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.
Chapter Six
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.”
