Nan Ryan (19 page)

Ancient Eyes inched his slow way through the cars, sweat pouring down his broad, ugly face, his vision becoming blurred. On he struggled, propelled by a strong sense of duty, ignoring the concern of worried troupe members calling to him, asking if he was ill.

Determined to make it to the Colonel’s coach under his own power, he shrugged off all attempts of aid. Blindly stumbling on, the heartsick Indian finally sagged to his knees, choking and clutching his chest A fellow show Indian swiftly leaped out of his seat and caught the aged Ute before he fully fell.

The concerned Arapaho, cradling the old war chief in his arms, shouted, “Get the troupe doctor! Looks like Ancient Eyes is having a heart attack!”

“No … no …” choked Ancient Eyes, “take … take me … must see Colonel.”

“You’re not seeing anybody but the doctor,” cautioned the Arapaho. “Now stay quiet, old one. Be still.”

Ancient Eyes felt consciousness slipping away. Frantic to stay awake, he grabbed the Arapaho’s shirtfront “There’s something … must … tell …”

“He’s passed out,” said the Arapaho to those nervously gathering around. “Quick, help me carry him to the hospital car!”

Diane waited a few minutes, then rose, folded the blanket, and ducked out of the rocky cave into the bright morning sunlight. The Indian, leisurely gathering kindling, never looked up. He didn’t acknowledge her presence.

Frowning, she warily watched him go about his tasks. He took his time; none of his moves was hurried. He did everything with an exquisite grace. Staring at the sharpfeatured, loose-limbed creature, Diane was struck by the quiet, easy, reckless air that seemed to be a part of him.

She shivered.

She was deathly afraid of him. More afraid of him than she’d ever been of anything or anyone in her life. Strangely she would have been far less frightened if he behaved in a manner that might be expected of an untamed beast. He didn’t. But he exuded a quiet, understated menace, and she knew he was capable of sudden bursts of violence.

When he’d lain atop her inside the rocky cave, he had come close to taking her forcefully. There had been an animal ferocity about him, his desire an almost palpable thing. The tendons had stood out in bold relief on his bruised neck, and a vein had pulsed on his high forehead. Every sinew and muscle of his long, lean body had been rock-hard, tensed, poised. For attack? Brutality? Rape?

Diane shuddered. To think that she had been scared, but attracted, halfway aroused by the dangerous desire he had exuded. Shame made her face flush hot as she reviewed those anxious moments inside the shadowy cave.

The hot-eyed savage had come uncomfortably close to tearing her clothes off, and she had come shamefully close to allowing it. As appalled by her own bizarre stirrings of passion as she was by his, Diane was once again frantic to escape. Right this minute. It wouldn’t be easy to slip away from the mute but ever alert Indian.

Even now, when those penetrating eyes were not on her, she had the feeling that he somehow knew exactly what she was thinking. Diane mentally shook herself. That was totally absurd! How could this uncivilized savage—a human being, yes, but no different from, no more intelligent than, an animal—possibly know what was going through her mind?

He couldn’t.

Heartened, Diane casually glanced around. She’d been asleep when they’d ridden into the narrow meadow. She remembered nothing, was not totally certain which direction led back down to Boulder. She looked up at the sun in an attempt to get her bearings. Then lowered her eyes to the carpet of grass covering the narrow meadow. Clearly she saw the hoofprints leading up into the canyon.

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 came 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.