Paxton Pride (23 page)

A horse whinnied up river from her. She glanced to the sound. Roscoe Bodine sat astride his big bay gelding, staring at her, his coarse manly features impassive. She smiled and lifted a hand, innocently waved to him, then scrambled back up the bank and walked to her campsite. When she looked back, horse and rider were gone.

Vance had the team hitched and was obviously concerned with her disappearance. “Where were you?”

“In the bushes,
if
you don't mind,” she answered shortly, irritated by his tone.
He could at least have said “Good morning.
” “And down to the river to wash my face.”

Vance looked closely at her, stared toward the river. “Well, don't wander off like that again.”

“Mr. Paxton, I am a grown woman and shall walk where I please.”

“You don't understand,” he began exasperatedly, rolling her blankets as he talked.

“I understand all too well. Ever since we've gotten off that ship you've been behaving just like Papa. And if I had done everything
he
told me to do, I would not have met you, nor would I be here now.” She turned her head and stalked off a few paces.
He's treating me like a child. I don't care what he says, I won't put up with it
.

Behind her Vance busied himself with breaking camp and loading the buckboard. Somewhere in the trees to her left a blue jay squawked raucously. To the east the sun, already a brassy hot ball of fire, was breaking over the horizon. She studied the activity around her. No one moved rapidly but she marveled at their efficiency. She looked to the north and the direction they would take. Ahead there was nothing but more rolling land and grass stretching, it seemed, forever. The memory of the day before caught at her, left her suddenly tiny and insignificant, once again alone in the face of the unknown. She glanced at the sun, over the horizon now and starting its upward climb. In another hour it would beat down on her with incredible ferocity, sucking the moisture from her body, burning her … burning her.…

She turned and ran back to the wagon. Vance was checking the harness, grumbling impatiently as he tugged and tightened the stiff leather. His hands looked so strong, so competent, so utterly capable of caring for her. She smiled tightly. She had won a tiny victory, she knew, and satisfying as that was, she knew she wouldn't try to take any more advantage.
What would I do if I were here alone? How would I cope with the sun? The distance?
As he straightened from his task and walked toward her, she took an acquiescent step in his direction and held out her hands to him. “I'm sorry, Vance.”

He looked into her eyes, trying to read the message behind the words. “No need to be sorry. There's a lot to learn, is all.”

They continued on their northwest by north heading all that morning. Enormous white clouds piled high overhead and scudded along on a high river of wind from the south, patches of shade racing below them to give thankful relief from the harsh bright sun and shield them for all too brief moments from the sun's fierce, intemperate rays. The day rolled along at the pace of a slow mule's walk, slow and agonizing, each moment a groggy hour. Karen dozed, stuporous from the heat, until a chuck hole on the trail jarred the wagon and disrupted her daydream. She had been reliving a moment of her past, the coming out party Barrett had held for her on her sixteenth birthday. She had danced the entire evening, and with a different partner for every dance. Had anyone told her then that in four years she would be riding at a snail's pace across the Texas wilderness with a handsome, dashing cowboy at her side.… The jolt caused her to open her eyes and utter a tiny “oh” in surprise, gripping Vance to keep her balance.

“Sorry,” Vance said.

Karen only sighed quietly and clung to his muscular arm. How long she had dozed she didn't know. The sun hung halfway in the western sky so it must have been for an hour or two. She looked up as Vance stiffened briefly.

“What?”

He pointed.

“I don't see anything.”

“Dust. Just to the left of that mesquite.”

She stared into the shimmering heat waves and finally located what she sought, a barely discernible plume just above the horizon. A few seconds later a horse thundered up to their left and Vance stopped the wagon. Roscoe and one of the other outriders reined in and they and Vance held a hurried conference. “Anybody else on the trail?” Vance asked.

“Haven't heard. Shouldn't be. Not over there,” Roscoe laid. “I sent Billy out for a look.”

Karen followed his gesture and saw a man on horseback riding hard to the northeast, his rifle out of the scabbard and lying across his saddle horn.

“Well,” Vance asked, “we keep on?”

Roscoe stood in the saddle, looked about. “I reckin. Don't see the dust any more, so they must be headin' away from us.” The two men looked back at the dust the wagon train had generated. The cloud lingered on the air. “If they didn't see us I don't guess they'll come lookin'. Hell, I hate to lose the rest of the day.” He looked briefly at Karen. “Don't want to keep the lady in the sun all day. We'll make Three Rivers.” At that he touched his horse's flank and, turning sharply, rode back and started the wagons moving again.

Another hour passed and Billy rode back in to confer with Roscoe. The two men stopped to one side, talking and gesturing toward the east and north. Finally Roscoe galloped off due north and Billy came to the buckboard and rode slowly alongside. “Six of 'em,” he said, his youthful voice forced to a dubious bass. “Three shod, three not. They was headin' east, so I don't reckin we got to worry too much. Roscoe says to tell you he's going to check on the way station.”

“Thanks, Billy.”

The young man, barely more than a boy, kept his pace by the wagon, his eyes straight ahead.

Vance chuckled to himself, looked enigmatically at Karen, then back to Billy. “Billy, like you to meet the future Mrs. Paxton.”

The boy flushed red as he touched his hat to Karen then dashed off on then dashed off on the horse, cutting the gelding sharply to ride back along the train.

Karen giggled. “He's cute.”

Vance kept his eyes straight ahead. His voice was flat but hard. “If you need help, you'll be sure to get. it Just don't ever take advantage.”

Karen looked at him with surprise. “I don't …”

“Ever. Because you'll never live it down.”

“Really, Vance, you sound like …” she broke off with a shriek as an old moasy-horned bull broke from a clump of meaquite and headed for them. Lean and huge, with horns a full seven feet from tip to tip, he trotted toward the buckboard, stopped and glowered at them, lowering his head threateningly as Vance steered past.

“Oh, by God, Vance, he's going to charge us! He's.…”

The sound of pounding hooves cut her off. Billy came from the rear of the train and cut across in front of the old bull, on whose domain they had trespassed. Wheeling his horse, he took off his hat and waved it in the old mossy horn's face. The bull snorted and turned toward him. In a flash Billy cut the horse behind the bull and gave him a swat on the rump with his quirt, sending the old fellow back to the mesquite, there to stand and snort indignantly as the rest of the train passed by. Billy, proud as punch, cantered past the buckboard, careful not to look at Karen. His back was straight and his head held high. Karen gazed after him in astonishment while Vance hid his laughter.

A few moments later Roscoe Bodine came riding in from the north. He reined up near the buckboard. “Three River's way station ahead. I checked it out. You can ride on if you want.”

“Thanks,” Vance answered, slapping the mules with the reins.

The heat was getting to her, that and the hours of sitting and riding with nothing to do but look at empty land. He told himself perhaps he was being a little stiff, perhaps making too much of nothing. But it did bother him that he might be jealous. He had never been so with any other woman. But then, there never had been a woman quite like Karen Hampton. Never had been … she was one of a kind … his kind.

CHAPTER III

Three Rivers way station was a simple two-room log and adobe cabin. The large main room was for feeding the hungry stage passengers and, if there was a layover, the long wooden tables could be placed against the wall and used as sleeping quarters for the menfolk. A huge fireplace and cooking area filled one end of the room, and from great iron hooks on the facing beam, cast iron cooking utensils threw shadows over the low ceilinged room. The back room served as quarters for the stagekeeper and his wife, though the hosteler was used to sleeping out in the main room whenever the stage brought an infrequent woman for an overnight stay.

The way station was run by Ed and Cathy Carter, a friendly couple of indeterminate middle age who hid well their surprise at finding a lady like Karen accompanying the freight drivers. Beyond her surprise, Cathy was excited and obviously thrilled to have another woman to talk to, even for a single night. While the men took care of the mules and settled them for the night, Cathy busied herself about the stove. Hair flying, she was a bundle of energy, cooking beef and beans, sourdough bread and, as a special festive treat in honor of Karen's presence, a huge bowl of custard which used up most of her milk and all of the few eggs her ten hens had laid in the last two days. As she worked she bombarded Karen with questions and kept her busy relating the latest news of life of Washington society and the latest fashions. Touched by the woman's loneliness, Karen searched through her carpetbag and found an ornate tortoise shell comb given to her by the French ambassador and during a lull in the cooking made a present of it to Cathy, whose eyes brimmed with tears and sent her running to the back room, calling for Karen to follow. A fragment of mirror sat on a shelf and the older woman, laughing through her tears, forced her hair into a suggestion of a bun held up and ornamented by the new gift.

The mules watered and fed and the wagons in place, the men, washed and with hair slicked down, gathered around the tables for dinner. Karen put on a good face and tried to help as best she could. But she lacked training. Used to being served, she moved slowly, once almost spilling a whole platter of beef when the metal proved too hot for her tender hands. Cathy finally shooed her away as gently as possible, ameliorating the sting of her words with the promise that, Karen would all too soon have her share of cooking and serving and she should spend what little time she could enjoying her freedom. Once given a free rein, the hosteler's wife bustled about, seemingly everywhere at once, now setting out another platter of beef, now taking another loaf of bread out of the stove top oven. All the while she walked proudly, taking every chance to show off her new comb.

Karen found a seat next to Vance and picked at her food. She couldn't find anything of consequence to say, and used to conversation at dinner, the silence oppressed her and left her feeling lost and ill at ease. There should be talk at a meal, discussion of politics and friends, she thought sourly. At least the weather. But the only sounds were the scrape of knives on tin plates and the grunts of men as they indicated with their heads what they wanted passed.

Karen tried to take comfort from her physical proximity to Vance but soon gave up. They were supposed to be in love but she felt only an empty closeness, a bare indication of acquaintanceship and no display of endearment or affection. Karen fidgeted through the meal, wishing she were outdoors around the campfire.

Dinner over, the men rose as one and went outside. Karen and Cathy were left alone to clean up and ready the room for the night. Karen was unused to such manual labor, but when Cathy started with hardly a break from the cooking and serving, Karen insisted on helping. Cathy moved quickly, efficiently, with no wasted motion nor energy. Karen felt all thumbs. She dropped a plate, and bending to pick it up, sharply struck her shoulder against the edge of a table.

“Don't feel right,” Cathy remonstrated. “Only one time before when a woman came through did she help me. The others wouldn't turn a hand. And you a finer lady than the lot of them.”

Karen protested. “It wouldn't seem fair if I didn't help. You work hard. You'd think the least they could do is thank you.”

Cathy's laugh was rich and warm. “Thanks is where you find it. Ed don't expect me to thank him for catchin' up the horses. It's the extra things you get and give thanks for. Like the comb.” She touched the ornate figures lightly with her soapy hands, quickly gave a cry of alarm and jerked the comb from her hair, dried it carefully and set it aside high on a shelf and out of harm's way. “Now look at me. A fine gift and I'm sloppin' soap and grease on it.” She shook her head despairingly.

Karen suppressed the urge to tell her it didn't matter. For it did. To the simple woman before her the comb was of more value than anything she had seen in some time.

“You take those men,” Cathy went on. “The way they tell you they like what you've cooked is to eat lots and not waste time talkin'. A strong man reachin' for his third helpin' is thanks enough, although I admit it took me some time to realize. Ed an' me come out here from Pennsylvania four years ago when times were bad. We were sure-enough Yankees and almost everyone we met hated us for carpetbaggers. And that was without even askin' us why we came or what we thought.”

Her hands stilled and she leaned back against the sink, her voice full of tenderness. “One day Ed got shot by a man. Ed defended himself and the man died, but Ed was sick for a long time. When he got some better we left San Antonio.” She looked around her fondly, each niche, each cranny, each beam and board familiar and imbued with special meaning. “And we took this job.

“Before he got shot we used to say ‘thank you' a lot. That an' ‘please' an' a bunch of other words. But watching that man lie there day after day, tendin' him an' wonderin' if he was goin' to live, watchin' the thanks in his eyes even if he didn't like bein' dependent on a woman … well, that was enough. When we got out here we just naturally didn't think to stop an' say them words any more. Didn't have to. We both knew what we was thankful for.”