Star Bright

by Catherine Anderson

  Marcus Hall Sr. chuckled and patted her hand. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll catch you from falling.”

  Tears filled Rainie’s eyes as she gazed up at his face, an older version of her dad’s, a visage she’d thought never to see again. Silly of her. She was about to marry a man who’d presented her with her very own star to serve as her guiding light and had filled her life with love and joy. She really shouldn’t have been surprised when he worked another miracle by locating her paternal grandparents. Marcus and Sybil Hall, Ohioans of long standing who’d mourned the loss of their eldest son for many years, had never received any of Rainie’s query letters. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had Parker’s investigative resources to find them. They’d been delighted to learn that they had a granddaughter.

  “I’m so glad you’re here to give me away,” she whispered tremulously. “It’s almost as good as having Daddy with me.”

  Marcus’s eyes went bright with tears. He blinked them away, smiled, and bent his silver head to kiss her cheek. “My only regret is that I haven’t been with you all your life.”

  Rainie shared the same regret. From her grandparents, she’d finally learned why her father had severed all contact with his family. Rainie had guessed it mostly right. Her mother had met with her grandparents’ disapproval, not because they were snobs who looked down on an orphaned young woman, but because Rainie’s mother had spent her teens in a reformatory for female juvenile delinquents and had a rap sheet. In addition to drug-related offenses, she’d been convicted of prostitution and armed robbery before she turned sixteen.

  The mother Rainie remembered had been a wonderful, sweet, understanding woman with a gentle smile and soulful eyes. It boggled her mind to think that her mom had once sold her flesh to get money for a fix and had held a gun to a man’s head, ordering him to empty a till. But facts were facts. After hearing the story, Rainie had researched her mother’s past, and sure enough, Susan Hall had been found guilty on both counts. That didn’t alter Rainie’s love for her mother. Instead it had driven home to her an important life lesson: Some people were capable of changing, and when they did, it was wrong to hold their past mistakes against them.

  Sadly, her grandparents had learned that same lesson the hard way, destroying their relationship with their eldest son in the process. Now, at around seventy, they were helpless to correct their own mistakes. They could only move forward, trying to forge a strong and loving relationship with their long-lost granddaughter. Rainie was more than happy to give them that opportunity.

  After their honeymoon in Hawaii, Parker and Rainie planned to fly to Ohio to meet the rest of her paternal relatives. According to her grandparents, she had three aunts, four uncles, a passel of first cousins, and too many second cousins to count. Rainie looked forward to seeing all of them, and wished they could have attended her wedding. Airfare for so many would have been a huge expense, though. It made more sense for Rainie and Parker to make the trip.

  The vibrant strains of the organ filled the church. Her grandfather smiled down at her. “You ready to walk down the aisle and let me give you away to that young whippersnapper?”

  Rainie nodded. As she and her grandfather began the halting journey up the center aisle, her gaze drifted to the left side of the church, which was filled with people who’d chosen to sit on the bride’s side to keep the numbers in the pews fairly equal.

  Through her veil, Rainie watched Tucker Coulter’s niece, Chastity, who was Bethany and Ryan Kendrick’s four-year-old daughter, walk before them down the aisle, scattering rose petals over the burgundy carpet to blaze a trail for the bride. She was darling in a lacy pink dress, with her sable curls bouncing over her shoulders. Ahead of her, Clint and Loni’s son, Trevor, was the ring bearer. He looked so cute, a miniature of his father and uncles, and took his role very seriously.

  Parker’s side of the church was packed with his family, shirttail relatives, and friends. All her life, Rainie had yearned for a sense of belonging, and now she had finally found that. Someday when she and Parker charted their family tree in the Harrigan Bible, her side would have plenty of limbs and branches after all. That was a glorious thing to know as she moved toward the rest of her life.

  He stood to the right of the altar, so handsome in his black, Western-cut tuxedo and dress Stetson that Rainie’s heart felt as if it might burst with happiness. She had taken instruction to become a Catholic, and today, in addition to entering into holy matrimony, she would receive her first Holy Communion.

  Parker’s heart was in his eyes as he watched her come toward him. When at last Rainie reached him and her grandfather stepped aside, she took Parker’s hand with a joyous sense of rightness. He smiled at her through the folds of her veil, telling her without words that he felt the same emotions.

  As they stepped forward as a couple to kneel before the altar for Father Mike’s blessing and their nuptial Mass, a shimmer of multicolored light from the stained-glass windows fell over them. That felt right to Rainie, too, symbolic of the inextinguishable light within her that Parker had helped her to rediscover.

  His big, warm hand tightened around hers. Home. In that moment, Rainie knew with absolute certainty that she would never again question who she was.

  This man had shown her a star in the heavens that would always guide her, and if she ever lost her way, that shimmer of brightness would be there to lead her back to him.

  This was where she belonged, with Parker Harrigan.

  Signet is proud to announce the long-awaited republication of one of Catherine Anderson’s early historical romances first published in 1991 and long out of print

  COMANCHE HEART

  Coming from Signet in May 2009

  Turn the page for an excerpt from this truly outstanding love story. . . .

  Texas, 1876

  Like a forlorn soul, the wind whistled and moaned as it funneled around Swift Antelope, whipping his hair across his face so that he saw the lonely grave through a shifting veil of black. He didn’t blink. The sting in his eyes belonged to the living, and for this moment he lingered with the dead.

  The rugged cross at the head of Amy Masters’s grave, buffeted by the weather, had long since lost its battle to stand erect. He studied the crudely carved lettering in the wood, nearly obliterated by the hand of time, and wondered if the words sang Amy’s life song. Somehow, he doubted tivo tivope , white man’s writing, could draw a glorious enough picture to do her justice.

  Amy . . .

  Memories flowed through Swift Antelope’s mind, creating such clear pictures of her that he might have seen her only yesterday. Golden hair, sky blue eyes, a smile like sunshine . . . his beautiful, sweet, courageous Amy. With the memories came tears, which he shed with no shame yet much regret, for he should have mourned her long ago. He hunched his shoulders against the pain. If only he had come sooner. Twelve years. It broke his heart to imagine her waiting here, bound to him by a lifelong betrothal promise, only to die before he could fulfill his part and come for her.

  Henry Masters’s words, addressed to Swift Antelope only moments ago, rang inside his head. She ain’t here, you filthy Comanch. And it’s a blessin’, if ya ask me, with the likes of you comin’ to court her. Cholera got her five years ago. She’s buried out back, behind the barn.

  With an unsteady hand, Swift Antelope straightened the cross that marked Amy’s grave, trying to visualize what her life must have been like, waiting for him on this dusty farm. When she lay dying, had she turned her gaze toward the horizon, hoping to see him there? Had she understood that it had been only the great fight for his people that had kept him from her side? He had sworn to come for her, and he had. Only he had been five years too late.

  Swift Antelope knew he should climb back on his horse and leave. His compañeros awaited him a few miles west, their saddlebags filled with gold pieces, their gazes cast northward, where they hoped to drive their ill-gotten cattle. But the will to place one moccasin in front of the other had deserted Swift Antelo
pe. His plan to own a prosperous cattle ranch no longer filled him with purpose. Everything that he was lay here, with Amy, in a barren farmyard.

  Lifting his head, Swift Antelope stared across the rolling grassland beyond the farm. Within him an awful emptiness took root, similar to that which he had felt a year ago upon entering the Tule Canyon. There, the September before, Mackenzie and his soldiers had slaughtered fourteen hundred Comanche horses and left the animals to rot. Though Swift Antelope had heard of the attack on his people in the Palo Duro Canyon, though he had known they were defeated, it had not seemed real to him until that moment when he saw the thousands of sun-bleached bones scattered across the canyon floor, all that was left of the Comanche remuda. It was then that Swift Antelope knew, deep within, that his people were finished; they were nothing without their horses.

  Just as he was nothing without Amy.

  Pushing to his feet, he pulled his knife from its scabbard and slashed his cheek from eyebrow to chin, his final tribute to the spirited tosi girl who had touched his heart with so much love. His blood dripped onto the mound of her grave. He imagined it being absorbed into the earth, mingling with her bones. In this small way, a part of him would be here with her, no matter how far he might travel or how many winters passed.

  Swift Antelope straightened his shoulders, sheathed his knife, and strode to his waiting horse. After mounting, he sat a moment, gazing into the distance. His friends waited to the west. Swift Antelope wheeled his horse and headed south. He had no idea where he was going. Nor did he care.

  March 1879

  Amy Masters touched the toes of her shoes to the floor to keep the rocker in motion. Despite the heat from her fireplace, cold seeped under her wool skirts, penetrating her petticoats and ribbed cotton hose. Lighting the lantern might have helped, but for now she preferred the shadows. Somehow the firelight soothed her as it played upon the floral-patterned wallpaper in her sitting room, bringing to mind those long-ago summer nights in Texas, when firelight turned the tepees of Hunter’s village into inverted cones of glowing amber against a slate sky.

  Faint voices and laughter drifted to Amy from outside. A door slammed. A moment later a dog barked, the sound distant and lonely. Everyone in Wolf’s Landing was retiring for the night, as she should herself. Five o’clock would come early. Father O’Grady from Jacksonville visited the settlement so seldom that she hated the thought of missing Mass. He would leave the area tomorrow on a northward trek to his mission in Corvallis, then west to Empire on Coos Bay, then east to Lakeview. It would be weeks before he once again served Mass at St. Joseph’s in Jacksonville, let alone visited Wolf’s Landing. With a husband, two children, and a visiting priest to feed, her cousin Loretta would need help preparing breakfast. Even so, Amy lingered.

  Saying farewell to a cherished friend and precious memories took time.

  Sighing, she lowered her gaze to the neatly folded page of Jacksonville’s Democratic Times that she clutched in her hand. The horrible rumors about Swift Antelope had been filtering into Wolf’s Landing for a couple of years, but Amy had refused to believe them. Now that she had read this news story, she could no longer deny the truth. Her childhood sweetheart, the one and only man she had ever loved, had turned killer.

  Leaning her head against the backrest of her rocker, Amy gazed at the charcoal sketch of Swift Antelope that hung above her mantel. She knew every line by heart, for she had drawn it herself. In the flickering light his profile looked so lifelike that she half expected him to turn and smile at her. Funny that, for she had little artistic talent. Such a beautiful face . . . Swift Antelope. His name whispered in her mind like a caress.

  According to this news article, he went by Swift Lopez now; his Comanche name hadn’t served him well once he’d escaped the reservation and started working as a cowhand. Even Amy had to admit it had been clever of him, Mexicanizing the last syllable of Antelope to Lopez. Despite the fact that he had been adopted by the people and raised as a Comanche, Swift Antelope’s Spanish ancestry had always been apparent in his chiseled features. But, though she applauded his ingenuity and understood his need to escape the strictures of reservation life, she felt betrayed.

  A comanchero and an infamous gunslinger . . . The words from the news story replayed in her mind, conjuring images that turned her skin icy. For so many years she had held her memories of Swift Antelope dear, picturing him as he had been at sixteen, a noble, courageous, and gentle young man, a dreamer. Deep in her heart, she had believed he would keep his promise and come for her once the Comanches’ battle for survival had ended. Now, she realized he never would. Even if he did, she would despise him for what he had become.

  A sad smile touched her mouth. She was a little old at twenty-seven to be building castles out of dreams. Swift Antelope had made that heartfelt betrothal promise to a gangly twelve-year-old girl, and though the Comanches believed promises were forever, a lot had happened since: the destruction of his nation, the deaths of so many people he loved. Though the child in her hated to admit it, he would have changed as well, from a protective, gentle boy to a domineering and ruthless man. She should be thanking God that he had never come for her.

  He probably didn’t even remember her now. She was the strange one, living her life around other people, her heart bound to yesterday by promises that had drifted away on a Texas wind.

  Bending forward, Amy tossed the newspaper page into the flames. The paper ignited in a whoosh of light. The acrid smell of smoldering ink filled her nostrils. She rose from the rocker and stepped to the mantel. With trembling hands she grasped the sketch of Swift Antelope. Tears filled her eyes as she bent to toss the likeness into the flames.

  When she looked at his face, she could almost smell the Texas plains in summer, hear the ring of youthful laughter, feel the touch of his hand on hers. Keep your eyes always on the horizon, golden one. What lies behind you is for yesterday. How many times had she found solace in those words, recalling every inflection of Swift Antelope’s voice as he had spoken them to her?

  She couldn’t live the rest of her life trapped in the past. The Swift Antelope she had known would be the first to scold her for clinging to memories. And yet . . . She touched her fingertips to the paper, tracing the regal line of his nose, the perfect bow of his mouth, her own curving in a tearful smile.

  With a ragged sigh, she returned the sketch to its place on her mantel, unable to surrender it to the flames, not quite ready to say a final farewell. Swift Antelope had been her friend, her innocent love, her healer. He had made her feel clean again, and whole. Was it so wrong to treasure those memories? Did it matter what he had become? It wasn’t as if she would ever see him again.

  Feeling inexplicably lonely, Amy turned her back on the portrait and circled the small, dimly lit sitting room, coming to a stop at the curio shelf. She ran her fingertips over a wooden figurine of a bear, carved by Jeremiah, one of her students. One shelf down from the bear sat a vase of dried flowers, gathered by the Hamstead girl. Seeing the gifts, simple though they were, brightened her mood. She loved teaching. How could she possibly feel lonely when her life brimmed over with people who loved her—not just her students, but Loretta and Loretta’s family?

  Though the deeper recesses of the house were dark, she turned and headed for the bedroom, once again forgoing use of the lantern. Afflicted since childhood with a severe case of night blindness, she had long ago familiarized herself with her home and could usually maneuver without mishap if she moved cautiously. Undressing quickly because of the damp chill that seeped through the walls, she tugged on her white nightgown and buttoned it to her chin. Shivering, she folded her underclothing and stacked it in a neat pile on her bureau, handy for morning. Then, drawing comfort from routine, she sat at her dresser, unplaited her hair, groped for her brush, and gave her long tresses their customary one hundred strokes.

  She stared in the direction of her bed, unable to discern its outline. She should wrap some warm rocks in towels and slip them b
etween the sheets, but she had no energy for it. It seemed to her that the impenetrable blackness drew closer, silent and oppressive. A peculiar tightness rose in her throat. She laid her hairbrush aside and, lured by the anemic glow of moonlight, went to the window, resting her fingers on the sash. Peering out through the steamy glass, she looked toward the main street of town, cheered by the glow of lights coming from the Lucky Nugget Saloon.

  No stars peeked through the clouds. In March, southern Oregon got bursts of spring weather, but today had been drizzly. Fog hung in layers over the rooftops. In the muted moonbeams, she could see a mist of rain pelting the board-walks. Tomorrow the streets would be a series of endless mudholes. Unlike the nearby town of Jacksonville, Wolf’s Landing hadn’t as yet undertaken the grading and graveling of its thoroughfares.

  Another shiver ran up her spine. She hurried into bed, finding little warmth as the cold sheets settled around her. Pressing her cheek to the pillow, she watched a naked tree limb outside her window sway in the gusts of wind.

  Amy dreaded closing her eyes, more so tonight than usual. Reading that newspaper article had resurrected the past, bringing to mind so many horrors best forgotten. In a few short hours dawn would break, but she derived small comfort from that when an eternity of darkness stretched before her. With that news story filling her thoughts, would dreams of the comancheros haunt her sleep? And if they did, would one of the brutal faces leering down at her be Swift Antelope’s? Always before, when she had awoken from the dreams, her memories of Swift Antelope had soothed her. Now he rode with the men of her nightmares, killers, thieves—and rapists.

  She imagined daybreak on the Texas plains, the eastern horizon layered with muted wisps of rose, the sky lead gray. Would Swift Antelope watch the sunrise? Would the north wind, sweet with the smell of spring grass and wildflowers, play upon his face? When he looked to the horizon, would he, for a fleeting instant, remember that long-ago summer?