Mail-Order Man (9 page)

“Yeah.”

By now she was down to her chemise. “How about you take care of the rest, hmm?”

“Yeah.”

A smile of glee lifting her lips, she rushed forward and threw herself into his waiting arms. Even before she landed on a lapful of something round and hard, she was screeching—the stench had gotten to her. “Good God!” She rolled away. “You're not Brax Hale!”

“ 'Course not. I'm Charlie. I found Titus's good whiskey.” He lifted the crockery jug from his lap. “How 'bout a drink, missy? Then we'll get on to the sparkin'.”

Desperate as she was for a man, Claudine considered his offer. Then she reconsidered. “I would never let a filthy peon touch me!”

She made a quick exit. This is a sign, she warned herself. This is a sign to let matters take care of themselves. Skylla had said she'd talk to Brax, and she would. It was only a matter of time until wedding bells would ring for Claudine.

Over and over, those words echoed in her head. All night she tossed and turned, arguing with her decision. At first light, she'd changed her mind slightly. Yes, she would wait for Brax, but she wouldn't wait too long.

 

 

Skylla couldn't spoil the breathtaking sunrise with her announcement, not the next morning or the next. And not for the three days after that. A tennight passed, and still she hadn't been honest. The more she put it off, the harder honesty got.

Cowardice kept her from admitting to Braxton the advertisement had been for two husbands. If only some wonderful candidate would arrive and sweep Claudine off her feet, Skylla's troubles would be over. None did. And she said nothing. Every moment, every day gave her a little more time to live in a dreamworld of what-should-not-be.

What would Papa think if he knew he'd reared a spineless daughter? Always, Papa had taught her that St. Clairs didn't wear their hearts on their sleeves, that it was weak to cry or to raise one's voice in anger or frustration. Yet Papa had died with her irate words in his ears. And her parting words to James had been spoken with annoyance. Never again would she part from someone dear with angry words between them.

She sensed Braxton would be angry.

Then Claudine began threatening to tell him herself.

When the men had been at the ranch two weeks, Skylla promised herself and her stepmother, “Tonight will be the night.”

They had settled into a routine by then. Miraculously, Braxton had brought item after item to the ranch, which made the living easier. Everyone was putting on weight. Everyone but Kathy Ann, who had fallen into a black mood that nothing or no one could bring her out of.

Supper tonight was roast beef, boiled potatoes, and snap beans from the garden. Skylla barely touched her food, in spite of all these weeks spent dreaming about harvesting and preparing her measly bounty.
You've got to tell him.

Once coffee was finished and the diners scattered, Claudine set out to do up the dishes. Skylla started toward the bunkhouse, but met Braxton on his way out of the stable. He carried a saddle and kept walking. She followed along.

“Charlie and I will be gone awhile.” He tossed the saddle atop Impossible, then bent to fasten the cinch. “Could be three or four days. Geoff will stay to watch out for the place.”

The women had spent months here without male escort, yet Skylla didn't protest Geoff's guard. There were no guarantees Stalking Wolf and his tribe of Comanches wouldn't attack, even though they had been keeping their distance of late.

“Where are you going?” Skylla asked.

“Menard.”

“Why Menard? And what for?”

“There's an old Spanish aqueduct over there. I've seen it before, but I want to study it. An irrigation ditch could water your truck garden. And make farming easier for you.”

His ideas and consideration roused her appreciation, yet she read between the lines. She'd heard that Oren Singleterry could be found near Menard; she imagined Braxton had heard the same. It wouldn't surprise her if his plans included an attempt to retrieve Uncle's horses.

That spelled danger. If he wasn't inclined to go looking for trouble, then she didn't wish to give him any ideas. The last thing they needed was trouble.

He stepped toward her, saying, “I think it might be appropriate, a goodbye kiss between us.”

If they kissed again she'd never be able to explain herself, for their one and only kiss lingered too much in her thoughts and ignited her selfish passions. She turned. As fast as her maimed leg would carry her, she bolted. Once again.

 

 

Dammit.

What was wrong with her?

Tightening his jaw, Brax watched Skylla flit away, if you could call her pace flitting. Every time he brought up the subject of marriage, or even so much as a kiss, she ran like a crippled rabbit.

She'd better not expect him to keep on working like a dog and bringing in the bacon, not without reward. Unfortunately, the bacon was at end. The poker tables of Ecru had closed to Brax, none of the boys wanting to lose more livestock or goods. So much winning bespoke bad gambling, and Brax had known it going in, but he'd been set on bringing home the largesse and hadn't taken any chances.

Now he was just as set on reclaiming Titus's horses, though he'd changed his mind about sending Geoff on the mission—too green. No show herd could be collected without good horseflesh.

Brax's eyes followed the path Skylla had taken during her latest retreat. If she hadn't started the wedding plans by the time he got back from his showdown with Singleterry, he was going to hog-tie her and make her tell him why not. There wasn't an excuse in the world that would be good enough in his ears.

His patience had run low. Into the empty zone.

As he started to put his booted foot in the saddle, Claudine appeared in the moonlight. “Isn't it a lovely evening? The stars look like diamonds in the sky. And that moon—oh, mercy! Could there be anything up there but cheese?”

He told her he was in a hurry, but she kept on jabbering.

He didn't trust this iron magnolia. Her whimsical act was just that, an act. He much preferred Skylla's practicality. In fact, her calm mien offset his hair-trigger temper. Nicely.

“Kind sir, may I beg your indulgence for a few minutes?”

The Spencer settled into its scabbard on Impossible's saddle, Brax replied after a long pause, “Go ahead.”

“I thought you'd want to know I've spoken with Reverend Byrd. He's agreed to conduct the wedding Saturday week.”

Brax chewed the crumb of comfort. At last. At long last. “I'll make a point to be back by then.” First, though . . . “Claudine, will you take care of the invitations?”

“Of course. Did you have someone in particular in mind?”

“Luke Burrows and his missus, Gertie Many.” Confident as a peacock, Brax leaned into a relaxed pose and placed a palm on the saddlehorn. “What about a dress? Skylla says her sister can sew. Tell Kathy Ann to look for needle and thread.”

“That won't be necessary, I'm sure,” Claudine replied.

“We can't have a wedding without a nice wedding dress.”

Just how he would get the materials was a horse of a different color, but Skylla would, by damn, put away those widow's weeds. For ever and ever.

“Don't worry about a thing, Sergeant.” The widow fluttered her long slender fingers. “I have several lovely gowns that I brought over from Mississippi. Perhaps they are a bit dated in fashion, but they're still lovely.”

“I don't want Skylla married in someone else's dress.”

The twit bore down. She pressed Brax's hand against her heart. “You and Skylla aren't meant to be. She's still in love with poor James.”

Shoving the woman's hand away, Brax felt a rage run through him. “Who the hell is James? Is he the ensign?”

“Oh, yes. James was Skylla's lover. I suppose you know he died in the war.”

When she'd told him about her dead suitor, he'd assumed their courtship had been innocent enough. Thus he'd thought Skylla chaste. Now Brax felt as if a cannon had struck him in the gut. He couldn't stand the thought of another man having touched her.

Get a grip, Hale. What difference does it make that she spread her legs for some now-dead salt?
Actually, it was better this way. Virgins had a way of making a sentimental journey out of their maiden voyage. Now that he knew the truth, he could breathe easier when the leaving turned ripe.

“About the wedding,” he said, getting back to the business at hand. “It will march on.”

Claudine shook her head. “Since Skylla can't bring herself to explain things, it's my place to tell you that you are mistaken.” Like a cat, the widow stretched and preened. “You were never, ever meant for Skylla. She doesn't want you. All along she's been adamant about marrying the second candidate.”

Cold water rushed through his veins. “Second candidate?”

“We asked Virgil Petry to find two men. One for me, one for her.” She wriggled closer. “You are meant for me.”

His muscles locked. As if in slow motion, he closed his eyes.
I've been had. Once more I've been
had. Like General Lee at Appomattox Court House, he smelled defeat.

Skylla rued the day she and her stepmother had made a pact about husbands. In the dark of her bedroom she forced the motions of calm by slipping a lawn nightgown over her head and taking down her hair. A half-dozen strokes later, she stilled. Thoughts of Braxton had gotten the better of her.

The hairbrush tossed on the bureau next to Electra, who awakened to hiss and paste her ears to her head, Skylla lamented to the annoyed cat, “I have to tell Claudi the truth. Braxton is taking James's place in my heart. I know I'd be going back on my word, but I want Braxton for myself.”

Squaring her shoulders, she started for the stairs. Surely Claudine was abed. A door slammed shut somewhere.

Electra ran for cover.

“Stay back, goddammit! I'm warning you, Claudine St. Clair, keep your distance. Turn around and head out that front door. I
am
going to have a word with Skylla. A
private
word.”

Braxton.

“He knows.” Skylla cringed. “He knows.”

Uncertain of how to deal with his temper—in fact, impotent to fathom the extent of it—she backed against the bureau at the same moment he shoved her door open. It slammed against the wall, matching the furies of betrayal evident in his stance, his face, his eyes—his soul.

“I . . . I'm—”

“You lied to me,” he interrupted, kicking the door shut. “I ought to choke you for leading me on. You never said a damned thing about two husbands!”

Her heart pounded. She didn't know what to do, or how to deal with him. Would he wreck the room? Hit her? Do worse?

He took a forward step.

The fingers of one hand clutching the edge of the bureau top, she steeled herself for the worst. “Don't come any closer,” she demanded, her voice as even as she could make it under the circumstances. “Not a step closer.”

He stopped.

Thankfully.

Her breath came easier, but not a lot. He was in no way appeased.
Stay calm. He has a right to be upset. But don't let him see you cowering.
Straightening, she gathered courage and wits from somewhere. “Braxton, I should have been honest. I knew I was doing wrong, but I couldn't help myself. I was afraid. I was afraid you'd leave.”

“So, you were scared your strong back would ride out.”

Was there a defense against a grain of the truth?

The pitch of his voice lower than before, he ground out, “You were too much of a mouse to admit a lot of things. While you were stringing me along, you let me think you'd never been touched by a man. You never said you mourn a
lover
.”

She started to defend her reputation. Why not let Braxton know she was damaged goods? When men married maidens, they expected the maidenly. Surely Braxton would wish to be his wife's first man. It was highly probable this kept him from claiming Claudine, the fact that she'd had husbands, and not just one or two. Which unearthed yet another dilemma. What if he wouldn't settle for either of them?

“James was my lover,” Skylla admitted with false calm.

“May he rot in hell.”

His insult wrought sadness and defiance. Yet the level of his attack caused another emotion in her. She wondered if Braxton felt true affection. How could he?
I want him to.

“Skylla, I demand to know why you placed a misleading advertisement. I came to Texas with the impression I was going to marry you.
You,
not some relative of yours.” He punched the air with a finger. “Petry said nothing—not one goddamn thing!—about a man for your stepmother. He sent me to
you.
”

“There's no need for blasphemy. I won't have it.”

“Don't preach behavior.” Braxton advanced, threatening her thin grip on composure. “Not after your lie of omission.”

Her muscles jerked, and she felt the strength ebbing from her legs as he asked, “What in hell makes you think some man would come all this way to marry a woman who doesn't even hold the deed to the ranch?”

Dead quiet.

It shouldn't have hurt, the mercenary twist to his words. It did.

“Don't stand there like a church mouse,” Braxton shouted. “Answer me.”

No one would ever mistake Claudine for a church mouse, which hit at Skylla's confidence even more. “You frighten me,” she whispered. “Anger is so unlike you.”

“How little you know.” His chest rose and fell as he blew out a deep breath of aggravation and distaste. He cut the distance between them, stopping close enough to loom over her. The devilish light that so often showed the very life in Braxton was now but a shadow. “What do you think I'll do? Beat you?” He paused. “Or do you fear I'll take you in anger?”

“I'm not quite certain,” she managed to utter. “I don't think it'll be pleasant.”

They stood staring at each other, both in a blur of doubt about the course of their lives. Braxton began to steer it his way. “That's where you're wrong. When I take you—and I will take you—it won't be in anger. When you and I are beneath the covers”—he nudged his head toward the big brass bed—“it'll be because we're both hot for each other. And because it's
right.
I want you. I want you for my wife. Marry me, Skylla.”

Marry him. Make love with him. How luscious those concepts. She could get over the hurt of losing James. In Braxton's arms, where she would know the joys of passion's culmination. If only the situation weren't complicated.

“I can't marry you.” She couldn't meet his eyes. “If you marry a St. Clair, it must be Claudine.”

“Not in my lifetime.” He emitted a mirthless laugh. “It's you. Or no one.”

“But she's so lovely.”

His gaze canvassed the thin material of Skylla's nightgown, surveying the woman within. Her prominent ribs and the twisted leg not apparent in the dim light, he replied, “Not as lovely as you.”

“All her husbands fought a throng of suitors to win her hand, and they adored her to their dying breaths.”

“I'd slay a thousand dragons for you.”

All Skylla could do was turn away. “Why must you make this so difficult?”

“Difficult for you? How do you think I feel?” Braxton took hold of her shoulders, turning her to face him again. “You have cast me off like so much refuse.”

“Marry Claudine. We'll make it appealing.”

“We? What is this ‘we'? You own this ranch, you don't have to ask anyone's permission for anything.” He squeezed her shoulders, shaking her. “Don't let her run your life. Tell her the deal's off. Or that she can have the next fellow. Better yet, I'll tell her.”

“If I marry you, then her husband won't have any incentive to make something of this place. Claudine must marry first. While I still have the power to give over a one-fourth lifetime estate in the ranch.”

Braxton shook his head in confusion. “Come again?”

“Mister Petry advised that I must protect the ranch.” On sure ground, Skylla found it easier to debate. “Once I'm married, my husband will have legal hold on it. I must protect Claudine, and her husband, by deeding an interest in the property while it is mine and mine alone.”

Braxton's face blanched beneath his tan. “You didn't.”

“Already I've given Claudine her part.” Yet the document wouldn't be legal until the papers were filed, which made it all the more important for Claudine to marry first.

“So, you've given her a chunk of the Nickel Dime.”

“It's not the same as out-and-out ownership. A lifetime estate allows the recipient to live on the property for as long as he or she lives, and it can't be sold without the recipient's permission. As her husband, you'll have the right to stay here for the rest of your life, and benefit from its future success. That should make up for my uncle's debt.”

“Clever. Very clever.” Braxton took a backward step, then retraced it. Thrusting his fingers through her hair, he curled his hand into a fist. She gave an involuntary yelp. His teeth clenched. “If you've known all along I'm to become your stepfather, why did you let me kiss you?”

Stepfather? Her stepfather!
My God, why didn't I think about that?

His free arm snaked behind her waist and urged her to the hard angles of his body. She gasped at the feel of him, the scent of him, the way he felt when she ventured to flatten her palms on the heated steel of his chest. The room became heated, very hot. Never had she experienced the desire to move even closer to the source of that heat, not until now.

“Shall we share another father-daughter kiss?”

His hard exacting lips captured hers, molding and softening against her mouth; his callused hands cupped her face. His tongue pushing its way past her teeth, he backed her against the bureau. Her arms slid around his waist, moving up the rock-hard planes of his back as her fingers coiled into the curls that brushed his neck. With a groan of desire he pressed even closer, his hands moving to caress her shoulders, her arms, her hips. The feel of his growing arousal sent a heightened surge of excitement through her limbs to settle in her womanly reaches.

He grabbled the ribbons to her nightgown, closing his palm over her breast before he began a kindling exploration of her puckering nipple. The moans of passion that echoed through her bedroom were her own, the scent and feel of desire wafting within her. When Braxton's lips replaced his fingers, he reached to the back of her thighs, lifting her from the floor to bring her closer to his seeking mouth.

“Tell me you like this,” he demanded.

It was impossible not to whisper, “Yes, oh yes.”

“Does that mean yes, you'll marry me?”

“N-no.”

He lowered her to the floor, adjusted her nightgown. Finished, he clasped both her hands in one of his, and said, “Mark my words, I refuse to let another man take the reins of this ranch, because if I did, that would mean he'd have you. I won't stand for that. I will have you for my own. For my wife. And then I am going to make love to you until you forget everything but me. Even your dead lover.”

That he had smoothed the mercenary slant of his anger caused her to smile. The ranch was but incidental to him.

Suddenly, Claudine pounded her fist against the bedroom door, “You in there! It's gotten too quiet. Daisy, are you all right? Come out, Sergeant Hale! Right this instant.”

“Go away,” he shouted after turning his face toward the doorway. “Go away and stay away!”

“I will not. Be warned, Brax Hale. If you don't open this door this instant, I will—”

“Go to hell, Mrs. St. Clair.”

Braxton bent his knees, wrapping both arms behind Skylla's knees and lifting her toward the ceiling. As a lumberjack might give a gigantic log a vertical heave, he threw her over his shoulder. Her arms swung over her head, her hair flying free. She giggled. Giggled!

The moment Claudine burst through the door, Braxton feinted to the side and ducked out of the bedroom. Rushing through the house, onto the porch, and into the inky darkness of midnight, he carried Skylla away.

“Where are you taking me?” she managed to ask, her words pumped from her lungs by the motions of his strides.

“To the creek. To take up where we left off.”

“Don't you hurt her! Stop right there, bad man!”

Kathy Ann.

Lifting her head slightly, and blowing a lock of hair from her eyes, Skylla saw her sister running toward them, Geoff, Claudine, and Charlie Main a good distance to her rear. Kathy Ann had something in her lifted right hand.

“Oh, my God!” Skylla wailed. “No!”

Her scream caused Braxton to slow his pace, to turn.

Suddenly a shot rang out, the air cracking with the explosion. Skylla felt his body tense; she heard his intake of breath. For a moment he teetered, then slowly lowered her to the ground. He slid sideways. Falling face up at her feet.

Her hot tears of worry and anger spilled as Braxton groaned and rolled into a ball of pain. Instinctively, she scrambled to protect his toppled body with her own, else Kathy Ann might take another shot.

Geoff and Claudine, both shouting, ran forward.

“Did I get him?” Kathy Ann shouted.

“Yes, damn you!” Skylla's voice was a cry, a scream, a lament. Bending over Braxton, she crooned, “It'll be all right, it'll be all right,” as he made the motions of bravery.

“I'm okay, I'm okay,” he moaned and tried to stand.

Kathy Ann stepped closer, then blew on the pistol's barrel. “He won't be bothering you anymore, Sissy.”

Furious, Skylla glared at her sister and let loose with a variation of a threat Papa had employed with her. “Pray to God Braxton's all right, or I'll give you to the Indians!”

One more time, Skylla had let her temper get the better of her.