Nan Ryan

by Written in the Stars

  As the last lights of Boulder died away behind them, Diane’s futile screams died away as well. When she realized she’d succeeded only in making her throat raw and sore, her shoulders slumped with defeat. On they rode in silence, climbing steadily, finally angling more westward. They moved up through a wide, high valley bordered on both sides by timbered cliffs rising hundreds of feet into the air.

  The moonlight disappeared as they rode deeper into a wide canyon between the towering peaks of Colorado’s Front Range. The chill of the high country night settled in with the darkness, and Diane was suddenly cold. And she was tired. Her back felt as if it would break from the uncomfortable position. Sitting up and away from the Redman had taken its toll, and she couldn’t help speculating on how it would feel to lean back against the warmth of that solid bronzed chest.

  She would die before she’d do it. She gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering and straightened her sagging shoulders. If she was cold, well, he was surely colder since he was the same as naked. And if she was tired, so was he. And she could damned sure ride as long as any man.

  Or beast.

  After a couple of cold, tiring hours of riding in darkness, they climbed up out of the canyon and into the silvery moonlight. But Diane never knew it. By then she was sound asleep.

  She was blissfully unaware that somewhere back inside the cold canyon, she had dozed off. The Indian had sensed it the moment she fell asleep. Never altering the long, reaching strides of the big stallion, he reached up, unhooked her bound hands from the saddle horn, untied her wrists, and gently, carefully laid her back in the crook of his strong right arm, pressing her dark head to his shoulder.

  He rode on.

  Erect but easy in the saddle, Diane unconsciously snuggled closer to his warmth. Her soft lips fell open against his bare flesh as she sighed softly in her sleep.

  A faint smile briefly twisted the Redman’s set mouth and momentarily warmed his too-old dark eyes.

  Chapter 15

  High above the village of Boulder, the Indian guided the surefooted stallion across the steeply dipping sandstone conglomerates making up the Fountain formation of the Flatirons. Then on along the three-thousand-foot Royal Arch of the Rockies’ Front Range and into the Flatiron wilderness.

  The moon had paled and was going down when the Redman finally pulled up on the lathered stallion. The stars were fading from view as morning approached. Carefully the Redman chose a lush but narrow valley where the alpine grass was already beginning to change color with the promise of an early autumn.

  There, in the looming shadow of the jagged-topped Indian Peaks, a tributary of South St. Vrain Creek flowed slowly through the small, twisting meadow, its surface as smooth as glass.

  For a long moment the Indian remained mounted. The winded stallion stomped and blew while the Redman’s narrowed eyes slowly scanned the darkened valley. In seconds he had chosen the spot where they would sleep. The low lip of a canyon wall would shelter them from the winds and shade them from the rising sun.

  Early-morning dew was falling and the air had grown cold with the nearing dawn. The Indian looked down at the woman sleeping in his arms and an expression which was almost paternal came into his dark eyes. It vanished quickly, but he took care not to waken her. He tossed the stallion’s reins to the ground and the big mount immediately lowered his head and began cropping the rich grass.

  The Indian reached one long arm behind him and unstrapped the extra horse blankets from behind the cantle. Then he dismounted with such agile grace the woman in his arms made only one soft little gasping sound, inhaled deeply, and snuggled closer.

  And slept on.

  When he reached the lip of the canyon, the Indian knelt on one knee to spread a blanket. The woman slumbered on as he gently laid her across it. Again he looked at her, his dark eyes narrowed.

  She was sound asleep, her silky black hair fanned out over the blanket, her right arm bent at the elbow, the open palm facing upward. That slender arm was bare up to her shoulder where he had torn the sleeve away. The low bodice of her pale purple dress revealed the alluring swell of her ivory breasts, rising and falling rhythmically with her slow, even breaths. The purple skirts, wrinkled and twisted about her slender body, lay swirled up around her knees. Knees that were pale and shapely and covered with nothing but the sheerest of silk stockings. On her feet were sharp-heeled slippers fashioned of soft white kid.

  Stone-faced, the Redman removed her slippers, set them nearby, and noticed the curious wiggling of her toes. At the same time she sighed luxuriously in her sleep. A hint of a smile touched his hard lips. He drew the spare blanket up over her and carefully tucked it in around her shoulders.

  He stayed on his knees a moment more, his dark, scrutinizing gaze slowly traveling back up to the pale, fragile face. Thick, dusky lashes were closed over those remarkable eyes. Eyes unlike any he’d ever seen before. Large, luminous eyes of an incredibly beautiful violet hue. Expressive violet eyes that darkened appealingly to purple when she was angry or frightened.

  Her small, perfect nose had a haughty, aristocratic tilt even in slumber. But a pair of soft, full lips, slightly parted now, suggested the promise of fiery sexuality.

  The Redman’s mouth tightened, and a muscle spasmed in his firm jaw. He shot to his feet, turned, and ducked out from under the rock overhang. He unsaddled the stallion. He removed the bridle and hobbled the big beast with the long leather reins. He slapped his spread hand lightly against the horse’s gleaming withers, and the stallion responded just as he wanted. The animal stepped forward a couple of paces; the reins pulled, the bit clanked. The Redman was satisfied.

  The stallion went back to grazing, and the Indian walked the few steps down to South St. Vrain Creek. On the grassy banks he crouched on his moccasined heels and filled the empty canteen with cold, clear water. He turned the canteen up and drank thirstily, then refilled it and laid it aside.

  He took the hunting knife from his breechcloth, unsheathing the wide-bladed weapon from its protective leather. He drew a calloused thumb along the blade’s edge. Razor-sharp. Pleased, he raised it to his neck. Placing the blade’s pointed tip between his throat and the scarlet beaded neckband, he sliced away the unwanted adornment with one swift outward thrust. The captive neckband fell away. He caught it, laid it beside the filled canteen, and again rose to his feet.

  Knife in hand, he tugged loose the narrow leather string tied atop his right hip. His loincloth fell away, and he stood there naked in the cold gray dawn. He absently rubbed his blood-streaked chest, drew a long, deep breath, and stepped into the creek’s clear, shallow water. He waded quickly out until the water reached to his waist.

  He placed the sharp-edged hunting knife between his strong white teeth, pushed away from the stream’s rocky bottom with his feet, and swam with long, graceful strokes across the creek. The creek’s far boundary was a high wall of ragged rock. He placed the knife up on a shelf of rock and tested the water’s depth. It just topped his wide shoulders.

  The perfect depth for a brisk morning bath.

  The Indian rolled over backward in the icy water, allowing his silver-streaked black hair to fan out and become fully saturated. He floated for a few peaceful minutes, feeling his tired, bunched muscles unwind and jerk.

  He turned over onto his stomach, lowered his head, and plunged beneath, fully submerging himself. He swam underwater for as long as he could hold his breath. Then he broke the calm surface and gulped air down into his aching lungs.

  He went to work.

  With deft hands he massaged his itching scalp and drew his fingers through the wet thick hair. Over and over again. He shoved the hair off his face and concentrated on washing the dried, clotted blood from the long claw marks going down his chest. He winced and gritted his teeth, silently cursing the pale beauty responsible. The deepest scratches bled anew as he carefully cleaned them. He allowed the ice-cold water to close the opened wounds.

  He thoroughly washed the dust and d
irt from his long, lean frame, and when he was clean, he leaped up onto the rocks. Water sluicing off his naked body, he shivered from the cold, pushed his sopping blue-black hair back off his dark face, and patiently waited for the rising of the sun.

  He sprawled naked on the rocks, his eyes closed. He sensed a presence. His eyes swiftly opened. His narrowed gaze shot across the creek to zero in on the woman. She was just as he’d left her, sleeping peacefully, her face turned in his direction.

  He reached out, picked up the sharp knife, turned his dark head, and looked up. A hundred feet above, lolling lazily on a flat shelf of sandstone, was the diamond-throated big cat. Resting on his belly, paws out before him, the huge mountain lion yawned broadly, throwing back his great head, golden eyes closing, sharp teeth bared.

  The Indian laid the knife down and relaxed.

  It was summer, so daybreak came early. In half an hour the sky had turned from gunmetal gray to scarlet red and then to white gold with the rising sun. The naked Indian sat there, luxuriating in the changing degrees of light and warmth. Under the rapidly heating sun, beads of water evaporated from his lean bronzed body. The scratches down his chest became a rosy pink. His wet long hair began to lose much of its moisture.

  Leaning lazily back against his rock bench, the Redman again looked across the creek. From his perch up on the rock wall, he could clearly see the dark-haired woman sleeping on in the peaceful silence. His eyes remained fixed on her until the sun finally rose high enough to cast reflections on the placid creek.

  The Indian turned his attention away from the sleeping woman. He gripped his bare, spread knees, leaned over, and looked straight down into the water. And saw his face as clearly as if he were staring into a mirror. Bracing his bare heels against the rocks, he leaned lower, reached down, and scooped up a double handful of water. He splashed his face with the water, then splashed it yet again. He took up the sharp knife, leaned out and shaved meticulously, using the creek’s clear surface for a mirror. Black whiskers disappeared under the gliding pull of the razor-sharp blade. When no stubble of beard remained on cheeks, chin, or throat, the Indian again washed his smooth bronzed face.

  With knife in hand, he rose, stretched up on his bare toes, stood poised there for a moment, and came back down. Then he picked his way around and across the narrow creek on dry, scattered boulders just upstream.

  He re-dressed in his breechcloth and moccasins and joined the sleeping woman under the lip of the granite wall.

  Diane lay on her side, now facing away from the creek. The blanket had slipped from her shoulders, was down around her waist.

  Cautiously the Indian lay down beside her so that her back was to him. He stretched tiredly out on his back, folded his arms beneath his dark head, and quietly yawned. He could feel the glorious relaxing of muscles throughout his long body, the slow, creeping release of consciousness.

  He was about to drift off completely when Diane stirred restlessly, turned over onto her back, and tossed her head, flinging a lock of tousled raven hair across his cheek and a bare slender arm over his naked chest.

  He immediately froze.

  He held his breath, sure she would wake up.

  He slowly turned his head, looked at her, and saw the slight quivering of her soft bottom lip. Then felt the minute shivering of her slender frame against his length.

  His heart stopped beating when she rolled over to face him, snuggled right up against his side, her chilled, slim body seeking warmth. Her face was an inch from his up-stretched underarm. He could feel her warm, moist breath on his tingling skin. She squirmed still closer. The tickle of her long dark eyelashes against his flesh sent an involuntary shudder through him.

  The Indian never for a second considered turning and enfolding her in his arms. He stayed just as he was, flat on his back, while she unconsciously cuddled closer, a soft pale hand pressing against his flat belly, a dimpled knee sliding up his long, bare leg.

  Deprivation had long been part of his training to become a man. A lifetime of closely guarding and governing his emotions and desires made it possible for him to lie beside the pale, beautiful woman without touching her. This remarkable control had made him a sought-after lover among beautiful, insatiable women. He was capable of making love on demand, no matter the time, the place, or the circumstances.

  That rigid control worked just as effectively the opposite way. His mind had conquered his body more than once, and when necessary, he could prevent annoying, unwanted physical arousal. He exercised that power now.

  He ground his teeth as Diane’s soft breast pressed against his ribs. Perspiration dotted his damp hairline when her wiggling toes dug into his bare calf. The muscles of his flat belly tightened when her sliding knee unwittingly nudged the soft leather of his loincloth up and away from his groin. The slight pressure exerted by her moving knee pulled loose the leather knot tied atop his right hip, the knot holding his breechcloth in place.

  The Indian swallowed hard but did not move. He called on all the powers he possessed. He commanded his mind to control his body. He closed his tired eyes and exhaled deeply, slowly.

  And fell asleep.

  Chapter 16

  Diane began to stir.

  Her eyes fluttered halfway open, then slipped closed. Then opened again. Yawning, she lazily squinted, struggling to see in the deep shadows enveloping her. She was on her back. An unusually low ceiling looked totally foreign. It appeared to be fashioned of rock.

  In the foggy consciousness that followed awakening, Diane tried to understand what she was seeing, where she was, what was happening. She lay totally still, listening. She heard low, slow breathing that didn’t sound like the snorting, whistling sounds made by Texas Kate.

  Slowly Diane turned her head, and her sleepy eyes widened with fear and disbelief.

  The Redman of the Rockies was asleep beside her!

  It all came back in a rush of remembering. Paralyzed with terror, Diane couldn’t budge, couldn’t scream. Only her widened eyes moved as she lay there silently staring at the sleeping savage.

  He lay stretched out flat on his back, his long arms raised and folded beneath his dark head. Diane’s frightened eyes slid slowly, warily up to his chiseled face. Sooty, long lashes were closed over those menacing dark eyes. High, prominent cheekbones cast shadows on his smooth bronzed cheeks. The nose, which had apparently been broken, added an almost humanizing touch to his harsh, chiseled features. The cruel, hard mouth, slackened a little in sleep, appeared fuller, softer.

  But still dangerous.

  Diane’s eyes cautiously moved down from his face to his throat. The beaded neckband was missing. Purple and yellow bruises were clearly visible on his bare throat. Diane experienced a brief flash of empathy. Frowning, her gaze moved on. His smooth bronzed chest was marred with long, mean-looking pink streaks. Diane bit her trembling bottom lip. She was the one responsible for those deep scratches. She could still feel his flesh giving beneath her sharp, raking nails.

  Her gaze dropped lower and she softly winced.

  The knotted thong that held the savage’s skimpy loincloth in place had come untied. The tiny leather apron had slipped down his flat brown belly and rode dangerously low on his pelvis. Only his groin was covered. Everything else was bare. That splendid masculine body was fully exposed to her nervous, guilty scrutiny.

  Tense but curious, Diane silently stared at the interesting juncture where his hard-muscled thigh joined his slim hip. She studied the prominent hipbones. The drum-tight belly. The indentation of his navel. The thick black line of curling hair leading down from his navel. The shadowy hint of raven curls peeking from beneath the low, loose loincloth.

  Diane closed her eyes.

  She tried to think, tried to get hold of herself. Quickly she reviewed exactly what she had seen and heard upon awakening. She’d seen a shadowy rock cave, the Indian sleeping beside her, and the cave’s sunny opening on the far side of him. She’d heard the savage’s deep, even breathing and the cl
anking of a metal bit outside.

  She put it all together in an attempt to determine what her chances were of getting away. The sleeping Indian was between her and the cave’s opening. The stolen stallion was likely hobbled a few yards away. If she could manage to get past the savage without waking him, she’d be able to catch the horse and ride to freedom. She might not have such an opportunity again.

  Diane cautiously opened her eyes. Her nervous gaze climbed slowly, steadily back up to the Redman’s face. And she froze. His dark head had turned. His merciless black eyes were wide open and fixed on her. For what seemed an eternity to Diane, they both lay perfectly still, staring at each other.

  It was she who broke the strange spell.

  Diane quickly lurched up into a kneeling position. She threw a bare foot across the Redman’s body, meaning to lunge quickly over him, shoot to her feet, and run for her life.

  But he was far too swift for her.

  He caught her with one foot on either side of him. Diane screamed when he gripped the skirt of her purple dress and yanked her down hard atop him. His hands immediately encircled her waist. He anchored her astride his hips and defensively turned his head to the side when she struck out at him.

  Frightened and furious, Diane began to cry as she wildly pummeled his dark face and naked torso with her fists. Irrational, self-destructive, she sobbed and shouted, “Let me go, or I’ll kill you! I will, I’ll kill you! You dirty, stupid savage, I hate you!”

  While she slapped and hit him, her fear and temper worsened. Her sobs grew louder, her threats wilder.

  “You disgusting animal! You heartless beast,” she wailed shrilly, “I’ll cut your heart out with that damned stolen knife! I will, I mean it. Do you hear me? I mean it, I do, I do!”

  Her face grew flushed and hot; her tangled hair whipped around her head and tumbled into her eyes. She was blinded by tears, and her heart pounded so furiously she thought it would explode. Desperate, she used every ounce of her strength fighting him, too irrational to consider the futility of the assault.