Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  Hidden among the rocks at the top of the hill overlooking the ranchhouse, Lance remained motionless, his blue-eyed gaze locked on the golden stallion dancing nervously about the corral. Fuego. A tightness gripped his chest as he watched the golden one. If the stallion was here, then Trista was also. Lance refused to acknowledge the relief that flooded through him with that hoped-for discovery.

  Glancing toward the west, Lance judged the lateness of the hour and knew that there was only a short time left until sundown. A fierce smile curved the grim line of his mouth as he plotted his plan of action. Though he longed to sweep down upon the unsuspecting ranch and forcefully take what was his, Lance knew it was not yet time. He would wait until the darkness provided him with sheltering cover and then claim his stallion and his wife. Moving carefully away to avoid detection, Lance sought a secluded hiding place to pass the next few hours.

  Trista was starting from her bedroom, intending to join Michael and his parents for dinner, when she heard the sound of Fuego whinnying nervously. She hurried to the window, wondering at what could be causing his upset, but the cloaking darkness of the night prevented her from seeing as far as the stables. Trista paused to listen, and as Fuego grew quiet again, she realized that he was probably just having some difficulty adjusting to his restricted freedom. She had not seen him since they'd arrived. Wanting to make sure that he really was all right, Trista made a mental note to be sure to check on him after they'd eaten.

  Turning away from the window, she took one last glance in the mirror to make certain that she looked her best. She wanted to appear as normal as possible tonight to convince Michael that she was fine and that everything could be the same again. She'd combed her hair into an upswept style that she knew Michael liked, and her choice of dress had been deliberate . . . a demure, high-necked, pale blue gown that fit her perfectly. Though not revealing, it hugged her slender form, giving testimony to the feminine curves beneath, before flaring out softly in gentle emphasis of the swell of her hips. Trista felt much better since she'd bathed and changed back into her own clothing, and she was sure that she was calm enough now to carry on normally. Without further hesitation, she left her room and descended to join the family in the dining room.

  Lance had been cautiously making his way toward the house when Fuego had picked up his scent and begun to stir restively in the corral. Fearful that someone would emerge from the bunkhouse to check on the stallion, Lance had faded back into the shadows and waited in tense silence to see what would happen. As minutes passed and no one came out to check on the jittery horse, he moved from his place of refuge and started once again toward the building that had long ago been his home.

  It was then that Lance saw Trista silhouetted in the window of her room. Just the sight of her sent a shaft of pure desire through him that left him slightly shaken and more than a little angry at its power. Still, he could not tear his gaze away as he remained motionless in the darkness watching her. He remembered that her hair had been arranged in much the same fashion the first time he'd seen her there at the ranch, and he decided immediately that he preferred her hair down, loose and flowing about her shoulders. He knew a sudden impatience to be with her again. He wanted to release the cascade of her hair from its bonds and run his hands through the silken strands while he . . .

  Lance grew irritated by the direction of his thoughts, and he forced all memories of their lovemaking from him. He was in far too dangerous a situation to let his attention be diverted even for a moment. On silent tread, he moved through the shadows of the night, skirting the outbuildings and heading for the ranchhouse.

  "Trista, you look lovely tonight." Michael was waiting at the foot of the stairs for her, his dark eyes upon her as she descended.

  "Thank you, Michael." Trista graced him with a bright smile as she came to him.

  "You're more than welcome, darling," Michael responded, tucking her arm protectively under his as he led her to the dining room, where his parents were waiting. "Your timing is perfect. Dinner is just about ready to be served."

  "I'm glad I didn't keep you waiting," she offered to him and his parents as they joined them.

  "Even if you had, you would have been worth the wait." He smiled down at her. His gaze was warm upon her as the whiskey he'd consumed helped to anesthetize the pain from the trauma of the past few weeks. Trista looked so lovely to him . . . so sweet and so beautiful that he vowed silently to himself to make it up to her for all the agony she'd suffered.

  For the first time since her rescue the day before, Trista was actually beginning to feel comfortable.

  "Indeed, Trista," George agreed, thinking he had never seen her looking prettier as he led the way to the table.

  "Thank you," she replied demurely as she took the seat Michael held out for her.

  As soon as they were seated, Rosalie served the meal. As they ate the succulent fare, Eleanor brought up the subject she knew had to be discussed.

  "Trista, darling, you know I mentioned to you when you first arrived this afternoon that your father was on his way here now. . . ."

  "Yes." She looked up at her questioningly.

  "Well, we've discussed it, and we thought it might be appropriate to move up the wedding date. Since your father will be here soon, I can think of no reason to delay the ceremony any longer than necessary. Can you?"

  Anger flared within Trista. She knew Eleanor was suggesting the change in dates to still possible gossip and protect her reputation, but it annoyed Trista to no end. It hadn't been her fault she'd been captured! Insidiously, the other reason for moving up the wedding date struck her and a flush stained her cheeks. There was always the chance that she could be pregnant with the half-breed's child, and Michael was gallantly offering her the protection of his name. She glanced to Michael, wondering what he was truly feeling.

  Michael quickly laid a warm, caring hand over hers. "Everything will be fine. Don't worry."

  "Oh, Michael . . . " She bit at her lip. Michael was so kind. . . . Her feelings for him were in turmoil.

  "The wedding will take place as soon as her father arrives from Philadelphia." Michael displayed no regret over the decision.

  "There will be no wedding."

  The china cup Trista had been holding dropped from her numb fingers and clattered noisily to the tabletop at the sound of Lance's voice. She was stunned, and her pulse quickened as she turned to look toward the doorway; the sight of him leaning almost negligently against the wall caused her heart to pound wildly in her breast. Lance was here. . . . She couldn't help but think of how handsome he looked . . . his chest—so broad and firmly muscled; his eyes—so piercingly blue and vivid in the sun-bronzed darkness of his face; and his hair—so raven-black, and just long enough to brush the nape of his neck. He had come for her. . . .

  "Lance . . . " His name was a hushed whisper on her lips.

  Only an instant had passed, but it seemed an eternity to Trista as her gaze met his across the width of the room. Time stood still. The universe narrowed to just the two of them.

  Though he was unarmed, Michael reacted first to the sight of the Comanche. Charging to his feet, he meant to physically attack the warrior, but Lance was too quick for him.

  "Lance . . . NO!" Trista cried desperately, afraid that Michael might be injured.

  Her protest was too late as Lance drew his knife with lightning speed and threw it. As the blade sliced through the air, Eleanor let out a bloodcurdling shriek of terror, fearing for her son's life. Michael dove quickly to the floor as the weapon buried itself deep in the far wall of the dining room several feet above his head.

  George stood up, violently overturning his chair in the process. His expression clearly reflected his stunned disbelief in all that was happening. "What the hell?" He was poised, ready to do battle with this intruder, when Trista's words finally penetrated his fury-fogged consciousness. "Lance?"

  Lance stepped farther into the room. His manner was tense and threatening, but controlled as his
gaze swept away from Trista to his father and Michael, who was slowly getting to his feet. A sneer curled his lips as he openly studied the men who had been the cause of so much pain in his life.

  "I have not come to kill, but I will if you push me," Lance stated coldly.

  "What do you want?" Michael demanded belligerently, his hands clinched into fists at his sides as he glared at him.

  "I have come to claim what is rightfully mine," Lance stated coldly, looking pointedly over at Trista.

  George stared at him, his gaze feasting on the sight of him. This was Lance . . . his son . . . Shining Star's son. George could see so much of Shining Star in him that it left him speechless for a moment. Lance had returned. . . . He had come home. He was almost ready to welcome him with open arms when Michael's question revealed the awful truth.

  "What do you mean?" Michael asked, his dark eyes narrowing as he regarded him suspiciously.

  "I have come to claim my wife."

  "Wife?" Michael and George both echoed the same sentiment as Eleanor only looked on in distress.

  "Trista is my wife," he insisted. "She belongs to me."

  "NO!" Trista retorted defiantly.

  "It is bound." Lance's tone was deadly earnest as he met his father's gaze. "Lone Elk has decreed it."

  George paled at the news. Lance had married Trista in a Comanche ceremony. Memories of his own marriage to Shining Star assailed him . . . memories of a happier time, a loving time. Michael could only look on in confusion as Trista faced Lance.

  "Trista is engaged to me," Michael challenged, taking a menacing step toward Lance.

  Lance went still as he turned on his brother. His expression was fierce, his manner barely restrained. "You may have laid claim to everything else, but Trista is mine," he spoke in low tones.

  "Lance . . . Michael . . . " George finally started toward him, wanting to break the tension between his sons as they faced each other, prepared to do battle.

  "You know Lance?" Trista broke in, bewildered by George's reaction to him.

  George answered Trista in a grave tone. "Yes, Trista, I know Lance." His gaze swung back to the tall, magnificent figure of a man who stood before him. "Lance is my son. . . ."

  "Oh, dear God . . . " Eleanor murmured faintly.

  Trista's eyes widened, revealing her shock as she stared at the three men in profound confusion. "Son? Lance is your son? I don't understand. . . ."

  "Do not claim me now, Barrett," Lance mocked bitterly. "You have denied me for years. Why acknowledge me now?"

  "Lance . . . I've never denied you!" George protested, startled by his revelation and wondering why Lance thought that.

  "Years ago, when I needed you the most, you couldn't wait to be rid of me. . . ."

  "That's not true!" Again he refuted him. "Lone Elk said you could return at any time, but you never came back. . . ."

  "I came back once, but it was clear you did not want me, white man," Lance told him resentfully.

  "But you didn't stay. . . . Why didn't you wait for me to return? I sent message after message to Lone Elk, but I never heard from you."

  "Save your lies, Barrett. They do not change anything," Lance snarled. "Do you think I didn't know that you couldn't stand the sight of me?"

  Trista could see the misery mirrored plainly on George's face as Lance's words struck him like a physical blow, and she wondered at the cause for so much hatred between them. Was it true? Had George denied him? Trying to grasp some clue as to what had happened, Trista glanced at Lance. His words sounded indifferently sarcastic, but in the depths of his blue eyes—eyes so like his father's, as she realized now—she could see reflected a deep, abiding pain that testified to a bitter disillusionment.

  "Lance . . . I—" George wanted to tell him everything, to explain the pain of that miserable night all those years ago, but Lance would hear none of it.

  "I have come for Trista." He rebuffed his effort at conversation. "She is mine."

  "Trista's not going anywhere with you," Michael challenged, pulling himself together with an effort. He was torn between the desire to kill the man who stood so arrogantly before them telling them of his claim on Trista, and wanting to embrace him and welcome him into the family. This was his brother . . . this was Lance . . . yet this was also the fierce Comanche who'd stolen the woman he loved and . . .

  Lance turned a glacial glare on Michael. "She is my wife. She belongs to me, and she will come with me."

  "I will not! I don't belong to you or to anyone! I'm Michael's fiancée and I—"

  "You are my wife!" he said sharply, infuriated by the thought of her belonging to anyone else.

  As Michael took a step forward, George quickly moved between his sons, his hands outstretched in supplication. "Lance . . . we must talk . . . ."

  "I have nothing to say to you, Barrett, or to the white son who pleases you so well." Lance gave Michael a cold, disparaging look.

  "I am your father, Lance," George agonized, thinking that Lance would leave again and that he would never get the chance to tell him that he loved him. "Give me this much."

  "I give you nothing, white man"—he stiffened—"just as you gave me nothing."

  "Lance . . . please . . . " George put aside all manly pride as he pleaded with his son, but he did not feel less a man for it. If anything, he knew that for the first time in years he was being honest about what he was truly feeling.

  Lance wanted to take Trista and leave, but his father's desperation touched something deep within him. A faint thought skimmed through his mind that maybe, just maybe he'd been wrong all this time. Yet the facts spoke for themselves. He had never received any messages from his father. He had had no contact at all after his one attempt to return home. Still, there was the chance. Without waiting for George to lead the way, Lance left the dining room and walked into the study—the study he remembered so well.

  Shocked into silence, Eleanor had remained quiet during the exchange, but the instant Lance moved out of the room, she turned on her husband. "George . . . I don't understand. . . . How can this be Lance? I thought he was dead."

  "It's Lance, Eleanor," George assured her as he disappeared out into the hall after him.

  Eleanor cast Michael a troubled look as he started to follow them from the room. "Michael?"

  "When Trista told us that first night that her captor's name was Lance, Father and I both suspected, but—" he began to explain.

  "Michael . . . " Trista was distraught over all that had transpired. Lance was George's son and therefore Michael's half brother. Yet for some reason he had been cast away from his family. "How can Lance be your father's son?"

  "Pa was married to a Comanche woman before he married my mother," Michael answered. "When she died, evidently Lance left the ranch and went to live with his mother's brother and his tribe."

  "Lone Elk . . . " she said his name softly.

  "I don't know exactly what happened," Eleanor put in. "Lance had been gone for some time when George and I married, thank God. Why, just the thought of that filthy halfbreed being related to Michael is almost more than I can bear." She covered her heart with her hand in a melodramatic gesture.

  Though Trista hated Lance, she found herself bristling at Eleanor's insulting remarks. Even if Lance was half-Comanche, he was also half-Barrett. He was part of their family. That thought gave her pause, and she grew outraged with Michael and George. Why had they kept Lance's identity a secret when they had known who her captor was and hadn't told her?

  "Michael . . . "

  Michael heard the seriousness in Trista's voice. Thinking that she was concerned for her safety, he hurried to assure her, "Don't worry, darling, I won't let him hurt you again. I'll protect you from him. . . ."

  "Just like you protected me from the truth about him? How could you have known that Lance was your brother and not told me?!" The more she thought, the more angry she became.

  "We were never positive it was him." He defended their actions. "But even if
we had been, it would have made no difference."

  "Made no difference?! I intended to become part of your family, but if you think for one minute that I'll marry you when you keep such secrets from me, you're wrong," she accused heatedly.

  Michael did not understand why she was so angry. He had only been trying to keep her safe. "Trista," he began in coaxing tones, thinking that she was just upset by Lance's unexpected appearance.

  "Don't Trista me, Michael Barrett! I'm not some delicate little miss who can't handle the truth. Considering the situation, I should have been told everything! How many more things have you kept from me to protect me?"

  "I'm not the only one who's kept secrets, Trista!" he charged defensively, angered that she would accuse him of being secretive when Lance was the one who had surprised them all by declaring that Trista was his wife.

  "I don't know what you mean. . . ." She regarded him suspiciously, the strength of his hostile retort surprising her.

  "You didn't tell me that your captor had married you," he told her bitterly.

  "It was a Comanche ceremony, Michael. Besides, do you really think that I had a choice in the matter?" Trista returned just as furiously. "Do you think that I would have married a man I didn't know willingly? I was his captive. I was his slave. I did not choose to marry him! I was forced!"

  Michael's jaw was rigid as he strode from the room to join his father and Lance in the study.

  Eleanor turned to Trista when he had gone. "I'm sorry this had to happen, Trista. I know how difficult and upsetting this must be for you."

  Trista felt some of her anger ease at her soothing words, yet oddly, it resurged as the older woman continued.

  "I know how much you must hate the half-breed, and I pray to God that George and Michael get rid of him, and fast! Why, you know for yourself that he's no more than a vicious savage." Eleanor shivered as she thought of the way Lance had looked standing there in the doorway of her dining room. He'd been almost naked and had seemed so brutal and uncivilized.