Wild Star

  She flung out of bed, dragging a blanket with her. She marched to the bedroom door, so angry she could think of nothing to say. She flung open the door and yelled over her shoulder, “You want a woman, Brent? Go pay for it.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  “California,” Lizzie said, her eyes large with excitement and awe. “Just think, missis, my baby won’t belong to nobody.”

  “Yes, Lizzie. You’re not pregnant.”

  “Josh tell me I probably am,” Lizzie said, giggling. “He’s a big man, my Josh.”

  Most of them think they are, Byrony said silently. Damn Brent anyway. For the past two days he’d treated her with sublime indifference. He was polite, absently so, not speaking to her of anything but the most inane of subjects. She didn’t know what he was thinking.

  It had been Drew who told her that Paxton was quite alive. Brent had merely arched an eyebrow at the news.

  Where the devil was he now? She wanted to talk to him, she had to talk to him. This silent battle between them had gone on long enough. Stupid, arrogant man. She wanted to shake him, perhaps even kick him, anything to get his attention.

  She frowned a moment as she stood quietly while Lizzie fastened up the tiny buttons of her cotton gown. What if something were wrong and he didn’t intend to tell her? What did he think a wife was for anyway? Her frown deepened. As if she didn’t know.

  “There, missis. You lie down, maybe,” Lizzie said, but Byrony wanted nothing more than to get out of the house and into the cool shaded garden. Her second bath hadn’t helped much. She walked through the study out onto the veranda. The thick-leaved oak and elm trees looked heavenly. Child, she said silently as she lightly touched her hand to her belly, are you as warm as I am?

  She walked through the garden, pausing every few moments to sniff at the sweet-smelling flowers. She paused, a magnolia blossom to her nose, when she heard Laurel’s voice.

  “—Brent, it’s been so long—it’s not as if—”

  Her feet moved forward without her mind’s permission. She saw Brent standing with his back to her, dressed in buff trousers, white shirt, and black boots. She thought she saw Laurel’s face before she put her arms around his back. She thought she heard Laurel whisper something to him, but couldn’t make out her words. Then Brent, her husband, leaned down and kissed Laurel.

  For a moment she weaved where she stood, until she realized she was holding her breath. A fierce pain stabbed through her, and she closed her eyes. “Damn you, Brent Hammond.” She was on the point of turning when she saw Laurel strain to clasp his neck, pressing her body against him.

  Rage, pure and clean, washed through her.

  “Take your hands off my husband!”

  Nothing happened. She realized stupidly that she’d only whispered the words.

  “Take your hands off my husband.”

  Her furious shout drew a gasp from Laurel and she dropped her arms, stepping back. Her eyes met Byrony’s, dropped a moment, but not before Byrony saw the gleam of triumph.

  “Stay away from my husband, Laurel. As for you, Brent—” She broke off as he turned very slowly to face her.

  To her fury, he grinned at her. “Hello, Byrony,” he said with mild interest. “You’re looking a bit warm. Why don’t you have Mammy Bath make you some lemonade.”

  She yelled, “I’m going to shoot you.”

  His grin never faltered, and he still appeared but mildly interested. “I believe,” he said, “that our last conversation ended with something of that sort.”

  She felt tears, and swiped the back of her hand furiously across her eyes. “As for you, you—painted hussy, I’ll—”

  She got no further. Brent burst into laughter. “Painted what? Where the devil did you get that? Have you been reading some lurid novels?”

  Laurel giggled.

  I should have simply left, not said a word, not humiliated myself, Byrony thought, staring at him. No, that’s what my mother would do. She marched up to her husband, drew back her hand, and slapped him as hard as she could. His laughter died abruptly. Slowly he raised his hand to his cheek and rubbed it.

  Her hand stung. At least her precious husband wasn’t laughing at her anymore. She thrust up her chin as she turned, eyes narrowed, to Laurel. “I wonder, just how lovely you’d look with your hair in a rat’s nest around your face.”

  She rushed at Laurel. “Don’t you ever go near my husband again.” She grabbed Laurel’s hair before she could move out of the way. Suddenly her arms were hauled downward and pinned to her sides.

  “Enough, Byrony.”

  Brent drew her back until she was pressed against him. He shook her.

  “You bitch.” Laurel hissed at her, but she backed up a step, seeing the fury in Byrony’s eyes.

  “What the devil is going on here?” Drew walked forward, looking blankly from his brother, to his brother’s wife, to Laurel.

  “She’s trying to give Brent orders,” Laurel said. “She struck him and tried to attack me. She’s crazy.”

  Brent felt Byrony quiver and tightened his grip on her upper arms. He shot a look at Laurel before saying to his brother, “Just a slight misunderstanding, that’s all. Now, my dear, are you feeling more restrained?”

  Byrony nodded.

  He released her, and in the next instant he yelped with pain from the kick to his shin.

  Byrony ducked away from him, but her leg struck a marble bench and she fell back, her arms flailing.

  Brent swore even as he grabbed for her. “You little fool,” he said, hauling her up again. “Are you trying to hurt yourself, hurt the baby?”

  Byrony drew herself up to her full height. “No,” she said clearly, “I was trying to hurt you.”

  “You did. What do you think you deserve in return?”

  “Really, Brent—” Drew said.

  “She should be locked up,” Laurel said.

  Brent grinned down at his wife. “That just might not be such a bad idea. Come along, Byrony.”

  “Brent, what are you going to do?”

  “Mind your own business,” Brent said. He dragged her through the garden beside him.

  “Let me go.”

  “Now, that would seem more than careless of me,” Brent said. “I suppose I should be thankful that you didn’t kick me in the crotch. That would have brought me to my knees, as I’m certain you remember well.”

  “I will, if you don’t let me go.”

  “That,” he said, “makes not one whit of sense. If I hold you, you won’t be able to. Hush now and stop digging in your heels.”

  “I want to talk to you, Brent.”

  “And I, my dear, want to strip you to your beautiful skin.

  Will I still be an unacceptable husband when you’re whimpering with pleasure?”

  She closed her eyes a moment, aware that the house slaves were witnessing the master dragging the mistress up the stairs. “I’ll make you sorry for this, Brent. Damn you, if you want to be a rutting pig, go back to your dear Laurel.”

  “You’ve made me quite sorry innumerable times during the past months. And now I’m a ‘rutting pig.’ Why don’t you forget your jealousy and think about what I’m going to do to you?”

  Byrony jabbed him in the ribs. In the next moment he’d pushed her into the bedroom and locked the door. “Now,” he said, and walked toward her.

  “No.”

  She was still yelling at him when she was wearing only her white cotton chemise.

  Brent, who hadn’t said a word, stepped back and began to stroke his jaw. “Very nice,” he said at last. “Why don’t you strike a seductive pose on the bed? Given your present attitude, it might help my interest.”

  “I hope you rot.”

  “I have no intention of looking to see where your eyes are fastened, Byrony,” he said as he stripped off his clothes.

  “You’re a man, and always interested, no matter who the woman. It doesn’t matter one whit to you.”

  “Oh yes it does. Come now, let??
?s get on with it. The sooner I have you yelling with pleasure, the more quickly you’ll forget your grievances.”

  “I find you making love to another woman—your stepmother—and you have the gall—”

  In the next instant she was on her back, her chemise yanked up to her waist, her husband lying his full length on top of her.

  Very gently he drew her arms above her head. “I’ve been quite distracted lately, love,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “A husband should keep his wife dreamy-eyed and sated. So many responsibilities.”

  “Don’t you dare force me.”

  He sat back on his haunches and very calmly tore her chemise apart. “Very nice,” he said, staring a moment at her breasts. He eased off her, pulled off the torn chemise, and lowered one hand to stroke her breasts. “Our baby is filling you out quite nicely.”

  “Don’t, Brent.”

  “Don’t what? You know, Byrony, if you but learned to trust your husband a bit more, you’d save yourself a lot of wasted energy.”

  “Trust you? I saw what you were doing. But you don’t even care, do you?”

  He paused a moment, and she would have sworn that she saw a flash of anger in his eyes, but it was gone quickly.

  His long fingers moved down her belly to find her and stroke her. She tried to jerk away from him, but he only laughed. “You said something about forcing you, love? I believe it’s your heat that’s causing this delightful wetness, not the weather.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything!”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you do that to Laurel?”

  “Not for nine years.”

  “I don’t believe you. If I hadn’t come into the garden, you would have—”

  He cut off her words with his mouth.

  She realized then that she was responding to him.

  He continued to stroke her, caress her. “Have it your own way,” he said, and came up between her legs. He went deep. “Byrony,” he said, stilling a moment over her, “give over.”

  She turned her face away, unaware that her hips lifted to bring him deeper. She heard him growl deep in his throat, felt his powerful body tense over her. It was the oddest feeling to be separate from him. She hated it. He was lying his full length on top of her. She could hear his ragged breathing beside her ear, feel his pounding heartbeat.

  “I won’t forgive you this, Brent.”

  He raised his head to look down at her. “And you’re a stubborn witch, Byrony. Would be that women were as simple and straightforward as men, then I’d know just how to treat you. You do realize, don’t you, that you didn’t hurt anyone but yourself? As I said, you’re bloody stubborn. Enjoy it. Now, you must excuse me. I have much to to. Not, of course, that I didn’t care for this most charming distraction.”

  He rolled off her and rose. She closed her eyes.

  “At least, you won’t be ready to pleasure Laurel for a while.”

  “No faith in me. So much depends on the woman, you know, and her skill. No, I don’t suppose you’d know about that, would you?”

  Byrony rolled over onto her stomach.

  Brent started to say something conciliating. No, he thought, he wanted to talk to Laurel first. He wanted to know why she’d begged him to kiss her, knowing that Byrony was watching them.

  “Don’t be silly, Brent. I didn’t see your little wife. It’s just that I’m lonely, that’s all, and I still have very strong feelings for you.”

  “There’s certainly no reason for you to be lonely,” he said. “Drew was telling me you have all the men in the county after you.”

  “It’s true. But they’re waiting, you know, to see what you do with Wakehurst.”

  “Which one of them will you accept?”

  “If you leave Wakehurst and don’t leave me penniless, I suppose it will be Samuel Simpson. He had two children by his first wife. They’re both boys, but quite a bit younger than you were.”

  “Thank God for that,” Brent said. “I won’t leave you penniless, Laurel. Do what you want to with Simpson. Incidentally, I’m leaving Wakehurst. There wasn’t much doubt about that. Your game—no, don’t deny it—it made no difference. It just so happens that I love my wife. I think she’s mad as hell at me right now, but”—he shrugged—“life with Byrony will never be boring.”

  Drew was in the midst of painting an azalea, a painstaking task that required just the right mixture of paints and the lighest of touches.

  “Drew.”

  Very carefully he stepped back from the canvas. “You nearly made me do in a flower, Byrony,” he said, smiling at her.

  “You’re all packed,” Byrony said.

  “Yes,”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “And I you. Perhaps you can talk that brother of mine into traveling to Paris. You’d enjoy it there, Byrony.”

  Drew watched her walk silently about his studio, running her fingertips over holland-covered furniture.

  “What is it, Byrony? You’re not sill brooding on that ridiculous fiasco in the garden? Brent is an honorable man, I promise you.”

  She stopped, drew a deep breath, but said nothing. Drew would stand with Brent. He was a man, after all, and men stood together. “Nothing is wrong, Drew. I merely wanted to talk to you a moment. Your azalea is very pretty.”

  “Thank you,” he said, watching her closely. “Byrony, Laurel is a lovely woman, you know that. She’s also somewhat manipulative. Don’t regard anything she does.”

  “Why should I?”

  “You shouldn’t. Now, I believe it’s getting near time for dinner.”

  Byrony didn’t want to see her husband. She got her wish. He didn’t appear for dinner.

  “Lord only knows where he is,” Laurel said pleasantly as she eyed Byrony. “Doubtless he’s found something—or someone—to keep him busy. You know how he is, Byrony.”

  “Yes,” Byrony said, “I know how he is.”

  “Shut up, Laurel,” Drew said. “Byrony, would you please pass me a piece of that delicious chess pie?”

  At five o’clock the following morning, Byrony slipped out of the house and walked briskly toward the stable. She kept looking behind her. Brent hadn’t returned the previous evening, and the slaves weren’t about yet. She had no reason to sneak about. She had one valise and six hundred and fifty dollars she’d taken from Brent’s strongbox. She saddled the mare, Velvet, took one long last look at Wakehurst, and urged the mare into a gentle canter. She wasn’t running away. She was giving Brent a choice. It would be up to him.

  Besides the money, she’d taken his gold cufflinks. She’d detailed everything in a letter to him. Oh yes, she thought, she’d given him a choice. Dear God, he had to make the right decision.

  Two hours later, the steamboat New Orleans belched smoke into the air and pulled away from the Natchez dock. Byrony stood on the deck, her hands on the railing. She found herself searching among the crowd of men and women on the dock. Suddenly she thought she saw him. But no. She turned her thoughts to her plan. She couldn’t wait to see what he would do, what he would say. He would eventually return to San Francisco, at least she believed he would, despite what he wanted to do about her. And when he did, he’d find her running his saloon.

  My child, she said silently, touching her fingers to her stomach, I won’t cheat you out of what is rightfully yours. She was spinning her plans and developing more and more outrageous alternatives by the time Natchez faded from view.

  Brent reined in his horse in front of Wakehurst, exhausted, but inordinately pleased with himself. Everything was finally set in motion.

  He was met with pandemonium.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The mare Byrony had hired from Luke Harmon’s stable in San Diego shied at the sound of a woman’s loud shout.

  “Byrony, my darling girl, what a surprise. I can’t believe it. What are you doing here?”

  Byrony scrambled from the mare’s back, quickly tethered her to the stable fence, and rushed into her mother’s arms. She felt te
ars sting her eyes at the burst of love she felt. She hugged her mother to her, talking all the while. Suddenly Byrony became aware of her fragility. My God, she thought, loosening her grip abruptly, she could feel her mother’s ribs clearly.

  “Mother,” she said, her voice choking a bit as she drew back a bit to look into her beloved face. “I came to see you for a little while.”

  “I’m glad, love,” Alice DeWitt said, wiping the edge of her apron over her eyes. “Come inside and we’ll chat while I make dinner. Oh, Byrony, it’s so good to see you!”

  Byrony looked around as she walked beside her mother toward the house. The small homestead looked much better than it had before. The house was whitewashed, the sagging front porch railing repaired. There were at least a dozen squawking chickens pecking about near the stable.

  “Yes,” Alice said, “it does look a bit better, doesn’t it? The money from your hus—from Ira Butler comes on time each month.”

  “And your husband doesn’t spend it all.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Alice hugged her daughter to her side. “Where is Mr. Hammond?”

  Byrony said smoothly enough, “He’s still in Natchez, Mississippi, working at the plantation. He will join me soon in San Francisco.”

  “I wanted to meet him. He is good to you? He treats you well?”

  “He doesn’t beat me, if that’s what you mean.”

  Alice sighed. “Your father has known so many disappointments, Byrony, you really shouldn’t—”

  “Everyone knows disappointments, Mother. Most people don’t resort to hitting others who can’t defend themselves.”

  “Please, Byrony—”

  “I’m sorry, Mother.” Dear God, would her mother go to her grave defending that man? She said abruptly, “Where is Charlie?”

  “In Mexico, I believe. He writes occasionally. I’m not quite certain what he’s doing.”

  He probably writes when he needs money, Byrony thought, but she didn’t say it. “And your husband?”

  “He’s in town. He’ll be home soon.”