Wild Star (44 page)

“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.

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 tears 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.”

Byrony clasped her mother’s careworn hands. “There isn’t enough money for you to hire someone to help you?”

“Not yet,” Alice said cheerfully. “But your father has plans, you know.”

“I know,” Byrony said. Things never changed, she thought. Her mother wouldn’t allow her to do anything. She sat at the small kitchen table watching her peel potatoes.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

Alice wheeled around, her tired eyes lighting. You must have been so beautiful once, Byrony thought, pain flowing though her. Was life ever fair?

“That’s wonderful. Oh, my darling girl, let me get you a cup of tea. When? Do you feel well?”

Byrony laughed. “I feel disgustingly healthy. I felt a royal bout of nausea but once, and that was during a storm near Panama that left all the passengers hanging over the railing. I am just fine, Mother. Indeed, the voyage here was depressingly boring, but for that one storm. The baby is due in about five and a half months,” she added, answering another question she saw in her mother’s eyes.

“I’m going to be a grandmother,” Alice said with relish. “How marvelous. Will you remain here, Byrony, until the baby is born?”

She said very gently, “I’m sorry, but I must return to San Francisco. I have an excellent doctor there, Saint Morris is his name. He’ll take very good care of me, I promise you. And I have other good friends as well. One woman, her name is Chauncey, she has a little girl and will help me, I’m certain.”

“But what about Ira?”

“He and Irene don’t bother me. They keep a goodly distance. Actually, Ira is someone to pity. He found himself in a terrible situation and I suppose he did what he thought he had to do to save himself and his half-sister. He does love her, you know.”

“As I said, he still sends money every month.”

“He should,” Byrony said in a clipped voice. “It was part of the agreement.”

“So, you’re back.”

Both women turned at the sneering voice. Madison DeWitt stood in the kitchen doorway, his hands over his chest. He’d added flesh, Byrony thought, observing him, and doubtless he needed to bathe.

“Did your precious husband kick you out?” her father asked, furious at the distaste he saw on her face.

Byrony saw her mother raise her hands in a pleading gesture, and said coldly, “Which precious husband are you referring to?”

“Don’t shoot off your mouth to me, girl.”

“Madison, please—”

“Shut up, Alice. What are you doing here, girl?”

“Visiting my mother.”

“As long as you’re here in my house, you little slut, you’ll keep a respectful tongue in your mouth.”

“She’s pregnant, Madison.”

Byrony suffered in silence while her father ran his leering gaze over her body.

“Whose is this one?”

“Why, I’m really not sure. With a slut, there are so many men. We’ll have to wait to see the child’s features.”

Her father growled, and Byrony smiled. “Such a pity that it can’t be Gabriel’s. You would so much love to have a grandchild who is half Californio, wouldn’t you? Perhaps you could even extort more money from his father.”

“Byrony.”

“Forgive me, Mother,” Byrony said. “There’s no reason for unpleasantness, is there? If your husband will but be reasonably civil, I will be also.”

“Think you’re so above us, don’t you, girl?”

“Certainly not above my mother.”

“Just where is this husband of yours?”

“I’m meeting him in San Francisco.”

Madison gazed down at his hands for a brief moment, but not before Byrony saw the glitter of greed in his eyes.

“So, is the man going to send along money to your parents?”

“If I could be guaranteed that it would belong to my mother, I would send it myself. But you’d never let her see a bit of it, would you?”

“You’re an ungrateful child,” Madison DeWitt said. “Here I am, trying to make a go of things for your mother.”

Ah, she thought, so you’re trying a new ploy. It fit so ill on his shoulders.

“Shall I help you, Mother?” Byrony asked, ignoring her father.

“Yes, please,” Alice DeWitt said, casting a nervous look toward her husband.

“Just what do you expect me to do with that horse of yours? We don’t have any help, you know.”

“Why, I’ll take care of the mare. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself, not after all the hard work I’m sure you’ve done today. Mother, I’ll be back in a moment. Do you mind if I put her in the stable?”

Madison DeWitt shrugged, wheeled about, and left the house.

How, Byrony thought as she stripped the saddle off the mare’s back, could her mother bear that officious man? He’d looked even more dissipated and slovenly than he had the year before. And her mother looked so worn, so bone-tired. At least Charlie wasn’t here. She’d tried to find at least some theoretical caring for her brother in her heart, but there wasn’t any. He was indeed his father’s son.

The baby suddenly moved, and Byrony drew a startled breath. She straightened slowly, smiling. She wondered briefly what Maggie would say when she heard that Byrony would be running Brent’s saloon. Not Brent’s, she added silently. Ours. All three of us.

She was laughing when she returned to the house.

 

She didn’t laugh at night, alone in her narrow bed. Once she awoke in the middle of the night, her breathing heavy, her body alive with sensation. “Damn you, Brent Hammond.” She missed him. He was always present in the back of her mind, emerging when she was least prepared, his beautiful eyes on her face, his marvelous hand stroking her, giving her such pleasure that she wanted to yell from it. What was he thinking? And doing? Was he on his way to San Francisco even now?

Nearly a week later, she rode into San Diego. There would be a ship due, she learned, on the following Friday. She booked passage to San Francisco.

When she returned, her father wasn’t there. He was probably off drinking and playing cards with some of his cronies. She cornered her mother, hugged her tightly, and whispered, “I have some money. If I give it to you, will your husband know?”

“Yes,” Alice DeWitt said simply. “I’d tell him.”

Byrony stepped back, studying her mother’s face. “Why?”

Stupid question, she thought a few moments later, her mother’s litany of his disappointments playing over and over in her mind.

“Come back to San Francisco with me,” she said.

“I’d dearly love to visit you, my dear girl, but—”

“I know. Your husband wouldn’t like it.”

“He needs me, Byrony.”

“What about your needs?”

Her mother looked at her blankly, and Byrony sighed. Was there nothing she could do?

Several evenings later Madison DeWitt didn’t appear for dinner. Byrony was delighted, but Alice was distraught. She kept raising her head at each sound, and wringing her hands.

Maybe he got drunk and his horse threw him in a ditch. Byrony tried to dredge up some guilt for the image, but failed.

He had gotten drunk, but he was far from dead. Byrony heard him the next morning in the front of the house. She heard her mother’s soft, pleading voice. Quickly she buttoned up the fastenings on her gown and rushed downstairs. She stood a moment, frozen.

“You miserable bitch.” Madison DeWitt was yelling at his cowering wife.

“There’s some breakfast for you, Madison. Come inside and rest for a while and eat. You’ll feel better.”

“How the hell is your miserable cooking going to make me feel better? Dammit, woman, I lost all my money in a crooked game.”

Byrony closed her eyes a moment. He wasn’t suffering from a hangover, he was still drunk.

“Please, Madison, come into the house and lie down for a while.” Byrony saw him raise his hand and heave it with all his strength across her mother’s shoulder. She staggered from the force of the blow.