Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

The wind blew hot and dry across the top of the rise, making the endless sea of chaparral bend and dip. Several buzzards swooped down from the rise to the flatlands below, seeking prey, their flight slow and steady.

Byrony sat in the shade of a lone pine tree, her long legs spread out in front of her, her felt hat pushed back off her forehead. Her mare, Thorny, was tethered some distance away where she could forage at the scraggly bits of wild grass. It was a desolate place, a private place where no one came, except for Byrony. If the day were clear, like today, she could see the ocean in the distance and some of the buildings in San Diego. She shifted her weight and felt a painful pulling across her back. She found herself wondering yet again if all men were like her father and Charlie. Cruel, vicious, unable to accept their own mistakes, their own failures. Unlike her mother, she couldn’t excuse her father. He’d lost several head of cattle, all through his own carelessness, leaving them to seek out water from a poisoned well. And those that lived, he’d tried to sell, for little money. And Charlie, carousing in the saloons in San Diego, gambling with the same lack of luck that characterized her father.

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.”