Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“They will continue not to be what you expect, too,” Byrony said.

“She wants to keep me happy,” Brent said.

“So that’s what she meant,” Agatha said.

Later, as the guests were all seated in the Saxton sitting room, Chauncey suddenly jumped and dropped her cup of coffee. “Oh dear,” she said, looking toward her husband.

Saint smiled and rose from his chair. “I’m glad you waited until after dinner, my dear.”

“The baby’s coming?”

Agatha laughed at Del’s stunned expression. Saint was bending over Chauncey, his large hand splayed over her belly. When he felt her tense with a contraction, he gently patted her shoulder. “How long have you felt the pains, Chauncey?”

“Since this morning. Nothing impressive, until now.”

“Chauncey,” Del shouted at his wife, “why didn’t you tell me? Jesus, you stubborn—”

“Now, Del, if I’d told you, you would have been in an absolute panic all day.” Another contraction seared through her and she gulped. “I think you can panic now.”

“

No need,” said Saint calmly. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me now, my dear. My, my, a month early. The little beggar is eager to see the world.”

“Wait. That is, shouldn’t I do something?”

“My dear Del, you’ve done quite enough,” Saint said. “After all, you did invite me to dinner. Agatha, why don’t you come with us. You can help Chauncey into her nightgown. Del, have a drink. The rest of you hold his hand and keep him amused, all right?”

Byrony jumped to her feet. “I’ll help you,” she said.

“No, my dear. You stay downstairs.”

“But—”

“Byrony,” Brent said sharply, “sit down.”

Delaney helped Chauncey to her feet, and held her when she doubled over. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll be with you.”

“Lord, that’s all I need,” Saint said, “a husband who won’t obey me.”

Tony, Byrony, Brent, and Horace were left in the sitting room to stare at each other. Brent felt Byrony’s hand close over his sleeve. “Shouldn’t I go up and be with her? I am a woman, after all.”

“You haven’t had a child,” he said.

“What would you know about it?”

To her utter surprise, Brent paled a bit. “Unfortunately, I didn’t know much of anything. If I had, perhaps Joyce Morgan might still be alive. As it was, I buried her and the child.”

“I say, Brent, what are you talking about?” Horace Newton asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“It was a long time ago,” Brent said. “In the wilds of Colorado. I was riding to Denver and overtook this wagon. A very young woman was driving, and in great pain. She was alone and in labor.” Brent stopped, aware that he’d begun to sweat. He forced himself to shrug. “That’s all. I tried, she tried, but nothing was good enough.”

“Where was her husband?” Byrony asked, her throat dry.

“He was in Denver, selling cattle. When I found him, he’d gotten into a fight and been killed. It was probably just as well. The way I was feeling, I might have killed him myself. He’d left her close to her time, you see, with no one to help her.”

The fury he’d felt, the utter hopelessness that had paralyzed him for weeks thereafter, returned in full measure. He wasn’t aware that his face mirrored that nearly forgotten pain. He bounded to his feet and began to pace. “Chauncey will be all right,” he said, looking upward for a moment.

“Of course she will,” said Horace.