Nan Ryan

by Written in the Stars

  Using her hands to help pull herself up an incline, she saw Starkeeper poised at the top. With effort, she managed to scramble the rest of the way up to where he stood. He pointed across a verdant valley to a massive mountain which appeared to be solid rock. Diane stared intently at the soaring peak and almost missed the lone dwelling located far up on its southern face, a huge structure which was the exact same hue as the rock to which it clung.

  “Sun Mountain,” Starkeeper pointed to the mountain’s rocky summit.

  Diane pointed, too. But she pointed at the curious earth-colored edifice clinging to the mountainside. “What is that?”

  Casually Starkeeper replied, “My home.”

  As she held her side where a painful stitch plagued her, Diane’s eyes were fixed on Star’s house. It was easy to imagine the home’s big porcelain bathtubs and clean, soft beds. But she was so tired she wasn’t certain she could make it all the way down into the valley and then up the steep face of Sun Mountain.

  Diane’s head snapped around when Starkeeper moved closer, looked down into her upturned face, and said, “You can’t make it, can you?”

  “I most certainly can, I—”

  She stopped speaking when he swept her up into his powerful arms and started off down the hill, carrying her as if she were as light as a feather.

  Diane sighed with grateful relief, wrapped her arms around his neck, and said, “Thank you, Star.”

  “You’re welcome, Diane.”

  Diane smiled, confident he could and would safely take her all the way up to his mountainside home. Cautiously she laid her head on his shoulder and was grateful that he didn’t seem to mind. She closed her eyes for a few minutes and rested. When she opened them, they had crossed the smooth valley floor and were climbing swiftly up the southern face of the soaring Sun Mountain.

  Star’s home had momentarily disappeared. They climbed higher, and Diane could again see the stucco mansion above. It sat alone in solitary splendor, so secluded and private it was as if there were no one else in the world.

  Diane was about to comment on that fact when her attention was drawn to a big, sleek cat poised on a craggy ledge a few yards ahead. Alarmed at first, she spotted the dark diamond patch of fur beneath the lion’s throat and immediately relaxed. She couldn’t believe her eyes. The same big cat. He was here in Nevada. He’d followed them all the way from Wind River.

  Diane blinked when a smaller, even more beautiful cat moved out of the trees and up alongside the big diamond-throated lion.

  “Star!” she exclaimed. “Look! The cat. He followed us from Wyoming, and he’s found a companion.”

  With her in his arms, Star turned and looked up as the big tawny lion lowered its great head and gently nuzzled the smaller cat.

  Star said, “That’s a female with him. He’s found a mate.” Diane saw Star’s dark eyes turn wistful, almost sad. His voice was low and flat when he softly added, “It is said they sometimes mate for life.”

  Diane smiled dreamily.

  A wonderful sense of well-being enveloped her as Star carried her the rest of the way up to his home.

  Chapter 34

  Star lowered Diane to her feet.

  They stood beneath a high natural arch of rock which served as the entranceway to Star’s mountain estate. Fifty yards ahead loomed the stucco mansion, even larger than Diane had imagined. And more handsome.

  “The staff is not on duty.” Starkeeper began apologizing as they started up the graveled drive.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Not a single servant inside. No one to prepare a meal.”

  “I can cook.”

  “Good. I’m starving.”

  “Leave it all to me,” she said, not wanting to admit—at least not right this minute—that she had never actually cooked a meal in her life.

  The mansion’s massive front double doors were of intricately carved cedar. The doorknobs were gleaming Nevada silver. Inside the cool, silent foyer Diane turned about in a slow circle, then asked, “May I look around?”

  Star shrugged. “Why not?”

  Beyond the spacious slate-floored foyer, a curving cedar staircase with wide marble steps led to a balcony, off which were many rooms. Diane curiously looked into each, and when she stepped inside a huge, airy skylighted room with leather-bound books from floor to ceiling and tall French windows looking out on the higher reaches of Sun Mountain and the rugged ranges beyond, she clasped her hands together.

  “This is truly grand,” she said excitedly, “I’ll bet it’s where you spend all your time.” She turned and smiled at the tall, dark man who had followed her up the stairs.

  Star glanced at the long leather sofa where he’d taken many an afternoon nap, then at the heavy desk where he often worked far into the night.

  “I’ve whiled away a few hours here,” he said noncommittally.

  Impressed with his excellent taste, Diane hurried from room to room, eagerly exploring Star’s large, comfortable home. This man amazed her. He was so nonchalant about the impressive mountainside dwelling. Star was casual in the extreme, as if this mansion, the priceless antiques, and the fine furnishings were really of no account.

  Secretly Star was pleased by Diane’s obvious approval. Almost shyly he closely trailed her as she examined and admired the paintings and furniture and special objects that meant so much to him.

  A smile of delight lit Diane’s face as she explored the many rooms. This was a man’s house. Masculine in every way. From the dark polished woodwork to the stone walk-in fireplaces to the oversize cedar beds. The entire house and everything in it had been tailored to Star’s individual tastes.

  Diane loved it. Everything about this remote mountain mansion was dark and graceful and handsome, just like the man who lived here.

  Back down in the large kitchen, Diane decided to confess.

  “Star.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t actually know how to cook.” She smiled nervously at him. “Do you?”

  “No. No, I don’t,” he said. “You forget, I’m Indian. Indian women do the cooking at camp.”

  “We’re not at camp,” Diane reminded him, moving closer. “And you’re not Indian.”

  Star took a step back, reached out, and clasped Diane’s upper arms to stop her advance.

  “I am Indian, Diane. A white woman gave birth to me, but I’m Indian, even to the blood.” He held his right hand up between them. With thumb and forefinger he pried the wide silver bracelet apart to show her the scar. “Didn’t Golden Star explain the scar?”

  Her violet eyes on the perfect white X adorning his dark right wrist, Diane said softly. “Yes. She told me.”

  His hands fell back to his sides. “I am Indian,” he repeated. “I will always be Indian.” That cold Shoshoni mask settled over his handsome features.

  Diane nodded. She knew what he meant. He was stating unequivocally that they had no future together. As far as he was concerned, he was Indian, she was white, and that was that. He wouldn’t accept her or her love.

  “I understand, Star.”

  And she did. But she was not willing to give up so easily. Until Star put her on that westbound train, there was the slim chance she might be able change his mind. She intended to do everything in her power to do just that.

  “First, let me fire up the boiler, and then I’ll see if I can’t find something to eat that doesn’t require much preparation.” Star said, his expression softening.

  Diane clapped her hands when he brought in a cured ham from the smokehouse, a couple of large Irish potatoes, a half dozen apples from the cellar, and a bottle of vintage bubbly from the wine cellar.

  “Think you can peel potatoes, Miss Buchannan?”

  “Why, Mr. Star, what a foolish question.”

  Diane laughed. Star smiled. Together they busied themselves fixing a meal of sorts as the sun slowly set behind Sun Mountain.

  Diane carefully peeled the potatoes. Star expertly cored the apples,
seasoning them with cinnamon and brown sugar. He scored the ham with a sharp carving knife and poured thick, sweet honey over it, hardly conscious of the fact that he was whistling.

  But Diane was. She was acutely aware of his whistling, and the sound made her heart sing. It was so easy to imagine that the two of them lived here happily together. To pretend that the dark, handsome man wielding the sharp carving knife and idly whistling a mellow tune was her husband.

  When the potatoes were simmering on the stove and the apples and ham were baking in the oven, Star said, “I’d like to clean up for dinner. What about you?”

  “I’d love to, thanks.”

  Star showed Diane to a spacious guest room directly across the hall from his own.

  “I believe you’ll find everything you need,” he said, crossing to light a pair of matching lamps on either side of the bed and pull the heavy curtains against the night.

  “I’m sure I will.” She looked around at the immaculate bedroom. Not one speck of dust. Nothing out of place. “How long has it been since you last were here?”

  “A couple of months. Maybe longer,” he said. “When I’m not in residence, a couple of the servants come in from Virginia City one day a week to clean and keep the house ready should I come home unexpectedly.”

  “Ah.” She nodded. “I wondered. They must have been here today.”

  “Could be,” he said, and left, closing the door behind him.

  Diane immediately kicked off her shoes, peeled the worn stockings down her legs, and sighed when she curled her bare toes into the plush beige carpet. Yanking the tails of her white eyelet blouse from the tight waistband of her skirt, she ventured into the big bath adjoining the bedroom.

  There, right out of her dreams, sat a huge porcelain tub supported by fancy silver claw feet. She bent, twirled both gleaming swan-necked silver faucets, and jumped back laughing when a rush of steaming hot water poured forcefully into the deep tub.

  Various kinds of soap and oils lined a silver and glass cabinet directly above the tub. Not one but three different size silver-handled brushes hung on silver pegs by the cabinet. Dozens of snowy white towels and washcloths filled floor-to-ceiling shelves along one entire wall of the spacious bath. Thrown over an armless beige velvet chair near the tub was a black silk robe.

  Diane had never undressed so quickly in her life. In seconds her soiled clothes lay in a discarded heap on the floor and she was splashing into the hot, steamy bath. She stayed there for the next half hour, humming the same tune Star had been absently whistling in the kitchen.

  After a luxurious soak in the oversize tub, Diane came down the stairs wearing Star’s too-large black silk robe. Her feet were bare. Her coal black hair, falling down her back, was still damp from her shampoo.

  She found Star in the kitchen, carving the honey-baked ham. Her bare feet had made no sound. He didn’t hear her enter. He didn’t turn around. Diane stood in the doorway for a moment, silently watching him, fascinated with the play and pull of muscles in his back, the slipping and sliding of his shoulder blades beneath the fabric of his snowy white shirt. How well she remembered the feel of that long, perfect back when it was bare. The glorious texture of the smooth, hot flesh. The strain and stretch of powerful muscle and sinew beneath her fingertips.

  Softly Diane spoke Star’s name. Sharp-bladed knife in hand, he turned, and Diane felt her heartbeat quicken alarmingly. His tanned face was smoothly shaven. His silver-winged raven hair, tied back with a black leather string was, like hers, still damp from his bath. The white shirt that pulled so appealingly across his back was open midway down his bronzed chest. Beige, perfectly tailored trousers were snug around his trim hips and down his long legs. On his feet were beaded moccasins.

  Star’s dark eyes widened, then narrowed as he looked at Diane. Never had he seen her look more adorable. Clean. Cute. Young. His first impulse was to smile at her and tell her how clean and cute and young she looked. But he didn’t do it. He knew that she would interpret any gentleness or kindness on his part as a sign of weakness. It was crucial that he hold her at arm’s length so she’d know that none of her feminine wiles would work.

  “The food smells wonderful.” Diane ignored the cool expression on Star’s handsome face. Slowly she advanced on him, her watchful violet eyes searching for any telling signal that might betray him. With the unerring instinct of a predator closely watching its prey for some sign of weakness, she moved toward him, her long pale legs winking hi and out of the black robe’s front opening.

  “Everything’s ready.” His voice was low, level.

  His hard face and dark eyes gave nothing away. But Diane caught the minute expanding of his broad chest against the white linen of his shirt, the involuntary contracting of his flat belly below his ribs. Heartened, she moved in closer.

  When she stood so close she had to tip her head back to look up at him, she said, “I borrowed your robe. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Star backed away and shook his head. “That’s what it’s there for.”

  Diane nodded. “My clothes were all soiled. I couldn’t bear the thought of putting them back on. So I didn’t. How do I look?”

  She held her arms out and spun in a circle. The robe was much too large. It reached almost to her slender ankles. She’d rolled the sleeves up over her hands. The tasseled sash was tied tightly around her narrow waist, but the swell of her pale breasts was visible between the parted lapels. Star swallowed hard. He had the sinking feeling that beneath that black silk robe she wore nothing at all.

  “Well?” Diane, smiling, turned back to face him.

  Everything about her curved in feline invitation. Her remarkable violet bedroom eyes. The lines of her high, classic cheekbones. The upturned corners of her full-lipped mouth. The lush feminine curves beneath the shiny black silk. Just looking at her had such an erotic impact on Star that he felt his knees buckle.

  Quickly turning back to carving the ham, he said over his shoulder, “You look fine. If you’ll spoon those baked apples onto a couple of plates, we’ll be ready to dine.”

  In the large, tasteful dining room where gaslit crystal chandeliers cast a warm, mellow glow over everything, Diane sat across from Star at a long mahogany table covered with a pristine white cloth.

  She complimented him on the succulent ham and delicious baked apples. He commended her on the fluffy potatoes. They sipped fine wine from sparkling tulip-shaped glasses, and Diane made light, pleasant dinner conversation.

  The food was appetizing. The wine was superb. The atmosphere was relaxing. Slowly, skillfully Diane began to draw out Star by first talking about herself.

  She began by relating an incident that happened when she was a little girl, then went on to tell him about losing her mother and father at an early age. She didn’t really remember them at all. Nodding, Star said he’d lost his father, Chief Red Fox, when he was three, so he knew exactly what she meant. He couldn’t remember the chief. Couldn’t recall how he looked.

  “But you remember your mother, I’m sure.” Diane prompted.

  “Yes.” A pensive smile lifted the corners of Star’s sculpted lips. “I was ten when Daughter-of-the-Stars died of a fever. I remember her well. I loved her very much. She was so soft-spoken, so gentle, and so pretty. She had the most beautiful shiny black hair I’ve ever seen.” His eyes held a wistful look. “I used to brush her long, heavy hair by the hour while she told me stories about my father. I wish I could have known him. My mother said that he—” Abruptly Star quit speaking. He cleared his throat. “Listen to me. I must sound like a—”

  “No, Star. No, you don’t.” Diane’s tone was one of warm understanding. “Please. Tell me more. What did your mother tell you about your father?”

  They lingered at the table long after they’d finished their meal and the dishes had been cleared away. Uncorking a second bottle of the excellent wine, they talked quietly in the comfort of the dining room, as two old friends might. Unobtrusively Diane asked Star questi
ons about his childhood, about his present life in Nevada. And she listened intently as he spoke of the happy times at Wind River, of the loneliness he’d felt when he first left the reservation and went away to school.

  He spoke of the four years he spent at the Colorado School of Mines. He was telling her how valuable those years were, how much he had learned there, when Diane, abruptly interrupting, said, “Star, tell the truth, was it awful for you there? How did you feel that first day at college when those white students held you down and cut off your black braids?”

  Star looked steadily into her arresting violet eyes. “Naked,” he said flippantly, still unwilling to share his personal hurts and disappointments with her or anyone.

  “Oh, Star,” she said softly, “you were hurt. Of course, you were, and I’m sorry.” Diane longed to reach out and touch him, but it was not the time to do so. “I’m so sorry.”

  Star shrugged, poured more wine into her glass, smiled, and said, “I looked much better without the braids.”

  Then, hardly realizing he was doing it, Star sat there across from the beautiful violet-eyed woman and revealed to her a great deal more about himself than he’d ever told anyone else. And he listened as Diane told him about herself, her life on the road when she was a girl. The political position in Washington, D.C., she’d left to help her grandfather’s failing troupe. She spoke candidly of her regrets, her hopes, her dreams.

  She shared with Star her growing worry over the Colonel’s financially troubled show. Said she didn’t blame Star for hating the Colonel, but the aging showman was her grandfather and she adored him, faults and all.

  “I’m so afraid,” she confided, “that Pawnee Bill is going to make good on this threat to take over the show. If he does, it will kill the Colonel.”

  Star listened attentively, his dark eyes never leaving Diane’s lovely, expressive face as she disclosed how deeply in debt her grandfather’s traveling wild west show was and that if something didn’t happen soon, he would surely lose it.