Nan Ryan (50 page)

Chapter 46

The Redman of the Rockies was not naked. His silver-streaked raven hair was not long and flowing. His navy eyes were not wild. He was not physically restrained in chains.

Benjamin Star was dressed in well-cut dark trousers, a freshly laundered white shirt, and a black vest of soft, supple leather. His hair was shiny clean, neatly trimmed, and carefully brushed. His eyes were dark and brooding.

But he was chained.

In chains he could not cast off no matter how forcefully he strained against them. Chains no silver key could magically unlock. Chains that would never rust or weaken with the passing of the years.

Chains of love.

Brooding alone in his book-filled library, Star sat in his high-backed swivel chair. The chair was turned away from the mahogany desk and tipped back. Star’s lean brown hands were folded in his lap. His long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed.

It had begun to snow in the High Sierra, the first gentle flakes tapping on the panes of the tall French doors, then slowly melting to streak down the glass like softly falling tears. The sky was bleak and heavy. A cold autumn wind sighed sadly through the pines.

A deep loneliness was upon Star.

His house was achingly empty. Had been empty since the morning he’d awakened to find the only woman he ever loved was gone. This same mansion which had been so warm and sunny while she was in it was now dark and cold. And empty. Would be forever cold and dark and empty without the raven-haired beauty who had eaten at his table, danced in his library, slept in his bed.

Star exhaled slowly.

And as he had done one thousand times, he relived that last day, that last night, searching for clues he might have missed before. Hoping against hope he’d find some reason, some explanation, other than what he knew in his heart to be the simple, painful truth.

Thinking back, Star could recall nothing she did or said that gave her away. She’d been sweet and loving when he’d kissed her good-bye and rode into Virginia City. Mentally he retraced his steps in town. He’d gone first to the telegraph office to send the wire.

Star reached inside his vest pocket, the same one he’d worn that day. The yellow message paper was still there. He withdrew it, unfolded the pages, and reread the wire he’d sent:

September 28, 1895

Pawnee Bill

211 Post—Suite #4

San Francisco, California

The accompanying telegraphic money

order will bind our deal as concerns

your proposed takeover of
Colonel Buck

Buchannan’s Wild West Show
.

Star slid the first page behind the second and read on, his navy eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

page 2

Contracts will be executed at

my San Francisco office. With your

signature on said contracts, your

position is taken out—with agreed

profit—and Stardust Corporation

becomes
Buchannan’s Wild West Show’
s sole creditor.

STOP

Star stared at the message. Even if Diane had found and read it—and she hadn’t—she couldn’t have misunderstood its meaning. He was saving the old Colonel’s show for him. Buying up all the debt Pawnee Bill had consolidated. Taking Pawnee Bill out of it. Pumping his own money into the troubled show, bailing it out of hock for the Colonel.

Star shrugged, wadded the yellow forms into a ball, and tossed it over his shoulder. What the hell. A deal was a deal. He’d honor the contract—let the old man keep his show—despite Miss Diane Buchannan.

Star again reached inside his vest pocket and brought out a small black velvet box. He popped it open and stared at the perfect blue-white round-cut diamond engagement ring. The diamond looked as dark and lifeless as he felt. There was no light for it to reflect off in the dim, shadowy library.

The hot September day he’d bought the ring for Diane he’d stood out on the sidewalk gazing foolishly at it, grinning. The diamond had sparkled and glittered in the sunlight, its facets almost blinding him with their brilliance. Excited, he’d planned the moment he would give it to her, deciding he’d wait until they were in San Francisco and he’d asked her grandfather for permission to marry her.

Star clenched his even white teeth, clamped the velvet box shut, and shoved it back into his vest pocket. Why torture himself further? It was over and done with. He’d gone in search of her the minute he’d awakened to find her missing. Could it have been made any plainer? He’d stood there ashen-faced as the railroad clerk calmly said, “Sure, the pretty young black-haired woman. She took the seven
A.M
. train to San Francisco.”

A bitter gust of wind from the north rattled the panes of ice-crusted glass in the French doors before him. The chill knifed right through his aching heart. Star leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He stared at the carpet between his shoes.

He shot to his feet. He’d behaved like the lovesick fool long enough. Time to get on with the business at hand. He had a trip to make. An appointment to keep.

Star left the library, strode hurriedly down the long corridor and into his bedroom. He headed straight for his dressing room, reached up to take a brown leather suitcase from an overhead shelf. When he swung the case down, he accidentally snagged a hanging garment on one of the case’s silver locks.

A shimmering evening gown rustled to the floor at his feet. A gown whose color reminded him irresistibly of a pair of violet eyes whose power over him he had wished to deny. Star dropped the luggage, crouched down on his heels, and picked up the fallen gown.

Damn her, she was everywhere he turned!

Gently fingering the gown’s violet bodice, Star shook his head. To find just the right gown, he’d called on an old lover. The fiery red-haired Rita had been clearly disappointed when he told her he’d fallen in love, planned to marry.

But she’d been one hell of a good sport when he asked where he could purchase an exquisite evening gown for his bride-to-be.

“You won’t find what you’re looking for in Virginia City,” Rita told him, “But you’re in luck. I bought dozens of fabulous gowns on my last Paris trip, most of which I’ve never worn.” When he immediately chose the violet taffeta to match Diane’s eyes, Rita had tossed her flaming hair and said, “Yes, of course. I picked this gown with you in mind.” She laughed and added, “Not exactly the way I’d planned on showing it to you.”

Star rose to his feet, lifted the rustling violet gown up to his face, and inhaled deeply. His chest tightened. He opened his hands, let the gown fall to his feet, and kicked it aside.

Diane Buchannan was just what he’d known her to be from the beginning. A spoiled beauty too easily bored. A delectable creature who collected and discarded hearts for the sake of amusement. Another in the long line of pale beauties seeking a forbidden thrill for a short time, then running back to safety when the newness wore off.

The hell with her.

Star jerked up the brown leather suitcase and started packing. He had a train to catch.

Time had run out.

Tomorrow was the first of November. At the stroke of midnight the man who had been buying up all the Colonel’s debt would foreclose. Own it all, lock, stock, and barrel.

The hated Pawnee Bill.

Pacing restlessly in her dim boardinghouse room, Diane had never spent a more miserable day in her life. She’d awakened to another bleak, cheerless morning. The early edition of the
San Francisco Chronicle
had been left under her door as usual.

She had yanked it up, just as always, hoping to read something that might spark an idea, bring to mind a possible money source she’d not yet tried. Instead she’d seen —in the society column—an item that added to her sense of despair: “… handsome Nevada mining magnate Benjamin Star was spotted quietly checking into the Palace Hotel last evening.…”

Dropping the newspaper as if it were hot, trembling with emotion, Diane had told herself she wouldn’t think about it She had enough on her mind. She knew exactly what he was doing in the city! He’d come to join his partner in crime, Pawnee Bill!

Just minutes after that blow the Colonel, acting mysterious, had come to tell her he was going into San Francisco alone. And when she’d announced she was going with him, he refused, put his foot down.

So she’d been left to worry and wonder and walk the floor all day.

Diane was still worrying and wondering and walking the floor when at long last—shortly before four o’clock in the afternoon—the Colonel rapped loudly on her door.

She flew across the room, her questioning eyes on him, her heart in her throat. He sauntered into the room with barely a limp, his shoulders thrown back. His blue eyes held a twinkle that had been missing for weeks. He looked very much like the cat who had just swallowed the canary.

Something had happened, she could tell by his self-satisfied expression. Did she dare hope? Had the deadline been extended? Expectantly she waited for him to speak.

The Colonel unhurriedly crossed the dreary room, lowered himself down into the one chair by the window. Diane anxiously followed.

“Well?” she prompted, hands on hips.

“I’ve a bit of news,” he finally said, and then paused dramatically. Diane, nodding eagerly, was tempted to shake him!

“Yes, go on, go on,” she said, tensed, tingling from head to toe.

“Now don’t rush me, Diane.”

“Nobody’s rushing you!” She glared down at him. Still he said nothing. She erupted irritably. “Spit it out, will you, Colonel?”

Unruffled, he gave her a cherubic grin, reached inside his coat pocket, withdrew his spectacles, and carefully put them on, making a big show of adjusting the left earpiece. Then, with great flourish, he withdrew from the coat pocket a folded thick legal-looking document.

He chuckled happily while Diane’s violet eyes darkened to purple, snapping with interest and annoyance. Finally he told his impatient granddaughter exactly what had happened in San Francisco.

The Colonel’s attorney had been contacted by the attorney of a “show business angel” who desired anonymity. The unnamed patron had bought up all the show’s outstanding debts from Pawnee Bill. Had opened a line of credit at the Union Pacific Bank. Had agreed to fund the purchase of needed new rolling stock. The angel had saved the show in the eleventh hour!

Delighted yet skeptical, Diane grilled her grandfather, cross-examining him like a prosecuting attorney. Why had this angel done such a thing? What were his motives? What was the catch? How much of the show did the Colonel have to give away in return for the cash? What percentage? Was he certain Pawnee Bill was not behind the whole scheme? Sure it wasn’t some shady deal that in actuality was a ruse to steal the show?

Diane badgered him, but the Colonel had an answer for every question. Save one. He had given up nothing. The show remained solely his. He had only to meet the terms of the contract. He had agreed to pay back the loan —at a fair interest rate—but not until the show was in the black. Quite honestly he was as puzzled as she at this surprising turn of events. The identity of their benefactor was a complete mystery.

“Who knows the reason, Diane?” said the Colonel. “Maybe I actually have a guardian angel and he’s—”

“It’s time to go, you two.” Ruth Buchannan stood in the doorway, adjusting her hat. “We’re going to be late if we don’t hurry.”

“Coming, dear,” said the beaming Colonel. He folded the contract, slipped it back inside his breast pocket, patted it happily, and crossed to his wife.

As she followed, Diane’s high brow was slightly puckered. “This is all too much. I just can’t see why … the contracts, Colonel? Whose name is on the contracts?”

“Just the attorney, Diane,” he said over his shoulder, “and the title of a corporation.”

“What’s the corporation called?”

“Stardust.”

Chapter 47

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together in the sight of God to unite this man and this woman in the state of holy matrimony.…”

Diane’s smile was genuine as she watched the happy pair becoming man and wife. Texas Kate looked amazingly youthful and pretty in a pale peach wedding dress with her brownish gray hair curled tightly around her face and a bridal bouquet of pale purple hothouse orchids clutched in her hands.