by Bobbi Smith
Texas Splendor
Bobbi Smith
Copyright © 1988, 2018 by Bobbi Smith. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of The Evan Marshall Agency, 1 Pacio Court, Roseland, NJ 07068-1121, [email protected].
Version 1.0
Published by The Evan Marshall Agency. Originally published by Kensington Publishing Corp., New York.
This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidentally.
Cover by The Killion Group
bobbismithbooks.com
For the "I survived the Alamo in the rain gang"—Evelyn, Jim, Jason, Emma, Paul, Sylvie, and John.
Also—
A special note of thanks to Doretha Elizabeth Pedigo Smith, the world's best literary critic. Happy 80th birthday, Mom!
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
Central Texas, 1850
Somber-faced, the warrior reined in his foam-flecked mount on the low rise above the Comanche camp. Below, the scene was peaceful as the dogs who guarded the encampment had not yet picked up his scent and were still dozing in the warmth of the afternoon sun. Warriors, young and old, lounged lazily near their tipis, trading stories of their hunting prowess and bravery in battle. Scantily clad children raced happily about the village as their mothers, ever close and watching, labored over the multitude of tasks that filled their days. Usually the cheerful sound of the young ones' carefree play would have lightened the warrior's mood, but not today. Today there was no flicker of emotion, gentle or otherwise, reflected in his eyes at the sight of his tribe. His expression remained inscrutable, betraying none of the tension within him. Finally, the importance of the news he carried driving him on, the warrior knew he could delay no longer. Kneeing his exhausted mount into motion, he guided the weary steed down the incline.
The ferocious sound of the dogs' barking always signaled an arrival in camp. Lone Elk, war chief of the tribe, emerged from his tipi to see who was returning. Tall and cleanly muscled, he carried himself with an arrogant male grace that reflected not only his superior athletic ability but also his authority within the band. The position of war chief was earned, not inherited, and Lone Elk had achieved his rank through outstanding bravery and by leading many successful raids against the whites. He was well known for his fearlessness in combat, and more than a few of his warriors held him in awe. An astute leader, little escaped Lone Elk's notice, and he wondered now, as the lone rider approached, why the brave had felt it necessary to push his mount to near exhaustion to reach the village. Whatever the warrior had to report, he knew it would not be good.
"Shrieking Eagle," Lone Elk greeted him as he drew near.
Ignoring all those who clamored about, excited by his arrival, Shrieking Eagle stopped before his chief and agilely dismounted, sliding quickly to the ground. He faced Lone Elk, his heart heavy with the message he was about to impart. "I have news, Lone Elk."
The chief's black eyes became piercing in their potency, glittering dangerously at his tone. "What is it?"
"Your sister . . . "
"Shining Star. What of her?" He was instantly alert as his gaze searched Shrieking Eagle's face for a clue as to his meaning. "What is it you know of my sister?" he demanded.
"She is dead," the young brave supplied, not wanting to risk his wrath by hesitating. "A fever took her . . . a white man's fever." He added the last in a derogatory sneer.
Lone Elk stiffened visibly at the news. As much as he would have liked to deny it, he knew Shrieking Eagle would never lie to him about such a matter. It was the truth. His sister, the one person he loved above all others, was dead! Wailing his grief in an agonized cry, he turned from the messenger and the rapidly gathering crowd of onlookers to mourn the loss of his beloved sister.
Shrieking Eagle's mother, a portly, gentle woman named She Who Speaks the Truth, approached her son cautiously and asked, "What word have you brought us that has caused Lone Elk such pain?" She had known Lone Elk all of his life and had never seen him so deeply affected.
Shrieking Eagle glanced down at his mother. "Shining Star is dead, Mother."
She Who Speaks the Truth nodded slowly as her gaze followed Lone Elk. "Only her death could affect him so," she remarked sagely, knowing of the chief's devotion to his only sister. "What of her child? Is there news of her son?"
"I know nothing of the child."
"Lone Elk will go for him."
Shrieking Eagle's expression was filled with loathing as he turned on her. "The child is a white!"
"Only half-white," she countered. "A part of him is Comanche, too."
"It would be dangerous . . . foolhardy. . . ."
She Who Speaks the Truth shrugged as she started to walk away. "Lone Elk will go."
It was late, the night moonless and very dark. Though campfires burned brightly in the village, the flickering light did not help to dispel the gloom, but served only to cast weirdly distorted shadows upon the surroundings. It had been four days since Chief Lone Elk had received the news of his sister's death, yet his mourning had not lessened. The sounds of his grief echoed almost continually through the camp as he remained prostrate in his tipi. It was only as the first rays of dawn brightened the eastern sky on that morning of the fifth day that he rose from his bed and drew out his knife. In silent tribute to Shining Star, Lone Elk sawed at the thickness of his braided hair until his left braid was cut completely off. Another cry of misery broke from his lips as he stared down at his severed pride. Forever he would mourn her. . . .
Hatred for George Barrett, the white rancher who had taken Shining Star from him, seared his soul anew. Lone Elk knew he should have forbidden her to go, that he should have denied her any contact with the man, but even as he thought it, he realized it would have been pointless. His sister had been like no other woman. She had been proud and beautiful and stubborn . . . oh, so stubborn. Had he forbidden her love, she would have defied him and gone to Barrett anyway, so he had not tried to stop her when she left the village and took the white man as her husband.
For the past eight years, Shining Star had lived the life of a white woman on the Barrett ranch, the Royal Diamond, and Lone Elk had purposefully stayed away. Though his love for her was strong, his hatred and distrust of whites was stronger.
Lone Elk shook his head sadly. He had known her future would not be happy with the whites, and he had been right. It was not happiness she'd found in their midst, but death. Forever he would feel the punishing
weight of knowing she had been lost to him because he hadn't forced her to remain with the tribe. Lone Elk's grief, rage, and helplessness all combined to fill him with bitter viciousness. He hated the white man who had stolen his sister's heart, and he held Barrett responsible for her death.
It was then that he thought of the child . . . her child, Lance. Lone Elk realized that a part of Shining Star was still alive in her young son. His enmity for the husband ran deep, and a firm resolve took root within him. There was no way he was going to allow Barrett to raise Shining Star's son as a white. The boy was blood kin to Lone Elk. The boy was Comanche, and he belonged with his people. The white man's ways were not for him.
A surge of fierce determination filled the chief then, and he strode from his tipi once again master of his emotions. He would honor his sister. He would raise her son as his own and see him a great warrior in the tribe. Before the sun had cleared the treetops, Lone Elk and five other warriors were headed for the Royal Diamond to claim Lance Barrett, son of Shining Star, and bring him back to live as one of them and learn the ways of the Comanche.
Chapter One
"But I want to see my father, Rosalie! Why won't you let me see him?" seven-year-old Lance Barrett demanded.
"He's not feeling well right now, Lance," Rosalie Chavez, the longtime housekeeper of the Royal Diamond, told him in her no-nonsense tone as she sat at the table in the kitchen of the ranchhouse. "Perhaps he will be better later." Her last statement was more of a prayer than a positive belief as she thought of George Barrett and how, for several days now, he had locked himself in his study alone with his whiskey.
"But, Rosalie," Lance protested in childish confusion as he stared up at her, "I haven't seen him for two whole days! Is something wrong? Is he sick like Mother was?" His vivid blue eyes widened as he considered the possibility. A tremor of fear shook his small, sturdy body, and he ventured hesitantly, "Is Father dead, too?"
Rosalie could read the terror in his expression and quickly took him in her arms to reassure him. Drawing him onto her lap, she hugged him to her ample breasts. Her dark eyes misted as she tried to ease the little boy's agony. "No, little one, your father is not sick with the fever. Have no fear on that account, muchacho."
"Then what's the matter?"
"It is a sickness of the heart, Lance." Rosalie attempted to explain his father's withdrawal from life since the death of his beloved wife, Shining Star, several weeks before. "He misses your mother."
"But I miss her, too, Rosalie!" Lance gazed up at her, tears brimming in his troubled gaze.
"I know, I know." Rosalie patted him comfortingly, her heart aching for him.
"It's not fair! Why did Mother have to die?" he asked tormentedly, struggling to control his need to cry. He had been brave for so long, ever since the funeral, but suddenly it seemed almost too much for him . . . the loneliness . . . the desolation.
She rocked Lance tenderly, crooning to him to ease the pain within him. "If you need to cry, go ahead. You will feel better if you let it out."
Lance stiffened in her embrace and pulled himself free. Standing almost defiantly before her, he angrily dashed away the tears that had started to trace down his cheeks. "No! I won't cry! Father says men don't cry!"
"Lance. . . ." Rosalie's voice reflected her misery as she opened her arms to try to hold him again, but he backed away.
"I won't cry! I won't!" Turning his back on her, he fled the room and the house.
Rosalie watched Lance race away knowing that, no matter how far he ran or how fast, the sorrow and bewildering pain would still be with him. Right now he needed his father more than he ever had before, yet Rosalie realized that George Barrett was in no condition to help his son. The wealthy owner of the Royal Diamond had lost all interest in his son and his ranch and was taking solace in the forgetfulness of drink. Without his wife, he saw no reason for living.
Having been a witness to George's unfailing devotion to Shining Star, Rosalie knew that their love for each other had been great. Still, she could not understand his complete disregard for the devastation his own child was feeling over her death. Lance had adored his mother. They had been as close as any mother and son could be, and he, too, had lost her. Truly the boy was suffering greatly, yet there was precious little she could do for him. It was his father's love and consolation he needed right now, not hers.
The sound of George drunkenly bellowing her name interrupted Rosalie's thoughts, and she shook her head in sorrowful understanding as she got slowly to her feet. During the past two days, the only time he'd called for her had been when he'd been out of liquor and in desperate need of more. She longed to deny him, to force him back to soberness so he could see what he was doing to himself and his son, but she had no right or authority to do so. Pausing only long enough to retrieve another bottle of whiskey, she started from the kitchen. As she went, she couldn't help but wonder just how long this could go on before tragedy struck the family again.
George Barrett sat alone and miserable at his desk in the darkened confines of his study. He rubbed at his throbbing temples with a shaking hand as he waited for the servant to come to him.
"Rosalie! Damn it, woman, where are you with my whiskey?" he shouted, and then cringed at the loudness of his own voice. Leaning heavily on the desktop, he got drunkenly to his feet intending to search out his wayward housekeeper and reprimand her for taking so long to answer his summons. A wave of nausea flooded through him, and his already pale color worsened as he lurched unsteadily toward the door.
Rosalie tried to let herself in when she reached the study, but to her dismay, the door was still locked. "Señor George!" she called out as she rapped sharply on the portal. "The door is locked. Open the door."
George was relieved that she'd finally come. He managed the last few steps and then, with difficulty, unlocked the door and threw it wide.
Glaring threateningly at his servant, he demanded in slurred, angry tones, "Where have you been? Did you bring—" He stopped when he saw the fresh bottle of whiskey in her hand. "Ah, yes . . . I see that you did."
Like a greedy child, his glazed eyes alight at the promise of another drink, he reached for the liquor with both hands. Eagerly he tore off the cap and lifted the bottle to his lips, thirstily downing a sizable portion of the potent drink.
When he'd opened the door to face her, Rosalie had almost taken a step back as the sour smell of human sweat mixed with the stale scent of liquor had assailed her senses. Her lips curled in disgust as she stared at her boss for a long moment and then looked around the room. The study was dark and gloomy, the shutters deliberately drawn against the brightness of the day. Within the heavy shadows, Rosalie could make out books and papers scattered haphazardly about the usually neat room. Numerous empty whiskey bottles littered the floor and desk, giving silent testimony to George's current state.
It was then that Rosalie knew a moment of true concern. All along she had believed that George would eventually pull himself together and put aside his grief. Now, however, she was beginning to have her doubts. He had to get a grip on himself soon or risk losing everything. Determined to help in whatever way she could, Rosalie brushed past him into the room. Stalking purposely to a window, she made short order of opening it. Unaware that Lance was in the yard right outside, within earshot, she threw wide the shutters.
George was so engrossed in drinking the whiskey that he paid little attention to Rosalie. When the sunlight flooded into the room, he was startled, and he turned on his faithful housekeeper with an uncharacteristic snarl. "Close the damn window, woman!"
Summoning all her strength of will, Rosalie faced George, her hands planted firmly on her wide hips. In the harsh brilliance of the afternoon sun she stared at him, and it took an effort on her part not to let the shock she felt at his appearance show in her expression. The man standing before her was not the George Barrett she knew—tall, handsome, and self-confident. Clad in rumpled, stained clothing, the man clutching the liquor bottle
firmly in hand was a mere shadow of himself. The darkness of several days' growth of beard, combined with his shaggy and unkempt brown hair, gave him a wild, almost savage look. George's blue eyes, blue like his son's, usually mirrored his intelligence and good humor, but today they reflected nothing in their dull and bloodshot depths. It was as if all life, all joy had been drained from him.
"No. I will not. You've been in here alone far too long. It's time for this to stop. You are needed and—"
"Shut up and do as I say!" he snapped.
"No," Rosalie answered firmly, glowering at him.
At her reply George looked up, his face a mask of fury. "Need I remind you that you are but a servant here."
"I know my place," Rosalie managed, hurt. In all the twelve years she'd worked for him, she'd never known him to threaten or bully any of his servants. Now all that had changed.
"Do as you are told or I'll fire you!"
"Señor George . . . please," she ventured hopefully. "Lance needs you."
"I don't care! I don't want to hear about Lance and what Lance needs!" he shouted, interrupting her savagely. His words, yelled so forcefully carried out to where the boy stood in silence. "Without Shining Star my life is over! I have nothing left to live for. . . ."
"You have your son!" Rosalie countered.
George was oblivious to the fact that his young son was listening in total confusion to his every word. Swigging from the bottle again, George then wiped his mouth with his forearm.
"My son!" George snorted in drunken derision. "Don't you realize that every time I look at him I see the Indian in him. It's like a damn knife in my heart! I can't stand it!"
Lance was devastated by his father's declaration. It seemed obvious to him that his father hated him . . . hated his Indian blood. Why else would he be unable to stand the sight of him? Why else would he have refused to see him all this time? More agony assailed the boy, and again tears threatened. It had been terrible to lose his mother, but now to find out that his father hated him . . . it was almost more than he could bear. Lance rushed toward the stables and his horse, needing to escape the abyss of misery that threatened to engulf him.
