Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“What do you mean, Madison?” Alice said.

“I mean,” he said with deep satisfaction, “that I’ve found a husband for your daughter. A rich husband. One of your distant cousins, Alice, Ira Butler.”

Byrony didn’t move a muscle. Her mind raced to the few conversations she’d had with her Aunt Ida about her family. Ira Butler was a third cousin, from back East. He was old, probably nearing forty.

“The only thing is,” Madison said, frowning toward Byrony, “is the girl pregnant? Is she carrying that damned Californio’s bastard?”

“Of course not.” A

lice cried. “She never—”

“Shut up, woman. Our Mr. Butler will be arriving next week from San Francisco. He’s going to pay dearly for you, daughter, dearly indeed. He writes of a fine settlement.”

“Why does he want to marry me?” Byrony asked, her first words.

“He talks of family ties,” Madison said. “He even sent a hundred dollars, for your trousseau, he says. Well, girl, you can have fifty. Do something with yourself, you look like a worn-out—”

“Slut?”

He raised his hand, then thought better of it. “Hold your tongue, girl. I’ll brook no insolence from you. Soon you’ll be another man’s problem.”

Alice quickly said, “Come, love, let’s go to the kitchen and make dinner. We can talk.”

“I won’t be here, Ali,” Madison called out, his voice obnoxiously jovial. “I’m going into town. At last things are going my way.”

“To get stinking drunk,” Byrony said under her breath.

“Madison,” Alice said, “could you please give me the fifty dollars?”

“Whining bitch,” he muttered, but he handed her the money.

Alice heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s an answer to all my prayers,” she said to her daughter after her husband’s heavy footfall had faded in the distance.

“Your prayers, not mine,” Byrony said.

“No, listen to me, child. I remember Ira well. He’s older than you by some years, but he’s a kind man, and handsome, ever so handsome. I remember thinking he looked just like the angels in my Bible, all fair and slender. He won’t hurt you, ever. My, my, I wonder at his reasons, but no matter. I haven’t heard from him in a good three years. He wrote me from San Francisco back in ’fifty. He was already on his way to becoming rich. A smart man, Ira, and a good man. You’ll even have a new sister, Byrony. Her name is Irene, and she’s not that much older than you. She’s Ira’s half-sister, but he’s taken care of her since his father and stepmother died some ten years ago.”

Byrony listened to her mother run on and on. A kind man—he’ll not hurt you. Was that all to pray for in a husband? Perhaps, Byrony thought, it was all that she could pray for. But why her? He’d never even seen her. It made no sense to her. But then, nothing had made much sense since her return to the bosom of her family. Oddly enough, before she fell asleep that night, she thought of the man she’d met in San Diego, the gambler. She gave a small half-sigh and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

THREE

Aunt Ida would have said that Ira Baines Butler was a real gentleman, an almost extinct male of the species. Byrony silently agreed as she watched Ira Butler deftly handle each member of the DeWitt family. She remembered Aunt Ida’s standards were as rigid as her whalebone corset. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember more than a half-dozen males being raised to that exalted station. Ira’s light blue eyes swung toward her and he smiled. Despite herself, she felt herself responding and smiling back. No doubt about it, she thought, he was charming, attentive, well-dressed, and said all the right things. Byrony, who was prepared to hate him on sight, had to revise her opinion of him before the end of the first evening of his visit. He treated her father with deferential respect, while her father viewed him with greed, envy, and relief. She saw her mother grow almost pretty again under Cousin Ira’s gentle compliments. Charlie’s behavior surprised her the most. He had at first been sullen, not at all unexpected, but under Ira’s careful handling he soon became like a friendly puppy, eager to win the older man’s approval and attention.

And he was rich.

Long after she went to bed that first evening, she could hear the soft rumble of male voices from downstairs. Her father was doubtless squeezing every dollar he could from Ira. Her confusion over the entire situation grew.

The next morning, after breakfast, Ira asked if Byrony would give him a tour of the small ranch. To Byrony’s surprise, her father had already hitched up the buckboard, a task he had disdained since she’d come back to San Diego.

“Such a pleasure to finally meet you, Cousin Byrony,” Ira said once they were seated in the buckboard. “May I say while we’re alone that I am pleased that you have accepted me. Let me assure you that I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”

Ira Butler’s speech was lightly spiced with a Southern drawl, his voice smooth as honey. Byrony remembered her mother telling her that Cousin Ira Baines Butler was a handsome man, and she hadn’t told her daughter a lie. He did look like an angel, Byrony thought, with his silky blond hair, very fair complexion, and pale blue eyes. Oddly, the image of the gambler came into her mind and she thought: And he looks like a fallen angel. She said, “Thank you, Mr. Butler.”

“Ira, please.”

“Ira.” She smiled up at him. “I think you misnamed, sir. Gabriel is more appropriate, I think.”

A mobile blond brow soared upward.