Paxton Pride (49 page)

“Brownrig,” a voice called from the front of the
cantina
. Both Karen and the drunk turned toward the new participant. He was a man of medium height, dressed in a frock coat and gray vest over a white lace shirt, hatless with a shock of blond hair newly cropped. Thick wire-rimmed glasses made his eyes appear slightly smaller than they actually were and gave him the mild-mannered appearance of a middle-aged clerk. The glasses keyed Karen's memory. Such a man had come to the PAX two weeks earlier riding the grubline. Dressed in a ragged shirt, torn jeans, and down at the heel boots, the trail showed heavily on him. At first glance an innocuous youth, his scruffy, studious appearance was given a dangerous cast by the gun he wore tied down on his thigh. He sat at the table with the rest of the crew, and seldom speaking or being spoken to, was gone before morning, disappearing before anyone else rose. Later she heard one of the ranch hands refer to him as Kid Kania, allowing the Kid was one from whom a smart man would steer clear.

“Killed a man up Mobeetie way,” one ranch hand had said. “Weren't no tenderfoot, neither. A regular shootist.”

“Shot his way out of a scrap up in the Indian Territory,” echoed another.

Now here he was again, shaved, barbered, immaculately tailored. He pulled back his coat. The gun was still there, tied down and deadly. Brownrig blinked and stumbled a few steps back. “Law says you ain't supposed to be packin' a gun, Kania,” he slurred.

“The law stops at Military Plaza. You know that,” came the soft reply. The gunman's voice was totally unemotional, as if issuing from a metallic throat.

The knife wavered in Brownrig's hand. “This
puta
ain't your concern, Kid,” he shouted, the statement almost a plea. “I ain't got a gun.” He was rapidly sobering up. People stared from doors and windows on all sides, their anxious faces glittering with nervous anticipation, drawn to the confrontation like moths to a tragic flame. Brownrig was a bully and wouldn't be missed. His death would be a small price to pay for the chance to see Kid Kania in action.

“The
lady
is Mrs. Paxton. Vance Paxton's woman,” the gunman said in a voice as quiet and foreboding as the rustle of dead flowers. Brownrig was completely sober now, his mouth open in horror at the mention of her name and the trouble he had brought himself, if not from the Kid, then surely from Paxton and every rider the PAX could muster. He backed further away from Karen as if trying to disassociate himself from any contact whatsoever with her, real or implied. “Further, Brownrig, she opened her table to me of her own free will two weeks back. Set out the finest meal I've had in a year. Now, you doff your hat, apologize to the lady an' then give that Arkansas toothpick of yours its best toss, because I'm gonna put a bullet through you.”

“I ain't got no argument with you, Kid. I ain't gonna go up against a gun with no knife.”

“Yes you will, Brownrig. You'll apologize first, an' then you'll make your try.”

Brownrig backed further away, bumped into a wall and stopped. His voice shook in obvious contrast to the flat, even tones from the Kid. “I ain't gonna.…”

“You yellow, Brownrig? We're standin' close enough. Ain't ever heard you to miss at this distance.”

“Ain't no fair, Kid. I got nothin' more than a knife, an'…”

“Heard a lot of talk about that knife. May be it was all lies. I guess you are just yellow.”

Brownrig stiffened and, his eyes narrowing, he took a step away from the wall. Karen, the sorrel now under control, spurred the gelding between the two men. “Mr. Kania …” she said. The gunman and Brownrig froze in amazement at her action. No one ever stepped between two men involved in a difficulty. “… I do appreciate your concern and assistance. But I have seen drunken men before and would hate to think of a life being taken over a momentary indiscretion. I should not have ridden this path. However, I do thank you and would consider it a favor if you went no further.”

Kania's hand fell to his side. “Madam,” he said, his voice more personable, “I defer to your merciful judgement. From what I hear, there are a good many men hereabouts to whom you have offered food and a place by your hearth. I would deign to say you are one person who could travel in safety, wherever you please. I am proud, ma'am, to have been of service. Now, if you'll excuse me,” he said, bowing graciously, most unlike Karen's image of a gunfighter, “I'm drawing to an inside straight.” He touched his forehead in deference to her and returned to the
cantina
without another word. Karen found herself alone in the alley, the faces already gone, lost behind the shuttered windows and closed doors. A glance told her Brownrig was also gone, evidently taking the opportunity to make a hurried escape during her final exchange with Kania. His knife, the blade already tarnished, lay half buried where he'd dropped it in a puddle. Still shaken, Karen prodded the gelding on his way and rode from the alley to Commerce Street, forcing herself to think no longer on the incident, totally unaware of the indelible image she had left behind in the minds of the audience and the participants. To her left. Bell shrunk back into another alley. She'd been out of his sight for more than two minutes, but luckily nothing had happened, for which he could be more than thankful. The half-breed Comanche took great stock in her, and had anything happened.… Bell was afraid of no man, but he wasn't fool enough to go looking for a fight with Morning Sky. Quietly, he nudged his horse forward, keeping her in sight and letting nothing more distract him.

“Karen Paxton! If this isn't a surprise!” Jared exclaimed, coming from behind the polished rail. “Please … please come into my office.” He turned, spoke to one of the tellers. “Swenson, if Mr. Lanier comes in, tell him to come into the office. I have someone here I'd like him to meet.”

“Yes, sir.” Swenson nodded, silently reeling off numbers to himself as he counted a stack of bills.

“Come in, come in. I hope you can stay. Lanier is
the
Sidney Lanier, the poet. Here for the consumption. They say the climate is conducive to a cure. I'm not certain it is, but I'd never say so publicly. A good man. Different, but good. You'll like him.” Jared's office was small, neat and well cared for. The furnishings consisted of a massive oak desk, behind and in front of which sat a matching pair of black leather chairs. Another chair, constructed entirely of horns from cattle, the seat and backing of tanned cowhide, had been placed in front of the one window. Jared noticed her attention and smiled. “How do you like my barbaric throne? I sometimes sit in it when no one is looking.”

“It doesn't look very comfortable.” Karen replied.

“Oh, but it is, it is.” Jared protested, leading her to the chair and seating her. “I do freely admit, however, I haven't quite figured out where one puts one's arms.” he added with a boyish grin, totally out of context with his position as one of San Antonio's leading bankers.

“I should think high over your head.” Karen laughed, happy to see her friend.

Jared chuckled, moved the other chair out and indicated she should sit across from him. Seating himself behind the imposing desk, his eyes roved over the wondrous swelling of the Mexican blouse cloaking the riches of her figure in provocatively concealing fabric while allowing her form an unrestrictive, lush freedom. She had changed, he noticed, and radically. Her flesh was no longer pale, but a firm, deep healthy cream. Her hair, unbound, was the essence of a golden spring day. Her eyes, less a piercing green, shone more assertively, alive with the hidden mysteries of a rare gem. Karen blushed beneath his gaze and Jared reddened in embarrassment. “Excuse me, my dear. I'm too forward for an old married man. But it seems as if you've been away a year or more. You look so … different.”

“It's the clothes,” Karen answered. “These used to be Elizabeth's. They're sturdier, more honest. Made for living on a ranch.”

“No, it's more.
You
have changed.” He glanced down unconsciously at her abdomen, flattened and trim from her active days. “Oh. Forgive me. We heard about the … the attack on the ranch. About your.…” He faltered.

“It was a boy, Jared, and he would have been a fine son. But.…” She took a deep breath and stepped away from the chasm of sorrow within her. “I did not come to talk of grief, Jared.”

“Of course. Forgive me. Of business, then?”

“Yes.” She placed a saddlebag on the desk, withdrew from an oilskin wrapping an assortment of papers illustrating the financial situation of the PAX, not only at the present but of the past and projected future. “We've been having problems.…” She went on, displaying an adroitness and facility for such matters inherited from her father. Jared listened and was impressed in spite of the moments when his mind wandered and he lost himself in the daring eyes, her challenging beauty. In the midst of a cold, hard financial analysis of the PAX, he heard again the distant magical trumpets of his youth while the shadows of time past danced in his imagination, until the chattering voices outside the door brought him unwillingly back to the present. The door was flung open and Bertha and Constance Britt entered, giggling and carrying on like a pair of clucking hens.

“Jared, you must hear this. The story is all over town. Our little hussy, the Pax.…” Bertha's words died in her throat. Constance's face took on the expression of a distraught fish. Bertha stared unbelievingly at Karen's attire, at the woman who looked so shockingly different. “Good heavens, you poor dear. It is
you
, isn't it?” she asked, her concern reflected in an anguished sigh from her companion.

Karen flinched beneath their scrutiny, realized with dim consternation she was at a loss for words. She covered the momentary panic by shuffling the spread papers into a neat pile, wrapping them again in the oilcloth.
I
no longer wish to be an adept at the cutting phrase, the paring nuance. Games, they are, and I have no inclination to play. No thank you, ladies. I have a life to live and haven't time for charades
. “Good afternoon, Bertha, Constance. I'm sure you'll want some time with Jared. Jared, I'll wait outside for your decision.”

“No need to wait, Karen,” Jared answered as Bertha's countenance turned predatory. “Your credit … uh … Paxton credit will always be good with us. You have your men by what you need and the bank will cover it. I'll have the papers drawn up before you leave town.”

“Thank you. Ladies, if you'll excuse me.” Her eye caught the piece of jewelry worn by Bertha and the panic of a moment before was replaced by anger and then amusement. I can't help it, she thought impishly, the words and intonation already planned. “Why, Bertha,” she exclaimed innocently, “that's my brooch, isn't it? It looks simply lovely on you. I hate to think of all those beautiful pieces stored at Green Hill, going to waste and not being worn. I have a locket that would look stunning on you, Constance. You'll find it in the jewelry box in my other trunk.” Her smile was dazzling. “But surely, Bertha can show you where it's hidden.” Bertha's cheeks tinged with red and she glanced guiltily at Jared and averted her eyes from Constance. Karen turned from them to the desk, took up the package of papers. “Thank you again, Jared. If ever you find occasion to come west, you are welcome at our table.”

The banker mumbled a return, glancing helplessly at the piled receipts and notations, at Karen's back as she strode out the door, at anything, only hoping to avoid what was surely to follow. To no avail. The moment the door closed, Bertha whirled on him. “How dare you.…”

“Now, Bertha,” Jared broke in, trying to calm her. “She is a friend of the family.”

“Not after today. Such unmitigated gall. The story is all over town, and here you sit lending her money.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The same old story. The same as the last time.”

“What?” Jared reiterated.

“That … that trollop,” Bertha exclaimed. “Dressed like some wanton from the
Villita
, only this time riding the back alleys—astride—off the plaza, visiting
cantinas
and consorting with desperadoes and assassins. Why, she almost got another man killed. Makes one wonder just why she left Washington. It wouldn't surprise
me
if her conduct drove her from the city in disgrace.”

“The hussy,” Constance concluded.

Jared slammed his hand down on the desk and the sharp report echoed in the confined room, making the sound even louder. Both women stepped back in surprise.

“That woman.…” Jared began sternly, anger barely in check. He drew a deep breath, plunged on. “It is primarily because of Karen Paxton that Under-Secretary Rut-ledge, her Uncle Rutty,
if
you remember, is smoothing the way for the railroad to come through San Antonio. His influence has eased our task considerably, taken a great burden off our minds and purses. A railroad through San Antonio will increase our wealth, attract business and make San Antonio a true city, not some sprawling pioneer town. San Antonio will be important and, dear ladies,
we
will be important. You, my dear,” he dug viciously, “will have access to jewelry of your own instead of rifling through an ‘unconscionable hussy's' possessions.”

Bertha stared at him, a red flush creeping up her neck. Constance backed toward the door, mouth agape. Jared paused. He felt good. For the first time in years he'd talked back to his wife and, the barrier once down, found himself unwilling to stop. He drew himself to his full height. “And furthermore, Karen Hampton left Washington and came to Texas for only one reason. Love. And that, my dear wife, my dear Constance, is something neither you nor, sadly, I, will ever be given to understand.” He turned his back to them and stared out the window, seeing not the street nor the drab faces, but a waterfall and a woods alive with song and the scent of flowers, a forest of love where a sun-kissed girl forever ran toward him, where he was young and sturdy as the boughs. The girl could well have been Karen, or so he wistfully imagined.