Ride for Rule Cordell (4 page)

Above them in an apartment over the town bank, a green-eyed woman faced the scene in the street. She didn’t like being in town that much, but she wanted to be close when Jaudon brought the news of Gardner’s death, trying to escape. She was also looking forward to some special time with Tapan Moore. The sound of horses had awakened her immediately and she watched from the small window, dressed only in her nightgown of deep emerald.

Anger brought her skin to contrast her gown. It was obvious the night had not gone as planned. At first she thought Jaudon had brought Emmett Gardner in for the law to deal with. That wasn’t her instruction, but it was all right. A closer look told a different story: Jaudon and his men were bound. Tapan was among them; she grimaced and wanted to blow him a kiss. She recognized one of the dead gunmen draped over a horse as working for her. Two strangers had apparently brought them in. Who could they be?

Moira Holt, or Lady Holt as she insisted being called, told herself to be calm. This was not a time for her well-known temper. She must first learn of the situation. It appeared
Jaudon and his men had been surprised at the Gardner Ranch. Surprised by two men she didn’t know. Even from here, she could tell the two were well armed; it looked as though the taller one had been wounded in the leg. She didn’t see Emmett Gardner or any of his sons, so either they remained at their ranch or Jaudon’s men were successful before these two arrived. She doubted it was the latter.

As she spun away from the window with its green curtains, her mind was whirling with questions that needed answers. The best way to do that was to meet these two strangers. As soon as she had bathed.

Her long red hair cascaded along her shoulders as she walked across the green-walled apartment, dropping her night garments as she walked. Lady Holt was a mature woman, born in Canterbury, England, and given a good education—and one with a fine face and figure, as she often reminded herself. Governor J. R. Citale definitely thought so. Her smile was vicious.

Two hours from town was her ranch headquarters, a stately mansion she had purchased from an old Mexican rancher. She had bought the spread shortly after arriving from New York. Her stay in the East had lasted long enough for her to decide Texas was the place to be. The old man had been shot on his way to town with the money she had given him for the ranch.

No suspects were ever found. Or the money.

That was six years ago. Since then, she had bought five other ranches in the area. In the same way. Only three remained that she was interested in. Emmett Gardner’s was the most important because of his water. Charlie Carlson owned another small spread and the third was owned by a young widow, Morgan Peale.

“That old fool has no business owning such land. I can turn it into gold. And power.” She stared at the empty room.
“Iva Lee, I can do it. I can own Texas. You know I can. And you’ll be with me all the way.”

Iva Lee was her long-dead twin sister. Lady Holt often talked to her. Iva Lee was Moira’s twin, older by minutes. She died from cholera, when only twelve, back in England. The disease took their parents, too, and Moira grew up in an English house for orphans. During her early teens, it wasn’t long before her looks turned into a significant asset as men, young and old, sought her favors. Some of them didn’t live long. She left Britain a few steps ahead of the law; a sea captain was enamored with her ways and gave her passage in exchange for herself.

On the way to her dressing table, she touched the painting of a phoenix dominating the north wall. She had been fascinated with the legend of this supernatural bird since she was a child. She knew the story well. A phoenix lived for a thousand years, then built a fire and burned itself up in the flames. Out of the ashes, the creature is reborn to live another thousand years.

She had heard the story first from the man who ran the orphanage. He was a practical man who thought the legend had probably been started when someone saw a large bird, like a crow or raven, dancing in a dying fire. He said it would sit and spread its wings, to enjoy the heat and kill feather mites. But flapping its wings might cause the fire to flame up again and the bird to fly away. Suddenly one had the impression of a bird rising from the flames and ashes. He had been very nice to her, enjoying her young body when he pleased.

She preferred the legend to his explanation and endured his passion as long as necessary. He had been dead ten years, dying in a fire that consumed his estate in London. Before the fire, Moira Holt had stolen the gold and currency kept in the estate—and this painting—deciding the phoenix was
her good-luck charm. A slight scar near her right eye served as a physical reminder of her first criminal endeavor.

Since then, like the phoenix, she had been reborn and now owned the biggest ranch in this part of Texas and controlled thousands more acres of grazing land.

Her apartment was stylishly decorated with the latest in French furniture; she owned the building. Slowly she dressed for the day, deciding on having an early breakfast before determining what had gone wrong. Her eighteen-inch corseted waist was something she was quite proud of. A dark green dress with a matching coat that flared at the waist was selected from her wardrobe. Her pale green blouse was buttoned high around her neck. On her lapel, she pinned a small gold bird, a phoenix, she told herself. A dark green hat with a short veil was the last touch.

Methodically, she had used her newly acquired ranch as a base to build her empire. It had been a slow process, quietly pushing her neighbors into forced sales. At the same time, she had supported the new governor in his political goals, providing money, men—and herself. Governor Citale had been eager to return the favors.

“Iva Lee, it won’t be long before we truly control Texas. I will be its queen. Yes, the Queen of Texas! The governor is already ours—and the power of his office. Yes, it is!” She spoke evenly, staring at a wall. “It is good you are here with me. I need your strength.”

A knock at her door broke her reverie.

“Yes, who is it?”

“Tanner. We’ve got trouble.”

“So I see. Just a minute.”

Opening the door, she greeted the well-dressed lawyer tersely. He had watched the arrival of Jaudon’s men. Removing his hat, he stepped inside.

“What’s our next move?” she asked.

Wilson Tanner wasn’t surprised by her blunt approach. No “good morning” or “how are you?” or even “what went wrong?” He had worked with her for five years, representing her interests in all manner of legal concerns. She was smart, thorough and ruthless. Time wouldn’t be spent worrying about what had already happened; her focus would be totally on what they could, and should, do next. He loved her for it, but that emotion wasn’t returned. Their arrangement was strictly business. Although he had tried and tried.

Removing the thin cigar from his tight mouth, Tanner explained what had happened, as it was related to him by Jaudon, adding that he had gone to the jail immediately, announcing himself as the man’s legal counsel. He reminded her that several of her gunmen were in the No. 8 Saloon, as she always stationed them. She owned the saloon, but no one in town knew it. Of course, the task was one of the gang’s favorites and volunteers for the task were considerable. Until it was made clear no one was to drink. They were in town to provide any quick reaction.

“I know where my men are, Tanner,” she said coldly. “Now is not the time.”

“Of course.”

“I’m going to have some breakfast,” she said, patting her hair to make certain it wasn’t disturbed by the introduction of her hat. “You find out when the hearing is scheduled.”

“What if the judge hasn’t set it yet?”

Her stare made him wish he hadn’t said that.

“I’ll get it done,” he quickly added, glancing at his polished boots and avoiding her gaze.

“Good,” she said. “Then ride to the ranch and tell Paulus to drive those rebranded cattle to town. Fast. We’ll turn this thing around real quick.”

She smiled and it was a wicked grin that caught her eyebrows
and cocked them. “Tell Judge Opat to expect a telegram from the governor.”

“Citale?”

“Do we have another governor?”

“No, of course not.” He returned the cigar to his mouth and his hat to his head, adjusting it to tilt slightly.

“Tell Jaudon his defense remains the same. Exactly the same. This will be the day the Rangers will never forget.” Her laugh was more of a snort.

Tanner spun and left.

“Iva Lee, by tomorrow the Rangers will be history.” This time her laugh ricocheted around the room.

Weary Rangers John Checker and A. J. Bartlett walked into the restaurant after seeing Jaudon and his men secured in the jail’s cells. Checker’s leg was stiff and aching, but he tried not to favor it. A hearing would be set as soon as convenient with Judge Opat, the sheriff advised with little apparent interest in the matter.

They were soon enjoying ham, eggs and potatoes, washed down with hot coffee, when Lady Holt entered the restaurant. Her presence stopped the filled eatery for an instant as men and women throughout the room watched her grand entry.

The restaurant owner rushed to greet and guide her to a table kept exclusively for her use when she was in town. The table was adorned with a green cloth, laced around the edges. She thanked him in French as he helped her into the high-backed chair. A china cup and saucer, filled with fresh coffee, appeared in front of her from a wide-eyed waiter. A second cup and saucer were placed across the table, as she always insisted. No one knew why. A second waiter presented a china cream and sugar set. The china was hers, not the regular restaurant fare.

After ordering, she asked the bushy-headed owner with eyebrows to match about the two men on the far side of the room.

“They’re Rangers, Lady Holt,” he said, swallowed and added, “Ah, they brought in Mr. Jaudon and his men. Some kind of problem at the Gardner Ranch. A misunderstanding, I am certain.”

“I would like to talk with them, please.”

“Certainly.”

Straightening his narrow shoulders, the owner walked to the table where Checker and Bartlett were finishing their breakfasts. He didn’t like being in the middle of this and bit his lower lip to control his anxiety.

“Rangers, Lady Holt would like a word.” He rubbed his hands together nervously. “Ah, she’s over there. At the green table.” He looked away toward the wall. “Lady Holt is…a very powerful woman around here.”

“Is she, now?” Checker said, cutting his ham.

A. J. Bartlett looked at John Checker, smiled and said, “ ‘A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, and most divinely fair.’ ”

The owner frowned, not understanding Bartlett’s quote from Tennyson’s “A Dream of Fair Women.”

“Please, sirs. I don’t want any trouble…with her. Please.”

“I’m sure you don’t. Tell her we’ll come over. After we’re through eating.”

Checker’s eyes indicated there was no need for further discussion.

“Ah, certainly. I will tell her. Certainly.”

Checker took another sip of his coffee. “An’ bring us some more coffee.”

“Oh, certainly, sir. Certainly.”

As soon as the excited man left, Bartlett said quietly, “I’m kinda excited about meeting her. What do you think she wants?”

“To warn us.”

“Oh yeah. Guess so.”

Bartlett started to add more, but the owner returned with a fresh pot of coffee. Both Rangers thanked him and completed their meals in silence. Finished, they stood, dropped coins beside the empty plates and headed for Lady Holt’s table.

Checker’s leg wouldn’t take pressure for a few steps. Finally, he was able to slide it along as he moved the other. He didn’t like the adjustment and quickly forced his wounded leg to walk normally.

“Ma’am, you asked to see us?” Checker said, holding his hat in his hand.

“Oh yes, thank you. Please sit down.” She motioned with both hands toward the chairs on either side of her intentionally empty chair across from her. A quick flip of her hand brought fresh coffee cups from a nervous waiter. They were her china.

Bartlett started to sit.

“No, thanks, ma’am. We’ll stand. Got work to do,” Checker spat.

Lady Holt studied Checker appreciatively. “Well, your choice. I was hoping you might be interested in knowing the truth.”

“Always interested in the truth.” Checker folded his arms.

She grinned. “Good. Then you should know Emmett Gardner is a rustler. He’s stolen some of my beef. Under my orders, my men went to bring him in for trial. If you ask the sheriff, you will find they acted under his approval.”

Checker shook his head. “No, ma’am, Emmett Gardner isn’t a rustler—and you know it. Or should. He’s a good
man. Working hard to help his sons grow straight and tall. Working hard to make that small ranch pay.”

She lifted her coffee cup slowly; her eyes locked on to his.

“Jaudon has been arrested for attempted murder. He and his men,” Checker spat. “That is the truth.”

Bartlett cocked his head and added, “ ‘Is it so true that second thoughts are best?’ ”

“Shakespeare?” she asked without taking her eyes off Checker.

“Tennyson, m’lady.”

“Oh. Of course.”

In an instant, her mouth became a slit; her eyes narrowed. Bartlett thought she looked like a cougar about to pounce. “Have you gentlemen ever heard of a phoenix? It’s a wonderful tale of everlasting life.” Her voice carried the hint of an English accent.

Bartlett said, “Yes, I have. The story is old. A fictional bird that gets burned up and returns to life. Something like that. Many think it came from seeing a large bird stomping on a dead fire’s ashes to warm himself—and causing the old fire to flame again.”

“I find it quite comforting. Like Christianity’s myths are to others,” Holt said.

Both Rangers frowned.

She laughed heartily. “I see I hit a chord. A ‘myth’ is simply a story that has grown large around some key principle or fact.” She studied them for an instant. “Pardon me for saying so, but you gentlemen don’t strike me as the churchgoing type.”

“What is that type?” Checker said with an edge to his voice.

She changed the subject abruptly. “How much do you make…as Rangers? I’ll triple it. I need good men.” Her eyes measured Checker.

“You have a good day, ma’am.” Checker returned his hat to his head and headed for the door, trying not to let his wounded leg be so apparent.

Bartlett joined him as Checker reached the door. Behind them came Lady Holt’s now sweet voice. “You take care of that leg wound, Ranger. Texas needs men like you.”