Wild Star (5 page)

“You will be happy, Byrony, I swear it to you,” he said as he helped her down from the buckboard.

“Well, my boy, how are you?” Madison DeWitt clapped Ira on the back, oblivious of the fact that the
boy
was in his late thirties.

“Just fine, sir,” Ira said politely. “I was just telling Byrony about my house in San Francisco. Her future home.”

Madison’s eyes narrowed for a brief instant. It angered him that his slut of a daughter would live in luxury. She didn’t deserve it. “Ah, yes,” he said. “My little girl will make a fine wife.”

He’d been concerned about whom to invite to the wedding. He didn’t want Ira Butler to discover Byrony’s lustful activities with Gabriel de Neve, at least until after the wedding. He’d made a mistake pouring out his troubles to that old gossip Jeb Donnally. He led Ira into the house for a drink of his prize whiskey, and left Byrony to herself.

Alice found her daughter in the stable an hour later grooming Thorny, her mare. She said, without preamble, “Do you wish to marry Ira Butler, my dear child?”

Byrony turned slowly, her hand still stroking her mare’s glossy neck. “He seems very nice. He is well-looking.” She closed her eyes a moment, and said, her voice tinged with bitterness, “And of course he has the most important advantage—he’s rich.”

“You don’t feel he is too much older than you?”

Byrony shrugged. “He is handsome, Mother. He will probably look as he does today in ten years. I think I may come to like him quite a lot.” She paused a moment, then asked, “Is he paying your husband enough for me? Will it ease your life?”

“Yes, and he’s done it in such a way that I believe he knows my poor Madison’s weaknesses. There is a liberal amount of money to be paid into an account with Señor Bandini in San Diego every month.”

Byrony sighed her relief. Not one big payment that could be gambled away in a week. “Did you speak private to him about it?”

“No. He just seemed to know. Madison was a bit upset—”

“You mean he ranted and raved at you.” Her hands fisted at her sides. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No, not really,” Alice said without rancor. “But Ira wouldn’t change his mind. I want you to be happy, Byrony, and safe. I had almost ceased to believe in miracles.” She hugged her daughter, causing Thorny to neigh softly. “Ira is a good man. He will never harm you.”

Byrony blinked, startled by another memory of that man. No, she’d seen it in his eyes. No meanness there. And a blue color that she couldn’t begin to describe—dark, so very dark, but not a navy blue. Eyes you could stare into for years and still not know their depths. She had to stop it. It was all romantic drivel.

But it was his face she saw late that night as she lay in her bed, the chirping of the crickets the only sound to break the stillness. Even her mother’s husband had fallen into a drunken stupor. She couldn’t hear him snoring, thank God. What was the gambler doing? Did he ever think about her, wonder what she was doing, dream about her beautiful eyes?

“You are such a witless fool, Byrony,” she said and fluffed up her pillow.

 

Brent Hammond was sitting very quietly, his face expressionless, as was his wont during a high-stakes poker game. He’d already won three thousand dollars. Five hundred of his dollars lay in the center of the table, along with another fifteen hundred dollars from the three other players. One of the players was James Cora himself, owner of the El Dorado saloon. It was well past midnight, and the game had grown more intense with each passing hour. Brent’s concentration remained unbroken. He had to continue winning. He had to, to buy the saloon on the corner of Clay and Montgomery.

“How many, Hammond?”

“Two,” Brent said, as he selected the losing cards from his hands. “That’ll do it, I think.”

James Cora grunted as he dealt the cards. Hammond was good, very good, oblivious of all the distractions Cora always provided. He’d taken only one brief look at Janine’s full bosom, then turned away. The other two men he discounted. They were miners out to lose every ounce of gold in their pockets.

Brent gently fanned his cards. A full house, kings over eights. He smiled inwardly, allowing nothing to show on his face. He’d been dealt the three kings, and Cora had given him the two eights. Very nice. Very nice indeed. He studied the other men’s faces around the circular table. One very young man was smiling broadly. Young fool. The other, his friend from Nevada City, was looking like he’d lost his best friend. And Cora, no expression on his broad, handsome face. Brent had seen James Cora aboard a riverboat on the Mississippi some five years before. He’d never played against him.

“Your bet, Foggerty,” Cora said to the youngest man.

Foggerty licked his lips in evident excitement. “Five hundred,” he said, and shoved gold forward to the center of the table.

His partner folded.

Brent paused a moment, then raised five hundred.

James Cora lightly snapped the edges of his cards between his thumb and little finger, with slow deliberation. It was a studied trick that was no longer an affectation. His dark brows nearly met at the center of his forehead. He raised another five hundred dollars.

Within five minutes there was ten thousand dollars sitting in the middle of the table.

“Call,” Cora said finally.

Foggerty, a huge grin slitting his mouth, slammed down his cards. “Three aces.”

“Sorry,” Brent said quietly, “full house, kings over eights.”

Cora gave a dramatic pause, and Brent felt his blood turn to ice. He cursed silently, waiting for the ax to fall. Cora looked him full in the face, a twisted smile on his full lips. “I believe, Hammond, that I’m in for some competition.” With those words, he tossed his cards in, facedown.

Brent wanted to dance on top of the table; he wanted to shout and laugh and drink a gallon of raw whiskey. Instead, he nodded to each of the men, his eyes resting on Cora’s face for a long moment. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, slowly raking in his winnings. “I hope we play again.”

He rose and straightened his coat. James Cora said, “You play well, Hammond, very well indeed. Give my love to Maggie, won’t you?”

Brent started with surprise. How did Cora know of his association with Maggie? Lord, were there no secrets in San Francisco? He said, “Yes, indeed I will. Would you mind keeping my winnings in your safe tonight, Cora?”

“Not at all. Wise of you. I wouldn’t bet your staying in a whole hide for more than five minutes if you walked out of here with that much money. The Sydney Ducks have an incredible network, as I’m sure you realize now. Lawless scum.”

Brent nodded in agreement, and followed Cora to his back office. The money and gold were placed in a leather pouch and put into the safe. Cora said over his shoulder, “I have men guarding the El Dorado at all times. You needn’t worry.”

“No, I won’t,” Brent said. He shook hands with James Cora. “We will play again. I’ll try my damnedest to give you that competition, Cora. Give my love to Belle.”

“Indeed I will,” Cora said. He wasn’t at all disconcerted. He and Belle were both famous and infamous. He wouldn’t allow his fiery wife ever to get close to Hammond. He was too much a man for Belle’s token restraint. She’d have his pants off in five minutes. He saw Brent Hammond on his way, then turned thoughtfully back into his saloon. It was hard to see through all the accumulated smoke. He’d lost two thousand dollars to Hammond, but he wasn’t worried. He’d get it back, easily. He wondered at his Good Samaritan streak. It wasn’t like him, even if Maggie had practically begged him to give Brent Hammond the stake he needed. A ten-high straight flush. Yes, it had been painful to fold those cards facedown and give Hammond the pot. Not that Hammond’s saloon would be any great competition. Lord, there were so many saloons already in San Francisco—over six hundred at last count—one more wouldn’t matter. And it wasn’t as if Hammond were opening a brand-new saloon. He’d simply be taking over the Broken Mare from that ass Tory Grayson. Why the hell, though, did Maggie care so much? She was hard as nails. Even though Hammond looked like a stud, he didn’t think Maggie was after what was in his pants. Well, he thought, accepting a whiskey from his bartender, he’d find out soon enough. He looked up to see Tony Dawson, Dan Brewer, and Delaney Saxton stroll through the swinging doors. They never played for big stakes, but he personally liked the three of them. Good men, and more honest than most successful men were in San Francisco.

Brent Hammond automatically reached for his derringer as he stepped into the cool, foggy night. There weren’t too many men about this time of night, just a few drunks and the usual complement of scum lurking in the dark alleys waiting for an unwary victim. He felt nearly light-headed with relief. He whistled all the way to Maggie’s house, some three blocks away from Portsmouth Square.

She was waiting for him.

“You did it,” she said.

He swept her high into his arms and swung her around, then lowered her and gave her a smacking kiss on her pursed lips. “Yep, Maggie, I did it. Now we can go ahead with our plans.”

“This calls for a celebration, Brent. Whiskey?”

“The best you’ve got, Maggie.” He watched her walk in her no-nonsense, nearly military fashion, across her small sitting room, stuffed with so many gewgaws that he wondered how she’d managed to keep them intact with her skirts so full and stiff. He’d met her in a brothel, one of the most elegant in San Francisco. She hadn’t serviced him; she was the owner of Maggie’s. Strangely enough, he’d forgotten his purpose once they’d begun talking, though he’d believed his need was too great to be diverted by anything or anyone. He told her of that girl in San Diego, Byrony. Silly name, and a girl who appeared to be as grasping as Laurel, and him a randy goat by the time he’d returned to San Francisco. No woman after Laurel had gotten to him like she had, and his admission made him grin at his own stupidity. He wished he hadn’t watched Byrony run across that road in San Diego, for at odd moments since, he’d stripped her and seen her long legs wrapped around him. He shook his head and accepted a glass of whiskey.

“Good stuff, Maggie,” he said. “To our success.”

“To success.”

They both threw back their heads and tossed down the whiskey.

“I’m going to name the saloon the Wild Star,” Brent said, his voice quiet and pleased. “If that’s all right with you.”

“The Wild Star and Maggie’s. Sounds like a perfect mating. We’ve lots of work to do before we can open, Brent. How big is your stake now?”

Their plan was quite simple. Tory Grayson’s Broken Mare was a huge building, half of which was at the present rented out to merchants for storage. Maggie would take that side and Brent the other. They would be partners, all profits split down the middle. By the time he left Maggie’s house, their plans set for an opening in a month, Brent was feeling drunk, blissfully content, and for the first time in nine years, ready to put down roots. He saw not only the immediate profit he would make from the saloon; he saw also the future of this boisterous city with himself a part of it.

The sale was completed the following day in Delaney Saxton’s bank office. Maggie grinned at Delaney and offered him her best girl, Celeste, at a discount.

“I don’t want Marie taking a knife to me,” Saxton said, referring to his French mistress.

Maggie shrugged, imitating Marie’s Gallic gesture. “Marie’s a sensible girl. You’re lucky I didn’t take a knife to you, Del, after you stole her away from me.”

“Ah, Maggie, you of all people understand the direness of a man’s need.”

Maggie laughed and gave him a light buffet on his shoulder. “I knew I’d make a fortune in San Francisco.”

They parted amicably.

The next three weeks went with startling swiftness as the Wild Star and Maggie’s began to take shape. It was only at night that Brent occasionally remembered a pair of warm, laughing eyes. For the life of him he couldn’t remember their color, just their directness and their pleasure as they looked at him.

Her image grew fainter as time passed.

It was a shock one morning when Maggie, who had just finished having the main room wallpapered, turned to him and asked, “Who is Byrony?”

Brent could only stare at her.

“Shut your mouth. You look like a silly fish. Don’t you know anyone named Byrony?”

“Yes,” he said finally, “I suppose that I do—in a way.”

“Well, my dear, you knocked the conceit out of Celeste’s sails, let me tell you.”

“What the hell do you mean, Maggie?” He felt shaken. He didn’t like it one bit.

Maggie made a show of shaking out her black silk skirts. “You called out ‘Byrony’ when you, ah, took your pleasure.”

“Shit,” Brent said.

“I gather,” Maggie said, watching him intently, “that you do know someone named Byrony.”

“I knew her for less time than it takes to smoke a cigar.”

“Then you, my dear Mr. Hammond, have a problem. Your cigar probably does too. Now, what do you think of the wallpaper? You don’t think it’s too flamboyant, do you?”

If was not the first time Byrony had felt nervous on this, her wedding day. But now her nervousness had become terror. It was night now, the evening meal at a close, and they were aboard the
Flying Sun.
She stared hard toward the few receding flickering lights of San Diego. Over and over she asked herself why she had married this man. As always, the reason was obvious enough: she’d had no choice, none at all. Remaining in
his
house, had she refused, would have meant utter misery for both her and her mother.

“I am glad the ocean is calm and the sky clear,” Ira said.

“Yes,” Byrony said. “The stars look like bright gems. I should like to stay on deck for a while, to admire everything.” She didn’t look at her new husband; she couldn’t. She had no desire to see the cabin belowdeck, no desire to see the bed she would have to share with him.