Nan Ryan (45 page)

“Did I do that?” Diane said, smiling up at him. “Why, I deserve to be punished.”

“Perhaps you do.” He winked at her. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Diane laughed softly when he swept her up into his arms and carried her inside.

Chapter 41

Star tossed the stirrup up over the saddle, pulled the cinch tight under the big black’s belly, and threaded the wide leather strap through the silver buckle. Diane patted absently at the stallion’s sleek neck and brushed through his long, coarse mane with her fingers, but the main focus of her attention was Star.

Star flipped the stirrup back down into place, plucked a pair of soft black kid gloves from his hip pocket, and drew them on. He lifted, then lowered his black felt Stetson and tugged at the black silk bandanna tied around his neck, adjusting the knot to the right side of his throat.

He looked at Diane and grinned. He reached out, curled a gloved long forefinger down into the open collar of her shirt, and drew her slowly up against him. Continuing to clutch her shirtfront, he lowered his lips to within an inch of hers. And hesitated.

Her hands braced against his hard, muscular chest, Diane raised herself on tiptoe and kissed him, letting him feel the quick fire lick of her tongue against his smooth lips. She immediately went back down on her heels and pulled gently away.

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” she promised flirtatiously, “so don’t be malingering in town.”

Star again grinned, nodded, and released her. Diane stepped back. Star turned, gripped the horn, and swung up into the saddle. He lifted his gloved right hand to his black Stetson, touched the stiff brim briefly with thumb and forefinger, and slowly backed the big black away.

Diane stood shading her eyes against the harsh glare of the afternoon sun as he wheeled the mount about and cantered down the graveled drive. Halfway to the entranceway’s towering arch of natural stone, he pulled the stallion up. Slowly Black Star turned about in a tight semicircle and stayed there, dancing in place, shaking his great head and nickering. Until his master silently put him into motion.

Diane felt her heartbeat quicken as dark horse and dark rider slowly, surely approached her. The big black pranced as grandly as a well-trained show horse, but her eyes were riveted to the man on his back, hatbrim pulled low over the dark, penetrating eyes. Star’s wide shoulders in his snowy white shirt and soft black leather vest moved not at all. His lean body did not bounce or sway or slap up and down. He held himself erect yet easy in the saddle, reins slack in his gloved left hand. His long legs, encased in faded denim Levi’s, were loose and relaxed, his booted feet outside the stirrups.

Diane didn’t move a muscle as the prancing twelve-hundred-pound creature steadily neared her. She calmly lowered her hands to her sides and waited expectantly. She firmly stood her ground even when the point of the stallion’s shoulder brushed against her slender body.

Mounted above, Star pushed the black Stetson back, leaned down from the horse, captured Diane’s chin in his gloved hand, and wordlessly kissed her on the lips.

Then he righted himself and was gone.

Diane watched until he was out of sight. Then she raced happily back inside the mansion. She had one million things to do and Star said he’d be gone no more than three or four hours. The warm, sunny afternoon was hers to get herself—and the house—ready for this “very special evening.”

The final evening.

In Virginia City Star tied the stallion to the hitch rail and went inside the small storefront Western Union office. He removed his black gloves, stuffed them into his back pocket. From the inside breast pocket of his black leather vest he withdrew two pieces of folded yellow Western Union message paper.

Nodding to the thin, pallid-looking telegrapher behind the caged counter, Star passed him the yellow forms.

“Need to send this wire right away, Mort.”

A quarter of an hour later Star stepped back out into the brilliant sunlight, folding the two-page yellow message and shoving it back inside his inner vest pocket.

His next stop was the train depot. He purchased two first-class sleeper tickets to San Francisco, California. The departure date on the bright blue tickets read, “7:00
A.M
., Saturday, September 28, 1895.” The train tickets went into the pocket of his white shirt.

Star paused on the wooden sidewalk outside the depot, put a long, thin cigar between his lips, and struck a match. He cupped his hands around the tiny flame and puffed the cheroot to life. He leaned for a minute against a lamppost, smoking and considering his next stops.

Minutes later he was standing in the kitchen of the Timberline Hotel, talking with the head chef. The little Frenchman in his white apron and tall white chefs hat was saying passionately that it was impossible! He couldn’t possibly prepare the kind of meal Star was requesting in the next two hours. It could not be done! And to expect such a feast to be packed so that it could be taken out and eaten at home?

Impractical! Outrageous! Impossible!

Star calmly listened to the excitable little Frenchman rant and rave and wring his hands. When the tirade ended at last and the flush-faced chef was wadding his tall white hat in his hands, Star smiled easily and walked away.

In the doorway he paused, turned, and said, “I’ll be back here at five o’clock. Be sure everything’s ready.
Bon-jour, Philippe.”

“Ah, these impatient Americans,” said the bristling Philippe to Star’s departing back. “Why did I ever leave Paris?”

Next door, at the Timberline Barbershop, the aging barber clipped and cut Star’s long raven hair while he sat very still for the next twenty minutes. Star walked back out into the sunshine looking well groomed and feeling half naked. The freshly trimmed black hair barely touched his shirt collar in back. The silver streaks at the temples were brushed straight back.

Two blocks up the street Star turned into Winston’s Jewelers. The bell mounted above the store’s front door tinkled loudly as he entered. Alan Winston’s face shone more brightly than his array of fine jewels when Star chose a particularly expensive piece from the valuable collection.

The small black velvet box tucked in his inside vest pocket, Star mounted his stallion. There was one last important stop before he returned to the Timberline to collect the evening’s meal.

Star turned his mount away from the busy street, guided him between two buildings and out the other side. Three blocks north he turned the big black onto a narrow dirt road and started to climb the mountain. Following the winding road up a serpentine path, Star reached a house high above the city, alone and apart from its neighbors.

Star dismounted before the large, handsome yellow and white Victorian house surrounded by a decorative silver-trimmed fence. At the front door Star removed his black Stetson, raked a hand through his hair, then lifted the silver door knocker, and tapped it forcefully several times.

The wide front door opened. A bowing Chinese butler warmly greeted Star, the whites of his slanted eyes disappearing completely as he smiled an effusive welcome.

With a white-gloved hand the friendly Chinese servant motioned Star inside while he turned and called in a surprisingly loud, strong voice, “Missy Rita, you have important visitor. Mr. Ben is here!” He promptly relieved Star of his Stetson.

“Ben?” came a surprised feminine voice from the landing above. “Ben Star?”

“In the flesh,” called Star, waiting at the base of the stairs, his booted feet apart, hands at his sides.

A slim, extraordinarily beautiful red-haired woman in a luxurious long dressing gown of shimmering aqua satin came gliding down the carpeted stairs. Her large blue eyes shone with excitement; her full red lips were lifted into a wide smile of pleasure.

Two steps from the bottom, the ecstatically happy redhead threw her arms around Star’s neck and kissed him fully on the lips.

“Star, darling,” she murmured breathlessly, “I’ve missed you so!”

A splendid fantasy.

Their last evening in the Nevada mansion was to be a splendid fantasy realized. Diane meant to make sure everything was absolutely perfect.

As soon as Star rode out of sight, she tore back into the house and headed straight for the big dining room. After throwing all the tall French doors open wide to the fresh mountain air, she began clearing the morning’s breakfast dishes from the cluttered dining table.

She made a sour face when she carried the plates and coffee cups into the kitchen. Stacks of dirty dishes covered the surface of every countertop as well as the stove and the eating table. The sink was full to overflowing. Sighing, Diane went down on her knees and deposited the latest load on the floor.

She rolled up her shirt sleeves and went to work.

It took more than an hour before the last plate was finally washed, dried, and put away. Diane’s pale hands were pink from the prolonged exposure to hot dishwater, and her face was shiny with perspiration, her raven hair limp and sticking hotly to her neck.

She took a short rest on the shaded porch. She dropped down on the steps and shoved her heavy, wilted hair atop her head. She heard a loud, low growl coming from somewhere in the dense pine forest. She smiled, no longer afraid of the big cat. But she did wonder at the cause of his agitation. By the violent sounds he was making, something was certainly disturbing him.

Diane had little time to ponder it.

She hurried back inside, where she meticulously polished the heavy dining-room furniture until the dark wood gleamed. From a drawer of the sideboard she withdrew a claret-colored damask cloth and spread it carefully over the long table. She needlessly polished a pair of ornately carved silver candelabra, placed them strategically on the claret-clothed table and filled both with new tall white candles.

Diane set the table for two with Star’s finest. The fragile white bone china with the bordering silver trim. The heavy English sterling. The sparkling, fragile crystal.

She stood back to admire her handiwork, hands on hips. She returned to the table, leaned down, and straightened a soup spoon at Star’s place.

She smiled. Then frowned. And snapped her fingers as the idea of flowers on the table struck her. Like an excited child, Diane rushed out into the yard, carrying a straw basket over her arm. She was on her knees gathering bell-shaped blossoms of snowy white heather when she again heard the diamond-throated cat snarling and hissing from some concealed lair farther up the mountain. Diane lifted her head, looked all about, and saw nothing. She shrugged and continued to collect the ivory blooms.

The lovely white wild flowers, painstakingly arranged in a tall crystal vase, added just the right touch to her perfectly set table. Nodding her proud endorsement, Diane backed out of the dining room. In the wide corridor she glanced up at the tall-cased clock.

Already four o’clock!

Diane flew up the stairs, unbuttoning her shirt as she went. The entire time she spent shampooing her raven hair, she could hear the big cat growling and roaring outdoors, sounding as if he was becoming steadily more vexed.

Naked to the waist, wearing only her borrowed black trousers, Diane wandered out onto the upstairs balcony to let the sun dry her hair. She sat down on the side of a long padded chaise and leaned her head over between her knees, brushing and toweling her freshly washed hair.

The loud, close growl of the mountain lion made her head snap up. Diane jumped to her feet, covered her bare breasts with the damp white towel, and moved to the balcony’s railing. In plain sight in a small clearing beyond the back fence, the big tawny cat with the dark diamond throat was pacing restlessly back and forth, roaring to the top of his lungs and shaking his great head about.

“Hey,” Diane shouted to the big beast, “just what the devil is wrong with you?”

She promptly found out.

The words had hardly left her lips when into the clearing strolled the handsome, lighter-hued female lion. The smaller cat purposely circled the growling, snarling male, hissed loudly at him, then strutted a few yards away, glanced back over her shoulder at him, and lay down.

Diane slowly lowered the white towel to the balcony’s railing. She stood there not daring to move, watching. The sleek female cat was taking great delight in teasing and tormenting the excited male.

She rolled; she stretched; she purred low in her throat. The male got up. He cautiously circled the female. Waited until he could stand it no longer and moved swiftly toward her. The female hissed a decisive warning and stung him with a quick, claw-extended paw to the side of his head.

He roared his outrage and jumped back, then foolishly, futilely tried it again with the same maddening results. The female wasn’t ready, and until she was, he wouldn’t be allowed to get near her.

Diane turned away, her face beginning to flush with embarrassment and heat. She returned to the padded chaise, realizing when she reached it, that she’d left the towel behind.

She didn’t go back for it.

Knowing by the intimate sounds and sights she’d witnessed that any second the baiting, goading female would turn sweetly docile and accept the excited male, Diane went back indoors to allow them privacy.