CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It was a few minutes after noon when Della Stark arrived in Fredericksburg. The sun was high in the sky, and the day was hot and gritty yellow dust hung in the streets like a mist.
After the surrey stopped outside the Alpenrose Inn, Della told Will Graham to take the carriage to the livery and see that the Morgan was fed a scoop of oats.
“But Miss Della, the boss said I had to stay close to you,” Graham said. His pleasant young face showed concern.
“I’m meeting a lady friend inside,” Della said. “Do you really want to sit in a hot hotel room and listen to a lot of women talk?”
“No, Miss Della, I surely don’t,” Graham said. “But your Pa . . .”
“My Pa worries too much,” Della said, “I won’t leave the hotel, so I’ll be quite safe.”
Manuel Garcia sat his horse beside the surrey, a slender, dark-eyed young man with a pearl-handled Colt on his right hip. “But Señor Stark said you were going to a dress shop,” he said.
“Yes, later. But first I want to visit with my friend,” Della said. She smiled. “Manuel, why don’t you and Will find yourselves a nice shady beer garden? Come back here in two hours, and you can escort me to the dress shop.”
“Miss Della, first I must meet your friend, I think,” Garcia said.
The girl frowned. “Manuel, now you’re starting to make me very cross.”
The vaquero shrugged, a very Mexican gesture. “I follow the patron’s orders.”
Della let out a highly effected sigh. “Very well then. Bring in my bag and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“Manuel, I’ll head for the livery and tend to the horse,” Graham said.
“I’ll see you there in a while,” Garcia said. Both men were aware of the other’s gun skill and had no problem splitting up and going their separate ways.
Garcia took Della’s carpetbag from the surrey, looped his horse to the hitching rail, and followed her into the hotel. The lobby was dark and cool, and Della stood talking with the desk clerk. After a while the man left and walked upstairs.
“Ah, good, you’ve got my bag,” Della said to Garcia. “The hotel is busy, and you and Will must share a room tonight.”
“We both sleep in the same bunkhouse, so I’m used to his snoring,” the vaquero said.
The girl smiled and then turned as Augusta Addington came down the stairs.
“Miss Stark?” Augusta said.
“Yes, and you must be Miss Addington.”
“You can call me Augusta.”
“Likewise. I’m Della.”
The two women embraced like long-lost sisters, and then Della said, “Augusta, this is Manuel Garcia, one of my father’s vaqueros.”
Garcia bowed and said, “I am honored.”
Augusta smiled and said, “I’ve heard of vaqueros, but never met one before. I must say, Mr. Garcia, you look splendid.”
The vaquero, dressed in his best go-to-town outfit, seemed pleased and flustered at the same time, and Della came to his rescue. “Two hours, Manuel,” she said. “Augusta and I will be quite safe in her room until then.”
Garcia nodded. “Sí, Miss Della. I will return for you later, but until then I’ll keep watch at a distance.”
* * *
Two women sat on each side of a small, square table covered by a white tablecloth, blue china teapot, cups, saucers, and a plate of sugar cookies between them. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the hotel room window and made dust motes dance, and outside a brass oompah band played the Radetzky March in a nearby beer garden.
Augusta Addington, tall, elegant, and beautiful, rose to her feet, closed the window, and said, “I think we’ve heard quite enough of that.”
Della Stark was her opposite. A petite girl with blonde ringlets, pretty, hazel-eyed, a small, heart-shaped mouth that smiled readily, she lifted the pot and said, “More tea, Augusta?”
“Please,” Augusta said. She waited until Della poured tea and then added milk and a sugar cube and stirred, and said, “As you fear, your young doctor’s life is in the greatest danger, and I think his would-be assassins are already in Fredericksburg.”
Della’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh my God,” she said, her eyes wide and frightened.
“Do you really think your father could be behind all this?” Augusta said.
“I don’t know what to think,” the girl said. “My father is a hard, unyielding man, but I . . . I just don’t believe he’d stoop to murder.”
“He wants you to marry . . .”
“Don Miguel de Serra.”
“Yes,” Augusta said. “Tell me about him.”
Della looked distressed. “He’s a pig, a rapist who preys on women. He brings whores and peasant girls into his hacienda just to torture and humiliate them in every way he can. Even my father admits that Don Miguel loves to abuse women.”
“And prostitutes and peons are an easy target because no one cares what happens to them,” Augusta said.
“He is said to have syphilis,” Della said. “It’s a loathsome, terrible disease that . . .”
“I know what syphilis is,” Augusta said. “And Don Miguel, he is rich?”
“The richest man in Mexico, a great landowner with many cattle,” Della said. “A puncher once told me that when Don Miguel moves a herd, dust blackens the sky and blots out the sun for half a day.”
“And your father wishes you to wed him so that . . .”
“The ranches will be joined by marriage, and my father becomes the richest and most influential Americano in Texas. And he makes no secret of the fact that he’d like to be president of the United States one day.”
“And in return, Don Miguel gets a pretty young bride to use and abuse as he pleases.”
Della shuddered. “That is Miguel’s price. And it seems my father is willing to pay it.”
Augusta sat in thought for long moments and then said, “Della, an ambitious man who would sell his own daughter to a depraved, diseased monster for his own gain would not hesitate to plan the murder of an obscure country doctor who could ruin his plans.”
“My father . . . I just don’t think he could be capable of . . . of cold-blooded murder,” Della said.
“Yes, you do, and it nags at you. That’s why you’re here,” Augusta said. She wore her hair piled up on her head in glossy waves, and the sunlight angling through the window was warm on the back of her neck.
Della’s troubled gaze fluttered over the older woman’s face and finally came to rest on the table in front of her. “What am I to do?” she whispered. “But, please, let’s keep my father out of this. You’re so wrong, Augusta. The more I think about it, the less I believe he would have Ben killed. My father once threatened to use a horsewhip on him, but that’s all.”
Augusta had listened in silence, her face expressionless, and now she said, “Della, I’m a Pinkerton agent, and the first thing you did was hire me to keep both you and your doctor safe,” Augusta said.
“Of course,” Della said. “That goes without saying. I have no one else to turn to.” She bit her lip.
Augusta lifted her cup and sipped her tea. It was cold. “Della, the clock is ticking. I believe an attempt on Dr. Ben Bradford’s life will happen very soon.”
A yelp of distress, and then Della said, “Oh my God, what do we do?”
“You do nothing until I tell you,” Augusta said. “Let me take care of it.”
“I can’t go back to the ranch,” Della said. “I know my father is not planning Ben’s murder. I know it, I know it, I know it . . . but after all these terrible accusations, I don’t think I could look him in the eye.”
“You’ll stay here at the hotel until this is all over,” Augusta said. She had begun to doubt Della’s intelligence, and her abject failure to accept the obvious was telling.
“And when will it be all over?” the girl said.
“A few days, no more than that. The vaquero and the other man, where do their loyalties lie?”
“Manuel and Will work for my father and they ride for the brand,” Della said. “I can put my trust in them.”
“Then tell them you’re staying in town for a few more days,” Augusta said. “They’ll probably be glad to miss their ranch chores. Fredericksburg is a square-toed town, but it has its attractions.”
“And what will you do, Augusta?” Della said. “Stay close to Ben? Do you have a gun?”
Augusta smiled. “Yes, I have fine revolver, and I’ll keep an eye on Ben. And I’m trying to recruit some help.”
“The sheriff?”
“Possibly, but right now I’m thinking of men of a rougher, tougher sort.”
“Outlaws?”
“No, not outlaws,” Augusta said. “But I have a feeling there are times when they come pretty close.”