Mail-Order Man (11 page)

“I don't think we should decide anything at the moment.”

Blue eyes hardened. “You weren't so mealy mouthed when the chips were down in Vicksburg. You were so anxious to get out of Mississippi, you were quite willing to let me sleep with that potbellied Yankee official in exchange for free passage to your dream. You said you'd repay me.”

Skylla could have gone through the floor, the shame of that bargain with Winslow Packard prowling through her very soul. “You promised we'd never speak of that. You promised.”

“And you promised to give me the first husband.” A pause. “If Brax meets my standards, you will step back. Understand?”

Skylla may have nodded, yet she couldn't bear the idea of being his stepdaughter.

“Incest. I like the idea of it. Right here in my old buddy Titus's squeaky brass bed.” Braxton patted the mattress next to the sleeping calico cat. “Get in bed, daughter. Daddy need some lovin'. Come to Daddy.”

At least he hadn't demanded she get out of his sight.

Skylla, setting the lemonade on the bedside table, soundlessly counted to ten, then reached for the pillow he'd tossed to the floor during an earlier fit of temper. Plumping it, she tried to ignore his orneriness. “You seem to be doing fine. You must be improving.”

“Right. Geoff's gone for the doctor so we can play gin rummy. Get lost, Skylla. Your stupidity grows tiresome.”

Same goes for you.
“You're a doctor. You should know a positive approach has a great bearing on recovery. I know from my own travail. So, you see, I wasn't making an idiot's attempt at downplaying the extent of your predicament.”

“Always ready with an excuse for her behavior, that's Skylla St. Clair.”

She supposed she had that coming. Concentrating on the benign, she noted his appearance. His hair glistened with beads of water and had been slicked back, the teeth of a comb having made a pattern in the curls of old gold. Even sick and filled with the poison of being thwarted and all, he was handsome. “I see you've availed yourself of the water pitcher and towels.”

“I got myself dolled up, just in case that big-busted redhead wants to come by to inspect the rack of meat.”

In the wake of frazzled nerves combined with being reminded of how the St. Clairs had gotten here—not to mention three nights of lost sleep—Skylla had had just about enough. Her composure slipped. “I was under the impression she brought you a bowl of broth and you threw it at her. You'd do well to collect your wits and recognize where your bread is buttered!”

“Open that window,” Braxton barked. “It's hotter than hell in here.”

His demand complied with, she handed him the lemonade. “Drink. It'll do you good.”

He shoved the glass away. “What I need is the urinal. Some genius set it out of my reach.”

She went to the bureau where it sat next to the collection of outdated medicines and paltry sickroom supplies. One item wasn't paltry. Ether.

Braxton, last night, had lamented to Geoff that while this anesthetic had lay idle here, Confederate soldiers had been hacked to pieces without so much as a slug of whiskey to deaden their horrific pain. Then, and now, Skylla prayed that James had gone to a quick and numbed death.

Warning herself off the subject of her fallen ensign, she held the urinal gingerly between the tips of her thumb and forefinger, and carried it across the room. “I'll leave you alone with this.”

He grinned nastily. “Why don't you stay and watch? Then you can see how I measure up to Jimmy Boy.”

In no mood for crudity or arrogance, Skylla retorted, “What if you come up short?”

“I'll show you my tongue.”

“I've no desire to see it. You're beyond insensitive to make light of a sainted son of Dixie.”

“What will you do about it? Run me off?”

“You're doing an excellent job of that on your own. Granted, you're the injured party here, but you're not doing yourself the least bit of good by being hateful.”

Skylla pivoted around and left the room. Limping to the porch—her leg hurt worse today than it had in ages—she came to grips with a possible solution to the impossible problem of Braxton Hale, provided he survived. He would have to leave.

While the St. Clairs were indebted to him, they could offer to repay the debt in time. This was the only recourse, for Skylla couldn't stand the rift that was splitting her and Claudine, and becoming his stepdaughter would jeopardize her very existence.

In spite of the sense she made from chaos, her heart objected. She wanted him. She needed him, and not just for this ranch, for he'd given her a reason to hope and to dream of something more than a fresh start provided by having a home.

Moreover, he needed her. Her greatest wish, beyond her totally feminine desire to be his, was to help in his emotional as well as physical recovery. If Claudine didn't stand in the way, she could, and would, devote herself to making peace from the disarray of his spirit.

Where did that leave poor departed James?
He's gone. He told you to get on with your life, Should he not return.
James would approve. At last she felt free. Free, yet caged.

“Hullo, beauty.”

Charlie Main's loud drunken articulation clattered in her ears. Propped against the well, he had a jug tipped to his mouth. When he lowered it, he wiped his mouth on a sleeve and leered. The disgusting sight he presented made it difficult to believe this was the ranch hand who'd been such a good worker. Before his boss got shot.

Standing over Main, she said, “You gave Sergeant Hale your word not to drink during daylight hours.” She dabbed her forehead before stuffing the linen cloth back in her pocket. “We are very disappointed in you.”

“You sound just like Momma.” He took another big slug, liquor running down his chin. “Poppa choked her for nagging.”

“I trust he had an appointment with the gallows.”

This path would lead nowhere. Skylla grabbed the jug. With trembling hands, he reached to retrieve it, but he wilted upon getting it through his thick skull that she meant business.

“Get up,” she ordered. “Get up and go wash yourself. I have a pot of coffee in the cookhouse. Drink several cups of it. There's work to be done. Get busy.”

“I ain't going' after that snot-nosed sister of yourn.”

“What does that mean?” Skylla and Kathy Ann hadn't spoken since the night of the shooting. Which didn't mean she had no regrets about their argument. It did trouble her. Mightily. “Where is she?”

“Don't ask me. She tookened off a coupla hours ago.”

Suspiciously, Skylla asked, “Why is it you waited until now to mention this?”

Charlie Main shrugged. “Ain't nobody asked me.”

“Disgusting lout! Collect your mule and be gone.”

What am I going to do about Kathy Ann?
Remorse had eaten at Skylla over their argument. No wonder the girl had fled.
Will a third loved one go to a grave with my hatefulness in her thoughts? I can't let anything happen to her!

Her gaze turning westward, Skylla made plans. Once Geoff and Claudine returned, the three of them must spread out in a search. The doctor could watch over Braxton. And just what could the misfit threesome do? Hare off on a pair of princely steeds known as Impossible and Molasses? Two displaced Southern ladies and a youth, all new to the West—green, in other words—what could they do in the face of Indians on the warpath?

Since Braxton was once married to an Indian, maybe he'd know how to handle this.

Right then, the curtain of the sickroom moved aside. Liquid from a container got pitched out the window. “Good gracious, he's out of bed! What else can go wrong?” As soon as she entered the front door, she knew what else could go wrong.

Boom!

“Awwggghhhh! ”

Skylla rushed into her bedroom cum sickroom, finding what she expected: Braxton, a sheet draped around his middle, had tumbled to the floor. Oh, dear!

Electra peered over the bed's edge as Skylla gave aid. His heavy body put a terrible strain on her leg, but at last he collapsed onto the mattress and dragged the sheet under his armpits. His face held a grayish tint, lines she'd never before noticed bracketing his mouth.

“I'll take care of you,” she whispered softly.

“For that I thank you.” His expression softened. “And for helping me see the error of my ways.” His was a whisper uttered pleasantly. Surprisingly so. Considering his earlier crossness and acute distress. His right hand scooted to Electra, who, now calm, leaned her tricolored chin into his scratching fingers. “Skylla, I apologize for the insults. All of them.”

“You were feverish. I have no hard feelings.”

He lifted his free arm. “Take my hand. Sit down beside me, sweetheart, and take my hand.”

Such a move would weaken her decision to send him on his way, eventually. Yet . . . Relieved at his change, and being weak where he was concerned, she laid her fingers within the much larger glove of his red-hot hand.

“What's the matter?” he asked when he detected her trembling.

“My sister.” Skylla curled her shoulders. “She's gone. I'm scared Stalking Wolf has her.”

Braxton uttered something, and it may have been, “There is a God,”She'll have them running for cover in no time.”

“If you mean to ease my mind, you've failed.”

“Then you don't give her her due. If she fought alongside Cornwallis, Yankees and Rebs alike would be subjects of Queen Victoria. If Napoleon had had Piglet's services, we'd all grieve for Wellington at Waterloo. If she'd been at the right hand of Bobby Lee, Unconditional Surrender Grant would have met
his
Waterloo.”

“It's generous of you, giving such august credit. But her strengths are besidewould have met
his
Waterloo.”

“It's generous of you, giving such august credit. But her strengths are beside the point.” Skylla licked her lips. “You know Indians ways, you were married to one. What—”

His face became an unreadable mask. “I suppose Titus told you about Songbird, too.”

“Yes. I know you married her, for love. And I know you turned your back on doctoring when you couldn't save her life.”

“I'd already made up my mind one Hale doctor was enough.”

“Your father?”

“Yes. My horse's ass of a father. I won't discuss him further.” Brax rubbed a hand down his face. “Skylla, for God's sake, the clock is ticking for your sister. Fetch Main.”

“I can't.” She made explanations. “There's only me.”

“And me. I'll go after her.”

“You can't leave this bed!”

A half-dozen heartbeats passed before Braxton admitted, “You're right. I'm in no shape to do anyone good. Skylla, this bullet has got to come out.”

As if a gust of winter wind had blown through the open window, she shivered. “Dr. Brown should be here soon.”

“No time. Find a jug of good booze. It's hidden behind some old bales of hay in the barn. I'll down half the hooch. You pour the rest in the puncture. Then dig the bullet out.”

Panicked, she knew nothing about medical procedures, save what it was like to be a patient. “What about the ether?”

“Forget it. Insensate, I couldn't tell you what to do.”

“I'm no doctor. We must wait for Oliver Brown.”

“How are you at undertaking?”

A hellish question.

“Skylla, get the forceps and scissors, and clean towels. Find the needle, too, and bring heavy sewing thread. Boil the instruments for ten minutes. Once they're cool, bring them here. I'll cut the bullet out.”

Oh, yes. Of course. No problem. Had he gone mad!

He threw back the sheet, exposing the length of his nude body. Skylla had seen a naked man, once. The twilit day she'd given James her virginity. It had been pleasant enough, coitus, although that one time nowhere near matched the heat Braxton generated in her. As well, Braxton would not come up short.

Why try to deny Braxton Hale was the more beautiful specimen? Except for the hunk of wounded flesh on his upper thigh exposed when he peeled away the bandage.

She gasped, realizing the import of his situation. That he was able to talk seemed a wonder. Skylla couldn't count herself a healer, but she knew when a wound had gone bad.

Skylla sterilizing medical instruments, Brax nursed a question: How much did she know about Songbird? Granted, Titus had ratcheted his mouth, but how much did she know of the whole story? No way could she know about his plot to sell the ranch.

Brax tried to get more comfortable in bed. The moment he moved, pain zigzagged up and down his spine. He gawked at his wound. “Shit.” From the looks of it, Braxton Hippocrates Hale would have an appointment with the undertaker before August switched to September, less than a week away. His father's curse was coming to pass.
I pray you never have the satisfaction of knowing your victory, John Hale.

Whatever the case, Brax would die before he could make love to Skylla in this very bed . . . or on the bed of magnolia blossoms he'd been thinking about for weeks.

Damn, he hated leaving Skylla without a better fight. No. The real trouble lay in the fact that he admired the serene brunette too much. She'd neither collaborated with the enemy to the north, nor hated him for marrying the enemy to both North and South. She was the kind of woman any man would be lucky to claim until death parted them.

She was hell on a plan.

His thoughts traveled down the avenue to other important personages. What about Geoff? What about Bella? Brax couldn't die right now. He had to see Geoff and his mother settled. As he had many times during the past weeks, he hoped Bella's voyage to San Francisco was pleasant enough.

He had to live. His work wasn't finished here on earth. Including the search for Piglet.

“Miz Skylla,” he heard Charlie Main say in a muffled voice from the parlor, “I've been thinking 'bout what you said. I done drunk some coffee. I got Patsy Sue saddled, too. I'm ready to go after your sister, if you're of a mind, ma'am, to give me a second chance. I owe it to your man. He saved my hide back in '60, and I been needing to show him my appreciation.”

Brax didn't listen to Main's description of heroism. He was no hero. Anything good he'd ever done, it had been by reflex rather than from a sense of nobility. Braxton Hale had no use for heroes or heroics. That didn't stop him from being glad Skylla had found a rescuer for the pistol-packing brat.

Skylla's good qualities passed in his review. She was too noble for the collection of misfits, liars, and thieves populating this damned ranch.

A collection of admirers, all married or too old to do her any good in bed, circled the seated Claudine St. Clair and chattered like geese. She held court in Emil Kreitz's store. The proprietor hadn't joined the gaggle. Kreitz stood behind the counter, licking a pencil tip and tallying up the purchases of a dressed-up wishbone, the farmer Luke Burrows.

Homer Daggitt, obese as a bear, chomped down on a pickle, squirting juice on the sawdust-powdered floor. “You wuz askin' after that so-and-so Brax Hale.” He gifted the circle with a open mouthful of green. “That rascal cheated me outta a hunnerd dollars, Christmas of '60.”

Claudine batted her lashes. “That's the same as calling him a thief. Is that what you're doing, Mr. Daggitt?”

The cluster of men turned their eyes to Daggitt. “That be exactly whut I'm doing, Miz St. Clair. He done cheated ever' man here outta goods and livestock. Ain't that so, boys?”

Luke Burrows spoke up. “You're being a sorry loser is what you're being, Homer Daggitt. He earned that stuff fair and square in poker games.”

The cluster mulled the statement, then took Burrows's side. Nonetheless, Claudine frowned. She'd hoped against hope that her disquiet concerning Brax's motives was unfounded. But there had to be fire behind the smoke of Daggitt's charge. Maybe she ought to give up ideas of marrying Brax.

He caused too much friction between her and Skylla.

While she'd always been a woman to look out for herself, Claudine regretted her arguments with Skylla. That lie about Winslow Packard—Never could she admit going to his bed before any mention of Texas had occurred. It had been evil to perpetrate the lie, done to keep the upper hand.

Yet Skylla meant more than any hairy-legged man who just might have ulterior motives when it came to the Nickel Dime. If Claudine couldn't have that golden-haired ladies' man, Skylla shouldn't either. How could she make her think twice?

 

 

Skylla watched in amazement as Braxton, a sheet shielding his privates, snipped the stitches in his upper leg. His bravery and courage added to her respect.
You can't send him away. You know you can't.
Somehow, in some way, the dilemma of who would become his bride would come to a natural conclusion.

“Tie me to the bed.” He dropped the last stitch in a bowl. “Do it, Skylla.”

She tied strips of material around his wrists and the rungs of the bedstead.

“Now pour some of that good alcohol in the puncture.”

Not nearly as brave or courageous as the virid-eyed man of medicine, she said, her voice a croak, “Whiskey. Drink some whiskey.”

“I've changed my mind. I need my wits.”

She forced herself not to look away when she poured the antiseptic into the gaping hole. A litany of disjointed prayers rushed from his lips. The brass rungs molded to his grasp and bent inward.

Her composure slipped. “I—I'm a mess at this.”

His face a mask of pasty white agony, he whispered hoarsely, “Undo these straps and hand me the forceps.”

She did as ordered. He began to dig into his flesh. She yearned to remove her gaze, but didn't. The least she owed him was a show of bravery.

“Sit on my leg and hold my elbow,” he said, his voice hollow. “I'm shaking.”

She rested her weight on his leg, and couldn't figure out who did the most shaking, him or her. In shameful awareness, she realized how nice it felt to touch the hard muscles and hair-dusted body belonging to Braxton.

Yet weariness reminded her of three nights of no sleep. Could she hold up to the surgery in progress? She feared if she closed her eyes, she'd sleep the sleep of the dead.

“Get rid of this damned sheet,” he ordered. “It's getting in my way. And hold the wound open.”

She moved the offender away. When she placed her fingers at the appointed spot, his privates nudged against the heel of her hand. Her heart tripped. His conspicuous sex made her think things she ought not to think at a time like this.

The forceps went still. Brax spoke in the low timbre of a hardy and healthy male when he said, “Someday soon you'll hold those beauties in your hands.”

“Don't do this to me. We're in the middle of surgery!”

He chuckled. “Why can't I flaunt my scar?”

“It isn't a scar. And it'll never get to that point if you don't behave.” She gathered her wits again. “Set to work on yourself, sir, else I'll take up your scalpel and divest you of those items you are so inordinately proud of.”

“Good idea.”

Again, he bent over his upper leg. It seemed an eternity passed before he held up a red slime-covered object, pitched it into a small bowl, then let out a sigh of relief. Calmly, surprisingly, as if he had just done surgery on someone else, he ordered, “Pour more alcohol on there and then give me the needle.”

Needle and thread in hand, he set to stitching. His long-fingered broad hand whipped in and out of the mangled hole. Nausea roiled within her all of a sudden. The last stitch in place, Braxton looked up at Skylla.

“Don't faint now, sugar. The worst is over.”

“I . . . I wasn't going to faint,” she lied and gathered herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “What do we do now?”

“Think you're up to some nursing?”

“I . . . of course.”

“Wet a clean rag with some of that corn liquor. I need a washing up.”

Trembling and weak, she reached for the necessary gear, and dabbed the cloth on his stitches. But her muscles began to freeze. “Br-Braxton, I . . . I can't. I am overcome.”

He swung aside at the moment she fainted.

 

 

It took Herculean effort on Brax's part to get Skylla settled on the bed, but he did it. Free to avail himself of Titus's best aged whiskey, he took a big slug of the smooth liquid lightning. Better, he said to himself. Much better. Strong liquor and soft woman, a damned fine combination any day of the week, and especially after a shock to the system.

Soon, his toes began to chill. He glanced down to see the sheet had come loose from its mooring. He tucked it under; the tips of his fingers struck something between the mattress and the ropes. A folded piece of parchment left its hidey-hole by way of his grasp.

He took another sip of whiskey before unfolding the paper. He read the deed of trust once, then twice. It carried Skylla's signature. Dated July 10, 1865, it conveyed a lifetime estate in the Nickel Dime Ranch to Mrs. Ambrose Arthur St. Clair, née Claudine Twill. Brax studied the bottom carefully.

A smile as wide as the mighty Mississippi spread across his face. The deed wasn't legal.

It couldn't be.

There was no county clerk in Mason County on the tenth of July. Deeds didn't require witnesses, not if they were filed with the county, but Petry should have advised Skylla to take that precaution, in view of the unsettled civil situation. Until the Reconstructionists got seated and the deed had been filed, it wasn't worth a red cent.

Mentally, he danced a jig. Physically weak as a kitten, he took a match to the paper. The woodsy scent of burning paper drifted as he angled to toss the offender out the window.

Settled back in bed, satisfied and confident, he slipped his arm under Skylla's shoulders and brought her to him.

“You will be mine, bet your booty on it,” he murmured against her dark, dark magnolia-scented hair. Magnolias. He hadn't a clue whether they grew in California, and he decided not to speculate on it. Yet he wondered if Skylla might like that part of the country. What would be wrong with taking her away from here? He didn't want to speculate on that.

When he pulled the sheet over them, he heard the whimpers of her awakening. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. We both need sleep. I'll need all the strength I can get.” . . .
To make you my wife in the eyes of God and his witnesses.

She cuddled against him—thankfully on his good side—and the blessing of a deep sleep overtook her. The feel of her gave Brax a sense of calm, despite his horrendous agony. And he would have to have been dead not to skim his hand along the soft, soft skin of her arm. Fast asleep, she sighed and cuddled closer . . . and he got on with his exploration.

He wasn't dead, but he wasn't in shape for a woman, either, he realized. His eyes started to close. They flew open when the twit Claudine flounced into the room.

Her mouth fell open, her eyes as big as saucers. “What is she doing in bed with you!”

“Shhh.” Brax tapped his finger against his lips. “Don't disturb her. She's exhausted from the workout I gave her.”

“Such brag. You're not in any shape to satisfy a woman.” Utter malice radiated from the whole of Claudine St. Clair. She advanced to the bed. “I've been to town. I know about your lying and cheating. You're a blight on society, Braxton Hale. You're no better than your lout of a father.”

The charge of scoundrel he wouldn't defend, but cold hatred iced his veins at her mention of John Larkin Hale. Thankfully, Skylla didn't awaken. He didn't want her to witness the dirty look he shot her stepmother. Nor did he want her to hear what he had to say. “Watch your words. If you don't, I'll be forced to see you on your merry way. With nothing more than a half-dead horse and a by your leave.” He kissed Skylla's head; she smiled instinctively and made the sweet murmur of a woman pleased at where she was. “A supposed female friend can't hold a candle when a woman has found her mate.”

“The truth shall set her free of you.” Claudine pointed an unladylike finger. “You're on your way out, blackguard.”

“Not on your life. I'm here to stay. And I'll stay as Skylla's husband.”

Malice watered to a sneer. “I think you're a confidence man out to steal this ranch.”

She was bluffing, he felt certain. “Claudine, you're looking for trouble in all the wrong places. We've got enough already. Kathy Ann is missing. Charlie Main's gone after her, but Skylla's afraid the Comanches have her.”

Claudine blanched, but recovered. “Leave her to heaven.”

“What would Skylla think if she knew you don't care whether her adored sister is seized by savages?”

“Why is it always Skylla, Skylla, Skylla? What makes her so special to you?”