Texas Splendor Read online

  Lance and his pinto moved as one as they bore down upon the stallion. With fierce determination, he drove himself and the pinto to the brink, passing the woman without a glance just as she threw her rope. Fury, mixed with an immediately denied admiration, swept through him as he saw her lasso land accurately over the golden one's head. The stallion was his!

  As Lance charged past her, Trista saw him clearly for the first time. The shock was numbing. Her grip on the rope slackened, and the lariat slipped from her fingers as she stared after him in mute surprise. Dear God . . . the other rider is no ranchhand . . . The other rider is an Indian! A Comanche! Her concentration was lost as fear shot through her at the sight of his longish black hair and near naked, sun-bronzed body. Knowing she had to escape while she could, Trista sawed back on the reins in a desperate motion. The unexpected change in command startled Sheba, and the faithful mount stumbled and lost her footing, falling heavily.

  Lance wasn't aware of exactly what happened when the woman's rope went slack, and he didn't have the time to concern himself. All that mattered was that at last he was certain that he had the golden one! With cool precision, he threw his own rope and then watched with intense satisfaction as it collared the fleeing steed.

  The struggle between man and beast was long and hard as Fuego fought with all his might to retain his freedom. Rearing and pawing the air in frustration, he battled fiercely against this man's domination, but to no avail. The days of unending chase had taken their toll. The nooses choking him into submission, the stallion was quivering in exhaustion as Lance kept his rope taut and maneuvered his pinto ever closer. In one final strategic move, the wild steed was thrown to the ground.

  The feeling of victory that possessed Lance was heady as he stared at the subdued horse. There had been times during the past days and nights when he'd wondered if the agony of the pursuit had been worth it, but he knew now that it had. The golden one was as beautiful up close as he had been from a distance.

  Lance secured his rope and then dismounted. He approached the horse with caution and quickly slipped a hackamore over the stallion's head. Fuego grew fearful at the feel of yet another noose about his neck, and only the man's subtle crooning kept him from struggling to his death. He found something soothing in the deep, dulcet tones, and although it made no sense to him, he did not fight against the feel of the man's hands upon him.

  Feeling the horse's surrender, Lance knew his success was complete. Rising, he stood victoriously over the vanquished horse. Lifting his eyes to the sky, his arms spread wide, he cried out his joyous triumph.

  The sound of his pinto whickering drew his glance, and it was then, when he noticed the black mare disappearing riderless over the far ridge, that he remembered the woman. A frown creased his brow as he scanned the area but could see no sign of her. After checking to make sure that the bonds on the stallion were still secure, Lance set out to look for the woman.

  Though the fall had knocked the breath from her, Trista knew she had to run away as quickly and as quietly as she could before the Indian had time to come back for her. A shudder of fear shook her as she remembered all that Mary Lou Harris had told her about Comanche raids the night before. With an effort, she pushed herself into a sitting position intending to flee, but she immediately regretted the action when waves of dizziness assailed her. Groaning, she lifted a shaking hand to her forehead and closed her eyes against the throbbing pain.

  Trista would never know whether it was the chill his shadow cast upon her or an intuitive knowledge of his nearness that caused her to look up just then, but she did, and the sight that greeted her struck terror to the depths of her soul. It was the Comanche! He'd found her! She had hoped to have time to escape, but now it was too late.

  Her mouth went dry, and her eyes widened in horror as she stared up at him. She had heard all the tales of how hideously ugly the Indians were, but even the most outlandish of the stories had not prepared her for this.

  Still dazed from the force of her fall from Sheba, she had only a vague impression of sun-bronzed nakedness as she stared up at him. Her gaze moved to his face, and she hoped for some sign of kindness or friendship, but what she saw there made her recoil in terror. Streaks of red and black paint slashed across the warrior's face, giving him the appearance of a hideous demon straight from hell.

  Lance had been cautious as he combed the area for the woman. He'd had no idea if she'd been armed or not, and so he had moved slowly . . . carefully . . . his tread catlike, and silent. He had come upon Trista just as she'd managed to sit up. He did not recognize her at first, for the glory of her tawny hair was confined in a thick braid that hung down her back, and her face was turned away from him. It was only when she looked up that he felt the totally unexpected jolt of recognition. The woman was none other than the beautiful female he had seen the night before at the ranch.

  Lance kept his expression implacable as he regarded her. His gaze may have seemed cold as it raked over her, but his reaction to her nearness was anything but indifferent. He thought she looked just as lovely up close as she had from a distance. As she was sitting, braced back on her arms, the soft white material of her blouse was pulled tautly across her breasts, hinting at their fullness. Lance felt an urge to release the strained buttons and see what delights were hidden from his view. Her split riding skirt was in disarray, its modest length now hiked up past her knees, revealing long, shapely limbs. His desire to touch her grew unbounded.

  Trista could sense a sudden tension in him, and she shifted nervously, trying to avoid looking at him and frantically trying to think of a way to escape. From all that she'd heard, she knew the reality of the situation, yet she refused to give in without a fight. Had Sheba not run off, her chance to get away would have been better, but it was too late to worry about that. Right now she had to save herself by whatever means possible.

  There was no more time to think, only to act. In a lightning move, she grabbed up a handful of the sandy soil and threw it in the warrior's face. His guttural grunt of agony as the sand seared his eyes pleased her, and she took advantage of this momentary blindness to scramble away. Trista ran blindly. She didn't know where she was going; she just knew that she could not remain there and face certain death . . . or worse.

  Lance had not been expecting her attack, and though she took him briefly by surprise, he reacted quickly. Angered, yet respecting her daring, he wiped the grit from his stinging eyes and started after her.

  Dashing madly across the rocky, uneven ground, Trista grew desperate as she looked back and saw the warrior already following her. She changed directions and dodged between some scrub brush and rocks in hopes of eluding him. She had never before had to run for her life, and she found herself shaking uncontrollably as she made her way across the rugged landscape. On gut instinct alone, she headed for higher ground, ignoring the cockleburs that tore viciously at her clothes and hair.

  As Trista reached the top of the incline, she was near collapse but knew she could not rest. A quick glance back filled her heart with even more terror, for the Comanche was nowhere in sight. Had she managed to escape, or was he playing some kind of perverse cat-and-mouse game with her? Her breath was a strained sob in her throat as she struggled mindlessly on, refusing to give in.

  Trista started down the hillside but lost her footing and tumbled the rest of the way to the bottom. She landed jarringly against a boulder, its sharp-edged hardness bruising her ribs and knocking the breath from her. It took Trista several long minutes to pull herself together. Excruciating pain shot through her as she staggered to her feet, and she doubled over, clutching her side.

  A pebble fell. Though the noise it made as it bounced down the incline was minimal, to Trista it sounded like a death knell. Her blue eyes wild with fright, she slowly looked up. Her heart seemed to miss a beat as she saw the warrior standing silently atop the hill, his arms folded across the powerful width of his bare chest, his expression seeming both mocking and murderous at the same tim
e. She swallowed nervously as she forced herself to action. Unmindful of the agony of her injured side, she started to run again.

  Trista had managed only a few tortured steps before it was over. She cried out in pain, horror, and frustration as her braid was caught in his unseen hand, and she was yanked forcibly backward. Losing her balance, she twisted as she fell, landing on her knees before the warrior. The thick, ropelike length of her hair was wrapped around his wrist, and he held her pinned there in submission.

  Terror struck at her heart, yet Trista fought to keep her fear from showing. She remembered someone telling her that the Comanche respected only strength and that cowards were held in the lowest contempt, so she bravely raised her eyes to meet his. It was then that she noticed the startling color of her captor's eyes against the black and blood-red paint on his face. Rather than the dark color she had expected, his gaze was a riveting, vivid blue.

  The discovery shocked her. A blue-eyed Comanche? How could that be? Remnants of tales she'd heard raced through her mind, and she vaguely recalled stories of how the Indians often took children captive when they raided ranches. At the time when she'd heard the tales she hadn't believed them, but now . . . the thought gave her a measure of hope, however small. If this warrior was perhaps one of them, then it might be possible for her to appeal to that side of him and earn her freedom.

  Her brief instant of hope was soon destroyed when he reached out to grasp her by her right arm and haul her to her feet. He said nothing as he twisted her right arm behind her back and pulled her full-length against him, trapping her free left arm between them.

  "NO!" she screamed, determined not to give in.

  With what little strength she had left, Trista began to fight him in earnest, struggling against his nearness. She pushed against the rock-hard wall of his chest with all her might and kicked out at him with her booted feet. Trista knew her blows connected, yet her captor gave no outward indication of experiencing any pain. His only reaction was to tighten his grip on her braid, forcing her head back and exposing the length of her throat. Fearing that he was about to kill her, she pulled her left arm free and swung at him, hoping to strike him in some way that might incapacitate him. Her efforts were all to no avail, though, as Lance quickly released her hair and snared her left wrist just as she would have hit him.

  His hands were unyielding cuffs of steel, and the pressure he was exerting threatened to snap the delicate bones of her wrists. His hold upon her was so cruel that Trista was forced to grit her teeth to keep from crying out.

  Lance, however, was unaware of the mercilessness of his grip as he stared down at her left hand in anger and confusion. On her ring finger was a ring that bore the crown insignia, and on the four points of that crown were four perfectly matched diamonds. It was the Barrett brand made into a ring, and the sight of it filled him with furious fascination. He glanced at her head, bowed meekly now in resignation, and wondered coldly at her connection to the Royal Diamond and the Barretts.

  Only when a low moan escaped her and she sagged against him did Lance realize just how heartless his hold on her had been. For some reason, her helplessness touched a chord of response within him, and he loosened his grip.

  Trista had noticed the wicked-looking knife the warrior was carrying in the waistband of his breechclout. Knowing it was her last and only hope for salvation, she pretended to be close to a faint, and swayed weakly against him. She found it difficult to believe that her ruse worked, but when the warrior slackened his hold, she reacted instantly, wrenching herself free and grabbing the knife at the same time. Trista faced him then, knife in hand, the blade glinting in the brilliance of the mid-morning sun.

  The Indian was watching her as she backed away from him, and when his lips curved into a dangerous imitation of a smile, Trista was completely unnerved. What was this savage thinking? What was he planning to do to her? She tried not to let her desperation show. Brandishing the weapon threateningly, she retreated.

  "Stay away from me!" Hysterically, she wondered if he even understood what she was saying, and when he continued to stalk her slowly, she assumed he did not.

  Trista grew tense and jittery as she kept angling away from the savage. She knew that if she let her defenses down for even a split second he would be upon her, and so she watched his every move, waiting for that fateful moment when he would attack. His attack came and instinct took over. Fighting for her life, she lashed out with a knife to protect herself.

  Lance felt the blade slice through his upper arm with something akin to amazement, and he silently cursed himself for having underestimated this woman. She was as wild and spirited as the golden stallion, and just as beautiful. He was determined to master her.

  Lance ignored the throbbing pain of his wound as he kicked out and knocked her off balance. As she fell, he launched himself at her, pinning her to the ground and grabbing the wrist of her knife-wielding hand. In a vicious motion, he forced her to drop the weapon and then trapped both her arms above her head with one hand.

  "Unless you plan to kill a man, you should never pull a knife on him." Lance's smile was fiendish as he retrieved the bloodstained weapon and held it up before her face.

  Trista gasped at his cool command of English, and then blanched at the sight of the knife. A chill of impending doom shook her. He was a Comanche . . . a murderous savage. Trista felt certain that he planned to kill her. She began to fight him again, bucking and squirming in an effort to twist free of his oppressive weight.

  "Let me go!"

  Lance shifted his position lower to stop her from fighting him. Suddenly what previously had been a restraining hold became an intimate caress as his legs entangled with hers and his hips pressed hers to the ground. The contact was shocking in its sensuality.

  The surge of excitement that rushed through Lance at the feel of her moving restlessly beneath him was near to overpowering, and took him by complete surprise. He was no stranger to women, yet never before had one affected him so strongly. Dropping his gaze to her face, he kept his expression dispassionate as he studied her. She was flushed in her agitation, and her heightened color made her appear all the more beautiful. Her blouse had been torn during her flight from him, and now one smooth, creamy shoulder and the beginning swell of one round breast lay exposed. He longed to touch that tempting flesh.

  Trista felt the new tension, too, but in her innocence was unable to understand it. All she knew was that it frightened her. "Leave me alone! I'm Michael Barrett's fiancée! He'll kill you if you hurt me!"

  Her words penetrated Lance's thoughts, freezing the desire that had stirred in his loins. Lance went perfectly still. That was the meaning of the ring! She was engaged to Michael Barrett . . . the half brother he'd never met . . . the man he'd seen with her the night before. Lance gave a harsh, hollow laugh. "He'd have to find me first, and I don't think he'd want to do that."

  Trista read into his words a threat, and tried not to show her fear. "Michael would track you down! This is Barrett land! Why don't you just go on and leave while you still can? You don't belong here!"

  Her statement stung him more than the blade of the knife. "You and your Michael are the intruders here, not me."

  Trista thought he was referring to the fact that before the settlers came, the Comanche had once roamed this part of Texas freely. "Michael's family has lived here for years! The Royal Diamond is their home . . . and mine, too, now!"

  Abruptly Lance released her and stood up. His movements were barely controlled as he slid the knife back in its sheath. His blue eyes were glacial as he regarded her. "Get up." It was an order.

  Trista wondered at his sudden withdrawal and knew a moment of profound hope. Maybe he was letting her go! Maybe her mentioning of Michael and the Barretts had saved her life. Favoring her injured side, she got to her feet.

  Lance noticed her discomfort. "You're hurt."

  "No," she denied, turning slightly away from him. "I'm all right. Am I free to go?"

  I
mpatiently, Lance snared her arm again and pulled her to him. As he started to push her shirt up, she tried to break loose.

  "Be still," he commanded, and for some reason, she obeyed. His hand was gentle as he lifted the blouse to examine her injury. The lower side of her back was scraped raw and bruised. Lance knew it had to be painful for her. He thought of her fearlessness in fighting him and of how she was bearing such a wound without complaining. "Come with me." His statement was dispassionate.

  "No! I don't want to go with you!" She pulled back. "I want to go home to the Royal Diamond!"

  Lance's expression didn't falter. "Your home will be with me now. Come."

  Chapter Five

  Trista refused to budge and tried once more to pull her arm free from his firm possessive grip. Her expression was mutinous as she demanded, "Let go of me! I'm not going anywhere with you!"

  "You'll do what I tell you to do." Lance's tone was terse as he faced her, and had she known him better she would have realized the danger of pushing him any further.

  "I will not! If you're going to kill me, then do it here! Now!"

  Again Lance's smile had a chilling effect on her. "Killing you was not what I had in mind."

  Trista's eyes widened at his remark, revealing for the first time the depth of her terror. "I won't go with you . . . I won't!"

  At her continued defiance, Lance's mouth firmed to a hard, grim line. He had had enough. While he'd admired her spirit in the beginning, he found now that he was growing quite weary of her protestations. Without uttering another word, he pulled a leather thong from his waistband.

  "What are you going to do to me?" She recognized a subtle change in him and grew fearful of his intent as she glanced from his face to the length of leather in his hand.