Nan Ryan

by Written in the Stars

  “I not show you yet?” he asked Diane.

  “No, not yet. I’d certainly like to see it.”

  “Come.” The old chief took hold of her upper arm with amazingly strong fingers and propelled her into the room where he slept each night. There on a sawhorse, directly beside his bed, was a handsome well-oiled saddle embellished with silver trimming. The chief’s hand dropped away from Diane’s arm. He moved forward and touched the saddle.

  Patting it almost reverently, the chief said, “Your Great White Father President Ulysses Grant sent to me this saddle long ago.”

  From the doorway Starkeeper elaborated. “The President honored the chief for his services to the U.S. Army. For unfailingly being a friend of the white man.”

  Nodding his silver head, Chief Washakie added, “The Great White Father changed name of Camp Brown to Fort Washakie.” He looked at Diane and stabbed a blunt finger into his broad chest. “Name it after me.”

  “Such an honor and so well deserved,” said Diane. “You must have been very proud.”

  Leaning a muscular shoulder against the doorframe, Starkeeper said, “Tell her about the formal ceremony, Chief. The day the saddle was presented to you.”

  Black eyes flashing with joyous recollection, Chief Washakie said excitedly, “Big, big ceremony. Hundreds of people present, white and red. Military men march, and a band played music and—and … speeches, many speeches.”

  Diane smiled warmly at the chief. “I’ll bet you gave the best speech of all.”

  Chief Washakie shyly grinned and said nothing.

  “He did.” Starkeeper pushed away from the door, came to stand beside the shorter man, draped a long arm around his shoulder. “Remember what you said that day, Chief?”

  Chief Washakie’s black eyes disappeared into laugh lines. “No. Too long ago.”

  Addressing Diane, Starkeeper said, “He’s being modest. He remembers everything.”

  “Enough about that day,” the chief said abruptly. “Come, we go sit now. Talk of you and what you do since I last see you.”

  After they had been there an hour, the chief began to tire; his eyelids began to droop with drowsiness. Diane and Starkeeper noticed it at the same time. It was she who said it was time they leave. The old man protested politely, then made both promise to return. He was dozing in his chair by the time they stepped outside.

  They’d gone only a few steps from his cabin when Diane asked, “What did the chief say the day he was presented with the saddle? Please tell me.”

  “Grandmother recalls that he stood through the ceremony with his arms folded, silent and deeply touched. When it came time for him to speak, he was at a loss for words. He stood there before the waiting crowd, all eyes turned on him. Then finally he said only this, ‘Do a kindness to a white man, he feels it in his head and his tongue speaks. Do a kindness to an Indian, he feels it in his heart. The heart has no tongue.’”

  “That’s sweet. Beautiful,” Diane said softly, “so very touching.”

  “Yes, well, you know us Indians,” Starkeeper coldly replied, his handsome face growing hard, “like children, foolishly trusting and overly sentimental.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Never mind what you meant,” he cut her off. “Let’s get back to Golden Star’s.”

  He walked away from her, his strides long, quick. Diane stood for a minute, looking after him, gritting her teeth. When he disappeared around a timbered bluff at a bend in the river, she hurried to catch up. Just as she reached him, she made a misstep and lost her balance. Starkeeper instinctively reached out and caught her before she fell.

  His arms were tight around her. Her hands clutched at his chest. Their bodies were pressed together. Fire instantly flashed through them both, now hotter than those torrid times back on the trail, all because of last night’s ecstasy.

  They were in a secluded clearing by the river. They looked into each other’s tortured eyes. Neither said a word. Starkeeper groaned helplessly as his dark head bent to her and his lips covered hers. It was the intimate, probing kiss of a lover, and Diane eagerly responded. The kiss lasted for a long, long time, and when at last their lips separated, both gasped for air, changed positions slightly, and kissed again.

  They kissed and kissed until finally, too weak, too aroused to stand, they sank to their knees on the grass. Starkeeper’s hands slid down Diane’s waist and around to cup the cheeks of her bottom. He pulled closer, and Diane sighed into his mouth.

  But when his hands began anxiously to urge the soft doeskin dress up over her thighs, Diane tore her flaming lips from his and softly, breathlessly murmured, “No.”

  As good as his word, Starkeeper immediately released her.

  Chapter 30

  At sunset that day Starkeeper sat alone on a high bluff above the Little Wind River. Every muscle in his lean body was tense; he felt as if he were about to jump out of his skin. Grim-faced, he wished for the thousandth time that he had never taken Diane Buchannan from the train. He wished it more than ever now.

  He stared straight into the setting sun until a quick flash of movement in the trees across the river drew his attention. Starkeeper watched as the big diamond-throated cat leaped over a silvery willow and up onto a large jutting rock. The tawny cougar stood silhouetted against the dying sun. He raised his great head and gave a low, plaintive growl, then sat back on his haunches and moved no more. Starkeeper looked at the big solitary beast and smiled wistfully.

  They were two of a kind, he and the cat.

  Starkeeper’s chest tightened. After just one night of lovemaking, the fierce attraction between Diane and him was more potent and undeniable than before. Now he wanted her with an all-consuming passion. Felt as if he couldn’t make it through this long, lonely night without holding her in his arms.

  Starkeeper silently cursed himself. He cursed Diane. He disliked her, but he desired her. He couldn’t stay away from her. He was aching this very minute to go to his grandmother’s lodge so he could see the violet-eyed beauty.

  Starkeeper stayed where he was.

  He would not go there now, or tomorrow or the next day. He had never been anybody’s fool; he wouldn’t be Diane Buchannan’s. Nor, on the other hand, would he back away should she come to him again. It could happen. It had happened before. A curious white woman intending to be with an Indian just one time, then coming back for more. Again and again.

  It could be that way with the haughty Miss Diane Buchannan. She had come very close this afternoon by the river. She had wanted him almost as much as he wanted her. Had they been alone in his lodge …

  Starkeeper came to his feet.

  It had been at this very hour last evening when Diane had stepped into his tipi. Starkeeper’s heart kicked against his ribs. Hopeful anticipation sprang up and quickly grew. He leaped down off the bluff and began to run. He ran swiftly, his long legs taking great strides.

  The wind caused his eyes to sting and his now-loose black hair to flow out behind him. Starkeeper raced eagerly toward his secluded canvas tipi, his heart pumping furiously, his breath coming fast.

  In minutes he reached his lodge, relieved to have beaten her there. He dashed inside, reached behind his head, grabbed his shirt, and yanked it up and off in one fluid motion.

  Starkeeper washed up, shaved, brushed his hair, put on fresh clothes, and then waited, pacing restlessly back and forth outside his tipi.

  But Diane never came.

  She wanted to.

  While Starkeeper waited impatiently, Diane sat alone outside Golden Star’s lodge, watching the stars come out. Her arms wrapped around her knees, her head thrown back, she looked up at the heavens as one by one stars twinkled to brilliant life in the black night sky.

  She smiled when she caught sight of the luminous Milky Way. Golden Star had told her that Shoshoni law was responsible for the glittering trail of stars. Diane couldn’t recall all of the legend. Something to do with a banished black bear climbing above the timberline, t
hen rising up to the Heavenly Hunting Ground, shaking the snow crystals off his feet, leaving a silvery trail behind him.

  Golden Star’s voice had dropped low when she told Diane earnestly, “The white crystals will always be there in the sky on clear nights to light the way to the Land of the Souls, and all people will call it the Milky Way.”

  Diane sighed and lowered her eyes. How could she look at those mystical, mesmerizing stars and not be reminded of the mystical, mesmerizing Starkeeper? She leaned her forehead on her raised knees. Guilt, misery, and passion overwhelmed her. Especially passion. She felt terribly guilty for what she had done last night, and she was miserable over it. But, oh, how she longed to be in Starkeeper’s strong arms again.

  She raised her head. It was all she could do to keep still. She felt almost physically ill with desire for the handsome Shoshoni. Was tempted to give in to base passion, to race through the village to Starkeeper’s lodge. To throw herself into his arms and beg him to make love to her.

  Diane stayed as she was.

  She would not go there tonight, or tomorrow night or the next. She would never go there again. She had never been anybody’s fool; she wouldn’t be Starkeeper’s. On the other hand, since it was too late to change what had happened, there wasn’t much point in turning him down should he want her again. And she knew he would. He did. The way he’d kissed her down by the river this afternoon; why, if they had been alone in his lodge …

  Diane came to her feet.

  It was at almost this very hour last evening when she had gone to him. Was he remembering, too? Was he wanting her as she wanted him? Would he come here for her tonight? Show up any minute, hoping she would now say yes?

  Diane hurried into the tipi, anxiously pulled the borrowed doeskin dress up over her head and off. She washed up, brushed her long raven hair, put on her freshly laundered white skirt and blouse, and went back outside to wait expectantly.

  But Starkeeper never came.

  The following days at Wind River were a paradoxical blend of simple joys and growing misery. For Diane. And for Starkeeper.

  The more Diane saw the unfailingly kind and likable Starkeeper among his people, the more she respected and admired him. It was pleasurable to quietly observe him when he didn’t realize her eyes were on him.

  Like the warm afternoons when he sat in the sun with the old men before the agency buildings, listening intently while they spoke of days gone by. So respectful and totally focused he never noticed her pass by on her regular trips to the camp store to buy cold Coca-Cola for Golden Star. Or the bright, sunny mornings when he played games of ball with the village’s rowdy youngsters, laughing and looking almost as boyish and carefree as the happy children.

  If Diane took silent pleasure from quietly watching Starkeeper, so it was with him. He was pleased by the deference and consideration she always showed his aged grandmother and Golden Star’s many friends. More than once he watched a wrinkled old Shoshoni face light up as Diane bent to give a warm hug or pat a stooped back or inquire after someone’s health.

  He caught himself helplessly smiling as he stopped to watch a laughing, barefoot Diane playing chase with a giggling gang of little Indian girls. She looked like a little girl herself. And acted like one. She squealed and raced across the grass, the skirt of her white dress flying up around her knees, her unbound hair flowing out behind her.

  But the role of child was immediately discarded for that of caring parent when a tiny, chubby girl fell, bumped her head, and began to cry. In mid-flight Diane stopped, whirled about, and raced back to the fallen child. She fell to her knees on the grass, plucked the crying little girl up from the ground, and cradled her close, murmuring and pressing healing kisses on the bumped forehead.

  As he watched the touching scene, it was far too easy to imagine the beautiful young woman with her own child in her arms. With his child in her arms. Their child.

  Starkeeper ground his teeth and turned away.

  Four days had passed since that night in Starkeeper’s lodge.

  It was late afternoon. Golden Star, Diane, and Star-keeper stood in Wind River’s Shoshoni cemetery. Diane and Starkeeper were quiet while Golden Star pointed out graves of those who had gone before.

  Golden Star’s husband, Running Elk, rested there. And Daughter-of-the-Stars. The beloved Sacagawea. Many others. Diane listened as Golden Star pointed out family and friends whose graves overlooked the beautiful Little Wind River valley.

  “When it is time for me to go to the Great Mystery, I will lie here beside Running Elk,” Golden Star said, standing above his final resting place. She raised her head, smiled, and added softly, “Old Sacagawea believed the white flowers that grow up here at the snow line are the spirits of little children who have gone away but return each spring to gladden the pathway of those still living.” Abruptly she turned away. “I am tired. I must go.”

  Starkeeper saw them back to Golden Star’s lodge but didn’t come inside. Diane helped the old woman prepare for her afternoon nap, and when Golden Star was stretched out on her bed of furs, she took Diane’s hand and said, “There is a legend, Pale One, of a lake north of here. It is said that there are times a beautiful Indian princess who drowned in the lake rises from its mists. Those who live nearby say the princess’s false lover forever calls out to her in the moaning voice of the wind.”

  “That’s sad and beautiful,” said Diane. “Who was she, this beautiful princess?”

  “My mother,” said Golden Star. “Stardust.”

  “But I—”

  “A handsome fur trapper stole Stardust’s love from my father and from me.”

  Shocked, Diane said, “Oh, Golden Star, I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, child, when we are young, all is clouded by desire —as fire by smoke or mirror by dust.”

  “Yes,” Diane admitted, “that’s true, I’m afraid.”

  “If we could know why one person selects another from the multitudes, all things would be possible.” The old Shoshoni woman smiled wanly. “But we cannot help loving whom we love.” Her black eyes, fixed on Diane, held a knowing expression, as if she were waiting for what she knew Diane was about to say.

  “I must talk to you, Golden Star,” Diane blurted out anxiously.

  “I know, child. I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. You desire my grandson.”

  “I do. Oh, I do.” Diane lowered her eyes, embarrassed. “I mean, I care for him the way a woman cares for a man and … you must think me terrible.” She felt her face flush.

  The old woman smiled and said, “We’re all taught that love can only grow out of a long and lasting friendship.” Her child’s merry laugh, and then came an honest confession. “It is not true, Pale One. I fell in love with Running Elk the first time I saw him ride into my village, so straight and tall and handsome. The only thing I knew about him was that I wanted to be held in his arms.” Still smiling, she said, “Friendship and love grew as our years together passed, but first there was desire.”

  “Golden Star, you’re so understanding, so wise.” Diane’s voice was soft. “I’m falling in love with Starkeeper, and it’s so foolish of me.”

  “I don’t think it’s foolish.”

  “Oh, but it is. Starkeeper has very little use for white women. The two of us … there could never be a future. Never.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “What must I do, Golden Star? I love your grandson, and I know it’s hopeless.”

  Golden Star smiled. “Perhaps not as hopeless as you think.” Her black eyes twinkled mischievously. “Starkeeper is a white man born.”

  Chapter 31

  Diane stared at the smiling old Shoshoni woman, thinking she must surely have misunderstood. Starkeeper not an Indian? No. No, that couldn’t be true.

  Her face screwing up into a frown, Diane said, “What are you telling me, Golden Star? You can’t possibly mean that—”

  “Starkeeper is white. As white as you. His blood mother and father were both
white.” The black eyes twinkled at the confused Diane. “But,” Golden Star added, “he is my grandson. Has always been, will always be.” The smiling old woman then instructed, “Make yourself more comfortable, child. I’ll tell you all about Starkeeper.”

  Diane sat flat down on the floor beside Golden Star’s bed, curling her legs to the side. There she stayed for the next half hour, listening intently, asking dozens of questions.

  The Indian woman told her of Starkeeper’s true heritage. Told how Chief Red Fox had saved a white baby from the fire that killed his parents. The rescue had come shortly after Daughter-of-the-Stars had lost her newborn son. The chief brought the orphaned baby to his grieving young princess, and the tiny boy saved Daughter-of-the-Stars’ life. She took the child as her own son and loved him as much as if she had borne him.

  Golden Star told Diane of the scar concealed by Starkeeper’s silver bracelet and of its meaning. Said Starkeeper had been raised as a Shoshoni, but now he lived as a white man. He was known in that other world as Ben Star. He was a wealthy, successful man who had amassed a fortune from prospecting.

  “Starkeeper has many rich gold and silver mines in California and Nevada,” Golden Star said with pride. “He lives in a fine mansion in Nevada, and he owns a tall office building in San Francisco—it touches the sky.”

  “Is he … married?” Diane asked. Golden Star shook her head no. Feeling a great sense of relief, Diane pressed on. “Was he? Has he ever been married?” Again the old woman shook her head. “Why?” Diane wanted to know. “There must surely have been women who—”

  “Wanted to be his wife?” Golden Star finished her sentence. Nodding, she said, “I understand wealthy, handsome men are much prized in your world. The white world.”

  Diane admitted it was true. “So why has Starkeeper never married?”

  “Appe?” Golden Star said, and it was more a question than a statement. “Perhaps it was the work of Appe.” She smiled at Diane’s look of puzzlement. “Appe is the creator of the universe and all that is in it. Who knows? Maybe Appe created you for Starkeeper.” She smiled up at Diane and patted her hand. “I hope it is so. I would like to have a great-grandchild before I go on to the Great Mystery.” She yawned then and said, “A boy, I think. A sweet little boy like—like …” Her papery eyelids closed.