Paxton Pride (16 page)

Vance walked from the Rotunda, his body stiff and aching from the drawn-out meeting, boring as the one the day before. He hailed a carriage and walked to meet it. Things weren't going well. Whitaker's faction had withdrawn its support. Barrett Hampton's weight had been thrown into the debate against the Texas cause. More and more he realized how little politics depended on the needs of the people who did the voting. The powerful assuaged, the powerful denied. There was the key. The system was a nightmare in which beady-eyed compromises nestled comfortably side by side with wide-mouthed, yawning accommodations. Fragile promises balanced precariously on jagged, upthrusting threats, held in place by cleverly spun webs of cajolery. Well, there'd be little more of it. The vote would come Monday and he would be gone Tuesday, win or lose.

A knot of congressmen halted in mid-conversation to stare unabashedly at the Texan as he passed by. More of Alfred's friends, Vance mused. Word certainly traveled. Well, it was no worse than back home. Gossip was the sweetening of prairie life, perhaps more accurately the spice. Loneliness bred an intense desire for news of people and so news, as if in deference to the great need, ran like wildlife, leaping ten-, fifty-, even hundred-mile gaps with a rapidity hard to explain. The frontier was a tiny village spread over thousands of square miles of basically empty territory, and what happened here was soon heard of there. Every rider was a compendium of gossip and news. The most important were those who traveled constantly. The blacksmith carried tales in his wagon, stories as hard and real as the metal he wrought. The peddlar's wagon was a cornucopia. News of marriages, births, death both natural and unnatural, catastrophes, triumphs went with each piece of cloth, each bow, each trinket and each pot and pan. Gossip old or new was the newspaper of the prairie, published by everyone, avidly consumed by everyone, edited by no one. Vance was used to it so ignored the cluster of eyes peering at his back until he was settled in the carriage, only then turning in their direction and flashing his broadest leer. The men raised hands to mouths in feigned coughs and refocused their attention elsewhere.

Vance settled back, let the swaying carriage lull him as it carried him across the city. Tuesday. The morning tide, to be confirmed by the captain in the morning. Tomorrow, when he knew for sure, he'd tell Karen they would be going home. Home. He hadn't thought of home very much recently. He tried in vain to imagine the look on True's face when his son showed up at the gates of the hacienda with a new wife. A Washington lady, an elegant northern beauty—but still a Yankee, no doubt, in True's eyes—come to live as Mrs. Vance Paxton, come to carry on the name. True would be suspicious at first. The old man was cautious when it came to strangers, especially Yankees. But he'd warm up, right enough. What man wouldn't after meeting Karen? His rough, taciturn ways would soften slowly so he wouldn't have to admit he was giving in to her charm.

Perhaps Elizabeth would be well by the time they got there. Vance's mother, taken ill just before he left, had been hopefully improving, or so True's last letter had led him to believe. Elizabeth would glow and fuss and carry on like a mother hen.

And Maruja. Maruja would be overjoyed. Always after Vance to marry, she'd be delighted with Karen. She'd retire to the kitchen in a fit of handwringing embarrassment and come out later with a wide grin and a table full of the best food for a hundred miles in any direction—
Cabrito
barbecued to a turn, the meat brown on the outside, light on the inside, the sweet juices waiting to drip down grinning chins.

The hands would give him a good ribbing, snickering behind raw-skinned fists and hoo-rahing openly whenever they thought they could get away with it. For sure there'd be a chivaree, one loud enough to wake every cow in the whole state. Ted Morning Sky would approve, no doubt of that. Comanches, even half breeds, had a streak in them for golden-haired women that bordered on the religious. All their women dark of hair, Karen would be held in high esteem.

There might be some problem with Marcelina, Maruja's daughter. Vance chuckled to himself. He and Marcelina. Now there could have been a pair if she'd only been a few years older. Only fifteen, she was fast becoming a woman and was already a regular wildcat when she chose. No telling how she'd react to Karen.

The coach stopped at the stable and Vance got out, paid the driver and went in to get the buggy he'd hired for the afternoon. There was just enough time.…

Another interminable morning had passed and Karen was on her way to keep an assignation with Vance. They met not quite in secret, not quite for public scrutiny. Hesitating to display their affection for each other so publicly, Karen had insisted they meet in places less frequently visited by the socialite friends with whom she was once more closely associated. Vance proclaimed he didn't give a hoot in hell who knew about their seeing each other. Karen laughed to herself over the cute way he fumed and chafed when it came to a question of doing things his way. She loved to provoke his frontier-born independence, found an attraction in his distaste for any social graces save his own. She thrilled to the way he gentled before her, let her lead him through the wily games of courtship. And such a game! Each day brought new pleasures, new sensations. His moustache tickled her ears and neck, sent delicious tingles up and down her spine. His caresses brought an aching weakness to her stomach and loins, yet never led her farther than she wished to be led.

The steam donkey whistle blasted nearby. One o'clock. Nearly time. She glanced out the window to see the workers on the new Pennsylvania Railrod station slowly head back to their jobs They would be hard at work while she and her love dallied in the country.

Soon they were out of the city and on the high road. Trees to either side of the road shaded them from the sun. Vance had told her to enjoy them while she could. Precious few trees stood on the ranch. Texas … she still couldn't picture it, couldn't imagine mile after mile of treeless prairie. She watched a Baltimore oriole's nest as the carriage passed. The dark, hanging bulb swayed gently and elegantly in the breeze. There would be no Baltimore orioles in Texas. A shadow of doubt grew in her. After all, what did she know of Texas? He'd said it was hot. He'd said it was dry. He'd said it was lonely, sometimes only the wind for company. He'd said it was harsh. He'd said, he'd said, and everything he'd said was different from everything she'd known all her life. The thought was frightening when she let it be. All her father's money, all the Hampton prestige wouldn't mean a cup of water where they were going. Was she capable of living in such a place? Was the wind companion enough? But no. She would have Vance. And she would be in the midst of a great journey of love and adventure, the very stuff of which dreams are made.

The carriage came to a halt sometime later, the rasp of brakes shattering her current reverie with the present. She stepped from the carriage, accepting Hermann's helping hand. They had traveled the pike west and stopped atop a scenic bluff overlooking the Potomac. Washington was hidden from view. Civilization was gone. Only the breeze remained … Karen brightened. The wind wasn't such a bad companion after all.

Close at hand and just below her the river flowed imperceptibly, its surface covered with tiny ripples which shifted capriciously from place to place with the breeze. Overhead the sky was like a Wedgewood plate, dark blue and gleaming with sculpted white clouds held motionless, independent of the zephyr which ruffled her hair and the water's surface. Vance was nowhere to be seen.
Curse these politicians and their committees and meetings and delays. Curse them for a pox
.

“Miss Hampton, perhaps I'd better stay,” Hermann said from behind her, breaking the stillness.

“If you wish, Hermann. I appreciate your company.” She turned to see him standing hat in hand by the door to the carriage. Sudden concern flooded through her. “I hope Father isn't too displeased when you return without me.”

“Yes'm. I don't figure to go back just yet. I thought it might be a good idea if I sort of waited in the old drive. Then I could bring you on to the house.”

“Hermann, you're a dear. Perhaps that would be a good idea.” She frowned. “Oh, dear. I know Mr. Paxton won't agree.”

Hermann blushed, lowered his coarsely featured face. “Miss Hampton, I been meanin' to say somethin' about you leavin'.”

“There's been no date set, Hermann. I won't be for a little while yet.”

“Yes'm,” he said, his face reddening with embarrassment, “I know. But I just wanted to say it'll be a loss. I'll be mighty sorry to see you go. You always been nice to me, and I always had a kind of soft spot for you. Things won't be the same no more. The house'll be awful empty, and … well, I just wanted you to know.”

Suddenly Karen realized how much Hermann and Retta meant to her. The realization was overwhelming, accompanied by a sense of impending loss of two of the dearest friends she had. It was fortunate Vance arrived before this increasing wave of homesickness completely submerged her, shattering her composure in a fit of girlish tears.

Hermann climbed onto the carriage and guided the bays around Vance's buggy, returned the Texan's gesture of greeting and headed the team back toward Georgetown.

Karen ran to Vance, burying herself in his embrace. “Is something wrong, Karen?”

“No. Just … just … oh, silliness. Hold me, darling.”

Eons passed. They didn't notice. Lovers never do. The sun glided grudgingly into the west, sending up a spray of pale gold against which fields and gleaming farms settled, grateful for the coming coolness. Vance and Karen finished the last of the wine, and working together, repacked the picnic basket and folded the blanket. “This was so much more pleasant than last night's supper.”

Vance looked questioningly at her. “So he came after all?”

“And on his best behavior. Unctuous as usual.” She recalled the shock of entering the dining room, dreading the evening before it started. Alfred was already there, a glass of wine in hand, his face as sour as if the wine had been gall. The stiff formal greetings over, the junior congressman waited silently, obviously expecting Karen's apology. The acknowledgement of wrong never came. Idle, meaningless chatter soon disintegrated into longer and longer embarrassing silence and the four finally fled to the table, there to sit like so many megaliths carefully set by some barbaric tribe of old at the four corners of the compass.

Before soup was finished, and just as Ross snuck into the room with the entree, Karen fled in tears to her room. “It was dreadful. Retta told me Alfred stayed a few moments longer and then ordered his hat and cane, leaving without touching his meal and with barely a good evening. Mama dissolved in tears. Papa was furious and threw a tantrum. I thought he would break into my room but Mother talked him out of it. She's so certain we're in the midst of a lovers' spat and I'll come back to my senses. As if I'm the one who'd lost them.”

They loaded the buggy without speaking further, each lost in a tiny private reverie. Karen was blissfully happy and once again dreamed of the day they would leave. Vance helped Karen into the buggy and walked around to the other side, pausing to gaze pensively over the water. An old premonition stiffened his shoulders. Something was wrong with this place. No doubt about it now. It was time to get out. Tuesday wouldn't be any too soon. He ambled to the buggy and climbed in, keeping to himself the sudden, nagging apprehension.

Alfred kept the spyglass centered on the buggy until it was completely lost from view. He rolled over on his side, put the glass down and opened a thin silver flask, tilting it to his lips and taking a long swallow. He had followed the Texan's buggy from town, keeping far enough back to avoid being seen. On horseback he had ridden across a neighboring field to the west and come out on a hillock sweeping up from the bluff. He did not enjoy horseback riding and it put him in a foul, irascible mood. He did not enjoy lying in grass and staining his waistcoat and trousers. But clothes were cheap. His honor, on the other hand, was dear. The Whitaker name was not to be taken lightly. Not to be smeared by some bawdy upstart from far-off Texas. Alfred's name and bearing demanded satisfaction. He was determined to have it.

Oh. how his friends—friends, ha!—had enjoyed his humiliation at the Hampton party. How they had laughed and presumed to take advantage of his embarrassment. They had presumed too much. He smiled crookedly. Damn them all. They would see. He would show them.

“Call the ruffian out,” they taunted. “We saw your intended arm-in-arm with Paxton,” they whispered discreetly. “Strange occurrence. Just happened to see the Hampton girl with the Texan,” they, sympathized, smiles hidden until he turned his back. Bah. They spoke like forked tongue in cheek, Alfred told himself, the pulp metaphor muddied by too much bourbon whiskey. They'd love to see him call Paxton out, of course, the bastards. He put the bottle to his mouth and drank until it was empty. Too soon. In a rage he threw the silver flask as far as he could, watched it arc in a glittering path through the air and land partway down the slope, caught in a shrub, there to catch the last fading rays of the sun and glitter malevolently back at him.

Karen would be his one way or other. She would scorn him no more. She had led and used him, she had trapped his affections, and like a damned fool he had let her. He had been the envy of his fellows and now they laughed. Damn them. Damn her. He wanted her more than ever, now. Not out of love. Not anymore. Never out of love, by God. He would see her grovel and crawl and plead for forgiveness. He would stride about her as she called him lord and master. She would humbly and contritely submit to his chastisement.

Alfred half ran, half fell down the hill to his mount, tripping and stumbling into the horse's right side at the last moment. The mare reared in surprise and fear, would have bolted had she not been tethered to a log. The same with women, he thought drunkenly. Tether them. Hobble them. He crossed under her head, tearing the reins free. The horse reared again as the bit pinched her mouth, but Alfred quickly settled that with a blow to the nose. The animal stood still, quivering, while Alfred mounted awkwardly, clawing his drunken way up her side more as if she were a mountain than a beast. “Damn you. Damn you! Hold still!”