Cactus Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (47 page)

      
“I have it on excellent authority,”—he paused for an ironic laugh—“that it is still here in this house, held by your Mr. Slade...or aren't you privy to his secrets any longer? I would hate to think you overplayed your hand when General Woll was here and now have lost such a good source of information as James Slade.”

      
Tomasina realized he knew nothing of what had transpired since he had left San Antonio a month ago. She intended to keep it that way. However, her plans were thwarted by the untimely arrival of her ex-fiancé.

      
Slade stood in the doorway, eyes bloodshot and clothing rumpled, looking decidedly cross and dangerous. “It's me you have to deal with, Kennedy, not the
lady
.”

      
The scathing way he referred to Tomasina made her redden in mortification. Forgetting all her good intentions, she clawed up a pillow from the huge pile on her bed and threw it at him. Then deciding that was not lethal enough, she heaved a heavy leather-bound book, followed by a china plate and teacup from her breakfast tray. She accompanied the barrage with an outburst of furious Spanish profanity and some rather graphic threats of violence intended for his privy parts.

      
Understanding the language full well, the Englishman paled and looked at Slade, who ducked flying crockery and ignored her actions as he might the tantrum of a spoiled three-year-old. Looking instead at Kennedy, Slade said coldly, “I'll get your blood money, but there is a price for it.” He turned and walked out of the room, with the Englishman quickly following.

      
“Just what do you mean, old chap, a price for it? I do trust you've been instructed by your president that the money in question is to be released to me.”

      
The clipped accent held an edge, whether fear or impatience, Slade could not discern. However, he was in no mood to quibble with Kennedy. He held all the aces in this Texas-style card game. He ushered his guest into the study. “Now I am going to explain and you are going to listen. I'll tell you precisely what you have to do in order to get the money in question. Pay close attention—I have a filthy headache and I don't feel like repeating myself. There is a convent of the Little Sisters of Mary Magdalene just outside New Orleans...” As he spoke, he closed the study door.

* * * *

      
After a few hours of sleep, followed by a rejuvenating hot bath and shave, Slade felt almost human again. He dressed and walked out of the house, intent on his mission. Two problems down, one more to go, and the day would end with significantly more promise than it had begun. He headed toward the boardinghouse, lost in his private thoughts, staging and restaging the upcoming scenario with Charlee.

      
Edith LeBeau paused in mid-twirl of her jaunty parasol. Dressed in a chic pink batiste day gown, she was out for an afternoon stroll when she caught sight of Slade's pantherish stride. He was wearing an elegantly tailored cream linen planter's suit and flat-crowned hat. He looked almost like a New Orleans Creole gentleman, she thought, but for his tigerish golden coloring and the faintly menacing way he moved. He was cutting across the street toward the other side of the plaza. If she hurried, she could accidentally run into him at the far corner.

      
“James,
chéri
, what a surprise! And dressed so differently from when you left me this morning.” She winked wickedly and hooked her hand around his arm before he could ungallantly pull away from her clutches.

      
He groaned inwardly, then reassessed.
Make that three problems down before I take on Charlee.

      
“Afternoon, Edith,” he said with a smile, pushing the hat back on his head. “Mind if we take a little detour through the park over there?”

      
He steered them into a small oasis of whispering cypress trees, interspersed with lacy figs and pomegranates. A sparkling public fountain gurgled in the midst of the grassy haven, inviting the passersby to stop for a cooling drink. Several
Tejano
women filled large earthen jars from the top of the font. A small boy sat with his feet dangling in the bottom of the sunken limestone pool.

      
“What a romantic spot,” she said, eyeing a wrought iron bench to one side. They ambled toward it, then sat down. She still held his arm possessively. “How long until you return to your ranch?”

      
“I intend to leave in a few days at most. First, I have some personal matters to take care of here in town,” he answered while carefully removing her offending hand from his arm. “This past week I've had a lot on my mind; but after tomorrow, life should get simpler,” he said, smiling mysteriously but elaborating no further. “I've had the chance to think about the rest of my life and how I want to spend it.” He had her undivided attention now, if he hadn't had it before! “I concluded this morning that I don't want to wake up in any more strange beds after drinking myself to sleep like I did last night.”

      
“
Chéri
, if you mean you want a woman in your bed at Bluebonnet, I would consider the offer.”

      
She got no further before he shook his head, his lips twisted in a wry smile. “Sorry, Edith, I guess I'm giving you the wrong impression. The reason I asked you to sit with me was so I could tell you I won't be seeing you anymore, on Soledad Street or anywhere else. I'm going to marry Charlee McAllister and go straight.”

      
“But...but you were engaged to Tomasina Carver,” she sputtered.

      
“Not anymore,” he answered with a grin.

      
“You are staying in her house, sleeping under the same roof with her,” she accused with rising temper now.

      
“Not anymore,” he replied once again, this time with the grin widened to devilish proportions. “I wish I could have enjoyed our nights together more, but the timing wasn't right. Sorry,
cherìe
.

      
Earlier, while Slade had been sleeping, Charlee had been picnicking. The warm afternoon in the country was exactly what she needed, not, as she assured Weevils, any of the pigweed tonic that he had brought along to perk up her flagging spirits. They had gorged on fried chicken and cornbread, cheese, apples and grapes, all accompanied by liberal amounts of cool wine. The site was picturesque, an old mission now fallen in ruins. San Juan Capistrano was filled with grandeur even in decay.

      
She laughed and told them about her childhood, while Weevils and Asa kept up a bantering dialogue about home remedies. They were still at it on the return ride into San Antonio.

      
“Onliest way ta beat a cold is a tallow coat,” the fat man averred. “Yew take yew a length o' flannel 'n cut it ta fit yore chest. Then soak it real good in beef tallow, turpentine, 'n garlic oil. Wrap it ‘round yore chest 'n wear it fer th' winter. Don't niver take it off till spring. Keeps colds away fer shore.”

      
Asa shuddered. “Yup. Colds 'n everthin' alive in a twenty-mile radius!”

      
Charlee laughed. “Remember the one about the Chihuahua dog?” She looked over at Asa. “Seems you can take a Mexican hairless and put him at the foot of your bed each night. Whatever illness you have is transmitted to the dog in a week—anything from asthma to snakebite.”

      
Knowing he was being teased, Weevils couldn't resist putting in half earnestly, “But yew got ta be careful if’n ya like th' dog, cause if yore ailment's real serious, it'll kill th' pore critter. ‘Course,
yew
git cured.”

      
“Or, as Sadie told him, ‘ya git fleas,’ ” Asa added, with a chuckle.

      
Charlee wiped a tear of laughter from her eye and thumped Weevils across his rounded shoulders affectionately. “What a wonderful day I've had! I can't remember when I laughed this much, and I promise on my honor, Weevils, if I start failing, I will drink your pigweed tonic. It's the least a body could do,” she said with a wink at Asa.

      
Just then they rounded the corner on Commerce Street and passed one of the numerous small parks that added such verdant beauty to the city, courtesy of the underground springs that fed the San Antonio River. Charlee was sitting back on Patchwork, pushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead when she saw Jim and the beautiful brunette.

      
A full moment earlier, Edith had seen Charlee McAllister slowly riding her paint horse across the square. Slade stood up, with his back turned to Commerce Street, and bid Edith farewell. Off to the boardinghouse and his true love, was he? Not if Edith could throw a wrench into the works. Here was his skinny little amour coming to meet him, albeit quite unintentionally. Edith knew what to do.

      
In a flash, she caught up to Slade and said with a sobbing catch in her voice, “Forgive me,
Chéri
. I know I will never see you again, but I want a good-bye favor. Is that too much to ask?” As she reached one hand toward his chest, she swung her parasol up, over her shoulder, effectively blocking his view of the street as she drew him into her embrace.

      
With a sardonic grin, he obliged her, thinking to himself that he was already such a subject of public scandal that one more provocation could scarcely matter. Anyway, if it got rid of her, he was well served by it. Trying in some subconscious way to soothe her vanity, he gave the kiss his full attention.

      
That was his first mistake.

      
Feeling his response, she lowered the parasol just as Charlee and her friends rode past. Then, she tightened both arms around him.

      
At first Charlee sat rooted to her saddle. Her two companions had not seen the torrid act being played out in the park and were still laughing, until Asa caught sight of her stricken face. He followed the path of her glazed green eyes.

      
“Son of a bitch,” he breathed.

      
“He sure is and then some!” she hissed. With that she jumped from her little filly before Asa could stop her. Landing on her feet, she hiked up her skirts and flew toward the embracing pair.

      
“Not bad enough you let her get away with murder, now you flaunt her right out in public, in front of the whole city,” she shrieked, grabbing a handful of Edith's black hair and ripping it free of its pins. When Edith spun around with sparks flying from her dark eyes, Charlee let her hand drop and croaked in astonishment, “You're...you're not Tomasina Carver! But from the back, you looked like her...your hair...” She subsided into stunned silence, which Slade quickly filled.

      
“If you'd taken a second to check the lady's wardrobe, you might have noticed the cut of the clothing isn't exactly Sina's style,” he said, turning his back on the scorned Frenchwoman to face Charlee.

      
That was his second mistake.

      
“And just what is wrong with the cut of my clothes,
chéri?
Or do you prefer me without any?” With a startlingly imaginative French oath, she raised her parasol and jammed it into his ribs, then stalked off with what dignity a destroyed coiffure and bent umbrella would permit.

      
While Slade labored to get his breath, he considered lunging after Edith and throttling her; but quickly dismissed the idea and the woman as unworthy of further consideration. Instead he grabbed the seething girl standing by his side and walked them both toward a secluded copse of cottonwoods on the other side of the park. They were attracting far too much attention out in the open. To get to the refuge of the trees, he had to drag Charlee past the fountain.

      
That was his third mistake.

      
She moved unresistingly along with him for several paces. “You've been a really busy boy, haven't you, Don Diego. Tell me, does your fine ladylove know about her lookalike from Soledad Street?”

      
When she prodded him in his aching ribs, he swore beneath his breath and gave her arm another yank.

      
That was his last mistake.

      
She pulled back and then lunged forward, catapulting his much taller and heavier body over the low stone enclosure into the shallow water of the pool. He landed with a sickening splat as his backside connected ingloriously with the foot-deep water. It barely broke the impact of flesh and bone meeting limestone.

      
The spouting fountain bounced its spray down on his head, refashioning the wide hat brim with cold rivulets of water. He was soaked to the skin. He looked balefully through the waterfall at the smirking girl, who stood by the water's edge, elbows akimbo, one slim foot perched saucily on the stone rim.

      
That was
her
first mistake.

      
Ignoring the screaming pain in his lower regions, Slade sat up and reached forward in one continuous motion. A long arm connected forcefully with her ankle, hauling her off balance. She let out an oath and struggled to regain her footing by grabbing at the rim of the pool with one hand. Once her wrist was in his range, he let go of her ankle and grabbed her hand, pulling her head forward into the water alongside him.

      
She cursed and thrashed as he subdued her. “Damn you, calm down before you drown us both in a foot of water! Do you realize you just ruined my best suit of clothes, woman? One I wore especially to propose to you in?”

      
She pulled one great mass of water-darkened bronze hair from her mouth and sputtered, “You have damn peculiar ways of coming courting! Or do you always make a detour through a public park to ravish a whore on your way to propose to a woman?”