Paxton Pride (37 page)

But the woman he had brought from Washington stood by no one's side, much less his. She would not learn, would neither consent nor deign to let Maruja or Marcelina teach her what she needed to know in order to be useful in any sense of the word. Then, when for some still unfathomable reason she did start to listen—and despite the way she'd been acting he would not believe it had anything to do with the baby—she went about it in an unfeeling, clinical, calculated manner with no sense or pride or love of the work itself. Worst of all, she lay in bed at night with her back to him as if they were strangers, though she was carrying his child. Strangers? Seeing her there by the fence, watching him.… Damn, but he wanted her. The ride had punished him terribly, but in spite of the multitude of aches and pains his body screamed for the touch of her flesh.
She has kept herself from me
.… So he had taken out his frustrations on the bronc, goading the unsuspecting animal into even a greater frenzy than necessary, then racing him away, challenging him, meeting him on his own ground.

The exhausted mustang nibbled wearily in the shade of an oak. But Vance's own raging emotions had yet to subside, distracting him so completely he failed to see the grulla's ears flare back in warning, failed to note the presence of another horse until he heard the sound of a hoof striking a stone. The first thing he realized was he had no weapon. No Indian or outlaw would make so much noise, but a man could ill afford to take chances. Moving slowly and cautiously, he backed into a cove of cedar and oak behind the spring and stood concealed in the shadows, ready to right or run as the situation dictated.

Karen
…?! He stepped from the shadow as she dismounted, tethered the blue roan to a nearby root and stood before him, staring at him as if she'd never seen him before.

She had followed in a trance-like state. The men distracted at the corral, none paid any attention when she unobtrusively walked away from them to the barn, threw a hackamore onto the roan and rode off bareback as she had as a child in New Hampshire so long ago. But she wasn't a child now. She was a woman with a woman's body and a woman's needs. She did not know any more what she felt in her heart, nor was she concerned. Her body demanded this man and by some undemonstrable rationale her mind accepted her body's knowledge: here was
some
thing, something tangible on which she could build. She was close to him now and his naked torso glistened with sweat.
He smells of sweat, of heat, of animal strength. Like a
… She searched for the word, then found it …
a stallion
.

She stood silently in front of him. Her hands moved languorously, undoing buttons and untying secret bows until the riding dress and her underclothing fell away, leaving her naked. Still he had not moved so she stepped close enough for her nipples to stroke the sweat from his chest, close enough to feel his heat, see the unasked question in his eyes. She took one of his hands, kissed each finger then placed his palm against her abdomen then lower still into the moist triangle of hair below as she slowly and shamelessly rolled her hips from side to side and let the hardened callouses provoke the tip of her femininity. Moaning with the heat of arousal she moved her hands quickly and his own staff was free and eagerly rising, tumescent as her fingers encircled him.

The grass hummock was soft beneath her buttocks as she lay back with her legs open in a gesture of invitation. Vance knelt before her, slipped his hands under her hips and pulled her up to him as she reached for his throbbing instrument of love, spread the clear, slippery fluid over the swollen head then guided it to the feverish gates of her own desire. Her neck arched and she watched him slide into her, slowly sheath himself inch by inch until his length completely filled her. For long seconds neither moved, but rather watched the union of their flesh, watched while their breaths held then quickened, watched until they could stand it no longer and the floodgate of seed was unleashed. Karen shut her eyes, in ecstasy, caught in the rhythm of the warm pulsing flow.

“How did you find me?”

“I watched … knew you would head back for water for the horse. When I came over the hill I caught a glimpse of him at the water's edge.” She looked down at the length of warm flesh, teasing it with her fingertips.

Vance lay on his back, chuckled softly. “I'm glad you followed.”

“Shhhh. Don't talk. I've missed you. Let me …” She bent down to kiss away the single glistening white pearl on the tip of the drowsy flesh, then stayed to coax the soft spear back to rigidity.

The grulla stallion snorted and dipped its muzzle once again into the cool spring water, unable to quench a seemingly insatiable thirst. It had been a long, long ride.

CHAPTER VIII

“You can't do much with only two checkers. Not against my six.”

True snorted indignantly in response as he stared first at the board and then at Karen. “Your move,” he growled.

Karen smiled ingratiatingly. “I always used to beat my father at checkers, too.” It was the truth, though her father hadn't played with her since she was twelve years old, and even at that time was too distracted by business affairs to pay more than cursory attention to either his daughter or the board.

True scowled. “I ain't your father, an' you ain't won yet, young lady. I see two red kings on that board.”

“But I have six black.”

“Don't make no difference. Ain't the number. It's the gumption involved. Now, you gonna move or not? 'Course if you want to toss in your hat I'll accept your surrender, same terms as at Appomattox,” the senior Paxton chuckled. “Unconditional.”

Karen only shrugged. “I think not. Now, let me see.” Before she could move, Maruja entered from the outside allowing the cool night air to filter in. She hurried past the checker players and into the kitchen, reappearing almost immediately with an armful of clean rags.

“That mare foal yet?” True asked nervously, glancing up at the grandfather clock.

“Almost. It will be an easy birth, I think.
Señor
Vance says he needs no help. He requests the
señora
stay inside. He would not want her to catch a chill.”

“Ha! There's the problem. Coddlin' her,” he said, with a wink in Karen's direction. “That young What's About get back?”

“No,
señor
. I must hurry,” she answered in a swirl of skirts as a sudden gust tried to keep her from going out the door.

For a moment the only sound in the room was the steady tock tock of the grandfather clock. True rubbed his chin reflectively. “When'd you say he was supposed to get in?”

“Today. Vance told him not to leave until this morning. He should have been here by no later than three.”

“Reckon there's no cause for worry. Can't travel any too fast in a buckboard anyhow. Not like bein' on horseback. 'Sides, young feller like What's About, just natural gonna take more time than he has to, you let him loose in a town.” He paused, ineffectively trying to cover his worry. “'Course, he coulda broke a wheel … horse picked up a stone in a shoe.… Well, if he ain't in by mornin' we'll send someone out to take a look.” The old man returned his focus to the checker game, his fingers poised over first one piece then the other.

“It's still my move.”

“You mean you ain't moved yet?” he asked in mock astonishment. “Why, I thought …”

“It's my move.”

“Humph. I never seen the like. Well, if you ain't gonna fold your hand then make your play.”

Karen moved one of her kings, boxing him so effectively even True could see he'd lose the game in another move, Hope fled from his face and he stared glumly at the board, made the only move left to him. “Dadgummit! I never could win with red.”

“Would you like black again?” Karen asked sweetly, jumping his two remaining pieces and lifting them from the board.

“No. Not after you beat me three times runnin' with 'em,” he grumped, hands on knees and eyes staring dolefully at the six black pieces.

“I'm sorry, but those are the only colors.”

“I know,” he replied curtly. Then his face softened. “Elizabeth always used to beat me at checkers, too. Once when Vance was just a little 'un we were snowed in for a week. Couldn't move out the door. I must've lost fifty games of checkers. Never could play the dadburned game, an' never did learn to play nothin' else.”

Karen remained silent, caught off guard by True's unexpected candor. He paused, piling the checkers and dropping them one by one from between his fingers. “She thought a lot of you. Told me so the night after you come. Right happy, she was, that Vance brought you here.”

A branch popped in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks onto the hearth and giving True the opportunity to escape the table and the situation into which he'd talked himself. He was a man given to hiding his emotions and sentimental talk always embarrassed him. His was the direct way, the way of action. Let others read his meaning, which, if they cared, was there for all to see. But this girl, pretty though she was, was different. Jumpy. On edge. Maybe she needed the words. Some people did. Elizabeth had been a good judge of character and True, although he'd been reluctant to give in, had finally convinced himself he owed his wife that much.

Karen was stunned by his words. She had sensed a gradual change in her father-in-law over the last month or so but assumed his new outlook stemmed from her condition. Now she must consider the possibility of a real change, an inner one reaching further than his concern for the continuation of the Paxton line and accepting her for herself, for her own worth as a human being. The man bent over the fire, coaxing the embers into life and sending a new shower of tiny glowing stars up into the chimney. Karen was glad his back was turned for she too, though grateful, was embarrassed by the necessity for words, for by a sudden insight she saw she had forced them by her intransigence, by her refusal to, as True would have said, “read the sign.” She moved a checker across the board, sliding it from red square to black square, weaving a pattern around the five other black kings. First the strange, new, growing relationship with Vance and now … a gentling of what she had considered. True's contempt for her and what she stood for.

The old man left the fire and returned to the table, his face flushed from the heat of the flames. “Mesquite makes good burnin' wood. Need it Gettin' a mite chilly. That norther's stronger than I expected for this early.”

“At least it isn't raining. In Washington it would be damp and wet as well.”

“That's the trouble with them eastern states, they.…”

“Yes, Mr. Paxton?” Karen interrupted, ready to parry whatever verbal barb he might choose to hurl. A week—even a day or an hour ago—she would have bristled at the regional slur, but with her new appraisal of True's opinion of her, she realized that would she only permit it, the rivalry would take on the good-natured aspects of a game.

Instead of answering, True stiffened, grew suddenly serious and quiet. “What …?” Karen began.

True motioned her to be quiet as he left the table and hurried to the door, throwing it open and staring into the dark. Only then did Karen hear the sounds of a commotion outside the protective walls. Tightening the shawl around her shoulders she joined True at the door as the main gate opened and Vance hurried through, followed by several of the ranch hands who immediately took up positions along the adobe walls. “What happened?”

Vance hurried into the house, brushing past them and crossing to the wall rack to take down a pair of rifles. He checked the loads and scooped a handful of shells into his pocket as he spoke. “What's About just came in riding one of the sorrels.”

“The buckboard an' other horse?”

“Had to leave them. One of Jaco's bunch shot the animal. What's About managed to cut the live one free and slip past them.”

True stiffened imperceptibly at the mention of the outlaw's name, steeled himself to show no further reaction. “How did he know it was Jaco?”

“Cirilio Viega told him before he died.” Karen felt her blood turn frigid and she gave a sharp cry of horror. Vance looked up, noticing her for the first time. “He was on his way back from Uvalde when he saw the smoke. He headed the team around the back way and came in over Redstone Hill. Didn't see anything but the place in flames, so lit out to see if he could help. There was no one around when he got there. Drove around to the front of the house to find Viega, his wife and two daughters, all hit before they could get a shot off. It was lucky he'd taken Amaranta into town or she'd of been there too.”

The door flew open behind them. Billy, his face drawn and one arm bloody and held tight to his stomach with a rope he'd looped around himself, staggered in supported by Harley. “'Tweren't nothin' I could do, Vance,” the boy babbled. “They was all dead, 'ceptin' the old man. I tried. I surely tried, but wasn't no use.”

Karen walked quickly to the youth. “Billy …” Her voice was high with concern.

The boy shuddered, drew himself straight with an effort. A woman was in front of him and he had to make a good impression. He grinned weakly. “Ain't nothin'… Miz Paxton.” His face turned white and he slumped in a dead faint.

“He taken one in the side, too,” Harley announced. “Lost some blood. We better get him bedded down.” He glanced at Karen. “You know anything about doctorin', ma'am?”

Karen blanched at the suggestion, forced herself to remain calm. “No. But I'll learn. Bring him upstairs. We'll put him in the back bedroom. Tell me what to do and I'll do it.”

Vance stared after her as she and Harley half carried, half dragged the wounded youth past them and into the hall. “Well, I'll be damned,” he said, looking over at True.

“You never can tell about a woman, boy,” True said. “I reckon she just needed time.” His manner changed. “How'd it happen?”