Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  The kisses Lance pressed upon her silken flesh were hot and arousing, and Trista grew weak with desire. She clung to him, wanting more than just these few heated touches. When he moved to his bed, she went willingly. Her clothing cast aside, she welcomed him to her. Her arms reached out to hold him close as he tantalizingly stroked every inch of her satiny curves.

  There was no thought, only a driving need to possess and be possessed. At his urging, Trista spread her thighs, and then there were no barriers between them as Lance moved deep within her. He gloried in the feel of her holding him tightly in her womanly depths, and he lay still for a moment savoring the velvet heat.

  Trista did not understand the reason for his quiet, and she moved restlessly beneath him, wanting him to continue. Her senses were crying out for him to release her from this sensual bondage he'd created, to slake the hunger that his touch had aroused.

  No words were spoken as he began to move. Driven to the brink by her encouragement, Lance thrust deeply within her, claiming her as his own, branding her forever as his. His desire mounted with each potent stroke of his hips, and he sought his pleasure, taking her with him to the ecstasy of paradise.

  Trista crested, the throbbing excitement pulsing through her in a rainbow of rapture. Mindless in the aftermath of her passion, she lay with him, cradling him to her.

  The beat of the drums penetrated the haze of contentment that had momentarily engulfed them both. The harshness of their savage rhythm brought Lance back to reality, and he moved quickly away to pull on his clothing.

  Trista was startled by his sudden withdrawal from her, and as the coolness of the night's air chilled her previously heated body, the mist of satisfaction that had clouded her thinking vanished. A tremendous sense of remorse filled her. It had happened between them again, and she had been powerless to stop it! Stricken, she grabbed for her own clothing and hastily began to dress.

  Lance did not look at her until he was heading out the door. "Do not leave my lodge. I will send someone for you."

  "But Lance, I—" she began, but it was too late. He had already gone, and she was alone with only her bitterness and her regrets.

  Clad in his finest buckskin clothing, his face painted in honor of the celebration, Lance sat with his uncle before the huge bonfire, enjoying the evening's events. Dancers moved about the flames in time to the pagan, pulsing rhythm of the drums, singing out their joy at his accomplishment.

  "It is a fine celebration, Lone Elk," Lance thanked him as he watched the dancers before him.

  "It is only worthy of your success. You alone caught the elusive golden one," his uncle told him proudly. "I am looking forward to watching his taming."

  "I am looking forward to having him tamed, although I do not believe he will ever be completely docile. His pride is fierce."

  "He is much like his master then." Lone Elk smiled at Lance. "This is good. His offspring will strengthen your herd."

  "His foals will bring much in trade," Lance agreed.

  "Where is your captive tonight?" Lone Elk asked, wondering at her absence.

  "I have left her with She Who Speaks the Truth," he replied.

  "I would see this woman you brought back."

  "Tomorrow I will bring her to you."

  Lone Elk grunted his approval and turned his attention back to the dancers.

  Night Lark danced feverishly to the rhythm of the drumbeat. All night she had done her best to try to attract Lance's attention, but so far she had met with little success. Her frustration was growing.

  Night Lark knew a moment of disquiet as she thought of his white captive. Wind Rider had made no secret of his desire for her, and he had also indicated that Lance wanted her, too. The possibility jarred her. She was the most sought after maiden in the tribe, yet she disdained all offers in favor of Lance. She had loved him for a long time now and had waited patiently for the time when he would take her as his wife. If he chose the white woman over her, it would be a blow to her esteem from which she might never recover. She would become the laughingstock of the village! A sneer curved her full lips at the thought. There was no way she was going to let the pale, ugly white woman have Lance. He was hers!

  What she'd been angry about before, she now considered a blessing. Wind Rider had convinced her mother to allow the captive, Trista, to stay with them. At first it had disturbed her, but Night Lark knew now that it was the perfect situation. With Trista at her beck and call, she could keep an eye on her at all times and make her life a living hell. The thought pleased her, and a smile of pure delight curved her mouth. Lance would never belong to the white woman! Never!

  The savage beat of the music drawing her on, Trista crept closer to the center of the village. The ways of the Comanche were a mystery to her, and so she stayed hidden in the shadows as she watched the festivities. She stared in fascination at the dancers as they moved to the frenzied, haunting rhythm, their painted, sweat-streaked bodies gleaming in the flickering firelight.

  She searched the crowd for Lance. His appearance was so different because of the paint he'd used and the change in his clothing that it took her a minute to recognize him. No longer was he wearing a simple breechclout. Instead, he'd donned a buckskin shirt and leggings that were decorated with colored beads, bits of silver, and long, flowing fringe. His face was painted in several different colors this time, but Trista still found that she hated the Comanche disguise. She could find no kindness in him when he looked so fiercely alien.

  It was then, as she was watching Lance, that she noticed the woman dancing directly before him as if offering herself to him. Trista recognized Night Lark almost immediately and knew a great desire to trip her now, just as Night Lark had tripped her earlier during her confrontation with Striking Snake. Their situations might not be the same, but she knew she would derive great pleasure from embarrassing her.

  Trista did not hate many people, but Night Lark was definitely one of the few who had earned her enmity. Their first encounter had been galling enough by itself, but the thought that she now had to live in the same lodge with her made it even worse. When she had come for her at Lance's lodge with her mother, She Who Speaks the Truth, Night Lark had wasted no time in making her lowly position in their household known. Trista sensed that Night Lark would be incredibly cruel to her if the opportunity arose, and she knew she would be hard put to tolerate the other woman's viciousness should it come to that.

  Her gaze drifted back to Lance. She noticed that his full attention was now directed to Night Lark and that he was smiling widely at her. The older man sitting beside him said something to him, and Lance laughed good-naturedly at the remark though his eyes did not leave Night Lark's swaying body.

  A surge of aggravation shot through her, though she did not know why she should care if he found the other woman attractive. She hated Lance! Hated him with all her heart and soul! Turning her back on the revelry, she disappeared into the night, refusing to put a name to the emotion that was tugging so painfully at her heart.

  It was much later when Lance left the celebration. The day had been a long one, but though he was tired, he was feeling well satisfied with his life. He had attained what had amounted to almost a lifelong goal for him in capturing the golden rogue, and tomorrow he would begin training the stallion to accept a rider. The thought that soon he would be regularly riding the once elusive horse filled him with great pleasure. He smiled widely at the thought as he made his way through the quiet of the camp heading in the direction of his tipi.

  "Your evening has been a happy one, Lance?" The sultry female voice came to him through the darkness of the night.

  Lance paused and turned toward where he knew Night Lark stood. "Your voice is as sweet as your name, Night Lark, and yes, my evening has been a happy one."

  She stepped forth to confront him, her eyes sparkling with desire, her pulse beating rapidly at the thought of sharing his heated embrace. "I would like all of your nights to be this special."

  "It would
be more than even the bravest of warriors could bear," Lance returned lightly, for the celebrating had lasted long into the night, with food and drink flowing freely.

  "Then we will speak only of tonight," Night Lark murmured as she moved toward him, pressing herself completely against him and linking her arms around his neck, "and tonight is not yet over."

  With a slight tug of her arms, Night Lark drew him down for a flaming kiss. When Lance accepted her kiss, Night Lark moved sinuously against him in a deliberate effort to try to arouse his passions.

  Despite all of Night Lark's sensual efforts, an image of Trista intruded in Lance's thoughts. It was a vision of Trista lying naked on his bed . . . her golden hair spread out in a pale halo about her . . . her rounded, silken breasts begging for the touch of his lips . . . her slender thighs wrapped tightly about his waist as he plumbed the depths of her womanhood.

  It angered Lance that Trista had the power to haunt him even when he was kissing another woman. It had been bad enough that Trista had slipped into his thoughts on several occasions during the celebration and that numerous times he had found himself scanning the crowd, to no avail, for a glimpse of her. But for her to barge into his consciousness as he was holding another woman in his arms, that was too much! She was nothing but his slave.

  Even so, to his frustration, Lance was finding Night Lark's nearness more suffocating than exciting. Though her mouth was hot with promise and her body lushly curved and pliant against his, Lance felt no thrill as she moved her hips in wanton suggestion. Knowing that he did not desire her and that it would be a mistake to take her under these pretenses, Lance encircled her waist with his hands and held her gently away from him.

  "Lance?" Night Lark tried to go back into his arms, but he kept her at a distance.

  "Go home to your mother, Night Lark."

  "But Lance . . . I want you . . . I love you . . . ." she proclaimed shamelessly. "You know that, don't you?"

  "But I do not love you."

  "I can make you love me! Let me show you the unending pleasure I can give you. . . ." Night Lark offered brazenly.

  "No," he refused as he released her. "One day you will find a warrior who returns your love. I am not the one."

  Stunned and humiliated, she stared up at him with pain-filled eyes. "Someday you will want me, Lance! I know it!" Then, fighting back the anguish that threatened to destroy her composure, she fled into the night.

  Lance watched her go, feeling relief more than anything. Wearily, he continued on his way to his lodge. When he entered his sanctuary, he fell exhausted upon the bed, eagerly courting sleep.

  To his surprise, though, sleep did not come. Erotic thoughts of what had last happened on the bed assailed him. Trista . . . an image of her swam before him in the darkness, and he suddenly realized that he missed her warmth beside him. Though they had only slept together for three nights, he felt somehow very alone without her near. As he recognized the direction of his thoughts, he cursed his weakness and rolled over, more determined than ever to put her from his mind.

  Trista lay wide awake on her small pallet in She Who Speaks the Truth's tipi. The hours of the evening had seemed endless since she'd left Lance's celebration. Alone and miserable, she had wandered the camp, taking care to avoid any contact with the villagers. Eventually she had found herself at the rope corral that housed Lance's horses and had spent a long time watching Fuego.

  Trista felt a certain kinship with the golden rogue. They had lost the freedom of their lives at the same time, and both were now expected to be subservient to Lance. As if aware of her commiseration, Fuego had approached her. At her softly murmured encouragements, he had edged closer until, in time, he had allowed her to touch him. In a tentative truce, they had remained together . . . golden woman and golden horse . . . throughout the long, lonely hours of the night, until the music had stopped and Trista had been forced to return to her new home.

  She Who Speaks the Truth had retired shortly after Trista had returned, but there had been no sign of Night Lark as the night had progressed. Now, as dawn cast red and purple streaks across the eastern horizon, Trista lay restlessly upon the hard mat that served as her bed, wondering at the other woman's absence. Where was she? Had Lance taken her up on what she had been so obviously offering him during the dancing? The thought sickened her even as she rationalized that she didn't care what Lance did.

  There was the sound of muted footfalls, and then Night Lark slipped quietly into the lodge. Taking great care not to disturb her mother, she moved about the tipi to her own bed near Trista's.

  Since running away from the misery of Lance's rejection, Night Lark had had time to think, and she had come to the conclusion that the white woman was responsible for her plight. Before he had returned with his captive, he had never refused her embrace, but now . . . it was probably as Wind Rider had suggested. Lance was seeking his comfort with this pale, blond bitch. Night Lark was sure that he would tire of her sooner or later, and when he did, she would be there for him. Until that happened, she would just have to bide her time.

  When she saw that Trista was lying there still awake, her pride insisted that she convince her that she had been with Lance all this time. As she sat upon her own bed, she gave her a smug smile as she stretched in a catlike motion.

  "It was a wonderful celebration," she said softly, her sensual movements giving extra meaning to her words.

  Her insinuation sent a shaft of unexplainable pain through Trista, but she said nothing. What was there to say? She knew that the revelry had ended a long time before. Lance had no doubt made love to her and then spent the rest of the evening in Night Lark's arms. Her hatred for him grew unbounded.

  Night Lark settled comfortably on her own bed. "Lance and I will be married soon. When we are, I will find great joy in giving him many sons."

  Trista lay still as the other woman's words haunted her. . . . Lance was to marry Night Lark. Staring blankly off into the night's enveloping darkness, she wondered at the ache that clutched at her breast.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lance's mood was black. As badly as he had needed rest the night before, he had been unable to get any real sleep. Every time he had managed to drift off, dreams of Trista had disturbed his slumber. Desperation had finally driven him from his bed, and seeking diversion from his thoughts of her, he had gone down to the corral to check on Fuego.

  Seeing the golden stallion, however, had not provided the distraction he had hoped. Even as he watched the rogue, his golden coat gleaming in dawn's early light, thoughts of Trista invaded. It would not have troubled him so badly had his thoughts been of her connection to the Barretts and his need to seek his revenge through her. But instead he was obsessed with the memory of her lovemaking and the joy that was his when he was buried deep within her body, possessing her to the fullest.

  Lance knew he could not afford to feel anything for Trista. She was but a tool for him to achieve some measure of vengeance on the father who had deserted him and the half brother who had taken his place. He had already made Trista his, Lance told himself logically. He had taken her innocence, which by rights had belonged to Michael, and he would continue to take his pleasure with her. When he grew tired of her, he would sell her to Wind Rider.

  For some perverse reason, the thought of her belonging to Wind Rider or of his friend touching her infuriated him. He shook his head in confusion, disquieted by the strength of his reaction to the prospect.

  Pushing all disturbing thoughts of Trista from his mind, Lance took up a hackamore and entered the corral. Cautiously, he approached the still-untamed stallion. In his usual controlled manner, he carefully coaxed Fuego closer until he was able to slip the restraint on him. So in hand, Lance led the rogue from the pen and began making his way to the sandy-bottomed creek that ran along the far side of the village.

  As he passed through the camp, he stopped briefly at Lone Elk's tipi to tell him of his plans, for he knew his uncle wanted to watch the first mounting. He
then paused at Wind Rider's lodge to seek his help. Though his friend grumbled at being awakened so early, he hurried to join him.

  Word spread quickly that Lance was about to begin the breaking of the golden one. Despite the hour, many came to watch, knowing that it would be a great challenge for Lance to bring the elusive rogue under domination.

  Fuego could sense the excitement in the air. He grew edgy as Lance led him to the stream and then down into the water. Skittishly, he balked, trying to pull free of Lance's grip, but Lance merely talked to him softly and calmed him with his crooning words.

  "Shall I hold his head while you mount?" Wind Rider was afraid that the rogue might bolt should he come near, and he waited until Lance signaled that it was safe for him to approach.

  "Yes. Hold him tightly until I'm completely on his back," Lance directed, "then let him go."

  Though they had broken many horses together in the past, this first actual mounting of Fuego was special, and they were glad they were sharing it together. Lance took a quick glance around at those gathered on the bank, waiting excitedly to watch the taming, and then handed the restraint to Wind Rider.

  Fuego stood quivering and uncertain as he eyed the two men skeptically. Though he had come to trust Lance somewhat, his previous bad experiences with men had scarred him deeply. The tension in the growing crowd brought back many memories of pain and danger, and even Lance's gentle strokes and melodic words did not ease the tense knot of fear that filled him.

  Lance vaulted onto the stallion's back in one easy move, and for a moment all was quiet. Then, as if exploding, Fuego bucked, his back arching, his eyes rolling wildly in his desperation to be free of Lance's oppressive weight. Twisting and churning, he fought to dislodge Lance.