Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

He rose and straightened his coat. James Cora said, “You play well, Hammond, very well indeed. Give my love to Maggie, won’t you?”

Brent started with surprise. How did Cora know of his association with Maggie? Lord, were there no secrets in San Francisco? He said, “Yes, indeed I will. Would you mind keeping my winnings in your safe tonight, Cora?”

“Not at all. Wise of you. I wouldn’t bet your staying in a whole hide for more than five minutes if you walked out of here with that much money. The Sydney Ducks have an incredible network, as I’m sure you realize now. Lawless scum.”

Brent nodded in agreement, and followed Cora to his back office. The money and gold were placed in a leather pouch and put into the safe. Cora said over his shoulder, “I have men guarding the El Dorado at all times. You needn’t worry.”

“No, I won’t,” Brent said. He shook hands with James Cora. “We will play again. I’ll try my damnedest to give you that competition, Cora. Give my love to Belle.”

“Indeed I will,” Cora said. He wasn’t at all disconcerted. He and Belle were both famous and infamous. He wouldn’t allow his fiery wife ever to get close to Hammond. He was too much a man for Belle’s token restraint. She’d have his pants off in five minutes. He saw Brent Hammond on his way, then turned thoughtfully back into his saloon. It was hard to see through all the accumulated smoke. He’d lost two thousand dollars to Hammond, but he wasn’t worried. He’d get it back, easily. He wondered at his Good Samaritan streak. It wasn’t like him, even if Maggie had practically begged him to give Brent Hammond the stake he needed. A ten-high straight flush. Yes, it had been painful to fold those cards facedown and give Hammond the pot. Not that Hammond’s saloon would be any great competition. Lord, there were so many saloons already in San Francisco—over six hundred at last count—one more wouldn’t matter. And it wasn’t as if Hammond were opening a brand-new saloon. He’d simply be taking over the Broken Mare from that ass Tory Grayson. Why the hell, though, did Maggie care so much? She was hard as nails. Even though Hammond looked like a stud, he didn’t think Maggie was after what was in his pants. Well, he thought, accepting a whiskey from his bartender, he’d find ou

t soon enough. He looked up to see Tony Dawson, Dan Brewer, and Delaney Saxton stroll through the swinging doors. They never played for big stakes, but he personally liked the three of them. Good men, and more honest than most successful men were in San Francisco.

Brent Hammond automatically reached for his derringer as he stepped into the cool, foggy night. There weren’t too many men about this time of night, just a few drunks and the usual complement of scum lurking in the dark alleys waiting for an unwary victim. He felt nearly light-headed with relief. He whistled all the way to Maggie’s house, some three blocks away from Portsmouth Square.

She was waiting for him.

“You did it,” she said.

He swept her high into his arms and swung her around, then lowered her and gave her a smacking kiss on her pursed lips. “Yep, Maggie, I did it. Now we can go ahead with our plans.”

“This calls for a celebration, Brent. Whiskey?”

“The best you’ve got, Maggie.” He watched her walk in her no-nonsense, nearly military fashion, across her small sitting room, stuffed with so many gewgaws that he wondered how she’d managed to keep them intact with her skirts so full and stiff. He’d met her in a brothel, one of the most elegant in San Francisco. She hadn’t serviced him; she was the owner of Maggie’s. Strangely enough, he’d forgotten his purpose once they’d begun talking, though he’d believed his need was too great to be diverted by anything or anyone. He told her of that girl in San Diego, Byrony. Silly name, and a girl who appeared to be as grasping as Laurel, and him a randy goat by the time he’d returned to San Francisco. No woman after Laurel had gotten to him like she had, and his admission made him grin at his own stupidity. He wished he hadn’t watched Byrony run across that road in San Diego, for at odd moments since, he’d stripped her and seen her long legs wrapped around him. He shook his head and accepted a glass of whiskey.

“Good stuff, Maggie,” he said. “To our success.”

“To success.”

They both threw back their heads and tossed down the whiskey.

“I’m going to name the saloon the Wild Star,” Brent said, his voice quiet and pleased. “If that’s all right with you.”

“The Wild Star and Maggie’s. Sounds like a perfect mating. We’ve lots of work to do before we can open, Brent. How big is your stake now?”

Their plan was quite simple. Tory Grayson’s Broken Mare was a huge building, half of which was at the present rented out to merchants for storage. Maggie would take that side and Brent the other. They would be partners, all profits split down the middle. By the time he left Maggie’s house, their plans set for an opening in a month, Brent was feeling drunk, blissfully content, and for the first time in nine years, ready to put down roots. He saw not only the immediate profit he would make from the saloon; he saw also the future of this boisterous city with himself a part of it.

The sale was completed the following day in Delaney Saxton’s bank office. Maggie grinned at Delaney and offered him her best girl, Celeste, at a discount.

“I don’t want Marie taking a knife to me,” Saxton said, referring to his French mistress.

Maggie shrugged, imitating Marie’s Gallic gesture. “Marie’s a sensible girl. You’re lucky I didn’t take a knife to you, Del, after you stole her away from me.”

“Ah, Maggie, you of all people understand the direness of a man’s need.”

Maggie laughed and gave him a light buffet on his shoulder. “I knew I’d make a fortune in San Francisco.”

They parted amicably.

The next three weeks went with startling swiftness as the Wild Star and Maggie’s began to take shape. It was only at night that Brent occasionally remembered a pair of warm, laughing eyes. For the life of him he couldn’t remember their color, just their directness and their pleasure as they looked at him.

Her image grew fainter as time passed.

It was a shock one morning when Maggie, who had just finished having the main room wallpapered, turned to him and asked, “Who is Byrony?”

Brent could only stare at her.

“Shut your mouth. You look like a silly fish. Don’t you know anyone named Byrony?”