by Bobbi Smith
"Perhaps it is best this way," Lone Elk said slowly.
With an effort, Lance tore his gaze away from the sight of his drunken parent. Pushing aside the fear that threatened to overwhelm him, he reasoned, If his father didn't want him anymore, at least his uncle did. Perhaps he could find happiness again with his mother's people.
"Maybe you're right." He turned his back on his father and walked from the room. "It will only take me a few minutes to pack my things."
As Lone Elk watched Lance disappear up the stairs to his bedroom, he remained silent. His heart filled with emotion as he reflected on how bravely the boy was handling the situation. He knew the next few months would be very difficult for him as he adjusted to a totally different way of life, but he also knew that Lance would do well. He was, after all, his mother's son. With one last disparaging glance at Barrett, who was still slumped at his desk, Lone Elk moved out into the hall to await his nephew's return.
Chapter Two
1869
It was a balmy night in late spring, and at the Royal Diamond Ranch the party in honor of young Michael Barrett's engagement was in full swing. Neighbors and friends from miles around had made the trek to the ranch to join in the celebration and to meet Michael's fiancée, who'd just arrived from her home back East. The house was alive now with music and laughter, the sounds of which were echoing mutedly across the rolling hills.
Alone and on foot, having left his mount some distance away to avoid detection, the tall, lean Comanche warrior crept soundlessly toward the crest of the hill that overlooked the ranchhouse. The moon was but a sliver of silver, providing little in the way of illumination, but instead of cursing the darkness, the Indian was grateful. The night's shadowy cover effectively shielded him from discovery, and that was just the way he wanted it. Lured onward by the sounds of the whites' merriment, the warrior cautiously moved closer until he finally reached the top. The brave crouched motionlessly and silently amid the rocks, his stony features revealing nothing of his inner turmoil as he watched and listened to all that was taking place.
Lance hadn't meant to come here. If anything, he'd wanted to avoid the Royal Diamond. Yet when the wild golden stallion he'd been tracking and chasing for days had led him onto the Diamond land late that afternoon, he had been helpless to do anything but follow. He wanted that horse. For months now many of his tribe had been trying to capture it. The others had all given up, but Lance was determined to succeed, and he knew that his standing among the warriors would be greatly enhanced if he could bring back the prized, elusive golden one as his own.
As a tall, trim, silver-haired man appeared on the porch of the main house below accompanied by a rather tall, buxom, dark-haired woman, Lance suddenly tensed, and all thought of the stallion fled his mind. Though some distance away, he recognized the man immediately as his father. Bile rose sour and bitter in his throat at the sight of the white man who had denied his very existence so long ago. His blue eyes narrowed to lethal slits as he watched them standing there in the moonlight. When the older man slipped an arm about the woman and bent to her to press a gentle kiss to her lips, his hands clinched into fists of frustrated rage.
The power of his reaction to that simple gesture both surprised and puzzled him. Lance thought of himself as a man with total control of his feelings and emotions. He thought that he'd put all the turbulent memories of the time he had lived as a white at the Royal Diamond behind him, but as he stood there now watching the man and woman below, unbidden remembrances flooded through him.
Lance grew angry with himself. He did not want to remember his life on the ranch or the death of his mother or his subsequent departure to live with Lone Elk. He did want to think about the time when, desperate to see his father again, he had decided to leave his loving uncle and return to the Diamond. Yet these images were playing in his mind as if it had been yesterday instead of nineteen years ago, and he was powerless before their onslaught. He had been a mere child then, an innocent in the ways of white men and their kind, but he had learned quickly.
At the time, Lone Elk had not stood in the way of his leaving. Instead, in his wisdom, he had sent him on with the knowledge that the Comanche were his people and that he would always be welcome to come back. Lance realized now that he had been a fool to ever imagine that he could resume the idyllic life that had been his before his mother's death. A sneer of disgust twisted his lips as he remembered what had happened the last time he'd come here. His father had not even been at the ranch. He had been on a trip to town . . . a trip that had included taking along his new white wife and the son she had borne him. The hot, searing pain of his white father's betrayal had branded him forever that day. He had fled to his mother's people, his people, and he had never looked back . . . until now.
Filled with loathing, Lance suddenly felt the need to get away. He turned and was about to move off when the light, lilting sound of feminine laughter spilled through the night. The sound entranced him, and Lance pivoted to glance back down toward the house.
Lance stood transfixed, his gaze riveted on the woman who had just emerged from the house on the arm of a tall, dark-haired man. Whoever she was, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Her hair was the color of sunlit spun gold. It had been styled up and away from her face at the sides to emphasize the perfection of her features, before being allowed to tumble freely down her back in a mass of errant curls. It was a hairstyle that instinctively begged for a man's touch. Lance found himself wondering how it would feel and wondering if it would be as warm, lustrous, and silken as it looked. He regarded her hungrily, taking in the firm swell of her bosom and the trimness of her small waist beneath the impractical white woman's dress she was wearing.
Never before had he found himself so attracted to a woman. For the briefest of instants he let himself imagine what it would be like to strip the cumbersome full-skirted garment from her and gaze upon her naked flesh. Desire, powerful and unexpected, surged through him at the thought and took him completely by surprise. Frowning into the darkness of the night, he cursed himself for his weakness. This woman was white, and no doubt just like all the others of her breed. He was certain that it was only the unusual color of her hair, so like that of the stallion he was pursuing, that had drawn his interest—nothing more.
"Well, darling, what do you think of the Royal Diamond so far?" Michael Barrett asked his fiancée, Trista Sinclair, as they joined his parents outside on the porch for a cooling, restful moment away from the excitement of the celebration within.
Trista gazed up at him happily. "Your home is lovely, Michael, and the ranch itself . . . why, it's almost impossible for me to imagine that it's actually as big as you say."
George Barrett chuckled good-naturedly at his future daughter-in-law's observation. "It's an average-size spread by Texas standards, Trista. The Diamond's only a hundred thousand acres or so."
"And you love every inch of it," she remarked with knowing fondness. Though she had only been there for a few days, she was already very aware of the depth of George and Michael's dedication to the ranch.
"I've always dreamed of the Royal Diamond being the best spread in Texas," Michael told her.
"Well, if it isn't already, I'm sure it soon will be," Trista said, her admiration evident in her tone.
"We're working on it." George's smile reflected the pride he held in the ranch. "Now that Michael's completed his education and come back home . . . well, things should work out just fine." George's gaze was warm and loving upon his son. Yet even as he considered Michael, the memory of another son . . . so long unseen . . . intruded.
Lance . . . George paled at the thought of his long-lost older son. Why had he thought of him now? This was a night of happiness and celebration, not morose regrets. He was grateful that the semidarkness on the porch hid his expression, for he had no desire to explain his sudden shift of mood.
"We're glad you didn't object to coming here to live," Eleanor Barrett remarked sweetly to Trista.
"I did have a few nervous moments," Trista confessed. "I wasn't quite sure what living on a ranch here in the middle of Texas would be like."
"And now?" Michael asked with real interest. He had no idea that she'd been put off by the thought of leaving Philadelphia to come west with him, and he awaited her answer with some concern.
"Now I think I'm going to like it here," she answered with confidence. "Everyone I've met has been so warm and friendly. I feel as if I belong here already."
"You do, my love. You do," Michael assured her, his dark brown eyes meeting and holding her blue ones in an intimate, unspoken exchange.
Eleanor sensed that they needed a moment of privacy, and she spoke casually to her husband. "George, why don't we go back in? I'm sure our guests are wondering what's become of us . . . "
He immediately took the hint and held the door wide for his wife. "Of course, dear. Michael, Trista, we'll see you inside."
Michael was only barely aware of his parents' departure as he gazed down at Trista. Lost in thoughts of how lovely she was, he reflected, not for the first time, on how lucky he had been to win her. They had met while he was attending school in Philadelphia. He'd heard rumors about the fabulous Trista Sinclair long before they'd ever been introduced. According to the talk, she was comfortably wealthy, absolutely gorgeous, and totally unattainable. Rumor had it that many men had paid the cool blond beauty court, but that she had disdained them all.
Michael had anxiously anticipated their meeting, and when they were finally introduced at a society ball, he had discovered that the gossip had all been true. Trista was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, with her sun-streaked golden hair, flawless figure, and perfect features. He had been immediately smitten and had grown determined not to suffer the same fate as all her other ardent suitors. To this day he wasn't quite sure what he had done differently from the other men to win her heart, but he didn't care. All that mattered was that she had accepted his proposal, and she had agreed to become his wife.
Michael suddenly felt a desperate, possessive need to kiss her, and he drew her away from the lamplight shining through the windows. "Come here. . . ." His voice was husky with desire.
"Michael . . . where are we going?"
"Shhh. . . ." he whispered conspiratorially as he maneuvered her quickly into a shadowy corner of the porch where they would be safe from any prying eyes. "Alone at last." His tone was melodramatic as he pulled her into his embrace.
"But what about the others? I mean, your mother and father both know that we're out here alone." Trista glanced worriedly toward the front door. "Won't we be missed?"
"Yes," he admitted regretfully, "but not for a minute or two. . . ." His mouth sought hers in a sweet, cherishing exchange.
"Oh, Michael . . . " Trista gave a soft sigh as she looped her arms about his neck to bring him closer. As always, his kiss was warm and affectionate, and she responded openly, enjoying the feeling of closeness between them.
Absorbed in the pleasure of the embrace, Trista let her thoughts drift back to the first time she'd met Michael at a society ball in Philadelphia. She had seen him from across the room and had known immediately that there was something innately different about him. Certainly he was good-looking, but no handsomer than any of the other young men who had paid her court. It was just something about the way he moved and the way he had returned her regard that had left her with the impression that he was so controlled and so overwhelmingly masculine. She'd found herself growing curious about him and, after several discreet inquiries, had discovered that he was a Texan, born and bred, who was attending school in town. One thing had led to another, and soon they were seeing each other.
From the very start, her relationship with Michael had been different, and because of that difference, she had seen him as the answer to her dilemma. Her father was determined that she should marry—and soon. Ever since she had reached her eighteenth birthday, her widowed father, Randolph Sinclair, had been pressuring her to marry and settle down. He had introduced her to every suitable young man in Philadelphia, and at first she'd found his efforts amusing. After a while he'd grown frustrated with her refusal to marry any of the suitors, and a tension had developed between them that had not eased.
Trista had not been against the idea of marrying; she'd just wanted to pick her own husband in her own way. She'd found Michael attractive, and of all the suitors she'd ever had, she got along with him the best. Many successful marriages had been built on less, and so, when he'd proposed she'd accepted.
Initially, her father had been less than pleased with the idea of her marrying Michael, for he was not from one of "the families" in Philadelphia society. However, once he'd discovered the vastness of the Barrett wealth, he had quickly changed his mind. He had given them his blessing and had even agreed to allow the wedding to be held on the Barrett ranch in Texas.
Now here she was, living happily on the Royal Diamond and soon to become Mrs. Michael Barrett. The thought pleased her. She liked Michael's family, and she was falling in love with the vastness of this beautiful western state. Yes, she mused as Michael ended the kiss, she could be very happy here.
"I can hardly wait for the wedding, love," Michael uttered almost painfully as he held her close, enjoying the feel of her softness pressed against him. "This next month is going to pass real slow."
"I know," she agreed, "but Father couldn't get away any sooner. I hope you don't mind too much. . . ."
"I mind, all right, but I guess you're worth the wait." His brown eyes twinkled devilishly as he gave her a measured look.
"Michael!" Trista feigned outrage.
Michael gave a soft laugh as he silenced her mock protest with another kiss. When they broke apart long moments later, his passion for her was clearly mirrored in his eyes. "Yes, love . . . you're definitely worth the wait."
"Thank you." She smiled up at him tenderly. "I think you're worth waiting for, too."
As they stood wrapped in each other's arms, the music began again, penetrating their sanctuary and bringing them back to awareness.
"As much as I hate to say this, I guess we'd better rejoin the party."
"I know, but I almost wish we didn't have to," Trista sighed, moving reluctantly out of the protective circle of his arms.
"Me, too." With a guiding hand at her waist, Michael started to escort her into the house.
As they started across the porch, Trista suddenly had the eerie feeling that someone was watching them. The sensation was so powerful that a shiver of awareness frissoned down her spine, and she glanced back over her shoulder into the darkness of the Texas night.
Michael felt her shudder, and he drew her closer to his side. "I guess it's a good thing we're going in. It wouldn't do for you to take a chill. . . ."
Trista wanted to explain to him what she was feeling, but when she couldn't see anyone around, she dismissed her fear as ridiculous. Not wanting to trouble him, she replied, "It is getting a bit cool out here. . . ." Yet even as they entered the house, she still couldn't shake the feeling that someone had been out there.
Lance stood unmoving on the hilltop, his features frozen into a mask of anger and resentment. Emotions to which he could put no name twisted tormentedly within him, leaving him troubled and confused. He didn't want to care about this ranch or his father or anyone else connected to the white man's world. Yet the fact that he was reacting this way revealed a vulnerability in him that he wanted to, but could not, deny.
Furious with himself, Lance turned his back on the peaceful scene in the valley. He realized now that he had been foolish to come. Logic told him that there was no future for him in the white man's world. His future was with his people. Still, as he made his way back to the solitude of his camp, he couldn't help but wonder why a part of him still longed to be accepted and acknowledged by the very father who had so long ago denied him.
Chapter Three
As flame-haired Sukie Harris watched Michael Barrett squire his new
ly acquired fiancée about the dance floor, her demeanor seemed nonchalant. Only her longtime friend, Emily Warren, who was standing beside her, realized that her calm expression was an elaborate act. Emily knew that Sukie had been devastated by the announcement of Michael's engagement to this easterner, Trista Sinclair.
"She's certainly beautiful," Sukie agonized as she tore her gaze away from the sight of Michael holding the other woman in his arms. She had been in love with Michael since she was ten years old and had always dreamed of becoming his wife. Now that dream was over. He had found Trista during his time back East in Philadelphia, and she was the one who owned his heart.
Pain ripped through Sukie as she tried to understand how this had happened. They had been so close before he'd left. . . . She fought back the urge to cry as the memory of all the parties they'd attended together and all the kisses they'd shared haunted her. They had meant so much to each other then. . . . And now. . . .
"I know," Emily agreed, not immediately noticing her friend's distress. "And that gown she's wearing! Have you ever seen anything so beautiful? It's as gorgeous as a wedding gown. Why, it looks like it came straight from Paris." She sighed in admiration of Trista's white tulle evening dress.
Sukie listened miserably to her comments and then glanced up again at Trista, noting the slimmer skirts and flowing design of the exquisite dress she was wearing.
"It is lovely," she managed. Self-consciously, she smoothed the unfashionably full skirts of her own dress, which, while not unattractive, was definitely not of the same updated styling or quality as the eastern woman's.
Emily heard the strain in her voice and quickly apologized. "Sukie, I'm sorry. . . ."
"It's all right, Em. I think I'll just go outside for a little while. Maybe if I just get a breath of fresh air. . . ."
As Sukie started from the room, Emily hastened to follow. They didn't speak again until they were standing alone on the porch in the cool, encompassing darkness of the night.
