Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  "Interested in selling him, George?"

  "You'll have to ask my son. Fuego's his."

  "This is Fuego? The rogue everyone's talked about for years?"

  George nodded proudly. "Sure is. Lance caught him and broke him himself."

  "What about it?" E.R. turned to Lance, his eyes greedy at the thought of the quick profit he might make on the stallion.

  "Sorry. The stallion's not for sale. He's mine, and what's mine . . . I keep."

  For some reason, Michael looked up at his brother just as Lance spoke. Their eyes locked, and Michael knew that Lance was talking about more than just the stallion. A muscle flexed in his jaw. He turned abruptly away, snatched up his rifle and saddlebags, and stalked off inside the hotel.

  "Let's get settled in, shall we?" George suggested, wondering at Michael's abrupt departure.

  "Sure," Lance agreed easily as he followed his father indoors.

  Word spread like wildfire through town that George Barrett had a half-breed son and that he was back living with his father on the Royal Diamond. Where generally Lance would have been treated with outright hatred because of his Comanche blood, at George's side he was guaranteed full acceptance in all the better establishments in town. No one ever dared to cross a Barrett, for they wielded too much money and power.

  It was much later that night, after they'd eaten in the hotel dining room, that the three Barretts ventured into the White Elephant saloon for a drink and a friendly game of cards to pass the evening.

  Hank Rodgers, the barkeep at the White Elephant, had heard the rumors earlier in the day about the half-breed Barrett son. He smiled a friendly greeting to George and Michael as they sidled up to the bar, but he eyed the tall, dark-haired stranger suspiciously, noting his slightly longer hair and the sidearm he wore low and easy on his hip. When their gazes met, Hank immediately saw his resemblance to Barrett and decided that all that was being said must be true.

  "We'll have three beers, Hank," George ordered nonchalantly. "I suppose you heard the news about my son Lance being back home?"

  "Yep," Hank answered. "I got word this afternoon. You know how news travels here in town."

  "I know." He smiled.

  Two tall, unshaven, tough-looking drifters were standing at the far end of the bar swilling whiskey. They stiffened perceptibly when they saw Lance. The idea of an Indian in the same saloon with them outraged their drunken sensibilities, and they called out loudly to the barkeep as he served the Barretts their beers.

  "Yo! Barkeep! What the hell you doin' servin' a damned Indian?" the more hostile of the two demanded viciously.

  "Yeah. We don't like breeds drinkin' where we're drinkin'! Throw the bastard out!"

  Lance tensed but didn't acknowledge their presence or remarks as Hank set his beer before him.

  "I said, you don't serve half-breeds!" The men moved threateningly closer.

  "He serves who he wants to serve," George put in without looking at the two directly.

  "Well, he don't want to serve him, do ya, Hank?" They edged closer to Lance, their hands hovering over their guns as the crowd in the saloon backed nervously away.

  In a single, fluid motion, Lance drew his pistol and turned on the stunned troublemakers. "I think Hank can decide who he wants to serve, and I think you're the ones who are finished in here. Not me."

  Furious in their helplessness before him, they swore violently under their breath as they backed quickly away from a losing confrontation. "You'll pay for this, you filthy redskin. We'll see you dead. . . ."

  Lance didn't holster his gun until they had disappeared through the swinging doors and out into the street. He visibly relaxed then and slid the sidearm back into his holster as he turned back to the bar. Only then did he notice his father and Michael staring at him in obvious disbelief.

  "Where did you learn to draw like that?" George asked, in awe of his lightning reflexes.

  Lance looked at him steadily as he replied, "You taught me some when I was little. Later, I practiced when I was alone."

  George clapped him firmly on the shoulder as Michael spoke up. "From now on, watch your back. I don't like the looks of those two."

  "Neither do I," Lance answered grimly.

  "Glad you handled that so easy," Hank complimented Lance, showing him the double-barreled shotgun he'd been holding just beneath the counter. "Hey, Sal! C'mere and give this gent a welcome!" he called out, glad that his saloon had been saved from destruction at the hands of the drunken louts.

  Sal, the buxom, red-haired bargirl whose popularity was legendary among the frequenters of the White Elephant, hurried to do her boss's bidding . . . this time a chore she did not find repulsive at all. Even if he was part Indian, this Barrett was as good-looking as the rest of them. With catlike sinuousness, she rubbed up against Lance as she moved between him and George at the bar.

  "How about it, big guy?" Sal batted her long, darkened lashes at the handsome stranger as she ran a hand boldly up his shirtfront.

  "Give the lady a drink, Hank," Lance ordered, less than enthusiastically. All he could think of as he stared down at her painted features was how lovely and fresh Trista was in comparison.

  "I wasn't wantin' just a drink," she teased, winking at him audaciously.

  "Well, that's all I was after, ma'am," he told her bluntly.

  Sal took his rebuff easily, for her charms were too much in demand elsewhere to be concerned with one cowboy. Still, she couldn't help but wonder at his lack of interest as she wandered away.

  The few days the men were gone passed far too quickly for Trista. Whenever she thought of her night of abandon with Lance, she found herself growing more and more uncomfortable with her own introspection. Her situation was a total dilemma. She hated Lance, and still she found herself thinking of him while he was gone and wondering what he was doing.

  Trista was dreading their return, and when she did see them riding in, she hastily disappeared upstairs to her room. Hidden behind the fall of her curtains, she watched Lance ride up proudly on Fuego. He looked somehow different after this trip to town, and she stared at him in wonder, as if seeing him for the first time. Her pulse quickened in remembrance of his embrace. Her hands grew cold and clammy and she swallowed convulsively as she nervously wiped them on her riding skirt. It troubled her that she should have such a reaction to the sight of him. How was it that he could affect her so? It seemed to her that there was something changed about his appearance, and it took her a moment to realize that the difference was his hair. It had been cropped shorter. Not that it had been overly long to begin with, but now that it was cut in a civilized fashion, he looked more like George's son and less like the savage she knew him to be. He moved like a white man . . . in his clothing . . . in his manner . . . in his movements.

  Lance seemed to sense her presence, and he lifted his gaze to her window. To Trista it was as though he could see her standing there behind the protective shield of the gauzy curtains, and she knew a moment of panic as she wondered if she would ever be able to escape him. Only when he led Fuego off toward the stables did Trista breathe a sigh of relief and promise herself that from now on she would avoid him at all costs.

  With Lance away at the stables, Trista felt that it was as safe as it was going to get, and she left her room to greet Michael. As she started down the stairs she wondered in confusion why her heart did not beat faster at the prospect of seeing her fiancé again even after all these days apart.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  "I don't believe any of this!" Sukie Harris stared at her mother, the pain she was feeling plainly revealed in her tormented gaze. By some strange act of fate, Trista had returned, and despite her time with the Comanche, Michael was still continuing with his plan to marry her.

  "I know it's hard to believe, but I spoke with George while I was in town. He told me the whole story," Mary Lou explained, hoping to soften the blow to her daughter.

  "That Trista was rescued by George's long-lost son and return
ed to them unharmed?" Sukie was incredulous.

  "And it's obviously the truth, for, according to George, the wedding's on."

  Sukie's spirits flagged. She had not wished bad things on Trista, but she had held out hope that, with her disappearance, she might be able to win Michael back. Now it looked as if things would never work out for her.

  "George explained that Trista was indeed kidnapped by a Comanche warrior. Evidently George's half-breed son, Lance, who's been estranged from his father for I don't know how long, rescued her from that terrible fate before anything untoward could happen to her. Apparently he recognized the ring she wore bearing the Barrett crest and, upon discovering who she was, brought her home."

  "George's other son is a half-breed?" This news did surprise her. "I didn't even know that he'd been married before Eleanor, and especially not to an Indian."

  "It's not something that we talk about, Shining Star having been a Comanche and all," her mother remarked caustically.

  "How many years ago did all this happen?"

  "It's been at least twenty years. She died of the fever, if I remember rightly. After that George allowed the boy, who was about six or seven at the time, to go live with his mother's relatives." Mary Lou suppressed a shudder at the thought. "I have no idea why. Everyone wondered, but no one ever dared to question him. It was just something that wasn't spoken of again, and as the years passed, it was forgotten . . . until now."

  Sukie was amazed by it all. "His return is the reason they're giving the party tomorrow night?"

  Mary Lou nodded. "It seems the half-breed has decided to stay on at the Royal Diamond and live with his father now. I have no idea how he's going to fit in. You know how filthy and savage the Comanche are, and if this Lance has spent all these years living with them . . . why, he's probably little more than an animal himself."

  "Did you see him while you were in town?"

  She hedged, "Well, yes . . . "

  "What did he look like?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, was he dressed like an Indian?"

  "No, of course not," she snapped, "but the fact remains he is half-Comanche. I'm sure there are plenty of neighbors who aren't going to be pleased to have a half-breed living here."

  "That's probably true, Mother, but since he did rescue Trista and bring her back home, there must be some good in him."

  "Sometimes, daughter, you are just too nice." Mary Lou shook her head. Only Sukie would have looked for the good in him. She felt certain that there were quite a few others who wouldn't bother. "I suppose we'll know more after we see how he fits in at the party tomorrow night."

  As her mother rattled on about how Trista was going to be greeted at the party the following night and about how Lance was going to be accepted, Sukie was lost in her own thoughts. Trista was back, and Michael was going to marry her. Nothing had changed despite her mother's earlier predictions. The chance of a future for herself with Michael was at an end. The new dress she'd painstakingly sewn for herself patterned after Trista's trendy gown at the engagement party would have no impact on Michael at all. With a heavy heart she realized that he was lost to her forever.

  Lance entered his father's study, needing to ask the question that had been burning within him ever since he'd returned. "I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes."

  George had been busily sorting through some business papers, but he immediately set them aside to give Lance his full attention. He longed to be as close to Lance as he was to Michael, and he knew that it would be a long, slow process to achieve that goal, a process that would include a lot of discussions and a lot of patience.

  "Sit down. I was just checking some contracts. It's nothing that can't wait." He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk as he leaned back comfortably in his own.

  Lance dropped down into the chair and faced his father across the massive desktop. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you. . . ."

  When he hesitated, George encouraged him. "What is it? I want you to feel free to talk to me about anything."

  "I want to know where my mother is buried." The request was a difficult one for him to make.

  George was stunned by his question and by his own negligence in not having thought to take him there sooner. "We'll go together. It's not far. . . ."

  As he stood and strode from the room, Lance followed. They were quiet as they crossed the backyard and made their way down a path that was slightly overgrown. The narrow, winding trail led to a large shade tree, and beneath it, in the midst of all the underbrush, was a small, well-kept area that was bordered by a white picket fence. Within the protected confines was the single headstone of Shining Star.

  "I know she never could stand being closed in, but I had to put the fence up to protect her grave. It was all I could do for her. . . ." His words became choked, and his eyes misted as he remembered the terrible day when he'd had to put her into that cold, dark grave, never to see her again.

  "You didn't bring me here." Lance's accusation pierced him painfully.

  "I did a lot of things then that I regret now, son." George raised anguished eyes to Lance that pleaded for belated understanding.

  "None of it made sense. . . . I tried to reach you, but Rosalie wouldn't let me talk to you. . . ."

  "I was drunk and out of my mind with grief. I told her to keep you away."

  "But why?"

  "Why?" George shook his head at the memory of his pain. "I couldn't bear to see you or to hear your voice. You were so much like her. . . ." His gaze drifted to the grave. "Your mother was the only woman I've ever truly loved. I loved her more than anything in this entire world. . . . She was my world! Then, when I lost her . . . " His shoulders slumped. "I wanted to die. I wished that it had been me who'd died instead. Sometimes, even now, it all comes back to haunt me. I had to let you go. I knew I couldn't be what you needed, and Lone Elk was so fierce in wanting you." His expression was beseeching. "After you'd gone, it took me awhile to get myself together . . . months, in fact. I wanted to come and get you, but Lone Elk and I had agreed that it would have to be your decision to return. I held out hope in the beginning, but then I never heard from you. I take it Lone Elk was good to you?"

  "Lone Elk took me into his lodge and raised me as his own," Lance replied, struggling to come to grips with all he'd just been told. A question still remained in his thoughts about the most important cause for their lengthy separation. "If my mother meant so very much to you—" he began almost insolently, and George interrupted him viciously.

  "There is no 'if' about it, Lance." His tone was hard, and his gaze had gone icy.

  Lance went on, undaunted. "Why did you marry Eleanor so soon? I came back that one time, and you had already married and had another son. . . ."

  "So you felt as if you'd been replaced?" George was amazed at Lance's logic.

  Lance did not answer, but his eyes met his father's in silent accusation.

  "I married Eleanor because I couldn't bear the loneliness. I felt dead inside. Without you and your mother, it seemed my life had ended. I was in a self-imposed hell. Beginning a new family with Eleanor seemed the only way out." George studied him closely, hoping that he believed the truth when he heard it.

  "So you were looking for replacements. . . ." he charged, his fierce belief in all his father's cruelties difficult to put completely aside.

  "There is no way what your mother and I shared could be replaced. What I feel for Eleanor is nothing compared to the love I had for your mother. She's never taken your mother's place, just as Michael hasn't taken yours. You are both my sons. I love you equally. You will both someday own the Royal Diamond."

  Standing downwind, Eleanor could barely keep herself from raising her fists to the sky and shrieking her hatred. Whatever anger she'd harbored toward George burst to full-fledged loathing as she eavesdropped on their conversation. She had seen them leaving the house and had carefully trailed them at a distance to keep her presence a se
cret. Now she was glad that she had.

  Wrath-filled, Eleanor turned away and fled back to the house. She had hoped that merely having the party and watching Lance embarrass himself would be enough to drive him away, but now she feared more drastic action would be necessary to preserve Michael's birthright.

  So Michael was supposed to share the ranch equally with Lance, was he? The thought left her livid. For twenty years she had slaved, worked the Royal to make it successful for her own son, and now George planned to give half of it to that stinking half-breed?!? Never! She would not—no, could not—allow that to happen. The ranch was Michael's and Michael's alone!

  Seeking out the safe haven of her bedroom, she began to make her deadly plans. No one would be allowed to rob Michael and her of their security. Wracking her mind for the thought of someone who could help her, she finally remembered the confrontation between George and Poker that first day Lance was back. Poker had been a faithful employee up until that time, but she also knew that he now hated George and Lance. He would be the one, for his loathing for the Comanche had been obvious. All she had to do now was locate him. She was certain that he would be willing to do anything she asked, for a fee, especially if it had to do with killing Indians. . . .

  Leaving her room, she went down to the stables to find out if any of the ranchhands knew where he'd gone, telling them that she needed to contact him about some back wages he'd forgotten to collect. It was a perfect ruse, for one of the younger cowhands volunteered to take a letter into town and give it to him. As she returned to the ranchhouse, Eleanor was more than pleased with the way things were turning out.

  Lance and George made their way slowly back toward the house. Their mood was calm and reflective, and neither spoke for some time. Finally, it was George who broke the quiet.

  "Lance . . . " He stopped walking and put a lightly restraining hand on Lance's arm.

  Lance paused and glanced at him questioningly.

  "You've never said, but I need to know . . . you will be staying on permanently, won't you?"