She returned to the Room of the Phoenix, sat in her chair, unfolded the paper and began to read.
Her gleeful laugh bounced around the crimson room, creating its own echo.
“Iva Lee, we’ve done it! We’ve done it.” She laughed again, letting the sound join her first outburst. “Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. That fool Citale. Beautiful.” She turned toward the large bird statue. “Thank you, Great Phoenix. Thank you.”
Her entire body was warm, so warm she ripped off her clothes, walked over to the small walnut desk and sat naked on the ornate chair. She took a piece of paper emblazoned with a small phoenix crest at the top and began to write with a grand flourish. Her pencil broke from the intensity of her effort and she cursed, took another from the red glass holding fifty sharpened pencils. Her ritual was forgotten for the moment.
Shoulders heaving, she read again what she had written, decided it was wrong, wadded up the paper and threw it. A second note was more calmly written and more succinct:
After completing the telegram message, she wrote a succinct offer to buy the Morgan Peale Ranch, another to buy the Charlie Carlson Ranch and a third to buy the Gardner Ranch. All four messages were folded, placed in separate envelopes and sealed. She stood and shook her freed hair, letting it sway on her shoulders. Slowly she redressed as if it were an everyday occurrence. Leaving the room and locking it behind her, she found Elliott and told him to find Tapan Moore and have him come to her immediately.
While she waited, Lady Holt strolled over to the liquor cabinet and poured herself a small glass of brandy. It was, indeed, a day to celebrate.
It wasn’t long before the curly-haired gunfighter strolled into the main room. A toothy smile brightened his square-jawed face. His confident walk told everything about him. He was as good with a gun as he was as a lover. Lady Holt’s current lover.
“Mornin’, m’lady,” he said cheerfully, and smiled.
“And to you, Tapan.” She laid her glass on the cabinet shelf and studied his handsome face. “I have an assignment for you.”
His face showed disappointment. Their private times had always been in the crimson room.
“Whatever you wish. I shall do.”
She smiled, ran her fingers through her long hair and told him what he was to do. First, he was to deliver the message to the telegraph office for transmission and wait for a reply. Afterward, he was to go to Judge Opat and show him the three letters, then ride to each ranch and present them.
“You think they’re going to sell?” he asked, taking the envelopes.
“Of course not. But I want to be on record having offered.”
“Sure. Makes good sense,” Tapan Moore said, backing toward the door. “Should I stay with the boys… guarding Gardner’s place?”
“No. Come back when you’re finished.” She licked her lower lip. “So we can celebrate.” She pulled him toward her, kissed his lips gently and smiled. “Oh, by the way, you’re now a Texas Ranger. Jaudon’s captain of the Special Force. When he returns, we’ll take that old sonvabitch’s place by force.”
Moore shook his head and whistled.
“Yes, ma’am!” He grinned and spun around, closing the door behind him as he left.
Slowly, she returned to the phoenix display and sat down. Another knock on the door brought a smile this time, instead of anger. Probably Tapan wanting another kiss before he left.
“Oh, all right. Just one more. Come on in—” She opened the door and stopped midway through her sentence as she realized Eleven Meade was standing there, not Tapan Moore.
His light blue eyes sparkled from realizing whom she had expected. He had passed the young paramour in the hallway; her affair with Tapan Moore was well known on the ranch. Meade touched his mustache with his delicate fingers. As he removed his bowler, blond hair washed over his shoulders.
Physically, he resembled his father; both looked like blond scarecrows. His stern manner, like his mother’s, made him a difficult man to like, but he didn’t care. Any sense of humor he might have was kept well in check. As did his mother. As if to show a smile was to reveal a weakness of character.
“I came for my money,” he said with no thought of apologizing for his interruption. “John Checker is dead.”
She bit her lip again, not believing her wondrous luck this day. “John…Checker…dead? Come in. Come in. I want to hear all about it. Don’t leave out a single detail.”
She poured him a brandy and another for herself. Contemptuously, he recounted the unexpected opportunity, first making it clear the men she had sent to keep Emmett Gardner’s family and the two Rangers surrounded had failed, that they had escaped during the night, headed west.
When he finished, her face was stone. “So my men let that old fool get away? How can that be? They had their orders. My God, doesn’t anybody know how to do anything right?” Her fists were clenched at her sides. Madness slid into her eyes.
“Don’t know about that. I followed their tracks from Gardner’s and Checker had them pinned down. Never saw the family. That’s when I killed him. You’ll have to wait for their report,” he said. “My guess is that they lost them in the rain. That was Checker’s objective. To give the rancher time to get away.”
“Don’t guess. I don’t like guesses.” She cocked her head. “Speaking of guesses, you didn’t get close…to Checker’s body, I take it.”
“Well, no, I didn’t. That colored fella would’ve cut me in two with his scattergun.” He twirled the bowler in his hands. “But I didn’t need to. John Checker is dead. He must have five or six bullets in him. Mine. And a couple of your…men hit him, too.”
“I suggest you return to the Peale Ranch and find out, Eleven. For certain. I don’t pay for ‘maybes.’ Or ‘guesses.’ ” She drained her glass. “Oh, and find Tapan. He has an envelope for Mrs. Peale. You can take it instead.”
Chapter Sixteen
By the time Emmett Gardner and his family got to Clark Springs, the day was well past noon. Rain had delivered on its threat and soaked them thoroughly through the morning and midday. All, except Emmett, had nodded off a few times in the saddle, napping for a few minutes at a time.
In the distance was a well-built, adobe-and-timber house. Nearby were a sturdy barn, a windmill, a blacksmithing shack and three corrals. Horses of brown, black and tan milled about the enclosures. Rain caught their backs and made them glisten. A large brown-and-white dog barked his warning.
Reining up the wagon, Emmett yelled through the thickening rain, “Rule! Aleta! It’s me, Emmett. Me an’ my boys. We got trouble.”
In the shadowed doorway of the front porch stood a familiar figure with a chiseled face and a lithe frame. Dark eyes studied the scene. Long brown hair touched his shirt.
“That’s all right, Two. It’s all right. They’re family,” Rule Cordell said, and whistled at the dog. “Come here, boy. Here, Two.”
With his tongue hanging out, the dog hurried to the porch and stood beside Rule. He leaned over to scratch the animal behind its ears. A silver cross tangled free of his opened shirt from a leather cord around his neck. Under his shirt was a second symbol of spiritual attention, a small medicine pouch also hung from a leather cord. It was a gift of an aging Comanche shaman named Moon before Rule left for the war.
Both tributes to spiritualism he usually wore.
His days as a preacher were over now; he had declined the town’s offer to become the full-time minister. His
