Texas Splendor Page 13

  Trista stood before him, braced for a fight. She did not want to die, but would do so to save herself from this man. Lance, even at his most cruel, had been kind compared to what she was sure this one would be like, and she silently cursed him for deserting her.

  Striking Snake moved with all the stealth of the reptile for which he was named. His obsidian eyes revealed nothing of his plan of attack as he circled the defiant Trista. It irked him that she had been so subdued with Lance, and he was determined to bring her under his control, too. He was a better warrior than Lance. Certainly no woman was going to show him up! He lunged for her, but to his surprise she darted quickly to one side. Trista swung out at him with her makeshift weapon as she evaded him, and the burning stick struck him a glancing blow on the arm.

  Howls of raucous laughter filled the air, and Striking Snake looked up to find that several of the villagers had gathered to watch. The fact that she'd just made a fool of him enraged him, and he knew he would make her pay for her resistance.

  Trista read the murderous glint in his eyes, and she backed away, suddenly truly frightened. She swallowed nervously, knowing that her meager strength was no match for this warrior's. She would now pay the price for her actions.

  Striking Snake lunged. Trista would have been able to avoid his tackle again had she not tripped. She had thought the area behind her clear, but suddenly she found herself falling backward. Her one weapon flew from her grasp as she tumbled. She lay in the dust, the breath knocked from her, her gaze fastened on the warrior who was coming toward her, his expression black.

  "You are stupid, white woman," a feminine voice taunted from above her.

  Twisting, Trista looked up to see a young Comanche woman standing over her with a knife in her hand.

  "I cannot see why Lance bothered to take you. He should have killed you where he found you. Perhaps I will save him the trouble now. . . ." Her smile had a feral quality about it that sent a shiver of apprehension down Trista's spine.

  "I did not need your help, Night Lark," Striking Snake snarled as he drew near.

  The maiden shrugged. "That is true, Striking Snake. She is as stupid as she is ugly. Why, she tripped right over my foot. . . . I do not see why either of you would want this one."

  "It is not important that you see anything," he snapped, dismissing her. "All that matters is that she be tamed. Obviously Lance hasn't managed to learn how to control her yet, so I will teach her obedience."

  He reached down then and grasped Trista by the front of her blouse, hauling her to her feet. With his other hand, he slapped her viciously, and he smiled as her lip split beneath his assault. As he was about to hit her again, Wind Rider reappeared and shouted out to him in Comanche.

  "Striking Snake! Do not lay another hand upon her. She is not your property. She belongs to Lance and Lance alone." He moved forth boldly to take Trista by the arm and pull her free of the other warrior's threatening hold.

  Trista had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. She did not know what the other warrior had said, but she was grateful for his rescue.

  "She was fighting me!" he argued, lapsing into his native tongue as he tried to justify his actions.

  Wind Rider gave him a scathing look and jeered, "She is not fighting now, Striking Snake. Perhaps you do not know how to treat women!"

  His statement drew another round of laughter as those who had been standing around began to drift away to see to their own business. Striking Snake gritted his teeth in anger but knew it was best to not say anything more. He would get this female from Lance one way or the other, and then he would show her the cost of humiliating him before his tribesmen.

  "I will tell Lance of her defiant ways," Wind Rider assured him as the warrior stalked away. He thought about how bravely Trista had acted. She was a rare female to have so fiercely defended herself against Striking Snake's brute force, and she probably would have done much better had Night Lark not interfered. He turned to the Indian maiden then. "If you have come in search of Lance, he is with his uncle."

  "I know where he is, my cousin. I merely came to see the captive he brought back." Night Lark's tone was nasty, for she resented Wind Rider's defense of this pasty-faced female. "She does not look very strong," she remarked as she circled Trista, studying her critically.

  "Lance did not bring her back because he thought she was of sturdy stock, Night Lark," Wind Rider told her derisively. "She is as beautiful as the sun, and I'm sure she can create as much heat."

  The maiden flushed angrily at his words. Jealousy consumed her at the thought of Lance making love to this white woman. "She is as pale as the snow and probably as cold!" she returned. "He will find no comfort between her thighs."

  Night Lark's hostility was an almost tangible thing, and Trista wondered at it as she watched the other woman warily. She had heard that the Comanche women were sometimes more vicious than their men, and looking at Night Lark, she believed it. Her raven hair was wild about her shoulders. Her eyes were narrowed and reflected clearly her hatred. Trista didn't doubt for a moment that, if they had been alone, the other woman would have attacked her.

  "Where Lance seeks his comfort is none of your business, Night Lark," Wind Rider told her bluntly. "He is not your husband. You have no claim on him."

  She flashed her cousin a knowing look. "Not yet, but I will. Lance will be mine, and then I will see this bitch sold to the highest bidder." With that, she stormed off.

  "Come. We will wait here for Lance's return." Wind Rider spoke in English as he led Trista to a place before the tipi.

  Trista drew a deep, shuddering sigh of relief at his mention of Lance. He would be returning. . . . He hadn't given her away to Striking Snake. She wiped at the blood on her mouth as she followed him. "Thank you."

  Wind Rider gave her an appraising look but said nothing as he directed her to sit down before Lance's lodge. She was a fiery one, this one. Having seen her in action, he knew his friend definitely had his hands full in trying to tame her. Suppressing a smile, Wind Rider couldn't help but think what an exciting challenge it would be to bring this blond beauty under control and how great the rewards would be once she was. He hoped Lance would sell her to him soon.

  "Striking Snake has told me that you returned with more than just the stallion," Lone Elk remarked to Lance as they sat facing each other in the privacy of his lodge.

  Lance immediately resented Striking Snake having borne the news to Lone Elk that should have been his own to impart. "He has spoken the truth, my uncle."

  Lone Elk's dark eyes probed deeply into Lance's blue ones seeking answers to questions he had not yet posed. "This white woman . . . why did you bring her to our village? You have never done such as this before."

  "Perhaps it was time for me to claim that which is my right," he answered, thinking of the Barrett ring Trista wore.

  Lone Elk nodded but did not speak. He knew Lance better than any other living soul, and he sensed that there was much more to this than just the taking of a white captive. He changed the subject for the time being, knowing that eventually he would find out the real truth behind his actions. "You captured the stallion as you said you would."

  "Yes. Did you doubt me?"

  "Never," the chief told him, and then paused as one of his three wives entered to bring them cooling drinks. When the woman had served them and then gone, he spoke again, a smile curving his usually stern mouth. "When you set your mind to a challenge, you do not fail. I do not think you know the word."

  Lance was pleased by such praise from his uncle. "I merely try to imitate your example."

  Lone Elk chuckled at his obvious flattery. "I am growing old, and such words are like the joy of children's laughter to my ears. Tell me of the horse. Was he worth the struggle?"

  "He is magnificent," he confirmed. "He is smart, too. Already I have him drinking out of my hands. I will mount him for the first time tomorrow."

  "I will watch this mounting," the chief proclaimed.


  "I hope it is only one," Lance said wryly, wondering just how difficult it was going to be to break the rogue to riding.

  "Many sought the golden one. Only you succeed. We will celebrate tonight when the moon rises."

  "I am pleased by the honor."

  It was almost nightfall as Lance made his way back to his tipi, and he was feeling quite pleased by his uncle's planned tribute. He could see Trista sitting before the campfire with Wind Rider. In the semidarkness he did not immediately notice her bruised face and puffy lip. Only as he drew closer did he see the telltale sign of Striking Snake's blow. A surge of chilling rage that he didn't understand swept through him at the sight of her injury. His expression was wooden as he looked from Trista to Wind Rider and back.

  "You will tell me what happened," he demanded of his friend coldly in their native language as he stood before them.

  "I do not know exactly what happened. When I returned from taking care of the stallion, Striking Snake was beating her. He claims she attacked him."

  "You stopped the attack?"

  "We both know that Striking Snake would think nothing of killing a woman. I merely reminded him that Trista was your property, not his."

  Lance nodded as he spoke with distaste. "I find he is much like his name. I do not trust him. Thank you, my friend."

  There was a sparkle in Wind Rider's eyes as he got to his feet and answered, "Do not thank me. I was merely protecting what I hope will soon be mine."

  Chapter Ten

  Trista had seen Lance coming toward them, and her gaze had not wavered from him as he drew near. She had never in her wildest imaginings thought that she would ever be glad to see him, but at this moment she was. The fact left her confused and resentful. Lance had kidnapped her and had dragged her across miles of rugged, treacherous terrain against her will. He had forced her to make love to him, taking from her the precious gift of her innocence, and then, to humiliate her further, had forced her to confess that she had enjoyed his touch and had wanted him. . . .

  Staring up at him now, Trista knew she should have felt shamed and abused. Instead, all she could think of was how wonderful it was to see him and how relieved she was that he had not given her to Striking Snake, but had kept her for himself. As he continued to talk with Wind Rider, her gaze clung to him hungrily, and again she wished that she could translate the words they exchanged in the complicated Comanche tongue.

  "Have you arranged for a place for her to stay?" Wind Rider was asking. He knew it was bad medicine for a woman to live in a warrior's tent if she was not his wife, and he wondered if Lance had given any thought to the problem.

  "I was hoping you could convince She Who Speaks the Truth to take her in," Lance suggested.

  Wind Rider knew how fond his aunt was of Lance and quickly agreed to check with her. "I will ask her right away. I'm sure she will have no objections."

  "Good. Tell her that I will bring Trista to her soon, before the celebration begins."

  "I will do that," he told him as he started off to seek out his aunt.

  When Wind Rider had gone, Lance stood towering over Trista. He regarded her in silence for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. His feelings for her were ambivalent, and it troubled him greatly. His near violent reaction to the thought of Striking Snake hitting her had stunned him. Lance generally prided himself on being coolheaded and in control, and the power of the emotion that had surged through him upon learning of the warrior's cruelty to Trista had left him slightly shaken. That, plus the reluctance he was feeling over sending her to sleep at She Who Speaks the Truth's tipi, left him exasperated. He knew it would not be acceptable for her to share his lodge, yet he found himself, for the first time in all his years with the tribe, wanting to break with tradition.

  Lance told himself that he hated Trista. She was representative of everything he despised. She was white. She was to marry his hated half brother. He had only taken her captive to use her to seek revenge against the Barretts. Yet despite all the anger and bitterness he felt toward Trista, when he touched her a madness seized him, and it was a madness that only oneness with her could cure. He had had desirable women before, but no one had affected him as she did. His expression hardened at the thought that he might be feeling more for her than just lust, and he thrust the possibility from him. She was a white woman captive, nothing more. He would treat her as such.

  As tired, sore, and mentally exhausted as she was, Trista had hoped for at least some peace now that Lance had returned. But her pleasure at seeing him was rapidly diminishing as he stood over her, scowling blackly.

  "Lance?" she ventured hesitantly. She was unsure of his mood and wondered if her struggle with Striking Snake had angered him. He had ordered her to go with him and warned her many times previously what he would do to her if she did not obey his commands.

  Without a word, Lance abruptly turned away from her and stepped inside the tipi, leaving her to follow.

  Not quite sure what to do, Trista hurried after him. Her gaze quickly swept the tipi's interior, and she was surprised by the practicality of the simple furnishings. In the center of the floor was a small fire pit, cold and dark now because of the warmth of the day. A single bed of skins lay at the back of the lodge, opposite the door, and upon the walls hung several parfleche bags and some cooking utensils. To one side, resting against the tipi wall, was his shield. The design upon it was the image of a horse painted in varying shades of yellow and gold. It was the sight of what was tied to the shield by sinew thongs that made her gasp in terror . . . white, gleaming animal teeth and what looked to be scalps.

  Lance looked up at the sound of her distress, and noting the direction of her gaze, he laughed mockingly. "Do you like my shield? It has great power, you know."

  Trista did not answer, but retreated even farther across the tipi away from it.

  When she didn't respond, he continued derisively, "As brave as you were with Striking Snake, I did not think the sight of a few bears' teeth and horses' tails would trouble you."

  "Horses' tails?" she repeated dully.

  "Among my people the bear teeth tell of the warrior's hunting skills, and if a warrior's shield is adorned with horses' tails, it tells of his great abilities at raiding."

  "So you've stolen many horses?"

  "I have taken many," he confirmed confidently, "but the golden one is the one of which I am most proud."

  "Fuego . . . "

  "Fuego?" Lance looked at her questioningly.

  "That is what the stallion is called. Michael and his father referred to him as Fuego because of his unusual coloring. It's Spanish for fire and—"

  "I know what it means," he cut her off brutally. For a moment they had been talking together almost civilly, but her mention of Michael and his father had stirred the turmoil of his feelings again.

  "Oh . . . " Trista was puzzled by the sudden change in him.

  "You will not be staying with me. It is not allowed. You will stay with She Who Speaks the Truth."

  Trista's heart plummeted at his declaration. With Lance she felt protected, but now she was to be thrust off on someone else . . . a stranger who probably didn't even speak English. Judging from the way the one girl had treated her earlier, Trista knew it would not be easy for her.

  "It is only for you to obey. You will do whatever She Who Speaks the Truth asks of you. As long as you do as you are told, you will be given the free run of the camp. But know, Trista, that I will not hesitate to punish you should you cause any trouble."

  Trista realized that her joy in seeing Lance again had been miserably misplaced. She meant nothing more to him. She was his slave, bound to do as he ordered. She was his property and completely at his mercy.

  A fleeting thought of Michael and possible rescue crossed her mind. The spark of hope must have shown in her eyes, for Lance immediately reacted.

  "Do not think about escaping or being rescued, my golden captive." He crushed her hope with his cruel words. "Those who would have fo
llowed us were lost after the first day, and I made certain to erase all signs of our trail."

  His arrogant assurance struck a nerve with her, and she could no longer control the roiling, twisting emotions that were seething within her.

  "I hate you, Lance! I hate you with every breath I take! Somehow, someday, I'm going to see you pay for what you've done to me!" Trista cried, throwing herself at him and pounding on his chest with both her fists.

  Lance pinned her arms to her sides with little trouble and pulled her against him. "If you ever physically attack me again, Trista, your punishment will be severe," he ground out, his blue eyes flashing dangerously.

  "What more could you do to me that you haven't already done?!" She glared up at him mutinously.

  Lance's grin was evil. "I don't think you want to find out."

  "Why, you . . .!!!"

  "Your temper is fiery, Trista." Lance tightened his grip upon her, holding her more tightly to him. "You will learn to keep it under control," he taunted, and then grew serious. "Perhaps you should be called Fuego, too. Fire and passion . . . "

  As Trista stood, crushed against his hard, manly frame, something wild exploded within her. Her body was suddenly alive with excitement at being held so intimately to him. Her breasts swelled at the contact with his chest, and to her shame, she could feel her nipples hardening in invitation. She wanted to deny it. She wanted to break free of his hold, to run from here and never look back, but it was too late. As she lifted her stricken gaze to his, she saw his knowledge of her weakness reflected there.

  When Lance had pulled her into his arms, a rush of heated desire had swept through him, taking him completely by surprise. He looked down at her, mesmerized, as he felt her own response to his nearness. What was this thing that ignited between them at a single touch? This reckless, desperate blaze of emotion that rendered them both insensible to anything but their need to be one. Lance had no answer to the dilemma, except one.

  His need was fierce as he bent to kiss her, and he was pleased when Trista resisted only for an instant before surrendering fully to his savage embrace. His mouth plundered hers with a carefully controlled violence. He hated her for the power she had over his senses, yet he could not, would not, stop. His was a need that had to be satisfied, and only Trista could satisfy him. Hungrily, his lips sought the sweetness of her throat and then skimmed lower to the thrust of her breasts. With impatient fingers, he stripped off her shirt and bared them to his questing caresses.