Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  Without betraying any of what he'd discovered, Whitey directed the ranchhands to help him bury the men. In silence, they gathered up the personal possessions left in the camp and then headed back to the ranch to spread the word of the men's deaths.

  Trista sighed and remained perfectly still, fearful that any sudden movement on her part might bring back the unending heat that had possessed her and the searing pain that had throbbed ceaselessly in her side. She tried vaguely to remember all that had happened. She realized that she'd been sick, but for the moment she couldn't recall just why. The protective haze that had buffered her vanished as Bluff Owl began to chant again, and with that foreign sound, reality rushed in. Her eyes flew open and went wide with fright as the memory of Striking Snake taking aim at Lance filled her with terror. Lance . . . dear God, Lance! Had the other warrior killed him?

  "Lance!" Trista cried. She tried desperately to push herself into an upright position, but the sudden movement sent pain jarring through her, and she was forced to fall back.

  Lance had moved away from her side to stand by the door of the lodge when she came awake. At the sound of her call, he dashed back to her and dropped to his knees beside the bed.

  "Trista . . . " Lance was hoping and praying that she was coherent and not merely calling out for him in her delirium. As he stared down into her clear eyes and saw the sanity reflected there, he felt a burst of joy swell within him. "Thank God! You're better!"

  "Oh, Lance . . . " Trista breathed. Seeing him looming above her, alive and obviously well, eased her trauma, and she relaxed back against the softness of his bed.

  "Easy, love," he told her softly as he gently touched her forehead to judge the power of her fever. To his relief, she was cooler. The fever had broken. She would recover. "Bluff Owl . . . " Lance called the medicine man to him.

  The older man ceased his chanting and came to them. Lifting the blanket that Lance had covered her with earlier, he probed the wound with knowing hands. After long minutes, he drew back, and there was a self-satisfied smile upon his features.

  "It is good," he announced. "The fever has gone. She will get well quickly now."

  Trista looked nervously from Lance to the stranger and then back, and Lance easily read her confusion.

  "Trista, this is Bluff Owl, our wisest medicine man. His healing powers have once again been proven true. He has tended you since I brought you back here."

  "Thank you, Bluff Owl," she managed.

  The old man stood up straight and tall. His fathomless black eyes studied Trista in silence for awhile before he gave her a slight nod. "I will go now. Tomorrow I will come and change the wrapping." With that he was gone.

  "Lance . . . " There was uncertainty in her voice. "Lance, tell me everything. What happened? All I remember was that Striking Snake was going to shoot you. . . ."

  "You'll never have to worry about him again, love," Lance assured her fiercely.

  "He's dead?"

  "Yes. He's dead." The finality of his tone told her that it was something he didn't want to discuss any further.

  "You're all right?"

  "Yes. Now that I know you're going to get well, I'm just fine." He smiled for the first time in days. Then, unable to resist any longer, he bent over her and pressed a soft, cherishing kiss upon her lips.

  More than anything Trista wanted to lose herself in his embrace, but first she had to let him know the truth of all she was feeling. She loved him, not Michael, and she wanted him to know that now.

  "Lance . . . " She hated to interrupt his kiss, but she needed his undivided attention.

  The seriousness of her tone gave him pause, and he drew back worriedly. "What is it, Trista?"

  "I need to talk with you."

  "We can talk later." He did not want her to overexert herself, and he thought if he discouraged her from talking, she would conserve her strength.

  "No, Lance . . . this has to be said, and it has to be said right now." Though her voice was weak, her meaning was clear. She would not be deterred.

  "What is it?" He was frowning as he gazed down at her pale features. She looked so weak and so delicately fragile that he was afraid that she might make her condition worse if she became too overwrought.

  "I love you, Lance," she told him solemnly, her gaze meeting and holding his. "I've already told Michael, and we've mutually agreed to call off our engagement."

  Lance kissed her again, this time more slowly and with infinitely more tenderness. "I love you, too, Trista, and I know all about what happened between you and Michael."

  "You know?"

  He nodded, his blue eyes warm upon her. "Michael told me on the night of the raid after Striking Snake had taken you."

  "You know that your heritage doesn't affect the way I feel about you?" She needed to hear him say that he believed her. She couldn't live with him if he doubted the truth of her feelings for him.

  "I know," he responded firmly, removing all her doubts and his own. "You are my wife, Trista. We are bound as one."

  "I love you, darling," she whispered just before his mouth sought hers again in a gentle exploration.

  "And I love you."

  Michael was sitting with his men near Lone Elk's lodge. The day had passed slowly for him, but he did not even consider leaving. He was worried about Trista, and he wanted to be there for Lance, if he should need him. Michael longed to learn more of Trista's condition, but as the hours passed and Lance did not return, he could only assume that she had made no progress either way.

  As the sun sank slowly in the west, Tom alerted him to the fact that Lance was coming. Michael stood up and went to meet him. He could tell little by Lance's expression, and he knew a moment of fear as he considered the possibility that Trista might have died. Only when Lance drew near did he smile, and relief flooded through Michael.

  "She's better?" he asked as Lance joined him.

  "She's better," he answered, his relief as obvious as his happiness.

  Without thought or hesitation, the brothers embraced, sharing the joy of knowing that the woman they both loved and cared for would recover.

  "I told her that you had come to the village, and she asked to see you," Lance told Michael.

  Michael was pleased, and after relaying the good news to his men, he set out with Lance to visit Trista.

  Lance had helped Trista to don one of his own buckskin shirts to afford her some modesty before Michael. Though she was weak, she was eager to see Michael. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was about his mother and let him know that everything had worked out for her and Lance. Trista was lying quietly, waiting for them when they entered the lodge.

  "Michael . . . " Trista smiled up at him, and the smile seemed to light up her features.

  "Trista, I am so glad that you're going to be all right," he told her earnestly as he sat beside her.

  "I'll be fine now," she assured him confidently as her gaze lingered lovingly on Lance, who was standing near the doorway. "Lance told me about your mother, Michael, and I'm so sorry."

  "So am I," Michael responded gruffly. "Pa's going to be fine, though, and your father wasn't injured."

  "That's good to know. As soon as I can travel, we'll be heading back to the Diamond," Trista remarked.

  "You've discussed this? You'll really be going back?" Michael was glad to hear it. He didn't know why, but when Lance had taken Trista to Lone Elk's village, he had expected him to want to remain.

  Lance came to Trista then and took her hand. Gazing down at her adoringly, he answered, "Yes, we've talked about it, and we've decided to make our permanent home at the ranch. I haven't told Lone Elk yet, but I'm sure he'll have no objection to our visiting him regularly."

  "Then you've worked everything out between you?"

  "Everything," Trista confided. "We'll be married in a traditional ceremony at the ranch as soon as it can be arranged, but in my heart I am already Lance's wife."

  "I'll head back to the Diamond first thing in the morning
," Michael said. Now that he was sure that Trista was going to recover fully, there was no reason for him to remain in the village. "I'm sure Pa's worrying about the both of you, and . . . "—his eyes were sparkling in reflection of his own excitement—"Sukie is waiting."

  "Does she know how you feel yet?"

  "We got it all straightened out before I left. All I have to do now is get her to the altar."

  "From what you've already told me, I don't think you'll have much trouble," Trista teased.

  "I hope not. As far as I'm concerned, Sukie could be waiting for me with a preacher when I get back."

  Trista reached out with her other hand to take Michael's. "I'm excited for you, Michael. I hope you and Sukie will be happy together."

  "We will, Trista," he pledged, "just as you and Lance will." Seeing that she appeared to be tiring, he knew it was time to take his leave. "I've got to go tell the men how you're doing. I'll see you again when you get back to the ranch." He kissed her cheek softly.

  She smiled softly at the tenderness of his action. "Tell my father that I'll see him soon."

  "I will."

  "And Michael . . . "

  He turned back to look at her questioningly. "Yes?"

  "Thank you . . . thank you for everything."

  Michael flashed her a quick, affectionate grin. "You're welcome." Then he was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Shortly before sunrise the next day, Lance awoke. Trista was still slumbering peacefully beside him, so he was careful as he rose and left her. Making his way silently from their lodge, he hurried through the quiet village to where Michael and his men were making ready to depart.

  Michael had hoped to see his brother one more time before he left, and he was glad when he saw him coming to join them. He finished tightening the cinch on his saddle, then turned to bid him a temporary farewell.

  "I am glad that you're up. I didn't want to leave without telling you goodbye," Michael told him as they shook hands.

  "Be careful on your journey back," Lance cautioned.

  "I will. I'll tell Pa and Randolph that you're both all right and that you'll be coming home just as soon as Trista's well enough to travel."

  The words "coming home" struck Lance deeply. He was indeed going home. He and Trista had made the choice. The Royal Diamond had been his home long ago, and it would be again soon. "Good. I'm not sure when she'll be up to it, but we'll make the trip just as soon as it's safe for her."

  "We'll be waiting for you . . . all of us."

  They shook hands one more time, and then the men of the Diamond mounted up and headed away from the camp. Lance watched them until they'd gone from sight before returning to his lodge and Trista.

  George sat in his bed staring morosely out his bedroom window. Though his physical condition was vastly improved and he was gaining back some of his mobility, his mood was somber. It had been many long days and nights since his sons had gone after the Indians responsible for the raid, and with each passing hour he was growing more and more worried about them. He mourned the loss of his dear wife, but if Lance or Michael were to be taken from him, too, he just didn't know if he could go on. The knock at his bedroom door interrupted his gloomy musings, and he called out for whoever it was to enter.

  "Come on in," he thundered, impatient with the way things were. He had expected Sukie or Rosalie, and he was caught by surprise when it was Whitey who entered. "Whitey! Good to see you."

  "Yes, sir. It's good to see you lookin' better," the foreman told him.

  "I'm feeling more like myself today. Rosalie might even let me go downstairs tomorrow."

  "That's good news, boss," Whitey agreed.

  "Well, is there something I can do for you?" George was eager for a distraction.

  Whitey swallowed nervously. He knew he had to tell George about what they'd found out on the range. Still, it bothered Whitey to think that what he had to say was going to hurt him.

  George noticed the play of troubled emotions on his foreman's features, and he immediately suspected that they'd just received bad news. "Whitey? What is it? Has Trista been found? Has Lance or Michael been injured?"

  "No, George," he hastened to reassure him, "it has nothing to do with the boys or Trista. . . ."

  "Then what is it? You look worried. Is there some kind of trouble?"

  Whitey braced himself and began to explain. "Yesterday me and some of the boys were out checking the north range hoping to find some strays from the raid the other night."

  "Yes, so?"

  "So we came across the camp of some white men who'd been massacred by the Comanche."

  "These men were camped on our land?" At Whitey's confirming nod, he asked, "Did we know them?"

  "Yes. It was Poker and a few of his friends. I didn't know the other men with them, but I'd seen 'em in town a couple of times in the past."

  "I wonder why they were on our land. . . ." George was puzzled.

  "Boss, there's more to this than just the massacre," he blurted out after hesitating.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "These men were dressed like Indians."

  Now George was truly puzzled. "Why would they have been on Barrett land dressed like Comanche?"

  "Here." Whitey shoved the note toward George. He regretted having to do it, but he knew his boss had to know the truth of it.

  George studied the envelope for a moment and, recognizing the handwriting, looked up at his foreman questioningly. "I don't understand. . . ."

  "Read it," was all Whitey could say.

  With unsteady hands, George opened the crumpled letter and scanned the page. He paled at what he read there, and he looked up at Whitey, aghast. "Where did you find this?"

  "I found it in with Poker's things when I was going through their belongings."

  George let his hands drop to his lap, and the missive slipped unheeded from his fingers. "Dear God . . . I had no idea her hatred was so vindictive. . . ." he muttered more to himself than to Whitey. "Who else knows about this?" George demanded sharply as he realized the implications of what he'd just learned.

  "No one," his foreman informed him. "I kept it hidden until now. I figured you were the only one who should see it."

  "Thank you." He breathed a small sigh of relief to know that the knowledge of Eleanor's murderous deceit would go no further. "I want your word that you'll never say anything to anyone about this. It's bad enough that the two of us had to find out. Eleanor paid the full price for her own betrayal, and I don't want Michael to ever learn of it. He loved his mother dearly. I will not tarnish that memory."

  "You have my word, boss."

  George nodded grimly in acceptance of his pledge.

  Whitey watched as George got a match from his night table and lit it. With great care, he set the letter and envelope on fire and then let the ashes drop harmlessly onto a small dish on the tabletop.

  "Any word from Michael or Lance?"

  "No. Nobody's heard or seen anything."

  "Let me know as soon as you do."

  "I will," Whitey promised. "I'll be going now. If you need anything, just send word."

  "I'll do that, but all I really need right now is to have my sons and Trista back here safe and sound."

  "It'll happen. They'll be back just as soon as they can."

  When Whitey had gone from his bedroom, closing the door tightly behind him, George sat perfectly still, staring at the black remnant of the letter in disgust. Eleanor had hated him and Lance enough to plan their deaths. . . . Despite the show of equanimity he'd put on for his foreman, George found it completely devastating. He'd never guessed that she could have harbored such savagery within her. Though he had known she disliked Lance and didn't want him at the ranch, he'd never suspected that she would resort to cold-blooded murder to be rid of him. He shook his head in disbelief, and then said a short prayer of thanks that the raid had gone awry. Had Eleanor's plan succeeded as she'd hoped it would, he would be dead now and she would be s
ole owner of the vast Barrett holdings.

  Tears of disillusionment clouded his vision, but he fought them back easily. Eleanor was not worthy of any sentiment from him except contempt. She had been a greedy, obsessed woman, who'd imagined a threat to her own wealth and security where there was none. Never again would he think of her with any of the warmer emotions. George thrust the thought of her from him and vowed never to mourn her again. He would play out the charade of loving husband for Michael's sake, but that would be the end of it. To George, Eleanor was dead; and knowing what he knew now, he was glad.

  The days passed in painful slow motion for all at the Royal Diamond as they waited, nerves stretched taut, for word from Michael. Confident that George was well on his way to recovery, Mary Lou returned to her own home to see to things there, but allowed Sukie to stay on to help Rosalie with the nursing duties that remained. Sukie kept herself busy helping to take care of George and visiting with Ranolph, but as George's condition improved, there was less and less for her to do. She grew continually more restless and worried, frustrated by the fact that there was no other place she wanted to be but there at the ranch, waiting for him to return.

  Randolph, too, was beside himself with worry, and he cursed the day he'd given Trista and Michael his blessing on their marriage. If he'd stood firm and forced her to wed one of the men of his choice, none of this would ever have happened. She would still be alive and well and safely at home with him. Even as he agonized over her coming to Texas, though, he realized that, had he forbidden the marriage, Trista was so headstrong she probably would have run away with Michael anyway. Randolph resigned himself to passing the hours in tormented uncertainty as he waited, hoped, and prayed for some news of his daughter's fate.

  George saw them first. He was slowly regaining his mobility and had been moving carefully about his room when he glanced out the window and noticed the cloud of dust rising on the horizon. Intrigued, his spirits soaring at the thought that it might be his sons returning with Trista, he leaned against the windowsill to try to get a better view. The minutes dragged by like hours as he watched and waited. When he was finally able to make out the number of horsemen heading their way, the sound of his bellow filled the house.