Nan Ryan

by Written in the Stars

  Diane cautiously glanced again at the Redman. He had a fire started. He was now engaged in stripping the leaves from a long servicebeny branch, apparently making a fishing pole. Without giving it any further consideration, Diane dropped the blanket and took off running.

  She’d covered less than forty yards when he caught up with her. A long arm came around her waist, stopped her in mid-stride, and reeled her back against his chest. Diane immediately squirmed about to face him, shouting angrily as she turned.

  But she fell silent when he wrapped a hand around the front of her throat. He pressed her head back into the crook of his supporting arm, forcing her to look up at his sharp, angular face and into his dark, piercing eyes.

  Those eyes were narrowed, snapping at her. With his hand wrapped around her throat, he applied gentle pressure with thumb and fingertips, allowing her to feel the leashed strength in his powerful hand. A chill uneasiness swept over her as the strong sunlight glinted on the wide silver bracelet encircling his wrist. His message couldn’t have been more clear had be been able to enunciate it carefully.

  If he chose to do so, he could choke the very life out of her while they stood staring at each other. That was what he was telling her. What he wanted her to understand and to remember. That she had no chance against him. He could kill her with just one hand.

  Swallowing with great difficulty, Diane nodded furiously and said, “I understand, Beast.”

  The words had no sooner passed her lips than his fingers loosened on her throat. Afraid to move until he completely released her, Diane stayed as she was, body braced against his, head resting in the crook of his raised arm.

  The Indian’s hand didn’t lift from her throat. It slid down her throat, spread on her collarbones, moved unhurriedly to the bare swell of her breasts just above her low-cut bodice. Nervously Diane narrowed her eyes and ordered him to stop. The order was ignored.

  His eyes became bold and dark and very intense. His hand moved with maddening slowness over the curve of her left breast, to her slim midriff, finally to her waist.

  And fell away.

  The tall Indian released her so swiftly Diane nearly lost her balance. She stared after him as he negligently turned his back on her and walked away. For a minute more she stood there, shaken by his easy dominance, angered by his arrogance. She had a good mind to take off running again!

  Diane followed him back to camp.

  She dropped down beside the fire, hugged her knees, and wished for something to eat, something to drink. As if he could read her mind, the Redman picked up the canteen, circled the fire, and crouched down on his heels beside her. He offered her the canteen.

  Diane refused to take it. He shrugged, turned it up to his lips, and drank thirstily. As she watched the cold, clear water pour from the canteen into his open mouth, her hatred for him grew. He was a monster, an insolent bastard!

  Teeth grinding, she shot to her feet, walked the few steps to the creek, and knelt down beside the cold, clear stream. She tried, unsuccessfully, to scoop up handfuls of water and bring them to her lips. Each time she lost all but a drop or two of the precious water before she could get it to her mouth.

  She jumped when the Indian tapped her on the shoulder. He knelt beside her, leaned down, scooped up a double handful of water, and offered it to her. Violently she shook her head, hoping he was able to comprehend that she wouldn’t drink from his filthy hands if she’d been out on the hot Sahara desert for a week!

  The Indian tossed the water back into the creek. Her snapping violet eyes on him, Diane watched as he stretched out on his stomach beside her. His hands on the grassy bank, his elbows supporting his body, he thrust his face far out over the creek. A lock of his silver-streaked black hair fell into the water, but he seemed not to notice. He lowered his dark face and drank like a cat, barely touching the water’s smooth surface with his lips.

  He lifted his head, levered himself back up into a kneeling position beside her. Looking straight at her, he wiped his wet lips on a forearm and pointed to the water. He was challenging her to give it a try, probably hoping she’d fall in, face first.

  Diane gave him a wilting look, haughtily shoved her hair behind her ears, and confidently stretched out on her stomach. Recalling exactly the way he had done it, Diane positioned her hands evenly on either side, balanced her weight on her elbows, and leaned far out over the water.

  She groaned with frustration when a large section of her long, flowing hair began sliding around the side of her left shoulder. The Indian’s quick fingers reached out and gently plucked it up before it touched the water. Diane carefully lowered her face. She took small, refreshing drinks, lapping at the cold water, sucking it up with puckered lips, while her captor held her long raven hair up in one bronzed hand.

  When her thirst was quenched, Diane lifted her head, levered herself up just as he had done, and sat back on her heels. Giving him a smug, triumphant look, she snatched her hair from his hand and tossed it back over her shoulder.

  Then cringed when his hand lifted to her face. She leaned as far away as she could in her present position, but his hand followed. His middle finger touched her small, aristocratic nose and flicked away a diamond drop of water clinging to its tip.

  “Thanks, Beast,” Diane said grudgingly. Nodding, he watched as she bent her head and blotted her wet face on the skirts of her wrinkled purple dress.

  The expression in his black eyes softened appealingly. A faint hint of a smile touched the cruel, sensual lips of the savage.

  Chapter 18

  But Diane never knew.

  By the time she raised her head, not a trace of tenderness lingered in her captor’s dark eyes. His lips were set in a stern line. His hard-featured face was again an unreadable mask.

  He pointed to the creek, he pointed to her, and then he pantomimed washing by rubbing his palms over his long arms and bare chest. The message was clear enough. She was to take a bath in the creek.

  Diane favored him with a false smile. Then, speaking in the softest, kindest of tones, she said, “Beast, I wouldn’t take a bath with you if it had been a year since I’d last seen a tub.” Continuing to smile, she rose to her feet, looked down at him, and added, “Believe me, the day will never come when I take my clothes off with you lurking around.”

  She turned and walked back to the campfire, hoping he would take a morning bath. If he did, she’d snatch up what few clothes he had, hop on the horse, and ride away, leaving him naked and afoot!

  Nothing of the kind happened, and Diane was not surprised. She had never actually supposed that the wild, uncivilized creature would be interested in keeping his body clean.

  The Redman caught a trout for their breakfast, cooked it in the open flame of the campfire, and shrugged indifferently when Diane refused even to taste it. Seated cross-legged beside her, he ate with relish, biting eagerly into the fish with sharp white teeth and then licking his lips until she wanted to smack him a good one.

  When finally he had devoured the entire trout, he absently rubbed his bare belly, sighed, and stretched contentedly. Diane remained composed, purposely making her face as expressionless as his usually was.

  However, her interest was slightly piqued when the savage reached for the beaded headband he’d removed earlier. He took the sharp hunting knife from its scabbard and meticulously cut the headband into small square pieces.

  Forehead puckered, Diane watched, wondering what bit of madness he was up to now. When he finished his chore, he gathered up all the square pieces—except one —and placed them atop the sleeve he’d torn from her dress. He tied those beaded squares up in the purple fabric, shoved the small, tidy bundle down into his low-riding breechcloth, and resheathed the knife.

  He rose to his feet, leaving one colorful beaded square of the butchered neckband lying on the grass. Supposing he had overlooked it, Diane automatically reached for it, meaning to hand it to him. The instant her fingers touched the beaded leather square, his moccasined foot ca
me down gently but squarely atop her hand. Diane’s head snapped up.

  The Indian stood there towering over her, tall and dangerous-looking. His dark, menacing eyes were riveted on her and Diane felt a surge of uneasiness rush through her slender body. She had no idea why she’d displeased him, but obviously she had. He slowly shook his head from side to side, then lifted his foot from her hand.

  Diane’s first impulse was to snatch up the beaded square and sail it out into the middle of the creek. But she wisely checked herself. For some unknown reason, that worthless piece of leather and beads obviously meant something to the savage. So much so that he refused to move away until she completely released it. He continued to stand there just above; so close his bare, hard thigh was scant inches from her face.

  Diane slowly moved her hand, wanting no extra trouble. She could only surmise that the strange exercise of his carefully cutting up the neckband, tying up the pieces, and placing one on the ground was some sort of foolish, primitive ritual. She shrugged, folded her arms over her chest, and gazed out over the creek.

  “Whatever makes you happy.”

  The Indian immediately stepped away, and Diane felt her breath escape in a rush. Pretending total disinterest, she stole glances at him as he went about preparing for their departure. He had the stallion bridled and saddled within minutes, the blankets strapped behind the cantle, the filled canteen hooked over the saddle horn.

  Diane’s violet eyes darkened with unintentional curiosity when he shook out the pair of stolen leather chaps, then whirled them around his tall body, buckling them behind his trim waist. Deftly he smoothed the worn leather around his long right leg, buckled it beneath his firm buttock and behind his knee, then did the same with the left leg.

  Diane, watching him from beneath dark, veiling lashes, found his newly donned getup offensive. True, at least the fronts of his bare legs were now covered, but the cut of the chaps accentuated that distinctly male part of his anatomy that needed no emphasis. The apron of the skimpy loincloth which was designed to hang loose was now pulled tight over his groin.

  He looked like a blatantly sexual bronzed god standing there vainly in the sun, torso naked, leather snugly encasing his flat belly and lean flanks and long legs. And ample groin. Diane was disturbed by his raw masculinity. She thought him base and crude, and the sight of him was unsettling, yet she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He looked downright indecent when abruptly he crouched down on his heels, legs spread apart, and buckled the silver-trimmed spurs to his moccasins.

  Diane felt her face flush with heat. She swiftly averted her gaze until he turned and walked away. Then her eyes lifted and followed him. Finally she was tempted to laugh. From the rear it looked as if the savage were attired in some silly peekaboo costume fashioned for bawdy frolic and play in a whorehouse!

  Diane’s face turned scarlet when her traitorous thoughts turned embarrassingly naughty, and she envisioned the harshly handsome savage wearing the leather chaps just as he was now—but without the breechcloth underneath.

  Before she could completely collect herself, the Indian returned, leading the saddled stallion and wearing the stolen Stetson on his head. He stepped up close. While the stallion nudged at his bare bronzed shoulder, he held out his hand to Diane.

  Ignoring it and his piercing eyes, she sprang to her feet. He stuffed the reins down into the low-riding chaps and put his hands to her waist Diane anxiously pushed them away. Brushing past him, she stepped up to the stallion, grabbed the horn, and put her foot in the stirrup.

  “Beast,” she said over her shoulder, “I have no intention of riding draped across the saddle so that I have to look at you all day.” She effortlessly pulled herself up, swung a long, slender leg over, and settled herself astride, modestly pulling her full purple skirts down over her knees and tucking them around her legs. “You disgust me,” she said, pushing her hair back behind her ears, “you foolishly suppose that I’ll forget you’re an animal, but that will not happen. Flaunt your disgusting masculinity all you want; to me you’ll never be anything but a beast.” She paused, looked down at him, and smiled. “Ready, Beast?”

  The granite-faced Redman looped the long reins over the stallion’s neck and swung up behind Diane. He took off the Stetson, set it atop her head, and waited. She knew he expected her to object, to snatch off the hat and throw it on the ground or shove it back at him. So she didn’t do it. She pulled the brim low on her forehead, secretly grateful that she wouldn’t have to endure the alpine sun’s harsh glare all day.

  A pair of long bronzed arms swiftly enclosed her. The Indian gently touched the stolen spurs to the stallion’s belly, and they were off. To where Diane did not know.

  As they rode out of camp, Diane tipped her head back and looked up. On the rim of a rocky crag above the narrow creek, a pair of golden eyes gleamed in a sleek, regal head and a huge tawny body crouched as if ready to leap. Diane stared up at mountain lion, and the lion stared down at her.

  Calmly lowering her eyes, Diane thought that the magnificent beast on the rocks above posed far less of a threat than the magnificent beast riding behind her.

  Hours passed as the mounted pair rode higher into the wild, rugged Front Range of the Rockies. Across broad and beautiful meadows they traveled. Past fast-flowing crystalline streams. Through dense dark forests of lodgepole pines and Douglas firs. Up steep, jagged rocky summits. Down gentle, sparsely timbered slopes. Over narrow, treacherous precipices. Under gigantic, balanced boulders.

  As long as they were atop the moving stallion, Diane knew she was in no immediate danger, so she was partially able to relax. But the long, tiring ride gave her plenty of time to think about the gravity of her dilemma. She could only imagine what lay in store for her, and the possibilities were limited. Her captor aimed to make her his squaw, or give her as a present to another savage, or barter her for goods.

  Or kill her.

  Diane’s narrowed violet eyes lowered to the dark, powerful arms enclosing her, to the lean hand loosely holding the reins, and the wide silver bracelet on his wrist. His hand moved, and she studied his fingers. They were long and slender, and his nails were clean, smooth, and tapered.

  The wispy hair lifted on the nape of her neck. Vividly she recalled having that hand wrapped around her throat. There was so much leashed strength in those long fingers the savage could have snapped her neck as if it were a brittle twig.

  Diane experienced a shuddering ripple through her entire body.

  She forced herself not to dwell on the chilling prospect of her fate. She would think of something else. Someone else. Her thoughts turned to those she most loved. The Colonel and Granny Buchannan were surely worried sick about her. And Texas Kate. And Shorty. And poor Ancient Eyes. The Ute chieftain must be right now blaming himself for what had happened when the fault was really hers. Bless his old heart.

  The Cherokee Kid didn’t warrant much of her concern. If there was blame to be shared, he deserved a healthy portion. He should never have beaten the Beast or brought him down out of the mountains. On the other hand, she could count on the Kid to lead the search, and with a little luck, maybe he’d find her in time to save her from the savage.

  Diane’s slender shoulders slumped. She’d left her position in Washington, D.C., for the sole purpose of helping out her grandparents. Instead she’d managed to add to their problems. Besides their worry for her safety, there was the show to think about. Gossip had a way of spreading quickly. Her capture at the hands of the Colonel’s own chosen star attraction would bring damaging scandal to the already troubled troupe.

  Pawnee Bill was probably already circling like a shark tasting blood.

  More immediate worries again took precedence as the long day ended and they stopped for the night Beneath the northeast face of the soaring fourteen-thousand-foot Longs Peak, they pitched camp just below the Roaring Fork waterfall on the banks of Lake Chasm. The water cascading over the rocks caused a loud, constant roar.

  Supper was
more fire-blackened trout caught in the lake, and Diane was so hungry it tasted good. When bedtime came, she tensed. Would this be the hour of her violation and death? Forced to sleep wrapped in the Indian’s powerful bronzed arms, she lay in wakeful agony for what seemed forever until she could no longer hold her eyes open.

  More than once throughout the chill mountain night, she awakened from her fitful slumber to find those dark, penetrating eyes calmly watching her. Each time her breath caught in her throat and her heart stopped beating. A frightening electricity filled the air between them, and she was rigid with fear.

  And yet the expression in his intelligent eyes was baffling. What was he waiting for? Why not rape, scalp, and kill her and be mercifully done with it?

  Morning came at last, and Diane was grateful to be alive to face the new day. They set out early and as they rode away, Diane noticed that the Indian left behind another cut square from the red beaded headband.

  Soon the sun was high and hot, and the atmosphere was so thin the harsh rays poured down in unfiltered heat Diane pulled her Stetson low. She grew faint and tired and found it difficult to breathe.

  The altitude didn’t bother the Redman. He guided the stallion higher and higher into the mountains and never showed any signs of discomfort. It appeared he knew exactly where he was going, though he seemed in no particular hurry to get there.

  Under different circumstances, the awesome scenery would have been greatly appreciated by Diane. Summer mists and fog veiled the splashing Columbine Falls on the Roaring Fork. The fierce September sun flushed the peaks along the Continental Divide above Sprague Lake. In the deep shadow of Indian Peaks a fringe of lacy autumn ice decorated the edges of Red Rock Lake.

  She caught the flash of big-horned sheep and white-tailed deer crossing a meadow of wild flowers. Saw bluebells and pink moss campion and indian paintbrush carpeting the high country glade. Heard the autumn-quiet murmur of crystal-clear water flowing down Hidden Valley Creek. And finally admired the quaking aspens in September’s waning light, the fragile leaves still sprinkled with raindrops from an afternoon shower.