Nan Ryan (10 page)

By the time the performers bathed, changed clothes, and wandered back down for the party, the troupe’s talented propmen had miraculously transformed the dusty arena into a magical place which hardly resembled itself. A smooth wooden-floored dance pavilion bordered with baskets of fresh-cut flowers and hand-painted scenery set the mood. A raised dais was in place near the dance floor for the Cowboy Band. The calcium flares circling the arena burned low, casting only a soft, mellow light over everything. A long makeshift bar stood just inside the entrance gates. Behind that bar Shorty, with the habitual cigarette hanging from his thin lips, and Ancient Eyes, with a white dish towel tied around his wide middle, were pouring drinks.

Diane arrived just as the Cowboy Band went into a rousing rendition of “Oh, Dem Golden Slippers.” Smiling, she hugged the Colonel, congratulated him on the show’s success—the highest one-night gross in two years —then leaned down and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. The frank and protective Ruth Buchannan patted Diane’s slender back and whispered in her ear, “You look lovely, dear, but that dress is liable to get you in trouble around these wild Rough Riders.”

“I can take care of myself, Granny,” Diane whispered back, disengaged herself, and strolled toward the bar.

She knew what her grandmother meant. Her yellow dotted swiss dress was pretty and certainly stylish, but perhaps the low-cut neckline was a bit too daring for the frontier. Along Washington’s sophisticated Embassy Row the dress wouldn’t have drawn a second glance. Diane shrugged bare shoulders dismissively and stepped up to the long bar.

“Can’t a lady get a drink around here!” she said, pounding a fist down atop the gleaming wood.

“Sure can. What’ll it be, Miss Diane?” Shorty’s eyes were narrowed against the cigarette smoking drifting up into them.

Before she could reply, Ancient Eyes said, “Soda pop for Little Buck!” He shoved an ice-cold root beer across the bar to her.

Diane shook her head, then reached out and took the offered glass bottle. “Isn’t anybody in the troupe willing to treat me like a grown woman?”

“I am,” came a low voice from behind her.

She quickly turned. And bumped squarely into the hard, ungiving chest of the Cherokee Kid. Her open bottle of root beer splashed onto his clean white shirtfront.

“Oh, my Lord … I’m sorry,” Diane apologized as she reached into the low-cut bodice of her yellow dress, withdrew a lacy handkerchief, and began awkwardly blotting the staining soda from the Kid’s shirtfront. “I
am
sorry.”

The Kid smiled. “You won’t have to be sorry if you’ll do me one small favor.”

Diane’s violet eyes lifted to his. “Name it.”

“Dance with me.” He took the soda bottle and dampened handkerchief from her.

“I suppose it’s the least I can do,” she said.

“The very least.”

He set the bottle aside, dabbed the last traces of root beer from his shirt, and guided her toward the dance pavilion. She stepped into his arms and was still there hours later when the band played the closing tune, “After the Ball.”

The Kid hadn’t allowed her out of his sight the entire evening. He politely but firmly turned down all the eager cowboys and vaqueros attempting to cut in for a dance. He totally monopolized her time. When the party ended, he didn’t ask if he could walk her back to her quarters. He just did it.

At her door he said, “I want to see you again.”

She turned to face him. “Considering the circumstances”—she cut her eyes around—“it would be hard
not
to see me again, don’t you think?”

“You know what I mean.” He stepped closer, so close she had to tip her head back to look up at him.

“Yes,” she said, “I know.”

She studied him thoughtfully. The moonlight shone on his dark blond hair. His green eyes burned with interest. His impressive shoulders strained the white fabric of his shirt and pulled tightly across his chest. He was a very attractive man, and it would be fun to have someone show her around the city.

Diane laid a flattened palm on his muscular chest. “I’m told the Brown Palace rents bicycles. We could go for a ride sometime.”

The Kid’s large, square hand closed firmly over hers. “I’ll come for you in the morning at nine sharp.” He leaned down, kissed her cheek, whispered good night, and left.

Diane stood in the moonlight watching him walk away. He seemed a perfect escort: handsome, likable, a polished dancer. Yet the minute he was out of sight, she forgot about him. She turned, started to go inside, changed her mind. It was very late, but she wasn’t the least bit sleepy. If she went inside, she’d only disturb the slumbering Kate.

Diane sighed, sat down on the stoop, kicked off her black dancing slippers, and wrapped her arms around her knees. She reached up, slipped the restraining ribbon from her hair, and let the long tresses cascade down around her bare shoulders. She threw her head back and looked straight up at the heavens. She inhaled the sweet night air deeply and studied the pale silver moon and the brightly twinkling stars.

She felt suddenly the way she’d felt so many times when she was a child and lay out on the lawn of Granny and the Colonel’s big northern Arizona ranch house, staring up at the night sky.

Dreamy. Restless. Yearning.

Diane sighed again and let her thoughts wander back over the evening. The laughter and music and dancing. The successful standing-room-only show with all its color and pageantry and excitement. And, she hoped, large profits. The exhilaration of performing before a large audience, the sweet satisfaction of hearing the applause. The thrill of watching the other top performers … the … other …

The Redman of the Rockies leaped into her mind, shoving aside everything else. Her brow knitted as she saw again the foolish ladies rushing down to the Redman’s cage. She frowned and bit the inside of her bottom lip at the unwelcome recollection of seeing the poor creature race across the dusty arena in a hopeless attempt at escape.

Diane exhaled.

What, she wondered, had the Redman been doing while she and the others danced and enjoyed themselves at the cast party? Could he hear, from his cage down by the animal pens, the music and the laughter? Had all the merriment of which he was not a part kept him awake?

What was he doing now? Was he still restlessly pacing in his cage? Or was he sound asleep? Was he dreaming of another life? A life far better suited to his wild ways?

Diane rose to her feet.

Warily she looked up, then down the long row of rail cars lined up on the spur. All were dark. Everyone was sleeping. That one chance in a million gave her this opportunity.

She looked down at her shoes and promptly decided she could move faster and quieter barefoot. So she peeled her silk stockings down her long, slender legs, took them off, and stuffed them into the toes of her slippers.

She stepped off the stoop. Again she looked around, took a deep breath, lifted the skirts of her yellow dotted swiss dress, and ran as fast as she could toward the darkened arena. When she reached the arena’s high enclosing fence, she followed its curve northward and all the way around to the far side.

She wisely chose not to go through the horse stables this time. It took five minutes longer, but she skirted the many stalls housing the show ponies and managed to reach the rest of the animal holding pens without causing a disturbance. At last she spotted the distinctive twin cages fifty yards ahead, their steel bars glittering in the moonlight.

With her goal now in sight Diane hesitated.

What was she doing down here? It was the middle of the night. She should be safely in her bed, not wandering around down among the animal holding pens. What if someone should see her?

Holding her skirts up around her knees, Diane stood there feeling foolish and nervous, debating with herself whether or not she should proceed or turn and hurry home before she was caught.

The pull of the Redman was too strong. She was helplessly drawn to his cage. She felt as if she simply had to use this chance to study him closely when no one else was around.

Heart beginning to thud against her ribs, Diane ventured forward, tiptoeing on bare, dusty feet. In seconds she stood directly before the twin cages and was incredibly relieved to find both man and mountain lion sleeping peacefully. Here was her opportunity to examine them at her leisure.

First she stepped up to the big cat’s cage and immediately smiled. The ferocious mountain lion appeared totally harmless as he lay there on his back, paws in the air, golden eyes tightly shut She had the foolish urge to reach inside the cage and gently stroke the exposed white-furred tummy rising and falling so rapidly with his deep, quick breaths. She knew better than to try it. Although in slumber he seemed as tame as a tabby, the big beautiful cat was highly dangerous.

“Never wake a sleeping tiger.” The familiar phrase ran through Diane’s mind.

She moved away. Silently she stepped up to the Redman’s cage. For a long moment she simply took satisfaction in the pleasing picture of the fierce Redman sprawled out before her in deep slumber. Soon an embarrassed smile spread over her face. It was indeed a guilty pleasure to look upon such a beautiful creature of another race.

He, like the cat, lay upon his back. His silver-winged raven hair flowed at the sides and fell over his high forehead. His sharp-boned, fierce-eyed face looked almost boyish in repose. That full mouth was relaxed just enough to lose some of its natural cruelty.

Diane’s intense gaze moved down over his face, past the wide beaded neckband encircling his throat, to his naked torso and long, leanly muscled arms. His shoulders were wide and sculpted. His chest was smooth and bronzed and fell away beneath his ribs, tapering to a flat, almost concave belly.

Diane swallowed hard.

The brief loincloth the creature wore rode low around his prominent hipbones. Fully visible was his navel, below which a thick line of raven hair curled down inside the covering breechcloth. Casting only a momentary glance at the groin straining against the supple leather, Diane’s eyes traced the lines of his bare, perfectly shaped legs. One knee was bent, the sole of a bare foot resting on the hay-strewn floor. The other leg was stretched out full length.

Her gaze moved slowly down the hard thigh, past the knee, over the calf, and to the bare bronzed foot. Then very slowly it came all the way back up, noting with unconcealed interest the fact that even well above the point where his rock-hard thigh met his hip joint, his smooth skin was all of one color: a beautiful dark golden bronze.

Diane was positive that if she reached out, tugged on the narrow leather thong riding the small indentation below his hipbone, and carefully peeled back the covering loincloth, the part of his body which was never exposed to the sun would be the same pleasing hue.

Suddenly the wispy hair at the nape of her neck lifted, as if someone had walked over her grave. She was overcome with an eerie feeling that the creature was watching her. Her face immediately reddened. Shame burned her cheeks. Her head snapped up, and she looked quickly at his face.

And froze.

His eyes were open, shining in the dark. He hadn’t moved a muscle in his long, lean body, but those dark eyes were wide open and staring straight at her. Fear and guilt warred within her.

The Redman’s eyes, black, clear, and incredibly calm, continued to regard her with icy hatred. His teeth gleamed in the darkness and Diane felt a chill up her spine. The moment he awakened he radiated an anger that seemed volatile and dangerous. And something else as well.

A sense of dark, almost mystic sexuality.

Suddenly overcome with terror of the caged beast, Diane whirled and ran away, vowing as she ran that she would
never
come near the creature again.

Never!

Chapter 9

Diane and the Cherokee Kid rode their rented bicycles out to the point where the Platte River converged with Cherry Creek. The initial part of the ride was relaxed, leisurely, and enjoyable. Then the Kid made the mistake of challenging Diane to a race. A fiercely competitive young woman, she wasted no time in taking him up on his dare.

Pedaling as if the devil were after her, she tore down the dusty street, dark hair flying around her face, teeth gritted in determination. She managed to beat the Kid to a shade-covered, grassy spot beside the narrow, swiftly flowing Cherry Creek. Exhausted but delighted to have won, she hopped off the bicycle and dropped it down on the grass. Out of breath, sides aching, she sank to the ground herself and fell immediately over onto her back.

She laughed triumphantly, flung her arms up over her head, and breathed deeply. She sighed, enjoying the outing, the warm, beautiful morning, and the awesome scenery surrounding her. She went into new peals of laughter as she lifted her head and watched the Kid come puffing up, his bike wobbling, his broad chest heaving from exertion.

He stopped a few yards away, threw a long leg over, and let his bicycle fall where it was. Forehead and throat beaded with perspiration, he came to where Diane lay flat on her back. He looked down at her, blotted his brow on a muscular forearm, and fell to his knees beside her.