Wild Star (42 page)

“And drinking for days too, it appears. You have no business here, finished or unfinished. Now, Mr. Paxton, if you will please leave—”

He grabbed her mare’s rains as he laughed, a laugh that scared her to her toes. Like a villain in a silly melodrama. No, her father sometimes sounded like that. Before he became violent. This was real, all too real. Her mind cleared suddenly and she stared at him. Before, he’d always looked the gentleman at least, well-dressed, outwardly polite. But now he looked as though he hadn’t slept or bathed in weeks. His face was covered with scraggly whiskers, and his eyes were rimmed in red.

“Byrony.” He said her name, savoring it. “Odd name, but it’ll do, I suppose. We’re going to be too close for last names, my dear.”

“Mr. Paxton, you’re behaving with no sense at all. I suggest that you take your leave. My husband wouldn’t be pleased were he to discover you on his property.”

“You’re right, of course,” he agreed as he swiped his hand across his mouth. “I’m glad that you feel so strongly about me, Byrony. Most women do. Come along, now.”

She could only stare at him. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said slowly, calmly. “Indeed, I’m going to continue my ride alone, then return home. Now, give me the reins.”

She stretched out her gloved hand, but he made no move, merely smiled at her. She swallowed, thought of her child.

“I prefer white women,” he said. “But I wanted that little Lizzie. So young, and a virgin. But not any longer, is she? You married her off quickly enough to that brute Josh.” His eyes narrowed and his voice grew venomous. “I wanted to plow that girl, and oh yes, Byrony, she would have loved it. A white man taking her, not some stupid brute.”

“Josh is not a brute. He loves Lizzie. And you’re drunk, Mr. Paxton.”

“Not that drunk, my dear,” he said, and leaned over toward her.

Without conscious decision, Byrony raised her riding crop and brought it down with all her strength against his arm. He yelped in pain and jerked back. At that moment, Byrony kicked her heels into her mare’s sides and grabbed for the reins as Paxton dropped them. But she missed them.

She leaned over her mare’s neck, stretched for the dangling reins. She knew she must turn the mare back, back toward the house.

She heard Paxton behind her, and swiveled in the saddle to see him gaining on her.

I shouldn’t be riding at a gallop, she thought, I might hurt the baby. The mare stumbled. Byrony clung to the pommel, feeling more helpless than she ever had in her life. She felt Paxton’s arm close around her waist and lift her. Her first thought was that he’d saved her from falling, saved her child.

He slammed her face down in front of him, and she smelled horse and sweat and dirty leather. She felt his fingers on her hips, pressing against her through her layers of clothes.

“You damned fool,” she shouted, trying to rear up. “Get your hands off me.”

“Shut up, you little bitch.”

She did. If it weren’t for the child, she knew she’d be fighting him wildly. Instead, she lay quietly, hoping the galloping horse wouldn’t harm the child.

To her surprise, Paxton suddenly jerked his horse to a stop. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she heard her mare snort, heard Paxton slap the mare’s rump.

“There,” he said, and she wondered at the satisfaction in his drunk voice.

They rode for what seemed an endless period of time to Byrony. She tasted dirt.

When he finally reined in, they were in front of a small shack, a rickety excuse for a house, which looked as if no one had come near it for a decade.

She didn’t fight him as he pulled her down from the horse’s back.

“Ain’t exactly Wakehurst, but it’ll do,” Paxton said more to himself than to her. “Come along, Byrony.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting the pain as he twisted her arm up behind her.

The door was hanging on its hinges, and Byrony wondered why it didn’t fall off when Paxton kicked it open.

He released her, and she stood quietly for a moment, getting her breath, trying to think. It was a single room. Rotted wooden planks heaved upward or sank down into the dirt foundation. There was a single bed, a rough wooden table, and two chairs. There were two windows, one of them without glass, and the door.

Byrony drew a deep, steadying breath and turned to face Frank Paxton.

“Why did you bring me here?”

He didn’t pay any attention to her. He walked to the table, picked up a jug, and raised it to his mouth. She watched, her stomach knotting, as the raw-smelling whiskey dribbled down his chin.

He slammed the jug down on the table, then turned to her, a wide grin on his face.

“I brought you here, my fine little lady, to plow you until you beg me to stop. That or you beg me to continue.”

For a moment she didn’t comprehend what he’d said. When she did, she wasn’t afraid, oddly enough. She was furious.

“Don’t be a damned fool,” she shouted at him, hands on her hips. “Look, Mr. Paxton, my husband will be very worried about me. I don’t like you, but I don’t want you to be killed. And he will kill you if you attempt to touch me. Now, I’m leaving.”

“Like hell you are.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her around, pressing her against him. “I used to look at you, you know, and wonder what you had for me underneath your pretty little dresses. Now I’m gonna see for myself. Oh yes, I’m gonna see for myself now.”

His words were slurred, and although his grip on her was strong, she knew he was very drunk. She felt his hands all over her.

“You like it already,” he said, kissing her cheek, biting her neck. Suddenly his entire body seemed to go slack, and she heard him curse.

He released his hold on her and shoved her over to the sagging bed. “I need me some time,” he said, and pushed her down onto her back. Byrony bounced up, ready to fight, but all she saw was his fisted hand. It hit her jaw, and she saw nothing more.

 

She opened her eyes very slowly, aware of an odd ringing in her head. She wanted to sit up, but couldn’t. She jerked on her arms, only to realize that he’d tied her wrists above her head to the rough wooden bedposts. She wanted to yell at the top of her lungs for help. Then she stopped, realizing that she was still clothed. He hadn’t raped her.

Very slowly she turned her head, ignoring the pain in her jaw, and saw Paxton slouched at the table, the jug beside him, his head pillowed in his arms. He was snoring loudly.

She lay back and gave an experimental tug to the ropes about her wrists. They tightened painfully, but she heard the bedposts give a creaking, straining sound.

She tugged again, her eyes on Paxton’s back. She heard him groan, and froze.

 

Drew ran up the walk, shouting to Brent, “Wait. Her horse just came back to the stable.”

Brent quickly dismounted and turned toward his brother. He saw Byrony thrown in his mind’s eye, saw her lying in a pool of blood after she’d lost the child. Her face was waxen and she was dying. Like Joyce Morgan had died all those years ago while he’d held her hand, watching, helpless.

“Look, Brent.”

“What the hell is that?”

“A note,” Drew said, drawing up beside his brother.

Brent grabbed the single piece of paper. “I already took her, Hammond,” he read. “She loved it. She wants to go away with me.”

It was signed
Paxton
. “No!” It was a howl of rage.

“What is it? What’s happened to Byrony?”

Brent ignored Laurel and said to Drew, “Paxton has taken her, that damned bastard.”

What an ambiguous way to say it, Brent thought. He became aware of a roar of voices and looked around to see all the house slaves clustering on the veranda, all of them talking at once. He shook his head. He barked at Jemmy, one of the stableboys, “Go fetch me Josh, at once.”

“What will you do, Brent?” Laurel asked.

“I’m going to find the bastard and kill him. Slowly. Drew, come with me to the study.”

The two men pored over a map. “I bet he’s not left Wakehurst property,” Brent said. “Nor can I see Paxton sleeping under a maple tree. He’s somewhere here, I know it, probably in an abandoned shack.”

Drew, who realized all too well the extent of the Wakehurst lands, closed his eyes a moment. They might as well find a haystack and search it.

Josh appeared some ten minutes later, his face calm, his brown eyes as cold as a winter’s night. “Tell me what’s happened,” he said, his eyes locked on Brent’s face.

 

Frank Paxton felt like all the demons in hell were cavorting in a mad dance through his head. He lurched to his feet, nearly knocking over the table, and rushed outside to be vilely sick.

He groaned and cursed and clutched his belly.

Byrony heard him and knew time was short. She gave a mighty tug, using the strength of her shoulders, and one of the rotted bedposts broke off.

Frank Paxton staggered into the shack, wishing he’d never seen that damned peddler who’d sold him that raw whiskey. Poison, that’s what it was. He’d forgotten entirely about Byrony Hammond until he managed to lurch through the door.

He looked through bleary eyes toward the bed. How the hell was he supposed to rape her when all he wanted to do was die? His gaze sharpened. She was gone.

He spewed out curses in surprise, and in the next instant he felt a blow on his head. He crumpled to the floor.

Byrony stared down at him and tried to calm her breathing as she lowered her bedpost club. What a pitiful sight he was. She carefully set the thick bedpost on the table and bent down beside him, feeling for his pulse. Oh no, she whispered to herself. The wretched man was in a bad way. She straightened, a frown on her face. What was she to do? At least he was in no condition to harm a mosquito. It took all her strength, but she managed to pull him to the bed. She shoved and heaved until he was sprawled on his back. She stepped back to think. She must get Brent. But Brent would probably kill him. He was a miserable excuse for a man, but she didn’t want to see him dead.

There was a lump on the side of his head the size of an egg now from her blow. “Stupid man,” she said.

There was no choice. She had to go for help.

She pulled a blanket over him and left the shack.

 

Brent gazed about at the three different groups of men in the search party. But it was getting late, soon it would be dark. He felt rage sear through him as he again saw Paxton’s words in his mind.

Suddenly one of the blacks let out a shout.

Brent turned from Josh to see Byrony riding like a wild woman toward him. She nearly jumped into his arms before she’d stopped the horse. He caught her, holding her so tightly that she thought her ribs would crack. “I’m all right,” she said over and over against his shoulder.

He eased his death grip on her and became aware of her appearance. Her hair was flying about her face and down her back. Her riding habit was dirty and ripped. He felt his blood run cold.

“Byrony,” he said.

“I’m all right, Brent,” she said, seeing the shock in his eyes. “I’m all right, I swear it.”

“Where is Paxton?” Drew asked.

“How did you know about Paxton?” she asked.

“He was obliging enough to send me a note attached to your mare’s saddle. He said he’d raped you.”

“Poor stupid man,” Byrony said.

“What?”

Never had Byrony heard such outrage in one word. “He didn’t touch me, Brent,” she said.

“How the hell did you get away from him?”

“He took me to an old shack, tied me down to the bed, and fell asleep because he was so drunk. I ripped out the bedpost and hit him when he woke up. He’s very sick, Brent, and needs a doctor.”

“What he needs, the filthy scum, is a visit to the devil.”

There was no mistaking the rage in his voice. Indeed, his entire body was vibrating with it.

“No,” she said very clearly. “Don’t kill him. He’s far too pitiful to kill.”

Brent looked down into his wife’s composed face. He said very slowly, very softly, “Where is this shack?”

She told him.

“Go inside and rest. I will come to you later.”

She watched as Brent, Drew, and Josh mounted and rode away. Each man was carrying a rifle.

“God, you’re just like a cat.”

Byrony turned to face Laurel. “You would have preferred that he raped me?”

“It looks like he did,” Laurel said. “You’re a mess.”

“Well, he didn’t, and a bath will take care of the rest.”

Why was she worried about Frank Paxton? Byrony wondered for the dozenth time as she paced the bedroom waiting for Brent to return. She realized that it wasn’t Paxton that worried her, but Brent. She didn’t want to be responsible for violence. She didn’t want him to commit murder. But she would have killed Paxton if she’d had to.

What a damnable coil.

“Byrony.”

She whipped about to see Brent in the doorway. She flew at him and flung her arms about his back. “I’ve been so worried,” she said, stroking her hands over his beloved face, over his shoulders, and down his arms.

“Are you all right, truly?”

“Yes,” she said, pressing herself close. He pushed her back.

“I didn’t kill Paxton,” he said.

She gave a sigh of relief.

“You were right. He was the most pitiful sight I’ve seen in a long time. Drew and Josh took him into Natchez to Doc Harrison. He’ll probably live.”

“Good,” Byrony said.

His eyes narrowed on her face. “Did he fondle you?”

“Just a bit when he had me over the saddle, but it was nothing too dreadful. I was too worried about the baby, you see.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, quickly recalling his anger at his wife after his worry was under control, “the baby. May I ask what you were doing riding out? And by yourself?”