Wild Star Read Online Free

“Unfortunately, San Diego has something of a reputation for violence. Dueling, gun battles, knife slashings. We’ve got them all, I’m afraid.”
    “It shares its reputation then with every other town I’ve visited.”
    She raised her eyes to his face again. “I’ve never seen you in San Diego before.”
    “No, this is my first visit. Actually, I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
    “Are you a gambler?” she asked, looking briefly back at the Colorado House.
    “Yes, I guess I am.”
    She continued staring at him, and in an unconscious gesture, her tongue glided over her lower lip.
    “Are you enjoying the view?”
    She blinked, not understanding, then saw the amusement in his eyes.
    “Yes,” she said.
    Brent wasn’t expecting that. A blush, perhaps, a stammered accusation that he wasn’t a gentleman. “Well, let me return the favor. You’re beautiful even with flour on your nose.”
    She grinned, but shook her head at his nonsense. She knew well enough what she looked like. Her hair was drawn back in a severe knot at the nape of her neck. Her cotton gown was a dull gray color and about as flattering as a potato sack. But she couldn’t seem to look away from him. She realized that he was a very large man, but she didn’t fear him. It was odd. “You have very unusual eyes. Forgive me for staring.”
    He arched a black brown. “I believe they’re both still the same color, ma’am, or did the flour get to them?”
    “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