Wild Star (21 page)

“Why does she look so pale?”

“She’s been in bed for five days, hasn’t eaten today, has some kind of poison in her system. I think that about covers it.”

“I’m going to kill that bastard.”

“No. Please, Brent, don’t tell him where I am. Please.”

For a man who appeared by word and attitude at least to despise this particular woman, Brent, in Saint’s eyes, looked stricken. He watched his friend sit beside her and take her hand between his large ones. “No, I won’t. You must rest now, Byrony. Get your strength back. We’ll decide once you’re well again what we’re going to do.”

“All right.” Byrony paused a moment. “I’m not alone anymore,” she whispered, more to herself than to Brent.

“No,” Brent said, “you’re not.”

She raised her hand and tentatively touched her fingertips to his jaw. “You need to eat something, Brent. Are you certain you haven’t been ill?”

Brent heard a chuckle from Saint and said, “No, not at all. I’ll tell you what, Byrony. I’ll get us both some hot soup, something nourishing. All right?”

“Yes, all right,” she said. “I don’t think I would have managed to ride to San Jose tonight.”

Saint stayed to make certain the chicken soup, Maggie’s own private recipe, didn’t make her sick. He looked rather pleased with himself when he left an hour later.

“Thank you,” Byrony said.

“I’ll call on you tomorrow, Byrony. You sleep now.”

“She’ll be asleep in ten minutes,” Brent answered for her. In fact, she was asleep when Brent returned to the bedroom after seeing Saint on his way. He stood over the bed a moment, staring down at her still face. What the hell have I done? He laughed softly at himself.

 

“I don’t bloody believe it. That bastard.”

“It would appear that he’s anxious to have her back, that and to cover his tracks,” Saint said.

Maggie looked toward the closed bedroom door “Where did you hear it, Saint?”

“From Del Saxton. He told me that Ira was frantic, telling everyone that his poor wife is suffering from female delusions—crazy, in other words. He’s offered a huge sum of money for information about her. The poor child, he says, must be confined for her own protection. Hints of violence to herself, and all that. Pretty smart of old Ira, I’d say.”

“The bastard,” Brent said again.

“I just don’t understand any of this,” Maggie said.

Saint merely shrugged.

“Well, Brent,” Maggie said, turning to him, “it looks like you’ve set yourself firmly in the middle of this mess. What are you going to do?”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion. Any ideas?”

“First, obviously,” Saint said, “Byrony has to get well again. I don’t suppose you want to send her on her way until then, right, Brent?”

“I’m not a monster.” Actually, he had no intention of letting her leave, ever.

“Of course you’re not,” Maggie said, shooting a surprised glance toward Saint. “You rescued her. That was very noble of you, Brent.”

Saint rose. “Well, I’ve got other patients. I hope we can keep Byrony’s whereabouts a well-kept secret.”

“Can you imagine Ira ever thinking that his wife was in bed in a saloon, next to a brothel?”

“Good point, Maggie. Brent, keep feeding her whenever she wakes up. And Brent, no arguments, all right? You know,” he said from the doorway, “I think Del might be a help to us in this situation. What do you think, Brent?”

“I agree, but let’s give it a few days before we speak to him.”

 

Byrony slept twelve hours. Deeply and dreamlessly. When she awoke, she stretched under the covers, queried her body, and received a painless response.

“Good. You’re finally back to the land of the living.”

She opened her eyes and smiled at Brent. “I feel marvelous, I think,” she said. “Is that food you’ve got? I’m starving.”

She pulled herself to a sitting position. “Brent,” she said, her voice tight with embarrassment, “could you leave, please?”

“Leave?” he said, frowning down at her. “Whatever for?” Then he understood and grinned. “I’m pleased that you’re functioning again. I’ll be in the other room. Call me if you need anything.”

She discovered she was still a bit weak, but she managed to relieve herself without accident. She stared at herself for a moment in the small mirror above Brent’s dresser.

“You look just fine. Come back to bed now.”

She ate everything he gave her—the warm crusty bread piled with butter, the chicken soup, the thick cocoa.

She sighed, and leaned back against her pillows. “If I die now, it will be with a smile on my face,” she said.

“No dying. I forbid it.”

“It would ruin all the nice things you’ve done for me, wouldn’t it?”

“Very true,” he said.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you rescue me? I didn’t think you—well, you’ve never given me any reason to believe that—I don’t understand you, Brent.”

“Ah, Saint forced me into it. Convinced me that I should start paving my own private Christian road to heaven. What could I do but agree?”

“Oh.”

He leaned down and wound a lock of hair around his finger. He heard her breathing quicken and felt a jolt of lust so powerful he pulled back abruptly, yanking her hair. She yelped. “I’m sorry,” he said, and turned away from her. His desire for her was evident, and he didn’t want her to believe that he’d saved her just so he could have her in his bed. Why
had
he saved her? Brent shook his head, and said over his shoulder, “Anytime you would like to talk about all this mess, I’m willing to listen. In fact, Byrony, I demand to know just what I’ve gotten myself into.”

He turned then, but her eyes were lowered, staring at her clasped hands in her lap. “You’ve gotten yourself into nothing,” she said finally. “I will leave just as I had originally planned. You will not be involved.”

“Damn you, I am involved. Don’t you prattle at me as if I’m some stranger off the street who just happened to pull you out of the window of your house.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And don’t give me that ridiculous whipped-dog routine. Just tell me the truth, Byrony. That’s all I ask. That night I dragged you in out of the rain—what were you doing? What had happened to you?”

“It doesn’t concern you, Brent. Please. I’m very tired. I plan to leave tomorrow.”

He stared at her, feeling utterly infuriated and utterly helpless. “I fully intend to beat you when you’re well,” he said, then turned on his heel and walked from the room.

Maggie brought her dinner that evening. She arched a brow at Byrony, saying, “Whatever did you say to Brent? He’s in a snit again.”

“He wants to know things,” Byrony said. Her chin went up at Maggie’s chuckle. “They’re really none of his business.”

“Well, I won’t ask any questions. Would you like to get out of that bed to eat your dinner? I imagine you’re feeling quite bored by now.”

“That would be wonderful,” Byrony said, and slipped out of bed. “Saint said as far as he could tell I was just fine now.”

“Here, put on Brent’s dressing gown. It’s just a bit chilly in here. After dinner, would you like a bath?”

“Indeed I would.” Byrony pulled Brent’s dressing gown around her. It was as if part of him were next to her. His scent was in the velvet, and for a moment she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes.

Maggie watched her closely, a small smile tilting up the corners of her mouth. This
affliction,
as Brent acidly referred to Byrony Butler, appeared to be shared. Her smile disappeared. The girl was going to be badly hurt. Whatever women were in Brent’s past, they’d made him wary and untrusting. But he had saved her, twice. He must feel something for her.

“What do you mean, he’s in a snit again?” Byrony asked as she chewed on a bit of roast chicken.

“Did I say that? Oh dear, I should learn to keep my mouth closed.”

Byrony gazed at her expectantly.

“Oh well, after you left here the first time, he was like the proverbial bear with a thorn in his paw. You appear to have the ability to disturb him excessively.”

“Yes, but it isn’t my fault, truly, Maggie. He thinks I’m an awful person. No, it’s true, he really believes that. He’s done nothing but insult me since I saw him again.”

“Again?”

“I saw him first in San Diego. We didn’t exactly meet, but we did speak for a little while. I thought he was a very nice man.” She sighed. “So much has happened since then.”

Brent paused in the sitting room just beyond the open bedroom door. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but he was. He straightened, walked into the bedroom. “Ladies,” he said. “Maggie, you have some customers. I’ll stay with Mrs. Butler for a while.”

Maggie rose and shook out her deep wine velvet skirts. “Never keep a customer waiting,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Byrony, I’ll send Caesar over with some hot water for your bath. Brent, try to maintain a veneer of civility, all right?”

“Thank you, Maggie,” Byrony called after her. “She’s a very nice person,” she continued to Brent. “She’s been so kind to me.”

“But surely you disapprove of her business?” He had to keep his distance from her, so he moved quickly to lean his shoulder against the mantelpiece.

She continued eating her dinner. “I suppose,” she said at last, “that men are very different from women. Actually, I’d never really thought about things like that before.”

“How odd, I would have sworn that it was one of your major concerns.”

“You
are
in a snit,” Byrony said. She shrugged, and waved her fork at him. “Actually, I feel more comfortable when you act sarcastic. When you’re nice, I don’t know what to do or say.”

He cursed.

I thought only my father knew those kinds of words. And my brother, of course.”

He frowned at her, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’ll see that your bathwater arrives. Do you need any help?” His question was innocuous to begin with, until his mind gave him a vivid picture of her naked in his bathtub with him looking on.

“No, I’ll be all right.”

“Good. I’m relieved that you’re looking so fit.”

“Yes. I should be well enough to leave tomorrow.”

“I doubt I’ll be that lucky. Do I next rescue you in San Jose?”

Her chin went up. “I have only one favor to ask of you, Mr. Hammond. I have no money—”

“What very poor planning on your part. I would have thought that you’d saved quite a bit by now. Married nearly a year, right? Ira wasn’t such a besotted fool, then?”

“—but I do have a very valuable necklace that I will have to sell.”

“So you did manage to get something out of him?”

“Yes, a Christmas present. I would appreciate it if you would sell the necklace for me.”

“Perhaps I can sell it back to your husband. Better yet, perhaps I should have a talk with your husband. Ask him why he came to detest his bride in such a short time. At least that’s the way it seems. He wants you back only to have you shut up away from the world.”

She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“Saint told me that your precious husband is spreading the tale that you’re suffering from delusions, female hysteria, that sort of thing. Says you’re a danger to yourself and should be confined for your own good.”

She was silent for many moments, her eyes on the roasted chicken on her plate. “Irene,” she said. “It must be Irene’s doing.”

“Is he right?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you are the most maddening female it has ever been my misfortune to meet. I’ll see you later, much later.”

He walked from the bedroom without a backward glance. She heard the door to the sitting room slam.

Brent stood by Nero, his assistant, a huge black man who’d lost his right ear at the hands of his owner in Georgia. He trusted Nero as much as Maggie trusted his brother, Caesar. Both men had managed to escape and make their way to California the year before.

Business was good. But then, it always was. There was one fight, and the two combatants were quickly and efficiently hauled outside by Nero. Brent roamed about the huge room. He didn’t want to gamble, nor did he want to drink. He wanted to go upstairs and make love to Byrony. There, he’d finally admitted it to himself, brought it into the open. What difference could it make, anyway? He had saved her. Didn’t she owe him?

He shook his head. He was being a crude bastard. He felt himself stiffen suddenly. Through the front swinging doors walked Ira Butler with Stephan Bannion, a lawyer and business associate. Brent’s eyes glittered. He walked to the table where the two men had just sat down.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to the Wild Star. Your first time here, Butler. Have you come to try your luck?”

Bannion answered, “Old Ira needed some cheering up. How ’bout some of your whiskey, Hammond?”

Brent signaled the bartender, then turned back to the two men. He studied Ira Butler. He did look depressed as hell. Brent’s eyes fell to Ira’s pale, narrow hands, an aristocrat’s hands, he thought, and saw those long fingers stroking over Byrony’s body. “What’s the problem, Butler?” he asked. “Oh, I forgot. It’s your poor wife, isn’t it?”

Ira felt furious and utterly helpless. He wished he hadn’t allowed Stephan to drag him here. He’d gone over and over it in his mind. She obviously had escaped out her bedroom window. But where had she gone? She hadn’t taken her mare. Someone had to have helped her. But who? Why? He’d sent one of his men to Saint’s house, but she hadn’t been there. Was Saint hiding her somewhere? Had some of the city scum caught her and killed her? His head ached. He became aware that Hammond was talking about Byrony, and blinked. “My wife? Oh yes, my wife.”

“The poor demented girl,” Stephan Bannion said, shaking his head. “We’ve looked everywhere. Still no sign, no word of her.”