“I understand you very nearly tied the matrimonial knot with Penelope Stevenson.”
Delaney rolled his eyes. “I’ll tell you, Brent, that girl needs to be thrashed, probably about three times a day. Even before Chauncey arrived, I’d decided I would rather slit my wrists than marry her. Why? You’ve got ideas in that direction?”
Brent shrugged. “The lady’s persistent. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was my body she was after, and not my noble heart. The dowry’s tempting, you must admit.”
“I suppose so, if a man was willing to give up his peace for dollars.”
“And power. Hell, Del, you could keep her pregnant and out of your hair easily enough.”
“I wouldn’t wager fifty cents on that. I’d think carefully, Brent, before I shifted toward Penelope.”
Brent grinned and tossed down the rest of his beer. “I’m just spouting nonsense. Don’t listen to me. I have no intention of marrying—any woman.”
“You’ll change your mind, once you meet the right lady. Incidentally, you can congratulate me. Chauncey’s pregnant.”
To Delaney’s surprise, Brent became utterly still. What the devil was wrong? Then Brent seemed to get hold of himself, and smiled. “I’m happy for you. Is Chauncey feeling well?”
“She has so much energy, it’s terrifying. Saint assures me she’ll slow down a bit. I’ll tell you something, though,” Del added, “I won’t say anything to Chauncey, but I’m terrified. I was in New York in fifty-one when my sister-in-law went into labor. I’ve never felt so utterly helpless in my life. Hell, I’d be willing to pay Saint any fee he asked. Thank God, he’s here in San Francisco.”
What if Byrony becomes pregnant again? Was she in danger with her first child?
“Yes,” Brent said, his voice clipped. He couldn’t bear the thought of Ira even touching her hand, much less possessing her. Get used to it, you fool. That, or leave San Francisco.
“Well, it’s time for me to get back to the grindstone,” Delaney said. “Think about my proposition, Brent. But don’t take too much time, all right?”
“Tell you what, Del. I think I’m going to go riding this afternoon myself—no Penelope—it’ll clear my head. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”
Brent stabled his horse, an Arabian stallion, whose unlikely and unaristocratic name was Curtis, at Jem Bradley’s stable on Kearny. The afternoon was clear, fortunately. The rainy season was nearly upon them, and then, he knew, Curtis wouldn’t get too many workouts. He rode beside the plank road to the Mission Dolores, then headed Curtis toward the ocean. This part of the peninsula was barren, nothing but whirling sand and high, shifting dunes. The constant wind off the ocean whipped the sand inland, covering trails and paths within twenty-four hours. He remembered stories of the miners newly arrived in San Francisco. They’d pitch their tents and go to bed, only to awake the next morning sanded in.
Sea gulls squawked overhead, the only noise of life around him. It was desolate land, savage land, yet comforting, and he loved it. He urged his horse over the last rise, holding his reins tightly so he wouldn’t slip in the sand, and the Pacific came into view. God, it was beautiful. He’d been raised inland, and had never before seen the ocean until just two years ago. The tide was coming in, and the stiff ocean breeze was whipping up the sand on the beach. He looked north, to the raised, jagged cliffs. It was then he saw the other rider.
It was a woman seated on a mare some hundred yards up the coast. She was sitting very still. For a moment he frowned, for he wanted to be alone. Then, after what seemed to be hours, the woman turned and click-clicked her mare toward him. Brent froze.
What an unlucky bastard you are, he thought, laughing at himself. It was as if he’d conjured her up. She was never far from his conscious thoughts, and he wondered briefly what she’d do when she saw him. Then he didn’t care. He nurtured the seed of contempt, realizing vaguely it was his only and last defense against her.
He urged George forward, keeping him but a couple of feet beyond the encroaching tide. At least the wet sand was firm and his stallion wouldn’t stumble.
“Good day, Mrs. Butler,” he called to her, and doffed his black felt hat.
“What are you doing here?”
She sounded frightened and it surprised him. Was she afraid he would pull her off her mare’s back and ravish her on the sand?
“I’m riding, as you can see. Does your husband know that you’re out alone? This isn’t exactly a civilized city yet, ma’am.”
She was wearing a royal-blue velvet riding habit and a rakish little blue hat on her head. Her hands were gloved in the finest leather. She looked so beautiful, and so wary, that he had difficulty breathing.
“You don’t look particularly civilized, Mr. Hammond. But I am always careful, I assure you. You look more like a desperado than a fancy gambler.” It was true, she thought, staring at him. He was wearing black trousers, a full-sleeved white shirt, and a black leather vest. The black hat and black riding b
oots completed the picture. He looked like the devil, and so compelling that she wanted to ride toward him, and run away at the same time.
“And untrustworthy?”
She ignored him and forced herself to urge her mare away from him. His hand shot out suddenly and grabbed the reins. “I thought you were probably afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Excellent. Let’s walk along the beach for a while.”