Paxton Pride (53 page)

Jaco finished with the horses and re-entered the camp, exchanging a silent glance with Marquez. The tension between the two men was almost palpable, even to Karen's eyes. Jaco laughed softly and contemptuously turned his back on the other man, yet Karen noticed the alertness in his face. His face … his very appearance was unsettling. The Mexican heritage was evident in his dark skin, coal-black hair and moustache, but his features were uncannily similar to Vance's. The knowledge of their common origin notwithstanding, she found herself staring at him in horrid fascination. The Mexican nudged her foot with his boot. “We are hungry.”

Karen looked defiantly at him and did not move, did not speak lest her loathing and fear show.

“You have changed much since last we meet. Not so much the
gringa
. I like that. A
gringa señorita
you have become.” He laughed, the sound an unnerving rumble deep in his chest. “The
señorita
is not happy to see me? But did you not fear I might be hurt, that I might have died out there in the snow and ice?”

“No. I wished for it,” Karen answered in a murderous undertone.

“What were you doing so far from the
hacienda
with that Indian? I think you are very naughty, maybe. And hungry, eh? A woman travels in the hills alone with a man other than her husband for only one reason,
verdad?
But now you are with Jaco, and Jaco is very good for the hungry
señoritas
. He fills them with pleasure.”

Karen glared at him, contempt written broadly in her eyes, her head raised defiantly. “I am no
señorita
. I am a
señora
, the woman of Vance Paxton. I will have no other man, for there is no other man.”

The smile on Jaco's face disappeared. Slowly, his booted foot moved, slid between her ankles and forced them apart. “Marquez likes you,
señorita
. All the men of my village will like you. Maybe there will be other men. Maybe I give you to them, after I take you myself.”

Across the way, Marquez' face darkened with a malevolent frown. Karen slid away from Jaco until her back pressed against a rock and she could move no farther. Jaco merely stepped closer, slid his foot between her knees, then along her thighs.

“I'll cook,” Karen blurted out, rising to her feet.

Jaco did not move, so she stepped around him and hurried to the fire. For long seconds he continued to stare at the empty surface of the rock, stare at the tiny marks left by time and weather, then turned and leaned against the boulder, braced on his elbows. His eyes were dark and serious as he watched her go about the task of preparing a meal. She was much woman, this one. There was much spirit in her—a real woman's spirit. Not like the temperamental Marcelina. The little one knew how to please a man, knew instinctively and exquisitely where and how to touch him, how to move. But such a girl was for a moment and no longer. There were many more like her. The woman at the fire was one of strength, of character as strong as the hills and rocks themselves. A man who was blessed with the love of such a
señorita
would need no other woman except occasionally, for the sake of diversion. He contemplated her, considered her closely. The jeans clung tightly to the sensuous curve of her hips and buttocks and the workshirt strained at the swell of her breasts, outlined against the light of the fire as she moved about His blood stirred and he felt his loins stiffen as he became aware of the throbbing member between his legs. He would fill her until she cried out for more, until his soul exploded like a bursting star. If only he were alone with her.

Karen moved as quickly as possible. She hadn't eaten since the morning before and the smell of food drove her nearly to distraction. A movement across the fire caught her eye and she glanced up to see Marquez grinning at her, undressing her with his eyes. Food forgotten, she worked mechanically, keeping him in the corner of her eye as he picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail, then reached down to scratch the crotch of his elaborately stitched trousers, humming at the same time a child's tune …

Esta es la viudita de Santa Isabel

Que quiere casar y no halla con quién
.

The song was the same Karen had heard the children sing in the streets of San Antonio, the words repeated over and over in a rhythmic chant. Huller, a man who had been about and spoke Spanish as it was pronounced on the border, had translated for her. A song of terror, coming as it did from the tight-lipped, steely-eyed man across the fire.

This is the little widow of Saint Isabel

She wishes to marry, with whom she can't tell
.

How macabre the words sounded, coming from the outlaw who watched her, his eyes lit with insane hunger.

Jaco noticed as well, considered the man closely. The
putas
of Rio Lobos would have nothing to do with him. He was too cruel, took pleasure only in giving pain. Jaco could not understand such a man. Ruthless as the bandit leader was, his cruelty stemmed from hatred, from revenge against an unjust father and undeserving half-brother. Against these and other
gringos
like them he vented his spleen. A woman was different, with the possible exception of Maruja, who had played into the hands of the men he hated. Even her … he was sorry he had killed her. No man in his right senses killed a woman lightly. But she was trying to kill him, was shooting at him—he forced the thought from his mind. With other women—the ones he bedded—be would never be cruel. Hard and demanding, perhaps, but women needed to know they had a real man. Never would he make love in order to inflict pain, never seek the twisted gratification Marquez so loved.

Marquez. Jaco scowled. The thin one posed a threat to Jaco's leadership and would have to be dealt with sooner or later. The road they traveled would be the test, and the more Marquez watched the
gringa
, the less he concentrated on Jaco. Lust made him careless, broke his concentration, filled his head with useless thoughts, drove him to tortured fantasies. In any confrontation, the calm, relaxed man had the advantage. Still, the wait wasn't easy, for a woman like the Paxton
gringa
did things to a man. He could feel himself drawn to her, worked hard to control his own fantasies. The confrontation with Marquez had to come soon.

The next night passed much the same as the night before. The day had been long, filled with danger, with hiding their trail from those who would certainly follow. Within moments after eating, Karen fell soundly asleep, waking abruptly from time to time with the feeling of roughened hands tearing at her. Each time the hands were only a dream, the movement of air or the rush of a bat across the darkened sky. Each time she waked to hear only the rapid beating of her heart, the stillness from without broken only by the popping of a twig in the fire, the rustle of unseen insects and the soft suspiration of one or the other of the bandits as they slept. Or did they? Once she found Marquez watching her, the fire reflected in his eyes. And Jaco … breathing evenly, deep in slumber, or listening? She dared not let her mind dwell on what they had in store for her. The only reason she could guess that nothing had happened yet was neither man wanted to turn his back on the other. She studied Jaco's Latin features, so achingly similar in the dim light to Vance's. Vance …! had to follow the same trail she and Ted had traveled. There couldn't be that many ways of coming out of those hills. If he left that morning … there was a chance he was following this very minute, might be close enough to see her. Perhaps he was waiting for the right chance.

Speculation raised her spirits, dropped them as quickly. What would happen if he did catch up with these men? They had killed Ted, a man of whom True had said, “He's a smart man to steer clear of in a ruckus, unless he's on your side.” Could they kill Vance as easily?
No! Vance, be careful! Vance
…! She was glad she hadn't told them he was in the line cabin. As it was, they could only assume they would be followed by an unknown number of men at some undetermined time. If they knew how close Vance might be, they would be doubly cautious, might lie in ambush for him.
Vance! Hold me, Vance
.

The boots dropped against her leg and she woke with a start, supposition and dream mixed in her mind. Still dark, a vague suggestion of light tinted the horizon, barely dimmed the low-lying stars. Shivering, she stepped out of the blanket and, after tapping the boots against a rock to drive out any unwanted stinging inhabitants left over from the night before, slipped into the sturdy footwear. Jaco was busy with the horses while Marquez poured himself a cup of coffee. “The
señorita
dresses like a
vaquero
. But she is much woman, I think.” Karen ignored him, gathered up her bedroll and started past him to the fire. A grimy hand reached out and gripped her thigh. “The nights are cold. Perhaps the blanket is not enough warm.” She pulled her leg free of his grasp and walked to the sorrel.

Jaco watched as she threw the saddle on the gelding's back and tightened the cinch. “The
señorita
has indeed changed,” he chuckled. “But her beauty is still the same as when I see her first.”

“You have not changed,” Karen countered. “You are still the animal who killed his own mother.”

Jaco struck with the speed of a snake, catching her across the mouth with the back of his hand. Karen spun around, slamming against the saddled gelding, then stumbling and falling to her knees. Blood welled from her bruised lips. Marquez tossed his coffee aside, waiting to see what would happen next. Karen fought back the tears, let the stinging pain serve to feed her growing anger and drive inward and hidden the screaming fear. “You do not ever say that again,
chica
. You understand this thing I tell to you? You understand?”

Karen's face flushed crimson when she looked up at him, but she nodded silently, at the same time noting how his eyes widened with appreciation at the glimpse of her partially-revealed breasts, rising with each rapid breath. The top buttons had been torn away when she hit the saddle and there was nothing she could do but pull the fabric tightly about her, an action only serving to reveal the fruits of her beauty in other ways. Slowly, she got to her feet, finished with the horse and headed back to the fire, where she forced herself to eat.

They struck open country, heading southwest. Jaco and Marquez kept constant vigilance, their eyes ever scouring the dry distances around them, a rolling sea of barren arroyos, sandy gullies and thirsty creeks. A hot, arid land fit for growing catclaw and wait-a-bit, sparse grass, cactus and mesquite. Every half hour or so one of the outlaws would cautiously skyline himself on the crest of the highest ground available and study their back trail as well as the way ahead. They took their noon break around a small muddy seep, digging out the moist earth so the depression in the ground could fill with water which the horses drank dry within minutes, forcing Karen and her two kidnappers to endure their unslaked thirst until the cavity refilled. Jaco handed her a strip of jerked meat and Karen accepted greedily, tearing hungrily at the dried beef and relishing the salty nourishment. A half hour after arriving, Marquez kicked sand and mud back into the seep and they were on their way again.

By the passage of the sun, Karen noticed they had altered their direction and turned south. Near sunset they came to a series of deeply eroded bluffs and followed a winding passage which dropped to the banks of a broad river, swollen with rain that had fallen to the west. Marquez rode down to them from where he had been stationed high on the bluffs, keeping an eye on the trail behind them. “I thought you said we cross at the usual place.”

“
Si
. It is what I said.”

“This is not the usual place,” Marquez protested. “It is a full fifty
varras
across. Our horses are too tired.”

“It is deep only in spots, and there are many sandbars where we will find footing. If they do not find where we broke the trail, they will not suspect this place.”

“The current is too strong,” Marquez insisted.

“
Si
. It is the rains. What do you expect of a river? Come … before there is no more light,” Jaco said, spurring his horse into the water.

Karen, never having crossed such a river before, was about to protest when the sorrel leaped forward of his own accord. The animal lunged, found footing and started after Jaco's mount until the sandbar ended abruptly and he stepped into deep water. Karen gasped with surprise. Startled and off balance, the racing current plucked her from the saddle. Somehow she grabbed and clung to the pommel while the gelding swam the remaining yards. The shock of the cold water numbed her hands, and just as she felt herself falling free, the animal scrambled onto the opposite bank and Karen dropped to solid ground. Marquez followed close behind, his mustang surging out of the river. The bandit cursed, slapping his soaked
sombrero
against his leg. “A hat is made for the head, Marquez, not to catch fish with,” Jaco remarked, laughing. Marquez' eyes blazed furiously and he spurred his horse past Jaco's, plunging deeper into the boulder-strewn bush lining the Mexican bank. Jaco waited for Karen to remount, then led her in the direction Marquez had taken.

They made camp a mile from the crossing by the last light of day. Jaco tossed Karen a sack of food. “Cook,” he said, then led the horses into the rapidly deepening shadows. Marquez made a fire while Karen went about her assigned tasks, all too aware how the wet fabric of her shirt clung provocatively to her breasts, revealing even the nipples in stark outline for Marquez' leering eyes. She glanced anxiously into the shadows, hoping for Jaco's return, feeling safer with both outlaws present, each keeping the other in check. The shirt was taking its own damnable time to dry, but the alternative was no shirt at all as she had nothing else to wear. Gritting her teeth and determining to make the best of a bad situation, she went about her business as nonchalantly as possible, scooping coffee into the pot and setting it near the fire. On a slab of stone she shaped
tortillas
. The beans had been soaking in a leather pouch and she dumped them in another pot, searched in the sack, found some dried peppers, crumbled them in the palm of her hand and leaned over to throw them in the pot.