“Yes,” she said, her voice breaking.
“Excellent.” He simply pushed her off his lap, and she landed in a welter of skirts on the floor at his feet, her underclothes about her ankles. He rose quickly, forcing himself not to look at her, for if he did, he knew he’d probably beg her forgiveness, hold her, and . . . Damnation!
He didn’t bother with a coat. He left, slamming the front door after him.
Jules gingerly touched her hand to her burning bottom. She struggling to get her underclothes back into a semblance of order, then straightened her gown. But didn’t rise—she couldn’t manage to do that just yet.
She leaned down, pillowed her head on her arms, and breathed in the dust from the carpet.
22
Saint sat by himself at a table at the Wild Star. His friends and acquaintances now kept to themselves, leaving him in solitary splendor, nursing his whiskey.
“Hisself is takin’ things too serious,” said Dancer Drake, the local boxer.
To Bear Paw Ryan, Saint had been just plain rude. “He musta lost somebody important,” Bear Paw said by way of excuse for one of the most popular men in San Francisco.
Saint stared down at his whiskey, unaware that his very unsaintlike behavior was leading to wild speculation. What am I going to do now?
he was asking himself. It was a refrain that had no more acceptable answer now than when he’d first asked it months before. Jules’s shocked white face kept swimming before his eyes. And her beautiful bottom, red-streaked from his smacks. He winced, hearing the sound of his hand striking her. You damned brute, he said to himself, and downed the remainder of his whiskey.
I hate you.
“Well,” he said to his empty glass, “what the hell did you expect? You were beating her. Did you think she’d tell you how wonderful you were?”
He yelled for another whiskey.
Saint had never before raised his hand to a woman. His great size and strength discouraged men from trying to prove their manhood and courage by baiting him. All it had taken was one small woman who had finally driven him over the edge. What had she done, anyway? She lied to you, she went tracking Wilkes, and she shot a man. That was a start, he thought, grunting at Nero when he slapped his whiskey shot onto the table.
Nero backed away from the table, saw Brent Hammond, and waved frantically toward his boss.
“Mind if I join you, Saint?” Brent asked. “Excellent, don’t mind if I do. Godawful weather we’re having, isn’t it? I imagine that Jules is having a problem with all the drizzle and fog, her being from Maui and all, huh?”
“Go away, Brent,” Saint said, not looking up.
Brent sat down and leaned back in his chair. He studied his friend’s face.
“Leave me alone, Brent,” Saint said, his voice as rude as he could make it.
“I think I’ll take my chances and bear you company for a bit longer. Thackery wanted me to find out what you’d done to your wife, actually. He’s very worried about her.” If the truth be known, Brent thought, Thackery was just as worried about Dr. Saint. “She pushed him too far this time,” Thackery had said, shaking his head.
“I should have used a whip,” Saint said suddenly, renewed fury gripping him. “And I will next time, damn her stupidity!”
“Thackery feels guilty, feels he should have prevented what happened. He tells me that your little one, as he calls her—”
“Would you just shut up?” Saint sent Brent the meanest look he could manage, but it wasn’t as effective as he’d hoped. Brent laughed.
“Why don’t you go upstairs, Saint? Any of Maggie’s girls would be delighted to bring you some temporary . . . relief.”
Brent waited for the explosion, but it didn’t come. He watched in astonishment as Saint appeared to consider his suggestion. “I probably should,” Saint said at last. “It would at least protect her from me.”
For a long moment Brent simply stared at his friend. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. Finally he said very quietly, “Can I tell you a story, Saint?” He continued without pause, “When Byrony and I were first married, we didn’t get along—my fault of course. She followed me to Celeste’s house, thinking I was going to my mistress to sleep with her. Odd. In fact, I wanted to ask Celeste about preventing conception. Do you know that she faced me down? Yelled at me like a fishwife. I was so mad I was ready to strangle her.”
“Your point, Hammond?” Saint asked almost savagely.
“Hmm, well, I guess it’s that Byrony showed a lot of courage to do that. It wasn’t quite the same thing, but just maybe Jules wants and needs your attention, and you’ve frozen her out. Neither Thackery nor I, I might add, can understand why you don’t appear to give a good damn about your wife.”
Saint scraped his chair back and rose. He wasn’t aware that a goodly number of men were regarding him intently. “It’s gotta be a woman,” Bear Paw said. Limpin’ Willie nodded sage agreement.