Paxton and the Lone Star (48 page)

He had worked without a shirt for the past two hours. Already he was tanning, and the sweat ran down his face and chest, over the smooth, corded muscles. Elizabeth felt hollow, almost sick to her stomach with desire. “There's stew and biscuits left over from last night,” she said, making herself think of more practical matters. “You can build up the fire and put them on if you want. I'm going down to the river first.”

They'd worked hard, True digging and Elizabeth setting the posts and tamping the earth around them. There had been neither time nor inclination for talk—which wasn't at all out of the ordinary, Elizabeth thought sourly as she headed for the house to get a change of clothes. Some days they barely spoke at all, and then only when necessary. It wasn't a situation that pleased her, but she simply found little to say in the face of True's silence.

More and more she held to Joan's image of the three-legged stool. Love, patience, and understanding, she kept telling herself. The love part was easy enough—God knew she loved True—but the patience and understanding aspects of the prescription were difficult to remember, much less follow.

A more beautiful day couldn't have been imagined. An early spring sandwiched between cold snaps had turned the meadow green and coaxed a light green haze from the willows by the river. A hint of a south breeze eased the heat of the sun. Elizabeth stripped under the watchful eye of a redtail hawk that had taken up residence in the top of a dead cottonwood on the far bank, and plunged into what they'd come to call the bathing pool. The water was icy cold, and a second later she stumbled, shivering, into the shallows to give herself a quick scrub before getting out.

If True had only come with her, she thought, moving the bench they kept by the river into a patch of sunlight. What a perfect way to spend the noon, lying together in the sweet grass in the warm sun.… How long had it been? The night before he left for San Antonio to collect signatures for the petitions he would carry to Mexico. Nine months? Ten? Lord, how she ached for him, wanted him with her and in her. And how she plagued herself, she scolded silently, toweling her hair dry. It would happen when it happened, when he was ready, when he had exorcised the devils that haunted him. She stood and bent forward at the waist, let her hair fall over her head so she could brush it out. Only one thing to do, she thought, even then fantasizing him emerging from the water, wet and aroused, coming to her and not even waiting for her to lie down.…

“I have to stop this!” she said aloud, straightening and slapping the back of the brush against her thigh until she could no longer stand the stinging. “It's stupid and silly … depraved!” It wasn't though, she knew. Any normal, healthy woman would feel the same way. What, after all, was more normal than wanting your husband to make love to you? If she could just talk to True, make him understand how she felt, he might … But she had, in a hundred ways. A look, a touch, a tender word.

Quickly, not able to bear the soft touch of the air on her skin any longer, she pulled on her clothes. The sun seemed a little duller, the green of the grass less vibrant as she walked back to the cabin. She could see True driving the wagon back from the spring, and went inside without waiting for him or saying anything. The stove was hot, the coffee pot and stew-pot both steaming. Working mechanically, she set out plates, forks, and cups, took the biscuits out of the warming oven and put them on the table. “Damn harness. The cruppers broke. I'll fix 'em before I leave. Ought to be enough water to last until we get back, though,” True said, coming in the front door and going directly to the table.

“Back?” Elizabeth asked. “Oh. Yes.” She had forgotten that Hogjaw was due to come by that afternoon and that he and True were leaving that night to go hunting. She was about to ask him not to go when she noticed him studying her with an intensity she hadn't seen recently. “What is it?” she asked, a shade defensively.

“You. What you're wearing. Exactly the same as the first day we met.” He smiled without realizing it. “Only then you had a pistol pointed at me.”

Elizabeth almost answered sarcastically, then realized this show of humor was the healthiest sign she had seen in him in months. “Lucky for the likes of you, Mr. Paxton, that your name wasn't Holton … whatever it was.”

“Bagget,” True remembered. “Luckier for him I was there.” He handed her his plate, watched silently while she poured a dipperful of stew over his biscuits. “Life was simpler then, I think.”

“Not for me,” Elizabeth said. She fixed her own plate, sat across from him. “Nor for you, either, really.”

“At least I was sure of myself. Knew where I was going, what I wanted, more or less what I was going to do.”

“And now?” Elizabeth asked.

True's eyes dropped and he concentrated on his stew. The veins in his neck stood out. The muscles in his forearms bulged and his hands balled into fists. At last, with great effort, he forced himself to relax, and picked up his fork. “And now I'm going to eat. And then split some kindling. You're about out. I'll make sure you have enough for three or four days. We should be back by then. I still wish you'd stay with Lottie.”

“That's no answer,” Elizabeth replied.

The cabin seemed still and close. True cut a chunk of gristle out of his stew, took another mouthful.

“What you wanted to do was be with me,” Elizabeth finally said. She felt faint, but couldn't stop, had to go on and ask. “Has that changed?”

He couldn't look her in the eye. The stew had lost its taste.

Has it? Has it changed? Have I stopped wanting her?

“I can't think anymore, Elizabeth. I'm tired of trying.” He put down his fork, shoved his plate away from him. “Let's just let the minutes come and go. Maybe time will bring me answers.”

“And I'm supposed to sit here and wait?” Elizabeth demanded more shrilly than she intended. “Is that it?”

“You do what you have to do. That's all anyone can expect of another.” He pushed away from the table and stood. “What's certain is that there's kindling to be split and harness to mend.”

“And our lives? Who will mend our lives, True?”

True paused in the doorway. Who would mend their lives? Not him, evidently. God knew he'd tried, but every time he thought he had it licked, he saw O'Shannon having his way with Elizabeth and the sickness returned. He'd told himself a thousand times it wasn't her fault, blamed himself for making life hell for her. Nothing worked, though. He felt himself less the man for having to admit it, but he could find no way out: his only hope was to confront O'Shannon. And the only way he was going to see O'Shannon was if Travis and three quarters of the rest of the people in Texas got their wish. “With a little bit of luck,” he finally answered with a short, bitter laugh, “maybe Santa Anna.”

Elizabeth watched him go, listened to his boots hard on the porch, then soft in the dirt. Santa Anna, she thought, no less bitterly than True. She stared into her coffee, found herself wishing she had some milk to put in it. Here she was, her face sun and wind burned, her hands calloused, her fingernails broken, her hair tangled, and her whole body aching from hard work. All of which she would have endured gladly if he were returning her love. He wasn't, though. He was making bad jokes. And all Elizabeth wanted to do was rage.

She ate a biscuit instead.

New harness was out of the question, given the money spent to effect True's release from Mexico. The old had been mended one more time and hung ready for use again. True headed for the woodpile. He didn't mind splitting cordwood, but kindling was a chore he disliked. Disgruntled, he pulled a half dozen larger, dry oak logs from the pile and tossed them next to the chopping block. He had left the ax sunk deep in the block so the edge wouldn't rust, and he had to jerk it three or four times to free it before he set to work. With one hand holding the log, the other wielding the ax, he split piece after thin piece until they piled up around his feet and he had to kick them aside.

Long ago on the Mississippi. In Natchez Under the Hill. Lucky for you your name wasn't Holton whatever it was.

God, but she was pretty. Angry, but pretty. And later, the next morning, by the campfire
…

“This is Elizabeth Michaelson.”

Look at the way her hair flashes. Her eyes, open, frank, full of fire and ice. This is the girl I want. This is the woman I will marry.

“We've met.…”

The drumming of hooves intruded on his thoughts.
Hogjaw? From that way? Should be coming from …

He looked up in time to save his life. A Mexican soldier wielding a long, iron-tipped lance, was thundering down on him. Dust exploded from the hooves of the charging horse. The soldier's mouth was a crescent of teeth, lips curled back in a roar of triumph. True yelled and threw himself to one side. The tip of the lance missed him by a fraction of an inch, dug a furrow in the soft earth as the horseman rode past.

“Hey!” True leaped to his feet and swung around as a second lancer, eyes wide with battle lust, bore in for the kill. On reflex, True grabbed and swung the ax. The heavy blade drove the wooden lance upward before biting into the soldier's side. The lancer shrieked and toppled from his horse, jerking the ax from True's grasp. True whirled to see the first rider charging him again. Weaponless, he dove over the pile of kindling and out of lance range. Just as he hit the ground, he heard the crack of a rifle. The soldier dropped his lance as he was blown out of the saddle and rolled to a grotesque stop, lying dead and bleeding on the earth.

True grabbed a billet and came to his feet. Elizabeth was standing in the house, framed by the window. Black smoke curled from the rifle she held. “Watch the door!” he yelled at her, hearing the commotion of a third horseman at the front of the house. Moving fast, he snatched up the second rider's lance and rounded the cabin in time to see Hogjaw reining in Mama.

“What the hell's going on?”

“Soldiers! Around there!” True yelled, pointing. “May be more. Keep an eye out. Elizabeth!” he yelled, heading for the door. “It's me coming in. Don't shoot!”

He found her still staring out the window at the man she had killed. “Oh, my God,” she was saying, over and over. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.…”

“No time for that,” True said, taking the rifle from her and running to the fireplace to reload immediately.

“Oh, my God.…”

There were no other soldiers in sight. Hogjaw left the one Elizabeth had shot and moved toward the other soldier, who was still alive. True grabbed Elizabeth, spun her away from the window. He ripped aside the curtain that separated their bedroom from the rest of the cabin and shoved her toward the chifforobe. “Get together what you can. Some warm clothes, a little food. Don't take long. I'll saddle Firetail and the bay mare. Hurry.”

“I killed him,” Elizabeth said, dazed. Suddenly, she doubled over and began to vomit.

True held her while the spasms tore at her and then led her outside to the porch. “Hogjaw?”

“Right here,” the mountain man said, coming around the corner.

“Well?”

“They're both dead. One said something about a whole army before he passed on. We better get movin'.”

The second lancer's horse ambled around the side of the house, and stopped to look at them. Elizabeth was sitting on the steps. “'Lizabeth,” Hogjaw said, dropping to one knee in front of her. “Come on. We got to get outa here.”

“I killed him,” Elizabeth whispered, staring at her hands.

“Yes, ma'am. A good shot, too.”

“I never … have …”

“I know. It ain't easy the first time. Ain't something a person ought to have to do or see.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Call on Him all you like, 'Lizabeth. Just remember, though, He could have made you miss if'n He'd wanted you to.” He took her by the hand, helped her to her feet. “C'mon, now. Let's get ready. There's more where them first two came from.”

True rode out of the barn on Firetail, detoured past the lancer he had wounded. A fresh stain of blood from his throat wetted the ground. Hogjaw had been swift and merciless. Whatever the lancer had said about more soldiers coming had been the last words he had spoken. Elizabeth and Hogjaw were just emerging from the house as he came around the corner.

“Some warm clothes and enough food to last a few days.” Hogjaw said, throwing a pair of saddle bags over Firetail and another over Elizabeth's bay.

“Good,” True said. “Mount up and let's ride, then. We have to warn the others.”

Hogjaw helped Elizabeth onto her horse and caught up Mama. “Best get a better idea of what we're gonna warn 'em against, first,” he said, nodding toward the ridge on the far side of the river. “We'll take a look from up there. Keep to the trees and it won't take us that much longer.” He booted his mule in the ribs and started off. “Let's go, Mama.”

Elizabeth didn't move. True sidled Firetail up to her, touched her on the arm. “Elizabeth?” he asked.

“I'm … I'm on my way,” she said grimly, and rode after Hogjaw.

True took up the rear, turning in his saddle for one last look. The first flies were already gathering around the dead men. The cabin, only a few minutes ago a symbol of safety, a haven, looked small and vulnerable. Suddenly, he wasn't at all sure he wanted to leave it. Certainly not for Santa Anna, and maybe not even for the Irishman who was sure to ride at his side.

The lancers had come from almost due west. Hogjaw, Elizabeth, and True rode south across the meadow, forded the river, crossed the south quarter section of bottom land, and started the climb up the cedar-choked slope. Once out of the open, not wishing to overtax their mounts, they slowed the pace to little more than a walk. Within twenty minutes, they reached the rounded summit of the ridge, where they dismounted and tied their horses before crawling through the final few yards of cover.