Paxton Pride (57 page)

The sun was high in the sky and the morning heat had parched the dew from the few blades of grass in the plaza when the shambling wreck that was Arcadio came to relieve Manuel. The older bandit, unconscious on the whiskey-stained floor of the
cantina
, had been left behind in Rio Lobos when Jaco and the others rode out. Now, the unexpected blow on his head having dramatically cooled his ardor, he stared sullenly at the woman inside the hut. Karen, the image of his obscene form looming over her, the horrid, rigid staff and his hands pulling at her jeans, shuddered violently. She could not meet his eyes, could not.… A movement against the pale brown backdrop of hills caught her attention. Her imagination …? But again, at the corner of a huge boulder.… Men on horseback! They had to be the bandits. Jaco was returning. Ten minutes later he came into full view, weary from a sleepless night and the chase, but straightening as he approached the little town. A rope led from the pommel of his saddle to the bound wrists of a man some ten feet behind the gelding. Half obscured by the dust, the man was forced to keep to a lope in order not to fall behind and be dragged. Vance! Her final chance for escape, captured and bound like an animal behind his enemy's horse.

Karen did not know whether to rejoice or despair. Jaco's hatred ran to such extremes, Vance might have been better off had he met a quick, merciful death rather than endure whatever diabolical scheme his captor might concoct. Yet amidst her sinking spirits there was a secret joy. He
had
come to her, and for better or worse they would be together again, if only for a short time. No matter what happened afterward, she would be able to tell him she loved him more than anyone, anything, more than life itself.

The outlaws looked worn and haggard. Three sported crudely bound wounds. Two others were draped over their saddles, lifeless arms swinging in funereal cadence with the horses' movements. Jaco, in the lead, rode nonchalantly, one hand on hip and a wry smile of victory on his face, once goading the horse to a brief canter. Behind him, Vance stumbled into a run, somehow managing to remain on his feet. The tiny procession halted across the windswept plaza and Jaco stared at the prison hut where Karen waited, barely visible inside the doorway. The scab on his cheek itched. His eyes burned with fatigue. “Tonight,” he reminded himself, then drove his spurs into the flanks of the animal beneath him. The gelding leaped forward and Vance was jerked off his feet and dragged skidding along the dry ground, barely missed by the flashing hooves of the other bandits' horses.

Karen screamed involuntarily and tried to rush to stop Jaco, but Arcadio moved quickly to grab her arm and hold her back. “No! Let me go!” she begged, beating ineffectively at the bandit's arm and head. “Let me go!”

Jaco reined up in a choking cloud of dust billowing high in the air to obscure the riders. As the dust settled, vague shadows took form, materialized. Jaco spat to one side, swatted the sand from his clothes and bowed grandiosely, indicating Karen should approach his mount. “
Buenos dias, señora
Paxton. I have good hunting and bring you a gift—” he grinned broadly, “—the illustrious
señor
Paxton.”

Karen started toward the prostrate figure behind the horse but Arcadio, at a signal from Jaco, grabbed and restrained her again. Jaco kicked the taut rope, cruelly Jerking on Vance's outstretched arms. “Rise,
señor
Paxton,” he commanded with a mocking voice. “I have brought you to your woman. Do you not go to her?”

Vance stirred in the dust and rose slowly to hands and knees, then painfully to his feet. Pausing but a moment to get his balance, he stepped shakily around to Jaco's side, held up his bound hands. “The least you could have done,” he croaked through bleeding lips, “was drag me through the creek. I'm a mite thirsty.”

Jaco scowled. The long run down from the hills and the drag across the plain should have left a broken man, Wracked with pain and cringing in fear. Instead, the hated one confronted his captor with brave words, paid no heed to his wounds and thrust bound, misshapenly swollen hands steadily in front of him. To see such a one squirm, crawl and die would be a great pleasure. The outlaw grinned and his hand slapped at his side, came away with a broadbladed knife whose keen edge glinted in the air, hovered above the dusty, bleeding
gringo
. Karen gasped, misreading his intentions, so he held back to savor her fear for extra seconds, then slashed downward with the blade, laughing at her cry of relief as Vance's bonds fell away. “Do not worry, little
gringa
. I would not harm him—yet. You may have him while we rest.”

Vance turned slowly and looked directly at Karen for the first time, hiding his surprise. The last time he'd seen her she was pale and wan, a shrunken figure lying in a sickbed. Before him now stood another Karen, vibrant in health, darker, tawny-skinned. Clad like a bandit princess, her sunburst hair tumbled flowing over her shoulders and back. She straightened proudly to meet his gaze as he soaked up the sight of her, for which he was more thirsty than water by far, then crossed the few yards to her without stumbling. Karen shot a final contemptuous glance toward Jaco, who signaled to Arcadio in defeat. Then she was free and in his arms, heedless of all save his touch, his embrace, the indestructible reality of his love and her own soaring joy.

Jaco, his face darkening with anger, watched them disappear into the hut. What did he care for a
gringa?
Why should it bother him the way she opened her arms to the Paxton whelp? The resemblance between Vance and himself was galling, as if he were an alter ego, a young Jaco who had everything; wealth. power, a magnificent
hacienda
and a beautiful woman.
While I have nothing … am nothing but a half-breed.…
The frustrating truth rang in his head, pounded in the feverish pit of his soul and fed his hatred.
Every time I reach for them, they disappear. I cannot touch them. He should be dead. She should be mine. The ranch should be mine.…
He forced himself to sit straight on the horse. “No,” he muttered fiercely. “I am wrong. I have them.” He laughed aloud but the sound failed to convince him.

“Did you say something,
jefe?
” Arcadio asked.

“I said,” Jaco replied grimly as he turned his horse away from the hut, “I have
them.
”

Vance slept, his cheeks hollow beneath a ragged growth of beard, his skin worn and leathery to the touch. A deep gash ran along his scalp, several open abrasions on his legs, arms, chest and face oozed blood and a gunshot wound gaped in his left forearm. Luckily enough, the bullet had not lodged in the muscle or hit a bone. Not certain of the proper treatment, Karen knew no wound couldn't stand cleaning, so set to work. There was water left in the bucket and firewood in the hearth. Soon she had a small blaze going and water heating. Tearing a strip from the blanket, she boiled it then laved the abrasions, gently working out the sand and dirt ground into his flesh while being dragged across the plaza. There was nothing with which to treat the bullet wound save more strips of blanket. Carefully, she made compresses, bound them tightly in place. As she bathed his chest, one of his hands rose and cupped the back of her head. He was awake. She looked into his face, into the lines creasing his forehead, lines etched by worry and fatigue as well as sun and wind. “I was a damn fool, Karen.”

“Don't,” she said. “There's no time for that now.”

“This may be the only time. It's got to be said now.”

“But you don't have to say anything. Not for me.”

“I do. For you, and for me.” He paused, collecting energy, trying to recall the words so laboriously chosen during the final long, introspective night at the line cabin. “I wronged you, Karen. I knew it even as I was saying the words. I was really blaming myself, but was too damn proud to admit I'd done anything wrong. Too weak to take the responsibility.”

“But I … I did run,” Karen stammered.

“I shouldn't have left you alone. You had no way of knowing what the west would be like. Nothing had ever prepared you, a fact I failed to understand all the way along. From the moment we landed in Corpus, I was putting you up against problems you had never encountered, with which you had no way of dealing, and then judging your performance. If you made a mistake, I compounded it by blaming you, not giving you a chance to learn. I pressured you to assume a way of life utterly foreign to you.” He leaned back wearily. “I was wrong.”

Karen pressed her face against his chest, not desiring he should note the tears moistening her eyes. His hand stroked her hair. “Didn't do such a good job of getting you back, did I?”

“You came,” Karen whispered, lifting her head to gaze into his eyes. “You came. More than anything anyone has ever done for me, you came. That's what counts.” Gently, inside the gossamer tent of her tumbled hair, her lips met his in a slow, languid kiss of sweet contentment, interrupted when Vance winced involuntarily. She drew back, stroked the hair from his forehead. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too. All the time.” He grunted, pulled her down to his side where she nestled in the crook of his arm, careful not to brush against his wounds. For a long moment, neither spoke, only lay silently in the brief, fragile security of the afternoon. “Ted told me about you,” Vance said finally.

“What did he tell …?” The memory of the gunshots broke her thought. “Ted? Is he …?”

“He was telling me about what you'd been doing at the ranch. Spent a few hours at the line shack with me, just before they found you.” He paused, went on, deciding there was no point in holding back anything. “He's dead. He lived long enough to tell me about the ambush. How he held on so long, I don't know. I watched him die.” His voice lowered, strangely choked. “Funny how you think you know a person. I rode with Ted Morning Sky for almost fifteen years, from the time we were kids. Even during the war. We were like brothers … and I didn't know him at all.”

“The one who shot him is dead.” Karen replied.

“The man I found on the trail? Just this side of the Rio Grande?”

“His name was Marquez. He and Jaco didn't trust each other, and when he attacked me, Jaco pulled him off. There was a terrible fight. I tried to escape, but Jaco caught me and took me back to camp.”

“I know. I could tell. By that time he wasn't trying to hide his tracks. I've heard of Marquez. You were lucky.” He glanced down at her, noted her bruised cheek. “Karen …” he hesitated, continued with a rush. “Has he … harmed you?”

“No. He tried, but I cut him with a knife.”

Vance chuckled mirthlessly. “I wondered who did that. Good girl.”

“Vance, he hates us so. There's nothing be wont do.…” She grew quiet, ashamed at her display of weakness, reluctant to tell him of the promise Jaco had made, of his plans for them. There would be time enough later for such knowledge. Now, Vance's presence instilled in her the desire to depend on his strength, to lie protected in his arms. No matter what Jaco did later, they had this little time together, this little time of love to share. Trembling, her fingers ran lightly over his chest, gently caressing the skin of her one love until she realized his eyes had closed and he had drifted off to sleep again, exhausted from the days on the trail and the final desperate night in the hills.
Vance … I love you, Vance
.… She kissed his hand and lay quietly at his side, keeping watch over his sleep.
I'll not let you down, my love. Not this time … you'll see
. The room grew warm and close and the long day eddied into afternoon.

“This is very touching.” Jaco's voice jolted her awake. How long had she slept? Karen blinked her eyes and tried to focus on the shadowed figure blocking out the late afternoon sun filtering through the doorway. The bandit tilted a bottle to his lips and took two long swallows. Beside her, she felt Vance nudge her gently and knew he was awake. His hand clenched to a fist, but she covered it with her own, then stood and glared defiantly at the outlaw chieftain as he strode into the room, followed by the light.

Jaco placed the bottle on the broken table, his arm moving across and down as if exploring each position with agonizing slowness. He wore a short coat of brushed buckskin and a pair of high-waisted trousers, elaborately stitched and showing little sign of wear. Save for the scarred face and bitter, hardened eyes, he was a dashing figure fit to fill the pages of a dime novel. His right arm suddenly swept out to encircle Karen, bringing her body next to his. Vance leaped from the couch only to stop abruptly as Jaco's left hand darted from under his coat, a revolver in his fist.

“Vance … no!” Karen exclaimed. The barrel was pressed against Vance's sternum.

“The
señora
does not wish her lover to become a dead
campeon
. It is wise. Dead heroes make terrible lovers, so it is said.”

“Put away the gun,
chacal,
” Vance said, oblivious to the cold touch of death at his chest, “and we'll see how much of a dead hero I am.”

“
Si, campeón
. I take the gun away,” Jaco chuckled. The pistol lifted until the barrel was placed to Karen's breast. Karen stiffened at the pressure of the metal through the blanket, forced herself to remain calm. Jaco's face neared hers and, his eyes on Vance, he kissed her on the lips, again and again, each kiss more lasciviously antagonizing than the preceding. But this time, Karen did not struggle, for to resist now meant certain death, not only for her, but her beloved as well.

Knuckles white, fingers dug like claws into the wood, Vance gripped the edge of the cot. Self-restraint was nearly impossible, but the position of Jaco's revolver made fruitless any display of the grating emotions building within him. Forced to watch, not dreaming of what intolerable extensions of this same scene he would later be forced to watch, he saw his most hated enemy taste the lips of the woman he loved. Jaco finally released her and stepped back against the table. Transferring the gun to his right hand, he took the whiskey bottle in his left. Karen backed away toward Vance while the outlaw studied her. “The
señora
is much woman. Her lips are sweet. I understand why the
gringo
is fool enough to come to Jaco and Rio Lobos.”