Texas Born (27 page)

He turned back to her. 'I'd better be going
now,' he said tightly.

She just stood there, resentful and
quivering, hands clenched at her sides.

He bent down, kissed her chastely on the
forehead, and started toward the window, gripping the frame with
his powerful hands.

'Zaccheus!' Her voice stopped him and he felt
her seize his forearm, her fingers digging deep into his flesh. She
pulled him around. 'You
can't
leave me here!' she cried out,
clutching his arm for dear life, forcing him to stay. 'You
can't!
'

He stood very still for a moment. Then a veil
descended over his eyes. 'I can,' he said simply, 'because I
must.'

'You
must—!
' she began derisively. Her
breasts heaved, and suddenly, as though she'd had a revelation, a
wild, maniacal light glowed deep from within her eyes. 'Why, you
don't want me!' she accused in amazement. 'That's really what this
is about, isn't it?' She waited. 'Well? Answer me!
Isn't
it!
'

'No,' he said quietly, 'that's not it at all.
I thought I already explained—'

But it was as if she hadn't heard. She let go
of his arm and took a tottering step backward, her eyes raking him
from head to toe. 'In that case,' she hissed, her mouth curling
into a sneer and something ugly coming into her face—an ugliness he
had never known existed in her, 'there's something I want you to
have. To remember me by!'

He looked questioningly down at her upturned
face.

'
This
damn thing!' she spat, drawing
her head back and yanking at the pansy charm around her throat
until the chain, cutting into her neck, gave way and broke.

She flung it to the floor at his feet. Her
eyes were evil flames now, and there was a gloating hatred in them
which seemed to reach out and sear. 'You can keep that cheap thing!
I don't want it. I was going to throw it away anyway!'

He flinched at the unanticipated malice.
Hatred . . . such unimaginable hatred . . .

'Now, get out!' she hissed, pointing a
quivering finger at the window. 'Take your piece of junk'—she
kicked at the charm on the floor with her toes—'and get the hell
out of here before I start screaming rape!'

Zaccheus stared at her, numbed and stunned by
the change that had come over her. For the first time he could see
deep inside her, and the animus he saw both repulsed and shocked
him.

Phoebe's lips formed a spiteful smirk.
'Well?' she taunted. 'I thought you were so damned anxious to
leave! What's the matter? You suddenly crippled?'

He knew his face, contorted in pain, must
look as wretched as he felt inside. He was in physical agony. In
the worst, most excruciating anguish he had ever suffered in his
entire life.

Abuse heaped upon abuse, all from the woman
he'd loved—or thought he'd loved.

Zaccheus dropped his gaze and stared down at
the glittering pansy charm at his feet. At that hard-won symbol of
his love. But now it had another meaning. It symbolized everything
that had gone wrong with his life, everything he'd lost.

Slowly, wearily, he bent down and retrieved
it, closed his fingers tightly around it.

Just feeling the smooth glass and delicate
filigree opened a sudden floodgate of anguish. He had experienced
many things in his young life: the deprivation of poverty, the
specter of hunger, the humiliation of ignorance. But all of those
were nothing compared to the pure atrocity of which a human being
was capable—of which Phoebe, whom he had misguidedly given his
love, was capable.

The hideous knowledge rocked him to the very
core of his foundations. Robbed him of the freedom to trust another
human being with the abandon of his total heart and soul. And
stirred up within him a caldron of rage such as he had never before
known.

Phoebe. What a fool he had been to fall for
her. But he had been misled, been caught up in a romantic notion
and swept away. And to think that she, of all people, had
represented the very essence of purity for him.

Now that he saw the truth, the past became a
jumble of conflicting memories.

Memories.

There were so many of them.

There he was, inside the church, the rich,
glorious chords of the organ accompanying the congregation in song
while he'd stood on tiptoe and craned his neck to try to catch a
glimpse of her in the front row. And how, after the service, she'd
walked past him, demurely lowering her lashes over her dark, liquid
eyes.

And then the talk with the reverends Tilton
and Flatts.

'
'Have you considered a career in the
ministry . . . the Lord has blessed you extraordinarily
. .
.'

And him leaving his family, deserting the
farm for the ivy-clad halls of Center Hall College in Virginia,
which was where he'd been when he'd received word that his ma lay
dying.

Dying
. . .

He was overwhelmed by anguish, and still the
merciless memories continued their assault.

Him rushing back to Muddy Lake to be at his
ma's bedside; buying her the pansy charm, but giving it to Phoebe
instead. Keeping vigil with the ghost which was his mother, her
every word a massive effort, bloody phlegm distorting her words. .
. . so proud of you . . . . . . all gotta die, son . . . . . . hold
me ? Jest for a minute . . . . . . listen to you rattlin' off them
big words . . . And he relived the shock of learning of the bank's
impending foreclosure on his pa's farm, and writing his impassioned
letter to Reverend Astin—who'd freely given spiritual advice but no
earthly help whatsoever—after which he'd returned to the jeweler,
desperate to get hold of enough money to send his mother to a
sanatorium. And he'd botched even that, and now his ma was dead,
and Phoebe, reeking of spite and corrosive hatred—possessed not of
inner beauty, but a soul festering with unspeakable
malignancies—was glaring at him through hatred-slitted eyes.

Why have I never noticed that part of her
before?
he wondered
. How blind could I have been?

The rage he felt, and the blinding sense of
betrayal, were so overwhelmingly strong that he turned and half-
leapt out the window, knowing that if he remained in Phoebe's room
one moment longer he might be tempted to commit a crime he would
regret for the rest of his life.

The night was dark as Zaccheus silently
trudged beside Demps, too weary and tormented to do more than place
one exhausted foot in front of the other. He couldn't shake the
nightmare he had just lived through. His beautiful Phoebe—whom he'd
put on such a pedestal—had turned out to be nothing more than a
monster disguised as an angel.

His heart throbbed with a sorrow so great,
and so all-pervasive, that he felt mentally and physically
depleted.

All he knew was that with each step he took,
he was that much further from Muddy Lake, the town which had
produced unbearable pain and anguish for him. He knew that he would
never return, nor see any of his family again. But what he couldn't
have foretold was that he and Demps would soon part company and go
their separate ways.

Or that his heart—which he believed could
never again find another woman to love—would eventually heal.

It was high noon when the train from
Brownsville pulled into Quebeck. Zaccheus swung his suitcase down
onto the platform and hopped off. As the train hissed and chugged
laboriously away, he glanced around the tiny station. He was the
only passenger who'd gotten off, and nobody had gotten on. It all
added up to a sleepy little town.

He picked up his heavy suitcase packed with
Bibles and ambled over to the stationmaster's window. Summoning up
his friendliest smile, he said, 'Howdy, friend.'

The grizzled old stationmaster, who was
ticket salesman and Western Union operator both, pulled aside the
glass window and squinted up at him. 'No more trains leavin' today.
Next one's tomorrow mornin'.'

'That's fine with me,' Zaccheus said
cheerfully. 'Could you direct me to the local hotel?'

'Ain't none round here, sonny. But there's a
nice roomin' house in town, run by a Miss Clowney and her two
nieces. She only rents rooms by the week, but if there's a vacancy,
she's been known to make an exception.' The stationmaster squinted
at him. 'If she thinks you're respectable enough, that is. She
don't like no messin' around. Proper woman, Miss Clowney is. The
nieces too.'

'How do I get there?'

'Go round front and take the traction into
town. It'll get here in 'bout twenty minutes. The trip'll take
another fifteen. Get off on Main Street when you see a big pink
house. That's the place. But you'd best go across the street from
the roomin' house, place called the Good Eats Café. You can get
honest wholesome home cookin' there, and that's where Miss Clowney
usually is all day. Owns both establishments.' He nodded for
emphasis.

'I'm mighty grateful.' Zaccheus placed his
hands far apart on the sill, leaned close to the window, and
assumed his most solemnly profound expression. 'You look like a
fine upright Christian man to me, my friend.'

'I ain't your friend. I don't even know you.'
The stationmaster squinted at him suspiciously.

Aware of the scrutiny, Zaccheus pulled his
shoulders back and smiled disarmingly. He had finally topped out to
his full height, and, at twenty-one, was a towering young man,
though not one to instill fright. There was something friendly and
open about him. His eyes were bright blue, he sported a thin blond
mustache, and his blond hair curled naturally. He stood dapper in
his cream-colored slacks, striped jacket, bright polka-dot bow tie,
and straw boater. There was something almost elegant about him. The
only thing that gave away the hardships and toil of his early years
was his large, capable hands and thick wrists.

The stationmaster chuckled. 'From your city
clothes and the heft of that suitcase of yours, I can tell you're a
salesman. Can spot 'em a mile away. I ain't buyin' nothin'.'

Zaccheus grinned. 'Who says I'm selling
anything?'

'I do,' the stationmaster said crisply. 'Now,
scram.'

Zaccheus held both hands up, palms out. 'Will
do, my friend. God bless you.'

'Need no blessin's an' no Bibles neither.
Last year, clown by the name of Osgood suckered my wife into buyin'
one.' The stationmaster shook his head. 'Told her I'd kill her if
she as much as looked at another thing any travelin' salesman
offered. Don't you know it, I came home last week, and what'd you
think greeted my eyes? Slippers. There was a salesman through, and
she'd bought mules for me an' the kids. Red ones, with big black
dots all over 'em. Looked like giant ladybugs. Ugliest things I
ever seen.' He shook his head sadly.

Zaccheus was not listening. He had caught the
name Osgood, and that brought on a surge of anger. The people at
the Wisdom Bible Publishing Company could have forewarned him that
Roger Osgood had already worked this territory. Everywhere he went,
it seemed that Wisdom Bibles had already been sold there. He smiled
sheepishly. 'What time you say the first train leaves in the
morning?'

'Nine-thirty for Laredo.' The stationmaster
eyed him shrewdly. 'Bibles, eh?'

Zaccheus smiled and turned away. It was high
time he stopped trying to sell the Lord. It was time he changed his
merchandise. To polka-dotted slippers, maybe. Anything but Bibles.
Conning people into buying Wisdom Bibles was more difficult than
he'd ever imagined it would be. He was weary of doors being slammed
in his face, countess people staring vacantly at him, mumbling, 'If
we ain't got money for food, what makes you think we got money for
books?' How was he to answer that? Growing up, food had been
scarce, and he'd much rather have had a full stomach than a Bible
any day.

It was a mean living he was managing to eke
out, and it barely brought in enough money to keep him on the road.
Still, it was a lot better than what he had done in the past. Ever
since fleeing the jail in St. Louis, he had been determined to be
honest and not to slip. He sighed to himself. Perhaps he should try
some ruse. Maybe he was just
too
honest for this business.
Perhaps that was why, in well over a week, after knocking on
hundreds of doors, he'd managed to sell only five Bibles.

He left the platform and lugged his suitcase
around to the front of the station. Setting it down, he mopped his
forehead with a handkerchief. He was aching for a cool drink. It
was ungodly hot out.

He gazed down the long, straight dusty road
that led toward the town. Along the center of the road ran two
narrow railroad tracks. He judged the town to be at least a quarter
of a mile distant. It shimmered in the unbearable Texas heat.

For a moment he was tempted to walk into
town, but then he decided against it. He might as well splurge and
wait for the Quebeck traction, the tram that made a loop through
the town. He took off his jacket and swung it over his shoulder,
untied his bow tie, and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. After
fifteen minutes of sitting in the shade, he heard the slow, distant
plodding of a horse. He looked to his left. The traction was
arriving.

The solitary antiquated, small-gauge railroad
car was painted bright blue and was pulled by a sweating, plodding
old gray mare. The small flattop wagon had been converted into a
passenger coach. There were four narrow slatted benches facing
frontward, open on both sides, so that passengers could just step
up and slip into a seat or hop off wherever they desired. Steel
posts held up the metal canopy that shaded the passengers.