by Bobbi Smith
"You just said that you loved me, Trista," Lance pointed out viciously. "You just made passionate love to me!"
"I know . . . but I can't do this to him! I just can't!"
"You're telling me that you still are determined to go through with this farce of a wedding with my brother even though I'm the one you love?"
His questions were coming too quickly and too angrily, and she was confused and consumed with her own inner turmoil.
"Don't you see? I have to."
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Trista! You are my wife! There is no shame in sharing a marriage bed!"
"We aren't married . . . not really. . . ."
"We are married by my ways, and they are just as binding as yours!" A sudden stricken thought took him, and he pinned her body to the bed with his own as he held her arms pinioned above her head. "Maybe that's the real cause. . . ." he said in a tone filled with loathing as he stared contemptuously down at her.
"What?" Trista gasped, frightened by his intensity.
"I'm good enough for you to sleep with, but not good enough for you to marry," Lance snapped. "Is that it, Trista? Is Michael's white blood the only Barrett blood that's good enough for you to marry? A few minutes ago, you weren't concerned with my Indian blood. . . ." He rubbed himself against her in a degrading motion. "Has all that changed now, Trista? Has it?!"
Trista stared up at him in horror, her eyes wide with misery over his misunderstanding of her motives. It wasn't because he was part Comanche—it was because she had promised to marry Michael. It was her honor that stood in her way. She couldn't hurt him like this by betraying him with his own brother, even if it meant denying herself her heart's desire.
"Lance, let me explain. . . ." Trista wanted to explain to Lance, but he would hear none of it.
Lance had never been violent with women, but he knew the urge to strangle her at that moment. To keep himself from hurting her, he moved quickly away from her. Stalking to the window, he stood there staring out at the slowly brightening predawn sky.
"Get out, Trista."
"Lance . . . "
"I said get out!"
In tortured agony, she drew on her gown and wrapper and started for the door. She paused once to glance back at him, wanting to tell him of her confusion, but he was still standing ramrod straight with his back to her, his entire aura one of in-approachability. Her heart breaking, she stumbled from his room and returned to the safety of her own.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The flickering brilliance of the campfire cast harsh shadows on the faces of the six renegade warriors crouched about it, rendering them even more fierce looking than they already were. Outcasts from their various tribes, they had banded together to raid and pillage the Texas countryside under their new leader, the murderous Striking Snake.
"Why do you want to do this, Striking Snake?" Big Bull asked, skeptical of his daring plan to attack the ranch of the rich white man, Barrett.
"Yes, Striking Snake," agreed Many Robes. "It is far too dangerous."
"If you are women, then leave me now," Striking Snake insulted them. "I want only brave warriors with courage to ride with me, not weak, helpless females who are afraid to fight."
Big Bull stiffened at his slight. "I am not afraid. I am cautious. I do not see the reason for so bold a raid. It would be suicide, and for what?"
Many Robes nodded. He was familiar with the layout of the Diamond's ranchhouse and knew it would be difficult to attack openly. "The whites there cannot be taken by surprise. It would be a stupid thing to do. I will not go."
Striking Snake had remained silent as they criticized his plan, but he grew tired of their cowardly complaints. In a slick, quick move, he drew his knife and threw it at Many Robes. Slicing through the air with lethal force, the knife buried itself in the warrior's throat and he died instantly. Before the full realization of what had happened could penetrate the others, Striking Snake dove across the campfire at Big Bull, attacking him with the same cold deliberateness as his namesake.
Big Bull had no time to prepare himself for the assault. With overpowering strength, Striking Snake beat him to unconsciousness. He rose savagely above the prone warrior, intending to finish him off, but a word from one of the others stopped him.
"He is a fine, strong warrior, not a woman like Many Robes. He will go along with us now or he will leave us, Striking Snake. There is no reason to kill him." His defender was Two Mules, Striking Snake's most ardent supporter among the group. For that reason, he listened to his advice.
"You are right," he answered, slowly bringing himself back under control. "I will let him live."
When they had disposed of the dead warrior's body, they returned to their camp to find that Big Bull was waiting for them.
"You have decided to stay and make the raid with us?" Striking Snake questioned him openly before the others.
"I will stay."
The leader nodded and sat down cross-legged before the fire to explain his strategy. "We will attack the house tomorrow night after sundown."
"What is the prize you so desire at this place?"
"I go to kill Lance, half-breed nephew to Chief Lone Elk, and to take the woman who should be mine."
"You do this strictly for vengeance?"
"Is there a better reason?" he challenged. There were no more comments. "If we are successful, there will be many horses for us."
"We will be ready whenever you are."
"Good. There will be much cause for celebrating tomorrow after the raid. You will see."
In the once-deserted cabin out in the middle of the wild Texas countryside, Poker Bradley stood before the six men he'd chosen to help him with his task. "I have to have your word that no one, and I mean no one, will ever reveal anything about what we're going to do."
Les Crocker, sober now for the first time in weeks, rubbed his chin and looked suspiciously at Poker. "I ain't promisin' nuthin' till I know what it is we're gonna be doin'."
"I'm not telling anyone anything until I have your word. I've already told you everything I can. It's going to be dangerous, but it's a job that will pay real good. Now, I need to know who's in and who's out."
Five of the six agreed readily, with only Les remaining doubtful. "How do we know you're gonna pay off when we're done?"
"I'll pay off, Les. You don't have to worry about that. All you gotta worry about is shooting straight and keeping your mouth shut. Are you in or not?"
"All right," he agreed, thinking of the fast money he was going to earn. "I'm in."
"Good. Now, here's the plan. . . ." He related the details of the treacherous plan Eleanor had devised.
"So the blame gets put on the Comanche?" One of the men remarked, slightly amazed at the cleverness of the deadly plot.
"Yep, and we're off scot-free with our pockets well lined. All we gotta do is move in fast, make the kill, and get outta there."
"Sounds simple enough once we make it into the house. What about the payoff?"
"We'll have the money once we make the raid. The rendezvous is all set. We take care of our end of the deal, and we'll get paid."
"What time do we ride out?"
"We'll leave here a little before sunset. That should put us at the ranchhouse after it's fully dark. With any luck, we can be in and out of there in no time," Poker said, remembering how Eleanor had told him the perfect time for the attack and exactly which doors would be open for them.
"We're ready." Les spoke eagerly for the whole group.
"Well, all we gotta do is wait for sundown."
Randolph Sinclair surveyed the surrounding landscape with less than complete enthusiasm. What he'd seen of Texas so far had all been jaded by his worry over his daughter's safety. The land looked godforsaken to him, and he wondered how Trista or anybody could ever have agreed to come live in such a barbaric place.
"How much farther is it to the Barrett ranch?" he demanded grumpily of his driver.
The hired
driver chuckled at the easterner's question. "Why, Mr. Sinclair, you've been riding on the Diamond for the last hour and a half."
Randolph sat back on the uncomfortable seat of the buggy and stared out at the low, rolling hills with a new respect. "How much longer until we reach the house?"
"We should arrive in about another half hour," he answered, and then they both fell silent as they continued on their journey.
Since receiving word of Trista's disappearance, Randolph had been desperate with worry. Trista was all he had left in life, and he had always wanted only what was best for her. Had he known that her venture into Texas was to end in such terrible tragedy, he would have forbidden her engagement to young Barrett. He only hoped that by the time he arrived she would be back safely on the ranch. He knew the odds on that having happened were slim, but he had to hold on to that thread of hope, for he loved his only child dearly.
It was near noon, and Michael had passed the morning in growing frustration. More than anything, he had wanted to find time to speak with Trista alone, but she had remained secluded in her room, telling them all that she didn't feel well. He had doubted the truth of her excuse until Rosalie had assured him that she was a bit under the weather. Worried that she might be really ill, Michael had pressured her for more details. Reluctantly, she had confided to him that Trista was suffering from a feminine complaint brought on by her monthly flux. Though he'd greeted Rosalie's explanation with outward calm, actually Michael had been thrilled by the news. The fear that she might have gotten pregnant during the time of her captivity had weighed heavily upon him, and he was relieved to know that she'd been spared that trauma. Feeling considerably lighter of spirit, he left the house and headed out to the stables to get to work knowing that there would be plenty of time to speak with Trista later about what they both really wanted out of life.
Trista lay in her bed, curled on her side, hugging her pillow to her stomach. She was heartsick as well as miserable as she lay there. A short time ago, she would have welcomed this womanly pause in her life. It would have severed all connection to the past and to Lance. But now she found herself achingly disappointed that she had not been carrying Lance's child.
That perverse thought had come as a shock to her, but she understood more clearly than she ever had before what it was she really wanted. Trista could deny it no longer. Lance was the only man she wanted. Lance was the only man she loved.
She knew that she would have to be honest with Michael even though she would hurt him in the process. This troubled Trista, for she really did care for Michael. She was more than fond of him and respected him greatly. But, she acknowledged now, she did not love him, and it would be a terrible mistake if she were to marry him under these pretenses. As soon as she was feeling better, she would have to be honest with him. In the long run, it would be a far more honorable thing to do than to enter into a loveless marriage in which they both might eventually suffer.
Lance had not slept after Trista had left him at dawn. Instead he had dressed and gone down to the stable to spend time with Fuego. Somehow he found comfort in the company of the still-proud, yet manageable rogue. He had always hoped that Trista would come to respond to him as Fuego had, but he knew now that it was not to be. Her claims of loving him had been false-hearted lies.
Last night, before his encounter with Trista, he had been determined never to leave the Diamond. Now, however, he was beginning to believe that perhaps he could find more happiness with his tribe. At least, with his people, the truth was spoken. He had dwelled on the issue all morning and had decided that leaving was the only way he would find peace. He still felt the intruder here, though they had tried to make him welcome. In all, he reasoned, it would be better if he left.
Not wanting to see anyone until he'd reached his decision on what to do, Lance had purposefully avoided the house all morning. He had been glad that no one had come looking for him. Now, as he started back, he was discomfited to find Michael coming in his direction. If there was one person he did not want to see right now, it was him.
"How are you feeling?" Michael was concerned, for he hadn't spoken with him since that time in the garden the night before.
"My side's a little sore, but I'll live," Lance answered with studied indifference.
"I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner. . . ." he began earnestly.
"It wouldn't have mattered. It was bound to happen eventually." He shrugged off his concern.
Michael bristled, puzzled by his attitude. "It wasn't 'bound to happen.' The majority of our friends are your friends now, too. You're a Barrett, Lance."
Lance wanted to sneer that he was only half-Barrett and that half wasn't enough for Trista, but he had no desire to get into any of it. He would leave the ranch, Trista would marry Michael, and everyone would be happy . . . including himself.
"Right. I've got to go up to the house for awhile. I'll talk with you later." He started to walk away when he noticed the rise of dust on the horizon and paused. "It looks like somebody's coming. You expecting company?"
Michael turned to follow the direction of his gaze. "Just Trista's father . . . He's due in at any time." As the buggy drew near he recognized it as one that hired out from the stable in town. "It looks like it's him. I'd better get up to the house and let Trista know. She wasn't feeling well this morning and was still resting in her room."
Michael hurried off to spread the word of Randolph Sinclair's imminent arrival. Lance watched him go and grew even more despairing than he had been. Upon her father's arrival Trista and Michael's wedding was to take place. It looked like the time had definitely come for him to leave.
"Yes. What is it?" Trista asked in a strained voice as a knock came at her bedroom door.
"It's Michael, Trista. I think your father's on his way in."
"Papa's here?" She wasn't sure how to react. She was overjoyed with the thought of seeing her father again after such a long separation. But according to Eleanor's plans, the wedding was to take place as soon as he arrived, and that made her situation even more difficult. She had definitely decided that she could not marry Michael, but at least she had thought she had time to break the news to him delicately. Now that her father was here, she felt as if she'd been pushed into a corner.
"Looks like he's coming up the drive right now."
"All right," she finally managed. "I'll get dressed and be down as soon as I can."
Though her body still ached with the feminine complaint, she tried to push it from her mind as she pulled on her clothing. In a few short minutes, she was dressed. Once she was decently clad, she brushed aside her curtains to see the buggy winding its way up the last stretch of the Diamond's drive. Even from this distance, she recognized her parent. Trista did not realize just how much she'd missed him until she saw him again, and she rushed from her room excitedly to greet him.
Randolph had just begun to step down from the carriage to greet Michael and his folks and ask about any progress in finding Trista when she came running out of the house.
"Papa . . . oh, Papa . . . you finally got here!" Trista launched herself into her stunned father's embrace.
It took Randolph only a moment to recover from the shock of seeing her. He had been expecting nothing but bad news, and he was thrilled to find that she was here and alive and apparently quite well.
"Trista, darling, thank God you're alive! I was so worried!" He clasped her tightly to him as tears fell unheeded.
Trista, too, found herself crying as she clung to the broad, supportive width of his chest. "Oh, Papa. I'm so glad you're here. . . ."
"Why don't you come inside? I'm sure you must be just exhausted from your ride out from town," Eleanor invited as she stood with George on the porch.
With his arm still around Trista's slim waist, he looked up. "Eleanor . . . it's good to see you again, and under such happy circumstances." His mood was lighthearted now that he was assured of Trista's safety and good health.
"Randolph, this is George, my
husband." Eleanor made the introduction easily.
"My brother Lance is down at the stables, but I'm sure he'll be along soon," Michael added as the parents exchanged warm greetings.
"I didn't know you had a brother, Michael," Randolph remarked casually as they made their way inside.
"It's a long story, but one I'm sure you'll want to hear." Michael smiled as he followed his mother's lead into the parlor.
Eleanor was mentally rubbing her hands together, for her plans were going more smoothly than she could ever have imagined. With Sinclair here, the wedding could take place at any time, and as far as she was concerned, the sooner the better. Trista was the woman Michael wanted, and Trista was the woman Michael would have.
As they settled into the comfort of the parlor, Eleanor was quick to make Randolph feel welcome. Rosalie was directed to bring refreshments, and they sat about filling him in on all that had happened since she'd contacted him about Trista's disappearance all those weeks ago.
Trista explained everything to her father, holding to the story that George had devised regarding her return home. Randolph was impressed with this tale of George's brave older son and, though told of his Comanche blood, was not in the least bit put off by it. Rather than reacting as a native westerner might to the fact that Lance was a half-breed, Randolph found the idea intriguing. He grew anxious to meet him and thank him for saving his daughter from almost certain death.
Though Eleanor took no notice of Lance's absence, Trista began to wonder where he was. She hadn't seen him since they'd parted in his room last night, and she wanted desperately to set things straight between them. She wanted to tell him that she did love him and that she had decided not to go through with her marriage to Michael.
Trista knew she owed it to Michael to break the news to him first that she wanted to call off the wedding. Yet with the excitement of her father's arrival, she feared that she wouldn't get the opportunity to speak with Michael alone until the following day. That troubled her. She didn't want to have Lance believing her to be as ugly a person as she had seemed last night any longer than necessary.