With a curse at her blasted tactics, Lance turned the horses out in the corral and stalked over to their cabin. He found Summer in the bedroom, getting ready for Sunday dinner, pinning up her hair.
When she looked up, he spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll go to your damned party,” he said grudgingly.
He was rewarded with the response he had longed to see. Summer smiled—a smile so joyful, so radiant, it seemed the sun had suddenly broken through the clouds.
His pulse surging, Lance propped a shoulder against the doorframe, suddenly worried that his weakened knees might not support him.
Amelia didn’t come down to dinner, her empty place a silent reminder of her revulsion for Lance. And yet the atmosphere around the elegant dining table was less strained than anyone expected. Summer provided a steady supply of cheerful conversation, Reed played the convivial host, and Lance dusted off his best manners and made a determined effort to respond in kind.
He answered guardedly when Reed questioned him about the house he meant to build, and was more than mildly surprised when the other man offered to work on the plans.
“I studied a little architecture before the war,” Reed admitted somewhat sheepishly. “A hobby I indulged in.”
“It was more than a hobby,” Summer interjected, her tone warm with praise. “You should have seen his drawings, Lance. They were beautiful.”
“Well, adequate perhaps,” her brother countered modestly. “But it was something I loved. As the youngest son, I figured Ty and Jami could take over the ranch, but Pa was outraged th
at I might want to do something other than raise horses. Pa and I didn’t agree on a lot, actually.”
He looked directly at Lance, who understood the implied message: John Weston’s deep prejudice was not his son’s.
“If you know the kind of house you want, I could help with the design,” Reed offered.
“I’d like that,” Lance replied truthfully. “I know as much about building houses as a cotton planter knows about raising stock.”
He found himself relaxing and letting down his guard, even when they discussed the price of such a venture. When Reed tactfully probed about how much he was willing to spend, Lance surprised himself by answering honestly.
“I don’t have to worry much about the cost, not unless I try to pave the floor with gold. I made a lot of money selling mustangs over the years, and saved most of it.” He glanced at Summer. “I never had anybody else to spend it on before.”
“Do you mean to tell me I married a wealthy man?” she demanded, her green eyes dancing. “Shame on you, Lance, for keeping such a secret from me. I suppose you thought a princess like me would drive you into bankruptcy with her extravagant habits.”
That she was teasing him was clear, but her tender smile puzzled him—until he figured out that she was simply glad he had finally shared something personal about himself. He had never made such an admission before, not even to the woman who was now his wife. He’d deliberately kept it from her, in fact. But Summer deserved to know he could support a wife, even if she had expensive habits.
Reed was watching them with a frown. “You told me just last week that you couldn’t give her the luxuries she was accustomed to.”
His mouth curved in a rueful grin. “Well, maybe I shaded the truth a bit.”
“Which occurs frequently,” Summer said in an arch tone. “Lance has the annoying practice of making himself seem less than he is. He doesn’t want to convince anyone to think well of him, you see. What he really meant, though, is that he wants to be accepted for who he is, however rich or poor.”
Black eyes locked with green in understanding, Lance’s self-conscious and amazingly meek, Summer’s smug and amused, as if she was pleased to have figured him out and determined to prevent him from using such tactics. It was an intimate moment, though, as comfortable as a worn moccasin, and one that satisfyingly lasted well into the evening.
Lance was also surprised a while later to find himself offering to fit a saddle for Reed to use comfortably with only one leg.
“I think you could ride well enough if you had a brace for your missing limb and a horse trained to respond to just one spur.”
“Oh, I could probably ride,” Reed responded with a bitterness he couldn’t hide. “If I could get on. Mounting is what’s nigh impossible.”
“It’ll be a problem,” Lance agreed thoughtfully, “but we can figure out something.”
They dined on fried chicken and sweet potatoes and gooseberry tarts, and then had coffee and brandy in the front parlor. It had grown dark by the time Summer and Lance said goodnight and strolled silently the two hundred yards or so to their own cabin. Pale moonlight cast a gentle glow over the ranch buildings; a horse whickered in the corral as they passed.
Still acting the gentleman, Lance guided her through their front door and shut it softly behind them. By feel, Summer lit the lamp that sat just inside and then turned to look at him.
A long, quiet, sensually charged spell filled the silence.
Lance was lounging casually against the door panel, but his black eyes shone with a stark sultriness that was unmistakable.
“Come here,” he murmured, roughly impatient.