by Bobbi Smith
"I was exhausted, Eleanor, but I was too upset to get much sleep."
"Indeed, I can understand why. It must be terrible for you with that heathen here in the same house! I just can't believe that he's going to stay!"
"It is difficult. . . ." Trista understated.
"Well, dear, you're lucky to have Michael. Not every girl who's gone through what you have is so fortunate." Her pointed meaning was clear, though cleverly disguised in gracious language. "I'm looking forward to your father's arrival so we can proceed with our plans."
Trista controlled her temper with some difficulty. "I told Michael last night that I couldn't marry someone who didn't tell me the truth, and I meant it, Eleanor."
"Trista, darling." Eleanor's smile was pained as she scolded her gently. "It's not as if Michael deliberately lied to you. Michael loves you very much. Certainly you must see that. You mustn't let such a little thing as a misunderstanding come between you." She was Michael's advocate as she continued, "I'm sure his decision not to mention a possible relationship to Lance at that time was based on sound judgment. As Rosalie was telling you when I came in, there had been no contact between Lance and his father in nearly twenty years. How were we to know for sure that he was the one who took you captive or that he would show up here as he did?"
Trista fell silent. The entire situation had become too complicated. She hated Lance for his arrogance. He had almost destroyed her life. She despised him, and if she'd had her way, she would never have seen him again.
"It's still so hard to believe that he is George's son and Michael's brother," she sighed, frustrated by her situation.
"I feel the same way, Trista." Eleanor's eyes were steely and indignant as they met Trista's. "I can barely stand the thought of him staying in my home. I don't see how George can allow him to remain, knowing that what happened to you was his doing. I want him gone as soon as possible. He's got to send him away."
Trista knew she would have no rest until Lance was gone from her life. He haunted her every moment of the day and night. "Maybe I should be the one to leave," she offered, beginning to believe that there was no solution to the problem.
"Heavens no! You're Michael's fiancée. The Royal Diamond is your home now, too. Surely George wouldn't sacrifice Michael's happiness for Lance!" His name was a curse on her lips.
Rosalie returned with their meal then, and both women fell silent as they contemplated Lance's disrupting presence on the ranch. Trista was torn between the desire to get away from Lance as quickly as she could and her desire to stay and marry Michael and make a life with him. Eleanor was caught up in her hatred of Shining Star's offspring and her need to save the Royal Diamond for Michael, and Michael alone.
"This will all be yours one day," George said to his two sons as they looked out across the distant hills of the Royal Diamond from their vantage point atop a bluff later that afternoon. "I've worked all my life to preserve the ranch for you . . . to make it prosper. I want you to continue my dream of a Barrett dynasty right here in the heart of Texas."
Lance stared at the beauty of the land as he considered his father's words. In the beginning he had believed that his stay here would be temporary . . . that he would remain only long enough to claim Trista and then would leave. But his determination to go had eased since learning from Rosalie of his father's attempts to find him. His father seemed so earnest in his desire for him to stay that he found himself actually thinking about it. His heart, so long denied, told him that this was his home. Through all of his thoughts the image of Trista danced in seductive temptation. . . . Trista, his reason for coming here in the first place . . . Trista, his wife.
When neither Lance nor Michael spoke, George went on, "I know this is difficult for you, but you are brothers, and you should always remember that."
At his words Lance and Michael eyed each other distrustfully. As long as Trista stood between them, they would find no peace nor have any common ground to build on.
George had hoped that a day alone together out on the range would help to create a bond of friendship between the two. Now as he watched them together, he felt he had failed miserably.
"I guess we'd better be heading back."
"I'd like to work with Fuego when we get back," Lance told him as they rode toward the house.
George looked at him with something akin to surprise. "Work with him?"
"I had been trying to break him before Trista left. He's not completely tamed yet, but he will be. I intend to ride him."
"Trista told us that you tracked him down all by yourself," George ventured.
"It took many weeks of hard riding, but I finally captured him," Lance answered proudly.
"I almost had him once myself." Michael spoke up spontaneously. "Got close enough to get a rope on him, but he still managed to break free."
"Fuego's one powerful horse. . . ." George remarked. "I still find it hard to believe that Trista rode him here."
"She always had a way with him." Lance thought of that day by the creek when she'd controlled the rogue no one else could touch.
"We can put him to breeding as soon as you want, Lance," his father told him. "My stables are among some of the finest in the state."
"If I stay, we will see." He retreated from making any promises about staying permanently.
His coolness to George's suggestion ruined the rapport that had been developing among them, and they were silent during the rest of the ride back to the ranch. They reached the house and, after stabling their horses, went out to the corral to see the stallion.
Lance had been preparing himself for the encounter with the wild rogue, and he entered the pen filled with the resolve to break him.
"Lance . . . " Michael spoke as he watched his brother move toward the horse.
"What?"
"I'd like a shot at him, too."
They stared at each other for a moment.
Lance, feeling confident that Michael would meet with little success, agreed. "All right."
With the help of several ranchhands, the nervous mount was readied for breaking. As Michael and George held Fuego's head, Lance swung up into the saddle and braced himself for the explosion of fury that was sure to come. Releasing the indignant rogue, father and brother raced away to the safety beyond the corral fence, leaving Lance to bear the full brunt of the horse's rage.
Fuego felt desperate as he stood quivering in the middle of the enclosure. He had accepted Trista's domination, but felt threatened by the man who now sat on his back. Strong thighs gripped him and firm hands held the reins that took away his freedom. Quivering, he spun viciously in a circle wanting to rid himself of the unwelcome burden of the man's weight. He would be free! He would not submit to this!
His unexpected cyclonic move surprised Lance. His Stetson flew from his head, but he managed to hang on tightly enough to keep his seat. Each bone-jarring motion of the rampaging horse wracked his body, yet he would not quit. It was only when Fuego ran toward the fence and threatened to crush him against the boards that Lance jumped from his back and landed heavily in the dust of the corral.
Trista was in her room, trying to think things through, when she heard the disturbance down at the stables. A quick glance told her what was happening, and though she was reluctant to face Lance again, she felt she needed to be there for Fuego.
George and Michael quickly brought Fuego under control again and waited for Lance to mount up for another try. Several ranchhands who'd been working in the stable came out and crowded around the pen to watch the excitement. Trista reached the group and managed to work her way through them to the fence. Stepping up on the lowest rail, she braced herself on the top and watched as Lance stalked toward the stallion.
Fuego was following Lance's approach closely. His ears flattened and his eyes went wild with fear as he sensed his renewed determination. He stood, tense and waiting, as Lance prepared to climb on his back.
Again Lance mounted. Again Fuego rebelled against his attempt
to ride him. It was a battle of their wills . . . one determined to dominate, the other determined not to be dominated. In a superior display of strength, the stallion bucked straight up, unseating Lance completely and leaving him sprawled in the dirt, gasping for breath.
"Lance, look out!" Trista could not prevent the cry of alarm that escaped her as the rogue's hooves landed heavily close beside his head.
Michael pivoted. His expression was thunderous as he regarded her. Was that fear and concern he saw written on her perfect features? Was she worried about Lance, a man she said she hated? He tore his gaze away from her as he cornered the stallion and grabbed up the reins.
Lance heard Trista's cry and looked up to find her staring at him wide-eyed with worry. George had come to his aid, but he ignored his outstretched hand as he got nimbly to his feet and strode across the pen to where Trista stood. As he came toward her, she stepped back from the corral, poised to flee.
"It is good to see that my wife is concerned about my health," he told her, chuckling softly.
"You!" Trista choked, all her loathing for him reflected in that single word. Before she could say any more, Lance had turned his back on her and was walking back to where Michael and George stood with the stallion.
"I'll try this time," Michael stated firmly. His dark eyes appeared stormy as he glared ominously at his brother.
Lance only shrugged and took up his position at Fuego's head, holding tightly to the bridle to keep the rogue quiet until Michael was on his back. Fuego noticed little difference between them, and he treated Michael to the same disdainful, painful treatment as he had Lance. With sheer brute force, he spun in wild circles about the corral, twisting and bucking until Michael's tenacious grip was torn loose. His wind was knocked completely from him as he landed awkwardly, and he lay stunned and still.
Trista's reaction to Michael's fall was not nearly as spontaneous as it had been to Lance's. Expecting that he was fine, she waited for him to get up. When he didn't move after an instant, she climbed the fence and raced toward him.
"Michael! Oh, Michael . . . " She was on her knees beside him, touching him tentatively, her expression frantic.
George, too, had expected Michael to get up right away. When he remained unmoving in the dirt, he knew a moment of panic. Hurrying to where Trista knelt beside him, he vowed silently to put a bullet in the damned rogue's brain if his son was hurt.
Lance stood slightly apart watching them. He felt alone, alienated and very jealous. Trista had made no move to rush to his side when he'd been thrown, yet she could hardly wait to rush to Michael. As Michael sat up, Lance turned away with something akin to disgust.
"Maybe you'd better come back to the house. . . ." Trista was saying, but Michael shook off her hand where she clung to his arm.
"I'm not going anywhere until the stallion is broken," he snarled.
Lance was surprised at his words, and as he turned to look at Michael, his gaze reflected a new measure of respect for him for not quitting. When he saw Trista staring up at his brother, her love for him clearly mirrored in her worried expression, he moved away, quickly shuttering all of his own emotions from view.
Snatching up Fuego's reins, Lance glanced back only to make sure they were all out of the way and then swung up onto his back. Gritting his teeth, he challenged the stallion to try to conquer him. Fuego did not hesitate to respond as he reared violently and then raced madly about the corral in desperation. He was going to be free of the man! Yet even as Fuego fought to escape subjugation, Lance became deadly determined to win. He would conquer this horse or he would die trying! In an exhausting, maddening dash, they each tried to best the other as the rest of those gathered there looked on in speechless amazement.
It was inevitable. Empowered by the same deep-seated need that had driven him to track down and capture the horse in the first place, Lance refused to give up. His hold on Fuego was relentless, and despite the stallion's own fierce resolve not to be conquered, fatigue was his final master.
Lathered and straining for breath, his muscles twitching in exhaustion, he finally stood in the center of the corral and allowed the man to stay upon him. As Lance nudged him firmly with his knees, Fuego moved in the direction he'd indicated. At this show of submissiveness, Lance lightened his hold on the reins, allowing the rogue a little freedom, and the stallion's gait became smoother. The praising stroke of Lance's hand on his foam-flecked neck sent a shiver through him. He did not react skittishly, though, but whickered softly and unsteadily as he continued to trot about the enclosure, controlled completely by Lance's desire.
Michael looked on in amazement. He had known it would take a lot to bring the golden rogue under control, but he had never expected to witness a display of horsemanship as outstanding as what he'd just seen Lance perform. George, too, had been totally delighted by his older son's ability with the rogue, and he gazed upon the horse and his rider with pride.
Lance's victory over Fuego left Trista stricken. In her heart she had identified with the freedom-loving rogue. To see him vanquished and reduced to doing Lance's bidding rendered her frightened and unsure. If an animal as strong-willed as Fuego could be brought under his firm control, then what chance did she have if he set his mind to conquering her resistance, too? Frightened, but refusing to give in to her fear, Trista stiffened as she met Lance's knowing, blue-eyed gaze as he sat triumphantly upon the stallion's back. Lance saw her chin lift in defiance of him, and he urged Fuego forward, coming to stand still right before her.
"Fuego is mine, Trista, just as you are. It will do you no good to fight me." His statement was arrogant and confident.
Trista was overcome with rage. She wanted to shout at him that she would never submit herself to his will, but he put his knees to the horse's sides and rode away from her. Glaring at his back, she heaped hateful thoughts upon him. Yet even as she did, she couldn't help but admire how right Lance looked seated upon the now-yielding rogue.
It was a short time later that Poker faced George across the width of his desk in the privacy of the study.
"I'm tellin' you I won't stay on here if that filthy Comanche stays. . . ." Poker snarled.
George glared at him icily. "I'm sorry that we've had to come to a parting of our ways, Poker."
Poker could not believe that he was actually going to let him leave. He had worked for the Royal Diamond for over ten years. Outraged, he stormed, "I've worked for you for years, and you're choosing that damned savage over me!"
"That 'damned savage,' as you call him, is my son!" George thundered, charging to his feet. "You can tell the other men that if they have any objections about working for me and my sons, they can collect their pay first thing tomorrow."
Poker stared at him bitterly. He regretted losing his job, but most of all he was filled with hatred for the half-breed who dared to enter the white man's world.
"I'll tell 'em," he muttered resentfully and he strode quickly from the room, anxious to be gone from the ranch as soon as possible.
Chapter Twenty-One
Though everyone tried to act normally at dinner that night, undercurrents of emotion charged the atmosphere. Eleanor gave the appearance of calm acceptance of Lance's presence, conducting herself with her usual grace, but her manner was a devious cover for the ulterior motive that lurked in the dark corners of her heart.
"George, I was thinking today that we should give a party in honor of Lance's return. Many of our neighbors are your longtime friends, and they knew Lance before he left. No doubt they would enjoy seeing him again."
George was surprised by her offer. Her earlier objections to Lance's presence had hurt him deeply, and his heart warmed toward his wife for her more tolerant attitude.
"Darling, that's a wonderful idea," he answered enthusiastically.
"Good, I'm glad you agree." Eleanor had known that he would. "I think next weekend would be fine. That gives me plenty of time to plan."
Michael wondered at his mother's wisdom in arra
nging this celebration. Feelings ran high against the Comanche, and despite Lance's blood connection to the Barretts, many would still consider him a savage animal worthy only of being killed. He wanted to advise her that it did not seem the wise thing to do, but his father's excitement was such that he held his tongue.
George was elated over Eleanor's willingness to finally consider Lance family. The thought that his friends might object to Lance's Indian blood never occurred to him.
"Next weekend will work out well," he told her. "That will give Lance more time to become accustomed to our ways and to living here again." George looked proudly at his older son, who was remaining silent through the entire discussion. "It will also give us time to get to town and buy him some clothes of his own."
"These are fine," Lance put in, not relishing the idea of mingling with so many whites.
"True, they do fit you, but you should have your own things," his father insisted. "We'll ride into San Antonio tomorrow. Eleanor can let me know what she needs for the party, and we can take care of all of that while we're in town."
"Why, thank you, dear," Eleanor replied, thrilled that Lance would be out of the house for a few days.
Trista was amazed by Eleanor's suggestion to have a party for Lance, considering what her attitude had been that morning. She felt betrayed by the other woman's apparent approval of the man she'd claimed earlier to despise.
Michael was filled with misgivings about the whole thing, but voiced no objections as he turned to Trista. "Darling, shall we go outside for a little while?"
"I'd like that, Michael," she quickly assented, eager to flee Lance's disturbing nearness.
Trista didn't relax until they were safely outside away from the others. Darkness had settled like a black velvet blanket across the land, and a sense of peace filled her. She breathed deeply of the sweet, flower-scented air and felt some of the tension ebb from her.
