Paxton Pride (36 page)

The ranch was fairly bustling with activity when she arrived. Ted, with half the ranchhands, was off up the valley rounding up a herd of horses which had grazed half-wild during the summer months. Now they would be needed to fill out the remuda for the fall roundup, and would have to be caught and once again conditioned to the feel of men on their backs. Those already brought in from the range were in the back corral, waiting their turn to be topped off, as the hands put it. She paid no attention to the line of men strung out on the top rail of the front corral, but rode on around the bunkhouse and out of sight, reining up near the small corral in back of the shed where the women's horses were kept and dismounting on the large wooden block Vance had installed when he'd learned she was pregnant. Billy Harmony, now called What's About by everyone but her, sauntered over to help her unsaddle. “Good afternoon, Billy.”

“Howdy, ma'am. Can I he'p you with that?”

“Yes, thank you.” The youngster quickly unsaddled the mare, rubbed her down and gave her some corn, finally setting her loose with the others in the corral. Karen watched them a moment. They were beautiful beasts, those proud steeds. Two sorrels, a blue roan, the chestnut mare and a small pinto. Hermann would have loved this place and these horses—even the tiny pinto. He would be at home here. She tried to picture his reaction to the half-wild mustangs or broncos the men rode and smiled at the thought of his long, dour face dropping even further at the sight of the scraggly, unkempt appearance of the wiry animals.

“Uh, ma'am …” Billy coughed, rubbed his forearm across his brow.

“Yes, Billy?”

“I was wonderin' if I might not borrow them two sorrels an' the good buckboard, come Saturday. Them tamer horses are a sight lot easier to use as a wagon team.”

“Why do you ask me?”

“Mr. Paxton told me to. He said it was your say so 'cause they was your horses now.”

“Vance said that?”

“No, ma'am. Mr. Paxton … uh … Vance's pa.”

True had told him to ask … they were hers?

“Is it all right with you? Ya' see, I'm headin' over to
Señor
Viega's place.” He puffed up proudly, as if daring her to refute him or, as the hands had, tease him until he fled the bunkhouse, his face flushing with embarrassment. “Gonna call on Amaranta, his daughter, an' I'd like to be able to take her to a church social they're havin' down in Uvalde. She'll spend the night at her uncle's an' he'll bring her back later in the week so's I'll be able to get on in here early Monday. I'd sure be beholden to you, ma'am.”

“Why, of course. You take the horses you need, Billy. And stop by the
hacienda
before you leave. I'll see if I can't find something you can give her for a present. Perhaps a comb or a locket.”

Billy reddened. “Thank you, Miz Paxton. That's mighty kind of you. It purely is.” The young ranch hand headed back toward the main corral. Karen watched him leave then started for the main gate into the
hacienda
compound. The men on the rail suddenly whooped and jeered, laughing raucously over the frenzied whinny of a half-wild horse and the assorted answering calls from his companions, from whom he'd been separated. The rowdy clamor swelled then ebbed, filling the valley with more noise than Karen had heard since her wedding night. The main gate was open yet she paused in the shadow of the compound wall, listening to the activity, held by the promise of excitement. What was waiting for her in the house? The library? She was sick of reading. What else? Maruja? The woman had warmed to Karen, it was true, yet she would be busy cooking or working in the garden. Anything else? Only Marcelina's stony glances and bitter innuendos. Of course, there was always Elizabeth's work room. In it were stored a spinning wheel, bolts of hardy denim and canvas fabric, even a small loom. More mysterious was a box full of tiny polished beads, strips of rawhide and a bundle of porcupine quills.

Deciding suddenly, she walked away from the gate and in the direction of the corral. Her riding dress snagged on some brush and she heard a telltale rip. And this was the last one, the only one without a tear. Now there were none. Well, at least she could sew on patches. That was something she could do, had practiced amply over the past two months, for not one of the dresses she had worn outside the compound walls had not returned without some manner of disfigurement. A horse rounded the wall and Karen stepped back in surprise, catching her skirt on another thorn and momentarily losing her balance. Marcelina, wearing a blouse and men's jeans, reared the animal back, its hooves pawing the air, then let it go, sending the pony plunging forward and bolting down the path to the south. Karen stood and patted the dust from her skirt, staring off at Marcelina's dusty passage down the valley. The girl had been straddling the horse on a man's saddle.
I am not going to wear men's clothes even if every article I wear is covered with patches
. But something else bothered her. Marcelina … She tried to picture the Mexican girl once again, the horse rearing back on its hind legs, the rider facing into the sun … Marcelina's bare brown shoulders … her neck … That was it Had she been wearing the cameo? Karen's missing keepsake? She flushed angrily and promised herself to … No. It was not the missing jewelry that so roused her ire, but rather the way the Mexican girl behaved when Vance was around; subtly provocative and teasing … devices only another woman could or would see through. And Vance, Karen fumed inwardly, appeared to respond to the girl's conduct, even to the point of allowing her to accompany him, alone, up the valley when he went to deliver supplies to one of the line camps. Alone … Karen drove the disturbing notion from her mind, recognizing the very real dangers of such fantasizing.

Determinedly casual, she continued to the corral, quiet now as a cloud of dust slowly drifted away. A number of the hands were sitting along the split rail fence, talking quietly and watching and waiting for the activity to start again. A whoop went up from the men as Karen approached and she saw a mouse-colored stallion break away from the opposite fence and buck its way to the center of the corral. Shorty, the cowboy who had asked for the first dance at the fiesta following the wedding, was astride the animal. But not for long. One moment he was there, the next he was gone, arcing high in the air and then crashing with a loud thud to the ground. A few seconds later he was up and scrambling over the fence, only inches behind the general exodus which suddenly took place as the berserk mustang slammed into the railing, trying to get at the creatures who had' captured him. Someone hidden in the dust finally roped the animal again and led it to the far side of the corral while Shorty endured the good-natured derision of his friends and slapped at the dust on his jeans and shirt with a floppy-brimmed hat. “Say what ya' will, I still don't see none a' you galoots ridin' anythin' but them rails. That's a heller, that one is.… Oh, pardon me, Miz Pax-ton.” The short, bowlegged cowboy doffed his hat. The others, halfway up the fence again, did the same.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Karen said sweetly. “My heavens, but I hope you aren't hurt. That looked like a terrible fall.”

“Aw, 'tweren't so bad, 'ceptin' he almost got a hoof into me. That grulla's a regular fighter. A real wild one. Never gives ya' time ta get settled, but takes off jumpin' an' a kickin' ever which way. Nigh busted Hogan's leg. It sure as shootin' bruised some bad. But if'n we ever get that critter back in shape, he'll be a right good cow pony. Be able ta turn on a quarter an' give ya' fifteen cents change.”

Karen chuckled at the cowboy's remarks, for here was one thing she definitely did like about the ranch—the colorful and highly colloquial descriptive language, most of which she'd never heard before. Another hand called down from the fence. “Yer husband's gonna take him on next, Miz Paxton.”

The men cleared a space for her and Karen stepped onto the bottom rail and hooked her elbows over the top. The grulla, as Shorty had called the animal, was near the fence at the north end of the corral, a neckerchief tied over his eyes. Two cowboys were holding his head down while Vance slowly swung into the saddle. One of the men holding the horse was biting the animal's ear, his teeth dug firmly into the grulla's flesh. “Poor horse,” Karen muttered.

Brazos snorted his disagreement. “Ma'am, that critter ain't got a worry in the world compared to the fella that's gonna try to ride him. I still got a sore arm from ropin' that salty ol' bronc.”

Karen watched with growing interest as Vance settled himself firmly in the saddle. His long form was poised and ready, his blue work shirt open nearly to the waist, revealing a hard muscled chest thickly pelted with deep brown curls. He tugged at his hat, wound the reins around his gloved fist and dug his feet into the stirrups. For a fleeting second he looked up, unintentionally locking eyes with Karen then lowering his gaze immediately as he said something to one of the hands holding the horse's head. If he was surprised to see Karen at the corral fence no one watching would ever know. Karen heard his next command in the expectant hush settling over the corral. “Now!”

The cowboys sprang back, one ripping the blinder away, both diving for the fence, out of the way of the razor-sharp hooves. The mustang hesitated a fraction of a second and then exploded into the air like a coiled spring being released. All four hooves left the ground simultaneously and the animal twisted and wrenched in mid-air, came down with a bone-jarring crash then erupted into a spasmodic display of untamed fury. The cowboys on the fence whooped and hollered encouragement, surprised that Vance had lasted the first awesome outburst, as indeed were both bronco and rider. For the space of two heartbeats the mustang stood still, wondering what the man was still doing on his back. With comprehension came a long, determined, cold-blooded effort to rid himself of the pesky weight. Karen felt her breath catch as Vance was whipped back and forth, leaned forward onto the horse's neck as the animal almost went over backwards and then far back on the animal's withers as the beast plunged to earth front feet first. The longer the rider remained on the frenzied mass of corkscrewing horseflesh, the more it seemed his back would surely snap from the punishment he was taking. Karen managed to conceal her own excitement, but her heart caught in her throat at the sight of the mustang's primitive fury and the elemental rugged strength of the man pitted in monumental struggle. Here was the contest of the ages—man against nature, intelligence against brute force. Without being fully aware of the fact, she was watching a greater adventure than even her dreams had pictured.

The horse charged the fence. Karen screamed and the men leaped to the ground, one of them hauling Karen roughly back from the bars. Just as it seemed horse and rider would collide with the railing, Vance yanked the animal aside. The horse's eyes were wide as the grulla screamed in rage and shot into the air once again. Through the swirling dust Karen could hardly make out anything at all. She heard someone shout, “Jump for it, Vance, he's gonna roll!” and splinters of wood flew past her face as the stallion's hind legs shattered the top rail. Then everyone was hurrying back to the fence, Karen included. The grulla landed on the run, circled the corral once then headed directly toward the watchers again, this time a few yards to Karen's left.

“Duck, ma'am! Shorty shouted, grabbing her and pulling her down.

“He's jumpin'!” another voice yelled. “That damned cay-use is gonna try to jump the fence.”

Horse and rider hurtled at the fence as if to burst it asunder. Karen brought her hand to her mouth, stifling a silent shriek of fear and excitement. Then Vance leaned forward as the stallion leaped. The mustang's legs stretched long in front of him, and though it happened in the space of a second, the picture of animal and man in mid-air froze in an indelible image in her mind. The mouse-colored stallion, at the height of his leap, nostrils flared, eyes flaming in anger. And Vance, his hat long gone and trampled in the dust, his hair swept behind him like a horse's mane, his sinewy form outlined against an azure sky.

They were gone, horse and rider disappearing at a flat run toward the eastern hills. But that one frozen moment in time had nudged awake the primitive urgings Karen had forced herself to suppress. For a month she had kept her body from his, tortured herself with self-imposed abstinence, first in anger at him for his ill-concealed dissatisfaction, later upset at his solicitude when he learned she was pregnant. She neither wanted nor would have sex merely for the gratification of carnal desire nor as thanks for the biological condition of pregnancy. Sex should be an act of love, a mingling of two individuals to be cherished and held closely in the innermost soul, involving all of a human being and not one part this day, another the next. Why had she come to watch the scene which had so affected her? What imp had lured her to the corral where all she had hoped to avoid had come so vividly to life and left her limp with desire for the man who had ridden the horse and left her with a hunger she felt powerless to deny?

“Don't worry, ma'am. He'll be okay. That mustang's gonna have ta run for a while, but he won't be fightin' no more.” Shorty had obviously mistaken Karen's withdrawn reflection for worry.

“Thank you. That … that was terribly exciting.”

Shorty laughed. “Well, that's quite a feller you got there, Miz Paxton. Never thought he'd a stayed on that horse. Reckon Vance was a sight more notional than that wild ol' feller expected.”

Karen nodded, though she hadn't been listening, hadn't heard a word he had said. For she was seeing Vance silhouetted against the cerulean infinity and hearing a call she could do little else but follow.

Vance stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt and plunged his head into the cold spring water, then ground picketed the lathered and still blowing stallion where he could both eat and drink. The animal had run far in its attempt to shake the rider clinging so tenaciously to its back, but Vance's angry frustration and dogged determination had matched the mustang's fury.
Karen
…
what does she want from me?
A man needed a woman's comfort at night. And during the day he needed the comfort of knowing she was at his side, whether or not she physically stood there at any given moment.