Paxton Pride (26 page)

“You can relax some. We won't be heading out until Roscoe and Billy get back,” Vance said, returning unexpectedly.

“But I thought we were to reach San Antonio today.”

“Plan to. But we can't leave 'til Roscoe and Billy get back. We'll just have to push extra hard later,” he said, turning back to the obviously nervous group of men.

Knowing further protest would be useless, Karen grumbled half-heartedly and walked away from the wagons, winding her way down to the creek bed. There among the scrub oak and ever present mesquite, she sat on a flat piece of stone, listened to the running water and contemplated the morning.
Peaceful
…
so peaceful
…

“Don't like waiting.” The voice came from her right. Without thinking she shrank back into the foliage. Jersey Considine and another driver emerged from the brush a few yards upstream and crossed down to the water's edge to fill their canteens. They did not see her and made no attempt to lower their voices.

“Better than runnin' smack dab into trouble,” the second man said. “Anyway, can't jes' run off an' leave Hoennig without at least tryin' to find him. Besides, havin' only two outriders don't leave us no one to scout the way we come. An' that Billy's mighty young to be ridin' point, no matter what he thinks or Bodine says.”

“If Hoennig got himself in trouble it's best we leave well enough alone. Bodine can only bring it down on us. An' the lady.”

“Was you Bodine, would you leave him?”

“Hoennig knew his job an' the chances he'd be takin',” Considine continued doggedly. “Can't tell me no German takes a job an' don't know his chances. If Jaco's or some other bunch come upon him, then Lord help him an' all the rest a' us.

“But dammit, Bodine's first responsibility is to get these wagons through. After we get to San Antone, let him come back an' take a look, if he's a mind to.”

They finished filling the canteens and walked back up the bank.
So, I was right. There was one missing
. The vaguely disquieting suspicion of danger kept her hidden in the brush. Vance's warnings.… The concern with the barely visible plume of dust.… The shotgun Cathy carried.… No. She couldn't be so far wrong. The land was too empty. People needed each other. The dime novel stories were fine, as far as they went, but no one could ever imagine them real.

Roscoe and Billy returned to camp shortly after eight, their horses lathered from a hard ride. They rode in alone. The men gathered around the two outriders and Vance ordered Karen to stay by the buckboard. She bristled at his authoritative manner but, aware of the crisis, decided there was no point in complicating the issue by protesting. The conference lasted but a few moments and when Vance walked back and took up the reins, his face was grim. “We're leaving,” he said shortly, offering her his hand.

“What about Mr. Hoennig?”

Vance was visibly surprised.

“Who told you?” he asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.

“No one. I merely listened. What of Mr. Hoennig?”

Karen in place, Vance hopped up beside her and guided the mules out and away from the river to take up their place at the head of the line. “Roscoe and Billy both looked. There's no sign of him and we can't wait any longer.”

“But what happened to him? People don't simply vanish.”

Vance shook his head in disagreement. “Out here they do sometimes. He could have had an accident, but I don't think so. Roscoe says his tracks just played out. They scouted out and around but never did cut any more sign. Has to be he left on his own or someone found him and took him. Either way, we can't take the chance of running into trouble. Their job is to get these wagons to San Antonio. And my job is to get you … to a preacher.”

Karen blushed and drew close, kissing him on the cheek. Vance's face reddened and he turned to look at the man in the wagon behind them. “Shouldn't do that where folks can see,” he said awkwardly.

Bodine, riding a fresh horse, reined up at their wagon. “Run 'em an' walk 'em all the way. It'll kick up some dust but that don't matter now. Anybody see it, they gonna have to travel some to ketch us, an' we'll be ready for 'em. Ma'am, you better hold on tight. Trail gets a mite rough up ahead.” Bodine touched his fingers to his hat, grinned broadly and spurred his horse into a gallop.

Vance urged the mules to a quicker gait. The buckboard jounced and bumped heavily at the greater speed. Karen kept a firm hold on Vance and the edge of the seat. “I can see why they call this a buckboard,” she complained, yelling above the noise.

“What?”

“I can see why they call this a buckboard.”

He grinned at her. “Do you good. Toughen you up.”

The seat slammed into her bottom, jolting her fiercely. “What's getting toughened up doesn't want toughening.”

Vance hollered at the mules, laughed at her. “Keep your girlish figure. How do you think western women keep so trim?”

Further conversation was nearly impossible. The wagon careened across the broad, sun-baked prairie, along the trail twisting in and around the mesquite. Vance kept the pace for half an hour then allowed the team to slow. “How you doing?”

Karen dabbed at the dust and perspiration on her face. “The ground looks flat, but my back tells me otherwise.”

Vance nodded in agreement. He removed his hat and wiped his face, his eyes constantly scanning the depths of the mesquite ahead. “It can fool you. Don't ever count on anything out here being what it seems, what it looks like. Always take a second look. Always.”

As if to reinforce the lesson, Billy appeared suddenly from their right, his proximity a complete surprise. He rode straight to the buckboard. “Stream down there. Checked it out. Ain't much water left, but she'll do. I reckon we better let 'em drink some.”

Vance turned the team and, seconds later, guided them down a small but steep bank into a concealed arroyo. Behind them the other wagons stopped on the level and the men walked down and filled buckets which they carried back to the other mules. Karen was left alone. She walked back and forth slowly, shaking the kinks out of her back and legs.
Nothing is what it seems. Is that also true of the people? Of Vance?
In Washington she had been absolutely certain of him, thought she knew all she needed. He was strong, considerate, passionate, a man to love and be loved by. What more did she need to know? And yet his words, spoken so nonchalantly, tinged the dream with worry.

Somehow the day passed, and with dusky twilight a cool breeze sprung up. Under a fierce white moon, the ground rose more rapidly and the land became clearer where the mesquite had been burned off. They were passing buildings now, the first a solitary dwelling, an adobe hut left abandoned to the elements. A sign people had been there, it sat crumbling and empty, a sad and lonely ghost of the past. The mules, lathered and gaunt, strained at the harness and moved forward steadily despite the grueling effort of the day. Karen was numb. Her face felt hot and dry, burned by the wind no matter how many times she had patted it with a wet cloth. Her muscles were cramped from bracing against the jostling, pitching buckboard, and through her mind ran the single question, over and over again in a slow, steady, hypnotic rhythm. How does the rickety wagon stay in one piece? How does the rickety wagon stay in one piece. Sometime—was it dark?—a horse pulled up to the buckboard. She heard Vance speak to the rider and then slap the mules and drive them into a near trot. She didn't know how she hung on, knew only that the pace had picked up recklessly, that every muscle was tired and ached.

It was through an exhausted haze she first saw San Antonio, the lights from the buildings looking like a cluster of winking stars scattered across the shadowed landscape. The roads improved and the buckboard rolled easier. The mules, smelling rest and food, settled into a rocking motion and Karen fell into a stupor, dozing and noting little of the town. Vague impressions of a raucous party echoed off to one side, followed by quiet, dimly broken by the wail of a child and the crooning voice of a mother. The scent of flowers … roses.… More voices sounded, masculine now. “Paxton!” one yelled. Vance's arm was around her and her eyes opened to stare dully at the glow of passing gaslights, diffused by the dust from a thousand feet.
Gaslights … here? Who would have thought it? One, two, three, four
. Accents foreign and unfamiliar formed a jumble of indistinguishable sounds. German, Spanish, Texan, French. Polish even, she thought, wondering at the cosmopolitan flavor of the voices.

Her head sagged against Vance's shoulder and she smiled as she felt the muscles flex under his shirt.
How could I ever have been angry with this man? I love him so much
. Off to her left a shot and a whoop. Her eyes jerked open again and she stiffened. Vance's arm tightened around her. “Easy. Just some of the boys starting the party a little early.”

The wagon stopped. Drugged with sleep, Karen allowed herself to be helped down. Up two steps.…
What is this building? Where am I
? The light inside was bright and hurt her eyes. She squinted about, trying to wake up.
All these people
.…
I must look a sight
.

“This way, Mr. Paxton.” Another voice. A new one. More steps, winding up forever. Behind her people stared, but she couldn't have cared less. Fourteen hours in a buckboard and under tension had leached all concern from her.
I could sleep for a year
. The halls were lit with quiet taste, the amber light suffused romantically and pleasantly dim. A door opened in front of her and she felt Vance half pick her up, half carrying her toward a vast white cloud.
A bed …!

“May I get you anything?”

“No,” she murmured, barely able to move her lips. “Sleep. Just sleep.”

A woman spoke in melodious Spanish. Somehow she understood and raised her arms as the dust-covered dress was stripped from her, replaced immediately by a soft, cool nightgown. A second later she fell back onto the fragrant sheets and closed her eyes. The journey was over. The journey.… “Sleep,
señorita. Bueno sueño.
”

How lovely
,
BUENO SUENO
…
BUENO SUBNO
… asleep.

She awakened to thunder rolling in the streets and daylight streaming through her windows. How bright the flossy whiteness of the curtains, ruffled by a summer breeze. She wriggled her hips and scrunched down into the luxuriant sheets. A bed. A real bed and not a blanket on the hard ground. More thunder, sharp and hard. She leaned over and propped herself up on an elbow, tilted her head to glimpse a small rectangle of pale blue sky. Thunder?

She rose, puzzled by the nightgown before remembering the Mexican woman of the previous night. She crossed to the window and looked down on a broad avenue of low, single-floor adobe, wood and stone buildings. The streets were full of people, all heading in the same direction, west, toward what appeared to be the center of a riotous commotion. Shouting, music, gunfire.… The Fourth of July! Karen smiled to herself. Of course. The Fourth. It would be the same everywhere. In Washington she could look down from her window to the capital city, already alive with the sounds of celebration. A pre-dawn carriage ride through the festive streets was sure to meet with exploding firecrackers, banners, ornaments, streamers and later a parade.

The fabric of her dream unraveled beneath the very real warmth of a fierce summer sun. She was in San Antonio. Not as depressing as her first glimpse of Corpus Christi, she could see a bigger, sprawling city, boisterous and lusty but touched with squalor on the edges. Was there not one truly civilized city in Texas? A brightly painted carriage pulled by an elegant, high-stepping matched pair of blacks made its way through the swirling crowd. Perhaps there was more than met the eye. Turning, she looked at the room for the first time and realized it was elegantly appointed. The furniture was heavy and quietly ornate, the facings exquisitely and extensively carved. The linens on her bed were spotless and worked with intricate patterns of lace. Wide floor planks gleamed, further shining evidence of Teutonic thoroughness. Her dressing gown was laid out to one side and her toilet articles had been meticulously arranged on a dressing table. A room this nice, this elegant, had to mean her first impression of the town could have been mistaken.

A knock sounded at the door. She slipped on her dressing gown and opened the door. A young Mexican girl, no more than fifteen years old at the most, curtsied as she entered. “
Señor
Paxton requests the honor of the
señorita's
company for lunch. I am to help you dress. My name is Carmela.”

Karen smiled at the girl. The child's voice was so soft and musical, polite yet supported with strength and pride. “Thank you, Carmela. I trust I am to be given time to bathe first.”

“
Si, señorita
. It is but eleven. The
señor
suggested one o'clock?”

“Very well.” Karen looked about. “My bath is …?”

“The tub is in here, and recently filled.” The girl opened the door to a smaller bathroom where a large metal tub stood brimful of steaming, scented water.

No sooner had the door closed behind her than she stripped and stepped into the tub, sighing ecstatically as she settled into the warm, relaxing watery depths. The river had been refreshing, but this was luxury. The heat soaked into her, soothing all the new muscles she'd found, so cruelly aching from the four days' ride.

By noon she was at the dressing table, methodically repairing the ravages of wind, dust and sun on her face while Carmela brushed her hair. From the Mexican girl Karen learned she was at the Menger Hotel, of which Vance had spoken several times. German in origin, the Menger typified all that was gracious and socially fashionable in Texas.

The gown she chose was a daring Parisian model of russet taffeta and umber silk trimmed with Belgian lace, with a startling décolletage certain to leave a lasting first impression on any stranger she might meet. And although Vance was the prime target of her beauty, the others would see at a glance what kind of woman he had chosen—a woman elegant enough to be a queen. She finished on the stroke of one, and with a hint of perfume bespeaking the magic and allure of some faraway land, Karen Hampton followed Carmela into the hallway.