Pausing to let the comment sink in, she added, “I’m not an unmarried virgin. So, what do I have to do, parade around like a vixen to get your attention?”
Mobley felt his eyes widen. He tried to pull back. She held on. “Certainly not. You’re a lady. Ladies don’t parade themselves around.” He looked out at the lights of the city, then over the top of her head. When he looked back down, his gaze fell on her breasts. She held him at the waist, both arms hugging him close, pressing with her hips. Oh, God. He surged against her. She pulled forward, responding to his body’s traitorous, uncontrolled reaction. She layed her head on his chest. He snuggled his nose into her hair, overcome by her scent. Roses in springtime.
Memories came back. His emotions had been doing back flips. He’d been concerned about Edson and Jack, their campaign against Ferdie Lance, most of all about protecting Lydia from any harm that might befall her from being too close to him. He’d thought several times of going to her room, but decided against it for reasons he could not fathom or express. Somewhere deep, he knew he must not give in.
Lydia was a fine woman, the kind of woman he’d always dreamed of. Tough, intelligent, resourceful. But she was still a woman in a man’s world, vulnerable and innocent. She just didn’t realize how dangerous the situation was.
The closer they had become, the less he’d been able to think. She’d dominated his every thought, his emotions. He should have been working with Jack and Edson, figuring things out. Instead, he’d moped about the hotel, drank too much, worried that Ferdie Lance might jump out of the bushes and cause her harm. He’d become obsessed with protecting her.
In the end, he’d concluded it was hopeless. He was not good enough for her. It would be best if she would return to Waco, as far away from him as possible. But he couldn’t keep his mind from picturing her, loving her.
“Well, are you going to talk to me or gawk at your feet?”
Mobley lifted his face. Lydia looked up at him, her eyes glowing emerald, and sparkling mischievously. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her back. “Lydia, I don’t know what to do. You’re a fine lady. I don’t deserve you. I’m just a hillbilly who managed to weasel his way into a good job. Now people are trying to kill me. If you stay around me you’ll likely be killed too. I couldn’t take that. You need a husband, not an uncouth backwoods judge who would be gone most of the time, unable to protect you. It wouldn’t be right.”
He could see Lydia getting red in the face and thought for a moment she was going to cry. Then he recognized she was angry, furious. She stepped back and whacked him hard on the arm.
“Damn you. You men are all alike. Why don’t you stop playing games? I don’t need your protection. Women don’t need constant protection. Protecting women is just another ploy used to justify denying women an equal place in this world. Men have protected me near to death with their rules. They say I can’t work at the only profession I know, because it wouldn’t be right to encourage a woman to step out of her role as wife and mother.
What right do they have, making decisions like that for me? They’re keeping me down and patting themselves on the back for doing it. They say they are protecting me. Well, horse pucky! All they’re really doing is protecting their own territory.
If we ever did get married, you’d probably want to keep me locked away, like George tried to do. Barefoot and pregnant. If he’d had his way, I would have been hidden in the attic unable to associate with anyone. All because he was jealous. He said he wanted to protect me, but what he really wanted was to protect his property, that’s all.”
Now Lydia was crying. Several upper-crust women were startled at her outburst. She wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders, turned and walked a few steps away. She stopped, turned back, anger and determination in her voice. “I’m going back to Waco. If you decide to accept me as an equal, come see me. Until then, you can go jump in the creek.”
Mobley was near panic. He wanted to reach out, stop her from leaving, but could not. He hung his head and stared at a glass of champagne sitting on the railing, abandoned by some other guest. He turned to face the grounds, picked up the glass and threw it as far as he could.
Yancy Potts stood outside the door to the terrace as Lydia Sweetgrass hurried out. He smiled inwardly, his mind working rapidly. Judge Meadows was hurt, vulnerable. Now was the time to act. Yancy turned. Tom Dooley of The Austin Telegraph was across the room, engaged in animated conversation with the governor.
CHAPTER 42
The Colorado River shimmered in the afternoon sun, moving its cargo of red mud and silt to the Gulf of Mexico. The majesty of the river held him as he gazed out the hotel window. Nothing could stop it. It just kept rolling on and over or around everything in its path.
Mobley had felt like that once, invincible, unstoppable. Today, he felt totally alone, a failure. He’d thought his actions had been for the public good, and perhaps they were. But he’d never considered how his methods might look or be characterized by a vicious critic.
Lydia was gone. He’d fouled that up, too. The only real chance at love he’d ever had. She was gone, and all he could do was think about her. Her angelic face, there when he’d needed her. Strong hands, used to hard work, soft on his face. Whispering in his ear, rubbing his chest, her breasts swelling to the rhythm of her warm breath.
A copy of The Austin Telegraph lay at his feet. He knew the story by heart. “MAD DOG JUDGE accused of murder in attack on alleged raiders; shoots Judge Oliver in drunken rage during illegal trial; responsible for death of train passengers in resisting robbery; Chief Judge Hooks overturns decision on reappraisal law, suspends Meadows pending investigation of charges; Governor Davis appalled at malfeasance, demands federal investigation.”
Mobley hadn’t eaten in two days. There was nothing left for him to do. He’d angrily stomped off to see Judge Hooks, to demand an answer. The man had no power to suspend him, nor overturn his decision on the reappraisal decrees. But Hooks was nowhere to be found. Not in his office, not at his home. He’d disappeared.
Jack and Edson were still out looking for Ferdie Lance, so Mobley had retreated to his room. He was unable to ride, but his wound had improved dramatically. In a few more days, he would leave this vile town, this Sodom of Texas.
He turned from the window and walked to the dresser. A bottle of whiskey stared at him. Why bother? It did no good. He’d been kidding himself. It did nothing but cloud his thinking, didn’t help the pain in his side for long, did nothing for the heartache. It would not solve his problems and would not bring Lydia back. For an instant he thought to throw the bottle out the window, and then stopped. A knock at the door drew his attention.
“Come in,” he yelled. A stupid thing to do. It could be a murderer, another snoopy reporter, anyone. But he no longer cared. Had there had been a dog around, he might well have kicked it.
Yancy Potts pushed the door open carefully and peered into the room. “Judge Meadows?”
Mobley glared down at the bald man who stood no more than five foot two inches in height. “Yes. What do you want? I’m busy.” He walked to the leather chair next to his bed and flopped down, arms and legs akimbo.
Yancy looked around to see if any one else was present in the room. He stepped inside.
Mobley quirked up the corner of his mouth. Now, what did this weasel want? He could feel his temper rising, at the edge of control. Yancy Potts was nothing more than another Judge Oliver, a paid lackey for Davis. He also had big ears. Mobley glanced at his pistol, laying on the dresser beside the bottle of whiskey.
“Sit down, Mr. Potts. Make yourself comfortable. Would you have a drink?”
Yancy relaxed his shoulders slightly and moved toward the dresser. He quickly scanned the room. It was badly in need of service. The maids had probably been ordered to stay out, either by Meadows or the hotel management. He stepped over a pile of dirty clothes and reached for the bottle. There was no glass. No matter, he needed fortification for what he
was about to do. He turned the bottle up, locked his gaze on Judge Meadows and took a long manly swallow. He allowed a smirk to cross his face, saw that Judge Meadows recognized the contempt written in the expression, and reminded himself to be careful. The man had proven dangerous and resourceful on several occasions. He was down at the moment, but it would not be wise to underestimate him.
Yancy carried the bottle with him as he sat down on the sofa. “Judge Meadows. Governor Davis has asked me to convey his support and good wishes. He thinks the newspaper attacks on you are totally unwarranted and wants you to know if you need anything, he will be there for you. He thinks Judge Hooks has been wrong to suspend you and feels he may be of some service in that regard. Judge Hooks is an old friend and supporter.”
Mobley looked at Yancy with disgust and kicked the newspaper lying at his feet. Yancy had the pasty face of a man used to sitting at a desk, the eyes of man born to the lurk, dedicated to plot. On top of that, he smelled of cheap cologne.
“What is it exactly, Mr. Potts, Governor Davis thinks he can do for me?”
Yancy stood and walked casually about the room, dragged his finger through the dust on a lamp table, looked at his finger, nose held high, and continued his wandering inspection.
“You must understand, Judge Meadows, Governor Davis is a very powerful man. If he decides to take your side in these matters, you can be sure the newspapers will retract everything they’ve said. Hooks will reverse himself, except for the reappraisal decrees of course. Your honor will be completely restored. Then we can all work together to bring this state back into the civilized world.”
Mobley stared at Yancy. His anger faded as his mind began to grasp the plot being revealed. The man was as wily as they came. They had Judge Hooks in their pocket, and now they wanted him. Mitchell Marsten had been right. Governor Davis could not share power. He had to have it all. Mobley smiled. “Well, blow me down—if you’re not trying to bribe me?”
“Oh, no, that’s not what I’m doing at all.” Both of Yancy’s hands came up in mock surrender. “Bribery of a public official is a crime, as you well know. We would never stoop so low as to do such a thing.”
Mobley snorted and coughed. What a load of horse pucky. He looked at Yancy with contempt. “My boys tell me you and the Governor have been trying to kill me. That’s against the law as well. Am I to suppose you consider murder of less import than bribery?”
Yancy stiffened, a look of challenged innocence on his face. “Sir, that is ridiculous. You have no evidence or you would have done something about it already. I don’t know where you got your information, but let me assure you it is not true. As far as bribery is concerned, there is no need for such a thing. Politics is the business of power and manipulation, Judge. You know that, or at least you should.
We don’t need to bribe people, especially people as vulnerable as you. You are your own worst enemy. We need do nothing other than tell the truth as we see it. That is what Tom Dooley at The Telegraph is doing. If we thought you might be a friend, we would simply convince him he was in error. If you choose to be friends with us in return, well, so be it. We’ll all work together.”
Mobley pulled himself to his feet, took the bottle from Yancy’s hand and examined it carefully. “And—If I choose not to be friendly?”
“Then we tell the truth about some other things. All’s fair in politics, Judge. Your deputy, Jack Anthony Lopes, for example. He’s an interesting fellow, I understand. Speaks perfect English with a British accent. Perfect Castilian, even border Spanish when he wants to. He’s reputed to be a fantastic long range rifle shot.”
Mobley felt a pang of anxiety shoot through his chest as Yancy looked down his nose, turned and wandered casually to the window.
“My people down by the border tell me they know a man like that who’s been seen running with revolutionaries in Mexico. He has some connection with the former dictator, Juan Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. He does have an interesting name, doesn’t he? Jack Anthony Lopes?
Mobley could feel his blood turn cold. But he could show no response. Any sign of weakness now would encourage Yancy to go even further. “If you add something like that to all of your other lies, you’ll be a dead man.”
Yancy looked calmly into Mobley’s eyes. “Come, come, Judge. You’re the last person in the world who would kill someone for something as simple as telling the truth.”
Mobley forced a wry smile. “Thank you, Mr. Potts. You’re quite right. I wouldn’t kill you. But Jack Anthony Lopes would, and I couldn’t stop him even if I wanted to. He is a man of honor from an old country noted for its men of honor. He’d hunt you down, Yancy. And you’d better believe he’s real good at it.”
A flash of concern crossed Yancy’s face, quickly controlled. “That’s a bluff, Judge. I’ll give you time to think it over. A few weeks at most. You really have no choice, for if this were to get out, that your famous marshal is the son of the most hated man in all of Texas history, you would lose every bit of credibility you have ever had in this state. You’d be finished, and you know it.”
Yancy walked around Mobley and headed for the door. He opened it part way and looked back. “This information will stay with me until you make up your mind. Not even the Governor knows about it.”
“Now, have another drink. I think you need it.”
CHAPTER 43
Jack leaned against the stately Sycamore, arms and legs crossed, enjoying the cool breeze as it shushed through river reeds and rattled leaves in the small grove. Light sugary scented smoke drifted by as Edson stoked the campfire. Jack was reminded of his early days as a bandit, sitting around with friends, telling wild stories and living off the land. It would not be a hard life here. They were no more than twenty miles from Austin.
Edson had chosen their camp well. Tall trees—Sycamore, Cottonwood and River Birch—shade and firewood. Tall grass provided graze for the horses on a flat slope to the river. It was like a park, peaceful and serene. The Colorado River wound around in a short loop giving protection on three sides, fresh water, and fish to eat. They could stay a long time with a few supplies, but those were running low. Soon, one of them would have to go into town.
He could see Mobley sitting on the grass by the river, staring off into space, thinking or moping, Jack did not know which. They’d finally convinced him to leave the City of Austin and brought him here to raise his spirits, but so far he’d done nothing but sit and stare. He’d put up little resistance, as if he no longer cared. Jack knew the feeling. A sense of failure, of stupidity, lost love, all encompassing melancholy. Life for him had been a constant struggle. But Mobley had never experienced such suffering. He’d been raised in the woods, taught to live off the land, but could have reached out for family at any time. He’d been successful at everything he’d ever tried. Failure was something new, something he’d never experienced.
Edson finished fussing with the fire and came to sit next to Jack. Jack acknowledged Edson’s presence with a nod. Their friendship had grown enormously the past few weeks. Edson was phenomenal. Never seemed to tire, always ready. The most intuitive man Jack had ever met. During the first few days of Mobley’s silent ordeal, Edson had hovered around, trying to get him involved, to get him to talk. Edson had thought Mobley had overdone the whiskey. Now, he believed it an over-reaction to the loss of Lydia.
“What do you think we ought to do, Edson? He’s still looking terrible.”
“I think we need to start talking to him. Find out what this is all about. He doesn’t want to talk, but we need to force him to it.”
“Well, if talking is the answer, let’s get on with it.”
Jack uncrossed his legs and stood up. Edson did likewise, brushing dirt and leaves from his pants. Jack looked at Edson, and then walked toward the river. He sat down on Mobley’s left side. Edson did the same on the right. Mobley did not move.
It was cool and pleasant at the riverbank. A breeze rustled the cattails as the clear water swirled in chaotic pa
tterns. Jack could understand Mobley’s choice of territory. It reminded him of his early life, before his mother had died, fishing with half-brothers in a pond, running and hiding in the aromatic clove orchards, hiding in tall grass.
“Good morning, Mobley. We’ve come over to see if we can help you figure it out.”
Mobley lifted his eyes and glanced in Jack’s direction, his mouth a thin line. Edson put his hand on Mobley’s shoulder, snatched it back as Mobley pulled away and uttered a growl. Jack looked at Edson and nodded. They both then squeezed in close so Mobley could hardly move.
“It won’t do you any good to fight, Mobley.” Jack said. We’ve decided you need to talk this thing out. And by all the saints, we’re going to sit here until you do. So, stop resisting.”
Mobley shrugged away. “Dang you all. I don’t need your help.”
“Sure,” Jack said, “like you didn’t need the maggots or Lydia’s nursing care, or us covering your back. You know, I’ve moped over a lot of señoritas and suffered my share of grief, but you take the prize. I’ve seen men struck down by love for a woman, never like this. You’ve gone totally out of your gourd and we’re going to help you get back in.”
“Yeah,” Edson said.
Mobley was silent for a moment, then hostile. “What do you two know about it? What makes you think it’s about Lydia?”
Jack looked at Edson. He had a quizzical look on his face.
“Well, if it isn’t about Lydia, what is it about?”
“None of your danged business, that’s what.”
Jack looked back at Edson. “I think he needs to be thrashed a bit, to rearrange a few of those obstinate brain defects. What do you think?”
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