Paxton and the Lone Star (35 page)

The trail flirted dangerously with the rim and a steep, boulder-strewn apron of rubble created by countless years of rain and ice and wind. True looked over the serrated edge and chipped loose a large chunk of timeworn limestone with his bootheel. A man on horseback might make it down the apron if he could keep his horse's head up and not panic. Not that he wanted to try it, he thought, leading Firetail back to the beginning of the treacherous section. The course's incline was rugged enough without riding off a cliff. Slowly, checking each foot of the way, he walked the route again before mounting and riding back. Ramez O'Shannon and Torbellino had raced that stretch before, had run it again that very morning according to rumor. True's only chance was to become as well acquainted with it as possible in the short time allotted to him.

Three times they walked the ridge. On the fourth, True gave Firetail his head and let him run. Neck stretched, hooves sending a shower of pebbles and rocks down the slope, the hammerhead stallion thundered along the hundred crooked yards without a misstep.

“Well?” True asked, reining to a halt and dropping to the ground by Elizabeth's side. “What do you think?”

“I think you worry too much,” Elizabeth said.

“Oh, really?” True patted Firetail's neck. “Looked easy, did it?”

“Not terribly difficult.”

“That's because we're alone. If we both get here at the same time, though, this little exercise will pay off, believe me. You about ready?”

“I'm about frozen,” Elizabeth said, leading the chestnut out of the rocks and preparing to mount.

“Beautiful from here,” True said, restraining her.

“San Antonio is very pretty.”

“I mean you.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said with calculated coolness, the first part of her plan.

True tried to put his arms around her. “For heaven's sake, Elizabeth,” he said, exasperated when she stepped away.

“Don't blaspheme.”

“Blaspheme? Who the hell is blaspheming, goddamn it?”

Their breath clouded on the air, was swept away rapidly. “Shall we go back?” Elizabeth asked. “I'm cold.”

“I'll say,” True snapped, instantly regretting his tone.

Elizabeth put her foot in the stirrup and, angry despite herself, mounted the chestnut.

“Oh, boy!” True said, throwing up his hands. “Look. I surrender. Aren't you even going to tell me what I've done?”

“Maybe it's what you haven't done,” Elizabeth answered dryly and, clucking to the mare, rode off.

Eager to be back in a warm stall with a bait of oats, the little mare trotted off smartly. Behind her, True tilted his hat back on his head and scratched his forehead. Now what was eating Elizabeth, he wondered? He had bayed at her heels all the way to Texas. He was trying to win her land back. He certainly hadn't forced her into bed. He had repeatedly vowed his love, and already had begun plans for a cabin for them. What more could a woman want?

Realization struck like a battering ram. “True Paxton,” he said, springing onto Firetail's back and riding after her, “you're a dimwitted, loose-brained, cross-eyed, sod-poor excuse for a future husband!”

With all his plans and expectations for the two of them, one thing had cleanly slipped his mind. One very important thing that—as soon as the race was over and won—involved a preacher.

Chapter XXIV

New Year's Day morning dawned crackling cold but without the wind that had kept most of San Antonio indoors for the last two days. Elizabeth woke to a half-emtpy pallet. The covers were cold as ice where True had slept. He had been up and gone long ago, probably before light. A slow smile crept over her face as she remembered the night before. They had slipped away early from the usual gathering of friends in town, as much to be together as for True to get a good night's sleep. His mind on the race, True had been tense and jittery as they began to make love, but then, avid and all-consuming. And he certainly had relaxed, she thought, remembering how he had dropped off and slept like a log. But then, so had she. Warm and satiated and feeling very much in love, she had slept soundly.

A little frown replaced her smile. He still hadn't proposed, darn him. Once the race was over and before the sun set, he most certainly would though—if she had to drag it out of him. The first day of the new year was a good time for beginnings. The whole rest of their life together would begin that day. Of that she was determined.

Quickly, shivering against the cold, Elizabeth rolled out of the blankets, dug in her trunk, and pulled on a pair of corduroy trousers for warmth. Her chemise and yellow dress, True's favorite, followed, topped off with her father's old coat, which she and Joan had altered while still on the trail. The sleeves needed rolling up, but the shoulders fit well, and the whole garment hung well below her hips.

The camp was deserted. Hurrying, Elizabeth moved the coffee closer to the fire before visiting the latrine and taking a quick wash-up. She had just poured her coffee when the church bells began to ring. One, two. She counted unconsciously, pulled the coffee off the fire. Three, four. Nine o'clock, probably. The crowd would have begun to gather. Lots of hangovers and bleary eyes, she imagined. Five, six. She smiled warmly, remembering the children who gathered at the church and the animated light in the eyes of the one chosen to ring the bells. Something about children and bells. She would have a dinner bell next to the door of her house, just like they'd had in Pennsylvania. When she had been good, her mother had let her ring it to call her father from the fields. Seven, eight. She felt in her pocket, touched the ribbon she'd bought three days ago for True to wear. He'd probably think it was silly, but wouldn't say so. And if his face got the slightest bit red, she'd … Nine, ten.

Ten!

She froze. Impossible! She had miscounted. Surely she hadn't slept that long. Not ten! It couldn't be that late. Frantic, she dropped her coffee cup and ran out of the camp toward town.

True!

I'm here! Right here! Don't start without me.
Her heart was throbbing, her breath rasping in her throat. There must be time. Please, God, slow the time, stretch the seconds.

True!

She had to hurry, had to catch him before the race started. What would he think? He's miss her, think she was angry, or worse, that something had happened to her. If he lost the race, then she would be to blame. Late? Too late. Unless …

True ignored the crowd as he looked for Elizabeth. Damn it, where was she? Joseph hadn't seen her. Neither had Nels or Hogjaw. She couldn't be angry again, not after the night they'd spent together. Unless she was miffed because he'd left without waking her. Surely she'd understand that, though. She could be sick, he supposed. But that didn't make sense. Someone else would have known, and told him. The only alternative left was that someone had … The O'Shannons! He and Joseph had been watching Firetail. What if the threat lay elsewhere? What if they'd done something to …

No. He wasn't going to let himself think that way. It didn't make sense. There was no point in holding or hurting Elizabeth unless they told him they were doing so. For that matter, what did they even know about Elizabeth? True hadn't exactly hidden his affection for her, but for an outsider to know how important she was to him would be difficult.

The race. Think about the race. First things first. Some logical explanation. Probably something silly and unimportant. Concentrate on the immediate problem. Winning.

The bells had rung ten o'clock. General Cos had arrived and was talking to Luther O'Shannon. True kept an eye on them. Less ostentatiously dressed than his son, O'Shannon rode a massive steel gray stallion and radiated an aura of capability and confidence. Perhaps that, True reflected, was the reason for Ramez's exaggerated cockiness. Weak and ineffectual by comparison to the one man in the world he wanted so badly to emulate, Ramez's only recourse was a desperate combination of fancy clothes and a brash demeanor. It was a sad imitation at best. True preferred the elder O'Shannon's ruthlessness to his son's empty arrogance.

General Cos held out his hand and took a pistol from his aide. Ramez quieted Torbellino and patted him on the neck, keeping him well away from Firetail. His master affected an appearance of contemptuous calm, but Torbellino, knowing the race was about to begin, pranced about nervously. Neither True nor Ramez had spoken to each other, only exchanged cold nods of acknowledgment. Fine with me, True thought, edging Firetail toward the starting pole. The next few minutes would tell everything that needed to be said. If only Elizabeth were …

“True Paxton.”

True's heart leaped into his throat as Luther O'Shannon approached him. Was this it? The veiled, nor not-so-veiled, threat? He tried to think of how he would answer, but his mind was a whirling blank.

“I suspect what you have done,” O'Shannon said, icily calm. “My son is young and quick-tempered and you baited him well. I, however, am not so easily tricked, and have cautioned him to take you and your mount seriously.”

No threat, then! True's heart slowed and his mind returned to the race. So Ramez knew. Did that make any difference? “So?” he asked, wondering what O'Shannon was getting at.

“So the race might be closer than anyone expects. And this. I have, with your permission, thrust a saber into the wood pillar at the corner of the plaza at the
Calle de la Quinta.
Rather than trust judges to call the finish, the winner will be the man who draws the saber from the wood. I trust that is satisfactory?”

“No complaints here,” True called flatly. “That way there won't be any question when I beat the pants off your son.”

True thought the remark would anger O'Shannon, but the Irishman merely smiled faintly and nodded. “You too are young,” he said matter-of-factly. “And brash. I hope—” He touched the gray's flank and the animal backed smartly away from True. “—you are not too disillusioned.” Not waiting for an answer, he wheeled his horse, stopped briefly to whisper something to his son, and withdrew to the edge of the plaza.

General Cos raised his arms and the crowd quieted while he announced the conditions of the race and the wager. True patted Firetail's neck. The roan stallion pawed at the earth and shook his mane. Ramez took off his hat and threw it to one of his father's men. “Get 'im, True,” Joseph shouted from somewhere to the left.

Cos lifted his pistol, pointed it to the sky.

“I wish,” True began silently, “Elizabeth was—”

The shot startled him. Ramez on Torbellino leaped into an instant lead. Right behind him, Firetail exploded into motion. A roar of approval sounded from the plaza. True rose in the stirrups and crouched low over Firetail's withers. The race was on, and the first trick was to stay close enough to Torbellino on the flats so he could overtake on the hills and pass before they reached the climb that led to the rim. Nothing else mattered.

Elizabeth could see True's head over the crowd. Sobbing, she beat her way through the rear ranks and into the press of excited humanity. She heard the shot and saw True's head disappear as he crouched over the saddle, but didn't associate either of those with the start of the race until, a fraction of a second later, the roar of the crowd blotted out everything else. “No!” she screamed, unheard. “Wait! You can't—” A hand caught her wrist and held her in a relentless grip. “Let me go! Let me go! Help!”

“Calm down, durn ya!”

She looked up, saw Hogjaw at her side. “I didn't know it was so late,” she yelled above the noise. “Did True—”

“No time for talk now,” Hogjaw interrupted. “This way. Just grab aholt of my coat and follow. A start never meant a tick's worth. The finish is where the game is played.”

She took a second too long to agree, almost lost him, then grabbed the back of his coat and let herself be dragged along. Without him, she never would have made it through the crowd that was already moving toward the shiny saber thrust into the post. She was almost sorry she did, because when they reached the rope that separated the throng from the space left open for the racing horses, there was nothing left to do but wait. And that was the hardest part of all.

Torbellino was well ahead and running alone by the time they passed the last
jacalito
and entered open country. The flat road was hard-packed and easy to run on, just the sort of conditions that the white stallion liked. Ahead, the foothills rose into the morning sun. The flag that marked the turnoff into the moutains barely wiggled in the light breeze. Ramez took the turn and glanced over his shoulder. The roan was a good fifteen lengths behind him, running well but not, it appeared, gaining. If he could hold the lead through the climb and along the rim, there was no question but that he would walk away with the colonists' money. And oh, but victory would be sweet.

A flag was a blur as they passed it. Torbellino leaned into the curve, and powered up the slope. Ramez checked behind him again and saw, to his astonishment, that the roan, evidently stronger than Torbellino, was beginning to narrow the distance between them. There were still a thousand or more yards to go before the hard climb. If he could just hold him off that long …

Another flag. A sharp climbing turn to the left and then again to the right. Torbellino missed a step and Firetail picked up another two lengths. Only five hundred yards, and already the gap had shrunk to no more than three lengths. The three times Ramez had raced this route he had allowed Torbellino to slack off a little on this rise so that he would be rested for the run into town. In none of the three previous races, though, had a horse challenged him so strongly, much less threatened to overtake him. Worried, Ramez put the quirt to Torbellino's flank, slashed down again and again as he bent around the final flag on the ascent.