The Savage

His jaw set rigidly, Lance Calder turned his sorrel horse off the rocky trail and rode slowly toward the Weston ranch house. He’d sworn never to set foot here again, but Summer’s letter had drawn him against his will.

I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I hope you will find it in your heart to listen to my plea.

His mouth curled in self-mockery as he pulled his horse up. Was he about to get caught in her silken snare again?

Except for the fading paint, the house looked much as he remembered: a graceful two-story white colonial, with slender oak columns supporting a ve

randa in front and rear, and finished with weatherboard hauled all the way from Austin. Beyond, in the near distance, he could see the sprawling hills of Sky Valley. The rugged land stretched forever, raw and beautiful, dotted with clumps of woodland and pockets of rich pasture, teeming with wild game and herds of half-tame range horses.

Lance tried to survey the scene with cold detachment but failed. This was the kind of land that buried deep in a man’s soul—and it had gotten into his.

He tilted his head back, looking up at the cloudless stretch of blue heaven, warmed by the September sun. John Weston had called this spread Sky Valley because the vast Texas sky seemed so close, you could reach up and grab a piece.

John Weston was dead now. A bad heart had taken him after his two oldest sons had died fighting for the Confederacy.

Lance felt no grief for the man. Weston had considered him no better than dirt…a murdering savage. The shaming words still echoed in his ears; the indignity of being run out of the county still stung. He’d dared to touch Weston’s white daughter and been made to pay for it.

And Summer…It was unlikely she could have changed her father’s mind, Lance knew, even if she’d tried to defend him. But she hadn’t tried. She’d left him to hang.

The bitter resentment still burned in his gut.

He’d had a dream. He’d vowed that one day he’d have enough money, enough power, enough respect, that his Comanche blood wouldn’t matter. That one day he’d be able to claim his princess…

“Damned fool,” Lance muttered to himself. Dreaming made a man vulnerable, weak.

And yet he couldn’t stop his thoughts from returning to a warm August night and the girl he’d held in his arms for a fleeting moment. Her kiss was a blurred memory, but it still had the power to leave him shaken.

He stared blindly across the valley, his distant thoughts all wrapped up in the past and the desire he’d once felt for Summer Weston. Summer…a girl with skin as soft and white as magnolia petals, a voice as sweet and soothing as honey, laughter as lilting and musical as wind in the trees. She was all the things he’d never had, all the things he’d always wanted. She represented everything he’d ever hoped for in life: a home, family, position…acceptance. She symbolized everything he hated—the white world that had shunned him, made his mother’s life hell.

As a kid, he used to care for her father’s horses when the Weston family came to town for the day. Even then Summer’d been a charmer, all decked out in ruffles and bows, so feminine and delicate, it made his heart ache to see something so pretty. She hadn’t spoken much to him then, but she’d smiled sometimes. And she had never looked at him with contempt the way other whites did. Whites like her father, her sister, Amelia.

Later he’d gone to work at her father’s ranch and discovered just how shallow and cruel she could be.

He’d known better than to let himself get mixed up with her. At sixteen, Summer was headstrong and beautiful, with a well-deserved reputation for breaking hearts. He’d watched for months as she’d charmed and flirted and teased her way past anything male. He’d seen her holding court with her starry-eyed, lust-stricken beaux—and then stood in line just like the rest of them. She was spoiled and self-centered and childish, but he wanted her bad, he ached with it.

Did a man ever get over his first love?

He was staggered when she deigned to notice the breed hired hand. She was bored, no doubt. Probably curious to see if she could work her wiles on someone with his heritage. Her flirtations were all quite innocent—and as cruel as any taunt or insult flung at him by bigoted whites over the years. She didn’t know that she was carving up his heart inch by inch, dangling out hope, making him yearn for things he could never have, dreams he could never realize. She played her heartless little female games without regard for the consequences, without caring who she hurt—and he’d been fool enough to let her.

He’d known the risk he was taking, meeting her at night, letting her taunt him into kissing her. Even then his only defense against her had been anger. He’d been mad as hell at himself for being unable to resist the temptation. He’d hated himself for his weakness, for giving her such a hold over him, for letting her enchant him, drive him crazy with desire for her, for letting her manipulate him with her alluring female tricks in a way no red-blooded man could resist.

Well, he damned sure wasn’t going to make that mistake again, Lance swore. He wasn’t going to let her sink her claws into him again. He’d learned his lesson. And he’d gotten over her in the five years since he’d been driven away.

Even so, he didn’t want to push his luck. Ever since he’d returned to Round Rock four months ago to take over the livery stable Tom Peace had left him, he had done his level best to avoid Summer.

He’d seen her from a distance, though. Summer Weston was no longer a girl. She’d grown into a fine lady. She was not so proud now, either.

A cynical smile twisted his mouth. Now that she needed him.

Lance raised a hand to cover his breast, feeling her letter burning a hole in his vest pocket.

I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I hope you will find it in your heart to listen to my plea.

She was willing to speak to him now that she needed something from him. Five years without a word, and she expected him to come running.

His anger swelled again. Anger at his inferior station. Anger at the blind bigotry that’d kept him on the outskirts of the white community, looking in, all his life. Anger at being driven off this ranch five years ago.

Anger had a way of twisting a man, hardening the heart—