Paxton Pride (31 page)

The farther north they went the hills grew steeper, flanked with the ever present mesquite and covered at the sky line with jagged tips of cedar. The ground rose before them and as they crested one imposing swell Karen had her first glimpse of the Paxton ranch. A cluster of sun bleached adobe and wood buildings shone brilliantly on the eastern slope just beyond the reaching afternoon shadows as the sun began to dip below the hills to the west. Buildings emptied as she watched and people ran about, mounting horses and raising a cloud of dust. Riding alongside the wagon, Billy took off his hat and waved it furiously. “They've seen us. Surprised we didn't run into anyone sooner.”

Half a dozen men on horseback charged out from the ranch. Puffs of smoke followed by the sound of gunfire and faint shouts and whoops erupted from the riders and echoed through the valley. Vance laughed aloud and stood, cracking the whip and urging the mules into a fast run down a well-worn road leading to what Karen assumed to be the main house, only the red roof tiles of which showed behind a massive adobe wall. Clutching the seat with one hand and holding her hat with the other, she steeled herself to their arrival: whatever she felt would not show.

The riders bunched around the wagon, whooping and firing their guns. Vance shouted greetings to them and grinned broadly at the good-natured hazing of the men surrounding them. These were men he knew well, with whom he'd worked and fought, shared hardships and good times. They knew him not as True Paxton's son and heir to the Paxton holdings, but as one of their own. When there was work to be done, no matter how difficult or unpleasant, he pitched in and did his share or more.

The ride to the house was unsettling, a whirlwind of noise and dust, shouting and bouncing during which Karen found herself alternately fascinated and appalled by the coarse, uninhibited behavior of the ranch hands. The gates of the outer wall swung inward. Two men on the wall waved their sombreros and fired their rifles into the air as the party careened through and drew up in a spacious courtyard. The billowing dust drifted over them, obscuring Karen's view of the house, or hacienda as Vance called it.

The first detail she could make out was a man framed in a doorway, a man tall as Vance but thinner, as if the years had worn away the muscles of youth, leaving behind a tough shell of leather. He limped slightly, closer now and she could see a face lined and rough-looking from a lifetime of struggle against man and elements. His eyes were dark in the shadow of his hat and tinged with hard impatience. He looked like Vance, only thirty years older, and with a shock of recognition she realized he could only be True Paxton. Vance stepped past her and dropped lightly to the ground in front of the old man. “Pa.…”

True shook his son's hand, looking past him to the girl sitting primly on the wagon seat. Vance turned and offered his hand to Karen, helping her down. She met True's hard, discerning stare, started to look away then forced herself to return his appraisal with a measuring look of her own. Somehow she thought she saw the corners of his mouth twitch in hidden amusement. “Pa, this is Karen Hampton. The one I wrote you about.”

The older man's eyes narrowed. “Welcome to the PAX,” he said gruffly. “You're as pretty as Vance said. Didn't know he meant to bring you back with him.”

“It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Paxton,” Karen answered, confused at his cool and abrupt manner. This wasn't the man Vance had described to her.

True grunted noncommittally and shifted his gaze back to Vance. “Expected you back a couple weeks ago. Reckon I can see what held you up so long.” He nodded in Billy's direction. “Who's he?”

“Hired him in San Antonio. Looking for work and I thought he'd do. Rode with us as outrider from Corpus.”

True scrutinized the young man. “What's your name, boy?”

“Billy Harmony, sir. I'm sixteen, been on my own since thirteen. I'll saddle and ride my own broncs, and know what's about,” he answered, his voice full of confidence.

“We'll see soon enough,” True returned, liking the kid's grit but not wanting to show it too soon. “Emilio, show What's About the bunkhouse and line him up some grub.” One of the horsemen nodded and rode out the gate, Billy, complete with his new name, following.

They entered through a broad portal into a spacious front room running the width of the house. Overhead, huge ancient-looking timbers supported the ceiling and connected to native stone walls, each with a massive fireplace, at either end of the room. The opposite wall was of hewn cypress. In the center a hall led to the rear of the house and to the left an arch wide enough for three men abreast led to what was obviously a dining room. To the right a smaller arch opened into what she thought was a library, for though the room was dark she was certain a shelf of books lined one wall. A balcony ran the length of the opposite wall and upstairs Karen could make out doors leading to what were probably bedrooms. True had said something to her. “What? I'm sorry, I was …”

“I said, Texas will brown you up. You easterners are a pale lot. Spend too much time beneath a roof instead of the sky. A pale and weak lot.”

“Mr. Paxton, it is obvious you have never been to New Hampshire or Vermont. Or Maine. There's many a hardworking farmer toiling beneath the same sun as here, and burned just as brown I warrant. As for weak, it was those same men, brown or pale, who counted among the Army of the Potomac that broke Lee's back at Gettysburg.”

True bristled at the mention of the southern defeat, but before he could answer Vance entered and as if on cue a robust Mexican woman in peasant blouse and voluminous skirts rushed into the room from the rear of the house and embraced him. “My little
muchacho
… Marcelina! Marcelinal
Señor
Paxton has returned.” She stepped back, hands on his shoulders, and gazed at him proudly. “
Dios mio
, you are all skin and bone. I think it is good you are back, before you starve, eh? You have been eating someone else's cooking, eh?”

Vance laughed, obviously delighted to see her again. “Only been gone a few months. Couldn't have done much starving. But I sure could use some of your cookin'.” He disengaged the older woman's hands from his shoulders and stood with his arm around her waist. “Karen, this is Maruja. Without her we'd all starve and the place would dry up and blow away. Maruja, this is Karen Hampton, from Washington.”

A questioning frown flashed across Maruja's ebullient face and was as quickly gone. She nodded in Karen's direction. “I hope the
señorita
will enjoy her visit here.”

“Not visit, Maruja. Karen's come here to live. We're to be married.”

Karen watched for the frown to reappear but was distracted by a fiery-eyed beauty who dashed from the rear hall, bolted across the room and leaped up to wrap her arms around Vance's neck. Vance flushed red and pried the girl off him. Karen saw long black hair, deep brown eyes, the deliciously limber nubile figure of a girl barely fifteen or sixteen, whose affection for Vance was more than obvious. Karen's eyebrows arched at the suspiciously intimate welcome home.
That was certainly more than a friendly embrace
.…

“Marcelina,” Vance said, recovering rapidly, “I want you to meet Karen Hampton.”

The girl shot a wary glance in Karen's direction. Maruja said something to her in Spanish, the only words Karen recognized being “
Señora
Paxton.” Marcelina scowled and with a swirl of her skirt muttered, “I will prepare a room.”

“She can have mine, Marcelina,” Vance said as she walked away. The girl stopped, back stiff, shoulders arched and her hair seeming to bristle. “I'll make a bed down here in the living room.” Marcelina relaxed visibly and continued into the hallway and out of sight. Like a cat, Karen thought. A suspicious, angry threatened cat.

True stood to one side. With his hat off Karen could see his hair, white and plastered down with water. “Your mother'll be anxious to see you, son,” he said, breaking the awkward silence.

Vance hesitated, hardly daring to ask. “She …?”

“She's upstairs. She's been waitin' for you.”

Vance glanced up to the balcony, back to his father, sudden fear tightening his eyes. “C'mon,” he said softly. “We'd better go on up.”

The somber atmosphere left Karen ill at ease as she accompanied the men into the hall and up the stairs to the landing. True led them down the hall, paused at a door to his left than quietly opened it. “Elizabeth …?”

A voice from inside said, “Good heavens, True, you sound like I'm already gone. Now bring in that boy of mine.”

Vance entered the room first, escorting Karen who hesitated, then forced a smile and strode in with an air of confidence. Elizabeth Paxton lay in a massive oak bed. She was propped up by several thick white pillows, down which fell a mass of silver hair streaked with traces of gold as bright as Karen's. A thousand tiny wrinkles creased her face and, as sometimes happens when two people are very close, gave a stranger the uncanny impression she and True were more than husband and wife, had passed that stage and become almost one person, so much alike did they look. She had, once, been not only beautiful but strikingly handsome as well, a forceful woman secure in her own strength and will. And though the frame had shrunk and the skin turned to near leather, the strength of will and the dominating power of life still shone in her eyes and filled the room with her presence.

Vance leaned over the bed and embraced her gently. When he stood, Elizabeth clung to his hand, unwilling to let go. “I'm glad you're here, son,” she said, the first evidence of emotion in her voice.

Vance stepped back, still holding her hand. “Mother this is Karen Hampton. I've brought her here to be my wife.”

The old lady's eyes took in every inch of Karen before she spoke. “Come closer, child. Let me see you.” True stepped aside to let her by.” Always step forward. You have to push a little. Otherwise these men will stand in your way like a herd of old mules,” she said, a twinkle in her eye.

Karen drew close to the woman. True, behind her, interjected, “She's from up north,” as if it was some sort of malady.

Elizabeth laughed, surprising Karen with the youthful zest with which she dismissed True's statement. “So was I, or have you forgotten, True?” Vance's father managed a “Hhrumph” and left the room. “You mustn't pay attention to him, dear, at least not when he's in this mood. He's really a very nice man, but with Vance away so long and me sick it's been hard for him.” The lines in her face deepened with worry. “When his hip's better and he can ride again.…” She paused, brightened. “Listen to me. We must have a long visit after you've freshened up. Vance, you show her to her room, now. Let her have yours. Tell the boys to get her gear up there on the double and make sure Marcelina fills the pitcher. I've made the trip from San Antonio often enough to know there's nothing more pleasant than sponging off and changing clothes.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Paxton. It would be nice.”

“Please call me Elizabeth, dear, and I shall call you Karen.” She dropped her son's hand and reached for Karen, who jumped to take it. “Welcome to the PAX ranch, Karen. I'm glad Vance brought you to us.” A tiny wave of pain showed in her eyes. “If you'll come back after supper …? I'm tired now.”

Vance took his mother's hand and laid it on the bed by her. “We'll be back in later, Mother.” The old lady had closed her eyes and lay still, her store of energy already spent. Vance took Karen's arm and led her into the hall, closing the door behind him gently. For a moment he stood quietly, his face troubled. “She doesn't look good,” he said, his voice far away.

“Nonsense, she looks.…”

He stopped her with a penetrating stare. “Don't say it, Karen. It's sooner than I expected, but we've known for a long time.” A frown of concentration creased his forehead. “At least she isn't in too much pain. I hope.” A strange smile replaced the frown. “Did I ever tell you about the time she.…”

Karen waited but the smile was gone as rapidly as it had appeared. She had known his mother was ill, but never thought she was so badly off. “Vance, I …”

“Come on,” he gestured to one of the doors across the hall. “The next door down is the bathing room. There'll be hot water for you. This is my room.” She followed docilely, wondering why he hadn't let her apologize.

The decor of his room was similar to Elizabeth's and the house in general. Sturdy utilitarian furniture with no-nonsense lines stood against the rough-hewn walls. The large comfortable-looking bed was long enough for two of her. A single window looked out onto the purple hills deep in the long afternoon shadows. Across the room a door leading to the balcony banged open and through it staggered two of the ranch hands, struggling with her final trunk which they had hauled up on a rope from the living room below. When Vance thanked them they tipped their hats to her and filed out, leaving only the sound of their boots on the plank flooring as they rounded the corner and went along the hall and down the stairs.

And then they were alone, the silence between them a clumsy barrier. Vance coughed, embarrassed. “Will you be all right? I'd best check with Pa and see how things have been. You can bathe and clean up and I'll see you at supper.” He turned to go but halted in the doorway. “Karen, I …” He paused, searching for the words.

“Yes?”

“I … Elizabeth … Mother liked you. She's happy you're here.”

Karen spun from him, her green eyes flashing as she stared out the window. “Even if no one else is?”

She could tell the words stung him and was immediately sorry. Yet she had given him an opportunity to refute her and patch the trouble-haunted fabric of their love. Instead the door closed behind her and she was left alone, a stranger in an empty silence.