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.
She looked around. Overall, everything about the room bespoke a man to be reckoned with.
She was about to sink into a leather couch when she noticed the silver-framed photograph on the desk. She reached past the big hand-tooled bound blotter and picked it up. She st
udied the photograph closely. It as Jenny, and she had one leg propped up on a fence rail, one hand on her hip, her cowgirl hat hanging behind her neck. A cool smile was captured on her lips.
Elizabeth-Anne studied the picture thoughtfully. This wasn't the same Jenny she had known. Certainly the basic features were the same. But Jennifer Sue Sexton was not the Jennifer Sue Clowney of her memory. This Jenny held herself with poised self-assurance . . . with the aloof confidence that only great wealth can provide. She had to admit to herself that even if Jenny's features were rather hard, she had turned into a striking, coldly chiseled beauty.
She heard squeals of delight drifting in from outside. Quickly she set the picture back down and drew close to the window. She stood there looking out, a ghost of a smile playing across her lips.
A little boy astride a pony was being walked around a paddock by a ranch hand, the child wearing an adult's western hat; it came down almost to his nose.
Elizabeth-Anne watched for a while. She was certain that this was Ross, Tex and Jenny's child, the one Auntie had tried so hard—and unsuccessfully—to see.
Suddenly the little boy wanted to ride faster, and the beautiful tableau was shattered. The ranch hand kept holding the pony back, and the boy yanked his hat off and began beating him with it. His lips were angry and his eyes flashed petulant, childlike hatred. 'Tom, you damn idiot!' he screeched. 'Can't you see I wanna go faster?'
The ranch hand leading the pony ignored him, but Elizabeth-Anne felt a chill settling over her; it was as if a dark cloud had suddenly obscured the sunshine. What she had just witnessed was a parody—both of expression and voice—of Jenny, right down to the protruding lips. Clearly, the child was taking after his mother. It was such a pity, for he was a lovely, angelic child to behold. Yet when he spewed forth his hatred, he was transformed into something spiteful and . . . yes, monstrous.
Quickly Elizabeth-Anne turned away from the window.
And a sudden vise gripped her ribs, applying so much tight pressure that she thought her bones would break. She had not heard the door opening. Nor did she know how long she had been observed.
Standing in the doorway in a wide-legged stance, her slender, tapered hands resting on her hips, a brushed-suede ranch hat atop her head, was Jennifer Sue Sexton.
'Well, well, well,' Jenny said with a sardonic smile. 'Look what the cat dragged in!'
6
Time seemed to slow, then stop entirely.
The unexpected sight of Jenny caused Elizabeth-Anne to experience that peculiar prickly sensation of her hackles rising, that tingling whisper of a thousand tiny nerve ends bristling from the back of her neck to the top of her head. She had experienced that exact same reaction two weeks earlier at the construction site, when she'd nearly blundered into a rattlesnake.
For a long time the two women stood with their eyes locked, neither of them breaking the silence.
It was a silent test of wills.
Finally Jenny ambled forward with deliberate laziness, her fingers still casually poised on her hips. Her head was tilted at an oblique sideways angle, and her eyes, that peculiar color of a robin's egg, made a slow, sweeping head-to-toe inspection of Elizabeth-Anne.
Elizabeth-Anne stiffened, her arms held awkwardly at her sides, her fists tightly clenched. She kept her chin raised as she returned Jenny's stare, her own pale aquamarine eyes making less of a production but inspecting the other woman cautiously, and with no less interest.
The photograph on the desk had been flattering to Jenny; Elizabeth-Anne could see that now. Over the years, Jenny's blue eyes and pale lips had hardened, and her skin was tanned and turning leathery from too much time spent out in the sun. But it would not be true to say that some things never changed. They did— and for the worse. The cruel, calculating glints which flashed in Jenny's eyes had become, if anything, only more pronounced than they had been when she was a child.
Complexion aside, the outdoors seemed to suit her. She held her back straight, her legs were lithe and shapely from exercise, and her waist was narrower than Elizabeth-Anne had remembered, its slimness accentuated by the silver Mexican conch belt which matched the silver-sheathed tips of her emerald-green string de. She had on snug whipcord trousers tucked into hand made six-stitch boots. A plaid pearl-buttoned workshirt. Her sand-colored cowgirl hat was far from ordinary: the hatband encircling the crown was made of pavé diamonds interspersed at intervals with square- cut emeralds the size of a thumbnail.
Faced with all that expensive glamour and cool self- assurance, Elizabeth-Anne felt peculiarly homely. Suddenly she was all too conscious of her gray maternity outfit and her sensible lace-up boots, which needed new soles so badly.
It was Jenny who broke the silence. 'Do you remember that day we blindfolded you and tore your gloves off?' She regarded Elizabeth-Anne closely.
Elizabeth-Anne looked at her steadily, her eyes unwavering. 'It was a cruel, childish prank,' she said with stiff dignity.
'Was it?' Jenny laughed again, and her voice grew stridently penetrating. 'We all thought it was very funny.' She looked suddenly pleased. 'It was my idea, you know.'
'That thought crossed my mind at the time.'
Jenny's eyes narrowed. 'You didn't accuse me of it when it happened.'
'Why should I?' Elizabeth-Anne held up her hands. 'It wouldn't have done me any good. You would only have thought up ten more ways to get back at me. Early on, I discovered that it was far easier to keep quiet and stay out of your way than try to fight you on your own terms.'
'Is that what you've been doing by avoiding me all these years?'
Elizabeth-Anne did not reply. All she could think of was in what a ludicrous direction this conversation was headed, and how childish it all sounded. How long could grudges be held? Other people embraced after such long absences. But not Jenny. Oh, no. She honed in swiftly, her every word a sharp razor making another deep slash, opening one wound on top of another, slashing with frenzied indiscrimination until she drew as much blood as her victim had in him.
There was a subdued knock at the door and then it opened and Rosita scurried in, carrying a single tall icy glass of lemonade on a silver salver. The maid flushed with embarrassment and studiously avoided looking at Elizabeth-Anne.
Jenny reached for the lemonade and sipped slowly, holding her little finger away from the glass and glancing at Elizabeth-Anne over the rim, her eyes registering juvenile satisfaction.
Elizabeth-Anne allowed no expression to show on her face. The drive to the ranch had been a long and hot one. Her throat felt parched—especially now that Jenny was pointedly drinking cool lemonade in front of her.
I won't let myself get angry, Elizabeth-Anne told herself firmly. So what if my horse is watered and I thirst? The horse is a far more important priority; it has to pull the buggy and drive me back to Quebeck. There will be time enough to quench my thirst later.
She took a deep breath. 'The reason I came here,' she began succinctly, 'is to—'
'Always to the point, aren't you?' Jenny interrupted irritably. 'Just like Auntie. Never wasting time or mincing words.'
'I find it cuts down on problems. Besides, time is precious. I'm a busy woman.'
Jenny leered at her. 'I don't know how busy you are, but you certainly are a quick and slippery woman. Let me see . . .' She tapped her lips thoughtfully and paced the room slowly. 'Yes, you've been more than busy. Not one to waste time by any means. In the time you can say Jack Robinson, you ended up with Auntie's rooming house and the café. You stole Zaccheus away from me. But then, I should thank you for that, I suppose, seeing as how he's a murderer.'
'He is not a murderer! Roy's death was an accident!'
'Then why didn't he stay and face the music?' Jenny smirked.
'You know very well that Zaccheus would have been sentenced to death by a Sexton-controlled court if he had stayed here. Because of you, I'll never see him again. His children will grow up without a father.'
'How too sad for that lit
ter of little bitches you've dropped!' Jenny smiled triumphantly and then pointedly looked Elizabeth-Anne up and down. 'Now I see you're going to drop another little bitch.'
'If you insist on referring to my children as a litter,' Elizabeth-Anne said haughtily, 'I might point out that you've dropped, as you put it, one of your own.'
'Oh, yes!' Jenny said. 'I have a child, a beautiful child. A boy of Tex Sexton's . . . a child with a brilliant future. He will never want for anything.'
'Mine do not want for anything either,' Elizabeth-Anne countered with dignity. 'Perhaps we should both count ourselves lucky.'
'Ah.' Jenny smiled. 'But you're not lucky.'
'What do you mean?'
'Oh, I don't know.' Jenny shrugged vaguely and took another sip of lemonade. 'What do you think I mean?'
'To be truthful, I haven't the foggiest.'
'You should, Mrs. Construction Engineer, owner of Quebeck's first tourist court. You think you're the only woman around here who does anything, don't you?'
'Nooo . . . I don't. In fact, I should welcome you to the small, exclusive ranks of America's businesswomen. Coyote is quite an impressive business, if I say so myself. Of course, even I would have been able to afford to buy it for a dollar. Even the poorest Mexican urchin could have come up with that amount of money. So I can't really say I'm impressed with the way you acquired it.'
Jenny leaned close to her. 'How did you find out about it, anyway?'
Elizabeth-Anne smiled. 'Let's just say the walls have ears. Anyway, while we're on the subject of Coyote, that's exactly what I came here to discuss. I suppose it's you I should see about my invoice problems.'
'What's there to talk about?'
'What's there to talk about!'
'What are you? A parrot?'
'Jenny, those bills are all wrong, and I think you know it.'
Jenny tossed her head. 'I don't concern myself with the day-to-day operations of Coyote. We have hired people to do that. Speak to the manager.'
'I did.'
'Then the problem should be settled.'
Texas Born Page 35
