Lords of the Land

by Braun, Matt;

  All the worse, the memory intruded on every aspect of his life. He was surly with the vaqueros and rude to his mother, unable to converse normally with anyone. The few times he’d visited Matamoros, there was none of the old gaiety and laughter and bright moments of drunken revelry. It all seemed stale and flat, no joy in watching the cocks pitted or tumbling naked with some dark-eyed puta. Even the girls on the ranch now seemed a chore rather than a pleasant diversion; their lovemaking was somehow lackluster, almost tedious, and these days he rarely bothered. At first he’d resisted the truth, but gradually he was forced to accept the only possible explanation. Becky had ruined him for other women.

  The thought terrified him. It conjured harsher images— lost freedom and an end to the sporting life—all the things he associated with marriage. But never once had he seriously considered breaking off with Becky. Secretly, he knew he couldn’t, for he needed her now in a way he’d never before imagined possible. The idea of losing her was even more frightening than the thought of losing his freedom. Simply admitting it was perhaps the worst sign, one that triggered an inner conflict that left him vulnerable and defenseless. She had him hooked, and her assurance was monumental. Her whole attitude indicated it was merely a matter of time.

  Still, despite all her wiles, he hadn’t yet agreed to a formal engagement. She teased him with her body, used it as a form of emotional blackmail, allowing him to squeeze and touch and keep fresh the memory of how she felt in bed. But it never went any further, and by now he had resigned himself to the rules, her rules. It was a mating dance, tease and tantalize, and until he’d slipped a wedding band on her finger, he would have to look elsewhere for relief. Mere physical relief, however, had proved not enough. Other girls were nothing more than a warm body, expending momentary lust but never once dulling the edge of his desire. He wanted Becky.

  Thinking about her now made him groan inwardly. His loins ached, and between his legs a pair of cold stones, swollen and hard, throbbed like cannonballs struck with a hammer. His need had ripened into agony, and the pain reverberated downward from his groin in a steady, unremitting reminder that no other woman would do. The one he wanted he couldn’t have—not at that price!—and those he could have he no longer wanted.

  Damn her! Damn her for spoiling all the fun!

  Hank knocked back the drink and slammed his glass down on the counter. The men at the front of the bar tensed, watching closely as he walked past. He ignored them, eyes fixed straight ahead in a dull stare, and marched out of the saloon. On the boardwalk he paused, wondering that his head was so clear when his legs felt wobbly and his mouth thick as paste. He took a couple of deep breaths, glanced toward the depot, where his horse stood hipshot at the hitchrack. The prospect of a long ride home suddenly lost its appeal. He puzzled on it a moment, then remembered the hotel.

  His father had built a small hotel catty-corner from the bank. With the press of business matters, it had become his principal residence over the past year, and he now maintained a suite on the top floor. Hank had no wish to see his father, but the choice between a soft bed and a hard saddle was no choice at all. It occurred to him that a bribe would silence the desk clerk, at least for the night, and guarantee a room on the ground floor. Time enough to worry about the old man tomorrow.

  He turned and walked unsteadily toward the main intersection uptown. The street was deserted, patches of shadow broken by the dim glow of lampposts. His bootheels echoed along the buildings, and as he passed the hardware store, his reflection shimmered briefly on darkened glass. His glance strayed across to the bank and he chuckled to himself, wondering who the old man had robbed lately. Of course, he had to agree with his mother, though she’d said it only in so many words: You have to give the Devil his due. The old man was crafty as a chicken hawk; the way he’d rigged the elections and the tax assessments, and set himself up as the political kingfish of southern Texas, was a slick piece of work. For Hank’s tastes it was a little underhanded, too devious to set comfortably. But he wouldn’t argue about methods, not where it concerned farmers. Anything that was good for Santa Guerra was right by him; forcing the farmers to carry the tax load of the county was, to Ms way of thinking, a matter of poetic justice. Sodbusters deserved whatever they got ... and then some!

  Yet there was a side effect that seemed to Hank the paradox of all time. His mother was positively beguiled by the old man’s performance. Not that she would ever tell his father; that wasn’t her way. But he knew, from remarks she’d dropped, that she thought the old man was a regular ball o’ fire. Once, in a moment of candor, she had even commented that he’d done the family name proud. Which was no small concession, since she was talking not of the Krugers but of the Lairds, specifically her own father. Compared to years past, when she and the old man were constantly at one another’s throats, it was a remarkable turnaround. He thought it truly ironic that his mother would experience a change of heart only after his father had proved himself a first-class sonovabitch. It amused him, and he often wondered if the old man even suspected. Probably not. Kingmakers and empire builders had no time for the trivial.

  At the corner, Hank stepped off the boardwalk and started across the main intersection. The glare of four lampposts made it the brightest spot in town, and light spilled over for half a block in every direction. As he approached the opposite corner, a door at the side of the hotel opened. He glanced around, saw a woman step outside, and thought nothing of it. Then he halted, took another quick look as she turned and hurried down the side street. Her features were partially hidden by a hat, but he’d caught a glimpse of her face.

  Lou Ann Newton.

  He stood watching, struck by something peculiar in her manner. Only when she disappeared into the darkness, walking toward the residential section, did it occur to him. Why would his father’s secretary have to sneak out of the hotel? There was definitely something furtive about the way she’d done it, ducking her head and—

  What the hell was she doing in the hotel at this hour?

  The question hung answered a moment, then he suddenly made the connection. But that was impossible, not the old man and Lou Ann Newton! Or was it? She was attractive enough, and at least twenty years younger, so maybe she had a thing for older men. Or maybe his father had a thing for younger women. Of course, she was married, but then the old man wasn’t exactly unattached himself. Not by a damnsight!

  Hank thought of his mother, and his perspective of things abruptly changed. He had a fleeting image of her at the ranch—alone all the time—faithful as a nun and damn near as celibate. Then he blinked, got an altogether different vision of the old man ...

  ... and Lou Ann Newton!

  A sudden fury swept over him, and the thought turned him cold sober. He walked to the hotel and barged through the door. As he crossed the lobby, the desk clerk looked up with surprise and rose from his chair behind the counter. Hank halted, nodding without expression, then jerked his chin at the side entrance.

  “I just saw Lou Ann Newton go out that door.”

  “Lou Ann?” The clerk gave him a weak smile. “Oh no, Mr. Kruger, you must be mistaken. That was another girl, not Lou Ann.”

  Hank grabbed his coat lapels and pulled him halfway across the counter. The clerk let out a muffled grunt, then froze as Hank lifted him to eye level.

  “You better get the wax out of your ears and pay attention. Now, I’ll ask you once more, and I want a straight answer. Savvy?”

  The clerk swallowed, bobbed his head rapidly.

  “That was Lou Ann I saw, wasn’t it?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Kruger ... Lou Ann ... it surely was.”

  “And she was upstairs, in my father’s room, wasn’t she?”

  “Mr. Kruger ... please ... don’t ask me to—”

  Hank shook him hard, knocked his glasses askew. “You’re not listening. Now, let’s try it again and keep it simple. How long was she up there?”
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  “Couple of hours”—the clerk grimaced, licked his lips— “maybe a little more.”

  “And it wasn’t the first time, was it?”

  “No ... no, it wasn’t.”

  “How often does she visit him?”

  “Once or twice a week, sometimes more.”

  “How long has it been going on?”

  The clerk rolled his eyes, and Hank pulled him closer. “How long?”

  “Oh god, Mr. Kruger—”

  “How long!”

  “Several months ... almost a year ... but I’ve never told anyone, Mr. Kruger ... honest to Christ! ... Not a soul ... no one!”

  “Yeah, sure, you’re a regular button-lip, aren’t you?”

  Hank dropped him on the counter and walked away. The clerk grabbed for a handhold, scattering the register book and inkwell, and slowly lowered himself to the floor. He adjusted his glasses, shirtfront splattered with ink, then stumbled to his chair and sat down. He watched wide-eyed as Hank crossed the lobby and hurried upstairs.

  On the top floor, Hank turned left and walked to the end of the hall. He halted in front of Room 212, raised his arm, and pounded on the door. The force of his blows rattled the door, and when he stopped, there was a moment of acute silence. Then he heard a shuffling sound—footsteps—and the door was thrown open. His father stood in bathrobe and slippers, towel flung around “his neck, dripping water.

  “Hank!” Kruger looked surprised, then suddenly irritated. “What the devil’s all that pounding about? You got me out of the tub.”

  “Trying to wash away your sins?”

  “How’s that again?”

  “You know, Lou Ann ... your little play pretty ...I just saw her leave.”

  “Lou Ann Newton? I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “C’mon, Dad, drop the act. The desk clerk and me just had ourselves a long chat. He told me all about it.”

  Kruger’s expression changed. His features reddened and his eyes skittered away, then he cleared his throat. “Hank, believe me, it’s not how it appears.”

  “Is that a fact? Well, appearances are sure deceiving then—”

  “We’re just friends, nothing more!”

  “—because it appears you’ve been screwing your secretary pretty damn regular ... like a couple of times a week!”

  “Lower your voice.” Kruger glanced down the hall, motioned him inside. “Let’s sit down and discuss it, son. I can explain, if you’ll give me a chance.”

  “Explain!” Hank jeered. “Jesus H. Christ! After all these years you’ve been preaching to me and you think you can explain away a married woman? Forget it!”

  “It’s not the same thing, not at all! And let me remind you ... my personal life is none of your business.”

  “You! Hell, I don’t give a shit about you. It’s Mom! You’re making a fool of her ... everybody in town must know you’re humping Lou Ann—”

  “That’s enough!”

  “Oh, it’s more than enough,” Hank noted bitterly. “Matter of fact, I’m surprised Jack Newton hasn’t come after you with a shotgun. Or have you got him by the balls too? Maybe Lou Ann’s working off the mortgage by installment. Is that it?”

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head! I’m your father, and you will talk to me with respect—respect!”

  “Like hell! You’re nothing but a phony ... a goddamn hypocrite!”

  Kruger’s arm lashed out, struck at him in a vicious, open-palmed slap. Hank caught his wrist in midair and bore down with a crushing grip. Hauled forward, Kruger struggled to break loose, but his wrist slowly bent double and he winced with pain. Then he looked up, found his son watching him with a brutal smile.

  “I want you to do something for me, old man.”

  “Hank ... please ... let go of my wrist.”

  “Shut up! I won’t have Mom hurt by all this, you understand? I want you to break it off with Lou Ann Newton or I’ll ...”

  “You’ll what?”

  “Don’t make me show you.” His grip tightened, brought tears to his father’s eyes. “Just break it off with her—and damn quick!”

  Hank released him and turned away. Kruger sagged against the doorjamb, clutching his wrist, blinked back the tears. His eyes followed Hank with a look of wounded rage, but inwardly he cursed himself. He’d been a fool—a careless fool!—and the boy was right. Trudy mustn’t find out! That would never do, not now, not ever. There was simply too much at stake, a lifetime of work. Far too much to risk an open scandal or the enmity of his wife. As Hank disappeared around the corner of the stairwell, he nodded to himself, gingerly rubbing his wrist, and slowly closed the door.

  He made a mental note to fire Lou Ann Newton. Quickly but with discretion.

  Chapter 40

  Early that spring, on one of his rare visits to the ranch, Kruger called a family meeting in the study. His time these days was devoted almost exclusively to politics and the myriad enterprises involving Lairdsville. The hotel in town, now more than ever, had become his place of residence. In part, his trips to Santa Guerra had dwindled in frequency due to the discord with Hank. Even though he’d ended the affair with Lou Ann Newton, his son avoided him whenever possible; their relationship was one of mutual bitterness, distant civility. But business and politics, rather than personal problems, accounted for his rare appearances. It was a matter of priorities, and to a great extent, he had allowed the ranch to run itself. Or so he thought.

  Trudy was delighted by his long absences. His preoccupation with business and the upcoming gubernatorial election had brought a new element of harmony to their relationship. The caporals once again looked to her for direction, and while she generally followed the guidelines laid down by her husband, she had assumed increasing authority over the day-by-day operations. By now the three cattle divisions, along with the various breeding programs, were established and fairly autonomous. On-the-spot supervision, however, was still necessary; the caporals were of the old school, accustomed to a firm hand, and she gladly supplied it. Yet her most rewarding moments, almost the fulfillment of a dream, concerned young Hank. She had slowly made it known to Los Lerdenos that his orders were her orders, and with infinite patience she had rekindled his interest in the future of Santa Guerra.

  There were problems, though. Hank had become terribly independent since purchasing the string of brood mares. He was determined to establish himself as a Thoroughbred breeder, and even more convinced that it would make his fortune. On several occasions, when Trudy attempted to point out the long-range nature of such a project, he had laughed and politely informed her that he had all the time in the world—a lifetime! She sensed he wasn’t nearly as confident as he appeared, and she also knew he was counting the days until his mares foaled. In her mind it had become a dread event, and she worried constantly. If the foals looked promising, he might be lost forever to Santa Guerra.

  But tonight she had other worries. Her husband looked exhausted, eyes bloodshot and rimmed with fatigue, his shoulders stooped as though weakening under some enormous burden. Clearly he had pushed himself too hard, and she found herself concerned for his health. Within the last year the depth of her feelings toward him had grown enormously; though she kept it to herself, for he’d never been a demonstrative man, what she felt was a blend of affection and genuine admiration. All his accomplishments—the railroad and the town and the political coup—had prompted the change. She saw him now as a man of ambition and power— a visionary—and she liked what she saw. It reminded her of her father.

  Still, she recalled that it was obsessive ambition and an unremitting workload that had killed Hank Laird. She also recalled that no amount of argument had ever really dissuaded her father, and she suspected it would be equally futile with her husband. Ambitious men rarely let go the things they grasped, and as events had proved, Ernest Kruger’s sights were set very high inde
ed. Yet guile and flattery might succeed where argument had failed, especially if he were asked to relinquish only token authority. Not to her, of course, but to the logical choice, his son. Which would very nicely resolve her major worries with one swift stroke. And lay the groundwork for young Hank to assume control of Santa Guerra.

  As they seated themselves in the study, grouped before the fireplace, she decided that tonight was the night to try. The purpose of the meeting was as yet unclear, but her husband was worn and pale, and if ever he were to prove susceptible to guile, it would be in a moment of stress and physical exhaustion. She sat very straight, alert and watchful, ready to act the instant an opportunity presented itself.

  Kruger consulted his watch, almost as though he were late for an appointment, and snapped the lid closed with a decisive click. Then, without preamble, he trained his gaze on Hank.

  “There’s something I want to ask you. Now; you’ll likely think it’s none of my business, but I wouldn’t ask if there weren’t a good reason. So I’d appreciate a straight answer.”

  Hank gave him a dull stare. Since the night of their argument, they had spoken only on rare occasions. But his mother still had no inkling of the affair, and for her sake he attempted to keep up appearances. After a moment he offered his father a thin smile and shrugged.

  “Guess a straight answer sort of depends on the question. But go ahead ... fire away.”

  “How serious are you about Rebecca Hazlett?”

  “I’ll be dipped!” Hank glanced at his mother and saw that she was equally astonished. Then he shook his head, turned back to his father. “You were right the first time. It’s none of your business.”

  “And I told you I have a reason for asking.”

  “Then I reckon I’ll have to hear the reason.”