Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  "I was not wanted here," he explained simply.

  "That's not true!" Rosalie replied without pause. The scathing look he gave her stopped her from saying more.

  "It is long passed and of no importance." Lance shrugged it off, not wanting to hear more protestations of his father's concern for him. While some of it might be true, it still remained that at any time he could have come after him, and he did not.

  "You're absolutely right," she agreed, surprising him. "What matters is that you're here now and intend to stay. This is a joyous day for all of us. I don't think I've seen your father this happy in years. . . ."

  Bitterly, Lance wondered when the last time was . . . his marriage to the white woman or the birth of his white son.

  "Señor George told me that you were here, and Michael asked that I bring these to you," Rosalie said as she picked up the pile of clothes she'd dropped earlier in her excitement. She regarded him critically for a moment. "They should fit you. . . . You and Michael look to be almost the same height and weight."

  The last thing Lance had wanted to do was to dress as a white man, but since he'd decided to remain—for at least a little while—he realized that he would have to conform. He took the clothing from her with obvious reluctance. "Thank you."

  Rosalie had always been attuned to his feelings, and her gaze met his in loving understanding. "I know this will be awkward for you for a while. You've been away so long. . . ." She paused, wanting him to open up to her, but when he didn't, she merely rested a gentle hand on his forearm. "I'm glad you're back, Lance, and don't worry. Everything will be fine."

  He watched in silence as she left the room.

  Eleanor lay in her bed, her fury unabated. She had been waiting for hours for George to join her. She had heard Michael retire long before, yet George still had not come upstairs to retire. Needing to talk with him, wanting to convince him of the terrible mistake he was making with Lance, she finally rose, drew on her wrapper, and went downstairs in search of him.

  The hall was deserted, and Eleanor moved quietly down its length to the staircase. As she started down the steps she noticed that the study door was open and that a soft light shone from within. She continued on down and was about to enter when she heard the sound of his voice. Eleanor wondered if Lance had come back down to speak with him, but realized, when there was no answering voice, that George was alone and he was talking to himself.

  She moved nearer and saw that he was sitting at his desk, an open, half-empty bottle of whiskey before him. His shoulders were slumped, his elbows were braced on the desktop, and his head was resting in his hands. He seemed to be staring down at something on the desk before him, and he looked altogether despairing. Eleanor was about to go in and make her presence known when he spoke again, his voice low and sad.

  "Shining Star . . . at last he's come home to me. . . ." George's tone was hoarse with emotion. "I waited so long, my darling . . . and I was so afraid. . . ."

  Eleanor stiffened in outrage. How dare he! He was thinking of that Comanche bitch he'd been married to before her and no doubt staring at the daguerreotype he had of her!

  "You'll never know how much I miss you, love. There were days when I didn't think I could go on. But now that Lance is here . . . everything will be all right. . . ."

  Eleanor was livid as she backed away from the door. His words were daggers to her heart, killing all of her love for him. She had given him the best years of her life . . . She had given him a son! A WHITE SON! Yet George was more concerned with the damned breed!

  She was furious as she raced silently back to her room. George might think that everything was going to be all right, but he was wrong. The Royal Diamond belonged to her son, Michael. No half-breed was going to come between Michael and his inheritance. She didn't know how she was going to do it yet, but somehow, someway she was going to get rid of Lance once and for all.

  It was late as Lance lay restlessly on the comfort of his bed staring at the ceiling. His encounter with Rosalie had awakened many feelings he'd long thought dead and had filled him with even greater confusion. He didn't want to believe everything that he'd been hearing . . . that his father had missed him and had tried to get him back. Yet Rosalie had confirmed that all his father had told him was the truth.

  The possibility was painful for him. For years Lance had thought that George hated him. That firm belief had fueled his need to prove himself among the warriors of the tribe. Being only half-Comanche, he had been looked down upon in his early years there. He had managed to best the others through cunning and strength and, in doing so, had won their respect and been accepted as an equal among them. His father's hurried remarriage had compounded his desire to prove to himself that he could best the Barretts. It had taken many years, but he had finally accomplished it with his taking of Trista.

  Trista swept into his thoughts then, and he smiled wolfishly to himself. Michael would never have her now. Yet as he thought of his brother and of how he had stolen the woman who was to be his wife, he wondered why he felt no surge of final triumphant satisfaction. Instead of feeling as if he'd won a great battle that he'd been fighting for a long time, he felt empty, as if the victory had been a hollow one.

  Trista . . . The thought of her pale loveliness filled Lance with desire, and he was hard-pressed not to seek her out in her room just down the hall. He remembered the first time he'd seen her from a distance out on the porch the night of the party. He had wanted her then, even before he'd found out that she was Michael's fiancée, and discovering that she belonged to his brother had just been an added bonus. The fact remained that she was his wife. He had claimed her and made her his, and he intended to keep her.

  Restless now that he was lost in thoughts of Trista, Lance got up from the soft bed and strode to the window. The sky was black velvet studded with a golden moon and myriad twinkling stars. The endless acres of the Diamond stretched out before him, and Lance suddenly knew a sense of peace. Perhaps, he thought strangely, he really had come home. . . .

  Chapter Twenty

  The first pink-gold streaks of dawn in the fading night sky found Lance already up and getting dressed. Lance shifted uncomfortably as he pulled on a pair of his brother's pants and fastened the waist. He had lived as a Comanche for so long that he found the tight fit of the trousers restraining and uncomfortable. He shrugged into one of the shirts Rosalie had brought him and noted the way it fit him almost perfectly across the shoulders. She had been right. . . . He and Michael were about the same size. Lance sat back down on the bed to pull on the socks and boots, and then, snatching up the Stetson that had been included in the bundle, he started from the room. He was anxious to get outdoors, for he felt as if he had been inside far too long already.

  The house was quiet as Lance made his way downstairs and outside. The morning breeze was fresh and cool, and he gloried in the sweet scent of it as he stepped off the porch and headed in the direction of the stable to see Fuego.

  The golden rogue trotted briskly about his enclosure as he watched Lance's approach. Though he did not recognize him, he sensed that there was something familiar about him . . . and something dangerous. His ears flattened at some instinctively remembered threat, and he paused in his movements to regard him cautiously.

  Lance understood the horse's reaction to his nearness, and as he climbed the fence to enter the corral, he began talking to him in his crooning, seductive tone. "Easy, golden one . . . easy." He spoke calmly, wanting to renew the bond he had created while they were in the village. Moving with slow, deliberate motions, he crossed the pen toward the stallion.

  The rogue backed skittishly away from his encroachment, and Lance thought of how like Fuego Trista was. He had made them both his, yet they still struggled to escape him. A look of resolve hardened his features. They might try to get away, but he would never let them go. They belonged to him.

  Trista did not sleep well. Unbidden dreams of her time in captivity had disturbed her rest. Threatening visi
ons of Striking Snake and Night Lark loomed in her consciousness, and several times during the night she had come awake with a start. Trista had known from the beginning that it was going to be difficult for her to forget the time she'd spent in the Comanche village, but Lance's presence here was making it next to impossible.

  When at last Trista awoke and it was light, she felt more drained and more exhausted than she had when she'd first retired. She would have lain in bed longer except that the sound of Fuego's distressed whinny disturbed her. Without bothering to put on her wrapper, she rushed to the window to see why he was sounding so restless.

  The sight of a tall ranchhand she didn't recognize trying to approach the stallion in the corral frightened her. Fuego could be deadly dangerous! She realized that there was no time for her to reach the pen and warn the stranger, so mindless of her lack of proper dress, she leaned farther out the window to call out her warning.

  "Don't trust the stallion!" Trista shouted, wanting to get his attention before Fuego panicked and tried to trample him. "He's not as tame as he looks!"

  As the man paused in his pursuit of the horse and turned slowly toward the house, Trista gasped in stunned amazement. The stranger who stood in the corral with Fuego was Lance! She stared at him in mute surprise, noting how completely different he looked in denim pants that fit his strong, muscular thighs to perfection, and the dark-colored shirt that emphasized the broad, firm width of his chest and shoulders. The brim of the black Stetson he wore shaded his features from her, but she could imagine the mocking, derisive look that would be mirrored in his blue eyes because she'd warned him away from Fuego. Frozen, she stood unmoving, looking down at him.

  Lance had heard Trista's call and realized with amusement that she did not recognize him in Michael's clothing. Turning to confront her, he stopped. The sight of her framed in the bedroom window with her hair unbound, and clad only in a white nightdress, left him entranced, and he could only stare up at her in silence. A heat filled his loins as he remembered the last time he'd seen her with her hair down around her shoulders, and he was just about to start back inside to claim his husbandly rights when he saw Michael come out of the house and head in his direction.

  In a cocky and boldly deliberate gesture, he nodded slightly in Trista's direction as he said, "You are most beautiful in the morning, Trista. I regret that I was not there to awaken you the morning after our wedding night, wife. . . ."

  A flash of fury seared Trista at his confident, arrogant reminder of her time with him . . . a time, she told herself, that she would rather forget. The moment of enchantment that had held her mesmerized exploded into shards of angry outrage. She started to retort angrily, then Michael appeared below.

  Michael was on his way to the stable to saddle up his horse for his morning ride when he discovered that Lance was already at the corral with the golden rogue. He was curious to see if Lance could handle the stallion. Just as he was starting toward the enclosure to watch, he heard the sound of Trista's voice and saw Lance turn toward the house, his gaze focused on an upstairs window.

  "You are most beautiful in the morning, Trista. I regret that I was not there to awaken you the morning after our wedding night. . . ."

  Lance's words sent a shaft of pain through Michael, and he looked up to see Trista, clad only in her nightdress, at the window of her bedroom. Jealousy pounded through him, and he wondered angrily just what she was doing standing in the window so scantily dressed talking to Lance. The night before she'd been adamant that she wanted nothing to do with him, and yet here she was speaking to him of their "wedding night" while she was wearing only a nightgown. The thought that she might actually feel something for Lance occurred to him then, and Michael looked up at her suspiciously.

  Trista was shocked to discover that Michael had overheard Lance's remark. Her worried gaze met Michael's dark, anger-filled one, and she flushed guiltily. Suddenly aware of her state of undress, she quickly withdrew from the window.

  Michael faced Lance across the corral. Their eyes locked in silent combat as they regarded each other warily. Trista was the prize they both sought, yet she was a treasure that right now eluded them both.

  "Trista is my wife, Michael." Lance's tone was flat as he spoke what he believed to be the truth.

  "Not in my book, Lance. Trista's going to marry me. She will be mine, and," he added angrily, "she won't have to be forced!"

  "Is that what Trista told you?" he asked derisively, his taunting tone adding more doubt to Michael's growing misgivings.

  Michael glared at him. "She ran away from you, Lance. She came back to me."

  Lance only smiled. "That does not change the fact that she is married to me."

  Infuriated, Michael stalked off into the stable, leaving Lance to return to his work with Fuego.

  Rosalie was in the parlor when she saw Trista coming down the stairs. "Good morning, Trista."

  "Good morning, Rosalie," she greeted her warmly.

  "Would you like your breakfast now, or would you prefer to wait for the others? The señora and Señor George are still sleeping, and Lance and Michael have left the house."

  "I'll have mine now if you don't mind," Trista responded, pleased that she would have the chance to dine alone. She had not relished the possibility of sharing breakfast with Lance. She wanted to stay as far away from him as she could.

  "I'll bring it right out to you," she promised as she started toward the back of the house, but Trista's question stopped her.

  "Rosalie . . . you worked for the Barretts when Lance lived here before, didn't you?"

  Rosalie regarded her solemnly. "Yes, Trista. I worked for Señor George when he was married to Lance's mother."

  "And you know all about the time when Lance left to live with the Comanches?"

  The servant nodded, her expression growing sadder at the memory. "It was not a happy time," she said slowly.

  "What happened? Why did Lance believe his father hated him all this time, and why did he stay with the Comanche when he had such a wonderful home here?"

  Rosalie studied the younger woman, and seeing no guile in her expression, she decided to tell her. Trista was, after all, caught up in the middle of this. She sighed deeply as she began to relate her tale of the past. "It was not always such a wonderful home. After Shining Star died of the fever, Señor George was beside himself with grief." She went on to explain how he had locked himself in his study and had tried to drink himself into oblivion. "It was so tragic. . . . He loved her so much. It seemed as if his life had no meaning without her. He has been a different man ever since that time. It's almost as if a vital part of him died when Shining Star did. . . . He loved her that much."

  "Was she beautiful?"

  "Oh, yes. She was lovely, and you can see how handsome her only son has become. Señor George's love for her was boundless. . . . He cherished her." At Trista's understanding nod, she continued, "After her death it was as if the sight of Lance was just too painful for Señor George. When Lone Elk heard of his sister's death and came for the boy, he did not even try to stop him from leaving."

  "But why would Lance have gone?"

  Rosalie shrugged. "He was but a little boy who had lost his mother. He was desperately lonely, and Lone Elk offered him what his father at that time could not . . . love."

  "Why did he stay away so long? Didn't Lance ever want to come back?"

  "There was one time . . . " Her voice faded as she remembered Lance's return and the heartbreak he'd suffered when he'd found out that his father had already remarried and fathered another son.

  "What happened?" Somehow Trista sensed that this was the real tragedy.

  "It was not long after Lance had gone with Lone Elk. Señor George had already remarried, though, and the señora had had Michael."

  "George remarried that quickly?" She found the news disturbing as well as surprising considering the obvious strength of George's feelings for Shining Star.

  "Oh yes. He was so lonely without Shin
ing Star. He loved her so much. . . ." She paused. "Anyway, they had all gone to town when Lance came. Once Lance learned of the marriage, he disappeared, and he never came back."

  "Oh, no . . . "

  Rosalie shook her head slowly. "Señor George tried to contact him when he got home, but there was never any answer to the messages he sent. According to the agreement he had reached with Lone Elk, Lance had to make the decision whether to come home or not. After awhile the rejection of Lance's silence became too much for Señor George, and he did not try to contact him anymore."

  Eleanor was still bristling with anger about George's weakness for Lance and the half-breed's presence there. She had left her husband to sleep off his overindulgence and was on her way downstairs for breakfast when she heard Rosalie and Trista talking about the past. Each mention of George and his undying love for Shining Star increased her fury tenfold. For years she had fought the ghost of the Comanche woman in her marriage. She had thought that the Indian woman had finally been exorcised from George's heart, but now, with the return of Lance, all the old wounds were being reopened. It had been bad enough hearing George talking to her picture last night, but it was even worse to think that even after all this time the servants still held Lance's mother in such high esteem. Schooling her indignant features into a bland expression, Eleanor swept into the dining room to greet Trista.

  "Good morning, Trista, dear." She smiled at the younger woman. "We'll have breakfast now, Rosalie." Eleanor dismissed the servant with cool efficiency, putting an abrupt end to their revealing conversation.

  "Yes, señora," Rosalie replied, tactfully leaving the room.

  "Did you sleep well, Trista? Since it was your first night back, I thought you might have needed your rest," she inquired with interest. She was determined to be nice to Trista despite her show of anger the day before, for she wanted to enlist her help in getting rid of Lance. Certainly, if Trista asked George to send him away, he would do it.