Wild Star (20 page)

Saint had already decided to drop by the Butler home. He supposed that he had to test the waters for himself. “I think I will,” he said, rising.

“You will tell me what’s wrong, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Saint said. “I’ll tell you.”

 

“Are you out of your bloody mind?” Saint couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“I said, Saint, that my wife has her own doctor. She’s being well taken care of.”

“Marcus Farnsworth is a damned charlatan. He’s a quack. He knows as much about medicine as my horse. No, less. At least my horse doesn’t kill people.”

Ira rose from his chair. “I agreed to see you, Saint, because I thought you wanted something. I didn’t agree to have you attack me or my judgment.”

“Ira,” Saint said, “I want to see Byrony.”

“No. Marcus thinks she has brain fever. He believes that it’s some sort of female hysteria.”

“Bosh.”

Ira strove for patience. It would be stupid to lash out at Saint. Very stupid. “Listen, Saint, Marcus knows what he’s doing. I’m sorry you don’t approve of him, but I do. He’s helping her, I know it.”

“I want to see her,” Saint repeated.

He won’t budge, Ira thought, studying a man he respected, liked, and, now, feared a little. He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Very well. If you wish it, come by this afternoon about two o’clock. All right?”

At two o’clock precisely, Saint was ushered upstairs to Byrony’s room. Marcus Farnsworth wasn’t there, which was probably just as well, Saint thought. He’d like to take a strip off that fool. Female hysteria, indeed.

Byrony was asleep. A drugged sleep.

Saint sat beside her on the bed and gently felt for her pulse, then leaned down to listen to her heart. Pulse a bit thready, heart sounded all right. Her color wasn’t good. She was pale, fragile-looking.

“What’d he give her?” he asked Ira.

“Laudanum, I believe. I’d hoped she wouldn’t be asleep. I wanted you to speak with her, of course. But evidently, this morning, she had a bad time. Out of her head, almost violent.”

Dear God, Saint thought, frowning down at her, what the hell should he do? He brushed his fingers through his hair, his eyes never leaving Byrony’s face. Dammit, it was none of his business if Irene and not Byrony were Michelle’s mother.

“Tell me, Ira, what does Farnsworth think will happen?”

“He’s hopeful,” Ira said. “But he says this type of illness is difficult. He’s asked me if he can call in a doctor from Sacramento, a man who’s dealt with this kind of problem.”

I’m seeing things that don’t exist, Saint told himself as he rose from Byrony’s bed. He was on the point of leaving when there was a soft moan from the bed. He turned on his heel and swiftly strode back to the bed.

“Byrony?”

She felt a great weight resting on her mind and on her body. It was so hard to keep her eyes open. She wanted only to sleep. But she’d heard Saint’s voice. “Saint,” she whispered. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Of course you are, my dear,” he said, and quickly filled a glass of water from the pitcher on the bed table. “Here. Slowly, now.”

It took so much energy to swallow the water. “What are you doing here, Saint?”

“I was worried about you.” He gently closed his fingers around her limp hand. “How do you feel?”

“Weak. So very weak.”

“It’s the laudanum, I expect. You’ll be well in no time. Then—” He broke off. She was unconscious again. He rose, his jaw set, his mind made up. “Thank you, Ira,” he said. “I think she’ll be just fine soon. Yes, just fine.”

“It is my hope also, of course,” Ira said. He was sweating.

Byrony awoke to the sound of voices—indistinct, low, and upset. Her mind felt fuzzy, heavy, without focus. She tried to concentrate on those voices. It was Ira and Irene.

Ira’s voice, worried. “Saint is suspicious, I swear it.”

Irene’s voice, contemptuous, dismissive. “What can he do, for God’s sake? Nothing, I tell you, nothing at all.”

“No more, Irene. I mean it. Whatever you’re putting in her food, it must stop. I’m going to let her go. Do you hear me?”

“No, Ira, no—Please, you must listen to me.”

The voices moved away.

Stop putting what in my food? Her mind cleared, and she realized suddenly that Irene was poisoning her. But that was crazy, wasn’t it? Why would she?
Because they’re afraid you will tell the truth about them. That you’ll blackmail them forever.

“But I promised Ira I wouldn’t,” she whispered. Her throat was parched; her voice sounded scratchy to her own ears.

She was fully alert now, and, thankfully, alone. She remembered Saint sitting next to her, speaking to her. What had she said?

You’re going to leave, that’s what you’re going to do. I have to get my strength back, she thought. And I don’t dare eat or drink anything. She pushed herself upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Slowly she rose, only to fall back, her legs too weak to hold her weight.

Byrony covered her face with her hands. She didn’t cry, she was too afraid. She’d never felt so alone in her life. Why couldn’t Aunt Ida bustle through the door? Tell her the Misses Perkins were here to visit. Tell her—There was no one.

You have to rely on yourself once you leave. You must begin now.

She looked toward the windows. It was late afternoon. Anytime now, Irene or Eileen would bring her something to eat. She had to pretend. Tonight, she had to be strong enough to leave tonight. She thought of the beautiful necklace Ira had given her for Christmas. She couldn’t wait to sell it. I’m going to rest now, she thought. Tonight, late, I’ll sneak out the window. I’ll ride Thorny south, toward San Jose. I’ll be all right.

She was asleep when Irene quietly opened her door and peered in. She frowned a moment, then shrugged and carried the tray of food back downstairs.

 

It was near to midnight. San Francisco was fogged in. It was eerily gray, the air so thick and heavy that it was difficult to make out anything beyond several yards away.

Brent rode his stallion across Market Street and cut over to South Park, to the Butler house. The fog was lighter here. He reined in just a bit down the road. It was dark, thank God, not a single light. He’d found out from Saint which room was hers. She wasn’t sleeping with her husband.

He wondered briefly if Saint had any idea what his words would result in. Probably; the man was damned perceptive.

“So,” Saint had said, his eyes nearly closed, “I suppose I’ll just go see her again tomorrow. Hopefully she won’t be too drugged.”

Brent could still remember his rage.

“Of course, it’s really none of your affair, Brent. But you said you wanted to know.” Saint rose, stretched as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and added, “I think I’ll try my hand at some rouge et noir downstairs.”

Then Brent had asked him where Byrony’s room was.

And Saint had told him.

“So she has her own separate room, does she? Not still sleeping with her husband?”

Saint had merely smiled at him. “Who knows?” was all he said.

Brent hadn’t really questioned his own decision. He made it, and that was that.

What would she say when she saw him? Would she refuse to come with him?

He shook his head, and quietly dismounted. He tethered his stallion to one of the few pine trees and walked toward the back of the house. He stopped in his tracks, a wide smile on his face, and tossed aside the rope he’d brought. A skinny pine tree was nearly touching the side of the house, rising to the second story.

 

Byrony had packed a valise. She was shaking from weakness. I’ve got to get dressed now, she thought, I’ve got to. But she simply had no more strength. She sat down on her bed, looking blankly at the lone flickering candle. It would gutter out soon, she thought blankly, and there aren’t any more. How can I dress myself in the dark?

She jumped at the noise. Her heart pounding, she stared toward the window. She watched it pushed open. She watched a man swing his leg over the ledge.

Brent.

His eyes met hers in that moment, and he grinned.

Byrony could only stare blankly at him, not really believing that he was here.

“Good evening, madam,” he said, and swept her a bow.

“Brent,” she whispered. In the next instant she stumbled off the bed and into his arms. “Are you really here? I’m not imagining you?” Her hands were clutching at his arms, his shoulders.

“I’m here.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I knew I had to escape, but I didn’t have the strength to dress myself. The candle is nearly gone.”

He held her tightly against him, not speaking for several moments. She was trembling. He felt her sag against him, and lifted her into his arms.

“You don’t have to do anything now,” he said as he set her on the edge of her bed. He lightly cupped her chin in his hand and raised her head. “Will you come with me?”

She looked at him as if he had asked an incomprehensible question. “I thought I was alone,” she said. “Have you really come to take me away from this house?”

“Yes,” he said. “I see that you managed to pack.”

She was clutching at his sleeve. “Please, can we go now? Sometimes, sometimes they look in on me.”

He studied her pale face for a moment. Her eyes were feverishly bright. Her long hair was pulled back and tied with a simple ribbon at the nape of her neck. He lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Sit still.”

She watched him toss her valise out the window. “Now, Byrony, this might be a little tricky. I’m not certain just how strong that damned tree is. Shall we give it a try?”

She nodded, and tried to rise.

“No, no.” He fetched her heavy wool cloak from the armoire and wrapped it around her. “Just hang on.” He lifted her over his shoulder, his arm across the back of her thighs.

Byrony closed her eyes. If this was a dream, she didn’t want to wake up. Not yet. She breathed in the scent of him, felt the strength of him.

A branch cracked. Brent cursed softly, momentarily losing his footing. But Byrony made no sound. She lay over his shoulder as if it were the safest place in the world to be. “Good girl,” he whispered. “We’re almost there.”

He reached the ground and lowered her to her feet. “You’ve lost weight,” he said.

She was leaning against him, his arms supporting her. “So have you.”

“How do you know? You haven’t looked at me.”

“Your face is thinner. Have you been ill too?”

He wanted to laugh, but didn’t. Maybe later. “Come, we’ve got to get away from here, and now.” He picked up her valise.

He lifted her over his shoulder once again. She trusts me, he thought as he walked as quietly as he could toward his stallion. It was a surprising realization, given the way he’d always treated her. No, she’d trusted him before, when she’d come to him that rainy night. He managed somehow to climb on his stallion’s back, holding both her and the valise.

He wanted to know why the hell her husband would want to hurt her. If indeed he had been trying to hurt her. Probably, his thinking continued, because she was going to leave him. The jealous, possessive sort. Maybe Ira was furious because she was taking their child with her. But she’d said nothing about the child, expressed no concern, nothing. He frowned, thinking that the puzzle pieces simply didn’t fit cleanly together. He didn’t understand her or this bizarre situation. And now he was in the middle of it. Irrevocably.

Brent pulled his horse to a halt in the alley behind the saloon. To his complete surprise, Saint came out of the shadows.

“Good evening, Brent,” he said. “I was expecting you a bit sooner, but I guess rescues take a goodly amount of time these days.”

“You sneaky bastard,” Brent said as he carefully dismounted, Byrony in his arms. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew what I was going to do.”

“Sometimes you’re about as transparent as a window-pane. Take her upstairs and put her to bed. I’ll take a look at her while you take your horse back to the stables. I trust no one saw you.”

“No.”

Brent handed Saint the valise, then shifted Byrony into his arms. She leaned her face against his shoulder.

Once she was lying on Brent’s bed, Saint said over his shoulder, “Get out for a while, Brent. Let me examine my patient.”

“Saint? Did I dream it or did you come to see me?”

“I saw you, Byrony,” he said, smiling down at her. “You’ll be well in no time, my child.”

She gave him a weak smile. “Child? Why, you can’t be more than seven years older. Child indeed.”

“All right. Now tell me your symptoms and when they started.”

She looked hesitant for a moment, then said, drawing a deep breath, “I told Ira I wanted to leave him. He agreed. Then that night, after dinner, I didn’t feel particularly well. But last Sunday, I was fine again. Remember I saw you in church?”

“I remember. Did you have an upset stomach, nausea?”

“Yes. Then I started feeling so weak. I didn’t know until after you’d left, I guess, what Ira and Irene were doing. I overheard them arguing.” She closed her eyes a moment, blocking out the horror. “I think they were poisoning me.”

“Yes, I agree,” he said quite calmly. “Doubtless it has to do with the fact—well, never mind that now. Did you eat any dinner? or drink anything?”

“No, nothing.”

“How about something now? I promise to taste it first.”

“I’m not too hungry,” she said.

“In a little while, then. Hold still now.” He gently slipped his hand under her nightgown to her belly. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“How about here?”

She shook her head.

“Good.” He straightened her nightgown and rose. “Ah, here’s your rescuer. She’ll be all right, Brent, I promise.”