Paxton Pride (33 page)

But even as Marcelina whirled and her hands lifted to strike, something fell from her waist where it had been tucked in the top of her skirt … a cameo pendant on a chain of gold. Both pair of eyes went to the heirloom on the floor. Caught in the act of thievery, Marcelina shrunk back, her momentary confusion giving Karen the time she needed to recover. “Pick that up,” she quietly ordered with all the self-assurance at her command. Marcelina stared sullenly at the woman before her. “You were going through my things. You attempted to steal from me. I should imagine this household would be displeased by your conduct.”

“They would not believe you.”

“No?”

“No,” Marceline hissed, confidence blazing anew in her eyes.

Karen smiled coldly, turned and walked to a large armchair in the corner of the room. “Pick up the pendant and hand it to me. It is a highly treasured keepsake. Now do as I say. At once.” Karen's eyes were stern, her voice steady and compelling, shaped by years of practice handling servants.

Marcelina's gaze wavered and protests died in her eyes under the uncompromising gaze. Finally she could stare into the green eyes no longer. She knelt and picked up the cameo, thrust it toward Karen with a small, work-hardened hand. “I was looking through your clothes. Just looking. You have pretty clothes.”

“Thank you,” Karen said, relaxing her guard.

“They are pretty but they are not made for here. They will tear and wear away because this land is not for them. And you. You are not a woman for this land. You are not woman enough for
Señor
Vance. You are like your clothes. What happens to them will happen to you.”

“And who is woman enough for
Señor
Vance?” Karen asked, somewhat bemused.

Marcelina thrust her small pointed breasts against the fabric of her blouse, the dark nipples brown beneath the white cotton. “I have fought Indians beside the men. I have no use for …
trunks.
” The young girl spun away and was through the door, leaving Karen at a loss, wondering just what else this Marcelina had done beside the men. And one man in particular. Slowly she raised her hands, looked at them; soft, white, dainty and unused to work. Sternly she quelled a tremor of apprehension as she remembered Marcelina's, which were work-worn, dark and hard. “I have fought Indians,” she had said. With a toss of her head, Karen rose and headed for the trunks the girl so despised.

True was in the living room when she entered. He stared at her with obvious amazement, his eyes appraising her riding apparel. “I was gonna have Maruja send up some clothes for you,” he said, trying to be polite.

“Thank you, Mr. Paxton I have plenty to wear.” Still he studied her and she colored. “This is for riding.”

“Oh.”

Maruja stepped out from the dining room. “The
señorita
is hungry?”

“No thank you. I thought I'd go for a ride.”

True turned to Maruja. “You bring that food up to Elizabeth?”

“
Si
. But she says she is not hungry. So I take it back to the kitchen.”

“I don't care if she's hungry or not. A body that thin ought to be eatin'. Now you step right around an' bring it back up to her. An' tell her I'll be along to see that she eats it, too.”

Maruja threw up her hands in exasperation and headed back to the kitchen. True headed for the stairs, stopping only once to suggest Karen take one of the men to escort her if she wanted to ride. “An' make sure they give you a gentle horse,” he added.

“I can ride perfectly well.”

He looked back at her, his eyes sharp and uncannily piercing. “I 'spect you can. Northern horses. These are Texas mustangs, work horses, most of 'em barely broke to saddle. You'll find 'em notional and hard to handle an' I won't have you ridin' 'em. An' by the way. I sent a rider out for the preacher. Ought to be here tomorrow or the day after. If you got clothes in mind to get married in, you best set 'em out. Maruja'll help you get 'em ready.” He watched to see what effect the information would have.

Karen forced her expression into one of total placidity. “Where is Vance? I thought I might ride with him.”

“We got a ranch to run here. He's workin',” came the curt reply as he turned to follow Maruja up the stairs.

Karen waited for them to disappear, then changing her mind about her projected excursion for the moment, decided to explore the house. She walked down the hall to a door at the far end, slid back the bolt and stepped out into a vine-covered courtyard separating the kitchen on her left from Maruja and Marcelina's quarters on the right. The vines above offered a pleasant dappled shade in contrast to the glare of the sun on the dusty ground of the compound. The air was heavy with the scent of rose and the smell of water on dust. Morning glories, their delicate purple and blue fronts not yet closed to the morning sun, covered the kitchen wall to her left and a bed of brilliant magenta fan-shaped flowers covered the ground to her right. Bees buzzed industriously all about, content to search and dip for nectar and leave the more confusing tasks of living to the humans who had gone to all the trouble of planting the flowers. The door to Maruja's room opened and Marcelina stepped onto the patio. Hesitating briefly when she saw Karen, she lifted her head high and stalked impudently past her rival with a flourish of skirts, leaving the patio for the nearby garden where Maruja kept colorful rows of spices, peppers and gourds. Karen followed a few steps then stopped, uncertain of what she should say, what overtures of friendliness she might extend. Beyond Marcelina was a larger garden where all the food for the house was grown. The girl picked a few peppers and moved on to the vegetables. Karen sighed to herself: what the girl felt for Vance was obvious and anything she said would be wrong.

Impulsively she strode back through the hacienda and across the compound where a ranch hand tipped his hat and opened the main gate for her. Karen headed for the bunkhouse and the solitary cowboy knotting strips of rawhide into a long, twisted quirt in the shade of the overhung roof. “Excuse me?”

The cowboy leaped to his feet, fumbling for his hat. “Yes'm?”

“I should like to go riding.”

“Ma'am?” he asked, unable to keep his eyes from her riding habit.

“Would you prepare a horse for me?”

“Prepare …?” He glanced nervously about, not quite understanding. Women on the Paxton spread always did for themselves. “Oh, saddle one up. Yes'm. Be glad to.” He turned from the door and the corral, close to his left, and headed to the right for a long, low barn. Karen shot a perplexed look at the horses in the corral and followed him. The barn was cool, and when her eyes had adjusted to the darkness she could make out five stalls, each of which held a horse to match any of her father's. “We keep all the gear for ladies in here. Ain't been used much, what with Elizabeth bein' laid up.”

“Doesn't Marcelina ride?”

“Yes, ma'am, but she rides the corral stock.” He took the trappings from a wall and saddled a chestnut mare, then led it out the front of the barn and helped Karen mount.

“Thank you, Mr.…”

“Harley Guinn, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Mr. Guinn.” She touched a riding crop to the animal and rode out at a canter, not noticing the strange rider who pulled into view around the corral and stopped to talk to Harley.

She headed down the valley, keeping fairly near the line of cypress masking the course of the Sabinal. Before an hour had passed she could make out the cedar brake up ahead and guided her mare down to the river's edge, crossing in the shallows where the water ran clear and cool over a bar of white gravel. For a moment she paused, considering whether or not to ride through the tunnel, then decided not to, instead turned to the west and followed a broad path leading into the hills. She rode through clusters of mesquite gradually giving way to scrub cedar which in turn died out as taller varieties of juniper took over. The horse climbed steadily upward, following the path as if it had come this way a number of times and knew her destination.

The chestnut crested the hill and, a few paces later, stopped. Karen stared about her, eyes wide with wonder as she dismounted silently and tied the reins loosely to a post. The top of the hill was nearly flat, an acre or two in extent. Ahead of her two ancient, gnarled cedars twisted from years of wind and weather were the only trees in sight. She walked slowly toward them through the almost knee-high grass. Under the trees the grass was cut back in a small area bounded by a low, black wrought iron fence, inside of which stood three crosses, each no more than two feet high, made of the same twisted cedar, impervious to wind or rain. Around her was silence, utter and complete save for the sudden rush of wind which came from the south and whispered through the grass, bowing it in graceful sweeps across the slight crown of land.

It's beautiful.… it's beautiful
. She stepped over the small fence and approached the graves reverently. The names were burned on the crosses, deep blackened letters standing out starkly on the weathered gray of lumber.

SARAH ANN PAXTON

Our daughter

February 18, 1837—February 22, 1837

Karen stared blindly at the dates. Four days. Four short days and no more, to see, to feel, to.…

Her eyes misted and her throat swelled, hot with the tears which she forced back as she made herself read the others.

MAURICE LEAKEY PAXTON

Our son

September 19, 1841—October 17, 1851

He died like a man
.

Only ten years old, and died like a man? A boy's life to save a colt? The thought sickened her and a deep bitterness surged through her at the misplaced pride implied in the inscription. Like a man? No!
I will not accept that
.

The last one she could hardly bear to read
.

LEE HOUSTON PAXTON

Our son

May 7, 1839—June 19, 1863

His spirit rests here in the Hills

Three of your own flesh and blood
.… The windswept crown of the hill and the two cedars. Underneath them the lives and deaths, the hopes and loves. To the south lay the prairie, empty and rolling away as far as vision itself. The majestic expanse, across which the eyes of the dead could see infinity. There they could ride the wind, taste with bitterness or joy—who knew which?—the tang of life. To the north lay the mountains—high, rugged peaks, green and brown in the summer sun. Lower, a white dot of snowflake on summer-drenched land, were the buildings of the ranch. Home. Home nestled in the hills. Home of life contending against season and sorrow. Home of warmth. Home where hope and love lie collected in the heart.

Perhaps Elizabeth was right. Perhaps there was more here than she, Karen the outsider, could see or understand. If Vance were right, Elizabeth would soon be lying here with her children, collected in their hope and love. A shadow brushed the grass and Karen shivered and looked up. A buzzard, low to see more closely who stood alone, rose with the current in a great, circling, waiting arc.
Fifty-six. Only fity-six years … No!

“You are Miss Hampton?”

Karen shrieked, startled by the sound of the voice of death calling her name. She spun to see a horseman dismount. He had ridden up the back of the hill and, his horse's hooves muffled by the deep grass, approached her silently as she stood lost in thought. the man was shorter than Vance but nevertheless exuded an almost tangible aura of purpose and strength. His skin was a reddish copper color, his eyes black and totally unrevealing of his inner thoughts. His hair hung long across his chest in two thick braids and he wore faded jeans and an equally faded blue work shirt. A huge knife was sheathed at his waist.
An Indian!
Karen felt panic as all the dime-novel stories of the depredations of the savages spun through her memory. But the Indian was smiling.

“I am Ted Morning Sky.”

Karen blushed, suddenly feeling very foolish. “You … you're Vance's friend. He spoke of you.”

“Sorry if I frightened you. I thought you heard me. Harley told me you were going riding and I didn't think you should go alone. He said Vance brought you all the way from Washington.”

“Yes. We're to be … married.”

The Indian nodded. “It is good. A man should take a woman to him.” He glanced at the sky and the sun high overhead. “It is very hot. You are not used to the heat. The trail can be dangerous. Come.” He paused, looking at her dress.

“What is it?” Karen asked defensively.

Ted Morning Sky pointed at her clothing. “That was not made for this country,” he said. “It will never last.”

She looked at herself. The fashionable riding dress was torn and full of burrs and thorns, the fabric ripped nearly to shreds almost to her knees. When she looked up again he had turned his horse and started down the trail. Suddenly frightened, she ran for her horse, his words echoing in her mind. “Will never last. Wasn't made for this country … will never last.…”

“Do you, Karen Olivia Hampton …” From the moment the Reverend Robert Straw appeared at the gates time had ceased its meaning for Karen. An unalterable tide of events began its course and though she could not quite bring herself to realize what was happening she went through the motions and functioned as if she did. The preacher's voice droned on, his words seeping through a distant wall of unreality and mingling sleepily with the buzzing of the diligent, ever-searching bees. Karen could see and feel the heat rising from the compound. That was real enough. And the festive mixture of Mexican and Indian decorations was real. Wonderfully and exotically native, they lent a primitive magic to the ceremony celebrating a marriage … her marriage.