Paxton Pride (40 page)

“Yes?” a voice responded sleepily.

“It's Mr. Gr … Jared Green, Mrs. Paxton.”

The door opened and the banker's face flushed deep crimson. Karen's tousled hair hung down past her shoulders, swelling in twin glittering mounds where it spilled over the voluptuous swell of her scantily clad breasts. Hair like the rarest of silks, thought Jared. He stuttered, swallowed, coughed twice and began again. “My dear Mrs. Paxton, I feel personally responsible for not being here to welcome you yesterday. If you would allow me, I should like to make some small semblance of amends today by showing you the sights of San Antonio.”

“That would be wonderful, Jared. But I'm afraid I shall need some time to dress. Will a half hour be too long?”

Jared, pleased and flattered, protested as gallantly as possible. “No. I assure you. The wait will be a pleasure.

Jared Green's walk down the hall and stairs gave no indication of the state of his mind, roiled and seething with tantalizing after-images of the young woman framed in the doorway. Green eyes like emeralds, hair to play over a man's body, breasts to be … He caught himself mentally, forced himself to back off from the heady temptation. “Fascinating woman,” he muttered, “fascinating,” lowering his voice as he passed beneath the large portrait of Bertha's domineering countenance, glaring down at him from over the stairs.

The sun was high overhead when Jared pulled up the carriage on the shady banks of the San Pedro, upstream from the spot where Karen had first passed and seen the Mexican women kneeling on the stones and washing their families' clothes. Here the pristine waters narrowed and ran quickly over the smooth stones. Willows and cottonwoods grew down to the rocky shores and under them the grass was still green and sweet. Karen walked to the water's edge, marveling at the beauty of the place so much like Rock Creek. Yet older somehow, stretching uninterrupted from the past, unimpressed, somehow untouched by the tread of peoples long since returned to dust, uncompromised by later generations. Jared watched as the wind sighed among the trees, ruffling Karen's skirt, pressing the fabric against her legs and outlining the shapely limbs against the reflected light from the stream. “A beauty,” he reflected. “A woman worth marrying for more than prestige and advancement.” The scene in front of him glistened like some Frenchman's painting, a picture of a girl as pure and virginal as the water and the air, yet ready to explode with the suppressed sensuality of total womanhood. A drop of perspiration trickled down his temple and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the moisture, caught himself in the gesture, saw himself for the first time in years. Forty-three years old … balding … an important citizen in the community … banker … money … one of the finest houses in the southwest. Without looking he knew his stomach protruded too far, knew his legs had gone to flab. His wind was a faint memory. How long had it been since he was young and lean and hard, a feisty, wolfish man hungry for all the things he'd never had and always wanted? So he married Bertha and got them, and looking at himself felt a deep sorrow for another time and another place and another girl who stood with her back to him by a stream.
Twenty-one years. Twenty-one years, and I'll never get them back
.

The day passed quickly, moments lost in the silent limestone ruins of quiet missions, time squandered happily among the squabbling vendors in the Mexican section. They refreshed themselves with coffee and pastries in a snug little shop whose German proprietor delighted in Karen's ability to recall a few German phrases and by the time they were ready to go back, Karen had grown to like Jared Green far more than she had that morning when she had fed her contempt for him behind closed doors. She sensed a sadness in the man in spite of the very real financial power he so obviously wielded. Quietly, he grew on her as a friend, one to be trusted and defended if necessary, and of whom she should never take advantage.

By the time they arrived at Green Hill, afternoon was well on the way to evening. Bertha was a veritable tornado of nervous energy with barely enough time to spare in the midst of a multitude of last-minute crises to chastise Jared and send him packing to his room to get dressed in time to meet the first guests, due in less than an hour. Karen stood to one side during the short harangue, watching the woman quietly, feeling sorry for the man she had come to like. Her mind made up, she moved timidly, as if afraid of the woman. “It's my fault, Mrs. Green. I'm sorry. The afternoon simply slipped away. If you'll pardon me, I'll go on to my room. I think I need to lie down. Something in the pastry I ate, no doubt.” A doleful expression capped the act and she sealed it by turning as she started up the stairs. “I doubt if I'll be down. I feel so miserable …” she whispered, then fled out of sight Behind her she could feel Bertha's hostility and following sense of relief.

Two hours later the party was in full swing. All of San Antonio's best had gathered to drink champagne, mingle and show they were close and cherished friends of the Under-Secretary of the Interior and blessed by the socially prominent Greens. The house was bright with the light of many lanterns and candles, sparkling with laughter and conversation spiced with the knowledge that all present were the unquestioned elite. Gowns never before seen in San Antonio graced elaborately coiffed ladies. Men gathered in tight dusters and spoke of cattle and lumber and land and the railroad and what it would do for San Antonio and their respective fortunes. And in the dining room Marvin Rutledge laughed and listened, kissed the ladies' hands and shook the gentlemen's.

In the hall, a distraction. One head turned, then another. A new face … someone coming down the stairs … gold hair glowing like the sun, a gown from Paris, deeply cut and leaving very little to the imagination, a chorus of aquamarine and blue and green, of taffeta and swirling lace, of tiny slippered feet peeping from under the leading edge. The hush broke into a dozen whispered questions which spread out in jealous ripples flattened by the walls, caromed back to the bottom of the stairs and headed for the dining room. Karen smiled at all of them, secure in herself, secure in certain victory.

Her entrance into the reception room caused much the same reaction as in the hall only on a grander scale. Heads turned, tinkling goblets and jeweled champagne glasses halted halfway to lips, conversation ceased in mid-sentence and left behind a stunned silence. The festive crowd parted unobtrusively, not a one there knowing who the woman was, not a one but curious, envious or in awe.

Marvin Rutledge, the center of attraction, held court in the center of the room, attended and jealously guarded by Bertha Green, Constance Britt and Alice Carstairs. All three, senses finely tuned to the slightest variation in the tone of the crowd around them, turned to stare in the direction of the hush. Bertha's face went white when she saw Karen striding toward her. The girl was supposed to be sick. And whoever would have guessed she was so … But before she could utter a sound, Marvin Rutledge, Undersecretary of the Interior of the United States Government, respected businessman accepted in New York and Washington's finest circles, guest of honor at the most prestigious party in more than a year in San Antonio, broke from the combined grasps of three determined women and, to their horrified astonishment, hurried toward Karen, his arms outstretched. “My God, it's Karen. Karen Olivia Hampton!” the Under-Secretary exclaimed as he wrapped his arms around the girl. “I never thought I'd see you
here!
”

Constance Britt's mouth froze in a perfectly framed “O.” Alice Carstair's eyes narrowed with unabashed hatred. Bertha Green's face drained bloodless with shame and fury, and everyone in the room stood stunned.

“Hello, Uncle Rutty,” Karen said … oh, so sweetly.

CHAPTER IX

Sunday, the 5th of December, was a bright, cold Texas day with a sky tinted the ice blue of frozen pond water. The air, so still and silent the slightest sound was magnified, bit to the bone with its invigorating breath. Vance had been gone six weeks, not two, and there was little to show for his absence save a face strained and haggard from long hours on the trail. Beneath his fleece-lined buckskin coat and flannel workshirt a jagged line of new white scar tissue contrasted with the still summer-bronzed flesh of his shoulder, a new scar added to the roster streaking his torso. The bandits had split as they were chased, the main body heading northwest for New Mexico and the remainder crossing the border into Mexico. Captain Alexander left Vance and the men from the PAX patrolling a hundred miles of border while the battalion itself continued in pursuit of the larger force. And little Vance could say in the way of protest, there being simply no one else to handle the job. For three weeks eight men working in pairs rode the hard, cold miles and searched for sign indicating their quarry had crossed back over the Rio Grande.

The tedium was broken only by the brief incident in which Vance received his wound. He and Shorty all but blundered like tenderfeet into a small war party of Apaches, five braves bent on stealing horses and causing as much havoc as possible among the sparsely-settled inhabitants of Val Verde and Maverick Counties before returning to their
rancherias
in Coahuila for the winter. The fight lasted but seconds and ended with Vance on the ground and losing blood while the braves scattered for the river, carrying their two dead with them. Shorty trail-patched Vance's wound with strips from a torn shirt and a poultice of tobacco. Surprisingly enough, the wound healed with no trouble.

By the time Captain Alexander returned, half of November was gone and the men had had it. Jaco's bandits were obviously holed up in a warm place across the river while the men of the PAX were freezing themselves and their horses on a wild goose chase. They rode for home. Vance returned to find the ranch in good shape and with no evidence of neglect in spite of being short-handed. What's About was up and working. True was in good health, back riding again in spite of the hip which still stiffened if he tried to do too much. Vance rested the night and started out for San Antonio before dawn, breakfasting on beans,
tortillas
and coffee. He chose a dun for himself and Karen's sorel gelding for her, and though both were alternately lazy and feisty from long activity they quickly settled down for the long trip. On horseback and not having to stick to wagon trails he made good time and a little before noon of the following day he crossed the San Pedro, skirted the heart of the city, picked up the San Antonio south of the bluffs and made his way to the Heights and the nobler homes of San Antonio.

Green Hill appeared deserted save for wisps of smoke curling from the chimneys. Jared was probably at the bank and Bertha undoubtedly off to one of her infernal ladies' committees designed, ostensibly, to better the community but in reality to relieve the boredom of those with nothing better to do, and to establish and maintain a pecking order so necessary to the social structure of the city. There were, Vance opined, better ways to spend one's time. Worse, too. At least they hadn't tried to reform the wilder parts of town. Yet. The front door stood ajar and the house was quiet save for a woman's voice softly humming “Green Grow the Lilacs.” Karen's voice. He let himself in and followed the sound down the hall and into Jared's study. Karen was standing, her profile to him, busily perusing the wall of books before her. Her stomach clearly betrayed indications of the miraculous burden within and, while she was not yet ungainly, her condition was obvious.
A boy. Let the first one be a boy. A boy to teach. A boy to carry on. A boy to become a man, a Paxton
. For a second he stood silently, unmoving, struck by the hope and awe of life.

Karen was reaching for a well-worn volume of Shakespeare when her hand suddenly halted in mid-air and began to tremble. Knowing without seeing, she stifled a cry, turned toward the door and rushed to meet him, throwing herself into his arms and searching wildly for his lips. She broke the embrace and stepped back, frowning playfully. “I really should be quite put out. There is a serious difference between two weeks, Mr. Paxton, and six weeks.”

“True sent word.…”

“Yes,” and her eyes clouded, thinking back to True's letter delivered two weeks earlier, explaining Vance's absence and mentioning how well things were going at the ranch. For a whole day after receiving the scrawled note she moped about the house in a depressed state, sure she had read the implication “now that you've gone everything is fine and back to normal” in True's words. But the letter had come at an inopportune time. She had not been feeling well to begin with. The pregnancy, while not bothering her physically, exerted more pressure than anticipated, filling her days with fear and her lonely nights with nagging, apprehensive dreams. The child was growing rapidly and only the morning before she had broken into inexplicable tears after awakening from yet another nightmare and seeing the unquestioned bulge in her lower abdomen. Alone and abandoned, she was wanted nowhere and by no one. The feeling lasted until the next night when an overheard conversation at a party cheered her immeasurably. “I don't care. If I were carrying Vance Paxton's baby I'd want the whole world to know.”

The remark jolted Karen back to reality and the next day she began the work of altering her dresses so they would be more comfortable and, indeed, proclaim her condition to all the world. She
was
proud to be carrying Vance's child and the longer they were separated the more she realized how much he meant to her. The blue mood fled and True's note took perspective. Smiling as she sewed, she decided Karen Paxton could be a very, very silly girl indeed.

“I came as soon as I could. Rode into the ranch night before last and out again yesterday morning before dawn.” He took her shoulders, held her from him for a better look. “Let me see how he looks.”