Mail-Order Man (15 page)

“Get on with the marryin', preacher man,” Luke Burrows called from behind the bridegroom, and got chuckles from the other guests.

Brax's eyes slid to his bride again, reveling in her beauty. “Do get on with it, preacher man. I need me a wife.”

“Dearly beloved . . .”

The ceremony began.

Minutes later Brax slipped the thin gold band on Skylla's finger. “Don't be nervous,” he whispered. “It's almost over.”

“Nervous? I'm not. Not at all.” She smiled her gentle smile, the one that never failed to warm his heart.

Reverend Byrd cleared his throat to get their attention.

“Wait,” Skylla whispered to the preacher. “I have something. A wedding gift.”

Her work-worn fingers lifted to the stock Brax had borrowed from Titus's belongings; she stuck something in the center of it. He looked downward, seeing a gold stickpin centered with a green stone that had to be an emerald.

“My father's,” she said, making him feel all the worse for selling the Hale heirloom.

“Thank you,” he whispered and brought her fingertips to his lips to kiss them. A fist seemed to tighten on his heart. What could it be but love?

She tantalized him with: “I have a better gift waiting for you.”

Damned right she did. He grinned smugly.

They got back to the official part of the ceremony. At half past seven, Reverend Byrd smiled and said, “I now pronounce y'all man and wife.”

Brax gazed into those expressive dark eyes and tweaked her cute little nose. “Hello, Mrs. Hale.”

“You may kiss your bride,” the reverend informed Brax.

She tilted her chin up, closing her eyes and parting her lips ever so slightly. Brax brought his mouth to hers to seal their vows. Her bouquet of magnolia blossoms fluttered to the floor.

The minister congratulated the couple, then turned to sign Titus's Bible. Brax and Skylla added their signatures. Back slapping and the usual congratulations followed.

Claudine anchored her arm to the elbow of a bathed and spiffed-up Charlie Main, but she kept her distance. She had agreed to act as matron of honor; Brax knew she meant to keep this promise, but a way to make trouble had to be on her mind. He'd deal with the redhead as the situation unfolded.

He signaled to Geoff, and the younger man crept into the bridal suite to make it ready according to Brax's earlier instructions.

The musician set bow to fiddle, a tune filled the air, and the newlyweds, laughing and smiling, headed to the big dining room, where their wedding cake waited on the long rectangular table. After feeding each other the traditional first bites, the new Mr. and Mrs. Hale sipped wine from goblets borrowed from Emil Kreitz, who'd brought them from his native Germany.

Brax didn't mull the fruitcake's savory taste, his attention being captured by his wife and fantasies about their wedding bed. When the fiddler struck up a waltz, he took Skylla's hand and grinned. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Hale?”

“Most certainly, Mr. Hale.”

Making sure he'd be able to catch her should she falter, he guided her to the middle of the room and brought her closer than propriety dictated. She had no trouble following.

“This is a lovely wedding, husband.”

“Thanks to the generosity of the Yankee Army.”
And to a good-hearted whore.

“The Army didn't have anything to do with these shoes.” She stopped dancing to step back and lift the hem of her dress a couple inches. Kid slippers, one with a built-up sole, peeped from beneath. “You've given me another chance at the dance.”

“Same goes for you.” Brax kissed her.

“Did you hear the new county officers have arrived?”

Everyone turned to Oliver Brown. The honest-eyed physician elaborated: “We've got a sheriff and a county clerk. The clerk'll collect taxes, I've heard.”

Claudine abandoned Charlie Main. She swept over to Skylla, who glanced at Brax before eyeing her stepmother.

“Since Dr. Brown brought up the subject, there's something you need to know. The Reconstructionists may well void the deeds held by Rebel veterans and sympathizers.”

There was a collective response of: “That's what I've been afraid of.”

“Do you think they can do that?” Skylla asked.

“Leastwise the Huns will be spared.” Luke Burrows's shoulders drooped, as he no doubt wished he'd sided with his Teutonic neighbors. “Mason County's got plenty Huns, but there's a durned sight more of us.”

“People could lose their land,” Claudine said, as if she gave a damn about anyone but herself.

Brax frowned. “Let's not borrow trouble.”

“What is more troublesome than being tossed off one's property?” Claudine inquired. “I've heard stories. These good people will back me up.” She nodded at the guests. “Confederate veterans may well be in the same dilemma that plagued the holders of Mexican land grants. Rebels will suffer.”

Brax recalled the decency of Webb Albright and his cavalry unit. “The Unionists won't be vindictive.”

Emil Kreitz spoke, his accent heavy. “I have studied the history of Texas. After independence from Mexico, the Texians—good Americans—voided many Mexican land grants.”

Brax watched his stepmother-in-law hide a grin of triumph. The bitch had orchestrated this tempest in a teacup, had timed it to spoil the evening.

Is the ranch lost? Well, lost or not, don't show this viper she's got you sitting on thorns. Don't let her spoil your wedding night with your wife.
However, despite his intentions, he couldn't rid his mind of what the future might hold.

 

 

“Thank goodness they're finally gone.”

“Amen, sweetheart. Wife.”

In the parlor after the last wedding guest had departed, Skylla turned to that deep resonant voice, feeling sweet anticipation as she feasted her eyes on the tall and broad-shouldered form of her new husband. He'd never looked more handsome than in his fine suit of clothes. And he'd never looked more unhappy.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” His eyes betrayed his smile. He shrugged his coat off, then pitched it onto a chair. Next came the neckcloth, which he held in his hand. “Thank you for the stickpin. I wish I had something more than a wedding band and a pair of shoes to give you in exchange.”

A small voice within Skylla asked when he'd give her the cameo, but she shushed it.
He'll pull it from a pocket. I know he will.
He didn't. She held her beringed hand to her chest. “Don't forget the wine and music. They were lovely.”

“Cold comfort.”

“Don't belittle your gifts, my darling. I will treasure them until my dying day.”

Still, his mind was troubled. The cloud of the Reconstructionists—that had to have troubled him. Unionist officials might indeed turn the Lone Star State on its end, and she prayed that wouldn't occur, for their neighbors would suffer. The Hales and their kin wouldn't suffer. Not with Uncle's fortune found.

A footstep separated them; she took it and placed her hands on his muscled upper arms. “Braxton . . .”

“You look especially lovely tonight,” he said in an obvious attempt at disregarding the specter in his mind. He fingered the veil that cascaded down her back, then took her headpiece off, tossing it onto the settee. “I especially like your hair loose.” His head bent, and he ran a heavy hank of hair across his lips. “I want more. I want the pleasure of undoing the clothes that keep me from feasting my eyes on you.”

Her veins heavy with desire, she inhaled deeply. She'd tell him about the fortune . . . in time. Right now she wanted to savor—and relish—these tender moments. She helped him divest her of the dress. In her chemise she then stepped from dotted Swiss, watching as he set it across a chair.

When his eyes took in her lamplit form, she stood without fear. Once upon a time, not so long ago, his intimate gaze would have given her cause to hide her affliction, but his affection had given her a delicious confidence.

His roving hands on her arms, he bent to kiss her lips lightly and to murmur, “Weddings ought to be conducted in the nude. It would sure save time.”

She chuckled at his audacity.

In short order, he undid his shirt, placed it next to her dress. Her gaze rivited to the light brown hair that dusted his solid chest, during which he did the strange dance of a man shucking his boots while standing. Still in britches, he skimmed his hands along her bare shoulders. “Shall we go to the bedroom, or shall we make love in the front room?”

A smile worked at his lips. Once more, she noticed it didn't travel to his eyes. The ranch. That was it. The ranch and its muddled future. It was no way to start a marriage, obstacles separating a husband and wife. “Braxton, if you're worrying about losing the ranch, don't.”

She took him by the hand, leading the way to the dining room, where, beneath the linen cloth that had been one of Uncle's concessions to conventional decor, stood a wooden casket. Sturdy, made of mahogany, strapped with wide swatches of brass, the chest compared to a valise in size.

“Your surprise,” she stated pridefully, enthusiastically.

Staring first at the case, then at Skylla, Braxton bent down, then rocked back on his heels. His hand went to the clasp, but stilled.

“Go on. Open it.” She took a lamp from the buffet to give this special moment the benefit of brilliance. “Behold our rich future.”

He unfastened it, lifted the lid. Gold and cut stones gave off a light show of breathtaking proportions.

As if the lid had suddenly gone hot, Braxton let it go. “This is Titus's lost fortune. The Comanches didn't take it.”

“Apparently not.”

“This was here, while . . .” Levered to his feet, Brax had a bleak countenance. “What in the hell is going on? Why did you pick this particular night to show this off?”

Her excitement deflating, she explained about finding the treasure, ending with: “Our ranch is secure. We needn't worry about anyone taking it from us. We can pay whatever it takes to keep the Nickel Dime in our family.”

“Are you crazy?” His fingers locked on her elbows. “To hell with this place. We can pack up and be out of here by sundown tomorrow.”

Her voice seemed to come from a distance as she replied, “You can't mean that.”

“I said it. I mean it. Skylla, California is a wondrous place. We can live there, be the toast of San Francisco.”

San Francisco? San Francisco! That he would mention such a place meant that it had been on his mind. Who was this man she'd married? Where was the rancher who'd worked like a slave to keep them afloat? Was Claudine right about him?

“Does our land mean nothing to you?” Skylla asked, hoping against hope he'd put her mind at ease.

“This ranch is the devil's backyard.”

Her illusions were shattered. Her confidence ebbed. She backed away, shod in the shoes she'd prized only moments ago. Her hips bumped against the table on which were the leavings of the wedding cake. Since she'd been wrong about his feelings for a home they both had a stake in, how wrong was she about his feelings for her?

“Skylla? Skylla, talk to me.”

“You're a stranger, Braxton Hale.”

“I'm the husband who wants a good life for the Hales.”

“I thought you wanted all that was offered here. Including the crippled woman who owns the place.”

He stepped forward to lay his fingers against her chilled cheek. “You know I want you.”

“I don't know anything anymore.”

“Then let me show you what to think.” He reached for her, but she drew away. Tasting bile at not getting his way, he cursed. “You're my wife. I mean to have you. Come here, Skylla.”

“Save your charity.”

Eyes closing, he lifted his head toward the ceiling, then leveled his green gaze to take in the uncertainty and crushed dreams evident on her face. “I've never considered you with
charity.
”

Oh, how she yearned to believe him. But she wouldn't allow herself such folly. What should she do, and which way should she turn?

He soldered his grasp to her elbows. “I'm going to ask you again, Skylla. Come away with me.”

The terrible temper that she had carefully guarded for so long snapped. “Never! I will never, ever leave this ranch! And you're mistaken if you think you'll change my mind!”

“You'll by God do what I say.”

“You've never been more wrong.” She pried his fingers away. Her hand raked into the wedding cake, and she threw a big wad of it at him. The mass oozed through the hair of his chest.

Wiping his hand down the offensive pastry, he said tightly, “What's wrong with you that you'd want to stay five minutes in this abyss of hard work and little reward?”

“It's my home!” She whipped around, meaning to seek out her bedroom and the comfort of solitude.

A roar like a lion's shook the rafters; then a huge chunk of white icing and fruitcake flew in front of her advancing form, causing her to stumble into what was left of their wedding cake.

One foot flew out from under her; she slipped in the slickness. Falling backward, she felt strong hands grabbing her. No! She wouldn't tumble into the well of his demands.

Yet he turned her into his arms, and then they were both on the floor, him above her, amid the destroyed cake. Their destroyed dreams.

“I'll show just how much charity I have for you.” His mouth descended as if to kiss her, but she ran her nails down his jaw, scratching him.