Only one man dared to challenge their presence, and then it was to hint that Reed should have stayed up north with the Yankees.
“Sounds like sour grapes to me, J.T.,” Reed retorted with an unapologetic smile. “But the war is over, and you lost.”
“Reed, shame on you!” Summer scolded gently, bestowing a bewitching smile on the unfortunate J.T. “I’m certain Mr. Wilkes didn’t mean to imply you had no right to come home. In any case, you should be more gracious in victory. J.T. fought just as bravely for the Confederacy. I’m sorry, Mr. Wilkes. You must forgive my brother. His missing leg pains him so that his temper gets the better of him.” She raised entreating eyes to him. “Can’t we forget that horrid war and be friends again?”
Lance shook his head with cynical amusement as the young man’s scowl faded under her appealing warmth. Summer’s wiles were still potent as ever, the hapless males who came within her sphere as defenseless as he had always been.
No one said a word about Lance himself. There was no doubt he was being shunned by many of the guests, but no one yet was willing to challenge him to his face. Summer introduced him to all and sundry as her husband and the courageous man who had rescued her poor sister. And from the grudging looks sent his way, it was clear that many of them were jealous of her praise.
When the music started and sets began forming in a clearing, she refused all invitations to join the dancing. “My husband doesn’t dance,” she said firmly, “and I plan to keep him company.”
Amazingly, her coterie of admirers were willing to stand on the sidelines with her. They obeyed slavishly when she suggested they ask her sister to dance, and scurried to fetch her cups of lemonade, returning to her side directly afterward.
When the fiddles struck up a lively reel, one of her former beaux cast a sour glance at Lance and muttered under cover of the music, “It isn’t fair, Miss Summer. We always thought you would marry one of us.”
Summer dimpled. “But I did, Paul. Lance belongs to Williamson County. His mama was one of the first settlers in Austin, and he came to live here when he was just a boy.”
“Drat it, Miss Summer! You know what I mean.”
Her smile turned cool. “Yes, I believe I do. Really, Paul, I expected better of you. If you judged a man by his character rather than his kin, Lance would come out miles ahead of any man here.”
Paul flushed resentfully and turned away.
Summer met Lance’s gaze. He was looking at her with grim humor—or was it loneliness?—in his eyes. It made her heart ache to see how he was being treated. People were being scrupulously polite to him for her sake, and yet no one had truly welcomed him or shown any pleasure at his company. And she doubted that her consequence was high enough to force his acceptance. Indeed, fully half of the guests had ignored her own presence, either avoiding her gaze or staring right through her, as if, by pretending she didn’t exist, they could delay dealing with her betrayal of their social creed. She could only hope that in time, with familiarity, that would change—that she would be forgiven and Lance would come to be tolerated. If not, they could contemplate a grim future.
At least it appeared her sister had been accepted back into the fold. Summer looked across the clearing where the dancers were engaged in violent foot stomping, to find Amelia conversing with a group of guests. Dusty Murdock stood near her, watching her out of distant, hungry eyes. Amelia had danced once with him, but seemed intent on ignoring him now.
Her distance seemed all the more strange when compared to the welcoming smile Amelia bestowed on Will Prewitt when he ambled up. Summer felt her stomach muscles tense as she watched. How could Melly show favor for the likes of Prewitt when Dusty was so much the better man?
Prewitt bent to murmur something in her ear, which made Amelia nod. He moved away again shortly, but Summer’s tension turned to definite unease. Amelia had turned to stare across the way at Lance, a bitter expression on her face, full of resentment and spite.
She could have been mistaken about her sister’s malevolence, Summer hoped. Dusk had fallen, and although lanterns had been set on the tables and hung at intervals from the nearby trees, lending a golden glow to the scene, the shifting shadows made by the dancers were deceptive. And yet she couldn’t shake the sensation of impending trouble.
Her concern proved out some ten minutes later. From somewhere behind her, she heard a man’s voice say in a sneering drawl, “The stench round here is gettin’ might bad.”
“Yeah, know what you mean,” another voice replied. “I can smell a red hide from miles away.”
Stiffening, Summer glanced over her shoulder. Some half dozen men, Will Prewitt among them, had gathered to one side to smoke cigars and were passing around a jug of what no doubt was whiskey. Summer had no doubt, either, that they had deliberately raised their voices to make their conversation audible over the music.
In concern, she looked up at Lance. Seeing the rigid set of his jaw, she placed a restraining hand on his sleeve. Prewitt wanted to start a brawl, obviously, but no matter how skillful a fighter Lance was, with one man against so many, he would come up the loser. Not to mention that a fight would create a scandal and destroy any progress they’d made toward getting their neighbors to accept them.
It was hard to ignore the slurs, though, and the rough sniggering.
“What’s Harlan thinking of, letting them red devils sidle up to our womenfolk?”
“Never figured Harlan for a Injun lover.”
“That breed sure as hell don’t belong here. I say we oughta run ‘im off.”
“How you gonna do that? Them Comanche bucks don’t scare for nothing.”
Summer forced a smile and gazed appealingly up at her husband. “Lance, I just realized how famished I am. Would you escort me to the buffet tables so we can get some supper?”
He looked at her a long moment, his black eyes smoldering dangerously. But he didn’t resist when Summer took his hand and led him away from all the hostility.
Instead of heading for the supper tables, though, she bypassed those and drew Lance around the side of the main house, into the shadows. Alone, she turned to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body close.
Lance held himself stiffly, refusing to succumb to her wiles. “I know what you’re doing, princess.”
“Do you?”
“You’re trying to take my mind off their talk so I won’t light into them.”
Summer smiled in the darkness. “I don’t care a whit about them. I would prefer you didn’t hurt them, of course—not because they don’t deserve it, but it would be sure to spoil the party. But”—she raised her face to his—”I really brought you here because I think you deserve to be rewarded for your forbearance, and I couldn’t do it in front of all those people.”
He watched her, his eyes narrowed.
“Well, are you going to kiss me, Lance Calder? Or do you intend to stand there all night, refusing a lady?”
At her impatient demand, he lowered his head slowly and took her mouth. His kiss was softer than usual. Strangely poignant. She tasted reluctance, desire, need, but more than anything else, she tasted an intense and powerful loneliness. A vulnerability that tore at her heart.
Feeling it, Summer tightened her arms about Lance and, after a moment, felt him do the same to her. They pulled each other close, drawing strength from the contact. To hold and be held, she understood his need. A simple human craving that they could fulfill for each other. And yet somehow it seemed more than that. It seemed to her as if Lance had somehow become part of her.
When he would have pulled away, she wouldn’t release him “Would you dance with me?” she asked.
“I told you I don’t know how.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just hold me.”
He complied, hesitantly following her lead when she began to move slowly, gently, from side to side.
The night had quieted. The fiddles had ceased temporarily, but it made no difference to either of them. In t
he silence, they swayed slowly to their own inner music, in their own private dance, a slow, languid motion, sensual but not entirely sexual.
Summer sighed as Lance’s hard arms tightened tentatively, possessively, about her. She loved this side of him: this gentleness, this rare and tender sweetness. He held her with as much care as if she were fragile crystal, and yet she could feel his controlled passion…a dangerous man restraining his lover’s hunger. His unspoken need aroused an answering longing within her, made her feel soft and achy inside. Nestling in his embrace, she closed her eyes, breathing in the warm, musky scent of him.
Lance breathed in her own sweet fragrance, desperately savoring the soft body filling his arms. She created such an ache within him, he thought he might break. He wanted her so bad. Wanted so much to lose himself in her. Wanted her to heal the hurt. Summer was everything to him. She was his weakness, his sanity. His heartbeat, his wishes. His hopes, his dreams. With a hoarse exhalation, he buried his face in her hair, feeling as if his heart were splintering with love for her.
It was only his damnable pride that had kept him from letting her know how much she meant to him. But he could tell her now. He could shed his pride, his defenses, and bare himself to her, open himself up.
“Summer?” he began hesitantly, his tone roughened by a wealth of unwelcome emotion.
Her quiet “Yes?” made his heart start pounding.
He swallowed hard, girding himself for the confession. In the brief interval, though, he had time to realize that the rhythmic thudding was not only his heartbeat, but the distant sound of galloping hooves. Lance raised his head, a wolf scenting danger.
Summer heard the sound a moment later and stiffened apprehensively. The hoofbeats stopped suddenly, as if a rider had come to a plunging stop, but then the sudden lull was followed by voices raised in alarm.
She and Lance drew apart, exchanging frowning glances.Turning as one, they made their way around to the front of the house, back to the party.
A total silence had fallen over the crowd, and the air held a live tension, the kind of dark, ominous atmosphere before a twister hits.
At the edge of the crowd, a rider sat astride a sweating, heaving horse—a man she recognized as Bob Blackwood, one of the ranchers who lived some five miles northwest of here. One of the men who had come to Sky Valley the other day to accuse Lance of stealing Will Prewitt’s stock.
Her dread grew when she heard someone mutter the word Comanches. She pushed through the crowd, toward the front, in order to hear the conversation fully, although Lance held back.
“Was anybody hurt?” a man asked Blackwood.
“Not yet, far as I know.”
“Maybe it was some white varmints who ran off your beeves.”
“It was Comanches, I tell you!” Bob vowed. “I saw a whole passel of ‘em, driving my stock off toward the west.”
“I guess maybe we should get a posse together, go after ‘em. We could catch ‘em in the act—”
“They’ll be long gone by now,” someone else said, which started a free-for-all discussion.
“No, they won’t. They’ll be slowed down by the cows.”
“We can’t just stand by while them red devils steal our stock!”
“Maybe that’s what they want, to draw off our menfolk and leave our homes undefended.”
“Yeah! Maybe they mean to attack.”
A sudden silence fell over the crowd, a wave of fear running through it that was palpable. Lance, standing toward the rear, had to admire Prewitt’s tactics. It was a setup, of course. In all likelihood, Blackwood’s stock had no more been stolen than Prewitt’s had last week. Certainly not by Comanches. If they had, they wouldn’t have let anyone live to tell about it. No, Prewitt simply needed somebody else’s word that cattle raids had occurred, to bolster his own case. No doubt Blackwood’s arrival at the barbecue had been staged for the greatest possible effect, with the largest possible audience. And if it was his intention to whip up the crowd, he was doing a fine job of it. There was nothing like the threat of a Comanche raid to strike terror in the heart of a Texan. Already there was a tangible aura of panic among the guests, a panic that was edging toward hysteria.
“We’d do better to try to protect ourselves,” someone said. “Stick close to home, in case they come back.”
“Yeah. Those stinkin’ killers are liable to circle back and murder us all in our beds.”
“I don’t believe they intend murder,” a woman said quietly.
Everyone looked around to see who had spoken. Lance felt his gut tighten when he recognized Amelia Truesdale’s voice.
“They only want the cattle,” Amelia said in a small voice. “You see…Mr. Calder invited them.”
He heard a gasp that he suspected came from Summer, while a murmur of outrage ran through the crowd.
So that was what Prewitt intended, Lance thought grimly. The man wouldn’t need actual proof of any cattle thefts if he had a character witness. It was enough that Amelia Truesdale was willing to testify against him.
He could see people turn to stare, could feel the hostile, horrified eyes directed at him. They started inching back fearfully, the crowd parting slowly like a sea, giving him a clear view of his accuser.
Harlan Fisk stepped forward then, looking uncomfortable but determined to take responsibility for the proceedings. “You better explain, Miss Amelia.”
“When I was…at the Comanche camp, I heard him tell those savages which ranches would be best to raid. His brother…the chief…said they would follow him here.”
Lance clenched his jaw in an effort at control. Vaguely he wondered if Summer would come to his defense—and she did instantly. She closed the distance between herself and her sister, and stood directly before Amelia.
“That is absurd! Melly, you’re entirely mistaken.” Her voice sounded carefully controlled, as if she were trying to keep a rein on her fury. “You couldn’t possibly have overheard any conversation Lance had with his brother, at least nothing you could have understood. Fights Bear doesn’t speak English.”
Lance shook his head, knowing she wouldn’t be believed. The crowd was in no mood to listen to logic.
“I…I know what I heard. Perhaps it was someone else.”
Summer’s fingers curled into fists. “It’s an outrageous lie to suggest Lance would invite his kin to raid.”
Harlan interrupted grimly. “Are you sure, Miss Amelia? You’re accusing Lance Calder of being behind these cattle thefts?”
“I…I only know what I heard. He invited his kin down here. He told them where to find cattle, which ranches to steal from.”
“I told you he had a hand in it,” Will Prewitt said in a contemptuous drawl. “I was jest wrong about how. I figured Calder stole my herd and gave them to his red devil friends, but he let them do all the work.”
“Stop it!” Summer demanded, stamping her foot. “This has gone far enough!”
“Summer, let it go,” Lance commanded, his tone cutting through the night.
She whirled to face him, her expression anguished. “I won’t stand by while men like Will Prewitt spread lies about you.”
He had to be grateful to Summer for sticking up for him, but he knew better than anyone else that her denial wouldn’t make a difference. She was his wife. Of course she would take his side. Nobody would listen to her, not with her sister damning him. The damage was done.
His faint smile held bitterness. “You can’t stop it. I’m already guilty in their minds, and nothing’s going to change that.”
“Lance—”
“No, Summer, it doesn’t matter.”
His gaze moved over the crowd till he found her brother. “Reed, take her home.”
When Reed, after a slight hesitation, nodded solemnly, Lance turned and walked away, leaving a hushed crowd behind him.
Summer whirled on her sister with fury. “Do you hate him so much? After what he did for you?” Then picking up her skirts, she ran after Lance.
>
He was heading toward the line of carriages, she realized. By the time she caught up with him, he had already untied the team of their buckboard.
“Where are you going?” she demanded breathlessly, halting so close that she prevented him from backing the horses.
“What difference does it make?” His voice sounded brittle and distant.
“If you’re going home, I’m coming with you.”
He stopped suddenly and exhaled a soft gust of bitter laughter. “Home.” He bowed his head, his hand clenching on the harness. “You know what’s really funny? I really believed I had a home here. A future. For a minute I let myself hope…God, I was a damned fool.”
Summer felt her heart break. He was so alone. So vulnerable and terribly alone.
“Lance,” she said carefully, her throat aching. “Don’t give up. We’ll fight this. We’ll prove that Melly—”
“No.” He shook his head harshly. “It’s gone too far. This isn’t your fight.”
“It is. I’m your wife—”
“I want you out of it. It’s gotten too dangerous.”
“Do you think I care about that?”
He turned to look at her, his expression unreadable in the faint moonlight. “I care. Do you think I could live with myself if you came to harm?”
“Lance, please…wherever you’re going, let me come with you.”
“No.” He reached for the nearest horse’s bridle.
Desperately she moved closer, wrapping her arms around him to hold him to her, pressing her body against his.
For a brief moment, as if against his will, Lance’s arms came around her, tightening as if he would bring her inside him if he could.
His eyes shut in agony. He’d known want before. He’d known need and physical fear. But he’d never known anything like this savage twisting in his gut. This craving for something he knew now he couldn’t have. This raw, stark terror that he was about to lose the one thing in his life that meant anything to him. Summer. He was going to lose her. As sure as Indians and white men were mortal enemies, he wasn’t going to have any kind of future with her.
The Savage Page 37
