Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

  She’d thought about escape many times in the past few months. She was nineteen, strong and healthy. She could earn her own way; she knew it. She remembered her brother’s words about selling her for a good price. A husband. She shuddered, picturing herself as her mother, bowed in spirit and health, old before her time. The thought froze her with fear. She wouldn’t accept violence from a husband like her mother did. She’d kill him first.

  I’m beginning to think of violence as a way of life, she thought, as normal. Aunt Ida knew, but she never told me. She remembered her initial loneliness, her childish questions about her brother. “But, Aunt Ida, if Father is so difficult, why isn’t Charlie here with us?” And Ida had answered slowly, with finality, “Your brother, my dear, is strong and able to take care of himself. He’s safe enough.”

  She thought of the scores of letters she’d written to her mother during those long years, and her mother’s letters to her, filled with love and affection and lies.

  She told herself yet again that her mother had protected her. What would her girlhood have been like living with Madison DeWitt?

  Thorny nickered suddenly, and she shook off her thoughts. She rose to her feet, shading her hand over her eyes, to see the approaching horse. It was Gabriel de Neve, son of Don Joaquín de Neve, a rich landowner and one of the despised Californios. She smiled at him as he reined in his beautiful bay stallion, Espada, and dismounted gracefully. Gabriel was twenty-one, not much taller than Byrony, his hair and eyes as black as a moonless night. His even teeth glistened white against his tanned face.

  Like other rich Californios, Gabriel was dressed flamboyantly, his black pants belted at his waist by a colorful red silk sash, his black vest sewn with gold buttons. His black boots were of the finest leather, and his white shirt embroidered with gold threads.

  “Como está?” he asked lazily, grinning at her. He saw a flicker of pain in her fine green eyes, but didn’t understand it. It was gone before he could question it.

  “I am fine, Gabriel,” she said. “I haven’t seen you for a week. What have you been doing?”

  Gabriel flexed his sore arms. “Working the new horses,” he said. “Tough brutes. And you, Byrony, what have you been doing?”

  Gabriel’s father didn’t realize that his son spoke perfect English, a fact that would have enraged him. Nor did his father know that he was seeing a gringa, the daughter of a man he considered a fool and a loudmouthed bully. But Gabriel couldn’t stay away from her. She was fresh, sweet, and so lovely it made him ache. He was so busy gazing at her, wondering how her flesh would feel beneath his fingers, that he scarce heard her reply.

  Actually, Byrony uttered something inane and shrugged. Gabriel had followed her here to her private refuge some months ago, and now he seemed to know when she would ride out here. She didn’t really mind, for she liked him. He seemed kind and he loved to jest and laugh. He was a relief from the oppressive atmosphere in her home.

  “You are quiet today, niña,” he said as he looped his stallion’s reins over the saddle pommel. He took a step toward her and was appalled when she shrank back. “What is the matter, Byrony? You act as though I were a bull ready to attack you.”

  It was so apt that she nearly laughed. “Forgive me, Gabriel. I guess I’m just a bit nervous today.”

  He frowned, wondering as he had many times before what was in her mind. She turned away to gaze out over the desolate landscape, and his eyes were drawn to her breeches. How his mother would screech at the sight of a girl so garbed. Her loose white shirt was momentarily flattened against her breasts by a gust of wind, and he swallowed. After the last time he had seen her, he’d been so filled with a man’s physical ache that he’d gone to a whore in San Diego. But it wasn’t the same thing.

  He’ll guess something’s wrong if I don’t say something normal, Byrony thought. “Tell me about the new horses, Gabriel,” she said.

  And he did.

  The afternoon passed in pleasant conversation. Gabriel spoke of his family, and Byrony found she hungered to hear how pleasant life could be. Had it really been only six months since she’d left Aunt Ida’s house, her dear, fussy aunt who’d given her a home and love? And kept her away from men of all ages. She wondered briefly if Aunt Ida, spinster, had believed all men to be like her sister’s husband. Not that she’d ever said anything against Madison DeWitt, or any other man for that matter. But she’d never said anything positive either. Byrony brought her wandering attention back to Gabriel who was speaking of his own mother. Doña Carlota, Gabriel’s mother, was a laughing, gay woman, plump and loving, who adored playing tricks on Gabriel’s father. His brothers were fun-loving and hard workers at the rancho Los Pinos, and his youngest sister, Blanca, was silly, petted, and beautiful.

  Gabriel was telling her about the festivities of the past Christmas when Byrony suddenly jumped to her feet. “Oh, my God. It will be dark very soon. My father—I must go, Gabriel.”

  “I will accompany you home, Byrony,” he said as he gave her a foot up.

  “No.”

  She was clammy with fear, and felt sweat begin to trickle down her sides.

  “Of course I will,” he said calmly, and turned his stallion beside her mare.

  She would leave him before they reached the house. Her brain teemed with lies she would tell if her father saw her. She saw the lights in the distance and dug her heels into Thorny’s sides. “Good-bye, Gabriel,” she called, turning to wave to him.

  “Watch out.”

  His warning didn’t penetrate her mind until the tree branch swiped against her shoulder and hurled her from the saddle. She landed on her back, the breath momentarily knocked out of her. Gabriel jumped from his stallion’s back and knelt beside her.

  “I’m all right,” she gasped. “So stupid.”

  “Are you certain?” he asked. He put his arms around her as she struggled to her feet.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, pulling away from him. “I must get home.”

  “Querida, let me help you.”

  She didn’t even hear the endearment. But she saw her brother and father standing in front of the house, smoking cigars. “Please go away,” she said to Gabriel, grasping the saddle pommel.

  “All right,” he said. “I will see you again soon, Byrony.”

  He wheeled about and galloped away. Byrony drew a deep breath and rode Thorny to the small stable. She dismounted, her body aching and pulling, and began the task of rubbing down her mare. She had nearly finished when she saw her father standing in the narrow doorway of the stable.

  “So,” he said very slowly, very precisely, “you finally decided to leave your lover, huh, girl?”

  She stared at him, not understanding his words.

  “The rich little greaser, Gabriel de Neve,” he said, and spat into a pile of old straw.

  “He is just a friend,” she said, her heart speeding up with fear. “Just a friend. I met him three months ago in San Diego.”

  “And the friendly little greaser rips your shirt, daughter? You like being on your back?”

  She looked down at the jagged tear at her shoulder. “I fell,” she said. “That’s all. A tree branch clipped me and I fell.”

  “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 t
o 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.

  TWO

  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.