Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

  He pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “It’s strange,” she continued after a moment of silence. “I really thought you different from other men when I met you in San Diego. But I guess that was foolish of me, wasn’t it? Mr. Hammond, the truth of the matter is that—”

  “Is what?” His voice was harsh.

  She cocked her head to one side, and she looked so innocent, so sweet with that damned little feather arching over her cheek, that he wanted for a brief instant to beg her forgiveness.

  “If I did what you wished, would you stop hating me?”

  He stared at her, no words coming to mind.

  “Please, I’m only trying to understand. I cannot think why you feel it necessary to insult me every time we meet. I really don’t understand why you would want me to—that is, what you want is so intimate. Why would a man want intimacy with a woman he despises?”

  “I don’t despise you.”

  “You’ve a strange way of showing liking then, Mr. Hammond.”

  “Brent.”

  She sighed. “Very well, Brent.”

  “I don’t dislike you,” he said, trying to get a grip on himself, but failing. “Dammit, I despise what you’ve done. You talk about not understanding. Well, I don’t understand why women sell themselves, and why they lie and cheat. Why they feel they must play games and tease men. Does it give you a sense of power to know that men desire you?”

  “I have no power at all,” she said. “As for what I’ve done, I had no choice. It was out of my hands.”

  “Ah, yes. Once his seed was planted in your belly, it certainly was.”

  Slowly she said, “Mr. Hammond—Brent—please, no more. As you once said to me, I’ve made my bed and now must lie in it. I sincerely doubt that happiness has anything to do with real life, but I would like peace. Won’t you please just leave me alone?”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” He raked his fingers through his hair, his frustration mounting. “You’re like a wretched sickness, and I doubt I can be cured until I’ve had you in every sense a man can possess a woman.”

  “So,” she said slowly, “if I give myself to you, you will leave me alone?”

  He wanted to fling her onto the sand and rip off her clothes. He wanted to shake her and tell her to stop acting like a wanton. He wanted—

  “Brent?”

  “Go to hell, Byrony,” he said, rigid with fury, both at himself and at her.

  “I’m already there,” she said, and turned to walk across the sand to her mare.

  ELEVEN

  “It’s beautiful, Ira. Thank you.”

  Byrony lifted the thick chignon at the nape of her neck to allow her husband to fasten the exquisite pearl-and-diamond necklace about her throat.

  He kissed her gently on the forehead and said, “Merry Christmas, Byrony. You look lovely indeed.”

  Byrony wanted to laugh when Ira presented Irene with a very similar necklace, one of sapphires and diamonds. Poor man. He tried so hard to keep his half-sister content. Yet with me here, it’s impossible, she wanted to tell him. She’d made Ira a shirt, her careful stitches small and exquisite, just as Aunt Ida had taught her. Irene had bought her brother a beautiful Spanish leather saddle. Her own gift, in comparison, was meager indeed, but she had no money.

  Eileen and Naomi served them steaming mugs of buttered rum, and received, in turn, their presents. Byrony sat back to watch Irene playing with Michelle while she unwrapped the baby’s many gifts. The baby gurgled happily and waved pieces of the gay wrapping paper in her hands. Irene is an excellent mother, Byrony thought. How would I feel if I had to pretend to others that my child weren’t my own?

  Ira laughed at the baby’s antics.

  “She looks more and more like Irene every day,” he said, “except for that mop of blond hair.”

  Yes, Byrony thought. The shape of the baby’s face was Irene’s, and the dark brown eyes.

  Irene opened Byrony’s present to Michelle, a tiny hand-sewn ribboned petticoat.

  “She is much too young, of course,” Irene said, and tossed the small garment aside.

  So much for the goodwill at Christmastime, Byrony thought.

  There were only the three of them for Christmas dinner. It was a delicious meal—a stuffed goose, fresh green beans, potatoes, and Naomi’s rendition of a Christmas pudding. Irene sat next to Ira, the baby on her lap.

  Here I am alone in splendid solitude, Byrony thought, gazing down the long expanse of dining table. She supposed, honestly, that this Christmas was more pleasant than the previous one. Her father had gotten drunk and her brother had gone off with some of his worthless friends to gamble. And her mother, of course, had said nothing.

  Ira had also given her a book for Christmas, a collection of Lord Byron’s poetry. “Your namesake, my dear,” he said.

  She spent the remainder of the day curled on the small settee in front of the fire.

  Brent and Saint shared Christmas dinner with the Saxtons.

  “Your bulk, Chauncey, is charming,” Brent said, smiling at his hostess.

  “Come now, I’m not that ungainly yet.”

  As for Saint, he studied Chauncey for a long moment and said, “Go upstairs at once and loosen those stays of yours.”

  Chauncey threw up her hands.

  “Just do as you’re told, sweetheart, and you’ll get no orders from me,” said Del.

  “What marvelous male ambiguity,” his wife said.

  Brent said, “I fear, Chauncey, that it’s too late to change any of us blighted specimens. What do you think, Saint?”

  “I think,” said Saint slowly, “that this is the happiest household in San Francisco.”

  “What is this? You dismiss the Butler household?”

  Saint gave him a long, thoughtful look, and Brent found himself squirming. Why the hell hadn’t he just kept his mouth shut?

  Del, who’d just turned to them, added his two cents. “Yeah, Saint, and don’t forget the Stevensons.”

  “All right,” Saint said agreeably. “Give me a drink, Del, and I’ll be mellow as a duck by the time Horace and Agatha arrive. They are coming after dinner, aren’t they?”

  “Well after dinner,” Del said, laughing. “Don’t worry, you can give your greed full rein.” He added as he handed Saint his whiskey, neat, “What I’ve got to do is marry the both of you off.”

  Saint choked on his whiskey.

  Brent gave Delaney a raised eyebrow.

  “I’ll have you know, Saxton,” Brent said, “that after Saint and I gorge ourselves here, we’re going back to the saloon, there to have a real Christmas party with Maggie and all the girls.”

  “Oh, Lord, don’t have me guess what you two unworthies are getting for Christmas.”

  Brent merely smiled. Celeste already gave me my Christmas present, he thought, two of them as a matter of fact, both this morning. He still felt pleasantly relaxed. I give her presents and she gives me her body. A fair exchange.

  “It wouldn’t be the same thing with a wife,” he said, then realized he’d spoken aloud.

  “What wouldn’t?” Saint asked.

  “The entire system of barter,” Brent said easily. “If a man has money, he can buy his pleasure and not have to worry about it nagging at him.”

  “Cynical bastard,” Delaney said to the blazing fire in the fireplace.

  “He’s got a bit of a point,” Saint said, rubbing his ear. “Not everyone’s as lucky as you, Del.”

  “Just look at that poor fool Butler. Lord knows he didn’t have to marry her,” Brent said.

  Delaney leaned his shoulder against the mantel. “Ira is a lot of things, but he isn’t dishonorable. Byrony, despite your obvious dislike of her, Brent, is a lady. Whatever happened between them, well, Ira did the right thing. Women have so little power.”

  Brent snorted. “They have what men want and are quite willing to pay for.”

  “Who has what you men want?” Chauncey as
ked as she walked into the room.

  “We were just talking generalities, love,” Del said.

  “I just bet you were. Now that I’m in the room, your conversation will degenerate into proper nothings, fit, I’m sure you will tell me, for a lady’s delicate ears. Come, tell me what wickedness you were talking about.”

  “We were talking about the fact that women have no power,” Brent said. “At least Del subscribes to that notion.”

  Chauncey, to his surprise, stiffened a moment, then said, “It’s true, you know, very true indeed. A woman can’t go out and find a position, for example. Who would hire her? And if someone did—a man, of course—he wouldn’t have the slightest respect for her, and she would probably be open to whatever advances he chose to make. It isn’t fair, it really isn’t.”

  “Coming from one of the richest ladies in San Francisco,” Saint said, “your words surprise me.”

  “No, Brent,” Del said, “it wasn’t a case of barter. Chauncey had more money than I. I keep telling her that’s why I married her.”

  “I wasn’t always rich,” Chauncey said. “Believe me, I understand powerlessness firsthand. It is not pleasant.”

  “But if a woman is beautiful, she is immensely powerful,” Brent said. “She has but to pick her quarry and he will probably fall all over his feet giving her whatever she wishes.”

  “I called him a cynical bastard already, love,” Del said.

  “I would say rather that he was hurt quite badly by a woman,” Chauncey said.

  “How about a whiskey,” Brent said.

  Chauncey was feeling sated and lazy after one of Lin’s marvelous Mexican-Chinese dinners, tamales with ginger.

  “I don’t think this wretched rain is ever going to end,” she said to Byrony. “I do thank you for spending the evening with me.”

  Byrony nodded, listening to the steady downpour outside. She’d begun to feel dizzy and nauseous earlier in the evening, but had said nothing. She finally admitted to herself that she was sick.

  “I hope Del comes home before midnight. But the gentlemen and their political meetings. Ira is at the Pacific Club this evening too, isn’t he, Byrony?”

  “Yes. He was delighted that you invited me to spend the evening here with you. He doesn’t like me to be lonely.” Her throat was scratchy, and she felt very hot. Her head was beginning to pound.

  Why should you be lonely? Chauncey wanted to ask. You’ve a baby and there’s Irene to keep you company.

  “Here it is almost the end of February,” she said instead, “and May seems an indecent decade away. Did you feel as lazy and contented as I do? And as impatient?”

  “What?”

  “When you were pregnant.”

  “Oh, well, yes, I suppose I did. It all seems a long time ago, actually.”

  How odd, Chauncey thought, looking at Byrony from beneath her lashes. Here I am feeling so protective toward her, and she is far more experienced than I. “All Saint will tell me is that it hurts. Did you have a very bad time of it?”

  Byrony cleared her throat and said carefully, “I suppose it wasn’t very pleasant.”

  “Byrony, are you all right? You’re looking very pale.”

  Byrony forced a weak smile. “Do you know, I think I’m coming down with something. I haven’t felt quite the thing all day, and now, well, I think my head’s going to burst.”

  Chauncey was at Byrony’s side in a moment. She laid her palm over Byrony’s forehead. “You’ve a fever. Shall we send Lucas for Saint?”

  “Oh no, Chauncey. I think I’ll just go home and tuck myself into bed.”

  “This dreadful rain. It’s a wonder that all of us aren’t sneezing and sniveling about. You just sit still, Byrony, and I’ll tell Lucas to bring the carriage around to the front.”

  Byrony didn’t feel like doing anything else. In fact, she wanted to curl up into a ball and sleep for a year. She felt so hot, and the high collar of her gown was choking her. She pulled at it, then shuddered when a sudden chill raced through her. She could count on her fingers the number of times in her life she’d been ill, even with a cold. She hated the weakness, the feeling of helplessness.

  “Come on, love. I’ll help you to the front door. Here, let me bundle you up.”

  Byrony stood docile and quiet while Chauncey tied her scarf about her neck and helped her into her long cloak. “I’ll check up on you tomorrow, Byrony. If you’re not better, I’ll see to it that Ira fetches Saint. Ah, Lucas. Hold the umbrella high for Mrs. Butler.”

  It was so cold. Her bones felt like they were shivering. Byrony huddled in the closed carriage, her eyes closed. She couldn’t see out the windows in any case because of the driving rain and the thick fog. Ira’s house was but a half-mile from the Saxtons’. When the carriage came to a stop, she drew on her reserves and allowed Lucas to help her to the front door. The house was dark.

  “Thank you, Lucas. You needn’t see me in. I’ll be all right.”

  But he waited, his eyes narrowed in concern, until Byrony had unlocked the front door and disappeared inside.

  Where were Eileen and Naomi?

  Byrony knew the house well and made her way up the stairs in the darkness. She supposed that Irene and the baby were both asleep. Good, she could be miserable in peace. Her hand was on the doorknob of her bedroom when she chanced to see a gleam of light from beneath Ira’s bedroom door. How odd, she thought, staring at the light. Could Ira be home already? He’d told her he would be quite late and not to come back early from her visit to Chauncey Saxton.

  Perhaps she should ask Ira to fetch Saint. She walked toward his closed door. She raised her hand to knock, then paused, frowning. There were noises coming from within. Strange noises. Was that a moan? Could Ira be ill? She gripped the doorknob and turned it. The door opened easily, silently, and Byrony peeked into the room.

  There was one lamp lit, casting dim shadows.

  There was another moan, from the bed.

  She started to call out his name. Nothing came out of her mouth. It wasn’t a man moaning, it was a woman. She stood frozen, shock and surprise holding her silent.

  “Ira, please, please.”

  “Yes, my love. God, yes.”

  Irene’s voice. Ira’s voice. Lovers’ voices.

  Bile rose in her throat and she stuffed her fist into her mouth. She saw Ira’s white body rise, saw Irene’s parted legs.

  She heard Irene gasp for breath when Ira covered her.

  They were lovers. No. Irene was his half-sister! No, it couldn’t be. No.

  Their bodies were entwined. They were one.

  Michelle had the look of the Butlers. No, she looked like Ira.

  Byrony clutched her arms around her stomach as the truth burst into her mind. Dear God, no wonder Ira didn’t want her as a real wife. He already had a wife and a child.

  Slowly she backed through the doorway. She gently pulled the door closed.

  Michelle was their child. He’d married her to save his half-sister, to keep her and their child in his home. She was only for appearances. For show.

  She was going to be sick. She ran back down the stairs and jerked open the front door. She fell to her knees in the thick mud and vomited.

  She shuddered with dry heaves. Finally she quieted. Her body felt battered, her mind blessedly numb, but just for a moment. I can’t go back, I can’t go back.

  She staggered to her feet, clutched her cloak about her, and started running. She saw the lights coming from downtown and kept running toward them. Across Market Street. She stumbled into deep pockets of mud, pulled herself up, and kept going, doggedly. She felt the rain soak through her cloak, to her skin.

  I can’t go back there. I can’t.

  Her mind focused on the lights. The new gaslights, installed just last month. Hazy lights with the fog shrouding them. She stumbled past saloons, past men who didn’t realize she was a female until she was well beyond them. She heard men calling to her but didn’t slow. She had to keep going. Ke
ep going.

  Some part of her mind knew exactly where she was going. To the Wild Star. To Portsmouth Square. To Brent Hammond. She wondered, briefly, why she didn’t go to Chauncey. Chauncey was her friend, she would take her in. But her feet didn’t slow. She saw Brent in her mind’s eye, and knew deep down that despite everything, he would take care of her. He would protect her. And she wanted his protection, no one else’s. God, she just wanted to see him, have him hold her, have him make the awful nightmare go away.

  Her breath was jerky, she had a painful stitch in her side. Her head pounded in time with her heart. Her teeth chattered until her jaws ached.

  She heard her shoes clattering on the wooden sidewalk on the east side of Kearny, a soggy, hollow sound. She wasn’t aware of time passing. She was conscious only of putting one foot in front of the other. Conscious only of escaping.

  The Wild Star was brightly lit. Men gambled and whored in all kinds of weather. Suddenly she heard a man’s gruff voice, felt herself pulled to a stop by a strong arm about her shoulders.

  “Jesus, Chad, lookee what I got. A little bird. A very wet little bird.”

  “Let me go,” Byrony screamed, but the words were only a hoarse whisper. She didn’t have her derringer.

  “I should say you’ve got yerself a prize, Neddie. What are ye doin’ out of bed, honey? You need yerself a warm man for the night?”

  They were drunk and they were going to hurt her. “Please, let me go.”

  She jerked away from the one man, but the other caught her and pulled her against him. She felt his hot, whiskey breath against her mouth.

  She screamed, a thin, wailing sound that was muted by the pounding rain.

  “What the devil is going on?”

  “Help me. Please, help me.”

  Brent stared at the bedraggled woman in the grip of the two drunks Nero had just assisted bodily from the saloon.

  “We just found us a little whore out for a stroll,” Chad said, tugging Byrony against him.

  “She doesn’t look particularly willing to me,” Brent said, watching the struggling woman with growing anger. “Let her go. Now.” Damnation. All he’d wanted to do was go to Celeste, and now this. He felt the rain trickling down the back of his neck, and strode forward.