Paxton and the Lone Star (26 page)

“For you, maybe,” Elizabeth said. She sniffed the air and looked around the table. “I'm famished. Would someone please pass something. Anything? And is that coffee?”

She and True served themselves and dug in. As if by mutual consent, no one spoke about the events of the day before and the impending loss of their land. They would have to speak about it soon enough in any event, and there seemed little point in broaching the subject any earlier than necessary. The first platters of food had been emptied and replaced with full ones when the front door opened to let Thaddeus Jones in.
“Cierra la puerta!”
Mama Flores shouted immediately above the clank of silver and plates.

“Yes, ma'am,” Jones called jovially, hurriedly closing the door as ordered and cutting off the cold draft. The wagon train master shed coat and hat and, wiping his hands on his smooth, worn buckskin shirt, called for a plate and cup. “Smells good,” he said, sitting across from Hogjaw. Carlotta placed utensils in front of him and he set to with a will, filling coffee cup first and then transferring most of the contents of the platter of eggs and bacon onto his plate.

Leakey glowered at him, then quickly snared the last two eggs and pieces of bacon while he had the chance. “How's the little gal?” he asked.

Jones swallowed, took another bite, and spoke around it. “I've just come from the Padre's. Seems like last night was nothing but a warning. Anytime, now, it appears, from the way Miz Kania talked. Them nuns is takin' good care of Miz Thatche.”

“How's Kevin?” Elizabeth asked.

“Don't worry about him. Padre Salva's the Lord's man, right enough, but he's a practical one as well. He put the lad to sleep last night with a half bottle of Holy wine, and has him started on the other half already this morning. Kevin ain't worried at all.”

“Powerful stuff, the Lord's brew,” Hogjaw said, snagging the last biscuit from under Jones's outstretched hand.

The atmosphere had changed with Jones's entrance. What joviality and light remarks that followed were forced and carried with them an impatience to get on with business. No one wanted to talk in front of strangers, however, so it wasn't until a half hour later, when the last of the locals left, that Jones rose and cleared his throat. An immediate hush fell over the room.

“Well, I guess it's time. We can't sit around and pretend forever. Some of us are gonna have to ride out to O'Shannon's and hear what the major has to say.”

Scott Campbell rose and walked over to Jones's table. “I'll go,” he said. “So will my sons.”

“You are fine, but—no offense, Mr. Campbell—your lads have a touch of the temper about them. I think this will be an exercise in gathering your cards and playing them one by one rather than grabbing the whole deck and tossin' it high.”

“I'll go too,” Nels Matlan said. “What about Thatche and Kania?”

“I already talked to them,” Jones said. “Neither will be going. They've left it in your hands.”

“I'll ride with you,” Jack Kemper chimed in. “And the sooner we leave, the better. I'd prefer to see my land before another sun sets.”

“Not many anxious men in Texas,” Hogjaw muttered, sopping his plate dry with a fragment of biscuit. All eyes turned to him as he dropped the morsel into his mouth and licked his fingers. “They don't last. Sooner or later they stick a leg in a rattler's mouth or walk into a Comanche lance or drop their trousers and wind up shittin' in their long johns.”

Kemper slammed his fist on the table. “See here! You have the manners of your namesake. A hog! There are ladies at this table!”

Hogjaw dutifully removed his coonskin cap. “Pardon,” he said, taking in each of the women with a glance before turning back to Kemper. His eyes shone with murderous intent. “Then too, sometimes an anxious man is liable to let his mouth write a draught his fists can't collect.”

Kemper paled and quickly sat down.

“I'll go too,” True said, hastily breaking the awkward silence that followed.

“You don't own land,” Campbell snapped.

“My brothers and I own an option on one half of two thousand hectares,” True countered. “Right?” he asked Elizabeth.

“Yes. Which my sister and I intend to honor. Furthermore, I intend to represent my own claim.”

“A woman?” Jones asked, scratching his head. “No offense, miss, but I'm not sure how that'll sit.”

Elizabeth's eyes flashed as she stood. “I have a voice, Mr. Jones. I exercise command of the English language. My father bought that land. The deed is in the Michaelson name. I am a Michaelson and I intend to petition for what is rightfully mine.”

“Why can't I ever talk you out of anything?” Jones said ruefully. “Very well. No need to add to the group, unless someone else wants to get frostbit. Any questions?” He paused, looked around the room. “We leave in an hour, then. Gentlemen, you'd better see to your horses. Mama Flores has a carriage you can use, miss. I reckon one of us can drive for you.”

“And I reckon,” Elizabeth said with heavy sarcasm, “that I've just driven a mule team from Natchez to San Antonio. I think I'm quite capable of driving myself, thank you.”

“Yes, ma'am, I suppose you are,” Jones said, capitulating. “You go on and get ready. I'll have it out front for you. Well? What's holdin' everybody up?”

Everyone scrambled for the door at once, leaving Jones and Hogjaw alone. “Well?” Hogjaw asked. “What's eatin' you?”

“What'd you think?” Jones snapped. “Go out there cartin' a woman along on men's business. Goddamn, but that woman's hardheaded. Don't she ever let up?”

“Nope,” Hogjaw chuckled. “She's a filly that ain't gonna let herself be broke without a fight. That's one thing I'll say for True.”

“Oh? What?”

“She's the only kind worth havin'.” Hogjaw uncoiled from the bench, jammed on his hat, and turned in the open front door. “You wait and see, Blackie. They're gonna make one hell of a pair. One
hell
of a pair.”

For Luther O'Shannon, a day beginning the same as the day before and the day before that was cause for pleasure. Monotony, especially the monotony of place, was a Condition to be relished. He had served Santa Anna well. This northern province of Mexico was just unsettled enough that he could find good reasons to justify his remaining there. He had land, title, position, wealth, and power. He had peace, with the promise of action.

“Luther O'Shannon,” he said aloud, staring at the whitewashed adobe and the dark, heavy beams that crisscrossed the ceiling overhead, “you've finally backed the right man. Took the right job at the right time, you did, and it's rosy days ahead.”

The dark-haired figure next to him in the great bed yawned and snuggled up against him. “What are you talking about?” she asked in Spanish.

“About things that don't concern you.”

“You promised to speak Spanish.”

“Only when you please me.”

“Oh? Like this?” She reached beneath the sheet and stroked his hard belly and then, giggling, let her hand slide down to tug gently at him.

O'Shannon laughed deep in his throat and, gripping the woman's hair, yanked her head back against the pillow and parted her lips with a bruising kiss. He kissed her ear, ran his tongue down the side of her neck and nuzzled her throat until she purred happily. When her back arched with desire, he cupped one of her breasts, blew softly on the nipple until it swelled and hardened, and then suddenly bit into the dusky flesh. Lucita howled in pain. O'Shannon flipped her over, gave her naked buttocks a resounding smack, and rolled out of bed.

The mirror was kind to him, and he stared at himself with the practiced eye of a man given to self-love. Recognizing the vice, he reveled in it and faulted himself not one iota. At fifty, he had the hard supple body of a man twenty years younger. His pectorals were firm, and when he pressed his upper arms against his sides and tensed, they bulged satisfyingly. His forearms were still hard and strong, his biceps like rocks, and the skin under his triceps taut and firm. He placed a hand on the flat of his belly and rubbed in a small circle, adding pressure and then pinching to see if any fat had accumulated. The belly was always the first to go. Fat there was a harbinger of worse to come. He noted a little give, but not enough to worry about. Not bad at all, he thought, for one who lived so well. Only the deep lines around his eyes, the flecks of brilliant white in his deep black hair and sideburns, gave away his age. O'Shannon did not complain. Women liked a mature man. He was more than happy to make himself available, especially if they were young and fiery.

Which reminded him. O'Shannon stepped sideways and glanced at his wife's reflection in the mirror. She was rubbing her wounded breast and glaring at him. When she noticed him watching her, she quickly replaced her frown with a manufactured winsome smile, climbed out of the bed, and followed him as he walked to the window. “You hurt me,” she said petulantly. “Why do you have to be so hateful?”

“Don't be a fool,” O'Shannon said, opening the window onto the courtyard. “You know you love it.”

The house was a hollowed-out two-story square with bedrooms, study, library, sitting rooms, and dining room all facing the courtyard. O'Shannon stared down through the wrought-iron grillwork. The courtyard, awash in the summer with brightly hued flowers, was bleak and bristling now with dusty green gray cacti. Birds nested there, though, finding protection among the thorny branches. Their songs taunted winter when other parts of the countryside loomed gloomy, cold, and silent.

A musky warmth emanated from Lucita. His bite forgotten, she ran her hand along his flank, felt the muscles quiver beneath her touch. At sixteen, Lucita was as adept at arousing a man as was her mother, an exotic courtesan who had long been a favorite among the politicos in Mexico City. O'Shannon had taken a fancy to Lucita during a drunken orgy after Santa Anna's takeover and had married her as a favor to the new president, who owed her mother a favor in return for certain crucial information regarding Bustamente before his fall. O'Shannon hadn't really minded. Lucita represented a pleasant interlude. By the time he tired of her and took a fifth wife, Santa Anna would have forgotten all about her. So would O'Shannon, for that matter. The only wife he wanted to remember was his first, a Spanish
contessa
who had borne him a son. She alone burned in his memory, and could never be replaced.

Lucita's fondling had had the desired effect. “I do not love being hurt,” she said, seizing his erection. She cupped his testicles and began to apply pressure. “Maybe I should hurt you now, no?”

“Don't bother me. It is morning and I wish to be alone,” O'Shannon snapped, more concerned with the weather than with his wife. It was cold out, probably below freezing, and he would have to exercise indoors unless he wished to risk pneumonia. “See to my breakfast, and tell Emiliano we will be using the ballroom this morning. He will need to move the mats from the roof soon so they can warm up.”

He was ignoring the pain she was causing, as he always did. There were limits, though, and Lucita knew that when she reached them he would strike without warning. Apprehensive, she let her husband go and peevishly turned her back on him. “That is maid's work. Always you tell me to see to breakfast. I am the mistress of this house. Let the—”

“You are boring me, Lucita,” O'Shannon said, cutting her off with a peremptory wave of his hand.

“And you are treating me like a servant. I will not be ordered about like a common kitchen maid.” Lucita tossed her head. Her long black hair whipped about her naked shoulders. “Be careful, husband. Do not forget. My mother has the ear of Santa Anna.”

O'Shannon laughed derisively. “More than his ear, unless I miss my guess.”

“Such talk!” Lucita said, feigning shock. “The president has given you much, and you ridicule him.”

O'Shannon slammed the window shut. “He has given me nothing I did not earn. Don't forget, love, it was I who fashioned his army into a fighting unit to rival Napoleon's best. It was I who was responsible for ousting Bustamente and placing Santa Anna in the president's palace.”

Her attack thwarted, Lucita pouted, sidled up to him and rubbed her breast against his chest. “You do not love me.”

“I never said I did.” O'Shannon felt himself rising in her hand. “But what do you care, little one? I have given you title and nobility, money, and a fine
hacienda.
I have given you pleasure, and when that wasn't enough, a virile stepson to rut with as you choose.”

Lucita's fingers clawed and she struck at his face. “Bastard!”

O'Shannon caught her wrist and twisted until she gasped with pain, then scooped her up and threw her onto the bed.

“I never—” she spat, trying to free her imprisoned wrists.

“Of course it's true. I do not mind, little one. You are a most desirable piece of flesh. I would have done the same thing were I in his place.”

“He took me by force. He violated me.”

“Nobody violates a whore.”

“You would excuse him even if he were the Devil!”

Taunts, complaints, demands, even insolence, were permissible. As a matter of principal, though, O'Shannon did not allow anyone to cast aspersions on Ramez, his son. Viciously, he grabbed a handful of Lucita's long, black hair and jerked her head sideways. “He is my son,” he whispered venomously. “My only son. A man loves his only son. If you are so unlucky as to bear a child by me, I will forget him as I have all my other bastard children who roam the world. Do you understand me?”

“Let me go!” Lucita hissed. “I hate you. Let me go!”

O'Shannon rolled her onto her stomach and lifted her hips. Lucita tried to fight him, then screeched with pain as his fingers dug into her and he entered her from behind, driving with deep savage thrusts that left her clawing at the bedsheets and cursing him through clenched teeth. When he finished, his seed spent and his phallus limp, he eased back on his haunches and shoved her away from him.