His horse snorted just then, splintering his brooding thoughts into fragments. With a heedless jerk on the reins, Lance turned the sorrel gelding, heading for the side of the ranch house.
He knew what Summer wanted from him. He just didn’t know how he was going to reply.
He circled around the house and approached from the rear, near the creek, his narrowed gaze taking in his surroundings. The outbuildings necessary for a prosperous stock ranch—barn, corrals of both stone and split rail, bunkhouse for the vaqueros, chicken coop, dairy, and tool sheds—all showed signs of neglect. But then, he would have been surprised to find it otherwise. Most able-bodied men had gone off to fight the war, leaving their women to forge on alone.
A lot of those able-bodied men now filled the yard in back of the main house, perched on wagon seats, sitting in buggies, riding horseback.
Keeping his distance, Lance drew the sorrel to a halt. From the sound of it, he had interrupted an argument. He recognized the man with dark brown hair, supported by crutches, who held forth on the back porch, making an impassioned plea to the crowd for support. Reed Weston was missing half his left leg—which hadn’t garnered him as much sympathy as might be expected, since he’d lost it fighting for the Union while hailing from a state that had declared for the Confederacy.
After a single glance, though, Lance only had eyes for Reed’s sister. Summer stood beside him, looking regal and strangely vulnerable in a long-sleeved black gown that showed she was still in mourning for her brothers and father.
Despite his best intentions, Lance couldn’t stop the fierce acceleration of his heartbeat. Even from this distance he saw that the beautiful girl he’d known had grown into a stunning woman. His memories, even as potent as they were, didn’t do her justice.
But there were differences.
Her hair, the color of mahogany, gleamed with red and gold highlights in the afternoon sun, just as rich and lustrous as he remembered. But instead of ringlets, she wore it swept back into a chignon, bound by black net. The wide-spaced green eyes that could flash with the brilliance of emeralds held no laughter now; instead they were solemn and somber as she gazed out over the crowd. She looked as if she’d lost weight. Her hands were slender and white, but she held them clasped before her in an attitude of nervous anticipation. Her lips—the soft pink lips he’d once been allowed to kiss on a warm August night—held no seductive, mind-bewitching smile.
Remembering the feel of those lips, Lance involuntarily dragged his gaze away to focus on the tall pecan tree that stood to one side of the yard. The wooden swing was still there, unmoving and lifeless, a silent testimony to all that had happened since that night—
“Thanks for coming.”
Lance stiffened at the quiet sound, not liking the fact that he’d allowed a man to approach him without his even being aware of it. Turning in the saddle, he met a pair of grave blue eyes whose corners were lined and weathered by the sun.
Dusty Murdock had once been a hired hand but was now the foreman of the Weston ranch. Tall and lanky, with dirty-blond hair, Dusty was older than Lance by some ten years. Fair, easygoing, nonjudgmental, he was also one of the few men Lance respected without question.
“Miss Summer will be glad you could make it.”
Lance nodded curtly, acknowledging the comment, but turned his attention back to the crowd and the argument that was taking place.
“It isn’t goin’ too well, I’m afraid,” Dusty went on in his quiet voice. “Nobody quite sees it like we do. They’re sorry and all, but Miss Amelia isn’t their kin. What with the war finally over, all anybody wants is to get back to living their lives.”
As if to underscore Dusty’s comment, an older man who seemed to be the leader of the opposition spoke again. “Reed, you have to understand. All we want is a chance to put our lives back in order, fix up our farms, start rebuilding again.”
Lance recognized the older man as Harlan Fisk, one of the acknowledged leaders of the community, but there were others he didn’t know who obviously shared Fisk’s view.
“You’re asking us to leave our families,” another man added. “These are dangerous times. Who’s gonna protect our families from all the vagrants roamin’ around while we’re gone?”
“Yeah. We’d likely be gone a long while,” someone else chimed in. “It’s near three hundred miles to Indian Territory.”
“I hate to dash your hopes, Reed,” Harlan Fisk said, “but the likelihood of finding her isn’t very good, even if she’s still alive. And getting her back is going to be nigh impossible. Once the Comanches take a captive, they won’t give ‘em up easy. We could get killed just trying.”
“I know the attempt will be dangerous,”
Reed replied with strained patience. “And you have a right to be afraid. But—”
“I ain’t scared of no Injuns,” one man interrupted. “I rode against them savage devils once for a massacre they done. But that don’t mean I’m stupid enough to go courtin’ trouble with ‘em.”
“Besides, it’s so far away. We can’t afford to be gone for that long, not on some wild-goose chase.”
Harlan Fisk spoke again. “Reed, son, you’re just asking too much.”
“Is it too much?” Reed demanded. “I’d do the same for you if it were your sister who’d been taken.”
“Says the man who turned on his own kind during the war,” somebody muttered.
Reed visibly stiffened, even as his eyes narrowed. “I did what I felt was right, which is what every one of you did. You followed the dictates of your conscience. Still, if you won’t do it for me, then do it for the memory of my father and brothers. They were on your side.”
The silence that followed his impassioned speech told its own tale.