by Bobbi Smith
"I know how you feel about Michael, Sukie, and I'm sorry things haven't worked out the way you'd hoped."
"So am I." Though she felt numb inside and out, Sukie couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice. "I don't know what I'm going to do, Em . . . I love Michael so much. It seems like I've always loved him."
"I know it's been a shock to find this out, but I'm sure things will work out. You'll find someone new, and then you'll forget all about him."
Emily's advice was the last thing Sukie wanted to hear. "I don't want to forget him, Em! He's been a part of my life since I was ten years old."
"But, Sukie," her friend soothed, "this is something you're just going to have to accept. Michael and Trista are engaged. They're going to be married real soon."
"I won't accept it! I won't!" Sukie choked, her emerald eyes sparkling with unshed tears as she faced Emily defiantly. Memories of the times before he'd gone back East assailed her . . . memories of when she had been the girl in Michael's arms. She had always believed that he would come back from Philadelphia and propose to her, but now all her dreams were shattered.
"You're going to have to. You've seen the way he looks at Trista. He can't keep his eyes off her, Sukie."
"But I love him, Em . . . I always have, and I always will." She gave a small sob. How would she ever manage to survive his marrying someone else? Emily made it sound so simple . . . just accept it . . . but she couldn't. She couldn't just stop loving him because it was the right thing to do.
"Those are your feelings, though, not Michael's," Emily was saying, trying to make her face the inevitable.
But Sukie would have none of it, and her temper flared in frustration as some of the stunned numbness began to wear off "You know, Emily, things may not be as bad as they seem. . . ."
Emily was caught off guard by the abrupt change in Sukie, for she had gone from being completely devastated to suddenly being cool and almost composed. She knew a sudden feeling of misgiving, and she eyed her friend suspiciously. "What do you mean?"
Sukie faced her, her expression enigmatic. "Well, you know Michael isn't married yet."
"You can't mean—" Emily paled at the thought of Sukie interfering in Michael's life.
"Oh yes I can!" For the first time since she'd learned of Michael's engagement earlier that evening, she felt there was still hope for her. "There's still plenty of time for me to figure out a way to get him back."
"But, Sukie! Is this fair? He loves Trista, and Trista loves him."
Sukie glanced at Emily, her gaze unyielding as her thoughts raced ahead trying to dream up a strategy to win him back. "All's fair in love and war, Emily. . . . And this is both!"
Leaving her friend standing on the porch, Sukie forced a pleasant smile and returned to the party. Step number one was to make sure Michael didn't find out she was upset. Step number two was to attract as many suitors as she could tonight to make herself look popular. Though she did not desire the attention of other men, she knew the best way to attract them was to act as if she was having the most wonderful time in the world . . . even if she wasn't. With her head held high, she swept back into the parlor. One way or the other, before this night was over Michael was going to have noticed her.
"Eleanor, your dress is just lovely," Mary Lou Harris complimented her hostess as she admired the fashionable evening gown she was wearing.
"Thank you, Mary Lou," Eleanor Barrett preened. She was most pleased that the other woman had commented on its exquisite style, for she had taken great care in choosing it.
"Did you get it back East?"
"Yes. I bought it while I was in Philadelphia visiting Michael," she offered, knowing that the silk gown fit her lush figure perfectly and that the deep gold color complemented the rich darkness of her auburn hair.
"Well, it's simply beautiful on you."
"Thank you, dear."
"Speaking of Philadelphia, we really haven't had much time to talk about your trip. How was it?"
"Marvelous," Eleanor answered, eager to impress Mary Lou with the news of her travels. "It has been years since I was there last, but little seems to have changed."
"Do you have family there?"
"Some," she replied, "but they're only distantly connected. The truth of the matter is, I made the trip because Michael wrote to me about Trista. He wanted me to meet her before he proposed."
Mary Lou glanced up to watch the newly engaged couple dance by, her penetrating gaze hardening a bit as she watched them. Despite her best efforts, her expression soured slightly at the realization that this woman, and not her daughter, was going to become Michael's bride. She'd always hoped for an alliance between their two families, because their ranches adjoined. Michael and Sukie certainly would have made a handsome couple, but observing Michael now, she knew it wouldn't be happening. It was quite obvious that he was in love with his fiancée.
"How thoughtful of him," she finally remarked as she turned back to her friend.
"Michael has always been most solicitous of my opinions," Eleanor told her with cool confidence, knowing how Michael never failed to heed her advice.
"And I take it you approve of Trista?"
"Completely."
"What's she really like?" Mary Lou inquired, wondering at the woman who had captured Michael's heart.
Eleanor smiled almost condescendingly at her friend. It pleased her that Michael was the center of such attention, and she was feeling quite proud of her only offspring. "Trista is a lovely person."
Mary Lou looked decidedly grumpy at her bland answer. "There has to be something special about her, Eleanor. Why, you know every girl in this county tried to get your Michael to the altar. Even my own precious Sukie had her hopes . . . But now he's passed them all by to pick Trista." Mary Lou's gaze was critical as she stared at the young blond woman. "Tell me the truth. What's she like?"
"Well, she's beautiful," Eleanor supplied with deliberate coyness, and her comment drew a low groan of impatience from her companion.
"Of course she is, but then, so is my Sukie," she replied defensively.
"Sukie is very pretty, Mary Lou," Eleanor soothed, "but Trista is the woman Michael loves. Who can explain love? It just happens . . . And judging by all that he's told me, he fell in love with her the first time they met."
"Well, there's certainly no denying she's attractive, but she looks rather fragile. Do you think she'll adjust well to living out here? Michael isn't planning to move back East, is he?"
Eleanor had never considered that Michael might forsake everything and go back to Philadelphia just to please his bride, and the thought unnerved her for a moment. As quickly as the doubt entered her mind, she dismissed it. He was her son, and she knew him well. He would never give up his life on the Royal Diamond.
"I'm sure Michael plans on staying," she assured her confidently, "and as for Trista adapting . . . well, knowing her as I do, I'm sure she'll be quite happy here."
"But she was born and raised in Philadelphia wasn't she? Living on a ranch is going to be quite a change for her," Mary Lou pried.
"Trista looks upon it as a challenge. She was quite excited about coming to Texas to live. Since we arrived earlier in the week, she's become even more enthusiastic, so I don't think we have to worry on that account."
"Well, I can hardly wait for the wedding. It'll probably be the social event of the year for the county."
"Indeed it will be," Eleanor replied with arrogant certainty. She had waited all her married life for Michael to marry, and she was determined that the wedding would be a huge success. She felt quite fortunate that Trista had proved as malleable as she had originally thought she would be and that the younger woman had acquiesced to all her suggestions.
Mary Lou listened dispiritedly as Eleanor described all the plans that had already been set into motion for the upcoming nuptials. There could be no doubt about it. The wedding was definitely on.
As the music ended, Michael gave Trista a wry smile. "Shall we fac
e the well-wishers again?"
"I suppose we have to, don't we?" she responded as he ushered her slowly across the room to where his mother stood.
"There's no escaping it tonight, I'm afraid," he confided before greeting his mother and her friend. "Hello, Mother . . . Mary Lou. Mary Lou, have you met Trista yet?"
"No, Michael, I haven't." Mary Lou's welcoming smile was strained, but no one seemed to notice.
"Mary Lou Harris, may I present my fiancée, Trista Sinclair. Trista—this is Mary Lou Harris, our neighbor." He made the introductions quickly.
"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Harris." Trista greeted the older woman respectfully, wondering at her pinched expression.
"Thank you, dear, but please call me Mary Lou. Everybody does," Mary Lou replied, trying not to let the truth of her feelings show. "Michael, it's so good to have you back. We missed you while you were away."
"I'm glad to be back, Mary Lou." Michael's reply was honest, for though he had done well in his studies during his time in Philadelphia, he had always felt stifled and uncomfortable there. Now that he was back in Texas, he felt alive again.
"I'm glad you're home, too," George said gruffly as he joined them, affectionately clapping his son on the shoulder. "It was too quiet around here without you. And now that you've brought Trista back, too. . . ." His blue-eyed gaze was warm and approving upon his future daughter-in-law as he asked her, "Are you having a good time?"
"Wonderful," Trista answered, giving him her brightest smile. She had only met Michael's father upon their arrival at the ranch earlier that week, but she had been immediately fond of the older man. He seemed a silver-haired duplicate of his son, except for his eyes—George's being a light, piercing blue while Michael's were a warm, mellow brown like his mother's.
"Good," he responded, pleased that she was enjoying herself.
As Eleanor gazed at George and Michael, she, too, was thinking about how much they resembled each other. Both were tall, broad-shouldered, and lean, their easy manner and soft-spoken ways making them perfect Texas gentlemen. Only George's gray hair and his deeply tanned, weathered complexion revealed that he was older than Michael. Though she'd had her doubts at the time, Eleanor knew now that she'd done the right thing when she'd married him all those years ago. Her son was certainly proof of that.
Her heart swelled with love as she studied Michael. To her, he was perfect in every way. During his formative years he had never given her a moment of grief, being always eager to please and most concerned with her wishes. She had doted on him always, and she loved him now more than life itself.
Since learning of his love for Trista, Eleanor had known several jealous moments at the thought of sharing him. But she'd managed to keep those feelings carefully controlled, for she felt certain that sweet, docile Trista was in no way a threat to her position of influence in Michael's life.
"Everyone's made me feel so welcome. I was telling Michael a little while ago that I feel as if I belong here already," Trista was telling George.
"That's good to hear." Though he'd only known her for a few days, George was already inordinately fond of Trista. Not only was she the prettiest girl Michael had ever shown any interest in, but she was intelligent and witty, too. He was glad that she was fitting in with their lifestyle so well.
"Have you seen much of the Royal Diamond yet, Trista?" Mary Lou asked. "It's the biggest ranch in these parts, you know."
"Oh, yes. Michael told me all about it even before we came. He's been taking me out riding to a different section every morning," Trista told her.
"So you ride?" Mary Lou seemed surprised by the news.
"Oh, yes. I've been riding since I was old enough to keep my seat."
"She's quite knowledgeable, too," Michael added, proud of Trista's way with horses.
"You're an expert on horses?" Mary Lou's eyes narrowed in frustration. Trista seemed almost too good to be true.
"Now, Michael. . . ." She colored faintly at his praise. "You know I'm no real expert. I just love them, that's all. Our stables at home are quite extensive, and I always spent as much time as I could there."
"Speaking of horses, Michael. . . ." George interrupted their chitchat as he remembered the news he'd heard. "I was talking to Ben earlier this evening, and he told me that the golden stallion is back in the area again.''
Michael's attention suddenly riveted on his father. "Fuego? Are they sure?" he asked quickly, his dark eyes glowing fervently.
"Yep. Ben caught sight of him near Eager Creek on his way from the Lawsons'."
"Did he try to catch him?"
"No, he was too far away."
Michael nodded in complete understanding. "There's no way that stallion will ever be caught in a straight rundown. He's too smart, and he knows too many tricks. It's going to take some kind of luck to trap him."
"This stallion—Fuego, did you call him?—sounds very special," Trista ventured, intrigued by the change she'd noticed in Michael the moment the stallion had been mentioned.
"That he is, love." Michael smiled down at her as he went on to explain. "Fuego is a legend in these parts."
"Is that his real name . . . Fuego?"
"No one knows his real name or if he even has one. We just call him Fuego because of his coloring," George told her.
"He's no run-of-the-mill palomino, that's for sure," Michael added. "He's fiery gold, and his markings are outstanding."
"He's just about the most beautiful horse I've ever seen," George commented, but he knew she wouldn't completely understand their fascination with Fuego until she'd seen the flame-and-gold-coated horse for herself. "He'd be worth a pretty penny if anybody ever did manage to catch him." George cast his son a teasing look.
"I still don't know how he was able to break that rope." Michael shook his head sheepishly in remembered consternation.
"You mean you actually got close enough to him to get a rope on him?" Trista's blue eyes widened in curiosity.
Michael looked a bit shamefaced. "That's about all I did, too."
"I don't understand."
"It was about three years ago. I was out riding herd and had gone off to check for strays when I accidentally came across him at a watering hole. I don't know who was more surprised, him or me. Anyway, I reacted quickly enough, I guess. I did manage to rope him." He paused in his recounting of the incident to remember how glorious and powerful the stallion had looked as he'd fought for his freedom against the strangling lariat. "But somehow that devil snapped it."
"He's that strong?"
"He's that strong and that smart. I vowed then that one day I was going to be the one to catch him and brand him for the Royal Diamond. I don't like being outsmarted by a horse."
"Maybe this time you'll catch him," Trista reassured him. "Does anybody know where he came from?"
"No. He just showed up on the range one day," George answered. "One thing's for sure, though. He's got no use for people. The minute he catches sight of anybody, he's gone."
"Is he very old?" she asked.
"Hard to say," Michael replied. "He was already full-grown when I had my 'run-in' with him, so he's at least five or six. . . ."
"But if he's that old, and he's run wild all his life, why would you want him?" Trista looked from George to Michael. "Isn't he what you'd consider a rogue?"
"Possibly, but what a rogue!" George smiled. "He's faster than any horse we've got, and with his intelligence. . . ." He gave an eloquent shrug. "Just keep a lookout when you're riding. If we could find out where he's holed up, maybe we can figure out a way to corner him."
"George . . . Michael. . . ."
The sound of someone calling from across the room drew their attention, and George looked up to see Sam Frederickson and Ben Madden motioning for them to come and join them. "Michael, I think they want to speak with us. If you ladies will excuse us for a minute."
"I'll be right back," Michael promised Trista.
"Of course."
As they moved
off to visit with the other guests, Trista turned to Eleanor, her eyes sparkling at the thought of the infamous stallion. "Perhaps tomorrow Michael and I can ride out to where Fuego was last spotted. I'd love to get a look at him."
"I'm sure Michael won't be taking you there," Eleanor replied almost too quickly, and then added self-consciously, "it's much too far away."
"Oh, I don't mind an all-day ride or. . . ." she went on, gaily anticipating a great adventure in tracking down the elusive rogue.
"What Eleanor is trying to say is that you don't want to go riding out toward the Lawsons', Trista." Mary Lou's remark sounded ominous as she joined the conversation.
Trista could not fathom the reason for the cryptic responses. "Why not?"
Eleanor gave Mary Lou a stern look, but the older woman ignored her as she answered, "Because some Comanche have been raiding up there. The Lawson place was attacked just a little over two weeks ago." She had been looking for the chance to test Trista's true mettle, and she knew this was the perfect time.
"Mary Lou!" Eleanor scolded in annoyance. She had wanted to shield Trista from the ugliness of the current Indian situation.
"If she's going to be living here, she might as well know the truth," Mary Lou huffed.
"The truth?" Trista turned to Eleanor questioningly. "I thought all the Indians were on reservations."
"Most of the Indians are on reservations, dear . . . " Eleanor began evasively.
"But there are some who are not."
"That's right, Trista," Mary Lou affirmed. "The government would certainly like them to be on the reservations, but there's no way to contain some of them. It's as my John always says, 'The only good Indian is a dead Indian.'"
Trista had read about such sentiments in the news accounts back home, but she had never really believed that people actually felt that way. "Surely you don't mean that, Mary Lou."
Mary Lou pinned her with a glacial glare as she gave a short, derisive laugh. It was not a pleasant sound. "I most certainly do mean it, Trista. After you've been here awhile, you'll come to feel the same way, too." At the younger woman's doubtful expression, she added, "You see, I lost my only brother and his family in a raid about ten years ago. The Comanche are nothing but cold, cruel killers. Why, when I think of how they tortured poor Harry . . . and the things they did to Kate—"
