Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  Moving quickly, Lance made his way through the brush toward Trista, taking care to keep out of sight. He didn't know where Striking Snake was, and he did not want to risk a confrontation with Trista caught in the middle. He skirted the small clearing and didn't reveal himself to her until he was right behind her.

  All day Trista had been aware of Striking Snake's growing restlessness. He had spent most of the morning simply glaring at her threateningly from his own place across the campsite, and she feared that her time of safety was nearing an end. In spite of her outward calm, her mood was almost hysterical, for no matter how hard she tried to insulate herself from the thought of his taking her against her will, she knew it would be horribly traumatic.

  The last person Trista had expected to see was Lance. She believed him dead. She believed she would never again know the tender wonder of his embrace or be able to tell him of her love for him. Then he emerged from the brush, looking much as he had the first time she'd encountered him while chasing Fuego. Her eyes rounded in complete shock and she gasped his name in disbelief.

  "Lance . . . "

  Lance was thrilled to see her, but he firmly controlled his desire to sweep her into his arms and kiss her. He motioned for her to be quiet as he set about releasing her.

  Trista's gaze clung to him, devouring the sight of him clad as the fierce warrior—the broad, muscular width of his chest and the powerful strength of his thighs. She had never, ever thought that she would rejoice at seeing a Comanche brave, but her heart and spirits soared. She had thought him dead. She had seen him shot, and yet . . . She lifted her gaze to stare at the bandage about his head and slowly grasped what had really happened.

  "You're all right. . . ." Trista whispered faintly, lifting one hand toward his head after he'd freed her arms. But he ducked to avoid her touch as he moved to free her legs.

  "Don't talk," he ordered tersely in low tones. Lance knew that Striking Snake had probably not gone very far, and he meant to be ready to face him when he returned. "Fuego is tied up a short ways down the creek. As soon as I've got these ropes off of you, I want you to move, and move fast."

  "But why? Didn't anyone else come with you?" She glanced past him, looking for men from the ranch . . . for Michael.

  "No. I came alone." At her worried expression, Lance doubted all that Michael had told him. "Don't worry, Michael is safe. Father was shot, and he stayed behind to take care of him. Now, if you'll just do what I say, we'll both get out of here alive."

  "Why do you want me to go on alone? Why aren't you coming with me?"

  "I have unfinished business to settle with Striking Snake. You go on. I'll follow later."

  "I can't leave you! I won't!" she declared, fiercely and protectively.

  "Trista . . . " he ground out as he glanced about the area for some sign of Striking Snake's imminent return, "you'll end up getting us both killed if you don't go . . . now."

  Striking Snake had gone some distance before he realized the danger of leaving Trista so completely alone. He knew how resourceful she could be and was not prepared to lose her. Circling the camp, wanting to frighten her by reentering their camp from an unexpected direction, he headed back.

  Striking Snake paused at the sight of the golden stallion tethered to a tree near the creek. As he studied Fuego, he realized, much to his disgust, that Lance must have survived the raid at the ranch. The only pleasure he got from the discovery was the knowledge that now he would be the one surprising Lance, and not the other way around. Edging closer to the stallion, Striking Snake released the tether and waved his arms in the horse's face, sending him racing away out of sight. He was satisfied that he had cut off Lance's only means of escape, and he drew his knife as he started back toward the camp, vowing that this time he would cut out the other man's heart just to make sure he was dead.

  Though Lance had been vigilant in watching for Striking Snake, his moment of inattention as he'd finished removing Trista's bonds had given the ferocious warrior the time he'd needed to work his way behind him. Knife in hand, he crept through the bushes intending to pounce on Lance, but Trista saw him and screamed. Her warning gave Lance just enough time to dodge the fatal blow that Striking Snake had aimed at his back. Both men tumbled in the dirt and came to their feet facing each other. Lance drew his own knife and circled his deadly opponent warily.

  "So you have more than one life, Lance. . . ." Striking Snake sneered. "This time I will aim for your heart instead of your head."

  "You have already shown that your aim is bad," Lance insulted him, moving backward away from Trista, wanting her to run for freedom. "I know little fear at your threats, Striking Snake."

  At his remark, Striking Snake was filled with fury. Up until now Lance had beaten him in every one of their encounters, but this time he was determined to be the victor. He felt certain that Lance's head wound had to have weakened him, and he believed that just unceasing brute force would defeat him. Lunging, he sought to bury his knife in his chest, but Lance sidestepped him. Striking Snake recovered quickly from his missed assault, and he turned, ready to attack again.

  Lance was outraged to see that Trista had not moved. "Get out of here, now!" he snarled, never taking his eyes off the aggressively closing Striking Snake.

  The evil warrior laughed. "Why do you tell her to run, Lance? Are you so sure that I will win?"

  "You'll never beat me, Striking Snake. You are a coward. You have never won a fair fight in your life. Why do you think you will start now?"

  Again he laughed. "I will win this time, Lance. You are wounded and weak. Your strength is like a woman's. I will win."

  Lance lashed out at him, the wicked blade of his knife catching him in the upper arm. "Think again," Lance challenged. "I am not the only one wounded."

  Though he had been startled by the quickness of Lance's movement, the wound was actually minor. It bled heavily and looked worse than what it really was. Striking Snake deliberately favored the injured arm to give the impression that it was a bad wound in hopes that his strength would take Lance by surprise.

  "Today I will see you dead," he bragged.

  Trista was unable to leave. She feared for Lance's safety against the brutal savage. Even now, with Striking Snake wounded, she would not run off and leave Lance alone. She held her breath as the two men thrust and parried, ever circling, always attempting to find a weakness.

  Lance eluded his every assault. He knew he should be concentrating completely on Striking Snake and any possible devious moves he might make, but he couldn't take his mind off of Trista. He wished she would leave. He wanted to know that she was safely away.

  "The woman is your weakness, Lance," Striking Snake taunted as he noticed the direction of his glance. "Why do you worry about her? Do you fear what I have done to her?"

  "No!" Trista cried, not wanting Lance to think that he had touched her in any way.

  Striking Snake chuckled evilly. "She is only a woman, Lance. They are all alike when they spread their thighs."

  "Trista is my wife," Lance claimed ferociously as he charged at his foe.

  "Soon, Lance, she will be your widow!" he scoffed, stepping away from his assault.

  But this time Lance followed through on his attack, and they hit the ground hard, locked together in mortal combat. As the sun beat down upon them, they grappled fiercely. Their sun-bronzed, sweat-streaked bodies strained together in a dance of death as they rolled about, each trying to gain the advantage over the other. Blood from Striking Snake's wound stained them both, and their breathing grew labored. The blades of their knives flashed harshly in the sunlight. Muscles strained as they twisted and bucked, each seeking to dislodge the other and gain dominance.

  Trista watched the brutal battle in horrified fascination. Fearful of distracting Lance, she said nothing. She remained tense and unmoving as the two men struggled before her.

  Lance was more than holding his own with Striking Snake, and he managed to lever his weight so he came up fully on t
op of the other warrior. Striking Snake was humiliated to find that Lance was besting him again. His outrage at the possibility of suffering another defeat at his hands knew no bounds. Using all his strength in one last, desperate effort, he managed to throw Lance off of him momentarily.

  Knowing that his strength was fading, Striking Snake looked around, seeking another way to win. His gaze fell on Lance's rifle where it lay near Trista, and he rushed in her direction before Lance had time to come after him. Trista's scream of terror rent the air as Striking Snake snatched her cruelly into his arms and crushed her to his chest with brutal force. Facing Lance, he smiled as he pressed the blade of his knife to the delicate arch of her throat

  "Will you watch me kill her?" he challenged, his obsidian eyes never wavering from Lance. He enjoyed the desperation and frustration he saw reflected there.

  "Let her go, Striking Snake."

  "I may . . . after I tire of her," he leered, moving his hand to fondle her breast as Lance looked on.

  Trista tried to jerk free, but Striking Snake forced the blade more tightly against her throat to still her objections to his touch.

  "Striking Snake . . . you fight like a woman," Lance derided, hoping to draw him back into their own fight.

  "It does not matter how I win this fight with you, Lance. It only matters that I win," he returned. "Throw your weapon aside now or I will kill her right here while you watch."

  Lance was filled with torment as he looked from Trista's pale features to Striking Snake's flushed face. He realized with fury that his enemy was enjoying this.

  "Don't do it, Lance. . . ." Trista cried, but her captor silenced her as he tightened his grip on her.

  "Now, Lance," he threatened. It thrilled him to see Lance squirming as he obeyed his command.

  "What are you going to do, Striking Snake?" Lance asked as he held his knife out away from his body and dropped it.

  "Kick it away from you," he ordered, not bothering to answer him.

  Lance did as he was told, but remained tense and watchful, ready to spring at him if he got the chance.

  Striking Snake could not believe that everything had worked out so well, and he edged backward, dragging Trista with him. He needed the rifle to carry out the rest of his plan, and he kept moving until he had it in sight. When he'd moved within reach of the gun, he loosened his hold on Trista for just an instant so he could snatch up the rifle.

  Trista had been biding her time as she tried to figure out what Striking Snake was going to do. She realized he was after the gun when he started forcing her to move backward with him. When he eased his grip on her, she made her move, pushing away from him with all her might.

  Striking Snake cursed her for her action as he managed to grab the gun, and he fired it quickly at Lance.

  "The gun, Lance!" Trista cried as she broke free and darted away, throwing herself in front of him.

  "Trista! NO!!!" Lance's cry was agonized as he saw the bullet meant for him hit Trista. She crumpled to the ground before him.

  Striking Snake was stunned to see that it was Trista he'd hit. He took aim again, meaning to shoot Lance next, but Lance gave him no time. Lance gave no thought to his own safety as he lunged at him. This man had just shot the woman he loved. He would die! Rage pounded through his veins, and the desire for bloodlust surged through him.

  Striking Snake saw the deadly determination in Lance's eyes and nervously fired another round. Lance knocked the weapon aside just as he squeezed the trigger, and the bullet went wide. A cry of fear erupted from the cowardly warrior as the force of Lance's assault hurled him to the ground. Over and over Lance pummeled him with his fists, hammering away at him, giving him no time to fight back.

  Trying to defend himself, Striking Snake attempted to block Lance's vicious, punishing blows, but to little avail. Blindly reaching out beside him with one hand, he tried to locate the knife he had dropped when he'd gone for the rifle. He was relieved when his hand closed over the hilt of the weapon, and with what strength he had left, he swung his arm up, intending to stab Lance.

  Lance saw the blow coming, and he gripped the brave's wrist to force it away. Striking Snake let out a scream of pure fury as Lance foiled his last hope. Brute force battling brute force, they struggled to control the knife. Sweat beaded their brows as they fought over it, their muscles bulging in their final efforts to win the lethal encounter.

  It happened in a blinding flash. One moment Striking Snake held the knife poised between them, and the next, his strength failed him and the blade plunged deep into his chest. He stared up at Lance in painful surprise.

  "You think you have won, but this time I did," he seethed as his life ebbed from him. "Your woman is dead. . . ." With that, sprawled in the dirt like the merciless creature he was named for, he died.

  The feeling of triumph that washed over him at the certainty of Striking Snake's death was quickly quelled as he remembered Trista. Agony tortured his soul, and he murmured a silent prayer as he ran to where Trista lay and dropped to his knees beside her. The wound in her side was an ugly one, and he feared she was already dead.

  "Trista . . . " He breathed her name in a sigh of wretched despair. An anguish greater than any he'd ever known gripped him as he realized she might die because she was trying to protect him.

  "Trista's world was suffused in a red haze of excruciating pain as she lay unmoving where she'd fallen. She longed to know if Lance was safe, but for some reason she couldn't fathom, she couldn't get her eyes open or make her limbs move. A burning, searing agony tormented her side, and she realized vaguely that she must have been shot. Still, her own condition did not concern her. All she could think about was Lance.

  The sound of his voice came to her then, distant and grieving, and she mustered all her flagging strength to answer him. "Lance?" His name was a faint, hushed whisper.

  Lance knew a dramatic surge of joy at the sound of her voice. "Trista . . . darling . . . " He hovered over her, his hands gentle as he stroked her hair back from her forehead. "I'm here. . . . I'll take care of you. . . ."

  "You're all right?" The question was barely audible, and Lance had to bend closer to hear her.

  "I'm fine, Trista, and you're going to be fine, too. I promise . . . "

  With a careful touch, he probed the nasty wound. He was somewhat comforted to discover that the bullet had passed through her body, knowing that there would be fewer complications since he didn't have to dig it out.

  "I'll be right back," he told her huskily. He didn't know if she could hear him or not, and he didn't care. All that concerned him was that she was still alive and that he had to save her.

  Lance searched through Striking Snake's things to find what he needed to dress Trista's wound. He returned to her then and used his knife to cut her blouse so he could tend her more easily. After cleansing the injury as best he could, he cut strips of material from the hem of her skirt and bound it tightly to keep the bleeding under control.

  Assured that Lance was alive, Trista had drifted in and out of consciousness. She seemed aware of the fact that he was ministering to her, but she had no strength left to do more than lay passively as he worked to stop the bleeding. The pain never lessened despite Lance's efforts to ease her torment, and finally the peaceful darkness of unconsciousness that beckoned comfortingly took her.

  For a moment Lance feared that he'd lost Trista, but an instant later he realized that she was still breathing and had merely fainted. Though it worried him that she was that weak, in another way he was relieved that she had lost consciousness. Lance knew he had to get help if he was to save her life. The trip to Lone Elk's village could be made by travois, but if she had remained awake, the agony might have proved too great for her.

  Leaving her for a moment, Lance rushed off down the creek bank to get Fuego. He was greatly disturbed to find that the stallion was gone, but when he remembered the direction from which Striking Snake had reentered the camp, he had no doubt that the warrior had released
the stallion before coming after him.

  It troubled Lance deeply that Fuego was gone, not only because he had counted on the rogue's stamina to get Trista to Lone Elk quickly, but because he feared the golden one was now lost to him forever. A parallel occurred to him of how Fuego and Trista had played similar roles in his life and how losing one might precipitate losing the other, but he forced it from his mind. He would not lose Trista. He couldn't. She meant everything to him.

  Determined to get her to help as fast as he could, Lance set about making a travois. In less than an hour, he had hitched the rough-hewn conveyance to Striking Snake's own mount and carefully placed Trista on it. Starting off at a measured pace, he headed from the canyon, resolved to reach the village sometime that night.

  Chapter Thirty

  Night Lark had finished her work for the day and was heading through the camp toward Wind Rider s lodge. She ignored the idle warriors who called out to her. Though many were wealthy and some quite handsome, she disdained them all and paid no attention to their comments. She would not waste her time on any of them. Lance was the man who held her thoughts and her heart—only Lance.

  It had been weeks since he'd left the camp to track down his runaway wife and the horse she had stolen, and in all that time there had been no word from him. Night Lark found herself thinking about him constantly and worrying about his safety. She dreaded the thought he might actually find Trista and return with her, but she also knew that she would rather have him back that way than not at all.

  Night Lark glanced up to see Wind Rider sitting comfortably outside his tipi. She was glad that he was at home, for she felt sure that if anyone had heard news of Lance, it would be him. She quickened her pace at the thought.

  Wind Rider watched Night Lark's approach and struggled to keep from smiling. He knew why she was coming to visit him, and he also knew she would soon be leaving, disappointed. He had heard nothing from Lance since he'd left the village.