Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“No, it’s not that. There’s no meanness in them.”

He frowned at that. She wasn’t being forward, there was no coyness in her manner or voice. Suddenly she stiffened, reached down in a graceful motion, and picked up her packages, quickly folding the flap over the flour bag. “I must go. Forgive me for running into you.”

“Wait,” he called after her, but she didn’t. She picked up her skirts and sped across San Diego Avenue toward the plaza, where an old buckboard wagon was hitched to a railing. “I don’t know your name,” he said, almost to himself.

She was talking with an older woman, probably her mother, he thought, stepping into the street. He slowed, watching her shake off the remainder of the flour, as she stood by the horses. Miserable-looking beasts.

He stopped at the sight of three young men swaggering in the middle of the street, obviously a bit worse from drink. The middle one was shoving his gun back into its holster.

“Hey, Charlie,” one of the young men said, “ain’t that your sister over there?”

Brent paused, remembering the condemnation in her voice when she’d said it was just young men target-shooting. Was the anger toward her own brother?

“Yep, Tommy,” said Charlie. “You sound like you wanna get to know her better. You ain’t got enough money, old fellow. Forget it.”

Brent felt a ripple of anger. He

looked more closely at Charlie. There was little similarity between brother and sister that he could see. Charlie was swarthy with brown hair, eyes a grayish color, bloodshot from too much drink. He’d met up with his share of young men like Charlie—braggarts, bullies, and sometimes worse.

“She’s still a looker,” the third young man said.

Charlie hunched his slender shoulders. “Anything in a skirt is a piece of tail to you.”

“She sure swishes her tail nice,” said Tommy.

Brent didn’t hear Charlie’s reply to this. Why the hell was he interested anyway? He walked across the dusty street and stopped beside an old man who was sitting in a chair tilted back against the side of the town hall. The old man waved once at the woman, and she nodded briefly. He smelled of spirits, sweat, and cheap tobacco.

“Howdy, young feller,” said the old man.

Brent nodded and asked, “Who’s the girl over there?”

The old man spit and Brent saw the disgusting brown puddle a foot from the chair. “That there is the DeWitt women. Mother and daughter. Her name’s Byrony.”

“Byrony,” Brent repeated.

“Yep. Her ma was in love with an English feller named Lord Byron, a scribbler of no account at all, Madison told me. Fool name. Madison DeWitt’s her pa. One of my best friends, a good man, more’s the pity.”

Brent continued looking toward the girl, Byrony. He realized that he’d liked her, an unusual occurrence, and that he wanted to talk to her some more. He hadn’t really liked a woman in a long time. There was Maggie, of course. And Laurel, when he’d been eighteen. He shook his head at himself. Dear Lord, he hadn’t thought of Laurel since he’d gotten a letter from his brother, Drew, over six months ago in Denver.

Drew never mentioned Laurel, but still Brent would remember, usually at odd times, like now. Without conscious thought, he raised his hand and fingered the scar along his left cheek. Nothing more stupid than a lusty young man.

“What’s the pity?” he asked finally.

“The girl. Poor Madison’s cursed. Told me he’d caught her with her lover, one of the damned Californios. ’Course the boy wouldn’t marry her, but his pa gave Madison some money to buy him off. Damned proud greasers. Madison’s just hopin’ the girl’s belly won’t swell with a bastard.”

But she’s so young, Brent thought, probably not even twenty yet. A lover? She hadn’t struck him as that type of female. Well, he was probably wrong. Lord knew, he’d been wrong before. She’d probably tried to use her body to get herself married into a wealthy family. An old story. Damnable scheming women. You taught me well enough, Laurel. He heard Byrony DeWitt laugh, a sweet sound, and saw her scratching behind the mangy ear of one of the horses.

“It doesn’t seem likely to me,” Brent said.

“Like I told you, I’m her pa’s friend. Tells me everything, he does. The girl’s a proud little piece, but still a slut.” He spit again, the brown stream landing in the center of the puddle he’d been working on for hours.

“She doesn’t look like a slut.”

“A silly little slut with a fancy name. That’s all she is. Aye, poor Madison. Guess it makes sense, since the girl was raised without her pa in Boston. Now he’ll have to find her a husband from other parts. No self-respectin’ man would have her now.”

Particularly, Brent thought, if you tell everyone you see about her failings. He looked up to see Byrony DeWitt climb into the wagon and take the horse’s reins from her mother. For a brief moment she looked directly at him, and she smiled. Then she click-clicked the horses forward, and soon all he could see was the billowing dust from the wagon wheels.

“You stayin’ in these parts long, young feller?”