Paxton Pride (30 page)

He had never before forced or taken a woman in anger. Damn! If she had only … if. If her gown hadn't been torn. If he hadn't tripped. If the writhing flesh underneath him.… He had not suspected such a tempest of hungry longing and indiscriminate rage waited in him. To master her with his own hard masculine strength was his initial objective, but the thought had fallen aside, lost in the emotion of their turbulent coition. Worst of all, he had tried to buy her off. He colored with shame to think he lay there whimpering his love for her. She had won after all. What flaw of passion was it whose aftermath left him a mewling infant on this woman's breast? And why only with Karen Hampton?

“Mr. Paxton, ol' Jess is saddled an' ready.” Vance turned, startled from his reverie by the voice. Billy stood by the table. Vance cursed silently. The woman had gotten to him worse than he thought. He hadn't even heard the door open, hadn't heard Billy's footsteps. To be so off guard … The youngster's jaw was still swollen and ugly, marked with the color left by Roscoe Bodine's fist. For a second he stared at Billy, his mind so muddled he barely remembered having hired the young outrider to accompany them to the ranch, with the promise of a job when they arrived.

“Get yourself some coffee,” he said. “I'll get Miss Hampton. Be a minute.”

“How is she this morning?”

Vance started to answer, then caught himself. “Haven't seen her awake,” he finally mumbled, rising from the table.

“Sure am sorry about yesterday, Mr. Paxton. Bodine wasn't a bad man. Losin' them cattle up north an' not findin' anyone willin' to hire him on … well … Bodine, he took it hard an' let it eat at him. Leastways, that's how I figger it. But he weren't a bad man.”

“I'm sorry, too, Billy. You and he were trail partners, I know.”

“You done what you had to. Can't no man fault you for that.”

Vance nodded, at a loss for a moment, then said with a sigh, “I'll see to Miss Hampton.”

The hotel stirred with drowsy anticipation of a new day. Vance entered the lobby and noticed the day clerk's eyes widen. The night man had made it obvious Vance might be happier at another hotel, said message coming from the management. The cattleman couldn't blame the old man, really. The Menger had undoubtedly heard about the difficulty in Miller's Bar and would be worried Bodine's former companions might attempt revenge for their fallen friend and bring violence to the hotel. “Don't worry. I'm headin' out this mornin'.”

“Wasn't me, Mr. Paxton. I sure hope you don't think.…”

“Know it wasn't,” Vance said, laying down a gold double eagle. “You can split the change with the night man.”

“Yes sir,” the boy said gratefully. “Marcus, he …”

“Know it's not him, too,” Vance cut him off, turning to the empty lobby and stopping short.

Karen slowly descended the stairway. Carmela passed her going up, the Mexican girl burdened by an armload of folded linens almost above her eye level. She averted her gaze from the American
señorita
and only when she was several steps past her did she break down and giggle, trying desperately to muffle the sound in the stack of towels. But Karen heard her, heard and was not amused. Did everyone know of the incident in that horrible bar room? Or did the girl's laughter signify something more? Perhaps she had overheard Karen and Vance's argument in the room, or worse, the subsequent silence.

“Karen … I …”

“My bags are in my room,” she said icily, picking up the hem of the pale blue-green skirt and proceeding out the front door, her shoulders squared haughtily.

Behind her she left a dumbfounded and utterly perplexed Vance.

“At least it's a different buckboard,” Vance said in a conciliatory tone as he guided the team down the gradual incline to the crossing at San Pedro Springs. Karen didn't comment, though she was grateful for the appreciably greater comfort of the newer wagon. It was jostling and uncomfortable at best, but fell short of excruciating, a quality in which the first had managed quite easily to excel.

They stopped in the shade for five minutes to water the mules. The scene surrounding her was of unadorned bucolic simplicity upon which Karen gazed with that curious blend of wistfulness and superiority affected by the very wealthy. Along the banks of the San Pedro the Mexican women kneeled, kneading and scrubbing their clothes in the clear water, beating the soap and dirt from them on the rocks. The women chattered gaily in an increasing flow of rapid Spanish which blended with the chuckling, gurgling stream.
How easy and simple their lives
.… She did not see the swollen knees and wrinkled, split fingertips, nor would she have understood the stoical dismissal of aching backs when, later, the women carried the clean clothes back to the dismal
jacals
, those dreary huts of stakes and wattle, and hung them to dry in the dusty sun.

Once they crested the west bank of the stream the line of cottonwoods, cedars, pecans and oak began to thin and eventually they broke free of the wooded area entirely. Ahead lay empty land, stretching to the dim line between sky and earth. To their south was nothing. To the north, a low line of hills raised the horizon. The final tree to their rear, Billy pulled up alongside them. “Reckon I'll mosey up ahead a bit, Mr. Paxton.”

“All right, Billy. First stop'll be Castroville. We'll get something to eat and then head out for Hondo.”

Billy's face clouded. “I guess you oughta know.”

“What?”

“Well, while I was in the cafe …?” He glanced guardedly at Karen.

“Yes?” Vance asked.

“I heard the Rafter XO is ridin' to Hondo t'day,” he blurted. “They said they.…”

The Rafter XO. Bodine's old outfit. He couldn't let Karen.… “That'll be enough, Billy,” he ordered, his face suddenly tight and grim. “Soon as we cross the Medina we'll cut north, noon in Broken Axle canyon. We'll keep near the foothills then. Not so close to be caught unawares, but close enough to make a run if we need to.”

“People say Jaco's around. If he is,” Billy said, gesturing to the hills to the north. He grimaced awkwardly. “Begin' your pardon, Miss. Don't mean to alarm you none. Chances are we won't.…”

“Billy!” Vance's voice was rough with command. “You can ride. We'll stop for the night at Cross Bear Creek.”

“Them mules,” he said, casting an appraising eye at the large black animals, “ought to make it some further, if you've a mind to.”

“Cross Bear's a good camp. No point in pushing for the take of an hour or two. Well still get in tomorrow.”

Billy nodded in agreement and nudged his heels into the steeldust's flanks. The gelding broke into a trot, then a slow, easy-paced gallop.

The sun, oblivious to the passions of men, the desires of women and the intertwining destinies of both, arched high overhead on its relentless path until the glowing orb hung swollen and crimson above the western edge of the world. With barely more than a dozen utilitarian words between them over the hours, Vance guided the wagon on an oblique path north to the line of foothills. Billy had already scouted a clear space among a grove of cedar, and finding it safe, called in the wagon to the far side of Cross Bear Creek. Karen jumped from the wagon alone and walked back and forth in an attempt to bring life back to her legs while Vance tethered the mules and Billy started a fire beneath the fanning branches of a huge old pecan.

It was quiet in the little glade. Vance had taken a rifle and gone off to scout around and Billy squatted in front of the fire, cutting strips of bacon into a skillet. A faint trail of smoke coiled from the fire and dissipated in the branches above. Karen, trying to remember some of the things Cathy might do, rummaged in the wagon for a sack of ground coffee and the coffee pot, took the pot to the creek and filled it, then carried both back to the fire and set the water to boil. Billy rose and started to take off his hat, but with a knife in one hand and a slab of bacon in the other, had to settle for an embarrassed grin and an awkward bow. Paying the young man as little attention as possible, she tossed a few pinches of coffee into the water.

Vance still hadn't returned. It was getting dark and the stillness, broken only by the slight sound of water in the creek and a faint crackling of the dry wood on the fire, began to oppress her, smothering the quiet peace in the glade. She had to talk. “Billy, who is this Jaco? Ever since coming to Texas I keep hearing his name.”

“He's a powerful mean Mexican, Miss Hampton. Got a bad streak in him with no quit to it a'tall. Likes to kill. White folks mostly, but ever once in a while a' Indian or Negro. Mexes, too, should they cross him. Raids across the border into Texas. Not often. Three, four times since the war. Once over near Fort Davis, once even up on the Staked Plains. Maybe now, though nobody's seen him for sure. When the army or rangers, when we have 'em, make things a mite warm, well, he lights a shuck for New Mexico or back across the Rio Grande to home. Got him quite a following among the young
bravos
across the border, some of 'em ready for a revolution, they say, with Jaco as leader. Loco, they are.”

Karen hugged her knees and shivered. “Would they …?”

“Like I said. Don't you go to frettin'. Mostly I guess folks just talk. It's gettin' plumb civilized around here. Too many people an' too many men salty enough to whup him if it ever come down to it. Reckon he knows it too, 'cause he ain't tried nothin' with 'em, nor the PAX.”

“The PAX?”

“That's Paxton's brand.” He took a stick and drew the letters in the dirt around the fire. “I'm gonna be right proud to ride for that brand, too,” he said, full of youthful enthusiasm.

“Ride for the brand?”

“Yes'm. You know … uh … workin' for 'em. Keepin' cattle on the range, roundin' up strays, brandin', whatever. Drivin' off rustlers if need be. I'm hopin' to run a herd up Kansas way.”

“But you seem so young.”

Billy set knife and bacon down abruptly and rose to his full five feet eight inches, his face set indignantly. “Ma'am, I happen to be sixteen years old.” And with that he stalked away to the wagon, rumaging through the supplies for a loaf of bread.

Later after Vance returned the three sat quietly, each brooding on the day and staring into the night. The fire guttered and collapsed in a pile of coals unable to warm the cool politeness lapping at its edge. Karen poured coffee and passed the cups around. Hers tasted fine. For once the brew wasn't too strong. But the two men took a single gulp, glanced at each other darkly and gingerly put their cups down as if they'd tasted poison. Karen finished the coffee, and feeling ill at ease, wondering what Cathy would have done next, found she couldn't remember. Upset and frustrated, she retired to the ground cloth and blankets Vance had set out near the wagon. More tired than expected, she was soon asleep, waking only once to see Vance putting a fresh pot of coffee on the coals.

Morning? No. It's much too dark
. Karen snuggled down into the blanket, trying to recapture the dream. Visions of her bed in the Georgetown house. How soft and deliciously silky. A noise … breaking branches. Crackle of flames, tinny clatter of cups against a coffee pot. She opened her eyes again. The men were awake and preparing for the day. The smell of bacon hung on the morning air. Bacon … she had eaten more bacon in the past week than in her entire life. She rolled out of the blankets, washed and breakfasted while Vance and Billy hitched the mules and packed the bedrolls.

Billy rode out of the grove as Vance helped Karen into the buckboard. “We'll get there today. I.…”

Billy rode back into the clearing. “Looks good, Mr. Paxton.”

“Well move out, then.” Vance rounded the wagon and took his place alongside Karen. The mules broke into motion at the graceful snap of the whip over their heads, pulled away from the pecan, out of the cedar brake and onto the trail west.

The day went quicker than any of the others she had spent traveling. Their path lay close to the hills, whose rolling swells were crowned with evergreen, skirted with oak and mesquite. They passed the mouths of narrow valleys, or canyons as Vance called them, dark and somberly mysterious, any one of which Karen was sure led to excitement and adventure. Who knew what lay between their walls?

They turned due north in the middle of the afternoon and headed for a solid line of trees between two hills where the mouth of a valley was choked with cedar. “This is the
Cañón de Uvalde
. Sabinal Canyon, we call it now, for the river. Gets its name from cypress, which is
sabinal
in Spanish. It cuts through the valley. We're home.”

Home. How empty the word sounds. What is home when you are a stranger everywhere? A
broad trail tunneled its way through the trees. The light dimmed to twilight as they entered and sudden panic seized her. What was she doing here? Who was this man beside her? The man she loved? He had changed and she did not know him. The man who had so captured her heart had become a dark and ominous figure at her side, transporting her through a nightmare cave to an unknown world in which romance had become plagued with remorse, adventure marred by ordeal.

And suddenly daylight. To their left a river, and on all sides lush green grass dotted with cattle which followed their passage with dull, senseless eyes. Like some impregnable gateway the mouth of the canyon fell to the rear and narrowed, finally closed. She was trapped. Cunningly, yet unwittingly, her own dreams had caught her. She had ridden into them even as they lay waiting, waiting, patient as are all traps.

Once past the cedar brake the valley widened to about eight miles, occasionally narrowing to three and then broadening again. The Sabinal, true to its name lined with cypress, theaded the length of the valley. A herd of antelope darted from nearby grove of trees. Startled, Karen gasped with surprise and delight as the sleek brown forms crossed their path and bounded toward the river. Flowers grew in rare profusion: daring spears of Indian paintbrush; bluebonnets demure and very proper; delicate lacy spider lilies quaking in the summer breeze; and dandelions, audacious butter-yellow dandelions, everywhere. Despite her grudging reluctance to admit it, the canyon was breathtakingly beautiful, grew more so the farther they ventured.
A trap? Perhaps I was hasty
…
harsh …