The Savage

“Uh-uh. I don’t want you involved.”

“I already am involved. I’m your wife. For better or worse.” She gave a small, mirthless laugh. “I guess this is just the ‘worse.’”

He was silent for a minute. “I’d rather you didn’t go to that barbecue Saturday night.”

She shook her head violently against his chest. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away now.”

“It may get rough.”

“Just let it.”

The grit and determination in her voice sounded so much like his ma that it took him aback.

“Besides,” she added adamantly, “you should know better than anyone that you can’t escape bigotry and hatred by doing nothing. The only way to deal with it is to face it squarely.”

“Maybe, but I don’t want you having to face it at all.”

Suddenly drawing back, she looked up at him with shimmering eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do, Lance Calder. But you’re not wiggling out of Harlan’s invitation. We are going to that barbecue.”

He searched her face for a long moment, relief stealing through him like a guilty thief. As long as Summer was fighting mad at bigoted bastards like Prewitt, she wouldn’t be thinking about how she could get out of her marriage to him. He just wished like hell she could hold on to that anger. She would need skin as tough as rawhide if she meant to stay his wife.

“We are going, Lance, and that’s final,” Summer repeated.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with unaccustomed meekness. He reached up and brushed the dampness from her cheek with his thumb. “I guess you ought to know something about me I never told you, though.”

“What?”

“I can’t dance.”

“Oh.” She smiled tremulously at his faintly sheepish expression.

“I never got invited to parties, so I never learned.”

“It doesn’t matter. Reed can’t dance either now. And in any case, we aren’t going for the dancing. We’re going because we have as much right to be there as the next person.”

Lance forced his lips into a semblance of an answering smile, though his thoughts responded differently. Sure, princess, and I hope you go right on believing that. You’re going to need every ounce of grit you have if you’re to stick by me when the going gets rough.

And unless I miss my guess, if Prewitt has his way, the going is about to get mighty rough indeed.

Chapter 21

The Saturday of the barbecue dawned clear and cool, but held a nerve-racking tension that, for Summer at least, only built as the day wore on. She spent the morning at the big house, baking four sweet potato pies to take to the party, and the afternoon getting ready for the evening.

They left for the Fisks’ ranch while it was still light. Determined to use every advantage at her disposal, including her beauty, Summer wore an outdated yet stunning gown of forest green silk that brought out the red highlights in her dark hair and exposed a great deal of pale white shoulders, which she modestly covered with a black lace shawl. If someone dared condemn her because she had shed full mourning, she intended to respond that her brothers and father would not have wanted her to dwell on their deaths forever. Maritza had come to the cabin to help her dress and to arrange her hair up in soft ringlets—which, to Summer’s delight, made Lance’s gaze narrow in heated speculation.

Lance, to her great surprise, had allowed Reed to unearth for him a handsome suit of black wool that belonged to their late brother Tyler, along with a white cambric shirt and black tie. The colors looked striking against Lance’s dark skin, but the civilized tailoring only seemed to accentuate the harshness of his features. And for once, his air of defiance was gone. In its place was a quiet uncertainty, a vulnerability that absurdly made Summer want to wrap her arms around him and hold him close, protecting him from the cruel world.

She settled for a gentle kiss and placed her hand on his sleeve, allowing him to lead her to the buckboard waiting outside.

To her further surprise, Reed was handing Amelia into the buggy. Or rather, Dusty was, while Reed fiddled with storing his crutches.

Summer wondered what had made her sister decide to attend the party, but she doubted it was a change of heart toward Lance. Most likely they were taking separate vehicles because Amelia refused to associate with him.

Lance did not seem in any hurry to reach the Fisks’ place. He let the buckboard fall behind to avoid the dust and maintained a plodding pace, but Summer didn’t mind. Not with the glorious sunset turning the hill country gold and red. She rested her head on her husband’s shoulder, letting contentment steal over her. If only every day could be so peaceful, life could not offer much greater happiness.

They spoke little on the drive, neither of them wanting to consider the approaching ordeal. By the time they arrived at the Fisk ranch, Reed had slowed the buggy he was driving in order to wait for them. Strength in numbers, Summer remembered her brother saying. If they were to win over their neighbors, they would need to stick together, for they were all outcasts. Lance, with his Comanche blood. Summer, who had married him in defiance of society’s mores. Reed, who had fought for the Union when Texas declared for the Confederacy. And Amelia, a gentlewoman cruelly violated by her brutal captors. Only Dusty Murdock had no past to live down. Summer found herself murmuring silent thanks for his quiet strength and his determination to stand by them.

The Fisks’ home, built of whitewashed weatherboard, was even bigger than the Westons’, for Harlan had prospered raising stock as one of the first settlers. The barbecue was being held outdoors, on the front lawn, where already a crowd of gaily dressed people milled about.