Paxton and the Lone Star (30 page)

Christmas came the next morning with the sound of pounding feet and whoops of happiness as everyone gathered again at the tree. Great pots of coffee brewed over half a dozen open fires. Almost two dozen children milled around the tree, waiting. The smell of fresh biscuits set mouths to watering. The second the sun peeked over the horizon, Hogjaw took his place under the tree and began handing out presents. A doll here, a shirt or pair of gloves there. A sack of hard candy, whittled horses, soldiers, tops, and wagons. A first gun for a twelve year old, whose eyes glowed with pride. A necklace for a sweetheart, a kerchief for a new bride. No gift was of great value, except as measured by the love with which it had been given, and received. Breakfast was catch as catch can, hot biscuits and butter and honey snatched on the run. Before anyone realized how quickly the time had flown, Buckland Kania was beating on a huge iron pot and calling them all to a mercifully short worship service.

And then Christmas dinner! The biscuits were long forgotten, and everyone dug in with a will. Whole roasts disappeared, along with mountains of mashed potatoes with gravy, and loaves of steaming, fresh bread. There was hot buttered rum for the adults, milk laced with molasses for the children, and best of all, a whole table full of pies and cakes to fill every last empty cranny in every last groaning stomach. Afterward, while the women cleaned up and the children played, the men gathered in groups, loosened their belts, and talked desultorily of weather and politics and land and horses.

The temperature was climbing into the high seventies when everyone trooped down to the river at the western edge of town for the baptism. There, under a canopy of leafless cottonwoods, the Reverend Kania baptized two adults and three older children before he called Kevin and Mildred forward. A hush fell over the crowd, for this christening was special. The Thatche child, unlike the others, was born a Texian, as the colonists had taken to calling themselves. He was one of the very first of what they hoped would soon become a swelling tide.

Kevin, Jr. didn't exactly agree, but that was because he didn't like the cold river water sprinkled on his head. Mildred quickly wiped it away so he wouldn't take a chill. When she turned around to walk back up the bank, Hogjaw was standing in front of her. “He's a fine looker, Mrs. Thatche,” the old man said, his face plastered with what passed for a grin.

Mildred's face reddened.

“I could 'a told you before, but it wouldn't've done no good, I reckon. Contrary to what all them old wives say, my kind of looks ain't catchin'.”

Kevin's face was as red as Mildred's. “I guess we owe you an apology, Mr. Leakey,” he said. “We just weren't thinking too straight. He's our first, though, and we were scared. You never can tell.…”

“I didn't mind,” Hogjaw said, sparing the lad any further explanation. “You was takin' care as you saw fit, which is all a man can ask for. I ain't never had one of my own that I know of, but I understand. Lookee—” The old man's face jellied around, finally settled into a frown of concentration. “I know Presbyterians don't hold much with Godfatherin', but would you mind if I held the tad for jest a minute?”

Mildred looked alarmed, but Kevin rose to the occasion, gingerly took Kevin, Jr. from her arms and handed him to Hogjaw.

“Kind of fragile lookin', ain't he,” the mountain man said, his eyes rapt as he cupped the tiny infant in his great hands. “Tiny. Don't weigh more'n a medium size grasshopper.” Abruptly, he ducked his head until his nose was just above the baby's. Little Kevin opened his eyes, squawled, and flailed his arms. One little fist connected with a jaw flap and set it swaying before Hogjaw raised his head again. “You're a mite young fer sharin' blood, little tad, so I done it that way. We shared each other's breath now, which means we're kin of a sort. I got me a grandson and you got you a brand new granddaddy. If ever you need anything, little tad, or if ever you find yourself in trouble, you come runnin'. So long as ol' Hogjaw's alive, he'll be there to help.”

“Mr. Leakey—”

“You call me Hogjaw now, son-o. You too, little missus. And the pleasure's mine,” Hogjaw said as he looked up from the child. “You two younkers remember, now. You got kin, and kin are fer help when help is needed.” Moving slowly and carefully, as if the child would break in his hands, he handed Kevin, Jr. back to his mother and then, awed, pointed out to the gathered crowd where the baby had struck him. “You see that?” he crowed, his eyes glistening with pride. “That was a right he got me with. A real haymaker. Little cuss slugged me, he did.”

“The mellowing of Hogjaw,” True told Elizabeth a little while later on the way to Mama Flores's, where the christening party was going to be held. He shook his head in wonder. “Who would have guessed that that crusty old man could be so sentimental.”

“I think it's … nice,” Elizabeth said, giving his arm a squeeze.

“Oh, I'm not saying it isn't,” True explained. “It's just a surprise, is all.”

Everyone, including many of the other colonists, had chipped in to help pay for the party at
La Casa del Rio.
Mama Flores had sent her children and in-laws to the settlers' camp to pick up the leftovers from Christmas dinner, and added platters of
tamales, enchiladas,
chicken
mole,
and barbecued goat, enough to feed an army. The rafters were festooned with ribbons and
piñatas.
As the afternoon wore on, as many new guests arrived as old ones left. Spanish and American mingled as friends, shouted at each other in the mistaken hope that volume would increase understanding.

Evening came, lanterns and candles were lit, the furniture was moved to the wall, and the dancing started. Off in one corner, an ebullient Padre Salva, a roly-poly man with the face of a cherub and the hands of a stone mason, shared a cup with the lean and ascetic-looking Buckland Kania. Staunch Roman Catholic and ardent Presbyterian appeared to be getting along famously as they engaged in a heated debate over papal authority.

True and a half dozen other men had been in the adjoining bar talking about a horse farm one of them proposed to start. When the discussion veered to politics, True eased away from the table and headed for the main room to find Elizabeth and ask her if she wanted to dance. “Lose something?” Hogjaw's voice asked from just behind him.

“Not sure,” True drawled. “You find something?”

Someone had stuffed paper flowers all around the brim of Hogjaw's hat and tied a bright green ribbon around his neck. The mountain man's sagging face was beet red from a combination of too much drinking and dancing. “Just happiness, is all. I swear, these little Mex gals is the prettiest things!” Hogjaw hiccuped, and swayed alarmingly. He gestured with his head in the direction of the door, and almost fell over that way, catching himself at the last second. “Out there,” he said. “Wouldn't let that girl walk alone if I was you.”

True grabbed Hogjaw's arm. “Elizabeth?”

“None other, boy-o. None other.” He winked suggestively. “Nice night for walkin', wouldn't you say?”

“Excuse me.” True snatched his hat from the rack, elbowed his way across the dance floor, and escaped into the street. The sky was clear, the night quiet except for the muted noise of the party he had left behind.

Halfway down the block, Elizabeth heard the noise swell and then stop. “True?” she asked, sure she recognized the approaching figure from the way he walked.

“Me,” True answered, hurrying to catch up with her. “Where you going?”

“Back. Someone said you were talking about horses. I thought …” Her voice trailed off. “It's been a long day. I was tired.”

A high cloud still in the sunlight far to the west glowed with a purple sheen that faded as they watched. Aware of each other, yet not speaking, True and Elizabeth ambled down the street toward the lot where the wagons were parked. Somewhere off to their right, a guitar strummed a mournful melody to accompany a sweet, tired voice. Elizabeth didn't understand the words, but could imagine lovers standing close together in front of the amber glow of a fire, silhouettes of faces captured in a moment long dreamed of, when pretense is forgotten and all that is left is the honesty of two souls touching.

Honesty. It was easier, somehow, when the blush lay hidden and obscure. Easier, yet difficult too, as if she were balancing on a pinnacle and reaching for a star. She might fail and fall, but she might succeed, too, and in capturing one of night's far diamonds, burn her hand and find pain in beauty and fulfillment.

They held hands. Simply, as children do. When they reached the circle of wagons, they stopped by the dying fire and stood for a long moment looking at each other. “We're alone,” Elizabeth said, whispering.

“Everyone else is at the party. No one is here.”

“Except us.”

“Except us.”

True moved first, lit a lantern and, taking her by the hand, led her toward her wagon, secluded in the shadows. A dove whistled eerily from the darkness, startling them both and making them smile shyly. At last, Elizabeth turned and climbed into the wagon. True followed, hanging the lantern on a hook before closing the rear flaps against the growing chill.

Elizabeth waited, her back to him. True stepped close, parted her long, golden curls and kissed the back of her neck. He reached around and unfastened the buttons running down the front of her dress. The dress dropped to the floor, a gray, lifeless mass in comparision with the chaste white chemise and the tawny limbs beneath the filmy fabric. Slipping the straps over her shoulders, he knelt and pulled the undergarment down to her ankles, kissing the length of her spine as he did, kissing the twin perfect mounds above her thighs, kissing the backs of her knees.

Elizabeth rocked backward and almost lost her balance as a liquid warm weakness spread through her. True caught her, helped her down to the pallet, and then disrobed and stood before her, aroused and primal.

“I love you, True,” Elizabeth said, reaching for him.

“And I love you,” True said, kneeling in front of her.

Elizabeth blushed. “I don't know … That is, I haven't ever—”

“Shhh.” True touched her lips with one finger, then bowed to kiss her breasts.

Elizabeth shuddered with pleasure and fear, and with trembling fingers, dared to touch his shoulder.

“Neither have I,” True whispered. “Dearest, dearest, dearest …”

When they met and joined, Elizabeth cried out once in pain that was soon forgotten in the whispered, hasty stirrings of their embrace. As they moved together to become one, all that they had been before was forgotten and left behind in the fire of their love. And all that they would be thereafter was born in those same flames that, consuming them, left them weak with awe and trembling with wonder.

Chapter XXI

Carl Michaelson took her by the arm and pulled her to him. He was smiling, joking, laughing even as his free arm swept in an arc that took in the full, verdant fields brimming with life. Elizabeth cringed at his side. She couldn't remember exactly why she was frightened, only that she was. It was silly, wasn't it? This was her father. His arm around her waist was strong and protective, the all-encompassing symbol of his love for her. Shyly, feeling very much the little girl, Elizabeth relaxed and smiled up at him just as him arm tightened around her waist and his free hand fondled her breasts. Still she smiled, even as his face changed, twisted with hate and lust, leered down at her. His right arm had slipped down so that his hand cupped her buttock and pulled her to him, her groin to his, grinding into her through the thick, coarse denim. His left hand squeezed one breast and then the other, pinched viciously. His breath was hot on her face, his eyes bloodshot and gleaming wildly.

“Please don't, Father,” Elizabeth pleaded, amazed at how calm she sounded. “Please don't do that.”

She slipped from his grasp just before he disappeared. The light had changed and she was wandering alone and in a strange place. Laughter followed her. She was terrified, yet again strangely calm, as if being terrified were quite natural. The ground around her was bare and littered with rocks and dank weeds. A dancing couple whirled past her, stopped and pointed at her, and continued on their way. She was holding a lantern that was lit but cast no light until—why she did not know—she leaned over and peered into her father's face.

He looked so different! Elizabeth stared down at him with clinical detachment. He was dead, she thought. He didn't move, only stared back at her with sightless eyes through a mask of caked blood. As she watched, she realized she was wet and that the ground was a soup of mud. Rainwater washed the blood from her father's face, collected in his open mouth, a miniature pond fringed with bristling stubble. He looked surprised, she thought, surprised and not amused to learn that death should have taken him by its pale hand and led him into the dreamless sleep.…

Elizabeth's eyes opened and her mind struggled through the mired depths of the dream. Overhead, the ribbed canvas was pale gray with early morning light. At her side—she stiffened suddenly, then relaxed as the memory flooded back—True lay asleep, his lips slightly parted, his hair tousled. Elizabeth shifted carefully, rolled onto her side with her back to him. She had had the same dream twice before, once deep in the pine woods of east Texas, again the night they buried Hester. She wasn't sure what it meant, but each of those other times when she woke she had been filled with a sense of brutal misfortune, of babes snatched from cradles, of the hungry dragged from feasts, of poor souls dispatched at the moment of their glory. Of death taking the strong and driving the weak mad. And each time, too, she felt anger and a cloaking guilt that stifled her and left her breathless. This morning she felt different, as if the dream had perhaps visited her for the last time, had come calling in the night to test her and, finding a new Elizabeth grown immune to its horrors, crept away.