Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

Brent walked slowly past his father and out of the bedroom. He heard Laurel’s sobs, his father’s heavy breathing.

He didn’t feel the pain in his torn cheek. He felt nothing but emptiness.

ONE

San Diego, California, March 1853

Lunch started well enough. Alice DeWitt ladled out the stew, passing it to Byrony, who in turn served her brother and father. Plump, good-natured Maria had been gone for three months now. They could no longer afford to pay her miserable wage.

There was silence, for which Byrony was thankful. Anything other than silence was usually unpleasant. She glanced at her father, Madison DeWitt, and thought she saw the signs. He was crumbling a soft tortilla between his fingers, and his fleshy jowls were beginning to quiver.

The attack came swiftly.

“Lazy bitch,” he roared at his wife. “A man needs his food and you serve me up this garbage?”

He threw a thick earthen bowl filled with tasty beef stew across the dining room to smash against the whitewashed wall. Pieces of beef and vegetables fell on top of the mahogany sideboard. It was her mother’s prized piece of furniture.

“Do you think me a pig to give me such swill?”

It wasn’t a question, but Alice DeWitt said in her soft, wounded voice, “It’s filled with fine beef chunks, Madison. I thought you’d like it.”

“Silence. Since when do you pretend to think, you stupid cow?”

Madison DeWitt heaved back his chair and began to pull off his thick leather belt. His heavy face was flushed with rage, the pulse in his throat was pounding above the loosely knotted kerchief. Byrony couldn’t stop herself. She slipped out of her chair and moved to the other side of the table to stand beside her mother.

“Leave her alone, Father,” she said, her voice shaking even though she was fighting with all her might for calm. “Your temper has nothing to do with the stew, and you know it. You’re angry because Don Pedrorena sold his cattle for a better price.”

“Sit down and shut your trap,” Charlie said, eyeing his father’s belt with mild interest. He’d never felt the belt since he was thirteen years old. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “Don Pedrorena is a damned liar and thief, all the Californios are scum. Someday—”

Byrony turned on her brother. “They are not, and you know it. You’re just jealous, both you and Father. If either of you had an ounce of—”

She never finished. Madison DeWitt slashed the belt downward across his daughter’s back. She lurched back, gasping at the pain. Alice DeWitt made a soft, keening noise, her hands fluttering helplessly. She made no move to interfere; it would do no good. She felt the pain with her daughter, her sweet daughter whom she’d tried all her life to protect.

“You’re as stupid as your mother,” Madison growled, and flayed the belt across her shoulders. “Both of you, worthless sluts. God save me from the stupidity of women.”

“Not God,” Byrony screamed at him, “the Devil.”

Byrony felt the cheap cotton of her gown rip as her father struck another blow. She fell to her knees, her arms going up to protect her head and face.

“Father,” Charlie said, calmly sipping at his wine, “don’t scar her. Didn’t you tell me you might get a good price for her? A husband wouldn’t appreciate welts or scars, you know.”

Madison DeWitt struck another blow before his son’s words penetrated his brain. He drew back, breathing hard. “A damned husband wouldn’t see her back until it was too late,” he said, but he didn’t strike her again. “Get up, you little slut,” he said. He turned his dark eyes to his cowering wife. “Get me something to eat, woman, and no more slop.” He threaded the belt through the loops of his trousers and sat down again, his rage spent, to drink another glass of whiskey with his son.

Byrony slowly inched up and sat back on her heels. She was wounded, in spirit as well as body, and her eyes blurred with hated tears. Why don’t I just keep my mouth shut? But she knew she couldn’t. She had to protect her mother. Her mother, after all, had protected her until just six months ago when Byrony had returned to San Diego at the death of her Aunt Ida in Boston. Aunt Ida, her mother’s older sister, who’d always answered the girl’s questions with “Your father’s a difficult man, my dear. Best you stay here. It’s what your mama wants, you know.”

Difficult? Dear God,

the man was mad, his spurts of violence coming more often now that there was so little money. He’d beaten her three times since she’d returned. Byrony bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying out, both from pain and her helpless anger. It would only bring her father’s attention back to her. As silently as she could, she rose and slipped out of the dining room. She heard her father laugh at something Charlie said.

Alice DeWitt entered her daughter’s small bedroom nearly an hour later. Without a word, she dipped a soft cloth into warm water and began to sponge the welts.

“I hate him,” Byrony said between gritted teeth. “And Charlie, he’s become as much of an animal as your husband.”

“Your father has had many disappointments,” Alice said. It was a never-ending litany, as if his own failures excused his savage attacks.

“His disappointments are of his own making. Why don’t you leave him? Mother, we can go together, leave San Diego. We can go back to Boston. Aunt Ida had so many friends—”

“You shouldn’t have interfered,” Alice said. “I’ve told you not to, many times.” She must get married, Alice thought. Soon, so she’ll be safe.