Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

  FIFTEEN

  Byrony awoke to the sound of voices—indistinct, low, and upset. Her mind felt fuzzy, heavy, without focus. She tried to concentrate on those voices. It was Ira and Irene.

  Ira’s voice, worried. “Saint is suspicious, I swear it.”

  Irene’s voice, contemptuous, dismissive. “What can he do, for God’s sake? Nothing, I tell you, nothing at all.”

  “No more, Irene. I mean it. Whatever you’re putting in her food, it must stop. I’m going to let her go. Do you hear me?”

  “No, Ira, no—Please, you must listen to me.”

  The voices moved away.

  Stop putting what in my food? Her mind cleared, and she realized suddenly that Irene was poisoning her. But that was crazy, wasn’t it? Why would she? Because they’re afraid you will tell the truth about them. That you’ll blackmail them forever.

  “But I promised Ira I wouldn’t,” she whispered. Her throat was parched; her voice sounded scratchy to her own ears.

  She was fully alert now, and, thankfully, alone. She remembered Saint sitting next to her, speaking to her. What had she said?

  What am I going to do?

  You’re going to leave, that’s what you’re going to do. I have to get my strength back, she thought. And I don’t dare eat or drink anything. She pushed herself upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Slowly she rose, only to fall back, her legs too weak to hold her weight.

  Byrony covered her face with her hands. She didn’t cry, she was too afraid. She’d never felt so alone in her life. Why couldn’t Aunt Ida bustle through the door? Tell her the Misses Perkins were here to visit. Tell her—There was no one.

  You have to rely on yourself once you leave. You must begin now.

  She looked toward the windows. It was late afternoon. Anytime now, Irene or Eileen would bring her something to eat. She had to pretend. Tonight, she had to be strong enough to leave tonight. She thought of the beautiful necklace Ira had given her for Christmas. She couldn’t wait to sell it. I’m going to rest now, she thought. Tonight, late, I’ll sneak out the window. I’ll ride Thorny south, toward San Jose. I’ll be all right.

  She was asleep when Irene quietly opened her door and peered in. She frowned a moment, then shrugged and carried the tray of food back downstairs.

  It was near to midnight. San Francisco was fogged in. It was eerily gray, the air so thick and heavy that it was difficult to make out anything beyond several yards away.

  Brent rode his stallion across Market Street and cut over to South Park, to the Butler house. The fog was lighter here. He reined in just a bit down the road. It was dark, thank God, not a single light. He’d found out from Saint which room was hers. She wasn’t sleeping with her husband.

  He wondered briefly if Saint had any idea what his words would result in. Probably; the man was damned perceptive.

  “So,” Saint had said, his eyes nearly closed, “I suppose I’ll just go see her again tomorrow. Hopefully she won’t be too drugged.”

  Brent could still remember his rage.

  “Of course, it’s really none of your affair, Brent. But you said you wanted to know.” Saint rose, stretched as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and added, “I think I’ll try my hand at some rouge et noir downstairs.”

  Then Brent had asked him where Byrony’s room was.

  And Saint had told him.

  “So she has her own separate room, does she? Not still sleeping with her husband?”

  Saint had merely smiled at him. “Who knows?” was all he said.

  Brent hadn’t really questioned his own decision. He made it, and that was that.

  What would she say when she saw him? Would she refuse to come with him?

  He shook his head, and quietly dismounted. He tethered his stallion to one of the few pine trees and walked toward the back of the house. He stopped in his tracks, a wide smile on his face, and tossed aside the rope he’d brought. A skinny pine tree was nearly touching the side of the house, rising to the second story.

  Byrony had packed a valise. She was shaking from weakness. I’ve got to get dressed now, she thought, I’ve got to. But she simply had no more strength. She sat down on her bed, looking blankly at the lone flickering candle. It would gutter out soon, she thought blankly, and there aren’t any more. How can I dress myself in the dark?

  She jumped at the noise. Her heart pounding, she stared toward the window. She watched it pushed open. She watched a man swing his leg over the ledge.

  Brent.

  His eyes met hers in that moment, and he grinned.

  Byrony could only stare blankly at him, not really believing that he was here.

  “Good evening, madam,” he said, and swept her a bow.

  “Brent,” she whispered. In the next instant she stumbled off the bed and into his arms. “Are you really here? I’m not imagining you?” Her hands were clutching at his arms, his shoulders.

  “I’m here.”

  “I didn’t know what to do. I knew I had to escape, but I didn’t have the strength to dress myself. The candle is nearly gone.”

  He held her tightly against him, not speaking for several moments. She was trembling. He felt her sag against him, and lifted her into his arms.

  “You don’t have to do anything now,” he said as he set her on the edge of her bed. He lightly cupped her chin in his hand and raised her head. “Will you come with me?”

  She looked at him as if he had asked an incomprehensible question. “I thought I was alone,” she said. “Have you really come to take me away from this house?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I see that you managed to pack.”

  She was clutching at his sleeve. “Please, can we go now? Sometimes, sometimes they look in on me.”

  He studied her pale face for a moment. Her eyes were feverishly bright. Her long hair was pulled back and tied with a simple ribbon at the nape of her neck. He lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Sit still.”

  She watched him toss her valise out the window. “Now, Byrony, this might be a little tricky. I’m not certain just how strong that damned tree is. Shall we give it a try?”

  She nodded, and tried to rise.

  “No, no.” He fetched her heavy wool cloak from the armoire and wrapped it around her. “Just hang on.” He lifted her over his shoulder, his arm across the back of her thighs.

  Byrony closed her eyes. If this was a dream, she didn’t want to wake up. Not yet. She breathed in the scent of him, felt the strength of him.

  A branch cracked. Brent cursed softly, momentarily losing his footing. But Byrony made no sound. She lay over his shoulder as if it were the safest place in the world to be. “Good girl,” he whispered. “We’re almost there.”

  He reached the ground and lowered her to her feet. “You’ve lost weight,” he said.

  She was leaning against him, his arms supporting her. “So have you.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t looked at me.”

  “Your face is thinner. Have you been ill too?”

  He wanted to laugh, but didn’t. Maybe later. “Come, we’ve got to get away from here, and now.” He picked up her valise.

  He lifted her over his shoulder once again. She trusts me, he thought as he walked as quietly as he could toward his stallion. It was a surprising realization, given the way he’d always treated her. No, she’d trusted him before, when she’d come to him that rainy night. He managed somehow to climb on his stallion’s back, holding both her and the valise.

  He wanted to know why the hell her husband would want to hurt her. If indeed he had been trying to hurt her. Probably, his thinking continued, because she was going to leave him. The jealous, possessive sort. Maybe Ira was furious because she was taking their child with her. But she’d said nothing about the child, expressed no concern, nothing. He frowned, thinking that the puzzle pieces simply didn’t fit cleanly together. He didn’t understand her or this bizarre situation. And now he was in the middle of it. Irrevocably.


  Brent pulled his horse to a halt in the alley behind the saloon. To his complete surprise, Saint came out of the shadows.

  “Good evening, Brent,” he said. “I was expecting you a bit sooner, but I guess rescues take a goodly amount of time these days.”

  “You sneaky bastard,” Brent said as he carefully dismounted, Byrony in his arms. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew what I was going to do.”

  “Sometimes you’re about as transparent as a window-pane. Take her upstairs and put her to bed. I’ll take a look at her while you take your horse back to the stables. I trust no one saw you.”

  “No.”

  Brent handed Saint the valise, then shifted Byrony into his arms. She leaned her face against his shoulder.

  Once she was lying on Brent’s bed, Saint said over his shoulder, “Get out for a while, Brent. Let me examine my patient.”

  “Saint? Did I dream it or did you come to see me?”

  “I saw you, Byrony,” he said, smiling down at her. “You’ll be well in no time, my child.”

  She gave him a weak smile. “Child? Why, you can’t be more than seven years older. Child indeed.”

  “All right. Now tell me your symptoms and when they started.”

  She looked hesitant for a moment, then said, drawing a deep breath, “I told Ira I wanted to leave him. He agreed. Then that night, after dinner, I didn’t feel particularly well. But last Sunday, I was fine again. Remember I saw you in church?”

  “I remember. Did you have an upset stomach, nausea?”

  “Yes. Then I started feeling so weak. I didn’t know until after you’d left, I guess, what Ira and Irene were doing. I overheard them arguing.” She closed her eyes a moment, blocking out the horror. “I think they were poisoning me.”

  “Yes, I agree,” he said quite calmly. “Doubtless it has to do with the fact—well, never mind that now. Did you eat any dinner? or drink anything?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “How about something now? I promise to taste it first.”

  “I’m not too hungry,” she said.

  “In a little while, then. Hold still now.” He gently slipped his hand under her nightgown to her belly. “Does that hurt?”

  “No.”

  “How about here?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good.” He straightened her nightgown and rose. “Ah, here’s your rescuer. She’ll be all right, Brent, I promise.”

  “Why does she look so pale?”

  “She’s been in bed for five days, hasn’t eaten today, has some kind of poison in her system. I think that about covers it.”

  “I’m going to kill that bastard.”

  “No. Please, Brent, don’t tell him where I am. Please.”

  For a man who appeared by word and attitude at least to despise this particular woman, Brent, in Saint’s eyes, looked stricken. He watched his friend sit beside her and take her hand between his large ones. “No, I won’t. You must rest now, Byrony. Get your strength back. We’ll decide once you’re well again what we’re going to do.”

  “All right.” Byrony paused a moment. “I’m not alone anymore,” she whispered, more to herself than to Brent.

  “No,” Brent said, “you’re not.”

  She raised her hand and tentatively touched her fingertips to his jaw. “You need to eat something, Brent. Are you certain you haven’t been ill?”

  Brent heard a chuckle from Saint and said, “No, not at all. I’ll tell you what, Byrony. I’ll get us both some hot soup, something nourishing. All right?”

  “Yes, all right,” she said. “I don’t think I would have managed to ride to San Jose tonight.”

  Saint stayed to make certain the chicken soup, Maggie’s own private recipe, didn’t make her sick. He looked rather pleased with himself when he left an hour later.

  “Thank you,” Byrony said.

  “I’ll call on you tomorrow, Byrony. You sleep now.”

  “She’ll be asleep in ten minutes,” Brent answered for her. In fact, she was asleep when Brent returned to the bedroom after seeing Saint on his way. He stood over the bed a moment, staring down at her still face. What the hell have I done? He laughed softly at himself.

  “I don’t bloody believe it. That bastard.”

  “It would appear that he’s anxious to have her back, that and to cover his tracks,” Saint said.

  Maggie looked toward the closed bedroom door “Where did you hear it, Saint?”

  “From Del Saxton. He told me that Ira was frantic, telling everyone that his poor wife is suffering from female delusions—crazy, in other words. He’s offered a huge sum of money for information about her. The poor child, he says, must be confined for her own protection. Hints of violence to herself, and all that. Pretty smart of old Ira, I’d say.”

  “The bastard,” Brent said again.

  “I just don’t understand any of this,” Maggie said.

  Saint merely shrugged.

  “Well, Brent,” Maggie said, turning to him, “it looks like you’ve set yourself firmly in the middle of this mess. What are you going to do?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest notion. Any ideas?”

  “First, obviously,” Saint said, “Byrony has to get well again. I don’t suppose you want to send her on her way until then, right, Brent?”

  “I’m not a monster.” Actually, he had no intention of letting her leave, ever.

  “Of course you’re not,” Maggie said, shooting a surprised glance toward Saint. “You rescued her. That was very noble of you, Brent.”

  Saint rose. “Well, I’ve got other patients. I hope we can keep Byrony’s whereabouts a well-kept secret.”

  “Can you imagine Ira ever thinking that his wife was in bed in a saloon, next to a brothel?”

  “Good point, Maggie. Brent, keep feeding her whenever she wakes up. And Brent, no arguments, all right? You know,” he said from the doorway, “I think Del might be a help to us in this situation. What do you think, Brent?”

  “I agree, but let’s give it a few days before we speak to him.”

  Byrony slept twelve hours. Deeply and dreamlessly. When she awoke, she stretched under the covers, queried her body, and received a painless response.

  “Good. You’re finally back to the land of the living.”

  She opened her eyes and smiled at Brent. “I feel marvelous, I think,” she said. “Is that food you’ve got? I’m starving.”

  She pulled herself to a sitting position. “Brent,” she said, her voice tight with embarrassment, “could you leave, please?”

  “Leave?” he said, frowning down at her. “Whatever for?” Then he understood and grinned. “I’m pleased that you’re functioning again. I’ll be in the other room. Call me if you need anything.”

  She discovered she was still a bit weak, but she managed to relieve herself without accident. She stared at herself for a moment in the small mirror above Brent’s dresser.

  “You look just fine. Come back to bed now.”

  She ate everything he gave her—the warm crusty bread piled with butter, the chicken soup, the thick cocoa.

  She sighed, and leaned back against her pillows. “If I die now, it will be with a smile on my face,” she said.

  “No dying. I forbid it.”

  “It would ruin all the nice things you’ve done for me, wouldn’t it?”

  “Very true,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you rescue me? I didn’t think you—well, you’ve never given me any reason to believe that—I don’t understand you, Brent.”

  “Ah, Saint forced me into it. Convinced me that I should start paving my own private Christian road to heaven. What could I do but agree?”

  “Oh.”

  He leaned down and wound a lock of hair around his finger. He heard her breathing quicken and felt a jolt of lust so powerful he pulled back abruptly, yanking her hair. She yelped. “I’m sorry,” he said, and turned away from her.
His desire for her was evident, and he didn’t want her to believe that he’d saved her just so he could have her in his bed. Why had he saved her? Brent shook his head, and said over his shoulder, “Anytime you would like to talk about all this mess, I’m willing to listen. In fact, Byrony, I demand to know just what I’ve gotten myself into.”

  He turned then, but her eyes were lowered, staring at her clasped hands in her lap. “You’ve gotten yourself into nothing,” she said finally. “I will leave just as I had originally planned. You will not be involved.”

  “Damn you, I am involved. Don’t you prattle at me as if I’m some stranger off the street who just happened to pull you out of the window of your house.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And don’t give me that ridiculous whipped-dog routine. Just tell me the truth, Byrony. That’s all I ask. That night I dragged you in out of the rain—what were you doing? What had happened to you?”

  “It doesn’t concern you, Brent. Please. I’m very tired. I plan to leave tomorrow.”

  He stared at her, feeling utterly infuriated and utterly helpless. “I fully intend to beat you when you’re well,” he said, then turned on his heel and walked from the room.

  SIXTEEN

  Maggie brought her dinner that evening. She arched a brow at Byrony, saying, “Whatever did you say to Brent? He’s in a snit again.”

  “He wants to know things,” Byrony said. Her chin went up at Maggie’s chuckle. “They’re really none of his business.”

  “Well, I won’t ask any questions. Would you like to get out of that bed to eat your dinner? I imagine you’re feeling quite bored by now.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Byrony said, and slipped out of bed. “Saint said as far as he could tell I was just fine now.”

  “Here, put on Brent’s dressing gown. It’s just a bit chilly in here. After dinner, would you like a bath?”

  “Indeed I would.” Byrony pulled Brent’s dressing gown around her. It was as if part of him were next to her. His scent was in the velvet, and for a moment she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes.