The Savage

Reed gave a scoffing snort of disgust but didn’t reply for a long moment. “It’s sheer blackmail, you know.”

“I know.”

“It’s despicable, dishonorable.”

That, too, was true. Lance had taken advantage of her vulnerability, her powerlessness, approaching her when she was at her most desperate. She fiercely resented his forcing her to make such a decision. And yet railing against his brazen ultimatum would not help rescue her sister. Nor would moral arguments. It would only waste time and energy that she didn’t have.

“Honor won’t bring Amelia back,” Summer said quietly. She could feel her brother’s blue eyes searching her face.

“Comanches killed Mama. Have you forgotten that?”

She shook her head. “No.” She hated the savage Comanches as much as anyone. No one who had witnessed the terrible depredations the Comanches committed against innocent settlers year after year could help but feel hatred for them, in addition to horror and fear. And yet it wasn’t right to hold Lance responsible for every atrocity his father’s people had perpetrated.

“I haven’t forgotten. But Lance didn’t kill Mama. You can’t blame one man for all the terrible things that an entire race has done to another.”

A soft knock sounded on the door just then, interrupting Reed’s reply. When Summer bid entrance, the door opened and a dark-skinned Mexican woman peered inside the parlor.

“Do you need me any longer this evening, patrona?”

“No, Consuala, thank you. You may go.”

The woman smiled tentatively and shut the door once more. Consuala was one of several Mexican house servants John Weston had brought to live and work on the ranch twenty years ago. She was married to one of the vaqueros who worked with the horses.

Alone again with her brother, Summer would have continued the conversation, but Reed shook his head. “Go on up to bed, Summer. We’ll discuss this further in the morning.”

She hesitated, recognizing the stubborn resistance in his voice. She wouldn’t succeed tonight in persuading him to reconsider. She wouldn’t even try.

Going to him, she bent and kissed Reed tenderly on the temple, wondering if this would be the last time she bestowed such an affectionate gesture on her brother. If she made the long journey to Fort Belknap as she intended, there was always the chance she wouldn’t survive the dangers she might have to face.

“Yes…we’ll talk in the morning.” She brushed back his sable hair, so like her own. “You should try to sleep yourself, Reed. You’ve been driving yourself far too hard. You have to save your strength.”

With one last look, she left him and made her way slowly along the hall and up the front staircase to her bedchamber. She felt incredibly weary all of a sudden. Weary of the responsibilities and worries that had dominated her life for so long.

The war had wholly ravaged the Weston family. They weren’t poor exactly. During the war she had managed to sell enough of the horses to keep the ranch going. The comfortable, privileged way of life she’d been born to might be gone, but they were better off than most. Wealth no longer meant as much to her as it once had, though. She would have given it all up instantly if she could have her brothers back, her father alive, if Reed could be whole again, if Amelia could only—

But she’d sworn she wouldn’t let herself dwell on Amelia’s fate. It would only drive her mad.

Forcibly Summer straightened her shoulders. She’d never mastered stoicism, but she’d long ago learned that she had a stronger will than she’d ever imagined. For years she had faced the devastation unbowed. She’d had no choice. And she had no choice now but to carry on. Still, she was tired, so very tired of being strong.

Slipping inside her bedchamber, Summer shut the door softly and leaned back against the cherry-wood panel. This was the room she had once shared with Amelia. Her gaze swept the airy chamber with its feminine furnishings: white lace curtains at the windows, crocheted doilies embellishing polished wood surfaces, the thick featherbed that drew you down into sweet slumber, with its cheerful yellow counterpane that her sister had lovingly fashioned. Amelia had tenderly tucked her into this bed at night—

Hush, now. I’ll stay with you till you fall as asleep, Summer.

But what if the Indians come, like they did for Mama?

You don’t have to be afraid, love. I’ll protect you. I’ll always be here for you.

At the poignant memory, Summer closed her eyes, unable to stop the tears that suddenly spilled down her cheeks. She had only a dim recollection of her mother, but Amelia had more than filled that yawning need in her life. She owed her sister so much…

With a fierce gesture of impatience, Summer dashed a hand across her eyes. Going to the armoire, she reached up and took down a carpetbag in order to pack. Dusty would drive her into town. She was capable of driving herself, for that matter, but it would only be asking for trouble, a lone woman traveling at night, what with the lawless vagrants roaming the hills since the war’s end. Once she reached Round Rock, Lance would protect her. From others, at least. She trusted him to do that much, even if she had little faith in his willingness to protect her from himself.

Summer paused as she pulled out her traveling suit of brown and gold striped grenadine from the armoire. The memory of Lance staring down at her so fiercely this afternoon, his dark, hawkish face so close, made a tremor run up her spin. What in heaven’s name was she letting herself in for?

He was still the hard, unforgiving man she’d once wronged. And God help her, he still held the same fascination for her that she’d felt as a girl: dangerous, forbidden, exciting. He had awed her then. Left her tongue-tied and absurdly nervous—she who had the ability to charm anything male. Lance had only to look at her and she felt weak.

He’d done it to her this afternoon, but with a difference. His look this afternoon had been calculated to frighten her, to drive her away. When his eyes had deliberately roamed over her, she’d felt as if he’d stripped her naked and assessed her body—and was contemptuous of the conclusions he arrived at. And yet she was woman enough to recognize the lust in his eyes and to realize that part of his contempt had been reserved for himself. He didn’t want to want her.

She was grateful for his masculine susceptibility. It was the only trump card she had to play, the only leverage. That, and the respectability of her Weston connections.