The Savage

He grinned. “Nope. We’re going for a ride. You have five minutes to get ready.”

“A ride? But…have you forgotten that Reed invited us to Sunday dinner this afternoon?”

“Nope. We’ll be back before then. Now, get going.”

He gave her mouth a quick, hard kiss and her fanny a gentle swat, but Summer could only stare at him. Lance had an air of eagerness about him that she had never seen before, almost like a little boy with a secret—although she couldn’t imagine that he had truly ever been a little boy.

It was only when he stripped her of her warm covers that Summer at last obeyed. Her curiosity aroused, she shrugged off the last dregs of sleep and climbed out of bed.

He had fixed a picnic breakfast, she realized once she had washed and dressed and drunk a hasty cup of coffee. And he had saddled their horses in preparation for a long ride.

The early morning sparkled. The October air was chilly and crisp, with a vast blue sky overhead. They rode west through the valley, across dew-covered meadows glinting with sunshine, while all around them stood rugged hills, studded with stands of post oak and evergreen cedar brakes.

Summer reveled in the beauty. On such a day she could forget any worry she’d ever had, any thought of war and pain, prejudice and despair. All she had to do was close her eyes and put her head back to let the gentle breeze blow her memories away.

Lance seemed to share the sentiment. His gaze traveled over the land, drinking in the sight, his expression silently declaring his pleasure.

He led her up a steep incline, to a ridge where the ground flattened out and the view was spectacular. Down below they could see much of the huge Weston spread, and the flying herds of horses whose hooves beat out a song.

Summer suspected Lance had brought her here for a purpose, and she wasn’t wrong. Resting his forearm on his saddle horn, he pointed to the east, down in the valley, perhaps a mile or so this side of the main buildings.

“See that bend in the creek? That’s where I’m going to build our house,” he said in a low voice.

Caught by surprise, Summer parted her lips to issue a protest—but then she thought better of it. The cabin where they lived now was adequate for her needs, but perhaps not for her husband’s. A man as proud as Lance would chafe at being unable to provide his wife with her customary standards of wealth and luxury, even if she would be satisfied with far less.

“It’s perfect,” she murmured quite truthfully.

He had chosen a beautiful site, and practical as well. The great cottonwoods and pecans that lined the creek would provide shade in the heat of summer, and shelter against the fierce northers that swept off the plains, while the surrounding pastures would provide lush grass for grazing their livestock. In spring those meadows would be carpeted with wildflowers—bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush, wine-cups and goldenrod and wild verbena.

The setting presented so pristine a picture that Summer could imagine what her parents had felt, arriving as some of the first Texas settlers to carve a way of life out of the wilderness. And in a way, that was what she and Lance were. They would have to carve their own place in the valley, make their own life together.

“Think Reed’ll mind if we claim that piece of land for our own?”

“No. I think he’ll be pleased you finally want something. He’s been fretting to repay you for all the help you’ve given him.” And her sister would be glad to see them move farther away, Summer added silently to herself.

“I hope to start the foundation next week. I thought maybe I could work on it a few hours each day, in between rounding up mustangs. I’ll send to Austin for supplies.”

She considered asking Lance if they could afford building a house just now, after all the money he’d spent buying horses to compensate his brother, but she figured he might take offense. Besides, he was unlikely to propose such a grandiose scheme without considering the cost.

She allowed Lance to help her dismount and then spread the blanket he’d brought over a patch of grass while he hobbled the horses. The fare she found in his saddlebags was simple but delicious—apples and sausage and a loaf of wheat bread he said he’d persuaded Estelle to bake for them. They joked about Summer’s cooking and then hungrily devoured the meal.

When they were done, Lance lay back on the blanket, one arm behind his head, as he gazed up at the warming sky. Summer, who sat beside him with her chin resting on her updrawn knees, thought she had never seen him so at ease with himself, so carefree.

“This reminds me of when I was a kid in my father’s camp,” he said wistfully after a long, comfortable moment of sil

ence. “He would take me hunting sometimes…partly to show me how to survive in the wild, but mostly to teach me about the spirits that dwell in the rocks and trees and especially the animals. He would make me sit still for hours while I tried to feel them.”

Summer eyed Lance curiously. “Do you miss that life?”

He thought about the question. A part of him would always be Comanche. Like them, he understood the craving for freedom. Away from them, he felt tied down by too many restrictions, still felt a restlessness that his civilized life couldn’t satisfy. And yet he was too civilized really to be one of them. Sometimes when he thought about his years with the Comanche, when he remembered the times he’d gone against every stricture his mother had taught him, he winced. He’d done things she wouldn’t have been proud of. Things he wasn’t proud of himself.

“Sometimes,” he said finally.

Another moment passed before Summer realized he had turned his head and was watching her.

“I guess I owe you an apology, princess,” he began in a low voice. “I didn’t really think you would honor our marriage vows.”

Summer went still, not knowing quite how to reply to his solemn admission. She thought she knew what it cost Lance to admit he was wrong—but perhaps it was wiser not to make too much of it.