Catch a Shooting Star jd edit 03 12 2012 html (2 page)

Chapter One

            A howling wind battered the unrestricted shutters as if they were leaves still clinging to an autumn tree against the torrent of twisting currents that relentlessly inundated them.  Their hinges strained against the force of the gale that threatened to rip them from the adobe walls that clasped them.  But, still the grinding metal clenched against the whirling wind and held fast to the flailing window covers as if their survival was of the utmost importance.

            Somewhere in the distance, a faint cry echoed, barely audible above the whistling wind and the crashing wooden shutters.  The baby’s wailing became louder and louder, drowning out the frightening noise of the storm’s persistent onslaught.  The cries become louder still, until no other sound was perceivable.  Their insistent wails deafened any who could not resist their unceasing screech.

            Suddenly, there was silence.  The darkness gave in to the bright glare of sunshine outside the hotel room where Savannah Star lay.  Her sadness was a glistening reprieve against the fear that had gripped her dreams.

            She buried her face into the pillow and wept, her wracking body rocking the four-poster bed in which she had slept for the past twenty-odd months.  Her cries became louder and more pitiful until she finally uttered the name that had haunted her all these nights.

            “Benito,” she yelled into the feathered pillow.  “Benito!”

            She uttered the name over and over until her voice could no longer strain against the confines of the pillow. 

            She took in a deep, sullen breath, and then raised her head and whispered to the Heavens, “Benito. My sweet Benito.” 

            Then for what seemed like an eternity, her eyes fixed themselves on the feet that had carried her across the desert, through the muddy waters of the Rio Grande and into the hotel that was now her home.  Slowly, her mind drifted through the events and the tragedies that had brought her here, so far away from her home in Georgia, and so close to the man who had held her as his imprisoned bride.

            “Diego,” she seethed as she wrung her feet together in anger. 

            The man she had married three years ago was fifty miles across the Mexican desert, but to her, his presence surrounded her, filling her with fear and loathing so deep that she dared not cross the border to face him.

            Not yet anyway.  Not until she was certain that she had conquered the terror that he had instilled into her very soul.  Not until she had the skills to confront him, to shoot him down and his arrogant laugh with him.

            A shiver swirled through her body as she recalled that spine-tingling laugh, a laugh that, as the days crept into years, had become grating and dreadful.

            Looking intently at her tiny feet, she let her mind drift back to the days when her life was happy, before her marriage to the Mexican Baron, Don Diego Fernandez.  She thwarted a contented sigh as she wrapped a dainty foot around the other ankle and closed her eyes against the sight of the man who had troubled her mind and heart all this time.

            It had been early Spring when Don Diego had first come to her home near Atlanta, his charm and exuberance had been a welcome and delightful contribution to the staunch atmosphere that had hung over the estate of Robin’s Glen.  His charisma had welled in the halls of the manor, giving it a semblance of liveliness, which it had craved for so long.  Ever since that terrible day when Sherman had changed their lives forever, the plantation had lost something essential to its vitality. 

            Father had met Don Diego through a mutual friend and had learned that the baron was rich and could offer him assistance in paying the back taxes and the overdue mortgage on his vast plantation, a mortgage that had been reluctantly entered into by Benjamin Star in order to restore the charred mansion to its previous glory.  Don Diego was all too happy to come to Robin’s Glen, a sprawling cotton farm that lay just outside of Atlanta, Georgia, and to talk with Father about such a transaction. 

            Seventeen-year-old Savannah watched with pride and anticipation as Father took Don Diego on a tour of the plantation, for the Mexican baron beamed with satisfaction at the rolling green hills, the blooming peach trees and the beautifully manicured gardens that adorned the grounds.  She could see the gleam in the foreigner’s dark eyes as she watched from her prancing coal-black Tennessee-Walker horse only a few feet away from him.  She saw, too, the spark of adoration when his eyes moved from the surroundings to fall upon her lovely face.

            A shy Savannah ducked her head.  She had not yet realized that she was as beautiful as Father had declared to her every day of her life and this strange man’s obvious scrutiny of her made her even more self-conscious.

            Deep in those dark illuminated orbs, she saw something that made her shiver with what she thought was excitement at first, for with his smooth, thick alluring speech, he enticed her into breathlessness.  But, there, beneath the sparkle of self-assured astuteness and magnetic charm was a tinge of unmistakable malice that caused apprehension to creep into her very soul. 

            She quickly averted her eyes when she saw that he had felt her uneasiness toward him and had smiled arrogantly in triumph.  Clamping her mouth into an exasperated line, she whipped her horse around and trotted away, her head held high as if to warn him of her obstinate temperament.  Awkwardly aware that his eyes bored into her back as she rode away, she heard him laugh a low, victorious laugh. 

            Angrily, she kicked her mount’s ribs and lowered her body as the horse lurched into a gallop and carried her away from his ostentatious stare.  But, when she was hidden behind a magnolia tree and safely out of his eyesight, she leaned back on the reins and whirled the horse back to face the man who had caused her to harbor such agitation.

            Don Diego looked tall and handsome at the distance from which she felt comfortable watching him.  His lean body sat prominent and proud on that prancing imported Spanish stud.  His attractive brown face seemed truly interested in what Father was saying and his unmistakably genuine smile made him seem warm and compassionate.

Yet, even from the space that separated him from her scrutinizing glare, she still felt that unnerving apprehension which had gnawed at her very core from the moment he first looked upon her with his shrewd appraisal.  And that trepidation was enough to give her cause to avoid him until he would mercifully leave their home.

That day finally came when the handsome Mexican don bade Father Good-bye with a deep bow and a genuine smile.  For Savannah, there was a warm and passionate kiss upon her quivering hand, which he held firmly, yet gently within his palm.  And, when he winked a dark brown eye at her and smiled as if they had just shared a secret and intimate dialogue, she blushed deeper than the maroon gown that she wore.

Instinctively, she waved to him when he tipped his black suede hat while he sat pretentiously atop the stallion that pranced anxiously beneath his proud form.  She quickly pulled her hand down to join its mirror image at her waist where she rung them together in what she thought was fear.  And, once his retreating figure disappeared beyond the bend, she finally let out a breath of relief.

But, for some odd and compelling reason, she found herself missing his attentive stare, his alluring words and his soft, feather-light kisses upon her skin.  True, they were only meant for her hand, but somehow, she knew that those lips wanted to find their way to hers, and that silent promise, by God, made her miss him even more. 

She pulled in a breath of growing indignation at her body for craving his attention.  Then she lifted her skirt for a quick and decisive departure from the veranda on which she stood with her father.  Narrowing her eyes at Father’s proud smile, she let out a harrumph and whirled away, leaving him to his glorious triumph.  She closed the glass-clad door behind her, but turned to look beyond her gloating parent toward the road onto which the man who had provoked different results in both of them.

He was gone.  Good riddance.  On with life, she thought as she left the door and crossed the drawing room floor toward the grand staircase that would carry her up to the sanctity of her room.  And once she was behind the wooden barrier, she hugged herself to ward off the shaking that seemed to overtake her body.

After long moments of anguished shuddering, she sighed deeply and straightened her back, shaking off the notion that any man, much less that smooth-talking Mexican, could cause her to experience such passion, such pleasure, such panic.  With a huff of determination, she thrust the thought of Don Diego from her mind, once and for all.

Thankfully, days turned to weeks, weeks into months, and finally months turned to years, taking with them, the anxious awareness that Savannah yearned for him to return.  Time slowly disintegrated her desire for the handsome don to validate the unspoken vow of morality and to take her to places to which she had never dared to voyage: places from which respectable women kept their distance but toward which most of them ached to accelerate.  They craved that same passage toward a province of pleasure that propriety denied decent Southern young ladies, yet one that called to them from the deepest recesses of their lonely souls. This avenue of ecstasy that Savannah, herself, had also painfully desired slowly waned with the passing of time. 

So, too, did Father’s health decline with the cycle of seasons.  He never fully recovered from the gunshot wound to his hip bone, where the bullet had lodged itself, a constant and painful reminder of that horrific night when Sherman’s men had murdered his wife.  He took to his bed, only venturing out with the aid of a special-ordered wheeled chair and Savannah behind it.

It was in that wicker-lined chair that Father told her of his plans to have the grandest party ever given in her honor on her nineteenth birthday.  Flattered though she was, she argued with him to change his mind so that they could celebrate quietly, together—alone.  But he was adamant in his desire to make this birthday as memorable as any that she would have, so she finally conceded and brought paper and pen to him so that he could make lists of guests and embellishments for the occasion.

He seemed to heal himself with the preparations for the party and even started to walk on his own, strutting around with the aid of a silver-handled cane announcing his displeasure in the decorations that were going up in the grand ballroom.  His booming voice echoed throughout the house with his loud declaration that the crystal punch bowl that he had ordered was not large enough to suit him.

“Damn Yankee catalogue company,” he growled, dropping a dainty crystal cup onto the pink silk cloth that covered the long table at the end of the gallery.  “You’d think they would be smart enough to tell you the dimensions of their products instead of just drawing a weak rendition of it.  When people pay that much for something, you’d think they would get their money’s worth.”

He stomped out of the room, just as Savannah was entering and he brushed by her in a rage, his voice never wavering from his angry outburst, “They won the war and now they want to take everything we own.  And they will get it.  If it’s not from their carpetbaggers or their outrageous taxes, they’ll get it through their unscrupulous sales tactics.  Devil’s minions, all of ‘em!”

Savannah watched Father stride toward the front of the house and out the large mahogany door, her face awash with unvoiced questions.  What had caused this sudden burst of anger, she did not know, but what was certain was that his mood would not improve if she told him of her plans to boycott his precious party.

She would have to wait.  She walked into the gallery and looked at the silk-covered table that took up most of the back wall.  She strolled over to the table.  With a delicate touch, she ran a hand across each of the things that it held.

         The table was covered in all manners of crystal glasses, silver dishes and fine china.  A large crystal bowl with a matching crystal ladle dominated the center of the table, its fine etchings were its crowning glory.  She stared at the cavernous bowl with a questioning frown as she wondered why Father had complained of its impractical size.  Then she picked up the catalogue that had fallen to the floor and looked at the page that was facing her.

            There, on the page was a picture of the punch bowl and its matching cups and ladle.  Beside the picture was a paragraph describing the product and next it was a price for which the patron would pay.

            “Oh, my!” Savannah breathed as she looked from the book to the bowl and back again in surprise.  “What a costly thing you are!”

            Immediately filled with guilt for wanting to call off the party because of a rumor that she had just overheard in the stables, she pulled in a breath of resignation and placed the catalogue on the table next to the crystal bowl.

            She would go through with it but she would not enjoy herself knowing that Father had planned her party as a bazaar for eager suitors.  She was not a heifer taken to market or to be sold out for breeding.  And she would never allow any man to use a ring, whether it is through the nose or on a finger, to force her to follow his lead.