Firestorm (2 page)

San Francisco, 1859

Brett sat at the large, leather-topped mahogany desk with a frown of concentration that deepened to a scowl. He turned the pages of the oversized ledger. Damn. He should have known. This was the first time he'd made an error in judgment about a man, and hopefully it would be the last. Furious now, he snapped the book closed and rose to his full six feet, two inches.

He paced to the window and stared broodingly out at Stockton Street. He was not going to let his bookkeeper's theft ruin this day. A slight smile formed on his ruthlessly sculpted face. Not that he was being sentimental just because it was his birthday. But…maybe he was. Today he was twenty-six, and he had everything he wanted. His smile widened.

Not bad for the son of a whore.

Not bad for the bastard of a Californio.

D'Archand did not resemble his mother, who was French, petite, chestnut-haired, and blue-eyed. Instead he was almost an exact replica of his father, Don Felipe Monterro—tall, broad-shouldered, powerfully built, harshly handsome. And dark, very dark, with nearly black eyes that held little softness and short, crisply curling black hair.

The last time Brett had seen his father he had been graying at the temples, Brett recalled, and instantly grew tense and angry. A scene flashed through his head, which he tried, but failed, to ignore.

“I'm leaving, Father,” a sixteen-year-old Brett had said, waiting, begging silently for his father to stop him.

The handsome, lean man remained emotionless. “Where will you go?”

Brett refused to feel the pain. He was a fool. He had never been accepted by his father, had never been more than the bastard in the stable, insurance against the possibility that there would be no other heirs. Now he was no longer needed. When he had heard Don Felipe's new wife's infant boy begin to cry, he had wanted to cry, too. Instead, his face was as cold and stiff as the don's. “I'm going to Sutter's Fort,” he answered.

“Ah, gold,” the haciendado said. It was early 1849.

“Yes, sir.” He could barely get out the words.

The don gave him a blooded Arabian stallion and a few hundred pesos. Brett rode out that day and never looked back.

Unconsciously, Brett's fist smashed against the windowsill, the hard planes of his face rigid. “I won't look back,” he growled aloud. “For all I care, the old sonuvabitch is dead. And good riddance! I don't need him. I have what I want—success, respectability…everything.”

From outside his office came a loud crash of breaking glass.

Brett froze, listening, but made no move to leave his large, elegant office. It was decorated in a classic style, with mahogany doors, an Oriental rug in coral and blue, a large sofa in wine-colored leather. There were two French chairs covered in pin-striped silk, blue velvet drapes, and wall-to-wall bookcases. His first mistress, Suzanne, had decorated the room for him under his watchful, critical eye when he had acquired the Golden Lady
and moved out of his other, shabbier offices in the Miner's Girl—his first saloon and first investment.

He had to smile, remembering how he had scraped together enough gold dust to buy into a partnership in that sinkhole. A profitable sinkhole upon which he had founded the wealth he owned today. He almost laughed.

The Golden Lady was one of San Francisco's classiest establishments, every inch as plush and elegant as his office. Even the second floor—where hostesses earned top dollar satisfying their customers—was tastefully decorated. Because of the lack of women in San Francisco—even now, ten years after the gold rush—city government and society tolerated its houses of ill repute. Being owner of the Golden Lady didn't detract from Brett's reputation, because it was the most elegant establishment in the city. Then, too, Brett had diversified over the past five years. He now owned a hotel, two restaurants, a partnership in a shipping line, a freight line, and shares in a ranch across the bay. He had also acquired land just west of San Francisco, which people were starting to buy and build homes on. At the age of twenty-six, Brett was one of the wealthiest men in San Francisco.

He pulled a gold watch on a chain from his silver brocade vest. He had just enough time for a short interlude with Audrey, his current mistress, before meeting his partner in the shipping line, Paul Langdon. He slipped on a black suit jacket and automatically adjusted his black necktie. He had just added his black Stetson when another crash and a woman's scream came from somewhere in the building.

Linda, one of his girls, thrust open the study door. “Brett, you'd better—”

He was already striding past her, his face taut. “What is it?”

“Some loony,” she said, hurrying behind him down the
shining waxed floor of the corridor. “He has a gun, and Susie.”

Brett paused on the threshold of the saloon, which was embellished with rich mahogany, brass, and green velvet. At this early hour of the afternoon half the chairs were empty. A dozen men dressed in well-cut suits were standing uneasily at various tables. The dealers in their brocade waistcoats looked equally wary. Two of Brett's girls stood white and immobile at the end of the long bar. The bartender, James, stood frozen facing the middle of the room.

There on the floor lay Luke, the two-hundred-pound bouncer, his temple bleeding.

A few yards away stood a dirty man in a flannel shirt and muddy boots. Clenched in a harsh embrace in front of him, the barrel of a gun pressed against her right temple, was Susie, pale and wet with sweat, her kohled eyes huge.

Moving forward to face the man holding Susie, Brett spoke quietly. “Is he dead?”

“No, I don't think so,” one of his regular customers answered.

“Linda, go get Doc Winslow.” He didn't have to look at her to know she was still frozen in the entryway. “Now, Linda,” he commanded softly.

Linda turned and fled.

“I'm going to tend to Luke,” Brett told the man holding Susie. He started forward, his eyes never leaving Susie and her captor. The man immediately pressed the gun harder, and Susie cried out. Brett froze. “I just want to check his wound,” Brett explained.

“He ain't dead,” the man said harshly. “I only hit him with the butt. He's just stunned.”

Relieved, Brett wanted to look at Luke, but he didn't dare. He heard James say from behind him, “It's true, boss, I saw it.”

The man turned wild eyes on him. “You the boss man here?”

“Yes, I'm Brett D'Archand. And you are?”

“I'm her husband,” the man spat. “I'm Bill Hawkins, and this whore is my wife.”

Brett momentarily met Susie's gaze and saw her terror. He tried to reassure her with his eyes. Calmly, he asked, “Is that true?”

Susie whimpered what sounded like an affirmative.

“This little whore is my runaway wife, and I'm taking her back. No way you can stop me—but I'd like an excuse, you bastard, so just try.”

“Brett,” Susie whimpered. “Please.”

He had known she was married. Brett did not sleep with his employees, but he carefully screened them all, and when Susie had first come to him he had known he should throw her out instantly. She was just showing her pregnancy, and her face was bruised from a beating. But for just that reason, he couldn't deny her. He'd given her a warm meal and listened to her plea for work. There was no way he could hire a pregnant woman in his establishment, although he knew that other places would take her. So, because she was young, and pregnant, and running away from a husband who had obviously beaten her, he had given her a job as a maid. Because of his support, Susie had asked him to be the baby's godfather, and Brett had agreed, secretly delighted.

After the baby was born, Susie had gone to work as one of the hostesses, wanting the better money. He had objected because of her child, which brought back stinging memories of his own youth. But somehow she managed the child and her job, with help from the entire staff. Even Brett had found himself tending the infant once when suddenly there was no one else available.

Now, as he faced his goddaughter's father, he remembered vividly how Susie had looked when he had first seen
her, and he knew he could not let this man take her and the child away.

“There's no need for the gun,” Brett said quietly. “Why don't you remove it from Susie's temple.”

Bill just stared. Then there was the sound of footsteps behind him, and Brett saw Winslow pushing through the front doors. Bill turned to look. Brett moved.

He leaped at Hawkins, one hand going for his wrist with the gun. Susie screamed, breaking free and running.

Brett's years growing up on the streets of Mazatlán had taught him a few tricks. Though Bill was bigger, they were at a standoff. The gun went off harmlessly at the ceiling, angering Brett, who was thinking of his chandelier and the hole in the plaster. He raised his knee, yanking Bill's gun-bearing arm down hard on his thigh. Brett jammed the arm against his leg again. He knew he was close to breaking the man's bone, but he didn't care. Bill cried out, and the gun fell harmlessly to the floor. Brett released the arm and delivered a shattering blow to Bill's face. The man jerked backward, but Brett caught him and brought him forward as he swung a hard left into his bulging abdomen. A whoosh of air sounded as Bill crumpled forward. One more blow did it. Brett felt the man pass out in his hands and let him thud to the floor.

Brett stood, regaining his breath, then hurried to where Winslow knelt above Luke. “Is he okay?”

“Gash'll need a few stitches. Jimbo, bring me some whiskey.”

One of Sheriff Andrews's deputies had arrived and was dragging Bill Hawkins to his feet as the man blinked groggily. “You gonna press charges, Brett?” the deputy asked.

“Absolutely,” Brett said. “How long can you lock him up?”

“How long you want him locked up?”

Long enough to help Susie and the baby, he thought. “A few days, to start.”

The deputy nodded and started out while Hawkins, stumbling alongside, cursed Brett. Brett watched, then turned to Linda. “Where's Susie?”

“She ran upstairs.”

Brett went after her. He found her in her room, rocking her daughter, crying. He sat down on the bed next to her. “It's all right now. He's been arrested.”

She looked up at him with frightened, glazed eyes. “Brett, what am I going to do? He'll hurt her, I know he will.” She moaned and started sobbing.

Her tears made Brett feel uneasy. “I'm friends with Judge Steiner,” he said. “How would you feel about a divorce?”

“Oh! Could you?”

“I'm sure it can be arranged.”

She hugged him, almost crushing the baby, and he was embarrassed. “But what about Bill? He'll be so angry.”

“I'll take care of him,” Brett said.

“How?”

Brett smiled slightly. “I'll pay him off.”

And if that didn't work, there were always other means.

 

“Will you look at that!” exclaimed a man clad in navy woolen trousers.

“I see, I see, I ain't blind,” said the second sailor.

The object of their attention was Storm, standing in front of a hitching post and bakery on Stockton Street, holding the reins of two large stallions and waiting for a companion. She was clad from neck to toe in skintight, well-worn buckskins, which molded her superb and striking figure. A worn Stetson on her head shadowed her face, and a brown and gold braid the thickness of a man's forearm hung to her waist.

“I ain't never seen anything like that,” said the second man, starting eagerly forward.

Storm heard not only their approach but also their re
marks and the undisguised lewdness in their tone, and she was flushed and tensed. This would never happen in San Antone, she thought fiercely. No one there would ever dare to talk about her behind her back, knowing full well that if one of her brothers didn't pursue the matter, her father would. Which made her look at the saloon next door to the bakery where he had told her to wait. Where was he?

“Howdy, li'l lady,” said the bulkier sailor, grinning.

Storm ignored him, stiffening her spine as his body odor assaulted her sensibilities. Both her mother and father were sticklers for cleanliness. It was something she had grown up with, and she was acutely aware now of the need she had for a bath—and a bed.

“C'mon, gal, don't turn that pretty back on us,” said the other sailor.

She purposely let her thoughts continue, hoping they would walk away. It had been a month since she'd had a decent bed. A month since they'd left Texas—and home. Even now she couldn't believe that they were here. Already. A combination of dread and excitement mingled pleasantly and disturbingly in her veins.

“Hey, gal, you shore are rude, now, ain't ya?”

When Storm felt the large hand closing on her arm, she yanked back, angry for losing herself so completely in her thoughts. “Let go,” she warned, meeting the man's gaze for the first time.

He gasped at the sight of her deep blue eyes, at the striking and unusual features he finally glimpsed. This was no heart-shaped, bow-mouthed, doll-like face. Her cheekbones were very high. Her nose was straight and proud and flaring. Her strong jaw was determined. He'd never seen a face quite like this, except maybe on a half-breed squaw.

“Get your hand off me,” Storm repeated, her tone not indicating any fear. If she'd outridden a dozen Comanches
by herself when she was twelve, why should she be afraid of two decadent sailors? Especially when her father was bound to come out of the saloon at any second.

The sailor reached up to remove her hat. His friend whistled, and Storm furiously jerked back her head, eyes blazing. His hand touched her hair, a glinting riot of browns and golds. Storm sucked in her breath and then, before anyone knew it, she'd drawn a buck knife from its sheath and was flicking it down the length of his arm. He yelped and jumped back, eyeing the scratch she had made from his wrist to his elbow.