Texas Born (24 page)

Sincerely, I remain a simple servant of both God and
man,

Yours truly in Christ,

Thomas V. Astin

There was the sudden crunching of paper as
Zaccheus balled the letter up. He tossed it to the side of the
road. The tears which suddenly blurred his vision were tears of
rage. He had seen, firsthand, the richness of Center Hall College,
the splendor of the ivy-clad buildings, the lovingly tended,
manicured, rolling green acres. That campus represented all the
money in the world; yet to heal the sick, there was none.
'Zaccheus.' Phoebe, genuinely worried, placed a gentle arm around
his waist. 'Come on, Zaccheus. We'll talk about it at home.'

Savagely he spun in her direction, his blue
eyes flashing such virulent hatred that she recoiled. 'You asked me
something the other day!' he hissed. 'Do you remember?'

She only stared at him, afraid that any words
would only fuel his anger.

'You wanted to know if I'll ever be
ordained,' he said grimly. 'Well, I'll give you my answer now.
Never. Never for as long as I live!'

'Zaccheus?' she whined. The sun was catching
the sterling chain around her neck, and the silver flashed like a
mirror.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he reached out to
touch the pansy charm. Phoebe, terrified that he would take his
anger out on her, held her breath, but his touch was surprisingly
gentle.

Mesmerized, he felt the sterling chain with
the pansy charm between his fingers.
There was a lot more than
just sterling where that had come from
.

Celesta Bensey's chin jutted proudly forward
as she raised her head and stretched her thin, corded neck. She
clasped her thin hands in front of her and surveyed the interior of
her shop with a sharp, piercing gaze.

She felt extremely gratified. She could feel
that everything was in order. If as much as one tiny item were out
of place or missing, she would have sensed it instantly.

In the twenty-odd years she had run the shop,
which had been founded by her grandfather, Celesta had learned to
rely on her acumen and instincts, and they had served her well. Her
grand tour abroad had been cut short upon the death of her father
twenty-one years ago, and she had returned to discover herself the
sole heiress of a respectable business. W. Timothy Hollister, her
father's lawyer, had pressured her to sell the shop. 'I'm afraid
you're just not well enough acquainted with it, Celesta, and being
a young woman and all . . .' he'd said with a gentle sadness.
'Anyway, I think I can come up with a buyer. If you sell it, it
should fetch a good price and, wisely invested, that'll give you
enough to live on nicely for the rest of your life.'

'And do what?' she'd asked him in quiet
outrage. 'Needlepoint? Quietly become an old maid? Men don't find
me particularly appealing, except those who think I have some
money. No, if I'm to be an old maid, I'd rather be one with a
business that will keep me busy.'

She'd changed lawyers, found one receptive to
her ambitions, and taken over the store. Since then she had
single-handedly built Bensey's into St. Louis', perhaps Missouri's,
smartest purveyor of luxury goods. And thanks to Giuseppe Fazio,
whom she'd discovered in Italy during her grand tour—and had
subsequently sent for, along with his wife and child—the store had
become the envy of everyone in the trade. For Giuseppe Fazio was an
artist, and the tools of his trade— the crucibles, the mallets, the
furnace, the wax, the casting platters, and the diamond cutters—all
were his brushes. The delicate rings and necklaces, the sterling
platters, the finely wrought flatware and bowls, the classic tea
services he fashioned—no matter how grand or humble the item, he
brought gold and silver and vermeil to magical, beautiful life.
There wasn't a single well-to-do family within a radius of a
hundred miles that didn't boast some treasure from Bensey's— a
child's silver spoon, a cake service, a necklace, or a simple
wedding band. In Missouri, even the most inexpensive gift item had
cachet if the box in which it came was labeled 'Bensey's.'

Yes, she forged Bensey's into the most
fashionable place for luxury shopping. Dowagers, socialites, newly
weds, potential brides . . . it was to her that they all flocked.
Every year, indeed every
day
, brought more and more business
to her door. And that, she thought, was extremely gratifying . . .
not to mention exhausting.

She sighed softly to herself, a sigh
half-weary, half-congratulatory. Today had been a good day. No, an
exceptional day, even if she thought so herself. In fact, she was
certain she had made more sales on this one day than on any other
single day during the year, excepting the Christmas season, of
course—and all because there were to be three society weddings next
month. Bless the brides, she told herself. Then she smiled. Brides
appealed to both her sentimentality and her sense of business.

Once again she sighed softly. Her feet hurt
and her stomach was growling. There had been so much traffic in and
out that she hadn't been able to take a single break, nor had she
been able to close for lunch, something which hadn't happened since
December. Now she would have a huge billing to do for her regular
customers in good standing; the money from her cash-paying
customers was in the back room on a desk, stuffed into a cloth bag
belonging to the bank. Mentally she guessed what it contained.
Probably close to five thousand dollars . . . maybe closer to six.
She made it a point never to keep much cash on hand, but today had
been so extremely busy, and with Giuseppe gone to Philadelphia, she
just hadn't had the time to run to the bank to make the deposit.
She would lock it in the safe until tomorrow morning.

She placed her clenched hands on the small of
her back and stretched. She was bone-weary. It would be a relief to
sit down. No, she simply
couldn't
walk to the night deposit
box now.

For once, she would put something off until
tomorrow. She couldn't see what harm that could do.

The room was hot and airless, but he didn't
dare open the window lest a breeze part the curtains, making him
visible from the street below. He wiped the sweat off his forehead
with the back of one hand. The sweat he'd worked up wasn't from the
heat. It was sheer nerves.

He felt physically ill. For three hours now
he had been sitting behind the curtains with the patience of the
hunter, watching the comings and goings of the jewelry emporium's
customers with keen interest. Every few minutes, either a
well-dressed pedestrian would walk into the shop off the street, or
a horse and buggy would pull up alongside the fluttering awning at
the curb. A few couples even arrived in noisy, smoke-belching
horseless carriages.

He had watched the afternoon shadows lengthen
steadily, a deep tide of purple creeping slowly first across the
sidewalk, and then the street, until it reached the sidewalk on his
side and began to climb the red brick walls of the hotel, seeping
into his room. He was filled with an immense sadness, as if he knew
that what he was about to do would change his life, would forever
govern his thoughts and actions, would change the very way he felt
about himself. He wished there was some other way he could raise
the money for his mother's stay at the clinic. But wishes were for
dreamers. And he was a dreamer no more.

He parted the curtain with one finger,
careful to stay hidden behind it, and glanced at the tall white
church steeple in the distance. The big black Roman numerals on the
round white face showed it was nearly five- thirty. He glanced down
at Bensey's Jewelers. The shop closed at six.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet. He could see
two tiny, disembodied hands reaching down into one of the display
cases next to the door. The jewelry was already being taken away to
be locked up for the night.

It was time he went downstairs. He had but
half an hour to finish what he had set out to do. As if to
reinforce this thought, the church bell tolled once, deep and
resonant.

He scraped back his chair, dumped the
contents of the suitcase out on the bed, and sorted quickly through
them. He grabbed the length of rope, the revolver, the rags, and
the burlap hood. For a moment he looked down at the things he had
sneaked out of the Howe cabin.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his soul in
turmoil. He was no thief, just as he was no beggar. But then a
vision sprang up in front of his eyes. He pictured his mother, pale
and weak, her body racked with painful coughs; he heard the ugly
retching sounds as she spat up the thick, bloody, poisonous phlegm.
He knew that he had to finish what he had started.

It was now or never.

Carefully Celesta removed a tray of
wristwatches from a display. She was grateful that Deputy Sheriff
Hank Yarby had stopped by on his morning rounds to invite her out
to dinner. At first she'd made excuses, but then he'd insisted and
she'd said very well, if you won't take no for an answer, we'll
meet here at six. Yarby was sweet, really, even if he was six years
younger than she. He'd been with the sheriff's office for eight
years now, and rumor had it he would run for sheriff once old
Sheriff Caldwell retired. Yes, tonight was one night that a
restaurant dinner would be more than welcome. She simply didn't
have the energy to go home and cook. Still, she wished her date was
someone other than Yarby.

Not that she didn't like him. It was just
that she didn't like him
enough
. He was strong and fearless,
and handsome in a crude kind of way, but his manners left something
to be desired, as did his family's background. He was rather like a
diamond in the rough, she thought, but one which would never be cut
and polished.

She knew that Yarby was infatuated with her,
and she knew full well, too, that his hopes were useless. She had
gently rebuffed him countless times, but that had only seemed to
make him that much more ardent. Still, common courtesies and a few
harmless dinners didn't hurt, she told herself. Bensey's Jewelers
had been robbed only twice in its hundred-year history, and that
had been long, long ago. Still, one never knew.

It didn't hurt to have friends in the
sheriff's office.

Cling-cling-cling!

Not another customer! Slowly she rubbed her
eyes with her fingertips. Well, this would be the last one of the
day. As she turned around gracefully, Celesta played her little
guessing game. For which of the three weddings, she mused, would
this client buy—

The gasp froze somewhere in her throat and
her eyes dilated dramatically. For the first time in her life, she
found herself staring into the barrel of a revolver. She laughed
nervously and tried to clear her throat. 'Now, Yarby,' she said
tremulously, 'that's not a very funny joke, you know.'

The only reply from behind the hideous burlap
hood was heavy, rasping breaths.

Zaccheus' breath was coming hard with
excitement. He couldn't seem to get enough oxygen into his lungs.
He tried to swallow, but the sick icy chill of fear, combined with
the sudden heady thrill of a perverse power, emotions totally alien
to him, radiated from the pit of his stomach and burned down into
his loins. He felt he had to urinate badly. And throw up.

He could feel the nausea rising and fought to
keep it down.

With a quick backward thrust of his revolver
arm, he elbowed the door behind him shut. The soft
cling-
cling-cling!
seemed suddenly loud and shrill, and the woman
jumped. He glanced swiftly behind him. The door was shut. They were
alone.

He came slowly forward.

The woman gazed at him in horror and shrank
back, the taut cords of her neck working madly. 'What . . . do you
want?'

She kept edging slowly backward, the
fingertips of one hand trying to feel the way. Nevertheless, she
gasped and let out a startled yelp when her hand touched the cool
smooth glass of the counter behind her. She drew up as close to it
as she could, trying to flatten the lower portion of her body
against it.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and her lips
moved hysterically as she uttered a silent prayer.

She wasn't alone in her fear. Zaccheus' heart
was beating so fiercely that he felt certain it would burst. He
tried to take deep, even breaths, but that only seemed to make it
worse. He let the suitcase he had been carrying drop to the floor.
It landed with a bang and the woman's eyes popped open as she let
out a scream. When she realized the gun hadn't gone off, she looked
relieved, tried to get control of herself, took a deep breath.

Zaccheus was sweating so badly that he could
feel the revolver slipping in his hand. He wiped his left hand dry
on his poncho, changed the revolver to that hand, wiped his right
hand dry, and switched the revolver again. The woman didn't move,
but her eyes followed the weapon.

He waved it threateningly. 'Where's the
money?' he demanded in a trembling voice.

Celesta Bensey had one attribute which had
made her admired and respected throughout the community: she was
possessed of a will of iron. Now, despite the fear which clenched
her in its ice-cold vise, the quick, well-oiled business gears in
her mind clicked and turned and she thought of the money she would
lose. Her fighting spirit was instantly roused.

'There . . . there isn't much cash here,' she
lied in a quivering whisper. 'It's . . . it's taken to the bank.
Twice a day.' She swallowed, her neck cords bulging with the
effort.

He brought the barrel of the revolver slowly
forward to within inches of her face, and lined her up in the
sights. 'How much have you got?'