Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

Her father growled, and Byrony smiled. “Such a pity that it can’t be Gabriel’s. You would so much love to have a grandchild who is half Californio, wouldn’t you? Perhaps you could even extort more money from his father.”

“Byrony.”

“Forgive me, Mother,” Byrony said. “There’s no reason for unpleasantness, is there? If your husband will but be reasonably civil, I will be also.”

“Think you’re so above us, don’t you, girl?”

“Certainly not above my mother.”

“Just where is this husband of yours?”

“I’m meeting him in San Francisco.”

Madison gazed down at his hands for a brief moment, but not before Byrony saw the glitter of greed in his eyes.

“So, is the man going to send along money to your parents?”

“If I could be guaranteed that it would belong to my mother, I would send it myself. But you’d never let her see a bit of it, would you?”

“You’re an ungrateful child,” Madison DeWitt said. “Here I am, trying to make a go of things for your mother.”

Ah, she thought, so you’re trying a new ploy. It fit so ill on his shoulders.

“Shall I help you, Mother?” Byrony asked, ignoring her father.

“Yes, please,” Alice DeWitt said, casting a nervous look toward her husband.

“Just what do you expect me to do with that horse of yours? We don’t have any help, you know.”

“Why, I’ll take care of the mare. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself, not after all the hard work I’m sure you’ve done today. Mother, I’ll be back in a moment. Do you mind if I put her in the stable?”

Madison DeWitt shrugged, wheeled about, and left the house.

How, Byrony thought as she stripped the saddle off the mare’s back, could her mother bear that officious man? He’d looked even more dissipated and slovenly than he had the year before. And her mother looked so worn, so bone-tired. At least Charlie wasn’t here. She’d tried to find at least some theoretical caring for her brother in her heart, but there wasn’t any. He was indeed his father’s son.

The baby suddenly moved, and Byrony drew a startled breath. She straightened slowly, smiling. She wondered briefly what Maggie would say when she heard that Byrony would be running Brent’s saloon. Not Brent’s, she added silently. Ours. All three of us.

She was laughing when she returned to the house.

She didn’t laugh at night, alone in her narrow bed. Once she awoke in the middle of the night, her breathing heavy, her body alive with sensation. “Damn you, Brent Hammond.” She missed him. He was always present in the back of her mind, emerging when she was least prepared, his beautiful eyes on her face, his marvelous hand stroking her, giving her such pleasure that she wanted to yell from it. What was he thinking? And doing? Was he on his way to San Francisco even now?

Nearly a week later, she rode into San Diego. There would be a ship due, she learned, on the following Friday. She booked passage to San Francisco.

When she returned, her father wasn’t there. He was probably off drinking and playing cards with some of his cronies. She cornered her mother, hugged her tightly, and whispered, “I have some money. If I give it to you, will your husband know?”

“Yes,” Alice DeWitt said simply. “I’d tell him.”

Byrony stepped back, studying her mother’s face. “Why?”

Stupid question, she thought a few moments later, her mother’s litany of his disappointments playing over and over in her mind.

“Come back to San Francisco with me,” she said.

“I’d dearly love to visit you, my dear girl, but—”

“I know. Your husband wouldn’t like it.”

“He needs me, Byrony.”