Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  Trista also feared that at any moment Eleanor might bring up the subject of the wedding. She knew that the older woman was quite excited about the whole thing and would no doubt want the ceremony performed just as quickly as possible. Her anxiety over the situation kept her tense and on edge all afternoon as they passed the hours in friendly conversation, her father taking the time to get to know George and to learn all about his operation of the ranch.

  "Well, now that you've arrived, Randolph"—Eleanor finally broached the subject Trista had been dreading—"we can proceed with the wedding plans."

  "By all means," he replied heartily. During the hours of visiting, he'd come to admire and respect the Barretts, and he had grown even more fond of Michael.

  Michael had been dreading discussing the subject of the wedding and had been mentally preparing himself to skirt the issue when it came up in any way that he could. He was anxious to speak with Trista about all that he'd witnessed last night, but he could foresee no moment in the near future when they would have the privacy needed.

  "Listen," Michael cut in boldly, addressing Randolph alone, "why don't we discuss that later, after you've had a chance to settle in? I'm sure you'd probably like to rest up before we begin to fill you in on all the details."

  Trista had never been so relieved in her life. She fervently hoped her delight at Michael's changing the subject didn't reflect too openly in her expression.

  "That's a good idea," she put in hastily. "It's almost dinnertime anyway."

  "Perhaps you're both right," Eleanor agreed sweetly, unaware of the undercurrents of the situation. "Michael can show you to your room, and then we can talk more about it over dinner."

  "That'll be fine," Randolph responded as he stood and followed Michael and Trista from the room.

  Striking Snake looked at the warrior who'd just returned from scouting out the way to the ranch and frowned. "There are white men dressed as warriors ahead?"

  He nodded in reply as he pointed out the direction. "Just over the rise. I do not know why, but they are disguising themselves to look like some of our people."

  Striking Snake smiled venomously as he quickly understood the white men's devious ways . . . dress like Indians and allow them to take the blame for their actions. "Come, we will find out the reason and then teach them of real Comanche ways."

  The small band of murderous braves headed directly for Poker's unsuspecting camp. Without any warning except for the whooping of their war cries, they attacked. With Striking Snake in the lead, they rode straight into the whites' hiding place.

  Diving for cover, Poker and his companions tried to escape the surprise attack by the savages, but they were cut off from their horses and unable to flee to safety. The area was slightly hilly, but afforded little in the way of real protection.

  The renegade Comanche enjoyed riding down the panicked white men and killing them on the spot. Only Striking Snake wanted to take a man alive. He wanted to find out the true reason for their disguises.

  On foot, the hapless Poker could not elude the fierce warrior on horseback, and he was quickly subdued and taken captive. Striking Snake tied his arms brutally behind his back and threw him to the ground. Calling out to his men to join him, he turned toward his captive, the glint in his eyes clearly revealing his deadly intent

  Poker watched helplessly as the barbarous-looking brave came toward him. He felt naked and vulnerable, dressed as he was like an Indian, and he fervently prayed for rescue. Knowing that he faced certain death, he began to shake, and he cowered before the powerful warrior.

  Striking Snake stalked menacingly toward the white man and stopped before him. Hands on hips, he stood with his legs braced apart staring down at the shivering Poker.

  "Why are you dressed as one of us?" Striking Snake demanded as he pulled his wicked-looking knife from its sheath in his waistband. The blade glinted in the fading sunlight.

  Poker swallowed nervously as his gaze followed the path of the knife, and he found he was unable to speak.

  "You are unwilling to speak?" Striking Snake questioned in a cold voice as he pressed the weapon to Poker's chest, allowing the point to draw blood. "I have many ways to convince you to tell me all you know."

  "What do you want to know?" Poker stammered, feeling the bite of the knife.

  "Where are you going in such a disguise?"

  "The ranch . . . " he managed.

  "What ranch?" Striking Snake pressed the blade more firmly against him. Poker wriggled desperately, trying to get away, but the gathered warriors only laughed at his feeble efforts.

  "The Barrett spread. We were hired to kill the breed. . . ."

  At the mention of the breed, he stopped his torture. "Who is this 'breed' of whom you speak, white man?"

  "His name is Lance . . . Lance Barrett."

  Striking Snake found it amusing that someone else hated Lance as much as he did. "You have done well." He nonchalantly wiped the blood from the blade of his knife and put it back in his waistband.

  "I can go now?" Poker was incredulous.

  Striking Snake turned his back on the weak-willed man. He had little respect for anyone who surrendered so easily. In Comanche tongue, he told his companions, "He is yours. I will wait for you beyond the hill. From there we can see the ranch."

  "Wait . . . wait . . . am I free?" A horrified scream followed Poker's last words as he was set upon by the bloodthirsty Comanche.

  Striking Snake paid no attention as the man was put to a grisly death. Mounting up, he rode in the direction of the ranch. He crested the nearby rise and sat there in the growing darkness staring out in the direction of the Diamond. When the raid was through tonight, Lance would be dead, and he would have the woman he'd long desired.

  Trista obsessed him, and he knew he could not rest until he'd had her. Tonight would be the night; he was sure of it. As his companions joined him, they put their heels to their mounts and headed toward the ranchhouse still some miles away.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Trista had just left her father and had started down the hall toward her own bedroom to freshen up when Michael appeared at the top of the stairs.

  "Trista?" His mood was somber and his manner subdued. "I was wondering if we could talk."

  Puzzled by the unexpected seriousness of his request, she quickly assented. "Of course. Is something wrong? You look worried. . . ." She went to him.

  Michael avoided her questions as he led her downstairs. "I think we can be alone if we go outside in the garden."

  "All right." She'd noticed his hesitancy in answering her and knew that something had to be troubling him deeply for him to be so solemn.

  They passed through the house without notice and walked side by side to the privacy of the garden. The memories of the fight there the night before came back to haunt her. She had not seen Lance all day, and she wondered distractedly where he was as she waited for Michael to speak.

  "There's something I've been meaning to talk with you about for some time now. I've been waiting for the right moment, and yet it seems the right moment never comes. . . ." He sounded distressed.

  "I don't understand," Trista ventured slowly, suddenly fearing that he knew all about the nights she'd spent making love with Lance. "What is it that's bothering you?"

  "Trista . . . about last night . . . "

  "Yes?"

  "Trista," he began again, growing more and more nervous at the thought of bringing up what he'd seen. Last night he'd believed that she'd fallen in love with Lance, but now that he had the opportunity to face her, he wondered if indeed that was true. A doubt filled him. What if he faced her with this, and she denied feeling anything for Lance? What would he do about Sukie then? He cleared his throat to start once more. "Last night, before I heard you scream for help, I was in the study refilling my drink. . . ."

  "Yes, I know. We had agreed to meet in the garden afterward. . . ." she supplied, wondering at the direction of his thoughts.

  "Well, while
I was in the study I happened to see you with Lance." There, he thought, it's out.

  Trista paled for a moment, and then a deep flush stained her cheeks.

  "I saw the two of you kissing. It didn't appear to me that you were fighting him or that he was attacking you as Ace and Dan would have me believe."

  "I see," she said softly. Trista wasn't sure if now was the time for total truth or if she should try to lie to save Michael's feelings. Before she had to make the decision, Michael went on.

  "Trista, I need to know the truth before we go any further with our plans. Is Lance the one you love? I know he considers you his wife. Tell me, Trista. How do you feel about him? How do you feel about me?"

  Trista searched his earnest gaze for anger or despair, but saw none. His expression seemed guarded, but not condemning. All day she'd hoped for the opportunity to speak with him about her feelings for Lance, and she knew that now the time had come.

  "I'm sorry, Michael. I'm sorry about all of this. . . ."

  "What are you sorry for?"

  "I care about you. I really do, but Lance . . . " She faltered, still timid about openly admitting her love for him.

  "But Lance is the man you love?" Michael finished for her.

  Trista nodded. "Yes. I do love him, Michael. I knew I would have to speak with you about this sooner or later. I knew I couldn't go through with our marriage feeling the way I did about him, but I cared for you so deeply that I didn't want to hurt you. . . ." When Michael smiled wryly, her expression reflected her puzzlement. "You're smiling! I don't understand. . . ."

  "I've been wanting to talk with you, too."

  "You have?"

  "Yes, you see I care for you deeply, too, but there's someone else I've come to love. . . ."

  "There is?" Trista brightened at this surprising news. "Michael, that's wonderful! Who is it?"

  "It's Sukie Harris," he confided.

  "She's a lovely girl. . . ." Trista remembered her well from their introduction at the engagement party. "How does she feel about you?"

  "Well, it's really strange." Michael wanted to explain everything to Trista. "Sukie and I have known each other since childhood, and I never knew she harbored any love for me until just recently. It came as a complete surprise, but I was already engaged to you. Then with the kidnapping and all . . . I figured you needed me more than ever. I love you, Trista, and if you think we should marry, I know we could make a go of it. . . ."

  Trista was touched by his offer. "Michael, the reason I came to love you as I do is because you are a very special man." She smiled tenderly as she spoke. "But we both have found the true loves of our lives, and I think we owe it to ourselves to grab that happiness and hold on to it with all our might."

  Michael lifted a hand to touch her cheek. "You are a very special woman, Trista Sinclair. Lance is a lucky man to have your love."

  Her happy expression faltered as she thought of the terrible way they'd parted the night before. "I don't know if he still loves me, though."

  "Why? What do you mean?"

  "We had an argument last night. . . ."

  "It's none of my business what you argued about, but there's one thing you should know. My father loved Lance when he was a child, but he let him go live with the Comanche anyway. It was a mistake he's regretted all his life. If you love Lance, then you go get him, Trista. He's a good man, and I think he loves you deeply."

  "You do?"

  "Why else would he have risked his life to come here after you? He's had many years to return to the Diamond, if that was what he wanted. He didn't come back here to claim his heritage. He came back here to claim his wife. I don't think Lance exchanged those vows with you lightly, Trista. You have to go to him and tell him what you just told me."

  "And you . . . what will you do?"

  Michael grinned wickedly. "Well, we can break the news to my mother tonight before she sets our wedding up for tomorrow at daybreak, and then first thing in the morning I'm going to ride over to the Harris place and see if Sukie will have me."

  "You are so wonderful. I was so afraid when we had this conversation that I would be hurting you."

  Michael took her in his arms. "You could never hurt me, sweetheart," he told her as he clasped her warmly to his chest. "I want only your happiness, Trista."

  Drawing back slightly, he claimed her lips in one last kiss, unaware that Lance had just started toward the house from the stables and could see them. Lance stopped dead in his tracks for a moment and then continued on his way into the house.

  Lance was filled with a mixture of regret, anger, and jealousy as he mounted the stairs to go to his room. Tonight would be his last meal with his father. He knew he had no future here on the Diamond. He would tell his father after dinner tonight that he was leaving the ranch and returning to his life with Lone Elk. He had tried his best to win Trista's love, but he knew now it was impossible. She would only be happy with Michael.

  It was the dark period of night between sunset and moon-rise that afforded them the greatest protection, and Striking Snake knew it was time for the raid to begin. From their observation point, he could see that there was little remaining activity at the ranchhouse. Two lookouts had been posted about the main group of buildings, but Striking Snake knew they posed no problem. As long as surprise was on their side, the guards could be easily killed without drawing any attention.

  The lack of preparedness pleased him. It seemed that Lance had forgotten much during his time with the whites, especially how to be constantly on guard against the unexpected, and their attack would certainly be unexpected. He smiled into the darkness at the thought of finally besting Lance.

  Giving the hand signal to the men he'd positioned near the guards, Striking Snake motioned them on. Soundlessly, within moments both unsuspecting white men were dead. Onward the Comanche crept, ready to do battle.

  Eleanor was a bit nervous about what was going to take place that night. Her plan was proceeding perfectly, and she hoped within a matter of hours all her problems would be solved. Despite her edginess, she presided over dinner as usual, engaging Randolph in inconsequential conversation. She'd noted a new ease in Michael and Trista's relationship and believed it to be the result of knowing that their wedding would soon take place. Eleanor felt almost lighthearted in spite of Lance's brooding presence at the far end of the table.

  Michael was overjoyed with his newfound discovery of Trista's love for Lance. He was particularly pleased that they had discussed their feelings before the marriage so that no one was hurt in the long run. He could hardly wait for the appropriate time to break the news to his mother so he could begin his active pursuit of Sukie. Time seemed to be passing much too slowly to him, and he ardently wished the meal would end so he could take his mother aside and tell her what had happened.

  But while Michael was delighted with the way things had turned out, Trista still had her doubts about his claim that Lance truly loved her. She was relieved that everything had worked out so well with Michael, but as she sat at the table secretly observing Lance, it seemed to her that they would never be close again. He didn't look her way during the meal, and his mood was almost surly as he responded to her father's polite inquiries and thanks.

  Still, there could be no denying that her heartbeat had quickened when he'd entered the room. Even though he seemed so coldly remote, she longed to go into his arms right now and proclaim her love to him. Caught up in her own daydreams, Trista wondered vaguely just how everyone would react if she did. She fought down a smile at the thought of Eleanor's, no doubt, hysterical reaction. Restraining herself, she knew she had to bide her time until Michael could speak with his parents alone.

  The attack, when it came, was so unexpected and so vicious, no one had time to respond to the deadly threat. Led by Striking Snake, the band of warriors rushed into the dining room, catching everyone completely by surprise.

  "Striking Snake!" Lance came to his feet first as he recognized his enemy, but unarmed, he was
no match for the raiding Indian.

  Without pause, the evil warrior lifted his gun and fired. Lance was struck a glancing blow in the head by the bullet. Knocked backward by the force, he fell and lay lifelessly on the dining room floor.

  "Lance!" Trista screamed in horror as she saw him struck in the head by the bullet.

  She thought him dying and tried to race to his side, but Striking Snake was too quick for her. With bruising force, he grabbed her up around the waist and started to drag her from the room.

  "NO! I have to go to Lance! He's hurt! Let me go!!!" she cried, fighting tooth and nail to be freed from the savage's punishing hold.

  But Striking Snake only laughed viciously in her ear. "I told you that you would one day be mine. Now he is dead, and you will know my touch!"

  Striking Snake's shot set the others into motion. As Michael and Randolph attempted to give chase, a hail of bullets filled the room, and the two men dove for cover. But neither George nor Eleanor had a chance as both were hit.

  The Comanche knew they had to act, and act quickly, for the gunfire had no doubt alerted others on the ranch to their presence. Racing from the house, they opened the gate to the corral just as several hands came running from the bunkhouse. They fired at the whites, driving them back inside, as they made off with the horses in the enclosure.

  Striking Snake threw Trista roughly over his shoulder and then ran toward his own mount. In one easy motion, he vaulted onto his horse's back and was off. Following the rest of his men, who'd already made their escape, he disappeared into the night quite pleased with himself and the bounty he'd taken.

  Randolph and Michael got to their feet slowly, gazing in shocked disbelief at the destruction around them. Rosalie rushed into the room to help and screamed when she saw the carnage wreaked by the raiding party. Her presence stirred Michael into action, and he dropped on his knees beside his mother's still form.

  "Mother . . . " he murmured as he turned her over in his arms. He could barely fathom that she was dead, shot through the heart, and he stared down at her in mute confusion.