Nan Ryan (16 page)

The mute savage
never
did what she expected him to do. Now well out of sight of the ranch house, he continued to walk the stallion in a slow, leisurely gait, as if he were taking his favorite sweetheart out on his favorite pony for a romantic ride in the moonlight!

Diane’s burning hatred of the Redman grew as the stallion pranced happily across the grassy, gently undulating meadow, skirting the rugged base of the mountains. She’d always prided herself on possessing the uncanny ability to know pretty much what was going through a male’s mind. Few times had she been surprised. Most men, she had learned early in life, were overgrown boys and far from complex. She had yet to meet the man who wasn’t easy to read. Until now.

But, then, she was forgetting; her captor was not actually a man. He was a big, dangerous brute whose preferred primitive existence was but an example of his Neanderthal instincts. She couldn’t be expected to understand the mind of an animal.

Wondering if the ignorant aborigine ever intended to take the gag from her mouth, Diane was astonished when, abruptly, as though
he
had read
her
mind, he lifted his right hand. The wide silver bracelet on his wrist flashing in the moonlight, he tugged the knot loose from the purple sash and let it fall around her shoulders. When she felt his fingers inside her mouth, Diane was highly incensed. But she was grateful when he pulled the damp, choking fabric out.

She coughed and swallowed repeatedly and drew several long, deep breaths while her captor sat behind her, observing her closely from beneath hooded lids. She felt his intense gaze and raised her bound wrists up before him, nodding and motioning for him to untie her hands.

The savage didn’t obey. Nor did he shake his head or nod or in any way indicate that he had understood what she asked. Foolishly, futilely, as people are wont to do when attempting to communicate with a deaf person, Diane shouted loudly, “My hands!” She lifted them higher, directly up before his face. “Untie my hands. Please!”

The Redman curled a finger around the leather strap holding her wrists together and forced them back down to her lap.

“No, no!” she yelled. “Untie them! I want you to untie my hands!” Again she lifted her hands in front of his face. Again he lowered them, his moonlit face impassive, dark, hooded eyes unreadable.

“You untie my hands this minute, do you hear me?” she screamed at him. “The leather is rubbing my wrists raw and it’s your fault! So you untie them right now before—before—” She sighed, beaten, and her head sagged forward on her chest. She muttered contemptuously, “Oh, God, don’t you understand anything? Is there no way I can get through to you?”

The creature rounded his shoulders and squinted furiously, but Diane never saw it. Her hair had come unbound hours ago and it swung forward now, curtaining the side of her delicate-boned face. She jumped when she felt the Indian’s hand on her hair. He gently swept it back off her face, carefully tucked it behind her ear. Her head quickly snapped around; her narrowed gaze shot up to his face.

His dark eyes peered straight ahead into the impenetrable distances. Mystery hovered in the shadows beneath the high bones of his cheeks. Menace threatened in the lines of his sculpted mouth. Diane shivered and lowered her eyes, struck anew by the potent danger this strange savage embodied.

Contrite, she vowed she’d not shout at him again or make faces or scratch and kick. How was she to know what might set him off? She’d be more careful. The last thing she wanted to do was enrage him. She’d felt the strength in those lean bronzed hands enough to know he could choke the life out of her without even breaking into a sweat.

Diane trembled. She was deathly afraid of this tall, slim Indian with the fine, sinewy face and glittering dark eyes. She felt, at the same instant, strangely drawn to this man who seemed not really a man at all but a big, beautiful beast.

Not wanting to touch or be touched by him again, Diane hooked her bound wrists around the saddle horn, stiffened her spine, and leaned up and away from her captor. She would ride like that from then on, no matter how long or how far they were to travel.

Purposely pitching her voice to a low, pleasant register so that he couldn’t dare guess what she was saying, Diane told the Redman, “I’m doing this—leaning up this way— because I can’t stand to have you touch me.”

The Indian’s impassive gaze flicked to her face. She smiled at him and, speaking in deliberately sweet tones, murmured, “You filthy animal. You loathsome beast, you make me sick. You bring out the very worst in me and I hate you for it.”

The Redman’s unwavering black gaze was fastened on her face. Diane looked directly into those black eyes and could tell that he understood nothing. His expression never changed.

So she continued to bare her soul. Very softly she said, “You see, right from the beginning, when I first saw you in that cage, you frightened me, yet you fascinated me. I wanted to free you, and, I’m afraid, it was as much for my sake as for yours.” Diane paused, shaken by her spoken confession as she faced the unpleasant truth about her motives for freeing the Redman.

More afraid than ever, she quickly warned, “I’ll get away from you! I’m smarter than you; I’ll find a way. Yes, I will, Beast, I will.” She paused, then quickly added, “You don’t mind if I call you Beast, do you?”

His black, passionless eyes dismissed her, lifted to the trail ahead. Diane drew a ragged breath, looked nervously about at their surroundings, and wondered why he didn’t turn the stallion directly up into the mountains. He continued to guide the mount more north than west. In time they rounded a timbered hillock and Diane spotted a wide scattering of lights situated directly beneath the ascending ridges of the towering Front Range. She concentrated, attempting to get her bearings.

The town spread out before them. Was it Central City? Blackhawk? No, that couldn’t be. They were too far north.

As the Redman reined the stallion toward the winking lights, the city’s name dawned on her. Boulder! The pristine mountain hamlet of Boulder lay straight ahead. Again Diane was filled with hope. Even if the Redman didn’t take her into town, he surely meant to camp close by. Then, if she could only manage to escape during the night, she’d have no trouble reaching Boulder.

Hope grew as the lights of Boulder grew brighter, nearer. Hope faded as the savage purposely avoided the town, keeping the stallion on the outskirts, continuing on a northwestern route. When Diane realized he had no intention of riding into town, she screamed loudly, knowing it was a waste of breath. He let her scream, made no attempt to stop her. And when, screaming and pleading, she looked at him, his face still wore the same hard and inscrutable expression.

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.