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 heav
e it with all his strength across her mother’s shoulder. She staggered from the force of the blow.
“Lie down? With you? Jesus, it’s all that little slut’s fault. If she weren’t here, you wouldn’t back-mouth me.”
“I’m not, Madison, truly. Please—”
He struck her again, this time with his fist.
“Leave her alone, you godawful bastard.”
Too late, Byrony realized she was facing him down without a weapon to protect herself and the baby. She whirled about and ran back into the house.
“That’s right, slut,” he yelled after her. “Run. I’ll catch you and show you.”
But Byrony was back before he could come after her. She was holding her riding crop.
“Get away from her,” she said in a voice of deadly calm. “If you touch her again, I’ll kill you.”
His eyes narrowed in drunken fury. “You won’t do a damned thing.” Very slowly he pulled back his arm to strike her mother again.
Byrony saw red. She rushed toward him, the riding crop raised.
“You touch me, girl, and I’ll see that you don’t birth more than a clot of blood.”
The riding crop came down against his neck and chest.
“You filthy scum.” She struck again with all her strength across his belly. He fell back screaming. She struck again, laying open his cheek. He was yelling, rolling in the dirt, clutching his face.
“Byrony, please don’t hurt him.”
She turned blankly at her mother’s words. She was holding her arm, tears flowing down her face, and still she wanted to protect him.
And I want to kill him.
The stark, clear thought brought her up short. If she struck him again, she’d be as bad as he was. If she struck him again, her mother would hate her, blame her forever. It was all too ridiculous, and too sad. She flung the riding crop away from her.
“I hope you die, but I won’t kill you,” she said.
“I’m going to beat the hell out of you,” Madison DeWitt staggered to his feet.
Suddenly there came the sound of loud clapping.
Byrony turned slowly to see her husband standing but a few feet away. For an instant she didn’t believe it was really he.
“I’m proud of you, Byrony,” he said, smiling at her. He turned toward her gaping father. “As for you, if you raise a hand to my wife or her mother, I will kill you, with great pleasure.”
“Who the hell—You aren’t supposed to be here.”
“Leave my wife unprotected with her loving father? Not a chance, old man. I think it’s time you sobered up.”
Brent grabbed her father by the collar of his shirt and the seat of his pants. He dragged him, cursing furiously, and dumped him into the horse’s watering trough.
“That’s your husband?” Alice DeWitt said.
“Yes,” Byrony said with great relish. “That’s my husband.” She burst into laughter.
The two women watched as Brent dunked Madison DeWitt repeatedly, then hauled him out. “He’ll be just fine, ma’am,” Brent called to Alice as he dragged Madison DeWitt to the stable. “He just needs to sleep awhile.”
“I’m sorry, Alice,” Brent said some minutes later to Byrony’s mother, “but he truly does need to rest a bit.”
“Probably,” Alice said, looking toward the stable. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Hammond?”
“Brent, ma’am. Yes, I think I would.”
“Mother,” Byrony said, “if it’s all right with you, I’d like to speak to Brent for a moment.” She said nothing more until her mother disappeared into the house. “I’m surprised she didn’t run after you and attack you for hurting her sweet husband.”
“It’s her life, Byrony. Leave it be. There’s nothing you can do.”
“What are you doing here?”
He heard the uncertainty in her voice, and forgot his anger at her. Actually, by the time he’d reached Panama, he’d felt so damned proud of her, he couldn’t wait to see her. He was certainly right when he’d told Laurel that Byrony would never bore him. He smiled down at her. “Well, I figured it would be the gentlemanly thing to do to escort my wife from San Diego to San Francisco.”
“I don’t need your escort.” She raised her chin. “You know very well what I’d planned to do, Brent. I meant it. After all, the saloon is mine and the baby’s too.”
“You did, did you? Well, I just might let you, love. Follow through with your plans, that is. I’ll have more than enough to do to keep me busy.”
“What do you mean by that?” She eyed him suspiciously.
“Later, Byrony. I’ll tell you later.”
They left San Diego three days later, with Byrony humming to herself. Brent was as slippery as the proverbial eel. But it didn’t matter. Let him be as silent as a clam. Let him play with her, joke, and tantalize. She kept asking him to explain things to her, and when he put her off, she lowered her head so he wouldn’t see her wicked smile when he kept saying “later” to her.
She waved to her mother from the deck of the Flying Billy. She drew back, startled, when her father appeared suddenly beside her mother and waved to them.
“What the devil is he doing here?” she wondered aloud.
“I imagine Madison DeWitt is a happy man,” Brent said.
“What do you mean by that?” She smiled impishly back up at him. “I know. You’ll tell me later.”
“That’s right.”
Their cabin was small, holding but one narrow bed and a tiny armoire, and a caned chair.
“This is the best I could do for the three of us,” Brent said, tossing his coat on the single chair.
Byrony eyed her husband from a distance of three feet, her arms crossed over her bosom. “Well?”
“Aren’t you going to tell me how deliriously happy you are to have me with you again? All to yourself, as it were.”
“I’ll contain my delirium.” Her heart was pounding with excitement.
Brent unbuttoned his vest and shirt. “I hope you aren’t hungry.”
“Why?”
“I don’t intend to let you out of that bed for quite a while, that’s why.”
“Brent, you are the most contrary man. You’re acting like a man with nothing more on his mind than—”
She couldn’t find the right words for her comparison.
“Hush, woman. I’ll tell you everything you want to know after I’ve loved you silly.”
Byrony had no intention of arguing. “Just know for the moment, Byrony,” he said against her mouth, “that I love you, and if you ever leave me again, I’ll—”
“What?” she said, grinning up at him.
“Later,” he said, his hand caressing her throat. “I’ll tell you later.”
“How ever did you manage that?” Byrony asked, her eyes on the trays of food delivered by a steward some three hours later.
“My charm,” Brent said. He placed the trays between them on the bed. “While you regain your strength—here’s some chicken—I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
Byrony bit into the roast chicken breast. “I would like to know if there is some salt for the chicken.”
He looked taken aback. “So,” he said, “all I ever have to do in the future when you become recalcitrant is throw you on your back.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s about it, I suspect. The salt, please.”
“Dammit, Byrony, don’t you want to know about everything?”
She was eyeing one of the trays. “Can I have a slice of that delicious-looking bread?”
“Here,” he said, and tossed it to her.
Some minutes later, Brent interrupted her enthusiastic description of her voyage to San Diego. “Are you nearly through?”
“Why, yes. The chicken was marvelous, the carrots were nice and crisp just as I like them, and—”
“Enough.”
Byrony looked at him beneath her lashes, then fell back onto the pillows, laughing.
Brent put t
he dinner remains to the floor, then stretched himself beside his still-giggling wife. “Is your strength back up, Brent?”
“You’re no lady,” he said.
“Aren’t you glad?”
“I’ll be glad only when you let me tout all my greatness to you.”
“You sold Wakehurst, freed all the Wakehurst slaves, gave them each money, and brought many of them to California. You’re going to buy a ranch south of San Francisco and start your own town, replete with black citizens. You gave Laurel the proceeds from the sale and sent her on her way, her pockets well lined. I imagine that you arranged for my mother to have help, and hired a man to deliver money to their house. Is there anything else?”
“I went to bed with Laurel, for old times’ sake.”
“No, you didn’t. And Josh is in charge of all the former slaves.”
“May I ask how you know all this?”
“You talked in your sleep. As for getting money to my mother without my father getting his greedy hands on it, I figured that out for myself.”
“Damn,” he said. He rested his hand on her rounded belly, his eyes thoughtful. “No one has ever told me I talk in my sleep before, and in such splendid detail.”
“You didn’t. However, after I’ve loved you silly, I’ll tell you about that letter I found from Mr. Milsom and shamelessly read.”
“All my array of good deeds, designed to prove to you that I’m not really such a bad sort of fellow after all.”
“I’d decided you weren’t a bad sort the moment I saw you applauding at my parent’s house. Indeed, even though you’ve been closemouthed as a cat these past three days, I’ve decided to forgive you. I’ve decided also that you simply can’t live without me. So my one good deed is to be your loving wife and keep you on the straight and narrow. Just what do you think of that, Brent Hammond?”
“I repeat,” he said slowly, “you are no lady.”
Catherine Coulter, Wild Star
(Series: Star Quartet # 3)
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