Lords of the Land

by Braun, Matt;

  “I’m stout as an ox!” Laird assured her. “Never felt better in my life.”

  “Then why the sudden rush to marry me off?”

  “God’s teeth! Are you deaf? I’ve just explained my reasons. I want things settled, and I want it done proper. Now, that’s it, plain and simple, nothing more.”

  “Nothing’s that simple, Pa. Not with you.”

  “Well, whether you credit it or not, when a man gets up in years, he starts thinking about things like that. He wants to know that his family and everything he’s built will be looked after proper. And I’m damn glad Ernie proposed when he did. Seems to me he’s the right man all the way round.”

  Trudy glanced at Kruger, and he held her gaze for a moment. Then he averted his eyes, staring down at the floor. But his expression betrayed his thoughts, and in that instant, she knew her father was lying. Some sensory perception told her that she’d heard only one truth here today. Her father wanted assurance about the future. Not for himself, but for her and Santa Guerra and their people. Before it was too late.

  Suddenly she knew she couldn’t deny him. Nor could she expose the charade he’d so cleverly arranged. It was his life, and however much she would have preferred it otherwise, only he could determine how it was to be played out. She was obligated to accept her role, to give a little in return for all he’d given her. To be Hank Laird’s daughter.

  She took a firm hold on herself before she turned back to her father. Then she brightened and smiled, threw up her hands with a look of resignation.

  “All right, Pa, you win. I’ll consider it.”

  “I knew you would! Knew it all along.”

  “But no more meddling. Ernest and I will talk it out and decide for ourselves. Fair enough?”

  “Aye, fair enough and more. But make it soon, lass. Soon.”

  Laird held out his arms and she came to him. He enfolded her in a great hug, beaming with pride, and kissed her gently on the cheek. Then he grinned looking over her shoulder, and winked at Ernest Kruger.

  Kruger nodded and smiled, and looked away.

  Chapter 28

  The wedding was an elaborate affair. Trudy would have preferred something simpler, even private, and quite reasonably she had argued in favor of the chapel at Santa Guerra. But her father was unyielding, determined to stage an event worthy of Hank Laird’s daughter. By virtue of a large donation, the ceremony was held in the Brownsville Presbyterian church.

  Unknown to Trudy, her father’s decision had little to do with sentiment. Nor was it a matter of personal pride. Laird approached the affair with his usual pragmatism, one eye on the future and the other on Ernest Kruger. It was important that his son-in-law—the new master of Santa Guerra—be presented to all the people who counted. The ranch was simply too remote, far too inaccessible, which made it altogether unsuitable for Laird’s purposes. Instead, he selected Brownsville for the wedding, and along with every rancher in the Cattlemen’s Association, invited a gaggle of politicians from Austin. They all came, and much as Laird had planned, it was an event that catapulted Ernest Kruger from obscure lawyer to a man of prominence and wealth.

  For her part, Trudy endured without complaint, and allowed her father to arrange everything to suit himself. She was packed off to Corpus Christi, where she was fitted for a bridal gown and trousseau, and even submitted to a week-long session with the dressmaker before she escaped back to the ranch. In the month since her engagement she had acceded to her father’s every wish, holding her temper in check, and never once had she let slip her apprehension regarding the hasty preparations. The one exception had been the night Kruger proposed. After dinner that evening she suggested a talk, and on the porch she had faced him with the blunt truth of their situation.

  “If we’re to marry, then I think we should have a couple of things understood from the beginning.”

  “Trudy, I hope you’ll believe me ... I want to marry you. I have for a long time. Your father just brought things to a head, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I believe you, all right. But that doesn’t change anything between us. I want you to know that I don’t love you, and sometimes I don’t even like you.”

  Kruger bobbed his head. “I know.”

  “I also refuse to become a pot-walloper with a bunch of kids hanging on my skirt-tail. I intend to have a hand in running the ranch, and if you want children, then you’ll just have to catch me in a damned good mood.”

  “Are you saying that we wouldn’t—”

  “What I’m saying,” Trudy cut him short, “is that you don’t exactly stir my blood. So there won’t be a lot of monkey business, not unless you show me good reason.”

  “I understand.”

  “And you still want to marry me?”

  “Yes, I do, very much.”

  “Then I’ve only got one last question.”

  Trudy paused, looked him straight in the eye. “How long does my father have to live?”

  “I can’t—” Kruger faltered, shook his head. “You’re asking me to betray a confidence, and I won’t do that.”

  “You missed the point, Ernest. I already know, so it’s not a matter of breaking your word. All I’m asking is, how long?”

  Kruger wrestled with himself a moment, then shrugged. “From what he said, I gather he has a year, perhaps less.”

  “A year.” Trudy’s voice trailed off, and she was thoughtful for a time. Then her eyes snapped around, hard and demanding. “All right, Ernest, that’ll be our secret. But between us, we’re going to make it the best damn year of his life. Do I have your promise on that?”

  “Yes, of course, I’ll do anything you ask.”

  “Good. Now why don’t you kiss me, and we’ll go tell Pa it’s all settled.”

  In the course of all the activity and planning, Laird never suspected that Trudy knew the truth. He seemed revitalized by the impending marriage, personally supervising every detail as the whirlwind preparations went forward. On the night before the wedding, Sam Blalock brought a boatload of politicians upriver, and Laird threw a lavish bachelor’s dinner for his prospective son-in-law. Brownsville’s one hotel was the scene of laughter and drunken revelry until the early hours of the morning; but at the appointed time, Laird appeared at the church, freshly shaven and immaculately groomed, positively jubilant. When he gave the bride away, he had the look of a man watching a dream brought to life. All through the ceremony he listened raptly, nodding to himself, as though the words were spoken in benediction, spiritual sustenance.

  And now, outside the church, oblivious to the well-wishers tossing rice, he watched his daughter descend the steps with her husband. For an instant his thoughts were a kaleidoscope of the past; instead of the vision drifting toward him, gowned in white silk with a lace veil, he saw the freckle-nosed tomboy of so long ago. Then she was there, standing before him, her eyes misty, blue as larkspur, touched with a vulnerable look. He took her in his arms, brushed her cheek with a soft kiss, and his voice went husky.

  “You’ve made me proud, lass. Proud as a man can be.”

  “Oh Pa ... I love you.”

  She hugged him around the neck, tears streaming down her face, and he forced himself to laugh. “Here now, let’s have none of that. It’s a day for dancing and clicking your heels.”

  “I know”—her voice cracked—”but I hate to leave you, Pa.”

  “You’ll not be gone for long.” He pried her loose, gently tipped her chin. “And I’ll be right here waiting when you get back. Just the way we planned.”

  She gave him a bright little nod. “Yes, Pa ... just the way we planned.”

  “Off you go then.” He helped her into a waiting carriage, squeezed her arm, suddenly grinned. “And God’s teeth, girl! Dry your eyes before you get to the hotel. It’s your wedding party, and I want to see a smile ... muy risa!”

  He turned quickly a
way, and stuck out his hand to Kruger, who was standing to one side. The younger man pumped his arm, smiling nervously, and Laird clapped him across the shoulder.

  “She’s yours now, Ernie. Treat her right and she’ll make you a good wife.”

  “I will, Hank. And thanks ... thanks for everything.”

  Kruger stepped into the carriage, and as they drove off, Sam Blalock walked forward. He stopped beside Laird, who was waving to Trudy, and watched in silence for a moment. Then he caught the look on his old friend’s face and glanced away.

  “Grand day, Cap’n.”

  Laird cleared his throat. “Aye, grand indeed.”

  “Want to join your guests? I think they’re waitin’ on you, Cap’n.”

  “How long till boarding, Sam?”

  “Eight bells, thereabouts. We’ve plenty of leeway.”

  “Then let ‘em wait! I need a drink.”

  Laird stepped into the street, hands jammed in his pockets, and went striding off toward the riverfront. Sam Blalock cast a perplexed look at the crowd in front of the church, then shrugged and hurried along behind him.

  “Salud!”

  Laird hoisted his glass and downed the drink. He waited, savoring the crisp bite of the liquor, then set his glass on the bar. His eyes drifted to the mirror, fronted by a gaudy clutch of bottles, and he squinted at his own reflection. The image he saw was annoying but not unexpected; the man staring back at him appeared sullen, somehow morose. There was a certain irony to it, and he found it grimly amusing that today of all days had suddenly turned sour. After a long while he rapped his glass on the counter and motioned to the bartender.

  When their glasses were filled, Laird told the barkeep to leave the bottle. Blalock gave him a curious look, but said nothing as he quickly knocked back the drink. He poured himself another shot and glanced at Blalock, whose glass remained untouched.

  “Drink up, Sam. You’re falling behind.”

  Blalock turned, one elbow hooked over the bar. “You plan on gettin’ drunk, Cap’n?”

  “Who’s got a better reason?”

  “Depends. Are you celebrating or tryin’ to drown your sorrows?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, for a man whose daughter just got married, you don’t seem none too chipper.”

  Laird had to concede the point. After a reception at the hotel, Trudy and Ernest were to depart on the afternoon steamboat to Corpus Christi. From there, they would proceed by train to New Orleans for a month’s honeymoon. Even now, they would be in the ballroom, greeting their guests, and all too quickly they would be gone. Before, he’d thought it a splendid idea, but outside the church his mood had changed to one of dread. He had the sinking feeling he would never see Trudy again. A brief good-bye at dockside and then—

  “Damnedest thing, Sam. Back there at the church something came over me. I wanted her married and settled—hell, I practically pushed her into it!—but I don’t want to let her go. Hardly makes any sense, does it?”

  “Guess you wouldn’t be the first daddy that’s had second thoughts. ‘Course, like they say, you’re not losing a daughter, you’re gainin’ a son. Got to look on the bright side, Cap’n.”

  “That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

  “Maybe not, but whatever’s bothering you, it won’t solve anything by gettin’ drunk. Fact is, I seem to recall the doc told you to lay off liquor.”

  Laird’s smile was cryptic. “Aye, that he did. But there’s no need for worry, Sam. I’m all set now. All set and ready to go.”

  “Go where?”

  The question went unanswered. Laird glanced past him as the door opened, and suddenly stiffened. Blalock looked around and saw Joe Starling, accompanied by another man, halt at the end of the bar. The saloon was almost empty, and Starling became aware of them the moment he leaned into the counter. A guarded look touched his eyes, swiftly there and swiftly gone. Then he laughed, pounding the bar, and ordered drinks in an assured tone of voice.

  Laird studied him with a thoughtful frown. Though they hadn’t seen each other in years, Starling had changed little with time. He was heavier, with huge jowls and a great paunch of a stomach, but otherwise he appeared in jovial good health. All of which fitted with the stories of his immense success in both business and politics. As the railroad baron of southern Texas, he lived in high style, and it was obvious he indulged himself to the limit. It was apparent as well that he still clung to old habits. The man beside him was a bruiser, heavily muscled, with a thick neck and powerful shoulders, clearly a railroad tough elevated to the post of bodyguard. And that, too, fitted the pattern. Joe Starling had always had a wealth of enemies, even in the old days, and his companion merely confirmed that the years had changed nothing.

  On their second round of drinks, Starling nudged the bruiser, muttering something under his breath, and chuckled softly to himself. Then his voice became louder—purposely stressing Laird’s name—and his companion’s mouth split in a vulgar grin. Starling threw back his head, face flushed with laughter, and whacked the bar with the flat of his hand. After a moment the laughter subsided, but he kept chortling and shaking his head, vastly amused with himself.

  Laird took a sip of whiskey and carefully knuckled back his mustache. Slowly his face congealed into a scowl, and without warning he pushed away from the bar. Sam Blalock swung around, grabbing his arm, pulled him up short.

  “Don’t get your nose out of joint, Cap’n. He’s just a loudmouth, always was and always will be. It’s not worth the aggravation.”

  “Leave go, Sam. I’ve some unfinished business to tend to.-”

  “Cap’n, it’s your daughter’s—”

  “God’s blood, man, leave me be!”

  The command jolted Blalock. He nodded, dropping his hand, and stepped aside. Laird held his position, staring toward the end of the bar, waiting until the two men fell silent and Starling glanced his way.

  “Joe, I believe you were speaking to me.”

  “To you?” Starling wagged his head. “No, Laird, I wasn’t speaking to you. I was speaking to my friend here. And it was a private conversation.”

  “Then you were speaking about me.”

  “Only in passing. As a matter of fact ... we were talking about your daughter.”

  “Were you now? And what was it you had to say about her, Joe?”

  “Never change, do you, Laird? Always butting in where you’re not invited.”

  “When you discuss me or mine,” Laird said evenly, “it’s no longer a private conversation. Or haven’t you the nerve to repeat it out loud?”

  Starling laughed, spread his hands. “What the hell, she’s your daughter.” He paused, gesturing toward three men seated at a rear table. “You’re sure you want me to repeat it? Right out in front of God and everybody?”

  “Aye, Joe, I insist.”

  “Well then ... I was telling my friend how this young fellow—Kruger—he’s in for a big surprise. Thinks he married himself a real lady, and the fact is, everybody’s been talking about her for years.”

  “Talking about what?”

  “Why, what else? How she’s been playing stink finger and hide the wienie with every vaquero on Santa Guerra. Hell, it’s common knowledge.”

  Laird smiled without warmth. “You’ve always had a foul mouth, Joe, but I never took you for a fool.”

  “You ... you’re calling me a fool?”

  “Aye, I am indeed. You see, you’ve just gone and committed suicide.”

  “Spare me your cheap threats. I’m not impressed.”

  “You will be,” Laird informed him. “I warned you once before to stay out of Brownsville, and you should’ve listened. Time to pay the piper, Joe ... in full.”

  “A privilege and a pleasure!” Starling blustered. “But you’ll have to get past my friend here before you g
et to me.” He paused, then his jowls spread in a grin. “Allow me to introduce you to my vice-president in charge of discord and altercation, Mr. Pigiron Johnson.”

  The bruiser roused himself, shifting away from the bar, and Sam Blalock immediately ran his hand inside his coat. Laird caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and waved Blalock off.

  “Stay out of it, Sam.”

  “Cap’n, for Christ’s sake, don’t be a fool! You’re in no shape to tangle with him. And besides, he’s probably heeled and you’re not. Call it quits!”

  Johnson snaked a hand inside his coat, withdrew a bulldog revolver, and carefully laid it on the bar. Then he smiled, motioning Laird forward. “Come on, old man. I don’t need no help, not with you.”

  Laird barked a sharp, short laugh. Before the other man could get set, he feinted and punched him in the nose, felt it squash under his fist. Johnson didn’t even blink. His arm lashed out in a searing left hook and Laird went down as though he’d been poleaxed. The whole right side of his head turned numb, and a brassy taste spread through his mouth as blood leaked down over his chin.

  Johnson moved toward him with uncommon agility, striking swiftly with his foot, and the kick grazed Laird’s forehead. Laird rolled away, slinging blood from a split eyebrow, scattering tables in every direction as he slithered across the floor. The tactic worked, carrying him well past the reach of Johnson’s boots; even as he spun in the last roll, he came to his feet. But the respite was short lived. Johnson advanced on him, fists cocked, snarling an oath as he ambled forward.

  Winded, blood seeping down into his eye, Laird waited, coldly inviting the bruiser to make his move. Johnson took the bait. His shoulder dipped, faking another left hook, then he launched a murderous haymaker. Laird ducked under the blow and buried his fist in the younger man’s crotch. Johnson’s mouth popped open in a roaring whoosh of breath. He doubled over, clutching his groin in agony, and Laird exploded two splintering punches on his chin. Dazed, Johnson shook his head, sucking great gasps of wind, and Laird kicked him squarely in the kneecap.