by Bobbi Smith
"Yes, Dawn Blossom, I'm here," she replied with little enthusiasm.
"Good, I was looking for you."
"Why? Could you not tell that I wanted to be alone?"
Dawn Blossom was stung by her unfriendliness. "I will leave you alone then, since you do not want to hear the news I came to bring you." She turned away from the other maiden and started back up the bank.
Night Lark was surprised by her move, and quickly spoke up. "What news do you have, Dawn Blossom? I'm sure it must be important for you to come all the way out here to tell me."
Dawn Blossom cast her a cold look and kept on walking.
"Dawn Blossom, wait. I'm sorry I was short with you."
Pleased that the other woman realized the message she brought was important, she paused in her retreat and turned to her. "I came out here to tell you that Lance has returned."
"What?!" Night Lark was immediately on her feet.
"Lance has returned," she repeated a bit smugly.
"When?!"
"Just a short while ago."
"Did he come alone?"
"No. He found Trista and brought her back with him."
The excitement she'd been feeling over his return faded a bit with the discovery that he'd brought his wife with him, but she did not let it bother her too much.
"Is he looking for me?"
"I don't know. All I do know is that Trista was wounded, and he called for Bluff Owl."
"Lance had to shoot her to bring her back?" Night Lark was thrilled at the thought. She would not have to wait for him to sell Trista to another tribe. . . . Perhaps she would die right away, and he'd be rid of her even sooner.
She shrugged. "I do not know how it happened. All I know is what I told you."
"Thank you, Dawn Blossom. I must go to Lance now. I'm sure he is looking for me. . . ."
Dawn Blossom watched with interest as the other maiden hurried off toward the camp. With idle malice, she wondered what Night Lark's reaction would be when she discovered that, contrary to what she thought, Lance was very concerned about his wife's condition. She started after her, eager to eavesdrop and see what she could find out.
Chapter Thirty-One
"Night Lark? What are you doing?" She Who Speaks the Truth demanded as she awoke from a deep sleep in the middle of the night to find her daughter leaving the tipi.
Night Lark had stopped at their lodge to freshen up a bit before going to find Lance. She had hoped to sneak in and out without being detected, and she cursed under her breath as she turned to her mother. "I'm sorry I woke you."
"I did not ask for an apology, daughter. I asked for an answer. Where is it you're creeping off to at this hour?" Her tone was sharp as she sat up and eyed her suspiciously.
Knowing that her mother would stand for nothing less than the truth, she was honest with her. "Lance has returned, and I'm on my way to see him."
"Lance is back?" This surprised She Who Speaks the Truth. "What of his wife? Did he bring her with him?"
"Yes," she answered in annoyance, "but Trista has been shot. I guess Lance had to shoot her to force her to return with him."
She Who Speaks the Truth found it hard to believe that Lance would shoot the white woman. "Who has told you this? Who told you Lance shot her?"
"No one. I just know he must have done it. He was angry with her when he left." She explained how she'd reached her conclusions.
"I would not repeat that story until you know the truth of what has happened. They have been gone a long time, daughter. Much could have happened between them."
Night Lark grew impatient with her mother's preaching. "Yes, Mother. I will hold my tongue until I have heard the truth of it from Lance, but I'm sure his tale will be no different. Trista has caused him nothing but trouble from the beginning. He will be well rid of her if she dies, and if she doesn't, he will probably just end up selling her to the Kiowas anyway."
She Who Speaks the Truth stared at her incredulously, wondering how her daughter could be so blind to the truth of Lance's feelings. She had sensed herself that he wasn't going after Trista merely to get his horse back.
"I find it hard to believe that Lance would have bothered to bring Trista all the way back to our village if he didn't plan to keep her."
Night Lark refused to listen to the warning tone of her mother's words as she started from their home. "He will be mine soon now, Mother. I know it."
"Night Lark . . . " She Who Speaks the Truth started to caution her, but she had already disappeared out of the lodge in search of the man she loved. She was unable to go back to sleep after her daughter had gone, and she tossed and turned restlessly, worried that Night Lark might be devastated when she learned the truth of Lance's feelings for the white woman.
Lance stood alone near the edge of the village. He knew he was tired, but he was so concerned about Trista that he couldn't rest. When Lone Elk had suggested that they return to his lodge and try to sleep, he had declined, preferring to stay near his own tipi and await word from Bluff Owl on Trista's condition. Though the night would be exhausting and seemingly endless, he would not leave. Lance had sent Lone Elk on by himself to rest, promising to call him if he needed him.
Nervously, he raked a hand through the short, dark thickness of his hair. Again he wished that he was the one who had been shot instead of Trista. Striking Snake's bullet had been meant for him. He was the one the other warrior had hated, yet Trista was the one suffering because of that hatred.
Lance thought of all the times he had hurt her himself, and guilt swept over him. He remembered the first time they'd made love at the ranch and how he'd felt when he'd seen the bruises on her back where Night Lark had beaten her. A sense of outrage filled him at the way the other woman had dared to treat Trista. He vowed to himself that, if she lived through this, he would never allow anyone to hurt her again.
Night Lark hurried eagerly toward Lance's tipi, for she was anxious to see him again and to tell him just how much she had missed him while he was away. She felt confident that he would be glad to see her, too. Obviously Trista had given him much trouble, and she believed that he would be glad to be with a woman who was more willing to please him.
When she reached his lodge she was puzzled to find that he was not there. She could hear Bluff Owl chanting in the tipi and knew that Lance would not be inside, for no one was ever permitted to enter while the medicine man was working his powerful healing. She searched about the area in the dim glow from the low-burning campfires and finally found him near the edge of the village staring out across the night-shrouded land. She was glad for the chance to be alone with him and slowed her pace, not wanting him to know the complete extent of her eagerness for his company.
"Lance?" Night Lark kept her voice soft and sensual as she drew closer.
Lance had been lost deep in thought and was startled by the interruption. He did not immediately recognize Night Lark in the darkness, and thought it was one of the village women bringing him word of Trista. He turned quickly, anxiously, toward the approaching female.
"You bring word of Trista?" he asked, trying to identify the woman who came toward him in the semidarkness.
"No, Lance. I have come to see how you are," Night Lark crooned in her most endearing tone.
"Night Lark?" Lance was stunned to think that she would be bold enough to come to him after all that had happened.
"Yes," she answered, overjoyed that he'd recognized her. "I was so glad to hear that you'd returned." She sidled up to him, hoping to encourage him.
Lance was filled with outrage at all of Night Lark's brazen maneuverings. He had meant to confront her later, when things had settled down, but her presence here with him now pushed him to the brink.
"Were you?" He could barely control the violence that threatened to take him.
"Of course, Lance. You must know how I feel about you. I love you, and I missed you while you were gone."
At that, he grabbed her by the upper arms. Night Lark thou
ght he was going to take her in an embrace and kiss her, but to her surprise, rather than kiss her, he tightened his grip painfully upon her.
"You don't know the meaning of the word 'love,' Night Lark. You make a mockery of the very idea," Lance snarled as he glared down at her.
Only then did she begin to understand that rather than welcome her, he was furious with her. "I don't know what you mean. . . ."
"I don't love you, Night Lark. I've told you that before, but you refused to believe me. Now I will tell you again, and this time you will listen!"
"But Lance—"
"Listen to me, Night Lark. . . ." he seethed as he recalled what Trista had told him had happened while he was gone. He thought of the lies Night Lark had told her about their plans to marry, the work she had forced Trista to do, and the beatings that had accompanied it. Had Night Lark minded her own business, Trista might not have run from him and might not be lying near death now. Lance's heart hardened completely against Night Lark. "I despise liars," he stated tersely, and he heard her sharp intake of breath.
"What are you talking about, Lance? I have never lied to you," Night Lark protested in confusion.
"You may not have lied to me, but you lied to Trista."
"Trista?"
"You told her that I was going to marry you, didn't you?"
"I love you, Lance, and I always thought that you cared for me." Night Lark suddenly feared that her world was about to crumble.
"I cared for you only as a friend, nothing more. I have never professed to love you, Night Lark, and I never encouraged you to believe that one day we would marry."
"But—"
"Say no more, woman," he commanded harshly, giving her a rough shake as his temper flared. "Trista is the woman I love."
"If you love her so much, why did you have to shoot her to bring her back?"
"I did not shoot Trista," Lance ground out, infuriated by her assumption. "Trista was shot by Striking Snake as she tried to save my life. He is the one who shot her!"
She realized in heartrending disillusionment that all her perceptions about Lance and Trista had been wrong. Tears of humiliation stung her eyes, and she grew bitter in her jealousy of the other woman.
"I do not know why you care about her. She is nothing but a stupid, clumsy white woman. She has caused you nothing but trouble since you brought her here! She defied you at every turn, yet you claim to love her! What about me? I have loved you for as long as I can remember. I have always wanted to please you in any way I could," she told him angrily.
"Shut up, Night Lark. Don't ever let me hear you speak of Trista again! I do not love you, and I never will. Know that and leave me now!" He shoved her almost brutally away from him.
"Lance. . . ." Night Lark pleaded in a last, desperate attempt to make him understand the depth of her love for him. She took a step toward him with her hands outstretched before her. "Make love to me now. Let me show you just how perfect it can be between us. I can give you more pleasure than your pasty-faced wife! I don't understand why you care about her! I hope she dies. Then we could be happy together. I know the ways of the Comanche. She would never fit in. . . ."
His hands clinched into fists of useless rage against this woman who refused to accept the truth. "I said leave me, Night Lark! Trista is my wife, and if anything happens to her. . . ."
Night Lark saw the fury mirrored in his eyes along with his agonized concern over Trista and knew then, finally, that the white woman had won his love. He was lost to her forever. Sobbing her heartbreak, she rushed away into the night.
Suddenly alone, Lance felt his anger slowly drain from him. He glanced toward his lodge, hoping to see Bluff Owl emerging to tell him Trista was better, but the sound of the medicine man's unending chant told him that his power had not yet worked its miracle.
He thought of Trista's suffering, and memories he had long suppressed slipped through the protective barriers in his mind. Held in the grip of the childish recollections of his mother's death, Lance was filled with the need to go to Trista and stay with her. He could vaguely remember his father tirelessly remaining at his mother's side as she fought for her life against the deadly fever that had claimed her. Lance was torn between the need to be with her and the need to respect the secret workings of Bluff Owl's medicine. He had just resigned himself to passing more hours alone when he heard Trista call out in terror. The sound of her strangled cry jolted Lance, and there was no stopping him as he raced back to his lodge and threw wide its opening.
Trista tossed uncomfortably in the heat and pain that threatened to consume her. Distantly, she heard the sound of an unearthly song, and the throbbing beat of it seemed to echo through her to the depths of her very soul. Her thoughts were jumbled in feverish confusion, and she opened her eyes, wanting to understand where she was and why she was in such agony. She had just shifted her weight, intending to look about the dimly lighted enclosure, when a strange Comanche suddenly loomed over her. His face was painted in the most hideous of designs, and Trista cried out in terror at the sight of him, and threw her arms up in a feeble effort to defend herself.
"Lance . . . no, don't hurt me!" Her eyes were wild as the fever raged through her.
Bluff Owl looked up angrily as Lance threw the flap open and strode inside. "Get out!" he ordered in the Comanche tongue.
Lance needed only a quick look at Trista to understand that she had a high fever, and he glared at the medicine man fiercely.
"I am staying," he stated, not caring anymore about Bluff Owl's power or lack of it. All that mattered was that he stay by Trista. He had to be with her. Somehow he had to help her.
"My powers will not work if you remain," he charged.
Lance was beyond caring about anything but his wife. He moved to kneel beside Trista, who now lay quietly, her eyes closed, her features flushed with the killing heat that possessed her.
"Your powers have done nothing for her so far while I've stayed away. She's gotten worse. I'm not leaving her," he challenged. "She needs me, and I am going to stay with her."
Bluff Owl drew himself up to his full height as he returned Lance's glare. "My medicine is strong. It will work." He was not about to lose his standing in the tribe. He would stay and make certain that she recovered.
Lance turned back to Trista, murmuring her name as he brushed back her hair from her forehead. Her skin felt hot to his touch, and he left her momentarily to get a wet cloth. With slow, steady strokes, he bathed her with the cooling water, hoping that it would somehow reduce the fever that held her mercilessly in its grasp.
Trista stirred restively. Caught up in the midst of her delirium, she thought herself back at the Diamond with Michael.
"Michael . . . " Her voice was a hoarse croak as she called his name. "Michael . . . I love him, yet I'm hurting him. . . ."
Lance's expression grew grim as he listened to her profess her love for Michael, and he felt as if his whole world had just come crashing down around him. He thought back to what Michael had told him before he'd left the ranch and Lance concluded that Trista must have realized Michael loved Sukie, and had made up the story of loving him in order to set Michael free to claim his own happiness. Lance knew for a fact that she didn't want to marry him. She had made that perfectly clear during the last night they had spent together.
"Michael . . . " Trista opened her eyes and looked straight at Lance. "What should I do? He claims we're married already. . . ."
Though Lance knew that she was not actually seeing him, trapped in her delirium as she was, he still cringed at the heartfelt misery in her tone. He felt angry over all that had happened to her because of him, and he silently prayed that he would have the opportunity to make it all up to her.
"Easy, love," Lance crooned as he continued to stroke her with the wet cloth. "Everything will be all right. Trust me, Trista. . . ."
In Trista's mind, she saw Striking Snake leering at her, and she screamed in horror as she thrashed about the bed trying to escape th
e evil warrior. Whimpers of terror escaped her as, in her mind's eye, she tried to flee him.
"No! Please don't hurt me . . . please let me go. . . ."
To Lance her words were almost a physical blow as he believed she was reliving the time when he had kidnapped her and held her as his prisoner.
"God, love, I'm sorry . . . so sorry. . . ." Fighting to keep control over his chaotic emotions, he concentrated only on trying to lower her body temperature.
Trista felt something cool and wet stroking her neck and shoulders, easing the heat and the aching pain that possessed her. She sighed as the image of Striking Snake faded, and the blackness and comfort of unconsciousness took her again.
As she went limp beneath his ministrations, Lance feared for a moment that she had gone from him. His breath caught in his throat, and he waited in agonizing uncertainty until he was sure that she was still breathing. A measure of relief washed over him, but he knew he could not relax his vigil. The only way to save her was to get the fever down. He passed the balance of the night in tense silence as he worked to keep her as cool and as comfortable as possible, while Bluff Owl continued his ritual works in an effort to prove that his powers were as great as everyone believed.
It was only when the first rays of the morning sun stained the eastern horizon in softly graded shades of pink, gold, and yellow that Lance took a break from his constant tending of her. Setting the cloth aside, he stood up to stretch his cramped limbs and moved over to the doorway of the lodge to watch the sunrise. He hoped that the clear sky promising a bright day was a portent of what was to come, but glancing back at Trista's ominously still form gave him little hope.
It was then, as Lance looked on, that Trista began to toss restlessly about once more. The infection had not lessened with the passing of the night, and her temperature threatened to soar to even greater heights.
Trista felt as if she were burning up, and she turned fitfully on Lance's bed, seeking relief from the fire that raged within her. Her tortured senses created teasing, vicious hallucinations as she fought to overcome the wound and the infection. In her sick, fevered thoughts, she was making love with Lance much as they had that last time they'd been together at the ranch. His every touch and every caress was tender and gentle, and she was cherishing his nearness as she lifted her face to his to accept his kiss. It was then, as she opened her eyes in the dreamlike state, that he changed. One moment it had been Lance, holding her and loving her, and the next moment her dream lover was transformed into Striking Snake. In nightmarish reality, his cruel visage seemed to hover above her, and his smile was brutally sensual and threatening.
