Saint put his hand on Brent’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to scare you. Byrony will be all right, I swear it. But I don’t like to tempt fate.”
“I’ll tie her down,” Brent said. “Excuse me a moment, Saint, and I’ll do it right now.”
“Better yet,” Saint said, “let me examine her now. I’ll give her the orders. You’re only her husband, Brent, I’m her doctor.” Saint paused a moment, then said, “You haven’t seen any strangers about, have you, Brent?”
“As in Wilkes, you mean, Saint?”
“Yes, as in Jameson Wilkes. I really don’t know just how extensive his spy system is, but—”
“Yes, but,” said Brent. “Try not to worry. I’ll ask about.”
Saint said nothing more, but Brent knew he was worried. Hell, all his friends were worried and would be until the vermin was destroyed.
They found Jules and Byrony in the parlor laughing and drinking tea. Byrony was busily sewing something. Brent said firmly, “Hello, Jules. Byrony, come along now, Saint’s going to take care of you.” He held out his hand to his wife.
Byrony grumbled a bit, but allowed her husband to help her out of the chair.
“Jules,” Saint said, “would you please see to Brent here? Byrony, at last I’ve got you to myself. Let’s go upstairs, Mrs. Hammond.”
Brent looked as if he would follow, but instead sighed and flung himself down in the chair Byrony had just vacated. “Damn,” he said. “Excuse me, Jules,” he added.
“You’re worried, Brent. I don’t blame you, but Michael is the best doctor in the whole world.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “He’s also going to be the busiest doctor in the whole world. Everyone in town knows he’s here by now. A goodly number have aches and pains. There’ll be a line two deep tomorrow.”
Upstairs, Saint helped Byrony sit down in a chair, then sat down on the edge of the bed. He said very gently, “Tell me how you feel.”
“I’ve had pains already, Saint. Then they go away. I do try to rest, but—”
“Yes, I know. These pains, Byrony, tell me about them.”
She told him of the sharp, low pains, finishing with, “I thank my lucky stars I didn’t tell Brent. He would have gone crazy.”
“Yes, it’s just as well. Now, I’d like to feel this child of yours.”
Byrony undressed while Saint waited outside in the hallway. She was swathed in a long white cotton nightgown when he came back into the room. He helped her lie on the bed, then very gently slipped his hands beneath the gown to feel her belly.
“No, Byrony,” he said, looking at her tightly closed eyes, “please, just relax.” His knowledgeable hands lightly roved over her belly. “That’s better.” He decided to wait to examine her internally. Best to let her accustom herself to him first. He straightened her nightgown and took her hand. “Now, Mrs. Hammond, let’s chat a bit.”
Byrony was in bed by nine o’clock that evening. Saint looked at his wife and decided bed was the best place for her too. He felt a surge of desire for her, and frowned at himself. His hand, though, went around her waist, and she leaned into him, smiling up at him.
“You know something, Saint?” Brent asked.
Saint turned toward him.
“Never play poker, my friend. You’d lose.” Brent chuckled, patted Jules’s arm, and took himself off.
“What was that all about?” Jules asked.
“Brent saw the lustful look in my eyes, I think. He’s right, I’d never win at poker.”
“Would you care to play something else, Dr. Saint?”
“What a wanton woman you are, Jules,” he said. “I suppose I have no choice?”
“None at all,” she said, and dragged him upstairs.
29
The child screamed at the top of his lungs, so loud Jules wanted to clap her hands over her ears. Instead she held the wriggling little boy down while Saint vaccinated him.
“There,” Saint said. “Stop your caterwaulin’, boy. You’ll live, I promise.” He patted the boy’s woolly head and helped him up. “Now, you’re going to live forever—”
“Yessir,” the boy gulped. “Ma name’s Jonah.”
“That chile need a whippin’, Docta,” the mother said, shaking her head fondly. “No guts atall. Yer little missis here is a real sweetie pie, yessir, she shoh is.”
“Hi, sweetie pie,” Saint said, kissing her the moment they were alone. “I’m about ready to drop, love. How about you?”
“A nice strong cup of tea would put me to rights, I think,” Jules sighed. She shook her head. “I think I’m temporarily deaf.”
“Did I ever tell you that Napoleon had all his troops vaccinated if they had not already had smallpox?”
She blinked up at him and he grinned, adding, “I’ve done about eighty-five vaccinations today, and not a soul would have known who Napoleon even was. I had to tell that interesting fact to someone, just to keep my hand in.”
Jules clasped his hand in hers, silently studying the long, blunt-tipped fingers, the sprinkling of chestnut hair.
“Now, I wonder where you think my hand should be in next?”
She kissed each finger. “This is a start,” she said. “Now, you need to tell me how you managed to get enough supplies to vaccinate all the children.”
“A mistake, Jules, a simple mistake, at least that’s what Sam Pickett told me. Some government fellow showed up at the hospital wanting to get rid of cases of what he believed were useless medical supplies. Needless to say, Sam nearly did a jig for joy, kept a straight face, and called me. And here we are and all the children are now protected, thank the Lord.”
“You’re a perfect man, you know that?”
“That’s what my mother told me,” Saint said, “but it was a number of years ago.”
He stopped a moment, and straightened her bonnet. “The sun is strong, love. I do love that one freckle on your nose, but I don’t know as I’d like to see more of the little fellows.”
She poked him in his ribs, laughing. “You know that isn’t a freckle on my nose—it’s a liver spot.”
“I’ve aged you so quickly, hmm? I think I’d best do a thorough examination. If you have any more of these liver spots, I’ll just have to do something about it.”
“What?” Jules asked, taking a skipping step to keep pace with her husband.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear.
“Michael!”
* * *
Jameson Wilkes stared at her from his post in the narrow alley. He was dressed roughly, a felt hat pulled low over his forehead. The scratchy wool pants increased his anger at Saint Morris. He hated having to appear like one of the black beggars in Brent Hammond’s town.
He leaned forward and watched the breeze lift a waving curl off her forehead, watched her husband straighten her bonnet, and stiffened when the huge man who was her husband leaned down to whisper something to her.
Don’t touch her, you damned bastard! He could barely keep the words from spurting from his mouth.
He’d lived with the dream of her, the fantasies of her that he’d woven over the months, and knew that he would have her, have her lying beneath him, helpless, yet wanting him as he did her. The reality of her shook him, as did her bright laugh. Reality, he thought, an odd word, something to avoid, to escape. He’d never heard her laugh before. He’d cursed himself again and again for ever taking her to the auction. He should have kept her with him, sailed from San Francisco and taken her to the far reaches of the earth. But for what reason? He shook his head, his thoughts tangled. His hand roved over his belly, rubbing frantically, and the pain made him think clearly.
Now she was married to that damned do-gooding bastard Saint Morris. He closed his eyes a moment against his anger. If only he’d kept her with him, if only he’d managed to take her the night of the Stevensons’ ball, if only . . .
He wanted her. And he was here, and he was going to take her, had to take her, and her husband, Dr. Morris. Oh yes,
he had to see Saint Morris, had to . . . He winced at the increasing pain, but forced his mind away from it, forced his mind to plot, to come up with strategies. He had to have focus. No, he wouldn’t dig into his opium supply until the pain made him want to howl.
Your last grand gesture, he thought suddenly. Your last gesture to affirm that you are alive, that you managed to win one last time. And he knew it was true. Juliana now represented both life and death to him. He smiled a bit, remembering how Hawkins had come to him, a huge grin splitting his ugly face. “Yessiree, they’re off early, bound for the nigger town.”
So easy, Wilkes thought. He wondered if Juliana now believed herself safe from him.
Saint Morris was here to deliver the Hammonds’ child. Wilkes had only to remain out of sight and wait for his opportunity.
It would come, oh yes. He knew suddenly, at that precise moment, with the bright sun overhead, exactly when and how he would strike.
Jules was striding down the street beside Thackery and Little Tony, a black man who would intimidate the bravest of men. His size was formidable, his body hard with muscle, and he had the gentlest eyes Jules had ever seen.
She was listening to the two men talk. Although Thackery had never said anything to her, she realized now that he missed being here, missed being part of the town’s growth. She silently cursed Wilkes.
“I must get back to work now, Miz Morris,” Little Tony said, pausing a moment before a freshly painted wooden building. “This is where we keep all our records,” he added, pride in his voice.
“Please call me Jules,” she said, but knew that he wouldn’t. Old habits were hard to break.
Little Tony nodded to her from his great height.
“Thank you for the tour,” Jules said. “Now,” she continued to Thackery, “why don’t we go for a ride? I should love to see the land around the town and all the planting and all the new building.”
Thackery agreed and they walked to the livery stable. “Little Tony was telling me how much trouble they’re having with names.”
Jules cocked a questioning brow.
“Slaves have only one name,” he said tersely. “Outlandish names, given by white owners.”
“What are you doing about it?” Jules asked, fascinated.
“Mr. Hammond, he’s made lists of names—real names—his missis too. All of us choose what name we want, then Little Tony writes out certificates.”
“What name have you chosen?”
“Me? I was lucky. I just chose John. John Thackery.”
Jules stopped and thrust out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, John.”
He gave her a crooked grin and enfolded her small hand in his large one. “As for Little Tony, he’s now Mr. Anthony Washington.”
“That’s some name to live up to,” Jules said.
They rented two horses and rode out. Jules was wearing her new blue velvet riding habit and a jaunty little hat. She felt happy and content. The morning was sunny and warm. The rolling hills surrounding the wide valley were green from the winter rains. They reined in occasionally, Thackery showing her how the plots of land had been divided up, pointing out the constant building of small houses.
“I think Mr. Hammond has every banker in San Francisco involved,” he said. “The amount of lumber we need is incredible. Just look over there—”
There was a loud cracking sound. Jules whipped about to see Thackery grab his chest.
“Thackery!”
She tried desperately to keep him upright on his horse, but his weight was too great and he slid to the rocky ground. Jules dismounted quickly, rushing to him.
“Leave him be, Juliana.”
Jules knew that voice—it had played in her dreams countless times. Now it was hard and cajoling at the same time. And filled with triumph and satisfaction.
“I must help him,” she said, her voice blank from shock, still disbelieving. She felt Wilkes’s hand on her arm, felt him pull her about to face him.
“Look at me, Juliana.”
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
She felt his long fingers grasp her chin and force her face upward. “You’re insane,” she said. “I am nothing, nothing at all to you. Why?”
Jameson Wilkes sought the depths of her eyes. He laughed. “If I could answer that, my dear, in a fashion you could understand, I shouldn’t have lived in hell for so long a time. Come now, Juliana. We have a goodly distance to go.”
“No,” she said, her voice so calm it surprised her. “I must help Thackery.”
“You touch him, my dear, and I’ll put another bullet through his black hide.” He saw the flaring of fear in her eyes, and knew he had found his lever. “However, if you come with me, I’ll leave him as he is.” He didn’t want her fighting him, didn’t want her struggling until she hurt herself. He saw the growing stain of red on the black man’s chest and knew he would die in any case. But the man was tough, and Wilkes hoped he would make it back to tell Saint Morris. He was counting on it; that was why he hadn’t put a bullet through the man’s heart.
“You will die for this,” Jules said as she walked to her horse. “My husband will kill you for this.”
“Actually, my dear,” Wilkes said easily, “your husband is at this moment helping Byrony Hammond. From what I could tell with all the excitement, she is now birthing her child.”
Jules shut her eyes. When would she be missed? Would she be missed at all?
“Now, I believe I shall take your reins. Unfortunately, I cannot trust you to do as I bid you once we are away from your bodyguard.” He grasped her horse’s reins, pulling himself closer to her.
“Behave, Juliana, else I’ll tie you up. Remember how I tied you up before? There is much we will do together.”
Jules thought of her derringer, so safe and distant in the bottom of her valise. It was the oddest thing, but she wasn’t particularly afraid, for the fear of the reality was much less than the fear of his shadow and his threats. The fear would come, though, she knew it. But before it numbed her mind, she knew she had to think clearly. She had only herself to rely upon. As Wilkes nudged their horses forward, she turned in the saddle to see Thackery. Pain seared through her. He was lying utterly motionless on his side.
“You are a filthy man,” she said.
“Nothing a bath won’t cure,” Wilkes said. His eyes darkened, and she flinched. “Ah, you’re remembering those baths aboard my ship, aren’t you? And how I watched you and admired you.”
“No, I am remembering how I coshed you on the head. I wish only that I’d hit you harder.”
“Such a pity,” Wilkes said before turning his attention to the trail in front of them.
“What is?” Jules demanded.
“That you are married, my dear. I wanted to marry you, but now you’ll just have to be my mistress. Please me, and I will keep you with me.”
“I won’t please you, I’ll kill you.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “You’ve lost your girl’s terror, haven’t you? Now that you know about plowing, I fancy you will certainly please me in bed.”
She shuddered, and she knew he saw it. She closed her eyes, but just for a moment. She had to keep alert, try to remember the way they were traveling.
Wilkes grew silent. He was thinking about his two men—Grabbler and Hawkins—scum, both of them. He didn’t doubt for a moment that they’d want to share her. He considered not going to the caves where they awaited him.
When Jules suddenly dug her heels into her horse’s belly, causing the mare to snort and rear back, tearing the reins from his hands, he knew he would need them. He caught the flying reins before Jules could grab them, and brought the frantic mare back down.
He crowded his horse next to the mare. He saw Jules breathing heavily, her eyes dilated. Without warning, he grabbed her about the waist and pulled her before him.
“How very stupid of you, my dear,” he said softly.
Jules felt fear and rage flow through her. She beg
an to struggle, striking at his face, her nails scoring his cheek.
He cursed, and dragged her off the horse. She fell onto her back, but the sharp stones digging into her body made no impression. She watched him pull off his belt.
She came up on her knees, and nearly fell back again, dizziness from the fall making her shaky.
Wilkes grabbed her wrists, forcing them together, and bound them with the belt. He saw her flinch, and loosened the binding leather just a bit.
“There,” he said. He clasped her beneath her armpits and pulled her to her feet. For a moment he brought her against him, and Jules went rigid.
“No,” she gasped. “No!”
“Well, not yet, at any rate,” Wilkes said. He grabbed her chin to hold her still, and kissed her deeply. Jules felt his tongue probing against her tightly pursed lips. She opened her mouth and felt him slip in. She bit him, hard.
His yelp of pain brought her but a moment’s pleasure. Her head reeled back at the hard slap on her cheek. She would have fallen had he not held her.
“If ever you do that again,” he said, his face so close to hers that she could feel his breath fanning against her skin, “I will make you regret it. I might consider sharing you with Grabbler and Hawkins. I promise you, Juliana, you wouldn’t like that. They are not . . . gentle men.”
She stood rigid, saying nothing. Wilkes studied her face for a long moment; then, satisfied that she understood him, he kissed her again. This time when his tongue probed between her lips, he felt her shudder. With distaste. That would change, he thought. Yes, she would change.
He hauled her in front of him on his horse again. He left her mare, knowing the animal would straggle back to the nigger town eventually. He hoped it would. If her bodyguard didn’t make it, the mare would. I want that husband of yours to come after you. I want to kill that bastard, kill him slow. He looked back to see the mare already trotting back toward the town, and smiled.
They rode for several more hours, southward, hugging the cliffs overlooking the ocean. He allowed his hand to move upward to cup her breast. He felt her suck in her breath and shudder. He only smiled.
Jules closed her eyes against his hated hand. He’s going to rape me, she thought. All the old terrors, the old nightmares, rose to choke her. She trembled, hating herself for showing him any reaction at all. Her only relief was that Michael was safe. With Byrony. But Thackery . . . She felt tears burn her eyes. Please, she prayed, let him be all right.
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