Running Wild

by Denise Eagan

  “It will grow up with me, Star Montgomery. I’ll raise it. And you don’t have to bother yourself about mothering either, ’cause Melinda, at least, is a natural female. She’d love it and cherish it just the way it ought to be.”

  Star’s head snapped up. “Are you implying that I am unnatural?”

  “Hell woman, I’m not implying it, I’m sayin’ it. There’s not a natural female urge in your body.” She jerked, her face registered pain. About damned time! “You know what, I’m glad you don’t want our baby. I wouldn’t have you raise it up for all the tea in china!”

  She sucked in her breath. Her eyes gleamed. “Why then. . .” she stuttered, and blinked. “Why then. . . ” Another breath, several more blinks. “I wouldn’t tell you about the baby. I wouldn’t tell you where it was, and I sure as hell would not hand it over to you! If you have so little regard for its mother, you would be a most wretched father!”

  He threw himself out of the bed and advanced upon her. “You’d keep my child from me out of spite?” he asked, stabbing the air with a finger. “If you aren’t the most selfish woman I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Damn it, Star, the only person you’ve ever really cared about is yourself. I knew it when I first met you. All that talk about women’s rights stuff bamboozled me, but you know what? The only real reason you do it is to hide your own selfishness!”

  “I do it to help other women!”

  “You do it for yourself! If you did it for the sake of other ‘brutalized’ woman you’d have gone to Sara—” He stopped. She took a step back, her face stricken as she put a hand to her heart. Sonuvabitch he hadn’t said that. How could he—

  “Finish it,” she demanded in a hard, rasping voice.

  “No.” He hesitated. That gleam in her eyes wasn’t anger. Those were tears. What had he done? Sure, she was self-centered, but not—

  “Then I will for you,” she said in a rough voice that slid over his skin like sandpaper. “If I cared so much, I should have gone to Saratoga when Minnie asked. I should have come out of my own self-absorbed world and thought of her, instead of what was important to me. You are entirely correct. And I live with those regrets every day.”

  “Star,” he started forward again. He had to take it back, touch her, sooth her.

  She took more steps back. She snatched up her hat and purse, dropped by the door. “It does not signify. I’m not carrying your child.”

  “Star, listen—”

  “And since we so vehemently disagree on the solution to such an outcome,” she said, as she pinned her hat on, “we might as well put a period to our liaison. It is what you wished for all along. Obviously, I was so selfishly attached to the idea that I selfishly ignored your sentiments on the subject. You may rest assured . . .” She reached for the doorknob. Lifting her chin, she turned her head. Her eyes, agonizingly dark, pierced him. “You may rest assured that in the future I shall confine such relations to men who are every bit as selfish as I am.”

  NO! He lurched forward. “You will not! You belong to me!”

  “I belong to no man!” She stormed through the door, slamming it behind her. The reverberations through the building ended any pretense of discretion.

  ***

  Oh Lord, Star thought as she stepped into the cab. She could not have said those things, could she? Such dreadful, hurtful words. Nicholas would make a marvelous father. Of course a baby—their baby—would be far more important than her work. She pushed her palms against her eyes to stop the tears as the cab started moving. She could not really give his baby away, could she? Such a thing would tear the very heart from her chest.

  He’d proposed no better solution, however. Like marriage. Why would he not propose a hypothetical marriage to protect the mother of his hypothetical child? She would not require him to follow through, he must know that. She did not want marriage, especially to a man who didn’t love her. Didn’t he love her? At all? Oh Lord, but how could he even like her when he thought her that selfish?

  She lost the battle over tears and dropped her hands. The tears streamed down her face, while her heart exploded in her chest. Shards of pain flashed along her nerves, causing a stabbing in her forehead and a wrenching in her belly. After all that they had shared, after everything she had told him, she’d believe he knew her: her mind, her heart, her soul. She confessed her secrets to so few people—to have them turned back on her. . . Oh Lord, she was going to vomit.

  She forced the bile back down her throat and reached into her purse for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. A warm, musky fragrance rose from it: leather and gun smoke. It was his handkerchief. He’d given her so many over the months. She kept one in her purse at all times, for those moments when she wanted to be with him, but could not. That was love. She loved him with her whole heart, and how, oh how, could he think so ill of her under those circumstances?

  The cab took the last familiar turn to home and started down Ocean Drive. The waves crashing in the distance soothed her slightly. The ocean was always there for her—even if Nicholas wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He did not belong in her world, nor she in his, not that he’d invited her. She’d known all along that it must end, but she had expected it would end without yelling and bitterness.

  The cab pulled to a stop and the driver opened the door for her, dropping down the steps. “Are you feeling all right, Miss?” he asked peering at her. “If you’re unwell, I could take you to the door.”

  She pushed the fare into his hand, along with an extra-large tip. “I’m sure. It will be the last time. Thank you so much for being discreet.”

  Looking worried, he took the money. “Been a pleasure, ma’am. You take care of yourself.”

  “I will,” she said and started down the path to the house’s garden and the back door. In twenty minutes she would be comfortably enveloped in her own bed. But she would not sleep. Her heart hurt far too much. She didn’t think she’d ever sleep again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ring out your bells! Let mourning shows be spread!

  For Love is dead.

  Sir Philip Sidney, The Arcadia

  Tennis did not correct for heartbreak, Star thought as she wearily climbed the stairs to her room. Hitting the ball out of the court eased tension and anger, but such extreme measures merely scored points for her opponent. She’d lost three of three games against Samantha. No, tennis did not cure heartbreak. It only increased despondency. She couldn’t, she thought as the tears that she’d fought all morning threatened to spill out of her eyes, couldn’t ever remember hurting quite so much. How did people recover from such pain? It stretched every nerve in her body to the snapping point.

  She opened her door and dropped her tennis bag, suddenly so heavy it strained her weakened arms. Overwhelmed by grief, she stumbled across the room to throw herself on her bed—

  And stopped. Something was lying there, in the middle of her gold and white bedspread. Shattered glass. Splintered wood. A photograph.

  Her shattered heart jumped, proving that it was still working. A broken frame lay neatly in the center of her bed, next to Nicholas’s photograph. Or at least what had once been him. Someone had scribbled on it and stabbed it, obliterating his face. Her side of the photograph had been cut out away.

  Her chest tightened so much that she could scarcely breathe. Her hands shook as she picked up the photograph.

  Footsteps outside her door. A knock. “Star?”

  She jumped.

  Del. She should answer. She couldn’t. Her brain was frozen, her breath stuck in her chest.

  “Sugar, may I come in?”

  “Yes.”

  The door opened. “I was wondering if you had seen Jane?”

  “She’s gone,” she answered. How was she talking? She couldn’t breathe. Could one talk without breathing? “On a picnic with Lee and Jess and Simon Price.”

  “Price?” he asked. His voice roughened on Simon’s name. Star couldn’t blame him. Jane was in love with Simon. Anyone with an ey
e could see it.

  Del had very good eyes.

  Nicholas did not. Not in this picture, not anymore. . . .

  “What the devil is she doing with him?”

  “Picnicking,” she repeated. She couldn’t think of kinder words. Heart pounding she looked around the room. Everything was in perfect order. Neat, dusted, perfect. Her eyes fell on the bureau where the picture had sat. It was still there. Or her portion of the photograph, at any rate. Exact same place, exact same frame.

  “Well, she can blasted—are you all right?” Somehow her feet propelled her to the bureau, where she picked up the picture to compare with Nicholas’s.

  “Star, what’s wrong?” Del asked, moving to her side. Concern smoothed out the anger in his voice. “Bloody hell.”

  “It’s Nicholas.”

  “Have you been quarreling?”

  “I didn’t do this,” she said. Her photograph had been perfectly centered in the frame. If one looked closely, however, one could see his hand on the back of her chair.

  She felt Del stiffen beside her. Gently he took Nicholas’s photo from her hand to examine it. “Then who did?”

  “I—I’m not sure,” she said, even though she absolutely was. She was suddenly hot—and so cold too. Dizzy.

  “A maid,” Del offered, hopefully. “Is that the other half of the photograph? You reframed it?”

  “I just found it. He reframed it.” She started to shake as fear clutched at her throat. Romeo had brought the new frame with him. An exact duplicate. He had planned this as carefully as he had the destruction of her clothing.

  The world around her turned gray, then black around the edges as it closed in on her.

  “Star!” Del grabbed her arm as her legs buckled. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and partly pulled, partly guided her to a chair. “Put your head on the table there, sugar,” he said taking the photograph from her hand. “Right, like that.” The marble top felt cool and smooth against her face. Everything was fuzzy, sounds fading in and out: the ocean in the distance, a bird somewhere singing lazily, a splash of water.

  “Here, drink this.”

  “I’m afraid to lift my head,” she mumbled. She was afraid even to think.

  “All right.” More splashing. A cool, damp cloth ran over her forehead, her cheek and along her neck. Again and again gradually dissolving the fog. By and by, she was back in her room, back to the table and that dreadful picture. Taking a breath, she sat up.

  “Better?” Del asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Del dropped the cloth on the table, and then fell into a chair across from her. He peered at her. He’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves to reveal strongly corded forearms, scarred here and there due to his abominable temper. Del had always been, an extremely handsome man. Why did she never notice that about him? Why had she not loved, and married, Del?

  Because he was as much cousin as friend and because, contrary to what everyone thought, Del had long since stopped loving her. He was, and had been for five years, very much in love with his wife. Nothing else explained his continued attention to a woman who possessed a fierce and often unrestrained temper.

  “It probably isn’t a maid,” he said presently. “A woman would only do that if she had a crush on McGraw, and then she’d have ruined your picture as well.”

  “It was Romeo,” she said shakily.

  He nodded gravely. “Your secret admirer. He must be quite close to the family to have access to your room. Your butler is far too old. A valet, perhaps? Does Port bring his?”

  “Living in the house?” she asked breathlessly. Watching her day in and day out. . .

  “You’re turning white again, sugar. Perhaps you’d better lie down.”

  “On that bed?”

  He stared at it for a minute. He rose. “I’ll clean it off.”

  As he carefully gathered together the corners of the bedspread to avoid scattering glass, she picked up the abandoned photograph. It was the only one she had of Nicholas, taken on a trip to New York City. Ruined now. Tears prickled her eyes. She’d have nothing to remind her of him once he returned to Colorado. He wouldn’t write to her, wouldn’t visit again. He didn’t want her, he’d made that plain. He wanted her body, yes, but not the heart and mind that went with it or he would have proposed marriage. Others had done so with half the encouragement, and Nicholas was no coward.

  “Done,” Del said and reached down for her arm. “Come, I’ll help you to bed.” When she was settled, he sat on the edge of the bed, holding her cold hand in his. “Shall I ring for your maid before I find Uncle Ward?”

  Father? A jolt flashed over her nerves as she sat up. “No!”

  He frowned. “No? What do you mean no? We must tell him. Did you not read the back of the photograph? It says ‘You belong to me.’ This man has gone from amusing to threatening, Star, and ‘tis far past time to take serious action.”

  Father would keep her home, would suspend her writing, and then she’d have lost Nicholas and her work. Her work had saved her after Minnie’s death—she was counting on it to save her after her rupture with Nicholas. “Del, please don’t. I’ll tell him myself, I swear it. But first I have a few more articles I want to write, and you know he won’t let me once he hears of this. He’ll make me relinquish my column. Romeo doesn’t—doesn’t like my involvement in the movement, you see.”

  Del raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? Why, then, on that he and I agree.”

  “I couldn’t care less about your feelings on the movement.”

  “Which,” he said, squeezing her hand, “is why I never say anything. In any event, this bloke’s dangerous, Star. He’s gone beyond flowers and letters. Servant or no, this is trespassing and that’s a crime.”

  “I doubt he lives here,” she said trying not to think of that. “After all, how would he make those telephone calls?”

  He sighed. “That is a point.” After pondering it for a minute, he shrugged. “We’ll let the authorities solve it.”

  “They’ll blame it on me, and when it gets out, as you know it will, everyone else will say the same thing. The gossip will follow me for months. At least give me time to plan how to handle that, Del. We’re in the height of the summer Season.”

  Del rubbed the side of his face. “Uncle Ward has influence, and they’ll investigate, regardless of whom they believe to be at fault. But you’re right, it’ll cause gossip.” He shook his head. “I don’t like it, but I’ll give you time to prepare yourself. I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon to visit the Chestersons in New York, and then the day after for home. I’ll wait to telegraph Uncle Ward until I’m in Philadelphia.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  You tread upon my patience

  Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

  Knocking.

  The sound floated through Star’s nightmare of the demon chasing her. It had escaped the cellar and was now just behind her. Her body shook as she felt its hot breath scorching her neck. Oh God, where were Nicholas and his rifle? No rifle anywhere, just a shattered picture frame. . .

  “Star,” the demon whispered. “Wake up.”

  The shaking came from outside as well. She opened her eyes. A dark figure stood in front of her, blocking the moonlight. The demon. She screeched and jerked sideways, across the bed.

  “It’s Jane,” the demon said. “Light the lamps, won’t you?”

  Who—?

  A gas lamp flared to life, illuminating Jane—and Simon Price. Star yanked the sheets up to cover herself, as he lit another. “Jane, Simon, I don’t understand. Is something the matter?”

  “Why yes, everything,” Jane gasped, then grabbed the bedpost, looking suddenly weak. Abandoning his task, Simon flew across the room to bring her a chair. Giving Simon a weak smile, Jane breathed, “Thank you, dearest. I was losing my strength.”

  Dearest? “Good gracious,” Star said, glancing at the clock on her bedside table. “Jane, it’s three a.m. Could this not have waited until
later?” The last time she’d looked, it had read one-thirty. She’d fallen asleep at last, after hours of tossing and turning, with neither a solution to the problem of Romeo, nor reprieve from heartache.

  “Oh, but it’s a matter of life and death!” Jane exclaimed, reaching for Star’s hand. It was too far away for her to grasp, and Star refused to move it. Encouraging Jane’s love of drama did not pay, and Simon, Star thought with a scowl, ought to know better.

  “You appear unharmed,” Star answered discouragingly, noting that they were both fully dressed.

  “Until Del hears of it!” Jane breathed. “Oh Star you must save me! Save us.”

  Sighing wearily, Star rubbed her eyes. “He left for Philadelphia this afternoon Jane. He could not possibly endanger you so very much as to wake me at such an hour.”

  “He’s only in New York. He’ll return today when he hears, and I must escape before he arrives.” Tears formed in her eyes as a dramatic shudder ran down Jane’s back.

  Blast, now Simon was pulling over another chair. “Hears what, Jane?”

  “Why,” Jane said in a high, fluttery voice, “why—I am sorry to tell you this, but about Simon and me. We’re in love.”

  Judging by the expression upon her countenance, Jane expected Star to swoon. Star only swooned when confronted by mutilated photos and trunks full of ripped clothing.

  Better not think of that now.

  “And how would he learn that?”

  “You already knew?” Jane asked dolefully.

  “You’ve scarcely been discreet.”

  “Why,” she said taking Simon’s hand, “it is difficult to be discreet when there is so much strength of sentiment between two people. We have fought it, you must know that, since we met last summer, but one cannot win a battle against destiny.”

  It required all of Star’s patience not to roll her eyes. “It does not, however, answer my question. If you please, Jane, it’s past three am and I’d like to sleep. Not that the affairs of your heart are not of prime importance to me.”