Texas Born (47 page)

Sullins couldn't help showing his surprise.
'He . . . did?'

'He did.' She nodded, folded the yellow
invoices with slow deliberation, then ran her fingernail slowly
along the crease. She eyed him significantly. 'How does it feel to
be doing what every Mexican refuses to do?' she asked softly.

His eyes pinched nearly shut. 'What're you
talkin' about?'

Elizabeth-Anne couldn't help feeling
satisfaction at the look of annoyance that crossed his face. She
said, 'Your boss, Mr. Sullins, is now a woman.'

'What?' The match actually fell out of his
mouth.

'Yes. You heard me correctly. This company
was sold to
Mrs
. Sexton. She's now your boss.'
Elizabeth-Anne tucked the invoices into her purse. 'Well, it seems
I've taken up enough of your time. Since we can't come to terms,
I'm going to have to try to sort this out with your new employer.
You see, Mr. Sullins? You, too, have been played for a fool. I
suppose it's between us women now.'

And with that she walked out of his office,
leaving him standing there stupefied, his mouth hanging open. She
didn't look back, and it was just as well: Ross Sullins slowly bent
over, retrieved his match from the dirty floor, and stuck it back
in his mouth.

When she reached her buggy, she untied the
reins and glanced up at the sky. The sun was rising steadily to its
noonday height. It would soon be ten o'clock. The hottest part of
the day was upon her. Yet she couldn't dawdle . . . couldn't take a
siesta and wait for the cool late afternoon.

She had an appointment with someone she
didn't relish seeing.

She climbed heavily up on her buggy and
snapped the reins. She had no choice . . . none at all. All along,
she had been filled with the dread that she'd have to head out to
the Sexton ranch to have a talk with Tex. That would have been bad
enough, but since this morning, things had changed. She could have
reasoned with Tex much better than with his wife, of that she was
certain. And she would still try to discuss this matter with him
first.

Well, there was little comfort in it, but at
least she now knew with certainty what was up.

Jennifer had decided to drive her out of
business.

To ruin her once and for all.

Some things hadn't changed over the years,
Elizabeth-Anne thought grimly. She'd tried to stay well out of
Jenny's way. But Jenny had obviously just been biding her time.

Now she would probably have to come
face-to-face with her. Something she could well do without.

The entrance to the Sexton ranch was so
conspicuous only a blind man could have missed it. The road leading
into it was flanked by tall wooden poles, and a huge overhead sign
arched across them, 'THE GOLDEN S RANCH,' the huge letters burned
into the wood proclaimed proudly, and to either side of them was
hammered a king-size gold-tone horseshoe intertwined with the
letter S. Two other prominent signs, one on either side of the
entrance, warned:

PRIVATE PROPERTY

NO TRESPASSING. NO HUNTING.

NO SOLICITING.

VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO

THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW

And smaller letters read:

Caution:

Armed Guards Guard Dogs

If Making Deliveries

Do Not Stray from Road

Elizabeth-Anne pulled on the reins and slowly
turned Bessie into the private road.

She pressed her lips grimly together, vaguely
wondering if she would be considered a trespasser. It wouldn't
surprise her in the least.

Flocks of blackbirds heard her approach and
burst out of the scrub fields. Mockingbirds chattered obscenely
from an occasional tree. Overhead, a lone hawk banked slowly,
intent on small prey, and somewhere in the far distance, a mere
speck in the powder-blue sky, a vulture did its lazy, patient
circling. Something wounded lay out there, something dying, and the
vulture waited for its death throes to pounce on the unfortunate
creature. Like the Sextons, who owned this land.

For the better part of a mile, the property
was simply a monotonous terrain of flat, dusty scrubland. Then
suddenly on her left was an endless expanse of surprisingly lush
green ranchland, fenced off from the road by miles of barbed wire.
The lushness was owed to the myriads of tall windmills on derricks
which turned lazily in the hot breeze. Herds of grazing
cattle—Brahman, Charolais, and Black Angus—roamed contentedly in
the heat shimmer, swatting away flies with lazy flicks of their
tails. To the right, the land became slightly more hilly, and had
been laid out in precise geometrical citrus groves. The trees were
startlingly green after the expanse of scrubland, and fruit hung on
them in rich yellow and orange clusters. Mexican laborers were
swarming through the groves, picking the fruit and emptying it into
bushel baskets for ten cents an hour. The citrus scent was
fragrant, strong, and clean.

Sexton country, Elizabeth-Anne thought to
herself. She had never been here before, but she had heard enough
from Zaccheus to know what to expect. The ranch comprised sixty
thousand sprawling acres. There was the gently rolling fertile
grassland, the lushly planted green citrus orchards, thanks to the
complex irrigation network which directed water from the Rio Grande
basin, and the hundreds of windmills and artesian wells which
forced it up from deep beneath the ground. From what she could see,
the Sextons had doubtless worked miracles. If they hadn't derived
so much of their wealth through oppression and underhanded
dealings, through stomping out the competition and driving smaller
landowners out of business, through carefully planned, usurious
loans made with the sole intent of repossession—if it weren't for
the evil ways they had gained their wealth, Elizabeth-Anne would
have allowed herself to be impressed.

Another two miles, and the barbed-wire fence
turned into miles of white wooden slat fences. Behind it, herds of
horses galloped and roamed.

Horse breeding was another of the many
profitable Sexton sidelines.

And then, finally, on a sloping rise, she
could see the house.

It was huge and white and rambling, and gave
the impression of being somewhat low because it was so long; it had
obviously been added onto many times whenever more space was needed
or desired. The central part of the building was two stories high,
a glistening white wood structure with tall, simple square pillars
supporting the veranda, and a cupola, with a weather vane on its
peak, crowning the roof.

This central most portion of the building was
flanked on both ends by large identical one-story wings with
steeply pitched black roofs sprouting dormers, and even lower,
longer additions had been added onto those.

It was the most stunningly symmetrical house
Elizabeth-Anne had ever seen. As she neared it, she could see that
the windows were graced by wooden shutters painted green, which
gave the house the impression that it was situated in a far more
verdant setting than it actually was. But the shutters were not
merely cosmetic; at the height of the noonday heat they could be
pulled closed to keep the inside of the house cooler.

A few hundred yards from the house, the dirt
road gave way to an elegant gravel driveway which completely
encircled the most precious status symbol of them all—a manmade
lake of approximately a square acre in size, with a small island,
which boasted its own small dock for rowboats, in the middle. The
water was placid and green, and lent more than just a vision of
coolness; Elizabeth-Anne swore that as she approached it, the air
around the lake seemed decidedly more moist and humid than the
normal dry, ovenlike Texas furnace. And, as if this was not enough,
the island boasted a single huge, luxuriant weeping willow that had
been transported there and planted when nearly full-grown.

That most water-loving of trees was,
ultimately, even more than the tens of thousands of acres, the
rambling mansion, and the cooling lake, the single most potent and
frightening symbol of Sexton power that Elizabeth-Anne had
encountered to date. Whatever a Sexton wished for, it seemed to
state emphatically, a Sexton got.

Other people dreamed, but Sexton dreams
became reality.

As the driveway progressed toward the ranch
house, Elizabeth-Anne noticed a profusion of shrubs and flowers.
Wagging tongues had it that Jennifer Sue Sexton employed three
full-time gardeners; now Elizabeth-Anne understood the necessity
for them.

Without warning, four madly barking dogs
suddenly came running from somewhere around the corner of the
distant house. Bessie immediately began to whinny and rear.
Elizabeth-Anne, herself stiffening perceptibly, fought to remain
calm and brought the mare under control.

She couldn't blame her horse for its fear.
For an instant she was tempted to flee too. The dogs were big
black-and-gray brutes, and they seemed to run as heavily as horses,
their huge paws throwing up clumps of gravel. They raised their
heads and lifted their black lips to show long, lethal fangs;
rumbling growls resounded deeply from the depths of their broad
chests. She relaxed somewhat when they fell in, two on each side of
the buggy, and paced themselves, trotting along beside it.

The moment Elizabeth-Anne pulled the mare to
a halt in front of the rambling symmetrical house, a lanky ranch
hand clad in blue jeans, Stetson, plaid shirt, and buffed brown
boots ambled along the veranda with a rolling bowlegged walk. He
leaned lazily against one of the dazzlingly white porch pillars,
eyeing her through squinted, sun-crinkled eyes, his leathery face
tilted sideways.

'Please step down off yer buggy slowly,
ma'am,' he called laconically in a dry, gravelly voice, the thumbs
of both hands tucked into his hand-tooled belt.

Elizabeth-Anne cast a worried glance down at
the prowling dogs.

He said, 'They's all right, long as you don't
make no sudden moves.'

'I'll try to bear that in mind,' she said
tightly. She got very carefully down off the buggy and winced as
die dogs moved in to sniff her. After a moment the ranch hand
placed two fingers between his lips and let out a long loud
whistle.

Immediately the dogs went galloping off,
tails wagging.

Elizabeth-Anne breathed decidedly easier.

'Now they smelled you, they won't bother you
none, ma'am,' the ranch hand said.

She nodded and began to tether Bessie to the
porch railing.

'Ma'am?'

She looked up. 'Yes?'

'Deliveries is taken in the back.'

Elizabeth-Anne flipped the reins over the
railing one last time and turned to him, her chin raised. 'I am not
here to deliver anything.'

With a practiced jerk of a thumb he pushed
his Stetson back on his head. 'What you here fer, then?'

'To see Mr. Sexton on a business matter.'

He nodded, apparently satisfied. 'Wouldn't
know nothin' 'bout that. He ain't here no ways.' He turned his head
and let fly a squirt of chewing tobacco. 'Reckon he won't be back
fer a good hour or so.'

She smiled thinly. 'Then I suppose I'll have
to wait.'

He shrugged. 'Suit yerself, ma'am. I'll have
one of the hands go water yer mare, if you like.'

'I'd appreciate that.'

'Just go on in the house. Gal name of
Rosita'll take care of you in the meantime. Tell her Jim Bob said
it was okay.'

Elizabeth-Anne nodded and smiled her thanks.
She reached into her pocket for a lump of sugar and fed it to
Bessie. She patted her neck and then turned and stepped up on the
veranda. It was perceptibly cooler there than it had been out in
the sun.

As soon as Elizabeth-Anne reached the big
front double doors, one was opened from the inside. A Mexican maid
dropped a polite little curtsy. She was in her twenties, with
sparkling black eyes and dusky brown skin. She wore a plain black
dress that reached midway to her calves; the collar was edged with
tiny scallops of lace. She looked at Elizabeth-Anne
questioningly.

'Are you Rosita?' Elizabeth-Anne asked.

The young woman nodded.

Elizabeth-Anne smiled. 'Jim Bob said I should
see you about waiting for Mr. Sexton.' And she offered up a quick
silent prayer:
Please, Lord, don't make it necessary for me to
run into Jenny.

'Mr. Sexton be back later. You wait in his
study, miss,' Rosita said. 'This way, please.'

Elizabeth-Anne was led from the front hall to
the far end of one of the added-on wings. The walk seemed
endless.

Finally Rosita paused in front of a door.
'Wait in here, please, miss,' she said, opening it. Then she
dropped another quick curtsy and retreated.

Elizabeth-Anne was delighted with the
unexpected opportunity of being able to roam alone around Tex
Sexton's study. Nothing gave away a man's character, both his
weaknesses and his strengths, as much as the clues that could be
found in the room he felt most comfortable in.

She walked around slowly, hands clasped
behind her, as she inspected the study. It was beyond any shadow of
a doubt a man's room; the air smelled faintly of leather and cigar
smoke. The ceiling overhead was constructed of blackened wooden
beams. The floor was crafted of gleaming vertical boards of
dark-stained pine, and scattered casually about on it were
geometric Mexican and American Indian area rugs of intense color
and subtle beauty. Above the brick fireplace set in a herringbone
pattern hung the only painting in the room. It was a large,
splendid Remington oil painted in rich tones of golds, reds, and
oranges. It depicted two mounted cowboys lassoing a steer that had
crashed down onto its forelegs. It was at once a powerful,
provocative, and beautiful picture, full of dazzling light and
movement. Gazing at it, Elizabeth-Anne could almost hear the
bellowing of the steer, the trampling thunder of the horses' hooves
on the hard-packed ground, and the swishing sound of the lasso
sailing through the air.