Storming Paradise. Mary McBride

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       Chapter Two

      The big red-and-black Concord coach—its door branded with the famous Circle P—was a familiar sight on the streets of Corpus Christi. Amos Kingsland always came to town in style. He kept fresh teams at intervals along the forty-mile stretch. In the old days it guaranteed he could outrun whatever marauders lay in wait along the way. Now, with most of the rustlers and bandidos having been driven off, the coach’s speed wasn’t so much for safety as it was for its own sake and to let everyone in Corpus know that God, in the guise of Amos Kingsland, was down from Paradise.

      Eb Talent was the reinsman. The grizzled sailorturned-landlubber had been with Kingsland since the steamboat captain had moved inland nearly thirty years before. Eb hadn’t been a young man then and the rigors of riding the range that first year had left him with what he called “permanent saddle sores,” so he’d carved himself out an indispensable niche as cook and coachman. The red-and-black conveyance was his spit-shined pride and joy.

      On this afternoon, though, it wasn’t God who was riding in the closed coach, but his foreman, Shadrach Jones.

      With a blistering crack of his whip, Eb cut the corner onto Water Street, rocking the big coach and sending its dozing passenger sprawling onto the floor.

      Once in the livery, the wiry man climbed down from the high seat, brushed the dirt from his britches and opened the door. His grin revealed an odd assortment of gaps and tobacco-stained teeth. “Six hours and thirty-eight minutes,” he announced. “Only done it faster once, and that was back in ‘76 when we had that pair of quick-footed grays.”

      Shadrach Jones punched the crease back in the hat that had taken his whole weight when he slid from the seat. “You’re a goddamn miracle, Eb.” He slapped the black Stetson on his dark head before angling his long legs out of the coach, then stood a moment, gazing around the dim confines of the stable.

      “Six and thirty-eight. Damn! I didn’t know I had it in me,” the driver exclaimed.

      Shad’s mouth slid into a grin—a flare of white against his deep bronzed skin—and he clapped the smaller man on the shoulder. “I wasn’t surprised for a minute, hoss. You’re still the best whip-cracker in Texas.”

      Of course, why the man had been in such a damn hurry was beyond Shad. It wouldn’t have bothered him if the trip from Paradise had taken twice as long. He was about that eager to meet up with Amos’s two daughters and escort them back to the ranch.

      He’d tried to get out of it, coming up with at least half-a-dozen crises that required his immediate attention, but Amos would have none of it. “You’re the only man I’d trust my daughters to, Shad,” the old man had said. “Do this for me, son.”

      Hell. How could anybody deny what might be a dying man’s last request? And when that man called you son…well, it wasn’t in Shad to say no. He’d killed men for Amos Kingsland; the least he could do now was round up the two stray heifers and cart them back to Paradise. If only they were heifers, he thought. He knew how to handle those. But ladies…

      The quiet of the stable was suddenly broken by the sound of female laughter and the swish of skirts.

      Eb shook his head. “What do they do, smell you?” he muttered as three young women paraded across the hay-strewn floor, each trying to elbow the others out of her way, each flashing her petticoats in order to outdo the others.

      Shad would have replied, but his arms were quickly filled with women. Rosa clasped her arms around his waist. Nona plastered herself against his hip. Carmela—bless her—fit herself like a favorite saddle to his backside.

      “We saw the coach,” Nona cried, her face tipped up, her breath catching. “We ran. Come see us.”

      “Come now.” Rosa pulled seductively at his gun belt.

      While the prostitutes continued to press against Shad, Eb Talent stood nearby, poking a chew into his cheek. “Beats me, Jones,” he mumbled, “how a fella who claims he don’t care for ladies can draw ‘em like flies on dead meat.”

      Shad lifted his head from Nona’s ardent kiss. “I said I didn’t care for ladies, Eb. I never said anything about real women.”

      The girls giggled and squirmed all the more in light of the compliment, until Shad was forced to peel them away, one by one. They refused to leave until he had promised to spend the night—upstairs—at the Steamboat Saloon. It wasn’t a difficult promise as that had been Shad’s intention all along after he had paid a dutiful call on the Misses Kingsland to inform them СКАЧАТЬ