Nan Ryan (42 page)

She went back into the bedroom while Star yanked a clean white shirt from the rack and shoved his long arms down into the sleeves. Buttoning the shirt up his chest, he walked back into the bedroom. Diane wore the fresh yellow pullover. She was just stepping into the black twill Levi’s.

Star grinned appreciatively and dropped down into a chair to observe. Diane pulled the pants up her long, slender legs and over the flare of her hips. The trousers fitted her snugly. They were, in fact, so tight she found she couldn’t quite get them buttoned.

Lolling in his easy chair, one long leg draped over its arm, Star watched with amused pleasure as Diane battled with the buttons of the fly, her hair falling into her face, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth in fierce concentration. He could tell by the faint color rising to her fair, lovely face that she was quickly growing frustrated.

“Need some help?” he asked, grinning, after several seconds had passed.

“No!” Diane whipped her head back and glared at him. “I can manage, thank you.”

“As you wish,” he said, absently nibbing his chest. She was comical, and she was cute. She was also innocently sexual. The gyrations and wiggling and thrusting of her pelvis made his mouth go dry.

She tussled. She grappled. She wrestled.

She sighed with frustration. She gritted her teeth. She uttered a mild oath under her breath. Still, she couldn’t get the tight black trousers buttoned up over her flat belly. When she heard Star’s low laughter, Diane irritably whipped her hair back out of her eyes and put her hands on her flaring hips.

“The devil and Tom Walker!” she snapped, looking straight at him. “I can’t get these blasted pants buttoned. I must be getting fat!”

Chuckling, Star came to his feet. And to her aid. “No, you’re not, sweetheart. You’re just about perfect.”

He put his hands to her waist, lifted her feet from the floor, and carried her to the rumpled bed. He sat her on the edge of the mattress and knelt before her. He first rolled up the too-long pants legs over her bare feet. While he was about it, he bent his dark head and kissed her right instep.

Then he lifted his head, grinned, and said, “Which is it to be, Miss Buchannan? The pants buttoned up”—he rubbed his hands along the insides of her knees—“or taken off?”

“Buttoned up,” she said after a slight pause, not fully sure that was the choice she really wanted to make. “For now.”

“Buttoned up it is,” Star said, gently pushed her over onto her back, and got on the bed with her. His weight supported on an elbow, he lay looking down at her while he easily buttoned her Levi’s with one hand, his lean, deft fingers grazing the bare flesh of her flat stomach.

“I certainly hope,” Diane murmured, smiling up at him, “you’re half as good at unbuttoning my trousers as you are at buttoning them.”

“My sweet,” Star assured her, his navy eyes flashing, “I’m even better.”

Diane laughed, leaped up, and cried, “Food! Food! I need food. Please feed me.”

Together they went downstairs to the kitchen. After lots of laughter and kisses and bumping into each other, they managed to put a meal of sorts on the table. The bacon Diane fried was burned, and there was enough on the platter to feed a ravenous family of eight. Star made the toast, and it was almost as blackened as the charred bacon.

It didn’t matter.

They scraped the burned toast and spread mounds of blackberry jam on it. They broke up the crisp bacon strips, making a contest out of searching for portions that were edible, shouting with gleeful triumph when one or the other found a bite-size piece that wasn’t too cremated to eat.

The coffee, too, left something to be desired. Diane was quick to blame it on Star’s coffee grinder. The darned grinder hadn’t ground the beans to a fine enough powder; that’s why the black, hot liquid in their bone china cups was so strong and bitter.

Could it have had anything to do with the fact that she had used too much coffee? Star judiciously inquired. Absolutely not. She quickly set him straight.

Fortunately there was another beverage on the menu that morning, one that couldn’t be ruined. Star had squeezed enough oranges to fill a tall crystal pitcher with sweet golden juice so Diane was puzzled when he poured her crystal goblet—and his—only half full. She gave him a questioning look. He winked at her and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned shortly with a bottle of a chilled champagne snagged between his index and middle finger, a stemmed wineglass hooked in his curled thumb, and a white linen towel draped over his left arm.

Grinning, he stepped up beside Diane’s chair to show her the label as if she were dining in a fine restaurant and had ordered the bubbly. She immediately took up the game.

With the dismissive wave of her hand and a nod of her head, she said in a cool, brittle voice, “Yes, Pierre, the Piper Heidsieck ’eighty-seven will be quite satisfactory. Quite.”

“Oui
, madame,” said Star, bowing grandly from the waist and placing the stemmed glass before her.

Expertly, as he did all things, Star positioned the white linen towel over the top of the bottle, popped the cork, withdrew the towel, and poured a splash of the dry golden champagne into the crystal flute.

Diane lifted the glass, daintily sipped the champagne, held it in her mouth for a few seconds, and swallowed.

“Bon,”
she murmured,
“bon
, Pierre.”

“Ah,
merci, merci.”
He beamed.

Then the pleased waiter laughed and kissed the haughty patron right on the mouth, ending the game. Star dropped back down into his chair and filled their orange juice glasses with the bubbly. They toasted each other and drank.

An hour later they were still at the table, sipping the orange juice-champagne mixture and agreeing, between kisses and laughter, that this drink was indeed
bon
. In time they grew sleepy. Leaving the dishes for later, they went back up for a nice long nap.

It was afternoon when they awakened. Neither felt particularly energetic. Lazily they bathed together, made slow, satisfying love, prepared another not-too-appetizing meal, and sat out on the upstairs balcony to watch the stars come out.

They went to bed late that night and slept in the next morning. Both awoke feeling rested and refreshed. After a noontime breakfast Diane insisted they go outdoors to look for the stallion, Black Star.

So they quit the mansion shortly after noon with Diane carrying several lumps of sugar in hope the magnificent stallion was still somewhere in the vicinity. He was. The black heard the laughter and talking when Star and Diane stepped out onto the broad front porch. The big stallion was there to meet them when they reached the front stone steps, nickering and shaking his head up and down, demanding attention.

Diane laughed and greeted him warmly. She patted his sleek jaw and talked to him in a soft, cooing voice, telling him how beautiful he was and that she hoped he’d allow her to ride him. She also teased him. She devilishly showed him a lump of the sugar, holding it out to him on her palm. Before he could take it, she closed her fist tightly and whipped her hand behind her back.

The stallion wasn’t fooled for a second. He whinnied his outrage, took a step forward, stretched his neck, and poked his head around her back, sniffing out the sugar, his velvet muzzle brushing against her closed hand.

“Better give it to him before he bites you,” warned Star.

Nodding, Diane brought her hand back in front of her. She petted the big black beast while he gobbled up the sugar cubes, one at a time, from her open palm, chewing rapidly as if he had never had anything that tasted so good.

“Instant friendship,” announced Diane proudly. “Black Star likes me. I’m sure he’ll gladly allow me to ride him.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Star, taking her hand in his. “Nobody’s ever been on his back but me.” To the stallion he said, “What about it, boy? Like some oats to go with that sugar?”

Black Star followed the pair as Star led Diane down the front steps and around the house. The backyard was terraced. No flowers or shrubs had ever been planted. Instead nature’s own beauty had been utilized and nurtured. Bright orange-pink spurs of wild columbine and rambling rows of ivory heather were showier than any garden-grown cousins could have been. Fragrant cedars lined crisscrossing walks of natural stone. A three-tiered fountain splashed continuously at the center of the yard and comfortable-looking, rust-colored padded lawn furniture was scattered about in clusters.

Beyond the fence, hidden in the trees fifty yards farther up the mountain, were stucco-sided stables and a cedar plank corral. They were empty. The gate stood open.

Black Star snorted, whickered, and followed them into the corral, where his name was spelled out in gleaming silver on the tall crossbars above the gate. Star dropped Diane’s hand, ducked into the shaded stable, and brought down a sack of oats.

“See you later, boy,” Diane said to the big beast as they left him noisily devouring his oats.

Ready to head back down to the house, Star made the mistake of mentioning he would later show her his favorite place to relax and unwind. A secluded spot higher up on the mountain where he had a hot well, a spring of mineral water he had dug out to make a pool.

Naturally Diane didn’t want to wait. She insisted on going there at once. Star squinted up at the heavens. The sky, which had been a deep, cloudless blue when they’d first come outdoors, was now filled with big fluffy white thunderheads. He warned her it was likely to rain.

“At this time of year, sweetheart, it rains in these mountains every afternoon. We’ll go up to the hot spring in the morning.”

Diane stepped closer, wrapped her arms around his waist. “Please, Star, show me now. I don’t mind a few sprinkles. Besides, if we hurry, we can beat the rain.”

They didn’t beat the rain.

They were about a hundred yards below the spring when the first near flash of lightning streaked across the rapidly darkening sky, followed by a loud crash of thunder.

They looked at each other, smiled, turned, and hurried back down the slope. The cloudburst caught them, pounding them with a fury all the way back down the mountain. They shrieked and shouted and laughed their way home.

By the time they reached the mansion they were soaked to the skin, their hair plastered to their heads. Out of breath, hearts thundering, they ducked in under the slanting porch roof and wordlessly began stripping. When both were naked, they looked at each other, laughed, came together, and kissed. And kissed again.

Leaving their wet clothes in a discarded heap on the front gallery, Star swept Diane up into his arms, carried her inside and straight up the stairs.

The storm worsened as they bathed in the black marble tub, huge raindrops fiercely pelting the glass wall across from them. The sky was as black as midnight, and booming thunder reverberated throughout the house.

After the bath they wrapped themselves in large, thirsty white towels and went into the bedroom. Diane, looking out at the storm, laughed when Star snatched the soft fur counterpane off the bed. He dragged it over and spread it on the floor directly before the wall of glass.

He immediately stretched out on his back, looked up at her with hot dark eyes, and said, “Come here.”

They made love on the lush furs while the wind howled through the pines and the rains came in blinding sheets. They stayed there on the bedroom floor through the stormy afternoon, making love and watching the rain. Touching each other. Looking at each other. Star lay on his back. Diane was curled to him, her head resting on his shoulder.

After a long, lazy silence Star said in that low, flat voice, “Diane.”

“You
can call me darling,” she murmured.

“Darling,” he began again, “assume I know nothing. Tell me everything about you.”

Diane felt certain she knew what was on his mind. He was wondering about her and the Cherokee Kid. She leisurely raised up on an elbow, looked down at him. His dark eyes were fixed on the ceiling over their heads.

Without preamble she said bluntly, “Star, the Cherokee Kid was never my lover.”

“I know.”

“You do?” It wasn’t the response she had expected. Diane frowned. “You knew all along that—”

“You’ve had no lover before me.” Star turned his head, looked into her eyes. “Have you, sweetheart?”

“No. No, I haven’t,” she said, slightly flustered. “And you knew all along?”

“Not all along,” he gently corrected. “Since the first time we made love,” he said with tenderness, his voice low, soft. Then: “Sweetheart, you are not the only lover I’ve ever had. There have been many women. Too many. But you’re the only one I have ever loved. I’ll never touch another, I swear it.”

“It’s a good thing,” Diane replied, her frown disappearing, happiness flooding her. “I have a very jealous nature.”

Star laughed softly. “I’ll never give you cause to be jealous if you marry me.”

“Is this a proposal?”

“Yes. Marry me, Diane. Marry me.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” She smiled warmly at him. “The answer is yes!”

Star grinned, and Diane leaned over his handsome face and kissed his lips, licking at them, whispering into his mouth, “Yes, oh, yes.”

The rain stopped. The sun came out. A colorful rainbow arched across the western sky.

Through the gleaming glass wall the whole world looked fresh and new. Diane laid her cheek on Star’s smooth chest and felt his strong arms enclose her. He exhaled, and his breathing became slow and even as he dozed.

Feeling wonderfully safe and secure, Diane sighed with contentment and closed her eyes. The soft pulsing of Star’s heart charmed and wooed her to sleep.

Davey Leatherwood walked through the swinging doors of a Lander, Wyoming, saloon and stood behind the Kid.

“The ticket master told us where they’re bound.”

The Kid didn’t move. “Where?”

“Virginia City.”

Chapter 39

Day three at Sun Mountain.