Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

me is Bullet. Poor old fellow died several years ago. I’m pleased I had him painted before he went down. I suppose it was for the best—a race, you know, and he broke his leg. But, enough of that.”

“Natchez has changed a bit also,” Brent said. “New buildings, more bustle on the docks, many more boats on the river.”

“True.” He shook his gray head. “The steamboat you traveled on for a while—Fortune’s Lady—blew up some five years ago. The idiot captain was racing, of course. Killed some fifteen people. I understand you’re newly married. My congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

James Milsom sat back at his desk and studied the young man across from him. He was a man now, he thought, shaking off the memories of the handsome, arrogant youth he remembered. He said abruptly, with no preamble, “Your father regretted what happened, Brent. Oh, not at first, he was too enraged.” He watched Brent raise his fingers to the scar on his cheek.

“I gather he told you. All of it?”

“Yes, but only I know what happened. Forgive me if I’m probing at old wounds, Brent. But you came to talk to me about your father, did you not?”

“That and other things.” Brent sighed. “Had I been in my father’s shoes, I would have probably killed me. I was an excellent son to him, was I not?”

“It’s over and done with, Brent.”

“Yes, he’s dead, too late for me to make reparations.”

“Did you know that he devoured your letters to your brother? He followed your progress, you know. When you bought your saloon in San Francisco, he was pleased. I remember him telling me that at last you’d settled down, finally come to terms with yourself.”

Brent remembered that letter, the last one he’d written. He realized now that it had been filled with his excitement, his satisfaction, his hopes. And his father had read it.

“It’s a pity he didn’t live long enough to learn of your marriage. That would have pleased him greatly.”

“Would it? I wonder. Perhaps he saw my son sometime in the future in bed with his father’s seductive new young wife. The final irony, the final justice.”

“I can’t imagine that your young wife has any intention of dying,” James Milsom said.

“I can’t imagine that my mother did either.”

Milsom frowned as he leaned back in his chair. “I believe it’s time to cease this spate of guilt, Brent. I certainly don’t blame you, and your father ceased to very shortly after you left.” He paused a moment, carefully choosing his words. “I do not believe it is wise for a man or a woman to marry outside his generation. Your father realized his mistake very quickly. It’s just that he couldn’t admit it to himself until after he found you in bed with Laurel. He never approached her as his wife after that.”

“Why? Because I’d defiled her?”

“No, because he was sick at his own foolishness, his own blindness. Listen to me, Brent. Your father didn’t spend those last years alone. He found someone, and he was happy.”

Brent started forward in his chair.

“I won’t tell you the lady’s name. Suffice it to say that he was discreet, and again, I am the only person who was in your father’s confidence.”

“I am relieved,” Brent said. “Lord knows he deserved it. If only I hadn’t been such a selfish little bastard, if only I’d understood.”

“I haven’t met any young men of eighteen who were saints, Brent. Now, I have something else to tell you. I was with your father just before he died. He wanted to write you a letter to relieve his own conscience and yours, I believe. But there wasn’t time. A pity. As to his will, he did disinherit you, but only briefly. It was changed back some eight years ago.”

A letter. Yes, Brent thought, clenching his hands, it was a pity. “Had I been my father, I should have made Drew my heir.”

“Your brother cares only for his painting—you know that. As for Laurel, I find it quite interesting that he left her in your hands, so to speak.”

“A problem I haven’t yet resolved.” Brent paused a moment, then said carefully. “There’s another reason why I’m here, sir. It’s about Frank Paxton.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

“I believe Wakehurst’s overseer has been lining his pockets over the years, particularly after my father became ill.”

“It’s probably true, but I have no proof. An ill master or an absentee master allows for that sort of thing, you know. Were I you, Brent, I’d simply fire the fellow.”

Then who would run Wakehurst?