Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  Even as she denied Lance, he was there, the memory of his kisses and arousing caresses filling her with shameful desire. Desperate to wipe him from her mind, she turned to Michael.

  "Kiss me, Michael. . . . Please, kiss me. . . ." she pleaded in a hushed whisper, wanting his embrace to erase Lance from her mind and body forever.

  Michael was shocked by her boldness, but reasoned that she just needed to feel wanted. His lips sought hers in a gentle, caring kiss, but that was not enough for Trista. She wrapped her arms about him and clung to him, deepening the embrace herself. Though his thoughts and feelings were in tumult, Michael's desire for her had not waned, and he responded to her sensual invitation. His arms tightened about her and crushed her to his chest as his mouth moved hungrily over hers.

  For an instant Trista was thrilled, but as his body pressed tautly to hers, letting her know of his need, she suddenly knew it was all wrong. Wrenching herself free, she stared at him in horror as she realized what she'd just done.

  "I'm sorry, Michael. . . ."

  Bewildered by her sudden resistance, Michael went still and then slowly withdrew from their embrace. "No, Trista, I'm the one who's sorry."

  Trista blanched at his words as he moved rigidly away from her and got to his feet. The silence between them was awkward.

  "I'll be with the others if you need anything. . . ." he told her stiffly.

  Trista could only nod in response. Her heart lay heavy in her breast and tears traced damply down her cheeks as she watched Michael walk away.

  The dream was vivid, a swirling vortex of color and light that twisted into patterns and memories Lance wanted to forget. Trista . . . She was there in his mind looking as she had on their last night together . . . pale, golden, and far lovelier than any woman he'd ever seen. As her vision moved through his slumber, he could feel the heaven of her touch and the heated silk of her body against him.

  Fuego charged through the imagery then, his flashing golden beauty complementing Trista's. Perfectly matched in coloring and temperament the two exquisite creatures elusively evaded him at every turn, and in doing so, made his all-consuming need for them even greater. In the dream, Lance reached for them, but they fled his grasp, disappearing into a cloaking gray mist and leaving him alone and cold in the sudden darkness that followed.

  The lone, shrill howl of the coyote rent the night, and Lance came abruptly awake. His heart was pounding as he lay still, and sweat beaded his brow as he thought of how much he missed the golden one. Slowly reality returned, and with it came the anger that fueled his actions.

  Gauging the hour by the position of the moon, he got up and talked to his pony. They had rested enough. He would push himself and his mount to the limit if necessary, but he was going to find Trista and Fuego and claim them again. Putting his heels to the horse's sides, he headed to the south . . . to the Diamond.

  Fuego shifted nervously as Trista spoke to him in a gentle, cajoling voice the next morning. Though the presence of the men rendered him more than a little frightened, he remained close to Trista, trusting her promise of safety.

  Trista had slept deeply after her tense encounter with Michael, and she had been so caught up in her emotional turmoil that she hadn't even thought of Fuego until she'd awakened a little before dawn. She had been thrilled to discover that he had not left her, and had rewarded the big stallion with encouraging praise and some of the grain the men had brought for their own horses.

  "You're planning on riding him?" Michael asked in complete astonishment as he stared at Trista and the rogue.

  Trista nodded firmly. "Fuego has brought me safely this far."

  "I can't believe this," Michael went on. "I knew you were quite a horsewoman, but to have tamed the rogue . . . "

  She managed a smile as she thought of their joint captivity. "He's my friend. He knows me, and he knows that I'd never do anything to hurt him."

  "That's quite an accomplishment," George complimented her. "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure," she cut him off, "and I'm ready to leave whenever you are." For some reason Trista felt compelled to ride back to the ranch on Fuego.

  The rest of the men looked on in admiration as she mounted the golden stallion and urged him forward, but Michael found himself feeling resentful of her easy handling of him.

  Mary Lou Harris's expression was sympathetic. "Darling, I'm just so sorry all this had to happen. Have you heard anything?"

  "No, Mary Lou, not a word. Most of the men who'd ridden out with Michael and George returned several days ago. They reported back that they had found nothing, but that Michael had refused to give up." Eleanor explained the situation to her friend.

  "This is all so terrible," Sukie put in, her heart aching over the trauma poor Michael must be going through. "I know how much Michael cared for Trista and how awful this must be for him. Do you think there's any hope of them finding her?"

  "I don't know, Sukie," Eleanor admitted. "You know how the Comanche are. . . ." She shivered at the thought of Trista in captivity.

  "Sometimes it's almost better if the captives are killed outright." Mary Lou bluntly stated what the other women had been thinking. "I've heard about the condition of some of these women when they're finally located and freed, and it isn't pretty."

  "Mary Lou!" Eleanor protested.

  "Now, Eleanor, you know I'm just speaking the plain truth. We all know what happens to those women, and think of poor Michael's dilemma if he does find Trista," Mary Lou stated.

  "I pray to God that he does find her," she insisted, heartsick over the entire situation.

  "Mrs. Barrett," Sukie spoke up as she slanted her mother a reproachful look, "if there's anything we can do, please call on us."

  "Sukie, you're a dear." Eleanor smiled at her sadly. "I'll let you know the minute I hear something. When Michael returns, I'll tell him that you came by and that you were concerned about him and Trista."

  "Yes, well, we'd better be going." Mary Lou stood up a bit huffily and started from the room. "Be sure to let us know, Eleanor."

  "I will," she promised as she walked them to the door.

  As Mary Lou took up the reins of their buggy and slapped them against the horse's back to start them on their way back home, she gave her daughter a pensive look. She knew how heartbroken Sukie had been ever since Michael had announced his engagement, and though she regretted what had happened, she could also see a promising outcome to the whole situation. "You know, I feel terrible about what's happened, but . . . "

  Sukie had been lost in thought, imagining Michael's pain and empathizing with him over his loss, when her mother's comment interrupted her. "But what?" She gave her a curious look.

  "But this might work out for the best in the end," Mary Lou concluded with a shrewd certainty.

  "I don't understand, Mother. What are you talking about?" Sukie was truly confused by her statement.

  "I'm talking about Trista's disappearance."

  "It's just horrible, isn't it?" she remarked sincerely. "I feel really bad for Michael. . . . And can you just imagine what poor Trista is going through?"

  "Let's don't talk about Trista. Think about Michael and how you're going to comfort him when he returns without his fiancée."

  "Mother!" Sukie was both embarrassed and outraged by her suggestion.

  "If Trista doesn't return, Sukie, then Michael will be a free man again."

  While her spirits lifted at the thought, she could not bring herself to celebrate the other woman's misfortune. She struggled inwardly with her conflicting emotions as her mother continued.

  "There may still be hope for a union between our two families."

  "There's always the chance that they'll find her, Mother," Sukie pointed out.

  "Sukie, dear, do you think for one moment that Eleanor is going to stand by and let her only son marry a girl who's been held captive by some filthy Comanche?"

  "But Michael loves her." Sukie found herself in the odd position of defending Trista.

/>   "Maybe he does, but things change. Mark my words." Mary Lou's tone was final, and Sukie said no more as they continued on their way home.

  Eleanor stood at the window of her bedroom staring out across the vast acreage of the Royal Diamond. Her thoughts were on her son and her husband, and she wondered how much longer it would be before they gave up the search for Trista and came home.

  Eleanor shook her head slowly in weary denial of all that had happened. Just a short time before everything had been so perfect in Michael's life. He had found the woman he loved and had been ecstatically happy. Regretfully, she realized that Mary Lou had probably been right, for things would probably never be the same if they found Trista alive now. It was a fact that the Comanche were unspeakably cruel, and Eleanor deliberately avoided dwelling on what poor Trista might be suffering at their hands.

  A deep, sorrowful sigh escaped her at the thought of Trista's father. She had notified him of his daughter's disappearance shortly after it had happened, and he had sent a message back stating that he would be there as soon as possible. She did not know when he would be arriving, but she was dreading it. Still, she knew there could be no help for it. One way or the other, he would have to be informed of his daughter's fate.

  As Eleanor was about to turn away from the window, she saw a rider racing toward the house from the north. She gripped the windowsill anxiously as she tried to make out who it was, but her efforts were to no avail. Gathering up her skirts, she hurried from the room and rushed downstairs. She had just stepped out onto the porch when Poker reined in in a cloud of dust before her.

  "Poker . . . what is it?" she asked worriedly.

  "It's them, Mrs. Barrett. . . ." He was so excited that he was having trouble getting out the news.

  "Who, Poker? My husband and Michael?"

  "Yes, ma'am, and Miss Trista, too. They found her."

  "She's alive. . . ." Eleanor breathed.

  "Yes, ma'am, and she looks to be pretty well 'ceptin' for the Indian clothes she's wearin'. They're headin' this way right now," Poker related.

  "Dear God . . . thank heavens. How soon will they be here?"

  "They been ridin' pretty hard all day, so I imagine it's gonna take 'em another half hour or so. Mr. Barrett asked me to ride ahead and let you know."

  "Thank you, Poker. Thank you so much . . . " Trembling, Eleanor stared off to the north, waiting for some sign of her men returning and wondering how Trista had fared at the hands of the Comanche.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Rosalie had departed Trista's bedroom, leaving her alone at last, Trista quickly discarded her Comanche garb and lowered herself into the hot bathwater. Sighing, she leaned back against the side of the tub and closed her eyes. She tried to relax, but every nerve in her body was still tense and on edge despite the fact that she was once more safely with Michael on the Royal Diamond.

  The soothing warmth of the bath helped to ease the weary soreness from Trista's aching muscles as she lay there, but it did little to relieve the complex jumble of emotions that were trapped within her heart. Instead of calming her, it had the opposite effect, reminding her of the bath she'd taken that night in the pool . . . and how it had ended.

  Lance! Would he never leave her thoughts? Trista despaired as guilt surged through her. She felt deeply ashamed of all that had happened with Lance, and she was finding it difficult living with the knowledge that she'd submitted to the handsome half-breed.

  She was grateful that Michael had only questioned her about her situation one time and then, tactfully, had never brought it up again. He was being so kind, so considerate, and so attentive, and she was feeling so guilty. . . .

  How could she have betrayed Michael as she had? How could she have gone so willingly to Lance that last night? Regrettably, though she didn't understand it, she knew the answer. The dangerous warrior had only to touch her to set her senses reeling and strike all reason from her mind.

  Trista bit back a sob as Lance took possession of her thoughts again, and she couldn't stop herself from wondering where he was and what he was doing. Had he returned to the village yet and discovered her absence, or was he still off on his raid, knowing nothing of her successful flight to freedom? Angrily, she fought to banish all thoughts of Lance as she stared down at Michael's ring on her finger. She was Michael's fiancée. She wanted her future to be with him. Certainly, once she was Michael's wife, she would forget all about Lance.

  Agitation gripped her, and Trista picked up the scented soap Rosalie had provided and began to wash her hair. Wanting to cleanse herself of all that had happened, she scrubbed every inch of her body. Her skin was glowing when she finished, the peachy tint that living in the outdoors had given her adding a blossom of color to her otherwise pale complexion. Her bath completed and feeling a bit more like her normal self, she rose from the tub and toweled herself dry.

  As she moved to the wardrobe to get her wrapper, Trista caught sight of her reflection in the mirror above her dressing table and gasped in dismay, shocked to discover that her back was covered with bruises. She had known that Night Lark's blows the other day had been painful, but she'd had no idea that they had left such vivid marks upon her. Her heart hardened as she thought of Lance directing the other woman to "train" her so she could become a chore wife, and she smiled thinly in pleasure at the thought of his anger when he returned to find her gone.

  Determined that Michael would never see any outward sign of her mistreatment, Trista donned her wrapper and belted it securely about her waist. She moved to sit at the vanity table and carefully studied her face in the mirror as she worked the comb through the heavy mane of her hair. Trista was worried that there might be some outward change in her that might reveal the chaos of her feelings, but to her immense relief there was no telltale sign revealing her inner torment. It was bad enough that she had to deal secretly with her shame, but she certainly didn't want Michael to discover the full extent of her betrayal. No matter what, Trista vowed, she was going to put it all behind her. She was going to try to act as if nothing had happened, and maybe, with time, she could convince herself that it was true.

  "Michael, what are you going to do?" Eleanor asked, her concern obvious in her worried expression as she glanced from her husband to her son.

  Michael took a deep drink from the tumbler of whiskey he was holding and then looked up, meeting her gaze steadily. "Trista has suffered enough, Mother. I love her, and I see no reason to alter our plans."

  "Are you sure about this?"

  "Very," he replied unwaveringly, his expression stony.

  "George?" Eleanor turned to her husband for further counsel.

  "It's Michael's decision, Eleanor, but I am in total agreement with him."

  With an effort, Eleanor put her concern about appearances aside. If this was what Michael really wanted, then she would support him fully. No one would dare question or cross a Barrett about this matter once it was made clear that Trista would indeed still be marrying Michael. Certainly the girl had been easy enough to guide before this incident, but now Eleanor was sure she would be even more easily intimidated. She found the prospect pleasing.

  "Very well," she agreed without further objection. "Shall we move up the wedding date then? Since her father is on his way here now, there's really no reason to delay the ceremony once he arrives."

  "That's fine with me, if it's all right with Trista," Michael consented, understanding the possible need for an earlier wedding date.

  "I'm sure she'll agree. It seems the only logical course. . . ." Eleanor told her son as she went to him and lay a comforting hand upon his arm. "Trista's very, very lucky to have you, darling. I hope you'll both be happy."

  "We will be, Mother. I love her, and she loves me. Now that I've got her back, I'll never let anything or anyone separate us ever again," Michael stated fiercely as he drained the last of his whiskey, stood up, and went to the liquor cabinet to refill his glass.

  George and Eleanor exchanged a short, trou
bled glance. Michael was not a heavy drinker.

  "I'd better get cleaned up now before dinner," Michael told them, starting from the room with a full tumbler of liquor in his hand.

  "Of course, dear." They watched him go in silence and were both relieved and worried at the same time.

  "George, is Michael all right?"

  "He will be, given time," George responded sagely.

  "And Trista? She seemed rather withdrawn when you arrived, George, and she looked so terrible dressed that way. . . ." Eleanor clutched at her husband's arm as she remembered the sight of her future daughter-in-law looking so much like a wild Comanche squaw.

  Thinking of Trista and her time in captivity, George paused before he answered, "She's been through a lot, darling, but she's a strong-willed young woman. With Michael's love and our continued support, she should be just fine."

  "Good . . . " she breathed in relief.

  When Eleanor left him a few minutes later and at last he was alone, George let his mask of deception drop. His expression was heartbreakingly sad, and his movements were almost jerky as he strode to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a stiff drink. George stared about the study with unseeing eyes, thinking of the past and his son, his firstborn.

  Lance . . . It had been Lance . . . his son. Excitement mingled with fear at the thought. He'd wanted to question Trista more about the half-breed who'd captured her, but knew it was impossible. She had escaped her captor, and she was safe. From now on they would endeavor never to mention him or this time again. But even as George knew he could never speak to her of the savage half-breed who'd taken her prisoner, his heart longed to know more of his long-lost son . . . the boy he had loved and yet forfeited during the darkest days of his life.

  The late afternoon breeze shifted, and Fuego, safely penned in the Royal Diamond's main corral, tensed and raised his head. He was suddenly alert . . . suddenly threatened, and he moved agitatedly about the enclosure as he studied the surrounding terrain.