Paxton Pride (20 page)

The ship skirted Matagorda and, sails full of the strong southerly wind from her port side, darted by Galveston, following the curve of the Gulf of Mexico to Corpus Christi Bay. Vance Paxton, his dream at his side, was returning to Texas. Gulls like ancient Viking craft caught in the maelstrom of the sky whirled, dipped close, winged upward, ever circling, their cries echoing over sea and swell, carrying beyond the salt flats of the Nueces River, beyond the ramshackle false-front buildings of Corpus Christi, to be swallowed by the quiet vastness of the coastal plain. Corpus Christi …

“Dammit!” Vance cursed aloud. He rested his brawny forearms on the rail of the schooner, took the makings from the side slit pocket of his ruffled Mexican shirt and rolled a cigarette. He stared down at the muddy shallows and cursed again

This was a hell of a sight for Karen's first glimpse of Texas. Oh, he had nothing against the town personally, but Galveston, with its hotels, theaters and fine restaurants, now there was the Lone Star State he wanted his intended to first experience so she could see Texas was more than some rawbone frontier, uncouth and unpolished. But Captain Beeman had pointedly avoided Galveston. Vance couldn't blame him, had even concurred in the decision. With a yellow fever epidemic ravaging the town, only a fool would have docked, much less spent time there. Yellow fever … of all the damnable luck.

He glanced wistfully down the ship toward Karen's door. She would still be asleep, warm, snug and good to hold in his arms, the kind of woman to make a man curse the morning hours alone, driven from bed to a day's work.

Or so he imagined, for Karen slept alone as she had the entire trip. Separated by nothing more than a bulkhead of wooden planking, he had honored her wish that they wait to consummate their love until their wedding night. For seventeen long days, interminable to Vance, they had talked of Washington and their pasts, of Texas and their future, held hands at the rail as they passed down the churning Atlantic, through the blissfully peaceful Straits of Florida and into the quiet Gulf of Mexico. In the evenings they had eaten with Captain Beeman and spent long hours in conversation, Karen mostly listening while Vance and the old seadog swapped stories. Later Vance would walk her to her cabin, kiss her gently—she had found, on the first night out, how dangerously seductive a more lingering touch could be—and leave her, his footsteps fading quickly into the creak of line and wood, the murmur of wind in the rigging. After a final smoke with the old man he would retire to his own cabin and quietly pace the floor. Talk was all well and good, but the woman he loved was near … so very near … near enough to drive him into a rage of vexatious frustration. Damn Washington morality!—a laugh if the Leightons were any example. Still, Karen wanted to wait. He loved her and so he would, damning the hours and the thin plank wall between them. For seventeen nights he slept alone, wrapped in solitude and plagued by dreams. But finally the voyage was over, and behind him the door to his empty cabin swung open and closed as the schooner rocked gently to and fro on the slight chop as the wind kicked up a notch. He inhaled the tobacco, relishing its strong earthy flavor and blowing a cloud of pale smoke into the sea-warmed air.

“Corpus Christi sunrise,” Captain Beeman said as he approached the tall, ruggedly handsome young man leaning on the rail amidships. “Glass is goin' down. That and the water and the swell buildin' up behind us when we came through Aransas Pass … must be a storm brewin' out in the Gulf. Sorry about havin' to pass by Galveston. Well dock in about twenty minutes.”

“Nothing to be done, Captain. There's a stage line running from here, and it's closer by eighty miles to San Antonio. I imagine we'll get there all right. Maybe even in time for the Fourth.” Vance shoved away from the rail and sauntered back toward his cabin, tossing the smouldering remains of his cigarette into the bay. The cabin was illuminated by the faint morning light, the air cooler with the door open behind him. The shallow bunk was rumpled and unkempt, the emptiness symbolic of the empty feeling in his loins. Placing his two carpetbags on the mattress, he opened one and reached beneath the folded shirts, removed a belt and a handgun snugly fitted into a worn leather holster. He untied the leather thong and took the pistol, a .44 caliber army Colt, in his hand and spun the cylinder to check the load, then replaced the weapon in its holster and swung the belt around his narrow hips.

How long? How many days since he'd felt the reassuring weight at his side? Three months? His hand fitted the hard bois d'arc grip comfortably and the gun slid out effortlessly, smoothly. A sixth sense told him eyes were watching and he glanced over his shoulder in time to see Captain Beeman standing near the ship's rail and studying him. For a moment their eyes locked in silent communication, then Beeman averted his gaze, shouted an order to the first mate and went on his way. Vance dropped the weapon into the worn leather, pulled it out again and again, his hand moving faster and faster each time until it was a blur, the pistol leaping free of the leather and into his palm, ready to fire at imaginary targets. Finally satisfied, he left the weapon in the holster and shrugged on his traveling coat, the front opening in a wide slash to either side, allowing him instant and deadly access to the .44. When the carpetbags were repacked and closed he left them on the bunk and went back out on deck, glancing at the dark line under the door to Karen's cabin. The thought came unbidden to his mind, how she must look at that moment, all sleepy and tousled, her gown, perhaps, pulled up in sleep to reveal the curve of her legs, the …

Desire welled in him. The very thought of her was a heady narcotic. More than any woman he'd known, he wanted Karen Hampton. He found his hand raised to knock on her door but thought better of it and pushed away to walk toward the bow where Beeman and the other two passengers were clustered, watching as the boat glided softly toward the mouth of the Neuces River and her dock.

The sharp cries of the crew awakened her. Karen yawned, thrusting her arms into the air. She sat up slowly, thinking of her bath, then realized where she was. There would be no bath this morning. There would be no Retta. Not ever again. The thought struck her suddenly, an almost savage realization.

The Captain said they would be in port come morning. It
was
morning. Golden shimmering streams of reflected sunshine sifted through the shuttered porthole over her head, filling the air with softspun light. The room was stuffy. She rose, attired herself in a dressing gown and threw back the shutters. She could see the long line of graying wooden shacks that ran along the featureless shore. Good heavens! The harbor was a veritable slum. Vainly she raised her eyes to see the inland part of town. More shacks, a dusty street and falsefront stores, none over a story tall. Just like in the magazines. She sighed with relief. A faint line of bluffs, no more than twenty feet high, stood back a quarter mile from the docks. The town proper must be back from the edge of the bluffs, back where she couldn't see it. No doubt a carriage would meet them and they would ride to their hotel before spending a day sightseeing.

As she watched, the schooner pulled nearer and nearer to the dock, bumped softly into the piering and stopped, barely rocking on the remnants of a tidal swell which ran upriver from the bay, there to dissipate in the shallow salt flats lining the lower banks of the Nueces. Lines from the ship flew through the air and men on shore grabbed them and looped them around huge posts, hurried about to set up a gangplank and prepare for unloading. Soon it would be time to disembark. Good heavens, she had to dress!

“Karen!” She jumped in alarm. Vance pounded on her door. “Karen, time to go.” She could see the shadow of his feet at the bottom of the door as they turned and left. What would have happened if he'd come in and seen her as she stood there? The fantasy swelled to life. She pressed the sponge between her breasts, ran it down along her stomach, trying to imagine what it would be like if he were there with her to guide the sponge with delicious bathing strokes over her flesh. She shuddered with arousal, opened her eyes and stepped back quickly from the basin, toweling herself vigorously. There would be time for all such intimacies. Soon, now … soon.

She selected a corset and traveling gown from the trunk and dressed rapidly in the quiet island stillness of the cabin as the ship gently rocked back and forth to the tune of tiny wavelets lapping against the hull. Outside she was dimly aware of the shouting, boisterous crew as they set to work unloading the vessel. The voyage was over for them too. Their work would soon be done and they would have a night in port, some of them, perhaps, with their families.…

The homesickness hit her again, harder than before. She sat dully on her bed, remembering home then forcing herself up and about the business of doing her hair. As she worked she listened intently, studying each sound not out of any particular interest in the sound itself, but rather to keep from thinking. Why now? Why today, this morning, had these feelings beset her? Because she was to disembark? Because from now on she would be in Texas, a bride with responsibilities, obligated to learn all the ways of a strange land? Her family.… Her family was in Washington, lost to her forever, her father immersed in his world of finance and politics, her mother preoccupied with the whims of social prestige and both tied to the irrevocable past. Unbidden, the image of her father on that fatal afternoon sprung to mind and suddenly she wanted to find Vance, needed to be near his reassuring strength. She fitted herself into the dress as rapidly as possible.

Vance was standing near the bow of the ship, speaking to Captain Beeman. He turned as the door closed quietly behind her, mysteriously aware of her presence without seeing or hearing her. She watched him excuse himself from the Captain, turn and start toward her. But there was something different about him. As he walked a hint of a breeze sprung up and caught the corner of his coat.
My God! He's wearing a gun! Whatever
…?
Why
…?

Returned to his native soil, the change in Vance's appearance was due to more than the wearing of a gun. He was near home now. He could smell and see Texas, feel it in his bones. Every nerve was strung tight, every muscle on edge in anticipation. He was all too aware of the way Karen's eyes were drawn to the weapon resting at his thigh, but decided to wait until she said something. “Darling,” he said in a near whisper. “We're home. This is Texas.”

She continued to stare. “Vance. That's a gun. You have a gun.”

“Of course. Don't look so horrified. Your father had an entire wall rack full of guns.”

“But he never … carried one around on the street.”

“The streets we'll be walking, where there are any, it's best to
always
carry one.”

“Really, Vance, you exaggerate.”

His eyes narrowed and his tone became deadly serious. “There is one thing you have to realize, Karen. Life here is different than in Washington. There will be no police standing one to a corner. Away from the major towns a person is on his own. There are bad men here. And Indians. If the good men didn't wear guns, they wouldn't stay alive. I love you too much not to want to be able to protect you.”

Karen smiled demurely. She had heard the stories over and over again, but like many an Easterner born to wealth she simply didn't believe half of what she'd heard. “I think you're being much too serious. But what you say is very sweet.” Her face drew close to his. The faint odor of lilac of the first night they had kissed, made him yearn to hold her again, kiss her deeply and drink in the very passion of her nearness.

“You'd best get your bags ready,” Vance said gruffly. “We'll be off in a few moments.” His voice was harder than necessary, and for a moment Karen's eyes clouded.

“I'm almost ready. A few more things.”

“Get them ready. A man will take them shortly.”

She paused briefly then returned to her cabin, perplexed at his sudden change of mood. Behind her, Vance's face set in a determined frown. Her reaction to the gun bothered him. They'd discussed this many times before and he had been sure she understood. Good grief, had she agreed solely for the sake of agreement? Had she learned nothing, listened not at all to his stories of the frontier?

His thought was interrupted by a sailor. “Ready to take the lady's duffel off, sir. And yours, if you will.”

“Mine is on my bunk,” Vance told him shortly. “I'll check on the lady myself, then let you know.”

The sailor touched his cap lightly. “Aye, sir.”

Vance strode to Karen's cabin, knocked gently. “We're about ready, Karen.”

The door opened and she stood there, face serious for a moment until she could assess his mood, then brightening when he smiled at her. “Everything is packed.”

“Good.” He offered her his arm and turned toward amidships, calling over his shoulder to the sailor who was emerging from his cabin. “You may get the lady's duffel now.”

Captain Beeman watched them coming and marveled anew at the girl. By Neptune, she was a beauty! A face and body to set the blood of an old sea dog roiling. He hid the twinge of jealousy. “Your trunks are already off and on the way to the stage depot,” he said, meeting them at the forward gangplank and nodding slightly to Karen. “You may go ashore any time.” He looked closely at Vance. The two men had spent many a late hour during the voyage and he had grown to like the tall, spare Texan. He wished him well and was glad to see him wearing the gun, gladder yet to have caught a glimpse of him as he handled it, for stories of violence were rife all up and down the seaboard. Reconstruction, as elsewhere in the south, was a harsh and emotional time, a time during which the voice of anger and gunfire too often drowned out that of good will and reason. By now news of Vance's speech before the Congress would have gotten back home. Vance was a known man and his stance would not be looked upon with favor, at least not by the scalawags and carpetbaggers who still retained control of the state government. Governor Davis' hated State Police had been dissolved during his absence, but still men went armed and feelings ran high. He held out his hand and Vance took it with a sure, strong grip. “Luck,” he said.