Wild Star (3 page)

“Like hell you did, you filthy little slut. I’ll make you sorry you ever—”

“I’m sorry you’re my father,” she yelled at him. “God, I hate you. You have a filthy mind—”

He lunged at her, but Charlie said from the door, “No, Father. Wait, leave her be and listen to me.”

Byrony blinked. Help from her brother? Surely the world had taken a faulty turn. To her surprise, her father, after giving her a look filled with malice, turned to his son.

“Come outside a minute, Father,” Charlie said. “It’s important, I swear.”

“You, girl,” he said to Byrony, “get indoors and clean your lover’s juices off your body. I’ll deal with you later.”

 

Don Joaquín de Neve was informed by Luis, one of his vaqueros, that Señor DeWitt wanted to see him. Don Joaquín frowned, and closed the ledger on his desk. What did that ridiculous man want? It didn’t occur to him to deny the man, even though he despised him. He rose from his chair, tall, square-shouldered, and proud. He eyed Madison DeWitt as the man roared into his quiet study like an angry bull.

“Señor DeWitt,” he said with exquisite politeness. “What may I do for you?”

As always, the proud, aristocratic Californios put Madison DeWitt off stride. He hated them, but they made him feel somehow insignificant, unimportant, something to be tolerated. “I want to talk to you about your son,” he said, drawing up.

“Which son?” Don Joaquín asked.

Foul, angry words stuck in Madison DeWitt’s throat. He eyed the splendid rich furnishings of Don Joaquín’s study, and felt greed and jealousy flow through him. He managed to moderate his voice. “Your son Gabriel,” he said. “The boy has ruined my daughter. Raped her. I want reparation,
señor.
I demand it.”

Don Joaquín showed no emotion. “Indeed?” he said, a thin black brow arching in interest.

“Yes, he took her yesterday. I saw him and my daughter, her clothes ripped. He shamed her and her family.”

Ah, Gabriel, Don Joaquín thought, saddened, I cannot allow it, my son. He did not bother to tell DeWitt that his son had spoken to him frankly of what had happened the previous evening. He knew that he must protect his family and their proud name. He had no intention of protesting his son’s innocence to this miserable creature. It would do no good in any case.

“I demand marriage,
señor.
”

Don Joaquín wondered briefly if all the wretched things he’d heard about this heavy-jowled man were true. Well, there was nothing he could do about the poor girl. He said calmly, “A marriage is out of the question, Señor DeWitt. My son left this morning for a long visit to our relatives in Spain.” He paused a moment, realizing that he could possibly spare the wretched girl some of her father’s rage. “However, I am willing to give you reparations.” He opened a desk drawer, opened the strongbox, and counted out five hundred dollars.

He handed the money to DeWitt. He stiffened as the man counted the bills in front of him.

“It’s not enough,” Madison DeWitt said. “It’s my girl’s honor. He ruined her. Who would want to marry her now?”

“It is all you will get,
señor.
Now, you will leave me. I find your presence oppressive.”

Madison DeWitt cursed, threatened, but Don Joaquín stood firm, saying nothing, merely gazing at him with tolerant boredom. When the man finally left, Don Joaquín heaved a deep sigh. It was time, he supposed, that Gabriel did travel to Spain. His grandparents wouldn’t live much longer, and there were many cousins for him to meet. Yes, it was time for him to see more of the world.

Brent Hammond walked out of the dim saloon of the Colorado House into the bright afternoon sunlight. He was smiling with satisfaction. He’d just won two hundred dollars in a poker game with a greenhorn and a cheat. Most of it was from the cheat, and in only four hours. He stretched then turned to look up at Presidio Hill behind him. Up there he imagined one could forget the stench of garbage that lay about in the filthy narrow streets in the flats, and draw a decent breath of clean salt air.

He was eyeing several loose cows wandering about amid the scruffy adobe buildings when he heard the gunshots. He’d whirled about and taken two steps, when a body smashed against him. He rocked back on his heels, keeping his balance, but she went sprawling on the ground at his feet.

Byrony cried out, and let go of her two packages. One of them burst open and flour spewed out, raining down white.

“Oh dear,” Byrony said. Her bottom hurt, but she began laughing, she couldn’t help it. She struggled up to her knees.

“I’m sorry,” Brent said, dropping to his haunches. “Here, let me help you.”

She looked up at the man she’d just cannoned into and her breath caught in her throat. He had the most beautiful dark blue eyes she’d ever seen. He was trying to keep from laughing.

“Hello,” she said, her eyes never leaving his face. His thick black hair was clean and shone in the sun. She noticed the scar on his cheek, white against his tanned skin, and wondered how he’d gotten it.

“Hello yourself,” Brent said. He clasped her upper arms and drew her up.

Byrony was tall, but the man was nearly a head taller. She watched his lips part, and laughter, deep and clear, flowed over her.

“You’d best let me go, or your suit will be white rather than gray.”

Brent hadn’t realized he was still holding her. He quickly released her arms and stepped back. “I’m sorry I ran into you, ma’am,” he said again.

“No, it wasn’t your fault,” Byrony said, and began shaking out her skirts. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I heard the gunshots,” he said.

“Oh, that,” she said, her eyes narrowing in ill-disguised contempt. “It was just some of the young men target-shooting, this time. Nothing to worry about.”

“I wasn’t really worried, just interested. What do you mean ‘this time’?”

She shrugged. “Unfortunately, San Diego has something of a reputation for violence. Dueling, gun battles, knife slashings. We’ve got them all, I’m afraid.”

“It shares its reputation then with every other town I’ve visited.”

She raised her eyes to his face again. “I’ve never seen you in San Diego before.”

“No, this is my first visit. Actually, I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

“Are you a gambler?” she asked, looking briefly back at the Colorado House.

“Yes, I guess I am.”

She continued staring at him, and in an unconscious gesture, her tongue glided over her lower lip.

“Are you enjoying the view?”

She blinked, not understanding, then saw the amusement in his eyes.

“Yes,” she said.

Brent wasn’t expecting that. A blush, perhaps, a stammered accusation that he wasn’t a gentleman. “Well, let me return the favor. You’re beautiful even with flour on your nose.”

She grinned, but shook her head at his nonsense. She knew well enough what she looked like. Her hair was drawn back in a severe knot at the nape of her neck. Her cotton gown was a dull gray color and about as flattering as a potato sack. But she couldn’t seem to look away from him. She realized that he was a very large man, but she didn’t fear him. It was odd. “You have very unusual eyes. Forgive me for staring.”

He arched a black brown. “I believe they’re both still the same color, ma’am, or did the flour get to them?”

“No, it’s not that. There’s no meanness in them.”

He frowned at that. She wasn’t being forward, there was no coyness in her manner or voice. Suddenly she stiffened, reached down in a graceful motion, and picked up her packages, quickly folding the flap over the flour bag. “I must go. Forgive me for running into you.”

“Wait,” he called after her, but she didn’t. She picked up her skirts and sped across San Diego Avenue toward the plaza, where an old buckboard wagon was hitched to a railing. “I don’t know your name,” he said, almost to himself.

She was talking with an older woman, probably her mother, he thought, stepping into the street. He slowed, watching her shake off the remainder of the flour, as she stood by the horses. Miserable-looking beasts.

He stopped at the sight of three young men swaggering in the middle of the street, obviously a bit worse from drink. The middle one was shoving his gun back into its holster.

“Hey, Charlie,” one of the young men said, “ain’t that your sister over there?”

Brent paused, remembering the condemnation in her voice when she’d said it was just young men target-shooting. Was the anger toward her own brother?

“Yep, Tommy,” said Charlie. “You sound like you wanna get to know her better. You ain’t got enough money, old fellow. Forget it.”

Brent felt a ripple of anger. He looked more closely at Charlie. There was little similarity between brother and sister that he could see. Charlie was swarthy with brown hair, eyes a grayish color, bloodshot from too much drink. He’d met up with his share of young men like Charlie—braggarts, bullies, and sometimes worse.

“She’s still a looker,” the third young man said.

Charlie hunched his slender shoulders. “Anything in a skirt is a piece of tail to you.”

“She sure swishes her tail nice,” said Tommy.

Brent didn’t hear Charlie’s reply to this. Why the hell was he interested anyway? He walked across the dusty street and stopped beside an old man who was sitting in a chair tilted back against the side of the town hall. The old man waved once at the woman, and she nodded briefly. He smelled of spirits, sweat, and cheap tobacco.

“Howdy, young feller,” said the old man.

Brent nodded and asked, “Who’s the girl over there?”

The old man spit and Brent saw the disgusting brown puddle a foot from the chair. “That there is the DeWitt women. Mother and daughter. Her name’s Byrony.”

“Byrony,” Brent repeated.

“Yep. Her ma was in love with an English feller named Lord Byron, a scribbler of no account at all, Madison told me. Fool name. Madison DeWitt’s her pa. One of my best friends, a good man, more’s the pity.”

Brent continued looking toward the girl, Byrony. He realized that he’d liked her, an unusual occurrence, and that he wanted to talk to her some more. He hadn’t really liked a woman in a long time. There was Maggie, of course. And Laurel, when he’d been eighteen. He shook his head at himself. Dear Lord, he hadn’t thought of Laurel since he’d gotten a letter from his brother, Drew, over six months ago in Denver.

Drew never mentioned Laurel, but still Brent would remember, usually at odd times, like now. Without conscious thought, he raised his hand and fingered the scar along his left cheek. Nothing more stupid than a lusty young man.

“What’s the pity?” he asked finally.

“The girl. Poor Madison’s cursed. Told me he’d caught her with her lover, one of the damned Californios. ’Course the boy wouldn’t marry her, but his pa gave Madison some money to buy him off. Damned proud greasers. Madison’s just hopin’ the girl’s belly won’t swell with a bastard.”

But she’s so young, Brent thought, probably not even twenty yet. A lover? She hadn’t struck him as that type of female. Well, he was probably wrong. Lord knew, he’d been wrong before. She’d probably tried to use her body to get herself married into a wealthy family. An old story. Damnable scheming women.
You taught me well enough, Laurel.
He heard Byrony DeWitt laugh, a sweet sound, and saw her scratching behind the mangy ear of one of the horses.

“It doesn’t seem likely to me,” Brent said.

“Like I told you, I’m her pa’s friend. Tells me everything, he does. The girl’s a proud little piece, but still a slut.” He spit again, the brown stream landing in the center of the puddle he’d been working on for hours.

“She doesn’t look like a slut.”

“A silly little slut with a fancy name. That’s all she is. Aye, poor Madison. Guess it makes sense, since the girl was raised without her pa in Boston. Now he’ll have to find her a husband from other parts. No self-respectin’ man would have her now.”

Particularly, Brent thought, if you tell everyone you see about her failings. He looked up to see Byrony DeWitt climb into the wagon and take the horse’s reins from her mother. For a brief moment she looked directly at him, and she smiled. Then she click-clicked the horses forward, and soon all he could see was the billowing dust from the wagon wheels.

“You stayin’ in these parts long, young feller?”

“No, I’m not. San Diego is too quiet for me.” And too stagnant, and too dirty. He thought of San Francisco and smiled. Crime, corruption, greed, every negative human behavior imaginable, but dammit, you knew you were alive in that city. A city filled with young men like himself, who wanted to create their own future. Wild, boisterous, invigorating, that was San Francisco. He’d traveled on Edward Bolsom’s ship down the coast with half a thought to buying into his friend’s shipping line. But it wasn’t for him. He knew what he wanted.

“You been up north in the goldfields?”

“Yes.”

“Any luck?”

“Enough,” Brent said. “Be seeing you.” He tipped his hat to the old man and strode back across the street to the Colorado House.

 

“Who was that man, Byrony?”

Byrony turned her head from the road to look at her mother. “I ran into him, literally, and spilled the flour all over me. He is very nice, but he’s leaving San Diego tomorrow.”

Alice DeWitt twisted her hands together, a habit of long standing. “I’m glad your father wasn’t in town.”

“Why? You think he would have gone after the man and demanded money from him for dishonoring me?” Byrony’s voice shook with bitterness and impotent rage.

“Now, dear,” Alice said, her voice pleading, “you mustn’t be like that. The five hundred dollars was a big help to your father.”

“Don Joaquín should have told him to go to hell. Poor Gabriel. God, I wish I were a man.” She gave a snort of laughter. “But then I might be like Charlie. You did see him, didn’t you? He was with Tommy Larkin and Jimmy Talvo. Worthless scum, all of them. Of course, your husband would be so delighted that Charlie was half-drunk and shooting off his gun.”