Paxton Pride (55 page)

Surprisingly, he stopped, let her go, and stepped back. “Not yet. You have not learned to love Jaco yet.”

“You are an animal,” she replied unevenly, shaken by her reaction to his touch. Never would she have believed.

Jaco's face registered mock hurt. “An animal? We are all animals,
querida
. Some of us are weak, some of us are strong. Here in Rio Lobos I am a strong animal. I do as I please. There is no one to help you.” He paused, serious. “This morning, I could have taken you. I could take you now. Maybe even carry you to the
cantina
and straddle you for the men to enjoy my performance. But a general does not do these things. Even now I do not force you. Was any man ever so patient?” He stepped to the door, stood in thought a moment, then turned back to her. “Tomorrow,
señorita
. There, on the cot. You will wait for me, and I will come to give you much pleasure. If not, then.…” His countenance darkened with an unspoken threat all too clearly read. He waited only a moment, filling the doorway with his terrible size, then turned, and like a shadow before the moon, was quickly gone.

Karen slumped against the wall.
A day.… Only one day.… So little time in which to.…
Again she reconnoitered the room. Approximately ten feet by a little more, the
jacalito
was built strongly with thick walls pocked by gunports, far too small for a person to get through. Topped by a mud roof, the hut guaranteed adequate protection against most attacks, was a place of defense with but one entry and exit, the doorway. The sun had fallen below the rim of the mountains and the room was darkening quickly. A lantern hung on one wall but she did not light it, preferring the privacy of shadow. Rummaging through the room, she covered every inch of floor and wall, searching for anything she might use as a weapon to assist in her escape. Moonlight was streaming through the doorless entryway when she caught a glint of metal beneath the cot. She reached under and grasped a crudely-wrapped wooden hilt. A knife … broken, but with an inch of jagged blade protruding from the grip. It was better than nothing, and properly used.… She had to move rapidly. Quickly, she fumbled on the cot, wrapped one blanket in a roll and tied it with a piece of rag found hanging on the wall. With luck, she could wrap the second blanket about her and, in the heavy shadows outside, slip past Manuel.… Voices again! She had heard no one approach.… Frantic, she flung herself on the cot, wrapped herself in the blanket. If they thought her asleep.…

“
Buenas noches
, Arcadio. What is it?”

“Jaco sent me to take your place.”

“
Gracias, amigo
. Do the riders search?”

“For what?”

“Marquez. He has not returned.”

“Nor will he. You are young,
amigo
, and have not ridden with us but a short while. Now hear me when I tell you. Do not ever speak that name again, if you wish to keep your tongue.”

“But.…”

“The man with that name wished to lead. Two men rode north. He who is fit to lead returned. The other is food for
las hormigas
. It is our way.”

Manuel lapsed into silence. To be eaten by the ants was not a pleasant thought. Better to be a contented soldier in
el jefe's
army and ask no question. “
Gracias
. I will speak no more.”

Karen heard the clink of a spur. Immediately alert, she clutched the short knife, waiting tensely. A squat, portly figure appeared in the doorway. His back lit by the moon, she could not see his face, could see only he was missing one ear.

“The
señorita
is asleep?” Not receiving an answer, the figure entered the room. “The
señorita
sleeps?” Arcadio repeated softly, stepping closer.

“No,” Karen replied, suddenly afraid.

“I am sorry. Perhaps the
señorita
is lonely. Arcadio can be good company for a lonely
señorita
. So they say.”

“Pay them and they will say anything,” Karen hissed. “Get out of here. Leave me alone …” Arcadio stepped nearer. “… or I shall scream for Jaco. What he would do to you, if he found you here, would not be nice.”

Arcadio stopped, scowled, and muttering an oath in Spanish, retreated through the door. Karen loosened her grip on the knife.
So. Jaco's name will keep me safe from the bandits. Small comfort. Now, what will keep me safe from Jaco? I must escape. Another hour and he will think I'm asleep. Then, if I can just …

Marcelina watched as Jaco and five others, who were to be stationed as guards, rode from Rio Lobos toward the North Pass, far up in the weather-battered reaches of the mountains. She had passed the night with her lover, fingernails raking his back as she matched his violent thrusts with equally tempestuous sexual frenzy until both lay limp and exhausted, released from the tensions generated by their week-long fast. Her body felt good, this morning. Soft, sated, warm and relaxed. She waved once as her man, her lover, rode past, so handsome, strong and arrogant Within little more than a moment he was out of sight and, as if his very presence was enough to keep her bouyant, she experienced a sinking sensation of dissatisfaction. What were his plans for the Paxton
gringo?
Why had he brought her to Rio Lobos? For revenge on
Señor
Vance? Or something more? If only he weren't so
tacito
, if only he'd tell her more.…

A girl not much older than herself stepped from the
cantina
and, checking the load in a revolver, headed toward the
jacalito
where Karen was kept. “Ursula, where do you go?”

The girl turned as Marcelina neared. “I am to take the
señora
Paxton to the river.”

“I will do it.”

“But I was told …”

Marcelina took the pistol from the girl and thrust it into the waistband of her skirt. “I will do it.” The emphasis in her voice curtailed any further protest from Ursula, who shrugged indifferently and returned to the
cantina
. Tossing her head, Marcelina walked across the plaza and stopped at the prison hut. “
Señora
.” There was no answer. “
Señora!
Wake up!”

Karen woke, a dream of Vance and.…
My God …
It was light, daytime.
No
.…
No … I couldn't have
.… Wildly, she looked about. Nothing had changed except the night. She had slept, her chance was lost. A figure stood in the doorway. As inconspicuously as possible, she ripped open a slit in the straw ticking, shoved in the knife.
Control … have to control myself
.

Marcelina stepped to the bed, ripped the cover from Karen. “Wake up,
Señora
Paxton,” she said with a sarcastic laugh. “Time for your bath.”

Karen sat up groggily, playing for time to think. “I don't want.…”

“I am to take you to the river. You will bathe.”

“I better go too,” grumbled Arcadio quickly from the door. “She might try to escape.”

Marcelina pulled the revolver from her waistband. “She will not escape. You only wish to watch. Come,
señora
. We go now.” Brandishing the pistol, she stepped to one side, jabbed the weapon into Karen's ribs as the hated
gringa
passed. Karen, startled, jumped through the door, squinted in the strong morning light. “Is the beautiful
señora
frightened?” Marcelina asked.

Karen's eyes flashed indignantly and she straightened her shoulders. “Certainly not,” she said flatly, and strode past the guard without a backward glance.
How could I have slept so long? How
…? The answer was obvious. Four days of terror and tension had exhausted her. The shadow of the revolver in Marcelina's hand preceded her down the path.

Rio Lobos, from which the settlement took its name, was little more than a creek whose waters, fed by an underground spring, were piercingly cold in contrast to the sunbaked rocks around them. Safely concealed behind a curtain of mesquite and upthrust boulders, Karen stripped and stepped tentatively into the creek, shivering violently as the chilly current bit at her feet and ankles, enveloped thighs and waist. She was forced to squat in order to completely submerge herself, and after the first breathtaking immersion, found the waters refreshing. Marcelina stood by silently, regarding Karen's body with no small degree of astonishment. The
gringa
was different. No longer pallid, her skin glowed with health. Flesh firm from riding and hours of work, face, arms and shoulders tanned lightly, Karen was as lithe and trim as any ranch girl. Marcelina scowled angrily. The Mexican girl had expected a weak, pampered physique, not the hardy, capable yet utterly feminine loveliness that made her feel sour and unkempt, cheap and faintly tawdry.

Karen stepped from the creek, dried herself and dressed, beating the dust from her jeans before putting them on again. She felt better for the bath, refreshed in spite of the dangers with which she was surrounded. Sleep and the frigid, crystal clear waters had soothed some of the worry of her spirit, imbued her with a reckless sense of buoyancy. It still wasn't too late. Alone with Marcelina, she could … the metallic click of a revolver being cocked brought her back to reality. “Now,
señora
, you will run,” Marcelina said from behind her.

Karen pivoted slowly to face the Mexican girl, cast an experienced, calculating eye up and down the one obstacle between herself and the hills. The wind ruffled Marcelina's skirt. Her brown, tawny bare shoulders were marked and scored from Jaco's intense love-making. The peasant blouse, low-cut, was pressed tightly against small proud breasts, the nipples dark and erect with the thrilling prospect of danger, of the deed she must commit. One other thing Karen noticed during the silent, searching interval. Marcelina wore the cameo locket about her throat. Karen had dismissed its loss as unimportant, but seeing the carved profile brought back the past months with a rush, and in the briefest of seconds the chronicle of her metamorphosis flashed through her mind in a pastiche of a myriad moments, monumental and insignificant, spanning the months from her arrival in Texas to that very second when she stood alone and faced a gun pointed at her heart. The broken knife was back in the
jacalito
, but the lack of a weapon didn't bother her. She doubted if she would have used it, either on Marcelina or, had the time come, on Jaco. But if she lacked the courage or inclination to take a life, Karen was not afraid to lose hers. Not that she would give up without a fight.… She looked at the revolver with abject scorn. “Is that the gun you used to kill Emilio?”

Marcelina blanched. “No!” She had not expected such news. “I … I did not.… I mean … he is dead? The gun.…” She drew herself up, refusing to grovel in front of the
gringa
. “I was only going to wound him, but the gun went off before I expected.”

“You killed him. He died horribly, after nearly two weeks of pain. One of the few words he muttered before he died was your name.”

“Stop it.”

“I remember how he would play for you and watch you dance. He loved you, I think. His death is on your soul.”

“Stop! I did not mean to. I don't think he is dead.”

“You know what I say is true.”

“Shut up. Jaco is my lover. He would tell me.…”

The key! My God, why didn't I think of it
.… Karen forced herself to relax, to think clearly. “Jaco is too much man for you,” she said scornfully.

“I am his woman! When he is
el presidente
, I will be his
señora
. But you come. First you come to the ranch with
señor
Vance and then here, only things are different. See? I have your jewelry. I take it a long time ago. First, the jewelry, now your life.”

“If Jaco loves you, why worry about me?” Karen asked.

“I am his woman. He loves me,” Marcelina repeated insistently, more to convince herself than Karen.

“Then why are you afraid?”

“You … you have magic.”

“Nonsense.”

“You have ways of … twisting a man's thoughts. No more talk. Run. Now!”

“No.”

Marcelina aimed the revolver directly at Karen's chest, only inches away. “Run!” she screamed, her voice echoing from the hills.

“No. If you are going to kill me, then you will have to shoot me like this, in the front, and explain to Jaco why you did it.”

Marcelina's face darkened with fury and frustration, yet her gaze faltered. She could not meet Karen's piercing, accusatory stare. “You … are evil!” she hissed, but the gun wavered, lowered.

Her life at stake, Karen pressed home the attack with the verbal weapons that never had failed her. “Evil? I? Am I the one who opened the gates, who betrayed her friends? Am I the one responsible for all those who died? Emilio … Brazos … the others. I am not she who betrayed her loved ones to a man like Jaco, the man who murdered your mother.”

Marcelina stepped back, eyes widening. “Do not say that,” she whimpered, aghast at the revelation, struck to the quick by the news of her mother's death.

“It's true. Look at me and you will know what I say is true. She lies on the hill with Elizabeth and the children. And he never told you. The man who killed your mother never told you. I was there. I lost my baby. He was born dead during the attack. I saw him shoot her. Maruja is dead.” Marcelina was reeling now. Her lips trembled, the gun dangled from her fingers, useless. Karen sensed victory and would not be dneied. “Maruja is dead,” she repeated. “Murdered by her own son.”

A blade of grass dropped in the water would have sounded like a rifle shot in a small room in the silence that followed. Marcelina's face turned bloodless. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “What …? What …?”

“Murdered by Jaco, her own son. True was his father. He told me. Jaco is Vance's brother; he is your brother. Look at him closely. You will know, as he has all this time.”