Nan Ryan (2 page)

A week had passed since his wife, the beautiful Wind River Shoshoni princess Daughter-of-the-Stars, had given birth to their first child. A boy. Their son had lived for only a few hours. Daughter-of-the-Stars had not stopped grieving since, was near death herself. He had not left her bedside since the baby’s death. He worshiped her. He would not wish to live if he lost Daughter-of-the-Stars. And she did not wish to live without their dead son.

Chief Red Fox lowered his eyes to the tiny baby resting trustingly in the crook of his arm. If anyone could save Daughter-of-the-Stars, it was this white man’s child.

The full, bright moon had gone down when the chief and his precious cargo reached the High Sierra hideout of his Shoshoni Bannock band. He knee-reined his mustang through the sleeping camp toward his tipi at camp’s outer edge. As it had been when he had ridden away, a gathering of the tribe’s women remained around his lodge. A fire burned brightly just outside the big tipi; a kettle boiled over the flame.

The women turned sad eyes on him when they saw him nearing. They appeared the same: solemn, resigned, defeated. Fearing he might be too late, Chief Red Fox, still mounted, inquired of the nearest woman, “Daughter-of-the-Stars still lives?”

“She lives, but not much longer,” came the reply.

Relieved, the chief slipped from his horse and rushed into his lodge. Ordering the women inside to leave them, he crossed the dim tipi to where Daughter-of-the-Stars lay weak and barely conscious on their bed of furs. Kneeling beside her, Chief Red Fox gently placed the blanket-wrapped baby beside his distraught wife.

He held his breath.

For a moment nothing happened. Daughter-of-the-Stars continued to lie unmoving on her back, her sightless black eyes staring straight up, seeing nothing.

But then the infant squirmed and fretted. Daughter-of-the-Stars felt a welcome warmth against her chilled left arm. Slowly the grieving young woman’s dark head turned.

Quickly, carefully the chief swept the white blanket away from the baby’s face and looked hopefully at his stirring wife. Puzzled, Daughter-of-the-Stars turned her head more fully and saw the baby lying beside her. At once her dulled dark eyes glimmered with light.

The chief hurried to explain what had happened. But Daughter-of-the-Stars wasn’t listening to her husband. Her undivided attention was on the baby at her side. Strength began to flow back into Daughter-of-the-Stars’ slender, weakened body. She sat up.

Never taking her eyes off the infant, the frail young woman fully unwrapped its white blankets. She then slipped the long white nightshirt up over its dark head and off. Carefully she removed the baby’s diaper.

And for the first time since losing her child, the beautiful Wind River Shoshoni Indian princess smiled.

“My son?” she said in her native tongue, lifted the tiny naked boy up into her arms, and hugged him so tightly his squalling started anew.

The chief was quick to shake his head. “No. The child is of the white man’s blood.”

Daughter-of-the-Stars’s head snapped around. She turned wild, angry eyes on her husband. “This white man’s son lives while mine dies!” - She placed the baby back on the soft bed of furs. Then, taking the chief by surprise, she swiftly drew the sharp hunting knife from his waist scabbard.

“No!” pleaded the horrified chief as the blade glittered in the dancing firelight.

Daughter-of-the-Stars grabbed the baby’s tiny fist. The infant stopped crying, looked straight up into her wild dark eyes. She quickly slashed an
X
on the tender inside of his right wrist, bent, and sucked the blood away. She then pricked her finger with the knife’s sharp point. When a dark red droplet of blood appeared, she stuck the tip of her finger into the toothless mouth of the baby boy. Starving, he greedily sucked on her finger.

Daughter-of-the-Stars smiled triumphantly, dropped the knife, picked up the baby boy, and said defiantly,
“Now
we are same blood!
My
son.
Mine!”
Her fierce black eyes dared her husband to deny it. Chief Red Fox merely nodded.

Daughter-of-the-Stars touched her husband’s bronzed cheek lovingly. Then quickly unlaced her soft doeskin dress to feed her crying, hungry son.

Part One

Chapter 1

San Francisco, California August 1895

At a gala dinner party in a luxurious Nob Hill mansion, a dark, lean man in an impeccably tailored suit of slate gray linen lazed comfortably on a Louis XV patterned brocade chair. The legs of the gentleman’s stylish trousers were narrow in cut and sharply creased. The cuffs and collar of his pristine white shirt were stiffly starched. His neckpiece was a pale lavender silk four-in-hand with a large, flat knot. His shoes were of the softest English leather and polished to a high gleam.

His slightly too-long jet black hair, raked by dramatic silver streaks at the temples, was clean and carefully brushed. That thick raven hair shone with healthy luster in the light cast by electric chandeliers which party decorators had swagged with silver lamé. The gentleman’s tanned face was not handsome in the classical sense. It was a lean, hard-set face with dark, brooding eyes which remained constantly half hidden by lazy lids. Those lids, plus a small white scar beneath his dark left eyebrow, a nose that had been broken and imperfectly set, a mouth that was full enough to suggest sensuality, yet amazingly looked cruel, added up to a slightly sinister appearance.

His name was Benjamin Star, and his manners were polished, his intellect was keen. He had a quick, self-deprecating sense of humor. He was tall, slim, and graceful. He moved with stylish masculine ease. His lean brown hands were nothing short of beautiful, the fingers long with clean, short clipped nails. Those attractive hands never gestured nervously as he spoke. He didn’t fidget about on the brocade chair or twist and crane his neck to catch a glimpse of late-arriving guests. He never laughed too loudly or drank to excess or purposely attracted attention to himself.

Benjamin Star was, in every sense of the word, a gentleman. Educated. Cultured. Urbane.

And yet …

The expensively dressed ladies in their elegant gowns and glittering diamonds were not drawn to the maddeningly elusive Ben Star because he was the consummate gentleman. Every female present at the summertime Nob Hill party was helplessly attracted to the wild, animalistic side of his nature which they were certain lurked dangerously close to the surface. Was there any doubt that beneath that smooth, imperturbable veneer and those perfectly tailored clothes there was an abundance of such frightening untamed masculinity that no female would be safe alone with him?

Ben Star lifted a sparkling fluted glass to his lips and drank of the fine French champagne. He was casually aware of a trio of very rich, very pretty young socialites staring hungrily at him as if he were a part of the tempting buffet laid out in the mansion’s dining room.

A tiny muscle twitched in his tanned jaw. Their twittering reaction to his nearness was nothing new or unique. Ben Star was used to causing a stir. Had been used to it for the past fifteen years.

But at this particular party on this particular night, it seemed to Ben Star that he had lived through just such an annoying moment a hundred times before. Struck with a strong sense of déjâ vu, he suddenly longed to bolt and run. To head for the nearest exit this very minute. To seek out the sweet solitude awaiting him far from this crowded room.

He didn’t do it.

Rudeness was intolerable. In himself as well as in others. He had been invited to this gathering, and he had accepted. He would stay for a decent length of time, endure the tiresome chatter, the uncomfortable feeling of being trapped. Observed. Caged.

Then tomorrow …

“Your attention, everyone!” His beautiful hostess clapped her delicate hands, pulling Ben Star from his reverie. “Your attention please, ladies and gentlemen.”

Ben Star’s dark eyes lazily lifted, came to rest on the slender blonde in a stunning, frothy gown of midnight blue chiffon. She stood on the marble steps leading down into the sunken drawing room. Widowed for less than a year, the thirty-four-year-old Mrs. Richard Barnes Crocker was one of the Bay City’s wealthiest, most respected citizens.

San Francisco’s Old Guard adored and admired the glamorous Maribelle Crocker. The manner in which she had conducted herself since the loss of her doting husband was commendable beyond belief. Grief-stricken though she was, Maribelle had continued to discharge her charitable and social duties with a stiff upper lip.

Though desperately lonely she surely must be, the well-brought-up young widow was never seen alone in the company of a gentleman. Never. Maribelle wouldn’t consider allowing another man to take her dear departed Richard’s place for years. Perhaps never.

Or so they thought.

“… a lovely surprise for your enjoyment,” Maribelle was telling the attentive gathering. “You’re all to take your drinks and go out into the garden. I’ve arranged for the most spectacular pyrotechnic display this city’s ever seen!” She flashed a charming smile, her upswept white-blond hair shimmering like moonbeams. “Shall we?” She lifted the swirling skirts of her blue chiffon gown and gracefully descended the marble steps, a bare slender arm extended toward the open French doors across the room.

Laughter and chatter filled the air as the crush of guests excitedly exited the spacious beige and white drawing room, eagerly rushing outdoors to pick a choice spot for watching the fireworks. Waiting politely, Ben Star set his wineglass aside and came to his feet. He unhurriedly started toward the tall French doors to join the guests as they made their way down to the manicured garden.

But the blond, beautiful Maribelle Crocker, authoritatively ushering everyone quickly outdoors, spun about as the last ones spilled out onto the stone terrace. She anxiously pulled the doors shut behind her, leaned back, and smiled at the tall, imposing Ben Star.

Ben smiled back. “Are you shutting them out or us in?” he asked, his voice an intriguing low, deep monotone.

“Both.” Maribelle’s smile became flirtatious. “Them outdoors in the garden. You inside with me.”

“And here I thought you enjoyed fireworks,” said Ben, the corners of his cruel-looking mouth lifting in an engaging half-smile.

“Oh, I do,” Maribelle said, slowly advancing on him. “You know I do, Ben.” She stopped directly before him, lifted a pale, bejeweled hand up to toy with his silk lavender tie. “I thought perhaps while the others watch the burst of fireworks over the bay, you and I could launch skyrockets upstairs in my bed.” She smiled up at him and added, “Think I can ignite your fuse, darling?”

Ben Star was not particularly shocked. Despite the spotless reputation enjoyed by the blue-blooded widow, he had shared Maribelle Crocker’s bed more than once in the past few weeks. But always they had been totally discreet. He was slightly taken aback that she would suggest such a tryst with a house full of guests.

“Sounds delightful.” He was gracious. “But isn’t it a bit dangerous?”

“Yes … dangerous,” Maribelle replied breathlessly, her large emerald eyes already glittering with anticipation. She took his tanned right hand in both her hands and led him toward the marble steps. “We’ll have to hurry so we won’t get caught.” Laughter bubbled from her berry-red lips.

Ben Star grinned and allowed the foolish, spoiled woman to lead him up the grand staircase toward the opulent master suite. He had no objection to giving her the physical satisfaction she so brashly sought. Maribelle was a most desirable woman and a delightfully insatiable one as well. He and the beautiful blond widow had spent precious little time in conversation. He knew almost nothing about her, other than the fact that she was like dozens of other pale beauties he’d known over the years.

She desired him because he represented the forbidden, the wild, the dangerous. She was thrilled by the notion of breaking long-lasting taboos. Titillated by the idea of giving herself to a man prohibited by the mores dictated by polite society. Aroused by the savage touch of his dark hands on her pale, perfect flesh. Guilty pleasures.