Paxton and the Lone Star (43 page)

His name—the part Elizabeth could decipher from a long, run-togther string of syllables—was Pedro Sanchez, and he was the second-born son of Estimo Sanchez. That he and his horses were fatigued and would need to rest a day or so before beginning the trip back was a bit of news Elizabeth was prepared to take in stride. Later, beaming with approval, Hogjaw found the time to praise her. She was learning to roll with the punches, he said, and not to kick and scream when faced with adversity. In this particular case, such a course was especially wise. Mex prisons were notorious, he explained, and though True had been tough as a nail when they'd last seen him, he'd probably be more than a little wore down. The faster they could get him out, the better. Saving her strength and wits for when she got to Mexico City and could actually
do
something was smart.

Thursday morning, about ready to leave Puebla at last, Hogjaw forgot his own advice. Their bags were packed and they were waiting out front, when the coach pulled up at the front door and Pedro stepped out. “You are ready?” he asked in broken, schoolboy English.

“Absolutely,” Elizabeth replied, accepting his helping hand and climbing into the coach.

Hogjaw started to follow, but Pedro placed a hand on the mountain man's brawny arm. “You will ride up top with the servants, señor,” he said in his most imperious tone.

“What?” Hogjaw asked, shaking off the offending hand.

“You will ride up top with the other servants.”

Hogjaw's cheeks flapped alarmingly as he scratched his chin. “Hmmm. Well, younker, I'll tell you what.”

“Señor?”

“I'll either ride inside with the lady or you can pick your left ear up off'n the ground. Take your pick.”

“Ear?” Pedro asked, not sure he was understanding correctly. A bit flustered, he glanced down at the ground. “But my ear is not on the ground, señor.”

Hogjaw smiled and his face did a little dance all its own. The stitch scars on his skull gleamed like a pale wreath.

Pedro, the second-born son of Estimo Sanchez, paled. “You may,” he said quickly, “ride inside with us, señor.”

Two more nights of restless sleep. Two and a half more days of bone-wearying travel. Dry stream beds. Lonely passes. High, arid plains. And towns whose names were music as the coach swung north to avoid washed-out roads and to enter the city from the northeast. Tlaxcala, Apizaco, Calpulalpan, Texcoco. Names Pedro helped her learn how to pronounce while Hogjaw sat glowering in the corner he had staked out for himself. Village after village after village, some more prosperous than others, but all with nearly identical adobe houses arranged in squares surrounded by the shacks and huts of
los povres,
the poor ones. Some few of these shacks were blessed with laughing children, but most were occupied only by wracked and bent old men and women who stared sullenly at the passing carriage, the symbol of everything they dared not dream of in their poverty-stricken world.

The closer they came, the more crowded was the road that snaked through the marshes and around Lago de Texcoco, the lake that lay on the northeastern edge of Mexico City. Pure-bred Spaniards rode in coaches much like the one in which Elizabeth rode, and scattered travelers on foot or riding burros;
mestizos
and other half-breeds of all colors, along with purebred Indians clad in dirty white cotton trousers, whose lot it was to eke out a living at the bottom rung of the creaky ladder of existence, moved aside as they knew they must. The Sanchez coach stopped for no one, and much abuse was hurled at its passing by men fighting to keep their burros under control or by vendors with their merchandise strapped to their backs in great, precariously balanced piles.

Pedro appeared to care not one whit. How unlike Don Raphael this man was, Elizabeth thought, wondering if his father Estimo was at all like Don Raphael, or if the differences between the two brothers were as great as those between True and Joseph. There was little time to think, though. The sights were too fascinating. People, buildings, animals, all jumbled in one teeming, seething mass, as different from her quiet homestead south of San Antonio as it was from Philadelphia. The coach had slowed, at least, in deference to the crowds, and then slowed further as it entered a broad, tree-lined street. The whole character of their surroundings changed. Loud became quiet. The bustling crowds diminished, replaced by an occasional servant with well-dressed children in tow. The rank odor of humanity was dispelled by the sweet aroma of flowers. Before Elizabeth could quite catch her breath, the coach was driving through gates of wrought iron woven into figurative designs. Inside, the grounds were like a park. Fountains jetted water into the air, released it to bubble over marbled tiers alive with carvings that looked as if they might have come from Paris itself. Banks of flowers rose at precise angles to sculpted hedges. And by the time they reached the end of the drive, servants were approaching the coach to help the passengers out and up the blue tile steps leading to a pair of massive mahogany and brass doors.

“Mighty fancy place your daddy has,” Hogjaw commented.

“This is not my father's house, señor,” the young man replied stiffly.

The door to the coach opened and the young man stepped out and offered his hand to Elizabeth, who already felt shabby in her gingham dress and cotton bonnet. She thought of True then, and embarrassment, not for her dress but that she should have worried about such nonsense, reddened her cheeks. “If not your father's, then whose?” she asked, stepping down.

“Mine, dear lady.”

Elizabeth turned, brightened at seeing Don Raphael, saw next a slightly built man beside him who looked as if he might be his brother, and then cringed as if slapped, when she recognized the man at their side.

Pistol drawn and swinging upward, Hogjaw leaped from the carriage.

“Come come, my uncouth friend,” Luther O'Shannon said. “You really ought to put that down before you hurt someone. Unless you wish to start a war with Mrs. Paxton in the middle. It would be a shame for such a beauty to be marred by fire and shot.”

Hogjaw looked around and counted a dozen Mexican soldiers with their muskets aimed at him and Elizabeth. “Damn!” he said, the pistol steady on O'Shannon. “You'll by God go first, then.”

“First, last, whatever,” O'Shannon said coolly. “I've faced death as many times as you have, old man. You don't care, I don't care. But the lady?…”

The argument was compelling. Slowly, Hogjaw took the pistol off cock and lowered it, then handed it to the soldier who stepped forward to disarm him. “Don't fret, 'Lizabeth,” he mumbled. “Always been a way out before. There'll be one this time too.”

“That is better, my shaggy friend. Napoleon always used to say that the best war was won without firing a shot. I heartily agree. And now, if you will be my guest?” O'Shannon nodded to the soldiers who moved in to lead Hogjaw toward the carriage house at the base of the side wall. “You see? A victorious commander can be generous. And as for you, my lady …”

Elizabeth stared at Don Raphael who, unable to meet her eyes, kept his head lowered.

“… you must be tired after such a long and tedious journey. The girls will take you to your room. Do not hesitate to ask for anything you want.” He let a thin smile cross his face. “Within reason, of course.”

Elizabeth hesitated, watched Hogjaw disappear around the corner of the house, and then, scorning O'Shannon with a single glance of contempt, followed the servants up the blue tile stairs.

“You promised she would not be harmed,” Don Raphael said when the doors shut behind Elizabeth. “And that True Paxton would be set free.”

His son was dead and Paxton had not yet paid in full for the life he had taken. Under the circumstances, promises were meaningless. Still, O'Shannon was not a man to be trifled with. “Do you doubt my word?” he asked in a tone as sharp as a shard of broken glass.

“I don't know,” Don Raphael answered with a directness that frightened his brother. “Should I?”

O'Shannon had baited his trap as adroitly as True Paxton had his, and the results would be equally devastating. Nothing would bring back Ramez, but the vengeance he had in mind would ease the pain. And whether or not Sanchez liked it was totally beyond his concern. “That's up to you, my fat friend,” he said, a death's-head grin parting his lips. “Quite frankly, I don't give a damn one way or the other.”

Chapter XXX

Three interminable days passed. Three days during which she was allowed to eat and sleep and pace and worry, but not to leave her room or speak with anyone who knew anything. Her food arrived on trays, was well-cooked and nourishing, but tasted like sawdust. The servants made her bed, saw to her clothes, carried bath water for her. For some inexplicable reason, a seamstress appeared and took her measurements. Each night a fire was lighted in the fireplace. She was incarcerated in opulence, every bit as much a prisoner as True, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it. The balcony was guarded at all times by two soldiers; another soldier was stationed outside her door. Only once was there a brief glimmer of hope. On the second day, one of the two maids allowed in her room slipped her a tiny piece of paper with her lunch. Later, alone, she unfolded it and read: “I am trying. Don't give up. R.” Something about the note bothered her, though she could not say what. The first night she had cried herself to sleep. That second night, she lay dry-eyed for a long, long time before finally dropping off. Sometime in the early morning she woke, having dreamed of True, and a strange note she was sure hadn't come from Don Raphael. In the morning, she was too tired to solve the mystery, and at last gave up out of frustration.

Wednesday, she woke up crying and couldn't stop. Just to hear English, a sentence she recognized, would have helped, but every word spoken to her was in Spanish. She felt so alone, so isolated, with no one to turn to for help. O'Shannon had her completely at his mercy, was playing with her as a cat played with a mouse before killing it. That had been clear from the beginning. What wasn't clear, especially after more than three days of absolutely nothing happening, was what course his vengeance would take. If only Hogjaw … But Lord only knew where they were keeping him or what they had done to him. She doubted that O'Shannon had had him killed. On the other hand, the mountain man's death would serve …

Stop! You've got to stop!

Elizabeth clapped her hands to the side of her head as if to keep it from exploding. She
had
to remain calm. Wild suppositions, confusion, fear—these were what O'Shannon wanted from her. Confidence, calm, and cool thinking were the only weapons in her arsenal. Steeling herself, she forced the tears to stop and—hunger served O'Shannon's purpose—made herself eat the lunch the maid had brought.

The bath water was perfumed that afternoon. Elizabeth bathed and saw no sign of surrender in the act, if for no other reason than that she knew she would function better if she cared for herself. She continued being wary, though, for the pace of the servants had quickened. Something was in the air. She had to think, to anticipate, to plan ahead. Needing silence, she rested her head against the back of the tub and slid down until her ears were under water. What did O'Shannon want? Why was she here? She distrusted the obvious answer, that he wanted to take her, because he could have done that—or tried to, she corrected herself—within an hour after her arrival.

Oh, True! Where are you? If only I could let you know I am near.… No. I won't let myself do that. Think. Think, girl!

Don Raphael's treachery was totally unexpected. Why would he do such a thing to her? Did O'Shannon have something on him, too? Even so, it was galling. She had expected a friend waiting for her, and had counted on his support and help. Betrayal was a bitter wound. O'Shannon's animosity was expected—she had considered that from the first moment—but to have Don Raphael turn against her as well …

Furious, she stood and stepped from the bath and snatched a towel from one of the maids who stood waiting to dry her. “I'll dry myself, damn you,” she snapped. “I'm not a child.”

Something
was
up! Her heart thudding in her chest, Elizabeth let herself be helped into a chemise and then sat docilely while one woman with a severe and dominating air dried, brushed, and coiffed her hair and another, a shy young girl, trimmed and buffed her fingernails. That finished, she was led to the next room and stood in front of a mirror while a magnificent gown was lowered over her head. In all her young life she had never seen such a shimmering, jewel-encrusted creation—pink rose silk stitched with pearls and gleaming silver teardrops, wound with fragile chains of gold. The bodice of lace and glittering gold fabric cinched her waist and held her breasts indecently high. As a crowning touch, an exquisite abalone-shell comb set with diamonds and hung with a shoulder-length black mantilla was thrust into her hair.

“But why?” she asked the hairdresser, unable to believe her eyes. “Why? Where is he taking me?”

“You wait,” the hairdresser said, the first words she had spoken.
“No hablo ingles.”

I don't speak English. Elizabeth knew that much Spanish. She'd heard it enough times. Understanding didn't help, though. She wanted an answer. Any answer. Something concrete, to which she could respond. She was tired of being treated like a dumb animal, groomed like a sacrificial lamb to be led to the altar of O'Shannon's revenge.

The door to her room opened and Don Raphael entered. Elizabeth whirled to face first him, then the maids. “Leave me,” she snapped. “Now. Get out!”

This was one command that needed no translation. Hairdresser, manicurist, and the other two maids hurriedly curtsied and, eager to escape, scampered past Don Raphael and closed the door after them.