Paxton and the Lone Star (67 page)

“And he likes them too,” Tom said. “Which is natural, I guess, seeing as we're the closest thing to a family he's got.”

He strode along the verandah to the corner, hopped down, and walked rapidly through the side yard to the rear of the house.

A mountainous moccasin- and buckskin-outfitted man was whittling with a razor-sharp bone-handled hunting knife. Maurice Leakey sliced wood shavings off the stick for a moment, then held the knife and wood out to the boys. “Here ye go, lads. Which one wants to try first?”

“Me,” the larger of the two said, clumsily grabbing for the knife.

“Mr. Maurice!” Lavinia yelled, bearing down upon them from the house.

“Now, Joseph, you got to handle a knife slow and careful,” Leakey instructed, fitting the boy's hand around the handle and then hovering over him as he took a first awkward swipe at the wood.

“Joseph, you give me that knife this minute!” Lavinia ordered, snatching it away before Leakey could stop her.

“Now, look here—”

“'Vinia took my knife, Uncle Maurice,” Joseph wailed.

Lavinia stood toe to toe with Leakey and glared up at him. “You goin' to let that precious little boy slice his whole hand off with this thing!” she exploded, waving the knife in his face.

The two of them did make a picture, Tom thought as he held back and watched the confrontation. Two years older than Tom, Maurice had grown up more a Paxton than a Leakey, and the boys had run away to sea together in 1784. The next five years had been a time of pirates and shipwrecks and more dangers than most men faced in a lifetime. Maurice and Tom had been drunk together, fought together, womanized together, saved each other's lives a half-dozen times, and in the process had become closer than brothers. Tom remembered well the day he'd lost the sight in his left eye to the slash of a buccaneer's cutlass, only to have Maurice grab the pirate, lift him overhead, and snap his back like a twig. After the years of adventuring, the Paxton blood had finally drawn Tom home to help his father run the family business, business that had taken him to England, where he had met his beloved Jenny.

Maurice Leakey, in the meantime, had given up seafaring and had headed inland where the trackless hills and forests stole his heart forever from the sea. Ranging through Kentucky and Tennessee, he'd ventured all the way to the great rolling waters of the Mississippi before the news of Jenny's death, passed through no one knew how many mouths, had drawn him back. Not surprisingly, considering the imposing figure that he cut, Leakey dominated practically everyone with whom he came into contact—the exception being Lavinia, who wasn't impressed, and who didn't back down an inch.

“Take it easy, both of you.” Tom laughed, stepping between them to break the stalemate. “Lavinia, give me the knife. The boys have to learn how to handle one sooner or later, and they're better off learning the right way from the right people. Besides, a nick now is a good way to avoid a serious cut later. We won't let them get hurt badly.”

Lavinia looked skeptical, but handed over the knife. “Well.… Long as they don't lop off a foot or finger or somethin'. You watch 'em close, Mr. Tom.”

“Don't worry. I will. Here you go, Joseph. Remember,
slowly
. And cut
away
from yourself.”

Still dubious, Lavinia went grudgingly to the back door of the house and disappeared inside, where—Tom didn't doubt for one second—she would observe through a window everything that went on in the backyard.

“That woman's a holy terror,” Leakey growled as soon as she was out of earshot. “Don't know that I'd put up with her, Tom.”

“She just thinks we're all too incompetent to take care of ourselves,” Tom replied. “And she's been right often enough to make her scolding worth listening to.” He knelt and adjusted the way Joseph was holding the stick, then guided his other hand through a few cuts. “This way's better, see? The knife cuts the wood better, and it can't cut your thumb. And don't you think it's about time Jason had a turn?”

“No!” Joseph answered in a piping voice. “I'm whittlin'.”

Tom let him make another few cuts and then gently took the knife and branch away from him. “I know you're whittling, but it's Jason's turn.”

Joseph's bottom lip started to quiver.

“I don't want you crying about this, Joseph,” Tom told him sternly. “Fair's fair, and it's nothing to cry about.”

“I don't care,” Jason said. “I can whittle later.”

Tom looked back and forth between the twins, then shrugged. “All right.” He handed the knife and branch back to Joseph. “Here you go, son.”

Straightening, he continued to watch the boys, as he had promised Lavinia he would. “There's something about teaching your sons to use a knife …” he observed, almost dreamily.

“You got a couple of fine cubs there,” Leakey rumbled. “Take after their ol' pappy, they do.”

“Joseph does, anyway,” Tom answered in a low voice. “Jason's more like Jenny.”

There was no great difficulty in telling the twins apart. Everyone had thought they were identical when they were born, but each passing month had revealed new differences. From an early neutral brown, Joseph's hair had become almost black, while Jason's had turned fairer. Joseph was bigger and stronger and more aggressive, while Jason was quicker of mind, naturally curious, and more sensitive. Now that Jenny was gone, Jason was more dependent than ever on Tom, more needful of being assured that he was still loved and that everything would be all right. It helped the twins that their grandparents lived in Brandborough and saw them often. The boys dearly loved staying with Grandpa Jason and Grandma Colleen. Frequent family visits also got the boys out of the way when work backed up at the plantation and Tom didn't have time to give them the attention they needed. Later on that day, in fact, he planned to take them to their grandparents' for Sunday dinner, after which they would remain in town for the next week, conveniently out from underfoot during the busiest week of the harvest.

One of Jenny's fondest dreams had been to be reconciled with her parents. She never ceased to hope that they would accept Tom and, someday, meet and love the twins. She had written frequently over the years—every Paxton ship that sailed for England carried at least one letter to them—but they had never responded. Nor had Tom fared better when he wrote to inform them of Jenny's death. The damnable part was that it was the boys who would suffer the most, and all Tom could do was try to think up a logical story for them when they finally asked.

“Well, I guess I'll eat something and then get ready to leave. You coming with us? There'll be plenty of food. You don't have to worry about going hungry.”

“Your mama expecting me?”

“Not that I know of, but—”

“Naaah. We got an agreement that I send word ahead of time so she can have the cook make plenty extra. 'Sides, I don't feel too comfortable with all them buildings around. When you been away from civilization for a while, it gets awful stifling. Tell you what I will do, though. You tell your mama I'll come in next Sunday when you go to fetch the boys home. It's been too long. It'll be good to see her and Jase again. He still hell throwing a tomahawk?”

“He can still beat me.”

A wolfish grin spread across Leakey's face. “Then you can tell him something, too: he better practice up, 'cause this time ol' Maurice is gonna beat him so bad he'll want to hide his head in a tow sack. And tell him to tune up that pianoforte, too. It's been a long time since I heard such pretty music as that man plays.”

Neither spoke then. The two men stood together enjoying the shade and the lazy morning, and remembering, perhaps, that they too had once been boys for whom there was nothing in the world more important than learning how to whittle.

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About the Authors

Kerry Newcomb was born in Milford, Connecticut, but had the good fortune to be raised in Texas. He has served in the Jesuit Volunteer Corps and taught at the St. Labre Mission School on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation in Montana, and holds a master's of fine arts degree in theater from Trinity University. Newcomb has written plays, film scripts, commercials, and liturgical dramas, and is the author of over thirty novels. He lives with his family in Fort Worth, Texas.

Frank Schaefer was reared in upstate New York but has lived in Texas for many years. He was a hospital corpsman in the navy and served in the Peace Corps in Costa Rica. He holds a master of fine arts degree in theater from Trinity University in San Antonio, Texas. Schaefer has written plays, film scripts, commercials, and some twenty novels. He lives in Austin, Texas.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1982 by Shana Carrol

Cover design by Jason Gabbert

ISBN: 978-1-5040-0120-5

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

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