
"But where were you? How did you manage to get away?"
"I escaped from the Comanche," Trista told them, and the men immediately tensed, ready for a possible attack.
"Were you followed?" George needed to know if they were in danger.
"No. I fled the village two nights ago. No one saw me go, and no one has followed. I've been watching."
Michael carried her to the fire that Whitey had hastily rebuilt and sat down with her before its blazing warmth. "I just thank God you're here and you're fine. . . ."
For just an instant, the memory of Lance and his touch crossed her thoughts, and her expression clearly reflected her moment of disconcertion. Michael saw the change in her, and immediately regretted his choice of words. She wasn't fine . . . She never would be again. A rage swept through him, and he wanted to kill the filthy redskins who'd dared to hurt her.
"What happened, Trista?" he asked in a low voice, his nerves taut as he awaited her answer. "Who captured you?"
Trista glanced nervously about, wanting to avoid his question, but knowing she had to answer. "I saw
the golden stallion that you'd been talking about, and I went after him. . . ." Trista paused, remembering vividly the first time she'd seen Lance as he, too, had been giving chase. "He was chasing Fuego, too."
"Yes . . . "
"My horse lost its footing and fell. I was stunned for a moment, and when I looked up, he was there."
"Who was he, Trista?" Michael's tone demanded honesty.
"He was a half-breed, but he lived with Lone Elk's tribe. . . ."
George and Michael went perfectly still at the news.
"His name was Lance."
Chapter Seventeen
George and Michael were caught completely off guard by Trista's answer. Michael looked up, his dark eyes troubled as they met and held his father's tormented gaze in silent, shocked acknowledgment. Lance . . . Could it possibly be? The name alone struck a painful chord within Michael. Could this be the older half brother he'd never known . . . the older half brother who'd denied his father and his white heritage and had gone to live with the Comanche?
Long ago when he was small, his father had told him of his marriage to the Indian woman, Shining Star, and of Lance, the son he'd had by that marriage. Michael could still remember the pain in his parent's voice as he'd related the story of how Lance, a young boy then, had chosen to live with the Comanche and how he'd never heard from him again.
Michael had often wondered why his older brother had shunned them. Sometimes he'd even wondered if death had claimed Lance, but Michael knew now almost with a certainty that his half brother was alive. He doubted that there could be two half-breeds in Lone Elk's village named Lance.
At the thought of the Comanche camp and the suffering Trista must have endured there, Michael put an arm protectively about her.
"Did he hurt you?" It was painful for Michael to ask—in fact, he was dreading her response—but he needed to know the full truth.
"Does it really matter now?" Trista countered shakily, not wanting to dredge up any of the memories of her time with Lance. It was all best forgotten.
Her evasive reply told Michael as much as a direct answer would have.
"Don't worry, Trista," he vowed in solemn, earnest tones, his eyes glittering dangerously. "He's going to pay for every minute you were held captive. I'm going to find this Lance, and when I do, I'm going to kill him. . . ." Michael was determined to avenge her. Grimly, he started to rise.
"No! You can't!" Trista frantically grabbed Michael's hand to stop him. Confusion reigned supreme within her as she wondered why she should care what happened to Lance. She tried to convince herself that she didn't, that it was Michael's well-being she was really worried about, but somehow the argument didn't ring true.
Michael was jarred by her protest, and his gaze narrowed as he regarded her stricken, pale features. "Why not?" he demanded heatedly. "I would think you, of all people, would be the one who'd want him dead for what he's done to you. . . ."
"No, please, no bloodshed. . . . Don't you understand? I just want to go back home with you and forget this ever happened! Please, Michael . . . just take me home. . . ." Traumatized by her feelings, Trista buried her face in her hands and began to sob.
Michael stared at her helplessly, lost in the storm of emotions that were battering him.
"We'll talk more later," George said quietly to Michael as he and the other men moved off to allow them privacy.
Michael nodded curtly, then took Trista in his arms. He wanted to reassure her, but his own feelings were in such an uproar that there was nothing he could say. Glancing down, he noticed with some surprise that she still wore his ring. The sight of the glittering keepsake still on her finger left him disconcerted. She was his fiancée. She was the woman who was to become his wife and bear his children, yet his half-breed brother had taken her innocence and now stood as an invisible barrier between them. Filled with anger over the horror of their situation, Michael only hoped that he was man enough to put the knowledge of all that had happened to Trista behind him and make a good life with her anyway.
"If all you want is to go home, Trista, then we'll go home," he finally promised.
Trista pulled slightly away to look up at him. "Yes, Michael. That's all that I want . . . to go home and to forget that this ever happened."
The sight of her tear-streaked face was heartbreaking to him. "We'll leave at first light."
George stood off in the darkness alone. He was overcome with emotion as he thought of all that had just been revealed to him. Lance, his beloved firstborn son, was still alive. He was positive that it could be no other, and yet with that surety came agonizing pain. If this was Lance, then why hadn't he come back to the ranch . . . to his home? Why hadn't he answered the messages he'd sent?
Guilt settled over George like a heavy burden as he realized how wrong he had been all those years ago. He should never have let Lance go with Lone Elk that day, but he had been so filled with his own sorrow and grief that he'd believed it to be for the best. What tortured him even more now, though, was the knowledge that Lance had come back to the ranch that one time while he'd been gone to town, but had disappeared before he'd returned from his trip. George had been tempted to drop everything and go after him, but at Eleanor's insistence, he had stayed on the Diamond. Instead, he had sent a message to his son asking him to return.
There had been no response to that message or to any of the many others he'd sent afterward. It was as if Lance had vanished. George had known then that he should have broken his agreement with Lone Elk about trespassing on the Indian lands and gone after his son personally, but the demands of the ranch and his new wife and baby had restrained him. He deeply regretted their separation and longed to know why Lance hated him so much that he'd never come back.
George glanced toward the encampment feeling overwhelmed to blame for the situation in which they now found themselves. For some reason Lance had been intent on vengeance against them, and innocent Trista had been the one to pay the price for his hatred. With a heavy heart, he started back.
"Pa . . . " Michael's quiet call stopped him and he paused, waiting for his younger son to come to him.
"How's Trista?" he asked, concerned.
"Better, I think. I gave her a drink of the whiskey I brought along. She ate a little bit, and I've got her bedded down now for the night."
Though George couldn't make out Michael's features clearly in the darkness, the distress his son was feeling was discernible in his voice.
"That's good. Rest is probably the best thing for her," he remarked. "That and your support. She needs you more now, Michael, than she ever did before."
"I know." His answer was gruff with emotion as he struggled to bring his chaotic feelings under control. "I know."
Though Lance was in both their thoughts, neither brought him up. It was an ordeal that was best put from them—for Trista's sake and for their own.
Michael had placed his bedroll in a semisecluded spot slightly away from the other men's to allow Trista some privacy, and she lay trembling in its protective warmth. It was over. She was safely with Michael and would soon be back at the Royal Diamond.
Trista knew her joy at being rescued should have been great, but oddly, she found herself more miserable than ever. She had thought returning would solve everything, but now she worried that nothing would ever be the same again.
Staring off into the darkness in the direction Michael had gone in search of his father, Trista realized that her ordeal had affected not only her, but Michael, too. He had seemed so thrilled to see her in the first moments of their reunion, but as he'd found out all that had happened, she could sense that he was growing apart from her.
Fearfully, she wondered if they would ever be able to recapture what they'd had before. She wanted that. She wanted to be a good wife to him, but she also knew how women freed from Indian captivity were regarded by society. No matter what she and Michael did, it was not going to be easy.
Michael and George returned to the campsite then, and Michae
l approached her, his expression shuttered. As George made his way to his own blanket to settle in for the night, Michael went to speak with Trista.
"Are you all right?" he asked, going down on one knee before her.
"Yes," she told him softly.
"Well, just get some sleep. We'll be heading out early." He stood up, intending to sleep on the far side of the camp with the other men.
"Michael . . .?"
He glanced down at her questioningly.
"Michael . . . could you just hold me for awhile?" Trista wanted to reestablish their closeness, to let him know that she needed him.
Michael was stunned by her request and said nothing for a moment. A short time before, he knew she would never have dared suggest such an intimacy between them, but now . . . Where once the idea of lying with Trista and holding her through the night might have thrilled him, now it left him strangely disquieted. He went to her uneasily. Taking great care to keep the blanket securely between them, he gathered her close.
Trista had thought that she would be happy in his embrace, yet as she lay in his arms, she felt anything but contented. Not only did she sense a definite remoteness about Michael, but she was also feeling oddly uncomfortable in his arms. His very nearness felt almost foreign to her, and she realized with a start that she was subconsciously remembering Lance and the sweet forbidden heat of his touch.
A shudder wracked her as she mentally berated herself for her folly in thinking of him. He had taken her captive against her will. . . . He had taken her virginity. . . . He had made her his wife. . . .
The last thought jolted through her, leaving her bewildered and more confused than ever. She was not Lance's wife! She wasn't! It had been an Indian ceremony, and it had meant nothing! She was going to marry Michael! It was Michael she loved. He was the one she wanted, not the blue-eyed warrior!