Paxton and the Lone Star (44 page)

“Well?” Elizabeth asked in the dead silence that followed. At last she had someone on whom she could focus her anger. “How
nice
of you to come,” she said, acid dripping from each word. “Where is he? What is happening? What are they
doing
to me?”

Don Raphael walked to the fireplace and stationed himself in front of the blaze that had been started an hour earlier to dispel the chill of the mountain night. The hearth was fashioned of shiny turquoise tile worked with slivers of white clay. The mantel was a single huge, intricately carved piece of oak. Arranged along its length, golden plates taken from Aztec temples gleamed dully in the early evening light. Don Raphael wiped a finger across his reflection in the polished oak, and stared into the flames. “A fire,” he said, not answering her. “Now there is a world one can understand. The progression is simple. A log has no choice but to burn and become ash. In life, though? Ah, much more difficult. We do what we must, I suppose.”

“True always said we do what we choose to do. Anything else is just an excuse,” Elizabeth said, by no means ready to forgive. “You remember True? My husband? He was your friend.”

“And still is,” Don Raphael said, finally looking at her. “No. Let me speak, please. I thought our trip here would be fruitful. If I hadn't thought so, I wouldn't have come myself or let Señor True come. I would have joined Señor Travis outright and have done with it. Only after Señor True drove off to meet with Santa Anna that morning did I realize things were not entirely what they seemed to be.”

Don Raphael sat heavily, and stared at his steepled fingers. “My brother, Estimo, sold Señor True to Luther O'Shannon in return for the favortism and protection of President Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. You must understand. These are precarious days, days of the Devil. It is unwise to be considered an enemy of Santa Anna. Estimo was convinced that our homes and families were in great danger, that every
centavo
we possess was at stake. So he promised O'Shannon he would deliver Señor True to him, and he did. By the time I dragged the full story out of him, Señor True was in prison. In Mexico, that which is done is not easily undone.”

“There was nothing you could do,” Elizabeth said, mocking sympathy.

“There was nothing for me to do. I was powerless.”

“Really?” Elizabeth sat near the window, arranged herself in a high-backed chair of polished maple cushioned with padded satin. She could see herself reflected in the mirror, but the image belonged to someone else, she thought, someone she wasn't at all sure she knew. “Not so powerless you couldn't write a letter that you knew would bring me running.”

“I didn't write that letter,” Don Raphael said quietly.

“Liar! Of course you wrote it. For every precious
centavo
you didn't want to lose.”

Don Raphael looked more sad than angry. “How many times have you seen my hand?” he asked. “Think carefully, now.”

“I … I don't know. Never, I guess.” But he wouldn't trick her this way. “Except for that letter.”

“And the note I sent you yesterday. Do you have either of them?”

Elizabeth was more confused than ever. “There was something … something wrong about that note,” she stammered. “I dreamed you hadn't sent it. That it … that you …”

“The note was mine,” Don Raphael said, striding to the desk. He dipped a pen in the inkwell, scratched something on a piece of paper, and handed it to Elizabeth. “Does this look familiar?” he asked.

It read, “I am trying. Don't give up. R.” And the handwriting was identical to that of the note she had received the day before.

“Estimo wrote the letter sent to you in San Antonio. I sent one too, but some days after his left. Mine is probably waiting for you there now. I learned of Estimo's the day the messenger from Veracruz arrived here.” He took the paper from her hands and threw it into the fire. “I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I knew it was dangerous for you to be here.”

Elizabeth stared at her hands, twisted the simple gold band on her ring finger. “What does he want with me?” she whispered. “Do you know?”

“Revenge. Exactly what or how I don't know. All he has told me is that he will free True, and that you will not be harmed. I believe he will keep his word.”

“Something else, then,” Elizabeth said, a cold chill running up her back. “Something worse.”

“I'm afraid so. An eye for an eye is not enough for Luther O'Shannon. I will try to help any way I can, but be warned. I am weak and he is very, very strong. Strong enough that I … that I …” Don Raphael's face turned beet red and he lowered his eyes. “I have not dared to fight him openly. And I would have written the letter myself if he had ordered me to. It is a terrible thing to say, but I would have. I thought you should know that.”

She was beyond anger. His admission left her cold, empty, and even more helpless. “It's all right,” she said dully. “I understand.” She could taste the bitterness. “You'd have had no choice, I suppose. It's all right.”

“No, it isn't.” Don Raphael shook his head sadly. “You see, I am his lackey.” Slowly, he walked to the door, and spoke without looking at her. “For whatever the reason—Who knows? Spite?—I was sent with this message. Señor O'Shannon will dine with you at eight. One of the maid's will show you the way.”

The sound of the fire ameliorated the deathlike quality of the silence. “I suppose I have no choice?” Elizabeth asked, then blushed as she realized that that had been precisely Don Raphael's justification.

“Perhaps you see how it is after all,” Don Raphael said, mercifully refraining from looking at her. “I am an old man, Elizabeth. I have seen much. The loss of a loved one is a terrible thing, but to live without honor … without …”

“Don Raphael? Stop. Please.” Elizabeth rose and went to him, placed her hands on his arms and rested her cheek against his back. “Perhaps you are right,” she admitted, haltingly. “These are days of the Devil.”

Don Raphael patted her hand. The muscles in his back remained tense. “I am sorry, Elizabeth. So very sorry,” he said, and, taking her hand from his arm, escaped.

Elizabeth watched him go, his shoulders sagging, saw the shadows envelop him, a sad gentleman in rumpled brown finery adrift in the chaos of a changing world. “Days of the Devil,” she whispered to herself as the door closed behind Don Raphael. “And his name is Luther O'Shannon.”

The Devil had refrained from luncheon in order to appreciate dinner fully. He was very hungry. According to his orders, the menu began with a Chablis followed by consommé served with Sherry Isabella. A Sauterne would accompany the boiled and chilled sliced bass with rémoulade sauce. The main course would be roast ribs of beef
a jus,
fresh steamed green beans and glazed tiny new carrots. Pâté de fois gras and a Château d'Yquem would follow, after which would come braised lamb over steamed asparagus points, and sherbet made from ice carried from the mountains. A simple cinnamon-flavored flan would serve as dessert, after which, if they so desired, cheeses, fresh fruits, and Château Margeaux. Coffee and liqueur, of course, finished the list, after which … Quite pleased with himself, O'Shannon chuckled in glee. His years in France had served him well. These things were best done in style.

For the moment, the table was bare save for a low centerpiece of fresh flowers and, for Elizabeth as she halted in the doorway, a confusing array of silverware and goblets. Dressed in a red and gold uniform, O'Shannon stood off to one side in front of the fireplace. His salt and pepper hair was brushed back from his forehead and his beard was close cropped to follow the unforgiving line of his jaw. “Enchanting,” he said, coming to take her hand and lead her to her place at the table. “Absolutely enchanting. You grace this humble house with beauty that exceeds the divine. Surely Homer had you in mind when he told of Hera, Queen of Olympus.” He seated her, took his own place at the other end of the table, and clapped his hands. Immediately a servant appeared to pour the Chablis. “A toast then, to you.”

Elizabeth willed her hand not to shake as she picked up her glass and held it out. “And to you,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm. “And your appalling combination of courtesy and barbarism.”

O'Shannon drank slowly in contrast to Elizabeth, who finished her wine quickly, placed the goblet to one side, and would not allow the servant to refill it. “Your heart may soften to me before the night is over,” he said at last, gesturing lazily with one finger to the servant at his side. “But come, you must be famished.”

The consommé and sherry appeared as if by magic. “I am hungry,” Elizabeth said, “for answers. What do you want with us? By what right did you imprison True?”

“Right?” O'Shannon asked, amused. He sipped his consommé delicately, to prove that one so accomplished in warfare and intrigue could also be civilized. “Santa Anna has need of capable commanders. I am a capable commander and he sets quite a store by me. In addition to which, I have always made it a policy to curry the favor of those in power. As a result, I become powerful. So you see it is not a question of right at all, but of might.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“The consommé is cold,” O'Shannon snapped, and barked something in Spanish to the servant. Immediately, the bowls and wineglasses were whisked from the table and quickly replaced with the bass and Sauterne. “Very well,” the Irishman said, his composure regained. “Your husband killed my son. That is all the right I need.”

The combination of wine and tension were making Elizabeth dizzy. She pushed the Sauterne away. “He tried to kill True and almost did, breaking his neck in the process,” she said. “You know that's what happened, and you know True had nothing to do with it.”

“I know he took my son from me.” Each word flat and equally emphasized, as terrifying as the dry, brittle sound of a rattlesnake. O'Shannon stabbed a piece of bass, followed it with a swallow of Sauterne. “In any case,” he said, forgetting how civilized he was and talking around a full mouth, “the question of his imprisonment is moot. He'll be let out tonight and brought here tomorrow morning.”

Elizabeth's fork caught on the edge of her plate. Fighting for control, she laid it down carefully and hid her hands in her lap. “Here?” she asked. The color drained from her face and she was forced to wet her lips before she could speak. “Why?”

“You're not eating your bass. It's really very good.”

“Why?
Is that all? You'll simply bring him here?”

O'Shannon's lips pulled tight against his teeth as he smiled. “Not exactly.”

“What, then?”

“I intend to put the two of you, with your very ugly friend, of course, in a coach bound for Veracruz. Or to have him shot. The decision is in your hands.”

That
was
it, after all! Her body for her husband's life! A plain and simple proposition, and yet … Why all the extravagant ceremony? Why the ritualistic dinner? Why the jewels and fine clothes and expensive wines? There had to be more.
Had
to be. “I … I don't understand,” Elizabeth stammered.

“Come, come, Mrs. Paxton. You aren't unintelligent. You don't lack imagination. Of course you understand. You have from the beginning. What I do with your husband tomorrow morning depends on what you do with me tonight.”

There it was in so many words. Somehow, the bass disappeared. In its place was set down a great chunk of pink meat surrounded by dark juice and shot through with fingers of blood. A fly buzzed over the table, circled the centerpiece, and landed on a piece of bread. A fitting sign of decay, Elizabeth thought, searching desperately for something, anything to break the numbing spell she was under. A sour note in a picture of elegance. A log in the fireplace fell with a crunch and a whoosh of sparks. O'Shannon's knife scraped his plate as he cut his meat. The fly crawled across the bread, stopped to clean itself, and went on. “Your beautiful wife …” Elizabeth began, faltering.

“Is now a beautiful ex-wife.” O'Shannon lifted an exquisite linen napkin to his mouth. “And happier, I assume. Free to bed whomever she wishes and not worry about it.”

There had to be something to say. Some correct response. If she could mollify him, show some sympathy … “I'm sorry,” Elizabeth said lamely.

O'Shannon shrugged. “No need to be. It is in the nature of the young to be unfaithful. I expected no less.” He beamed, as if speaking of such things at dinner was absolutely natural. “Ah, young girls. They have spirit, but the brains of cactuses. And scratch even worse. You are a very rare commodity, Mrs. Pax … May I call you Elizabeth?”

“Can I stop you?”

“Of course not. Rare indeed. A woman of youth, intelligence, beauty … and all wasted, as far as I can see. Please. Try the ribs. They're delicious. So tender you don't even need a knife, really. You have no idea how hard it is to teach these people to cook meat correctly.”

Elizabeth pushed at her meat, forced herself to take a tiny bite.

“To think you're wasting your life on a barren frontier. On
a farm!
Paris … Greece. Have you ever tasted
ouzo?
Have you strolled beneath the elms along the Rue de Chantal? Danced and dined with true aristocracy, the pulse of civilization? Laughed, lived, tempted yourself with affairs in the French manner? Do you know that the gulls sound different over Montmartre Sound? It's true. Their lilting cries are distinguishable from those over Venice or Tripoli.”

“I have no desire to know those things,” Elizabeth said plainly. “I'd rather, as you call it, waste my life on a frontier farm.”

“I know,” O'Shannon said with exaggerated sadness. “I knew that when I spoke. It is a shame, though. Beauty like yours is born for the world to enjoy.” Abruptly, he rose and walked to Elizabeth's end of the table, stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.