The Savage

He felt empty inside. Drained. Wrung-out. Hollow. Except that the clamoring ache in the pit of his gut had little to do with physical hunger.

It was shame, pure and simple. Gut-wrenching, soul-writhing, heart-sickening shame. Shame at his weakness.

What kind of man couldn’t protect himself and his woman? What kind of warrior had to be rescued from mortal danger by his wife? What future could he offer Summer if he could no longer hold his head up? If every time he looked men in the eye, he saw his defeat in their expression, his humiliation?

All his life he’d endured scorn and degradation, and spit in the face of any man who’d dared press too hard. But he couldn’t face this. Something had snapped inside him last night. The noose that had nearly hanged him had ripped away his self-respect even though it hadn’t taken his life.

Summer came back a while later with his glass of lemonade, and approached his bed tentatively, as if she feared to get too close. He took it and drank, but his throat still felt full of gravel when he lowered the glass from his swollen lips.

His voice was low and hoarse, but his tone uninflected when he finally spoke. “I’ll be leaving just as soon as I can ride.”

Summer froze, staring at him as if she hadn’t understood what he’d said. “L-Leaving? What…do you mean?”

“Just what I said.” He turned his shuttered black gaze on her for a fleeting interval. “I’ll be leaving the ranch. Leaving Texas, in fact.”

“Why? Where…?” She started to ask where he intended to go, but broke off stupidly. Where wasn’t nearly as important as why. She could barely force the question past her tight throat. “Why? Is it to punish me for not…for thinking you…You can’t forgive me for having so little faith in you?”

His dark brows drew together in a scowl. “You don’t have to feel guilty for that, princess. I never expected your faith, not really.” His lips twisted. “Don’t look so stricken. I’m sure you’ll be glad to be rid of me—”

“Lance…no…that isn’t true!”

“Isn’t it, princess? You never wanted to marry me, you know damn well you didn’t. Well, you won’t have to put up with a savage redskin as your husband any longer. You’ll be free of me. You can get a divorce easy enough. Any white judge would jump at the chance to ‘sever our union.’”

He said the last formal words mockingly, with a bitterness he didn’t try to hide as he turned his face toward the window ag

ain.

“I don’t want a divorce,” she whispered rawly. “I don’t want to be free of you.”

He shook his head, obviously not believing.

“I don’t want you to go. Lance, please…I’m asking you to stay.”

Lance shut his eyes. A few days ago—for most of his lifetime, in fact—he would have sold his soul to hear those words from Summer. He had dreamed about it so long, he could almost believe he wasn’t imagining her saying the words. What he couldn’t believe was that she meant them. He couldn’t let her mean them. Whatever her reasons for asking him to stay—guilt, remorse, compassion—he couldn’t accept them. He wouldn’t stay on those terms. Not as half a man.

“Why?” she cried softly when he was silent. “What have I done?”

The hollowness inside him swelled to a throbbing ache. “It’s not you,” he retorted, his voice so low, she could hardly hear. “It’s me. I don’t have the right to stay.”

“What…what are you talking about?”

He rubbed his fingers absently over his temple, gingerly touching the line of stitches in his scalp. “The Comanches would call me a weakling. Hell, so would the whites.” Lance gave a low, mirthless chuckle. “For once, they would agree. A man who can’t protect his woman isn’t much of a man.”

Pressing her trembling hand over her heart, Summer stared at him. So that was it. For a man as proud as Lance, defeat at the hands of his enemies would have a shattering effect. His pride had suffered a mortal blow. But that at least was something she could fight.

She took a step closer, her gaze pleading. “There is no shame in standing up to a mob of bullies, Lance. What they did to you…they could have done to anyone.”

She saw his eyes close, saw the bleak grimace that contorted his features for an instant, and her heart squeezed. She’d already sensed his loneliness, but this was beyond lonely. This was a man in pain.

But he could get over it. He had faced hatred before and survived it—and he could this, as well. Lance was a survivor. He was a fighter, just as she was. Except that he seemed to have given up his will to fight.

“Don’t…don’t be foolish.” Fear made her tone shrill. “It’s just your stubborn pride talking.”

“So what if it is?” His retort was low, hostile—and it gave her courage. Deliberately she tried to inflect scorn into her own voice.

“So…so I don’t really think you’re being too objective at the moment. You’re not the victim you’re making yourself out to be. What those men did was wrong, shameful, but you’re not entirely blameless either. You brought some of it on yourself for taking them all on alone. You could have waited to go after Prewitt until you had help.”

Lance’s eyes narrowed in fury. “I could have waited?” The sudden fierceness that claimed his harsh features was the first show of emotion other than resignation she’d seen since his near brush with death. “For help? Just who was I supposed to ask for help? Who believed me?”