“Wouldn’t you like to know what I am going to do with you, Juliana? Where I’m taking you?”
She felt her stomach roiling, and slowly she turned her face away from him. Obviously he didn’t realize what he had admitted. “No,” she said dully, “I don’t want to know.”
For the first time, Jameson felt a bit worried. The girl’s face was deathly pale. He rose slowly, but was wise enough not to approach her now.
“You will rest a bit, Juliana, then we will talk. I would suggest that you remain in this cabin. My men, as you can well imagine, are not always polite gentlemen.”
He strode to the cabin door, looking over his shoulder at her before he left. She hadn’t moved. He frowned. Then he heard the soft, broken sound of her sobbing, and was relieved.
Excellent, he thought as he left the cabin. She’s resilient. She would have to be. He had two weeks to bring her around before they arrived in San Francisco. He wondered, eyes lighting with greed, how much money she would bring him. Then he felt the burning pain in his belly. It came more frequently now, particularly if he were angry or upset, or filled with anticipation, as he was now. He walked from the cabin, kneading his belly and forcing his mind away from the biting pain.
2
San Francisco, California, 1854
“Come on, now, Willie, I’m not cutting your arm off, for God’s sake! Stop your bellowing!”
“It hurts, Saint, bloody bad.”
Saint stared down at the newly stitched gash on Limpin’ Willie’s arm. Good job, he congratulated himself. He picked up a bottle, saw Willie pale with fear, and began to talk. “Did I ever tell you about this stuff, Willie? No? Well, it’s called iodine, and it’s better than whiskey for what ails you. And cheaper. Yes, indeed, it was discovered way back in 1811 by a chap named Courtois, but there’s controversy even about that, of course.” Saint held Willie’s arm over a basin and poured the iodine on the wound. Willie yelped and struggled, but Saint had three times his strength and wasn’t about to ease his hold.
Saint continued calmly holding Willie’s arm in an iron grip while he patted off the excess liquid. “Do you know what ‘iodine’ means, Willie? No? Well, part of it comes from the Greek word ion and it means ‘violet.’ Just look at your arm, as violet as can be. Now, you’ve come out of this not only patched up but educated as well.”
Limpin’ Willie had got his breath and bearings back. He stared down at his purple arm. “Violet, huh, Saint?”
“The ladies will think you look like a bloomin’ flower, Willie.”
Limpin’ Willie gave him a crooked grin, showing the inside of a mouth that contained only half its complement of teeth. “It still hurts like hell, Saint, but I’ll live. Thanks, I owe you one.”
“Actually, you owe me five. Dollars, that is. The rest, I’ll take in a favor down the road.”
“Anything, anytime, Saint.” Willie paid his money and prepared to leave.
“Keep that bandage clean, Willie. And no picking pockets or bashing folk around for a while. And don’t let the wound get dirty. Come back to see me in three days.”
Willie took his leave and Saint stood silently for a moment in the doorway, shaking his head ruefully. Limpin’ Willie was a Sydney Duck—one of that group of men from Australia who were criminals to their toes. But he was harmless as a puppy around Saint. At least Willie had had brains enough to come to him immediately. He shuddered to think what would have happened to that wound had Willie waited even a couple of days. He briefly imagined a one-armed pickpocket, and chuckled grimly.
He left his small house on Clay Street and made his way to Montgomery Street to the Saxton, Brewer and Company bank. Delaney Saxton was in conversation with one of his clerks, and broke off when he saw Saint.
“You’ve saved me, Saint,” he called out. “Old Jarvis here is trying to talk me into something mighty suspicious.”
“Send Jarvis to see Limpin’ Willie. The poor fellow’s out of commission for a while, a gash in his arm probably gained while he was trying to rob somebody. It’ll do him good to use his brain for a change.”
“Patched him up, did you?” Del asked. “I think the Sydney Ducks would elect you mayor if you wanted it. Lord knows there’s enough of them, and all of them in your debt, right?”
“Banking and doctoring, we both collect debts, don’t we, Del? How’s Chauncey?”
“No longer just a mother, thank God,” Delaney said, a satisfied grin on his lips.
“You take it easy, Del, you hear? Little Alexandra is only three months old. You give Chauncey all the rest she needs.”
Delaney Saxton raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I? You know very well that my wife’s insatiable, Saint. I have nothing to say in the matter.” He bumped his fist against his forehead and shook his head. “Good Lord, what a man will tell his doctor! You’re worse than a damned priest!”
Saint laughed, a rumbling sound deep in his massive chest. “Come on, boy, let’s have some lunch. You’re looking peaked.”
“Boy? I’m the same age as you, old man.” Del spoke briefly to his partner, Dan Brewer, then the two men strolled onto Montgomery Street. There was a light blanket of fog, typical for June in San Francisco, and it was chilly enough to appreciate vests under coats. They wove their way through the masses of humanity to Saint’s favorite restaurant, Pierre’s Culinary Establishment.
They both drank beers while waiting for Pierre’s bouillabaisse. “I wonder how Byrony and Brent are doing,” Saint said after a moment.
“Knowing Brent, he won’t write. He’ll just show up in a couple of months, richer than he was when he left. Fact is, he should, of course, what with his father’s plantation to deal with. In Natchez, isn’t it?”
“That’s what Byrony told me. Named Wakehurst. I wonder how the two of them will deal with all the slaves. I can’t imagine Byrony liking the fact that people are actually owned. And Brent’s been away from that kind of life for a long time.”
“Well, I just hope he and Byrony mend their fences while they’re gone. I’d sure like to see them united when they get back.” Del paused a moment, shaking his head. “Ira and his dear half-sister, Irene, are still behaving with a bit of nastiness.”
“You believe in divine justice, Del?” Saint asked.
“Not particularly. Why?”
Saint shrugged. “I think the Butlers are a bit overdue for it. It still upsets me to think of Byrony married to Ira and considered the mother of his half-sister’s child.”
“Incest,” Del said with distaste, “is something I simply don’t understand.”
Saint didn’t reply, his eyes on the huge serving of bouillabaisse Jacques had set in front of him.
Del said in an aggrieved voice, “I got about half as much as you, Saint.”
“Well, you’re about half my size, and besides—”
“I know. Pierre owes you favors.”
“Yeah. Remember when he burned himself real bad a couple of months ago? I accepted payment in food. My housekeeper’s cooking just can’t compete with Pierre’s.”
Delaney laughed and spooned down a bite of the delicious fish stew. They spoke of their mutual acquaintances and compared impressions of new arrivals in San Francisco.
“More and more families, thank heaven,” Saint said. “In a couple of years maybe we’ll be rid of our rough reputation. Never seen so many horny men as in this city.”
“Nor so many happy prostitutes. This is also a town where women can make their fortunes.”
Saint grunted something that Del didn’t understand, but he didn’t ask for enlightenment. Saint didn’t approve of prostitution.
“You want to come over for dinner tomorrow night?” Del asked after a moment. “Chauncey would like to see you, and Alexandra, of course.”
“Sorry, but I’m kind of committed.”
“Ah, the widow Branigan.”
“Jane’s a good sort,” Saint said calmly. “Besides, one of her boys has a bit of a cold.”
“Are
you going to marry her, Saint?”
“You shackled men,” Saint said with mock disgust, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “None of you is happy unless all us carefree bachelors join you.”
“Well, if you had a wife, you wouldn’t have to take favors in food.”
“Just because a woman has different parts, Del, doesn’t mean she can cook.”
Delaney laughed, and toasted Saint with the rest of his beer.
“Looks like you’re a healthy young horse again, Joe,” Saint said, ruffling the towheaded little boy’s hair. “Not to worry, Jane,” he said to Joe’s mother, who was hovering behind him. “The lad’s just fine now.”
“Thank you, Saint.”
But Joe said, “I was hoping I’d get sicker. Mom said you might tell me why you’re called Saint if I was sick enough.”
“Maybe. No luck this time, Joe. What’s that delicious smell, Jane?”
“Bouillabaisse,” she said. “I heard you liked it.”
Saint, who was filled up to his craw with that particular dish, stifled a groan and forced an agreeable smile.
It was close to ten o’clock before Joe and his older brother, Tyler, were finally tucked into their beds upstairs. Saint leaned back in his comfortable chair, his half-closed eyes resting for a moment on Jane Branigan. She was a fine-looking woman, he thought, with her coal-black hair and chocolate-brown eyes. A bit on the plump side, perhaps, but he was a big man, with big hands. The unbidden thought of his big hands covering her ample breasts and hips made him smile and his loins tighten. A man with big appetites.
“I know what you’re thinking, Saint Morris!” Jane leaned down and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You haven’t a subtle bone in your big body.”
“Probably not,” Saint said with a lecherous grin. He pulled her down on his lap and laced his fingers together behind her back. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and he felt himself harden in response. “You’re a fine woman, Jane,” he said, the words rumbling deep in his throat, and leaned her back against his arm to kiss her. She responded with endearing enthusiasm, as she usually did, and before long his fingers were caressing her bare breasts. “Nice,” he murmured. “Very nice indeed.”
He felt her press her buttocks downward against him, and smiled even as he kissed her again, quite thoroughly.
They hadn’t enjoyed each other in nearly a week and Jane discovered that she wanted him as much as he did her. In their urgency, they didn’t consider going to Jane’s bedroom. He took her on the carpet in front of the fireplace, kneading her full hips as he plunged into her warm body.
“Ah, Jane,” he said some minutes later as he watched her face contort with her pleasure. “It pleases me so much when you do that.” Then his huge body tautened as he surged into her.
Jane pulled an afghan over them, then snuggled against Saint’s chest. “It’s been too long,” she said. “That was very nice.”
“An understatement, woman,” he growled, gently nipping her earlobe. “Now, Jane,” he continued as he felt her hand glide down his chest, over his muscled belly. “I’m only a man, after all.”
“Hmm,” she said, caressing him in her hand. “Now, that, my dear, is the understatement.”
It was close to midnight before they were dressed again and sitting at Jane’s small kitchen table drinking tea.
He never spent the night with her because of her boys. Some nights, like tonight, when he was sated and sleepy, he thought fondly of holding her, her arms wrapped around his body.
“How’s our little girl doing, Jane?” he asked, dismissing the thought as he sipped the delicious tea.
“Much better. She wants me to call her Mary, which I do, of course. She worships you, naturally.”
“Excellent, but is her sewing good enough for you?”
“Yes. She’s a bright girl and she wants nothing more than to please. She still likes to stay in the back of the shop, away from the customers, but I expect she’ll gain some confidence soon.”
“It might take a while, since most of your customers are men,” Saint said. “You’ve got three women working for you now, right?”
“Yes, and business is booming. Lord, I think our little shop has made at least two thousand shirts since we opened last year, not to mention more flannel trousers than I care to count.”
Saint pictured the fifteen-year-old Mary—her name in Chinese, he couldn’t begin to pronounce—as she had been two months ago when he had saved her from being sold as a prostitute in a filthy crib down on Washington Street. She had been beaten for her unwillingness, and Saint had examined her carefully while she was unconscious. Luckily, she was still a virgin, but he could imagine that her maidenhead was only a technicality. Poor girl. He sighed, leaning back in the chair. So many poor girls, so many victims.
“I know what you’re thinking, Saint,” Jane said, closing her hand over his forearm. “You’ve done so much. It’s just that the city is so very young and wild and there are so many men and—”
“And many of them rapacious bastards!”
“True, but things are changing, you know. You’re not a rapacious bastard, and neither are many of your friends.”
“Things won’t really change until San Francisco is no longer a city of single men and prostitutes.”
“More families are coming all the time,” Jane said, making Saint recall his own words to Del Saxton. She lowered her eyes to her lap for a moment. “If only Danny had survived . . .”
“I know, Jane, I know. Your husband was doubtless a fine man. He sure picked a fine wife and made fine boys.”
“But some gold wasn’t enough for him,” she said in a voice tinged with bitterness. “If only you’d been in that camp when he came down with pneumonia, things might have been different.”
“I’m not a miracle worker. Now, we’ve talked ourselves into a depression, and that’s no good at all, particularly after what you did to my poor body.” She laughed, as he had known she would. He rose and stretched. Jane eyed him with wistful yearning. He was such a fine specimen of a man, she thought, her fingers tingling with the memory of his smooth flesh, the soft tufts of hair on his chest and belly. She was so lucky to have found him when she had. She watched him stride over to the sink. She loved the way his chestnut hair curled about his ears, the way his hazel eyes narrowed when he was concentrating. And she knew he didn’t love her. They were good together, and, the good Lord knew, he’d helped her more than she could ever repay. Maybe someday, she thought.
“Let me fix this blasted pump, then I’ve got to get home,” he said over his shoulder.
Saint was awakened at three o’clock in the morning by violent knocks on the front door. It was Caesar, from Maggie’s brothel. One of the men, a stranger, had beaten one of her girls.
He cursed and ranted all the way to the Wild Star, Brent Hammond’s saloon. The other half of the large building was a brothel, called Maggie’s.
“Dammit, Maggie,” he shouted as soon as he stepped into her sitting room. “How could you let something like this happen? Which girl got hurt?”
“Victoria,” Maggie said. “The man is dead. Ceaser slit his throat. Come along.”
Oh God, Saint thought as he stared down at Victoria, a pert, vivacious young woman who always had a ready smile for him, except now. One eye was already blackening, her upper lip was split and swollen, and she looked as pale as the sheet covering her.
“Hold still, Victoria,” he said gently as he sat on the bed beside her. “It’s just me, Saint.”
Victoria closed her eyes, biting her lower lip to keep from crying out. His touch was gentle, but she hurt, badly. “Your jaw’s not broken,” Saint said. He pulled down the sheet that covered her. There were teeth marks on her left breast and an ugly bruise over her lower ribs. He probed as gently as he could, feeling her tense. “Try to relax, Victoria. I’ll be done in a minute. Your ribs are fine, but you’re going to hurt for a couple of weeks.”
He drew the sheet lower, and sucked
in his breath. There was blood clotted between her thighs. “Shit,” he said very softly. “Maggie, fetch me some hot water and some clean cloths. Now, Victoria, tell me what the bastard did to you.”
Victoria drew a shuddering breath and whispered, “He hurt me, Saint.”
Dear God, I can see that well enough! “Why are you bleeding? How did he hurt you here?”
He listened to her jerking voice with growing anger. The man had dug his fist into her, tearing her. “He wasn’t normal, Saint, and when I started yelling, he got crazy and hit me more.” She stopped, and burst into tears.
Saint gently stroked her hair from her forehead, muttering soothing sounds to calm her as he waited for Maggie to return with the hot water. “It will be all right, Victoria. Just a few stitches, and you’ll be fine, I promise.” As he spoke, he remembered Maggie asking him once, teasingly, why he didn’t want any of her girls. “I’d go to hell first,” he’d told her, and he meant it. He knew, in all fairness, that Maggie was greatly upset now, for nothing like this had ever happened before. But dammit, something like this should never happen!
“All right, Victoria, I’m going to put you out for a while. It’s just chloroform. You understand me? I just want you to breathe in, deeply. Don’t fight it, now.” She nodded, and closed her eyes as Saint gently placed the dampened cloth with its sweetish liquid over her nostrils.
He carefully stitched the torn flesh, then bathed her and pressed soft cloths against her.
“Thank you, Saint,” Maggie said quietly when he rose. He said nothing until he’d pulled a sheet and blankets over Victoria’s body.
“Would you like a brandy?”
He nodded, still looking down at Victoria. “She won’t be out for much longer. Yes, a brandy is just what I need. Give her a bit of laudanum in water when she wakes up. And have one of the girls stay with her, Maggie.”
He followed her from the room.
“This is damnable, Maggie,” he said as he accepted the brandy snifter from her.
“I know.” He saw the pain in her fine eyes, and just a bit of his anger melted. “I heard her scream, and ran into the room. The man . . . well, I smashed him over the head with a lamp, then called Caesar. The man wasn’t really unconscious and he began struggling. He pulled a derringer, and Caesar killed him. Will she be all right, Saint, truly?”