Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  He thought of the embrace he'd witnessed between Trista and Lance, and then he considered what Ace and Dan had tried to make him believe. He knew, without a doubt, that Trista had not been fighting Lance off when he'd seen her. He felt reasonably certain that the two men who'd attacked Lance had done so out of their hatred for his Indian blood and not because of any attack on Trista.

  Theirs had been a good lie, and had Michael not seen Lance and Trista embracing before he left the house, he might have been inclined to believe it. But he knew the truth now. Trista wanted Lance, and Michael knew for a fact that Lance wanted Trista. He'd already married her, and despite all her protests to the contrary, he now knew that she was bound to his brother.

  The realization filled him with a relief he found puzzling. He should have been angry, he supposed, but he wasn't. Instead he found that Sukie was the center of his thoughts . . . responsive, loving Sukie. She had said that she'd loved him for years, but she hadn't let him know the extent of her feelings for him until yesterday when it had been almost too late. Michael smiled slightly to himself as he realized that things just might be working out better than he'd ever hoped.

  "Michael . . . "

  The sound of Sukie's voice tentatively calling his name seemed almost a part of his imaginings, and he turned slowly to see her standing framed in the study door. "Sukie . . . " He set his glass aside and walked toward her.

  Sukie nervously watched him approaching her and tried to read his mood. He did not seem as cold and angry as he had earlier when he'd greeted her, and she felt a bit of her nervousness drain away. She hoped that they could talk for a moment, for she'd been feeling quite guilty about what had transpired between them, and she wanted the opportunity to apologize.

  "I was just wondering if we could talk for a little while," she ventured softly.

  "I'd like that," Michael replied, surprising her by drawing her into the room and closing the door behind her. "I'd like that very much. . . ."

  Before Sukie could say another word, Michael took her in his arms and kissed her with all the pent-up passion he'd felt for her since seeing her arrive at the start of the party. His kiss was potent and excited, and he in that moment needed her more than he'd ever needed anyone.

  Sukie responded wildly for an instant, but then suddenly yanked herself free of his arms. Her thoughts were racing as she faced him angrily. She believed by his behavior that Michael thought she was now his for the taking whenever and wherever he pleased, and it infuriated her. He had spent the entire evening with his fiancée. Now that she was out of the picture, even for a few minutes, he was coming after her. How dare he think that she was that kind of woman! She had told him the truth of her feelings for him, and he dared to take advantage of her this way!

  "Sukie . . . " Michael was bewildered by her withdrawal from him. He had thought that she would be as anxious as he to share a heated embrace, but now he knew he'd been wrong.

  "Don't you say a word, Michael Barrett!" she stormed, her temper as fiery as her hair. "I came in here to apologize for yesterday with the hopes that we could continue our friend ship, but I realize now that it's impossible. You obviously think that I'll be willing to come to you whenever you want me, but I've got news for you; you're wrong! I place a higher value on myself than to carry on with you without the benefit of marriage."

  "Sukie . . . it's not—"

  "It most certainly is! I heard your mother discussing your wedding to Trista. It's coming up real soon. Well, let me tell you something. What happened yesterday was a terrible mistake. Not only did I lose my virginity, but I've lost your friendship as well, and it was the one I valued most in the world. I'm sorry I made love to you yesterday, Michael," she told him as tears coursed down her cheeks. "I wish it had never happened! I wish I could take it all back!"

  Without a backward look, she fled the room and the house, leaving Michael standing in the middle of the study more confused than ever. Silently he thought . . . Would it matter if I told you that it was you I loved and not Trista? Upset by what had just happened, but knowing that he could say nothing to reassure Sukie until he'd talked with Trista, he took another drink of his liquor and dropped down into a chair. Tomorrow he would have to face Trista with all he had learned tonight and see what she said. If everything went as he expected it to, he could probably be at the Harris ranch by afternoon.

  Long hours later Trista was still unable to sleep. Haunted by the memory of the trauma in the garden, she wondered where Lance had gone. All the guests had departed, and she thought the rest of the family had gone to bed long ago, but she had not heard him retire to his room. A cold knot of fear formed in her heart as she worried that he might have left the ranch. Hadn't he pushed her away and told her to go to Michael?

  Desperate to know how he was, Trista quickly pulled on her dressing gown and quietly left her room. She did not question the true reason for her actions as she approached his bedroom door cautiously. Frightened of possible discovery, Trista did not bother to knock, but carefully tried the knob. To her surprise, it was unlocked. Hurriedly, soundlessly, she moved inside.

  Trista had expected the room to be empty, and she was not disappointed. It was obvious that Lance hadn't been there all night. Despairing, she moved around the room touching his belongings and coming to know more about him. The picture on the table drew her interest. Picking it up, she went to the window to try to see it better in the dimness of the light of the fading moon.

  The images on the daguerreotype touched her deeply . . . loving mother and adoring child. For the first time Trista realized the pain Lance must have gone through in losing his mother at such a young and tender age. With infinite care she placed the picture back on the table. He was a complicated man, and yet he was the man she loved. . . .

  The realization was not as shocking as she would have expected it to be. She loved Lance. She did not know exactly how it had come about, she only knew that he was the only man she wanted. He was the only man she needed. Acknowledging it openly to herself finally freed her emotions, and she knew a surging thrill of joy.

  But even as happiness filled her, thoughts of Michael crept into her mind, dampening her mood. Though she loved Lance, her loyalty and her honor were pledged to Michael. She was promised to him, and he was the one she would have to wed. The wedding was already planned, and soon after her father arrived, it would take place. Her spirits heavy, Trista resigned herself to her fate.

  Trista knew she should leave, that it would be terrible if she were discovered in Lance's bedroom, but somehow she couldn't. She needed to see him again, to reassure herself that he was all right. Testing the softness of his bed, she lay down on the comfortable mattress and curled up to await his return. He had to come back . . . he had to . . . and when he did, she would be there waiting for him.

  Lance patted Fuego's sweaty neck and turned the weary mount back toward the ranch. After leaving the garden, he'd gone to the stables and taken the golden stallion. At first he had intended to leave, to return home to Lone Elk and his people, but as he'd ridden with the night wind, the humiliation and hatred that had clouded his thoughts had cleared.

  Leaving was exactly what those two drunken thugs wanted him to do. While it would be the easiest way to handle things, he wouldn't do it. The Royal Diamond was his home. He belonged there. His father had convinced him of that. Lance rubbed his aching side as he guided the stallion back toward the house.

  Trista entered his thoughts then, and he knew that she was the main reason for his return. When he'd considered going home, he had tried to decide if he really could live without her. The answer was painfully clear to him. He loved her, and he would not give her up. She wanted him. He could feel it in her kiss.

  All he had to do, Lance realized, was convince her that they could be happy together. He knew it would be a major undertaking considering the fact that he had told her to go to Michael when he'd left tonight, but he was not a man who gave up easily.

  By the time they
reached the stables, Lance and Fuego had both cooled down. He stabled the horse and then made his way slowly back to the house. Every inch of his body was aching as he moved silently into the house and down the hall toward the staircase. He didn't want to disturb anyone and hoped to make it to his room without any kind of confrontation.

  George, however, had stayed up waiting for him and, at the sound of the door closing, quickly emerged from his study.

  "Lance . . . " He sounded tremendously relieved as he came forward to greet him. "Are you all right?"

  "I'll be fine," he managed, keeping his voice low.

  "You came back. . . ."

  Lance read the anxiety in his father's expression and understood the cause. "I just went for a ride."

  They regarded each other for a long moment.

  "You're staying. . . . You're not going to let this drive us apart again?" George asked, no longer fearful of expressing himself openly with his son.

  "No. I'm staying." His answer was firm.

  "Thank God. I was so afraid after what Michael told me. . . ."

  "It'll take more than a couple of drunken fools to drive me away. The Diamond's my home. I don't intend to leave it ever again."

  George was filled with poignant emotion. "I'm glad . . . so glad. This is where you belong."

  Lance remained silent in agreement. "I think I'll go on up now."

  "Good night, son. I'll see you in the morning." George watched him as he slowly climbed the steps. He knew Lance had to be in pain, but he also knew that if he'd needed anything, he would have told him. Feeling truly content for the first time in years, he went back into his study to turn out the light before going up to bed himself.

  Lance entered his room and locked the door behind him. He didn't bother to light a lamp because he had no desire to see his own battered reflection in the mirror that hung over his dresser. Because of the pain, his movements were edged with caution as he undressed. When he'd finally stripped down, he took the pitcher from the stand near the dresser and splashed some cold water in the washbowl to wash the dust and grit from his sore body. He had just finished washing and was toweling himself dry when he returned toward the bed and saw her.

  Lance went completely still. Trista lay sleeping on his bed clothed in only a nightgown and wrapper. His breath caught in his throat, and his heartbeat quickened. She was here . . . waiting for him. He'd been right. . . . She did want him!

  He moved to the side of the bed and stood looking down at her, studying the sweetness of her features in sleep. She looked delicately feminine as she lay there, yet Lance knew it was all illusion. There was nothing delicate and helpless about her. Trista was a fighter . . . a survivor.

  Without conscious effort, Lance reached out to caress the pale, silken length of her hair where it tumbled in disarray about her shoulder. Trista felt the warmth of his touch and stirred, her eyes opening to stare up at him dreamily.

  "Lance . . . " Trista breathed his name in a sensual, verbal caress. She lifted a hand to cover his and drew him down on the bed beside her. "I've been waiting for you. . . ."

  Lance was almost afraid to speak for fear that he would spoil the moment. "Why, Trista?" He forced himself to keep all emotion out of his voice as he asked.

  "Because I needed to know that you were all right," she answered simply.

  "I'm fine, Trista. . . ." he began, not wanting her sympathy.

  Trista let her gaze wander over him, and she saw the dark, ugly bruise forming on his side. "No, you're not. . . ." she returned as she ran a caressing hand over his injured ribs. "I want . . . ." She hesitated, not quite sure in her sleep-fogged mind what she was going to say.

  "What do you want, Trista? Tell me. . . ." Lance suddenly needed to know.

  "I want to stop your hurting, Lance."

  Their eyes met, and there was no further need for words. It seemed to Lance as if he were moving in slow motion as he bent to press a soft, cherishing kiss upon her lips.

  "Stop my hurting, Trista. Only you have the power to do it. . . ." he confided before taking her in his arms and deepening the exchange.

  Excitement exploded in her as he lay down beside her and brought her full-length against him. Already she could feel his need for her, and it filled her with a deep sense of womanly power. Ecstatically, she returned his kisses, arching toward him as he began to caress her through the soft material of her gown. Straining closer, she sought to be nearer to him. Trista wanted oneness with Lance. She ached to hold him within her, but tonight he would not be rushed.

  Seeking out the sweetness of her throat, Lance trailed a burning path of heated kisses down her neck and even lower to the full, burgeoning curve of her bosom. Cupping her breasts, he pressed kisses upon them through the gown, and the sensation was so different that Trista murmured in enchanted surprise. She longed for him to strip away her garments so she could feel his flesh upon hers, but Lance was in no mood to hurry. He wanted to savor every moment of her willingness.

  Rising above her, he stared down at her, enthralled by the look of heavy-lidded desire on her face. "I want you, Trista, more than I've ever wanted another."

  "Oh, Lance . . . " Trista gasped as he moved his hips suggestively against her. "I want you, too. . . ."

  Trista couldn't control the urge to move, and she began to rotate her own hips hungrily against his, letting him know that her passion matched his. Lance lowered his head slowly, his mouth taking hers in a devouring exchange. His hands continued their practiced pursuit, caressing her from breast to thigh, coming near, but never satisfying the building ecstasy within her. Impatiently, Trista stroked his back and hips, tracing patterns of fiery excitement that nearly took Lance over the brink. He felt nearly ready to explode with his desire for her, and he drew away, meaning to strip away the offending gown and wrapper.

  "Lance . . . please . . . " she begged, thinking that he meant to leave her for some reason.

  "Easy, love . . . " He hurried to reassure her as he lifted the hems of the garments and drew them over her head. Tossing them carelessly aside, he turned his heated regard back to the slim beauty of her body. The sight of her so open and willing sent his passions soaring, and he could not postpone the inevitable any longer when she lifted her arms in welcome to him.

  "Love me, Lance . . . love me now. . . ."

  With a muffled groan, he went to her, burying himself between her thighs and exulting in the rapture that threatened to overwhelm him with that intimate contact. His rhythm was steady and driving, and Trista moved in concert with him, wanting to savor his possession completely, glorying in having him joined with her.

  Lance paused in his movements and levered himself up on his forearms to stare down at her. His blue eyes darkened as he studied the pale silk of her hair and the slight flush of passion staining her cheeks.

  Trista, too, was caught up in the heart-stopping moment, and she stared up at Lance with all the emotion she felt for him mirrored in the depths of her own blue-eyed gaze. She was transported as she studied the harsh, yet handsome angles of his manly features and the vivid blueness of his eyes against the darkness of his skin. She thought him beautiful, if it was possible for a man to be considered beautiful. Lovingly she lifted her hands to frame his face and she raised up a bit to kiss him softly on the mouth. There was something so enthralling . . . so perfect about this, their blending, that Trista could no longer deny what she was feeling, and the words were out before she could stop herself.

  "I love you, Lance. . . ."

  Her confession created a wildfire of desire within Lance. He had wanted to hear those words for so long, and now, at last, she'd admitted the truth of her feelings. Crushing her to him, he kissed her deeply and passionately.

  "I love you, too, Trista. . . ." he told her in a voice hoarse with emotion just before he claimed her lips in another devastatingly erotic exchange.

  Lance began to move again, needing to please her, needing to show her just how fully he did love her. Their mating was
indeed lovemaking this time as each touch became a cherishing caress and each kiss a sealed vow. They loved.

  Trista reached the pinnacle of passion in unison with Lance, and in hushed cries of adoration they called each other's name. Still joined as one, they drifted in the serenity of satiation, at peace with each other.

  "Lance . . . I have to go. . . ." she murmured softly as she pushed at the weight of his shoulders in an unsuccessful effort to dislodge him from atop her.

  Lance had been lost in the beauty of being still imbedded within the hot, silken confines of her body and did not immediately understand her protest. "What?"

  "I have to go." Trista's tone was more firm this time, and there was a quiet desperation in her as she tried to wriggle free of his intoxicating, dominating nearness.

  Lance sensed the change in her and lifted his body from hers. "What's wrong, darling?"

  "I have to get back to my room. It's so late and—" Trista had already left the bed and was reaching for her gown when Lance's hand snaked out and grabbed her by the forearm.

  "And what?" he demanded icily as his grip tightened menacingly on her arm.

  She swallowed nervously as she met his gaze. "Someone might discover that I was here . . . with you. . . ." she admitted guiltily.

  "Would that be so bad, Trista?" Lance managed smoothly in spite of his barely concealed fury that was about to erupt.

  "Well . . . Michael—"

  "Michael?!" he snarled in anger. "What has Michael got to do with any of this?"

  "I'm engaged to Michael," Trista said simply. "He's the man I'm going to marry. I feel so guilty. . . . I just can't do this to him. . . ."

  Her last words set Lance off. She had just professed to love him, and yet she was planning on going through with her wedding to Michael? He was beyond control as he jerked her back down on the bed.