Paxton Pride (9 page)

“Many people feel similarly, Miss Hampton.”

Karen looked at him inquisitively. “Yes. I suppose they do.” She hesitated a brief second. “I hope you will accept my thanks, if nothing else.”

“I'll try hard not to expect … anything else,” he answered slowly, the innuendo only half meant.

Karen blanched. The memory of the scene at the Dueling Wall flooded through her again. She flushed with embarrassment, realizing what an impossible tease she must have seemed. “I'm sorry about yesterday in the park,” she said quietly. “I'm afraid I was unseemingly forward. I should prefer we forget the whole episode if you don't mind.”

The anger returned. She would forget it? Not damned likely. Not if he could help it. But perhaps it was his turn. “Why, Miss Hampton, what on earth are you talking about? What woods? I should imagine we travel in different circles.”

Karen blushed with an awkward mixture of embarrassment and anger. She had tried to apologize, only to have sarcasm flung back in her face. She felt Vance's eyes boring into her, eyes flashing with bold insolence.
I will not allow this. I will not allow this
. She drew herself up to her full height and stared back at him. “Father doesn't like southerners,” she said coldly before stalking away from him. “I don't think I do either.”

She found herself momentarily alone inside the Rotunda, her footsteps echoing hollowly through the empty hall. Why did he do this to her? Why did she always become so upset after seeing him, speaking to him? Why did she make such a fool of herself? If only she could undo what had happened in the park.…

“Karen!” Alfred came running over to her just as Vance entered through the great doors behind her. “Karen, your father told us what happened. Good Lord, you're lucky you weren't killed,” Alfred blurted.

“I'm all right, Alfred, really. Please don't fuss.” Whether or not she loved Alfred she was vastly happy to see him at the moment. She stole a glance behind her.

Vance stood to the side and watched as Alfred Whitaker rushed to Karen. He knew Alfred only as one of the junior members of the House, one who supposedly stood in favor of the requests for aid Vance carried from Texas. Still, Vance had to fight the urge to intervene when the youthful representative, a mere dandy, embraced the Hampton beauty.
But why should I care?
The thought troubled him more than anything had in some time. He forced it from his mind and started for the cloakroom to clean up.

Karen noted the movement. A small look of Hampton determination crossed her face. She wouldn't let him get away that easily. “Oh, Mr. Paxton,” she called with a slight lilt brightening her voice, “I know you need to clean up, but I would like you to met my fiancé.”

Vance stopped and turned with a slight scowl of preoccupation. “Ma'am?”

“Alfred, this is the gentleman who proved to be of such service. Mr. Paxton, Alfred Whitaker.”

Alfred rushed to Vance and grasped the Texan's hand. “Sir, I must shake your hand in gratitude. You have saved me a lifetime of grief.”

Vance fabricated a smile. “Well now, I'm certainly glad of that, Mr. Whitaker.”

Karen regretted her decision immediately. Seeing the two men face to face made her wish she had never left the carriage, much less introduced the two. Alfred's sophisticated handsomeness appeared more a case of masculine prettiness and his posture and studied movements almost girlish in comparison to Vance's rough-hewn, country manner.
More like an animal. A wild beast with a veneer of civilization
. But it was too late to do anything but smile amiably and join them.

“I can assure you, Mr. Paxton,” Alfred went on smoothly, “that when word gets around of the service you have performed, I'd wager ten to one odds the House will vote in favor of the Texas resolution.”

“Alfred,” Karen interrupted, “we're already late. Shouldn't we retire to the chamber and allow Mr. Paxton to … clean up … before he has to speak?”

Alfred laughed easily. “Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Paxton. The session … I forgot to tell you. That infernal downpour caught most of us completely unprepared. The agenda has been changed in order to allow my colleagues to dry out. I'm afraid your speech had to be rescheduled for next week. It's a devil of an inconvenience, I know, but there's hardly a soul present and there's but little sense in talking to empty seats.”

Vance shrugged. One day was as good as the next. Now that was odd. Only two days ago he had been anxious to get the damned speech over with and the vote on the resolution out of the way. One way or the other he'd have been able to leave the place and return to Texas where he belonged. Now it seemed he was almost happy at the delay. It didn't make any sense.

Voices drifted from the entrance to the House and Barrett appeared in the doorway accompanied by a congressman. One of them had just told a joke and both were laughing politely. Karen noticed her father was in exceptional spirits. Perhaps it was because the speech had been cancelled and there were few to see him in such a disheveled state.

Barrett noticed Karen standing with Alfred and led his companion in their direction. A slight expression of distaste crossed his face at seeing Vance still there. Taking advantage, no doubt. Couldn't trust a Texan. Too damned little breeding and no sense whatsoever of common manners, even if he had saved Karen and Barrett's English carriage.

“Ah, Karen, there you are. I want to be the first to congratulate you,” the congressman called out as he approached.

Karen curtsied and allowed the speaker to kiss her hand before answering. “Thank you, Mr. Leighton.”

Vance's interest peaked anew at the mention of the man's name.
So that's what he looks like. No wonder Angie's so desperate
.

“Alfred,” Barrett broke in, “I've taken the liberty to invite Earnest and his lovely wife Angela to the gala. I've already told him the purpose of the event, as you can see.”

“Angie dearly loves parties,” Earnest replied. “I remember announcing our engagement at one party, setting the date at a second and finding time for a third before the wedding. What the purpose of the third one was I'll never know, but Angie certainly had a good time. That's the way to keep a woman, Alfred. Partying. Women love partying, right, Karen?”

Karen looked up at Earnest Leighton. What she saw was a tall, well-proportioned man falling gracelessly into age. His hair was graying and combed to conceal a spreading bald spot. He was developing a paunch and his shoulders remained perpetually stooped. His pock-marked face showed evidence of face powder, little bits of which glinted obscenely from the scars of that distant illness. The stories concerning Angie Leighton's indiscretions were legion among the Washington social set, and from the look and attitude of Earnest Leighton they were probably true. Nevertheless, Karen spoke as pleasantly as possible. “If you say so, Mr. Leighton.”

“And this is Mr. Paxton. From Texas,” Barrett said.

“Of course.” Earnest Leighton pumped Vance's hand. “Brave thing you did, young man. Paxton, eh? My wife spoke of you. You were kind enough to give a talk on the Wild West to her children's study group. She tells me you held that squalling bunch of youngsters enraptured with your stories. Said you were quite talented. You must tell some of them at Karen and Alfred's announcement party.”

Karen glanced at her father, her expression as bland as she could manage. Alfred coughed nervously.

Vance spoke first, for the first time since Karen had known him at a loss for words. “I … hadn't … didn't know I was.…”

Barrett interjected in a booming voice, saving face as best he could. “I hadn't got around yet to inviting you, Paxton. Of course, hadn't met you until this afternoon, but I do hope you'll do us the honor of accepting. It's the, uh, least we can do. I'm certain Karen will be upset if you don't allow us to show our, uh, appreciation and gratitude by considering this an invitation to our party.”

Vance ran his fingers through his hair and nodded curtly in Karen's direction. “If Miss Hampton wishes me to attend.…”

Their eyes met, Vance's and Karen's, each daring the other to break away first. Karen was not to be outdone by this westerner. Returning his stare she took the greater dare. “I would be offended should you not attend. I look forward to your amusing stories, Mr. Paxton.”
Parry, riposte and thrust home, Mr. Paxton. It will be a most amusing evening
. She turned to Alfred, who offered his arm. “Alfred will see me home, Father. Good day, Mr. Leighton. Good day, and thank you again, Mr. Paxton.”

“Certainly, ma'am,” Vance answered, his voice subdued.

Karen could not help but feel a sense of self-satisfaction at leaving the Capitol with her aristocratic pride intact. She was not there, though, to overhear when Earnest Leighton discovered he'd had his dates mixed up and was committed to attend an important business meeting on the afternoon and evening of the gala. Nor was she there when Earnest suggested Vance escort Angie to the Hampton affair in his place. Angie did so love the Texan's stories. Nor was Karen there to hear when Vance, with diabolical pleasure, accepted Leighton's invitation.

CHAPTER V

The razor traveled down from the sideburns in sure swift strokes. Tiny, precise strokes with the tip of the blade were necessary above the curving mustache. Long cuts along the jaw preceded a flurry of small movements on the chin. Long, smooth strokes floated down from the jaw, then up and out from the Adam's apple. The razor, delicate as a feather in the calloused, raw-boned hands, cut cleanly, stripped the wiry beard from wind- and sun-toughened hide. Vance had been in an ill temper for the last ten days. He mused as he shaved, his hands moving unconsciously, face contorting to fit the razor's demands. The brush beat the soap to a white, full-bodied lather as he prepared for the second pass over the stubborn beard. The razor flip-flopped on the leather strop, soft cowhide smoothing the hard steel, honing the already flawless edge.

Why such a foul humor? Too many reasons. The damned food, to begin with. Too fancy and far too rich. The stifling air caustically pungent with the odor of too many horses in a too small a space. The mosquitos swarming in clouds from the canals and ditches. The crowding people jarring a man whichever way he turned. The sour water unfit for man or beast, but invariably used to vilify good whiskey. The constant damned jawing, bickering, backbiting carried on in the countless halls and offices of government and business by men whose handshakes were as reliable as a horsethief's, which they probably were anyways, or would be, given half a chance. That damned hot-crotched Angie Leighton, never able to get enough, pushing for more and more and him fool enough to try to oblige her in the face of all sense and reason.

“Damn!” The razor sliced a sliver of skin out from under his jaw, the red blood welling quickly, spreading through the white lather. “Having to shave every God damned day, that's why!” he said fiercely, glaring at himself in the mirror. But that wasn't the reason either, for Vance Paxton couldn't yet admit the single insurmountable fact that had governed his mood for the last week and a half. He wiped the blade carefully and flipped it into the carved bone handle, dried it and slipped the razor back in the leather pouch. The bleeding had stopped so he rinsed his face one last time, dried and pulled on the fancy Mexican shirt.
Black tie, hell. No Paxton wore a tail yet, and I'm damned if I'll be the first one. They can throw me out first. If they can
. The neckerchief tied, he shrugged into the buckskin coat. There was nothing left to do.

Vance sauntered down to the lobby of the hotel. A bellboy old enough to be his father doffed his cap as the Texan approached. “Afternoon, Mr. Paxton.”

“Afternoon, Grover.”

“Mighty nice Saturday. Gonna be nice and cool this evening, too.”

“I hope so.”

Grover looked the tall westerner over, wondering about the brush-brown buckskin coat, the coarsely woven Mexican dress shirt with the thickly ruffled facing, the scarlet and black kerchief about the man's throat. “Woo-ee. Dressed fit to kill. You Texas boys wear the damndest party clothes I ever seen.” He jumped to continue, “Meanin' no offense, sir.”

The old man's bobbing head barely came to mid-chest on the Texan. Vance thought of a fragile, weary old derelict wild stallion he'd dragged from a sinkhole once. Cowed and beaten by his narrow escape, left behind by the herd that bad finally rejected him, he stood trembling as Vance undid the rope from around his neck, unable to comprehend he was free to roam again, free to follow the sun and wind. Vance had understood why he didn't when some of the mud dripped from his left rear leg. It was bent and swollen, a wreck unable to stand any weight, probably painful as hell to boot. The decision was easy. He had taken out his rifle and shot him where he stood, leaving the once noble beast for the vultures and coyotes to pick clean.
But what of Grover? Who will show him compassion? Not a damned soul, that's who. He'll be left to sink slowly, without even a shred of decency left to cover him
.

Vance grinned down at the old man. “No offense taken, Grover. And most folks I like call me Vance. It sits more comfortable than Mr. Paxton.”

The old man's eyes lit up and his face split with a broad, toothless grin. “I'll sure do that, sir.”

Vance looked about the lobby. All the chairs were filled with other old men and women sitting out the afternoon without a thing to do. He growled angrily and headed for the hotel bar, shoulders hunched with a tension for which he couldn't account. “If I gotta kill a couple hours, I might as well do it without realizing I'm doing it,” he muttered.

A nickel bought him a foaming jack of beer. He sat in a dark corner out of the way of an unusual afternoon crowd. The cold beer went down smoothly, tasted good enough to follow with another. And then another. The bartender left a bowl of peanuts on his table along with the fourth mug. Vance lifted the brew to his lips, wishing he were back home on the ranch drinking with True, his father, and the rest of the boys. He took only a shallow sip, then checked his pocket watch. Another hour yet He'd better take it easy. He mulled over the fourth one, taking his time with it, consuming it slowly, chomping on the peanuts and savoring the bitter chill of hops, malt and barley.