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  Trista wished the horse would attack him, so she could make a break for freedom, but as she watched him work his wiles on the untamed steed, she knew it would not happen. This brave evidently had a way with horses. His manner . . . the coaxing sound of his voice . . . the gentleness in the way he stroked the quivering, nervous stallion's neck . . . all showed that he knew exactly what he was doing.

  She bitterly resented his expert handling of the horse. Many men had tried to capture Fuego, and yet this Comanche was the one who had succeeded. Trista glared at him across the distance, wondering at his abilities.

  In the shadowy blackness of the night, she could not make out the ugliness of the vivid paint on his face, and it eased her reaction to him. She found without the shock value of the hideous red and black paint, she could appraise him as a man, not a murderous warrior. As the moonlight touched him, it sculpted his body in muscular hollows and curves, etching him forever in her mind as a silvered memory. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He wore a headband ornamented with several eagle feathers, and his hair, she noticed now for the first time in puzzlement, was not in the usual shoulder-length braids she'd been given to understand Indians wore. Black as midnight, it was cropped bluntly short, skimming just at the nape of his neck.

  His breechclout fit snugly about his trim waist, and Trista felt a flush stain her cheeks as she stared at that minimal garment. The memory of his body fitted so intimately to hers . . . his legs—so well muscled, long, and straight—entangled with hers, sent a surge of some unaccustomed emotion through her. She didn't know what it was. She only knew it made her feel ill-at-ease and very self-conscious. Trista was grateful that her confusion was hidden by the cover of darkness.

  She lifted her gaze to his face and found it a study of angles and planes in the stark contrast of the moon's light. His nose was straight, his cheekbones high. She had already learned that his mouth, full and mobile as it was, could be a grim line of determination one minute or a threatening leer the next. His brows were dark, expressive slashes over his eyes. His eyes . . . they were his dominant feature, and again she wondered at their color. That he was part white was obvious, but whatever his relationship had been with the whites, Trista felt certain that he claimed no connection. He was a Comanche.

  As she continued to watch him work with Fuego, soothing the beast's frazzled nerves, Trista recognized that he was a man who exuded power and control. He wasted no effort, his every movement orchestrated toward his goal of gentling the stallion to human touch.

  Identifying with the captive Fuego, Trista grew annoyed when the horse seemed to mellow a bit under the warrior's ministrations. Angrily, she swore to herself that she would never give up her struggle for freedom. She might bide her time and adapt herself to the circumstances of the moment, but she would never surrender herself completely to this man's domination.

  Lance stroked the stallion's neck, all the while murmuring soothing words of assurance to him. He had feared that the golden one would balk at being so handled, and he was pleased by the horse's reaction. Many in the tribe had scoffed at his dream of capturing and taming him. They had claimed that a horse as wild and accustomed to freedom as this one would be beyond breaking, but Lance knew he was going to prove them all wrong. By the time they arrived back in camp two days from now, he would be riding the golden one.

  Reverently, he touched the small pouch he wore tied to his waistband. Within its soft buckskin folds was the source of his power, the magic of his medicine . . . a nugget of gold. It had been during his first vision quest, before he'd become a full-fledged warrior, that it had been revealed to him that his future would be tied with gold. From the moment Lance had first seen the stallion, he'd known that the horse was destined to be his.

  Running his hand over the horse's back one last time, he turned away from the golden one to see to his other captive. His gaze fell upon her then as she knelt beneath the protection of the trees, and he stopped, frozen in mid-stride. Caressed by the moonlight, she was a vision of ethereal blond beauty. An electrifying shock of recognition bolted through him as he stared at her, but he denied it. She was a white woman, and she was connected to the Barretts. She meant nothing to him. She was only his captive. He desired her as he would desire any woman. That she was as golden as the stallion meant nothing.

  Irritated by his thoughts, he snatched up his blanket and the few supplies he carried with him. He noticed that her eyes widened in fear as he drew near and for some inexplicable reason, he found that that disturbed him. Without a word, he dropped to the ground beside her.

  Trista shivered at his nearness. When he moved behind her she held her breath in frightened expectation, but drew a deep sigh of relief when he untied the gag.

  "Thank you," she managed to croak through parched lips.

  "If you do not hold your tongue, I will use it again," he threatened.

  "I'll be quiet," Trista hastened to reassure him, not wanting to suffer the misery anymore, and he only grunted in reply as he moved to sit beside her.

  "Eat," Lance directed, handing her a small piece of dried meat.

  Having never partaken of such before, Trista almost refused the unsavory-looking fare, but the gnawing pangs of hunger in her stomach convinced her to take whatever was offered. She chewed the tough meat in silence, all the while warily watching the warrior's every move out of the corner of her eye.

  "What is your name?" Lance finally asked as he finished his own piece of meat.

  "I'm Trista . . . Trista Sinclair," she told him hesitantly.

  Lance nodded, thinking it a most unusual, yet attractive name. "You will call me Lance."

  Trista turned to look at him then . . . at the fierceness of his painted features and the hard muscles that rippled beneath his bronzed skin. Lance seemed a far too civilized name for him.

  "Lance," she began, "when will you let me go?"

  "I have already told you. You belong to me now just as the stallion does."

  "I'm not a piece of horseflesh! You can't own me! I'm a person with feelings and thoughts of my own!" Trista was stung by his casual assumption of ownership of her.

  Lance's gaze hardened as he regarded her. Though he knew she was right, his determination to keep her captive didn't waver. By taking her, he'd struck a long-delayed blow against the Barretts, and it gave him a great sense of power.

  "You will not find it so bad being my captive," Lance told her slowly as he reached out to cup her cheek.

  Trista went still at his touch. His unexpected gentleness left her unnerved and bewildered.

  "You are mine, Trista Sinclair." He traced his hand down her cheek to her throat, where he felt her pulse pounding madly. "Your body knows it even as your mind denies it."

  "No! That's ridiculous!" She shivered violently at his words.

  Lance slipped his hand lower to caress the softness of her bared shoulder. "Is it?" His tone was low and insinuating as he felt her tremble.

  Trista tried to jerk away from the scorching heat of his touch. "Michael's the only man I'll ever belong to."

  At the mention of his half brother, Lance tightened his grip upon her shoulder for the briefest of instants before letting his hand drop away. With a casualness he was far from feeling, he took up his buffalo paunch of water. He drank deeply before holding it out to her.

  "Drink."

  Trista eyed him and the paunch skeptically. The fact that he hadn't pressed her left her confused. She had been prepared to fight him tooth and nail to save herself, and his sudden indifference left her off balance. Did he have some more terrible torture in mind for her? Surely there could be nothing more terrible than suffering his touch. But since she was completely under his power, why hadn't he taken her, even against her will?

  "Drink now," Lance ordered brusquely, "or you'll get no more until morning."

  Resentfully, she snatched it from his hand and drank her fill as Lance stretched out beside her and wrapped the blanket about him.

  "Come here."
He lifted an edge of the blanket to accommodate her.

  "No . . . I . . . " she protested, not wanting to be anywhere near him.

  "I said come here, Trista," he commanded.

  Again she balked. Exhausted from the ordeal of the day, his patience wearing thin, Lance sat back up and grabbed her by her bound wrists. With one forceful tug, he pulled her sprawling against him.

  "You would do well to learn to do as I say the first time, woman," he growled in her ear as he turned her to her side and fitted her against the curve of his body.

  Trista tried to move away from him, but he slipped an arm about her waist.

  "Be still. There is little enough time to rest."

  She swallowed nervously as he drew her close. The firm masculine length of him seemed to burn against her back, and she quaked at the intimacy of their position. Trista meant to stay awake. She meant to stay on guard against his overpowering nearness, to show him that she would not be pliant to his will. Just because he'd told her to rest didn't mean she'd do it. But somehow the exhaustion of the day won out. Despite all her intentions to resist, she slept, nestled there in the protective warmth of his embrace.

  Chapter Six

  Michael reined in at the crest of the hill and tilted his hat back on his head. Wiping a forearm across his sweat-beaded brow, he said bitterly, "Nothing, Pa . . . there's not a sign of them."

  "There's still a couple of more hours before sundown," George tried to reassure him.

  "It's almost like they disappeared into thin air!" he returned in frustration.

  "Stay in control, Michael," his father advised, for he sensed his son's growing desperation.

  Michael swung around in the saddle to look at him. "It's a little hard to stay cool and calm when all I can think about is Trista in the hands of some bloodthirsty savage!"

  "And that is exactly why you have to keep a tight rein on your emotions. We're going to find her, and when we do, she's going to need you to be strong."

  "When we find her?! Don't you mean 'if'?" he shot back harshly.

  "Michael! I don't ever want to hear you say anything like that again. She's still alive, and that's all that matters," George declared with a firm conviction he little felt. Though his dealings with Lone Elk all those years ago had not been violent, he knew full well just how brutal the Comanche could be when it suited their purposes.

  "How can you be so sure that she's still alive? She's been a captive and at his mercy for over a day now. . . ." He shuddered at the thought of what might have happened to her during the previous night. Trista was such a lovely, gentle woman. . . . She didn't deserve this horror.

  "Believe me, son, I know the Comanche. If this warrior had wanted her dead, he wouldn't have bothered to take her along with him. He would have killed her long ago."

  Michael fell silent, his thoughts solely on the woman he loved. Trista was out there somewhere, and she needed him; yet he was stymied in his effort to help her. He felt impotent and useless, and he cursed himself again for not having stopped her from riding out alone that morning.

  "Michael . . . "

  The sound of his father's voice penetrated his self-incriminating thoughts, and he glanced over at him questioningly.

  "Let's check out the area north of here. It's rugged, but not impassable."

  Michael was willing to try anything if there was a chance that it would lead him to Trista. "Whatever you say."

  The others in their group were searching to the west, and George signaled them to expand their hunt in a northerly direction as he and Michael rode out to lead the way.

  Trista had always known that she could be stubborn when the occasion called for it, but she'd never suspected that her sheer grit could get her through a day like the one she'd just experienced. Lance had awakened her abruptly an hour before dawn, and she had been embarrassed to discover that she'd fallen asleep so easily while lying in his arms. Despite the fact she'd been exhausted and desperately in need of rest the night before, Trista had not been able to forgive herself the weakness. Though Lance's closed expression had revealed nothing of his true thoughts, she'd sensed he'd somehow been amused by it all. Humiliated and angry, she had silently vowed to herself to sit up all night if need be, rather than surrender to his wishes again.

  Still stiff and sore from the previous day's exertions, Trista had moved slowly when Lance had curtly ordered her to mount the pinto. Seated once more on its sturdy back, she'd waited for him to join her, watching as he'd skillfully erased all signs of their presence at the campsite. When Lance had finally swung up behind her and encircled her waist with a restraining arm to resume their positions of the previous day, Trista had held herself stiffly away from him again. Lance had put his heels to his mount and had urged it to action, the pinto's sudden movement forcing her back against the hardness of his broad chest.

  "Stay," he'd commanded when she'd tried to push away, and he'd tightened his hold on her. "Haven't you learned your lesson yet?"

  There had been no mistaking the mockery in his tone, and despite her fury, she'd been forced to ride resting fully against him.

  As often as she could, Trista had glanced back in the direction from which they'd come, hoping to see some sign that Michael was coming after her. To her dismay there had been none—no pounding of distant horses' hooves, no dust rising in telltale betrayal on the horizon. Forced to endure the long, arduous hours on horseback without hope of imminent rescue, her spirits had fallen, and she'd wondered at the need to push themselves to such limits since there was obviously no one even close on their trail.

  As the day had progressed they had not spoken to each other beyond the few words that were necessary. Trista had longed to try to convince Lance of the mistake he was making in keeping her with him, but his continuing silence had made him seem so unapproachable and forbidding that she'd wisely kept quiet, not wanting to risk being gagged again. It was bad enough that he still kept her wrists bound. She certainly didn't want to suffer the other indignity again.

  They had stopped to rest only twice during the long, grueling hours of their trek. They'd taken the time for a cooling drink and a small piece of dried meat near mid-morning when they'd come upon a small, clear-running creek. Later in the afternoon they'd paused in the shady shelter of a massive boulder formation, but had not eaten.

  Though she'd been ravenous, Trista had been too proud to reveal her need to her captor. If he wasn't going to eat, then neither would she! She had suffered in silence. Yet when they'd mounted up again to continue on, instead of feeling pleased with herself for not having wilted under the stress, all she'd felt was gnawing hunger.

  Trista was beyond exhaustion as the late afternoon blended into dusk, and as the sun dipped low in the western sky, she wondered just how much more she could take.

  Lance guided the pinto up a steep hillside and then paused at its crest to look back over the territory they'd just covered. In the fading light of sunset, his blue-eyed gaze combed the horizon for any sign of trouble. When he was satisfied that there was no one close behind them, he kneed the pinto on down the incline.

  It pleased him to know that he'd managed to elude the search party he was certain was following them. But even as confident as he was, Lance was no fool. The horses were in need of rest, and so he decided to make camp early tonight. He knew of a small, secluded pool located nearby, and he headed his mount in that direction.

  The last rays of the setting sun bathed the sky in streaks of cranberry and gold as Lance drew the pinto to a halt at the water's edge. Ignoring Trista, who was slumped wearily on the horse's back, he took up the stallion's lead rope and jumped lightly to the ground. Lance led the rogue to the bank and set about tying its lead rope to a low-hanging tree branch so it could drink its fill.

  It dawned on Trista that for the first time she found herself in a situation where escape was possible. She felt her weariness disappear as a surge of energy tingled through her. Since Lance had negligently dropped the reins to the pinto,
all she had to do was grab them up and ride off. Trista tensed, watching Lance's every move out of the corner of her eye. The moment he turned his back completely on her, she snatched at the fallen reins and dug her knees and heels into the pinto's sides. As tired as the pony was, it still responded to her command. Trista tugged at the reins, wheeling the steed about, and leaned low over its neck in an effort to urge it quickly through the maze of bushes and trees that surrounded the pool.

  Lance heard the pinto moving and turned from his task to see what was happening. He watched in stunned disbelief as Trista yanked on the reins and spurred the horse to action. Fury consumed him, and he responded as a warrior to the threat of someone stealing his mount. At a dead run, he gave chase and then vaulted onto the pinto's back just as Trista would have made her break to freedom.

  There was no mercy in Lance's grip as he wrapped an unyielding arm about her waist and hauled her viciously against him. Her breath was knocked from her by the power of his steely grasp, yet she continued to fight to be free of him. Violently, he jerked the reins from her hands.

  "You little fool!" he snarled, struggling to control both her and the horse.

  Never before had Lance ever encountered such a stubborn, exasperating woman. Comanche women knew their place and stayed in it, but Trista was completely different. She challenged him at every turn. He tightened his grip on her even more in his frustration.

  "Let me go!" she gasped as his fingers bit into the tender flesh of her bruised side.

  Lance sawed on the reins trying to still the shying horse as Trista struggled against him. As she continued to fight against him, the pinto danced nervously about. Lance realized that there would be no controlling the horse while both of them were on his back, and so pulled Trista from in front of him in hopes of sliding her to the ground.