Paxton Pride (17 page)

He mustn't lose control. Mustn't lose control. He sat stiffly in the saddle, thinking muddy, dire thoughts. He needed to be shrewd, to bring all his faculties to bear. A situation like this called for help. And he knew just where to find it, by God. Edgar had been appropriating funds from the old man for the last year. Edgar would help him. No question about it. Edgar would be glad to help him. Alfred giggled. There. It was all arranged. Or would be.

He drove his heels into the skittish mare's flanks, laughing aloud now. Oh, the joke would be on Vance Paxton, all right. With the Whitaker fortune available, Alfred could afford lots of jokes. Funny ones. Jokes to keep the Paxton fool in stitches.

CHAPTER VIII

The woman's hand traveled only a short distance. Back, then forward and across. The nails were long, tapered, polished and very, very sharp. Like talons of some dreadful bird of prey they slashed out to seek flesh and blood, raked down to strike the cheek before them and carve bleeding grooves from the tanned skin. Vance grinned and caught Angie's hand in midair before it struck, then twisted it around behind her back. Angie reddened with fury and began to scream, howling a surprising stream of epithets strong enough to make even a longshoreman blanch.

Vance yanked the thrashing woman to his bed and forced her face down into the pillow. The time for delicacy was long past. Gentility forgotten, he piled on top of her, forcing her face deeper into the pillow and successfully muffling the outraged woman beneath him. Still she struggled, buttocks squirming and grinding as if to rouse the flesh pressed down on them. The taut, heaving body carried a singular message of pleasure and Vance, resolution swaying, teetering on the edge of desire, felt his loins harden in heated expectation of one last sexual foray beneath Angie's ruffled skirts. Then he cursed himself for an adolescent fool and drove the thought from his mind, concentrating anew on keeping the thrashing wildcat under him as still as possible.

Finally, nearly suffocated, the fury ebbed and the woman sagged. Confident spirit would be as weak as flesh now, Vance rolled quickly off the bed and out of reach. Angie raised her head and gasped for air, trying to replenish her starved lungs. “You … bastard … you tried to kill me.” she managed to gulp between breaths.

“Sorry, Angie,” he answered, pillow in hand and ready for more action, “I may not be the handsomest fella to ever come down the pike, I know, but I've kind of grown fond of this ol' face. Used to it, you might say. I'd hate to see it striped bloody, courtesy of a fire-thighed Washington lady like yourself. Now if you can promise to behave yourself and keep your voice down to where I can hear without having to share what you say with every other soul in the hotel, maybe we can get some things said that need to be said.”

Angie scowled at him, rolled over and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You …” she brayed, stopping immediately as Vance gestured threateningly with the pillow. She lowered her voice to complete the sentence. “… are a bastard.”

“If calling me names settles anything, I'll let it go. For my part I'm sorry I've given you grief. I could chalk it up to your being an attractive woman and me being a long way from home and pretty damn lonely, but I have to admit it's my fault. I acted like a buck in rut and I apologize.”

Angie dabbed at her eyes with a corner of the sheet. “You led me on. I loved you. And now you've broken my heart.”

Vance tossed the pillow on the bed, picked up his coat from the chair and shrugged it on. “Aw, come on, Angie. Admit it yourself. All you wanted from me was a good roll in the hay. That's as deep as the river ran.”

“You left me alone at the party and didn't even come around to apologize. I had to sneak into your room like some street tramp. Who have you spent the week with? The Hampton bitch, no doubt. I'll bet she's cooled the urge below your belt. It's common knowledge she's a …”

Two hands snaked out and grabbed her before she could finish the sentence. Iron fingers bit deeply into her soft shoulders and hauled her off the bed. Angie gave a startled cry and her eyes widened in fear. The look on Vance's face made her afraid of him for the first time since she had known him. She had thought the Texan completely malleable but now read a hardness of purpose and coldness of manner beyond any previous experience. Strange and explosive emotions lurked in the hard eyes glittering in the dim light of the room. Pent-up fury crouched ready to leap and destroy her.

The tableau shattered when the door to Vance's room swung open violently. Earnest Leighton stood in the hall, looking into the room. He took three deliberate steps and stopped, eyes focused on Vance. “I believe you've said all you came to say, Angela. I'm sure Mr. Paxton has appointments he needs to keep. A busy schedule before he returns to Texas.”

Angie shrugged away from Vance's already loosened grasp. She picked up her hat and parasol from the floor, straightened her skirt and blouse and flounced from the room without a word, brushing carelessly past her husband on her way out.

Earnest and Vance stood without moving, staring at each other in silence. Earnest spoke first, his voice a little sing-songy. “Ah, Mr. Paxton. Here we are. The trysting place. How very elegant of you both.” He appeared impassive as he looked about the room. “No answer, eh? Very good. A lawyer's sense,” he chuckled lowly. “In Texas, I suppose, the proper protocol would demand the outraged husband invite his wife's paramour into the street.” He paused, smiled wanly. “But this isn't Texas, is it? Besides,” he said, reaching abruptly into his pocket and producing a small derringer which he pointed at Vance, “I find this setting more apropos.”

Vance eyed the derringer, assessing the danger it posed. A .25, it was heavy enough to cause substantial damage at short range. “You knew what was happening, Mr. Leighton. I could see that Saturday night. You even set it up for us, knew Angie was waiting even as you walked out the door and knew I'd be in that bedroom ten minutes after you left.”

“Six minutes, to be exact.” Vance's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Earnest laughed hollowly. “Modero is very clever. Standing in my room I could see perfectly well through cleverly concealed holes in the wall. Modero is experienced, you see. He was responsible for a similar arrangement for another wealthy patron in Spain. You are lucky, however. I have no dungeons in my house.”

Vance didn't move, tried not to show the disgust welling up in him. A ruthless, cold glint shone in his eyes. “Did you enjoy it, Congressman?”

Earnest sighed and cocked the derringer. His madness more and more apparent, he relaxed. His manner unconcerned, his tone one of gentle sophistication, he allowed the derringer to wave about as he spoke. “As a matter of fact, I did. Not, perhaps, with as much relish as the … participants, but nevertheless enough. Found it fascinating, of course. Always interesting to watch one's wife perform with an agile, strong partner. Stimulating, even. I didn't know she was so … inventive, shall we say? The little trick with the …”

“Shut up. Shut your filthy mouth.” Vance's words were low, barely heard but menacing enough to stop Leighton.

The gun lowered, seemingly forgotten for the moment as Leighton bowed slightly, mockingly. “Angela's mouth is filthier, wouldn't you say? After all, to put …”

Vance took a step toward Leighton, stopping when the gun steadied immediately on his stomach. “You are undoubtedly better with a gun than am I, Mr. Paxton, but I assure you I am quite adequate at this distance. You took your pleasure with my wife, it is now my pleasure to discuss the matter with you.”

Vance stared at Leighton in disbelief. A man of the frontier, he was used to the obvious in man and nature. If a man hated you, he'd let you know he was coming or simply hide and shoot you from the back. But to spew his hate in your face and then shoot, never. Nature could be kind or cruel, but always gave advance notice. If it was going to storm the clouds told you. Nature was not given to intrigue and deviation. The man before him was beyond his experience with either man or nature. Vance reached into his belt and withdrew the pocket watch his father had given him. “Mr. Leighton. Anything you want to discuss you may discuss with yourself. Anything you want settled, begin it here, in the street, anywhere you like, only hurry up because I'm already late for a very special appointment.”

“Ah,” Leighton laughed, a rough edge of nervousness now tinging his voice, “but there is no appointment you could possibly have more important than the one you are keeping right now.”

“Perhaps so. Nevertheless, I'm leaving. You do what you will.”

The gun waved jerkily. “You're not afraid, are you?”

“Nobody likes to get killed, Mr. Leighton. Nobody likes to die. But if you came here to shoot that thing you'd have done it long ago. I've seen enough dying and death in my day to know how it works and recognize it for what it is. When it happens, it happens. When my time comes I intend to be doing what I've always done, living my life the best I can, and for myself. I haven't done such a good job of that here in this damned city, I admit. Not until recently, anyway. And I guess, if it makes you feel any better, I'm sorry. But that's all past. Lock the door behind you when you leave, please.” Vance walked to the dresser, picked up his hat, gave Earnest a curt nod and walked past him into the hall.

Leighton stood without moving, his shoulders squared, his eyes staring into nowhere. After a moment his whole body began to tremble slightly, then more and more violently. Finally the trembling stopped and his shoulders slumped, the gun hanging limply at his side. “Outrage doesn't become me, Mr. Paxton,” he said to the empty room. “Not after all this time.” He uncocked the derringer and placed it back in his pocket, turned and walked out the door and started down the hall. Halfway to the stairs he stopped and after only a moment's indecision, turned and walked back to Vance's room. Earnest Leighton closed and locked the door behind him.

The coachman, under the abusive admonitions of his lone passenger, lost little time in hurrying through the quiet afternoon, hitting as many chuck holes as he managed to avoid, cursing with each jolt his carriage was forced to sustain. The coach slid to a halt before
Le Chien Commendable
even as Vance leaped into the street, tossed the appropriate coinage to the driver and hurried into the cafe.

Inside, Clement broke away from a heated discussion with one of his regular customers and approached the Texan, staring with obvious curiosity at the stranger's clothes. “May I be of service,
monsieur?
A table for one?”

Vance anxiously searched the interior of the low-ceilinged room from the doorway. “I'm supposed to join a Miss Hampton here. Have you seen her?”

“Ah,
monsieur,
” Clement exclaimed, his face lighting up with joy, “so you are the one who has stolen our little flower's heart!” He rushed to Vance and shook his hand with typical European abruptness. “She has spoken of you, of course. Glowingly. I am Clement and this is my wife Marie. We are very pleased to make your acquaintance,
monsieur.
” Marie curtseyed shyly from across the room.

Vance, a little ill at ease, removed his hat and bowed to the lady. “Yes, sir. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, too. Now if you could tell me …”

Clement threw his arms wide in a gesture of sorrow. “
Monsieur
, I am too sorry to tell you. Miss Hampton is no longer here. You are only a tiny moment too late. Perhaps you can still catch her, no?”

“Did she leave in a coach?”

“
Sacre bleu
, I am so sorry. I did not notice. I was in the kitchen preparing a little something for our friend the Piper. He has sent word he was blessed with a gold coin and wishes …”

Vance broke in to thank him, touched his hat in deference to the diminutive Marie and darted back outside. Damn the Leightons anyway, he thought. Karen had planned to meet him at
Le Chien Commendable
at one o'clock. The time was now well after two. He was more than an hour late, and if there was anything he had learned about Karen Hampton, she wasn't one to be kept waiting. The coach in which he arrived was long gone, happy to be quit of the frantic Texan. He looked up and down the empty avenue, realizing the futility of finding another conveyance. He considered walking back to the hotel stable to hire a horse but dismissed such a plan as self-defeating. It would take too long. The only reasonable course of action was to walk, as much as he hated the idea. Perhaps a coach would come along.

Three swarthy roustabouts lounged sleepily in the back of a wagon loaded with barrels. Parked only a few yards down the avenue, Vance looked them over with the possibility of hiring them in mind, but when he walked toward them one snored and another pulled his cap over his face. They were obviously more interested in sleep than work. He turned away from the trio, a small frown of half-guessed recognition clouding his face. They weren't complete strangers, he felt. He grasped at the wisp of memory and caught it. He had seen them recently. Yes. At his hotel, shooting dice in the alley across the street the morning before. And that morning, too, the dice put away and occupied with steaming cups of coffee. And now here they were again.…

He had more to worry about and dismissed them from his mind. If he could only find a coach, a carriage, even a wagon. He passed a millinery shop and, farther down the road, a rich sweet aroma of a bakery beckoned with yeasty fingers and started his stomach growling in protestation over having been denied lunch. The Leightons' fault, too. He should have eaten with Karen. The door to the bakery was open and the heady smells of pastry and bread made him think of Maruja, the Mexican house servant, cook and second mother to him. Maruja's kitchen was almost legendary among the neighboring ranches, not a one of which didn't want and hadn't tried to get Maruja. But she was more than just another Paxton employee. She was family to the Paxtons and the Paxtons were family to her. There was never any question of her leaving.… A thick slice of hot fresh bread sounded mighty good, would hold him until he could get some real food under his belt.