Mail-Order Man (7 page)

Luke eyed the proprietor. “Leander, bring the boy a glass of beer. On me.”

“Much obliged.” Brax pulled out a straight chair, sat down, then anted the Spencer. “Deal me in.”

“Nawsir,” Daggitt objected. “I ain't forgit that hunnerd you tried to take off me with yore two-tailed gold piece, Christmas of '60.”

“What about that fifty you won from me a week later?” Brax countered. “Deal me in, boys. I haven't had the challenge of playing cards with”—
picking clean
—“a couple of topnotch Texans in much too long.”

“Our cards.” Luke pointed to the deck on the table.

“Suits me,” Brax replied with a smile.

Within an hour he had all the chips in front of him. And it hadn't taken sleight of hand. Brax took the rifle and leaned it against his chair. “Had enough for an evening, gentlemen?”

They had.

Brax was in no hurry to settle up. “What's going on around here? Seen any Yankees toting carpetbags?”

“Not a one,” Luke replied, “but I heared there's some over to the east. The scalawags are headed this way, I reckon.”

Good. A buyer on the move, with any luck. Since Brax's fortunes were definitely looking up, he had every reason to be tickled over the prospect of a sucker approaching.

What about now, though? His first thought centered on Skylla. The lady was a dervish, even with a lame leg. A grin edged its way around his mouth. A woman that energetic ought to be hell on wheels in bed. First, he had to get her there.

Which meant planning, workwise and otherwise.

What about what she said out at the canyon? Straight out, she said she was glad to have a home and would work for it. Can I turn her off the place?
Damn tootin'.

In the meantime, the Nickel Dime would be better off if Titus's horses were back where they belonged. “Say, either of you know what happened to Oren Singleterry?”

“Whud if I do?” was Daggitt's response.

“I heard something.” Luke ran a hand down the gullies of his face. “Heard he stolt Titus's horses when he pulled out last November. Also heard Singleterry was over in Menard. Raising horses. Wouldn't surprise me none if them horses've had a running-iron put to their hides.”

Brax's sentiments exactly. “Sounds like I need to see about collecting Nickel Dime property.”

“Now that ya mentioned Menard . . .” Daggitt took a fat wad of tobacco into his fat wad of a mouth. “Ya know that gal ya used to spark? Jane Clark be her name.” He dribbled brown juice onto his stubbled chin. “Didn't wait on ya, naw she didn't. Got herself all married off. Why, you was hardly outta the county.”

Relieved he wouldn't have the bother of a lady wanting to take up where they left off, Brax shrugged. “Jane and I didn't make any promises to each other.”

“Ain't you lucky?” Daggitt sucked, then spat, missing the spittoon. “Oh, did I tell ya? She's aliving over to Menard. She was left a widder woman. The war, ya know. I heared she was working as a—”

“You yap too much,” Luke interrupted.

Choicer words were never spoken. Brax surveyed his chips. “Time to pay up, boys.”

Each pulled out bills.

Confederate greenbacks.

“‘That's not money.” Brax leveled a glare at each man in turn. “You owe me. Gold.”

“How the heck can you expect anything different than dixies?” Daggitt's face turned the hue of purple cabbage. “Where would we get any gold? I done give near on everything I had to ole Jeff Davis.”

“Me, too.” Luke nodded. “We just play for fun nowadays.”

“I wasn't playing for fun.”

Leander came over to collect dirty glasses. He screwed up an eye, smirking. “Luck's run out, ain't it, purty boy? Warms the cockles of m' heart.”

“Will you take our markers?” Luke waited with bated breath.

Brax was finished with markers. But he wasn't finished with Daggitt and Luke. The farmer might be friendly, and Brax did cotton to the man, but all men knew poker playing to be serious business. “Tell me something, Luke Burrows. You still raising hogs?”

“I am.”

“Then I'll settle for one.”

“We only got two breeders. And a half-growed shoat.”

If Luke weren't the most decent fellow around, Brax would demand one of those breeders. “I'll take the shoat. Deliver it to the Nickel Dime tomorrow. Before noon.” He turned to the corpulent farmer. “I suggest you hightail it over to your place. Bring me a couple of chickens. Caged. Raid your wife's pantry while you're at it. For butter and sugar. A bottle of vanilla would finish off the debt.” Kathy Ann would have her dessert, by damn. He didn't give a hoot in hell about her, but he knew the hurt of a craving gone too long unsettled. “I'll wait right here for you.”

Neither acted excited about giving over such prizes, but each left.

Brax stood up, stretched a kink out of his shoulder, then strolled over to Charlie Main. “Get up, asshole.” He thumped the toe of his boot hard against the drunk's butt, twice. “Get up. It's time to go to work.”

Charlie mumbled incoherently. He swatted an arm. His sweat-stained sombrero fell to the floor, exposing greasy hair in a shade which might be kindly described as dung brown.

“Get up.”

A bellow of foul-breathed indignation met that demand. Charlie Main did have a temper.

“Sober, you used to be the best damn cowboy in Texas, outside of me. And I'm betting you're still tall in the saddle. Get up, Charlie. I've got all the booze you can guzzle back at the ranch. All you have to do is rope a few cows during the day. Then you can wallow in piss and rotgut all evening long.”

“Getthehellouttamysight!” Charlie came alive, and roared to his feet like a mad bull pawing the ground. “You sumbitch!” He drew back his fist to plow it into Brax's face. “Getoutta—”

Brax lunged for the cowpoke's arm and twisted it behind his back. “Make some coffee, Leander.”

By midnight Brax was riding Impossible back to the ranch. The Spencer nestled in its holster, the foodstuff in the saddlebag. A cage of upset hens hung from the saddlehorn.

On a complaining mule rode Charlie Main. Brax intended to set the cowpoke on a path—with Geoff's assistance—to repairing the outbuildings, collecting stolen horses, and rounding up a herd to show off to a sucker.

Once Brax taught those women—preferably Skylla alone—how to milk a cow, he'd have done his part to get the Nickel Dime presentable. Here on out, he would do nothing but kick back, wait for a sucker, and eat milk pudding.

“Milk that cow? I can't. I simply can't—won't!”

This was not a good morning, certainly no venue for true confessions. The blood drained from Skylla's face as she eyed an expanse of sharp horns and wild beast. Even though the cow's horns were tied between the corral fence and Molasses's saddlehorn, Geoff atop the gelding, Skylla drew no comfort.

Braxton wanted her to learn to milk a cow.

Furthermore, he'd brought that awful Main drunkard to the Nickel Dime. Already, Charlie Main had insulted Claudine and had rendered the outhouse unfit for even Kathy Ann, much less for those of delicate sensibilities. On Braxton's orders, the derelict was hauling water to clean up after himself.

“Come on, honey,” Braxton prompted.

“I'm not going near that creature. Or her calf.” Skylla cut her eyes to the bullock hogtied nearby, then back to the mother. “Her horns . . . ! Braxton, I don't want to be gored. I'll do anything else. Whatever you deem me fit to do. Why don't I take care of the laundry?”

“Not a chance.” He dangled the pail from a forearm, and took hold of Skylla's elbow with his hand. “We're gonna walk over to that mama cow, and you're gonna talk real sweetlike.” His eyes half-lidded, he gave Skylla a meaningful look that sent her heart to pitching from something that had nothing to do with cows or milk. “Talk like you used to talk to the swains of Biloxi, back when the moss swayed in the oak trees and Rastus used to turn the ice-cream crank.”

“I gots to tell ya, Miss Skylla, he know milking. He a good hand at it. He real good at eberthing.”

Skeptical about herself, she said, “I don't know . . .”

Braxton laced his fingers with hers. “Come on, sweetheart. I promise she won't disturb a hair on your head.”

He said it. Skylla decided to believe him. He has lots of fight, she realized. The sun hadn't been up any time, yet she'd already marveled for an hour at the amazing Braxton Hale.

Moreover, wasn't it gallant, Braxton spending his money on supplies and livestock? Imagine—setting hens and the ingredients for dessert. The prospect of a shoat. Lots of milk.
Braxton, you're a wonder
. And he'd called her sweetheart. What would be the shame in basking in that for a spell?

“Are you ready to give milking a try?” He winked one of those impossibly wonderful green eyes.

She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and advanced on a ton of beef on the hoof. “Let's do it.”

Electra got wind of opportunity, prancing up with a meow. She really was a tart, going to whoever could do right by her.

No milking stool to sit on, Braxton crouched back on his heels and motioned for Skylla to do the same. Recall flashed across his face as he glanced at her skirts. “Claudine is better suited for this chore,” he said, pandering to her affliction.

“I won't let my lame leg get in the way of chores.”

He looked up at her with the gaze that turned both her legs lame. “Skylla, would you let me examine your limb? I've had some experience along the healing line, you know.”

“I can't be helped. Several doctors have told me so.”

Braxton nodded, understanding and carrying on without comment. Thankfully. “Since I've sent Claudine and Kathy Ann out on a hunt,” he said, “why don't you stand here and just watch? I'll milk ole Bossy this time.”

“Th-thank you.”

Why had she stuttered? Skylla had never been anxious of speech.
It's because you're too chicken to 'fess up
. Or did it have to do with the feelings she'd thought had died with James? Braxton, the model of indomitable spirit, reminded her she was far from dead. With Claudine just as alive, Skylla realized hers was a collision course with disaster.

Rather than dwelling on it, she glanced at the comical calico. Electra posted herself to Braxton's left, then licked her paw and imparted a hurry-up-you-laggard look his way. He began to address the cow. She tried to turn her head in his direction, the ropes restraining her. Yet the look in her round bovine eyes spoke an eloquent language: “Who is this fool, and what the dickens is he up to?” She expelled a moo that thundered across the corral and set Electra's hackles on end.

“There's a good girl, good, good girl.” Shoulders hunching, Braxton reached for an udder. Bossy danced from one leg to the other, flipped her tail. With sure, expert motions, he quieted her and guided a stream of white liquid into the pail. “Good girl,” he crooned. “Giving us nice milk for blancmange.”

“Oooh, wee!” shouted Geoff. “Puddin' wit' berries on da top. Oooh, wee.”

Upon getting a smell of and a gander at all that heavenly milk, the usually independent Electra compromised her principles, twining herself around Braxton's ankles, her whiskers upturned as if to say, “Big boy, how about sharing some with li'l ole me?”

He pointed an udder at her. She lapped appreciatively. Skylla laughed, so did Geoff and Braxton when Electra caught a stream in her eye and huffed off with feline indignation. Skylla couldn't recall the last time she'd really, really laughed. She'd thought she'd forgotten how.

On a forward step she bent closer. “This is fun!”

“I aim to please,” he said, a sensuous pitch to his voice that sent Skylla's nerve endings to tingling.

He lifted his eyes to her. His lashes were thick, long, and much darker than his gold-shot head of hair ought to allow. Brax's big hand moved up Bossy's tricolored coat, patting and petting as he went. The cow leaned into his hand. And Skylla had the most sinfully luscious desire.

She wished his hand would caress her.

 

 

Sitting under a magnolia tree and finishing off the strawberries she'd found picked in the cookhouse, Kathy Ann said to Electra, who was dining on a scorpion, “I want to talk about the soldier. I sure like his looks. Why shouldn't I have him? What's so special about Skylla or Claudine? Skylla's an old gimp. And Claudine's just old. She's had enough husbands. It's my turn. I'm old enough.”

Finished with her feast, the calico licked her whiskers and crawled onto Kathy Ann's lap.

Pleased at being the person Electra trusted, Kathy Ann stroked an appreciative chin. “Lots of girls in Mississippi marry young. Not from the plantation class, of course. Doesn't that sound just like Claudine, plantation class? Who cares about any old plantations? I want something different.”

Maybe she could get the soldier to take her away, somewhere nice. Say, California. She'd read about that faraway land in a storybook, and a hankering like nobody's business had been after her ever since.

“I wonder if he's heard of California, Electra?” She frowned. “If he has, he wouldn't remember it right now. All he does is gaze like a lovestruck puppy at Skylla. She makes me sick. What a goody-goody. ”

Kathy Ann was jealous that her sister had all the luck, when she had none. course, Claudine'll tear into sister over the sergeant before it's all said and done. You wait and see. Then we'll see who's lucky.”

Her gaze on line with the cat, she caught sight of the soldier's boots as he walked up. She looked up to see him frowning, just as Ambrose had frowned. Like a father.

“Girl, what are you doing lollygagging? You haven't earned the right to sit around. Find Skylla. She'll need your help with supper.”

“Quit ordering me around.” She gifted him with the sort of face most often seen in a schoolyard. He put his hands at his hips and got all aggravated. “Why are you scowling at me?” she asked. “Are you still mad because I tricked you yesterday?”

His feet spread, he bent forward and rested both hands on his thighs. Glaring, he replied, “I'm not mad at you. But let's get something straight,
little girl
. Don't mess with me.”

“Why don't you give me a kiss, and we'll talk about it?”

“Not interested. I don't kiss children.”

“Oh? You were ready to marry me yesterday.”

“I'm doing the talking. You listen. And you listen closely.” He pointed at her. “Mention five thousand dollars one more time in front of Skylla, or your mother, and I will throw you down the well.”

“Have you done stuff like that a lot? Are you cruel to girls?”

“I'm willing to start with you.”

“Skylla will run you off if you aren't nice to me. So there!”

“Don't press your luck. If I catch” His expression got tight before he said, “Wait a minute. What's on your mouth? It's red.”

“These lips are ripe and ready for kisses.”

He got in her face, but not for kisses. “Listen closely. If I catch you talking to your mother and sister like you did last night, bet your britches you'll know worse than the bottom of a well.”

“Oh, really? Do you think you can catch me?” She pushed herself to her feet and shoved her palms on his chest. Giggling and picking up her skirts, she spun around to run away. He caught her before she took five running steps, and when he pulled on her arm to spin her around, she yelped in pain and kicked his shin. “Let me go, bad man!”

“Quit acting like a spoiled brat and I will.”

She stopped struggling.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now go to the kitchen. Skylla needs your help. She's cooking a”-he smiled and his eyes got soft—“blancmange with strawberry sauce.”

Strawberry sauce. Oh, no! Kathy Ann felt shame, for she'd eaten every last one of the berries. She bolted, running past the stables and toward the creek. At the edge she kicked pieces of deadwood and small rocks, sending them airborne. Nobody loved her. Nobody had ever loved her. Except Electra. Claudine and Skylla, they were obligated. Kathy Ann needed love.

It was at that moment she saw three Indians atop ponies. She recognized Stalking Wolf, fierce young leader of the Comanches, and his braves, Black Sky and Head Too Big.

Naked as worms, their skin like copper pennies, the chief and his braves were on the other side of the creek. Their black hair having grown to their shoulders, and with feathered spears in their hands, they looked exactly like what they were.

Savages.

Were they? Emil Kreitz, the grocer in Ecru, had told her that during the republic days a young girl had been captured by the Comanches—and she'd turned happy. Cynthia Ann Parker had been torn from her Injun husband, returned to the white world, and she'd died of grief. The Comanches couldn't be all bad.

How would Stalking Wolf treat a wife? Well, he couldn't own a broom closet to lock up a wife when she was bad.

The Injun chief kneed his pony, and horse hooves slashed water as he started across the creek. Kathy Ann didn't scream. She had the urge to stay put. She liked danger. And she wanted to ask him about Cynthia Ann Parker.

The closer Stalking Wolf got, the less adventurous she felt. She whirled around, running as fast as her legs could carry her. Never once did she glance back, for fear of losing ground. It seemed like forever before she gained the ranch.

Goody. She was safe.

As she exhaled, Geoff sashayed from the barn and over to her. “Anythin' da matter, Miss Kathy Ann?”

“Nothing!” She pushed him out her way. “Go 'way, you little black raisin. Go 'way before I box your ears.”

Busy making up her mind, she chewed a fingernail. Why mention the Injuns to her elders? Maybe Claudine or Skylla would venture into the woods . . . and get captured. Then Sergeant would be Kathy Ann's.

Her big grin collapsed when her sister stepped in front of her, the soldier at her side.

Suspicion in her brown eyes, Skylla asked, “Did you do something with the strawberries?”

“I ate them.”

“You little fiend—”

“No, Braxton, no.” Skylla took his hand. “They're only strawberries. We still have the blancmange.”

 

 

At dinner, Claudine couldn't care less about sweets. She had an awful feeling. She feared Brax found Skylla attractive, even though he was obviously angry that she hadn't scolded Kathy Ann over the strawberries. Would the incorrigible imp provide the link to bond Skylla and Brax together?

If he married Skylla, where would that leave a redhead with too many years and too few prospects?

If you don't watch your p's and q's, you'll end up the pitiable old auntie to their brats. Never!
When Brax Hale begat children, Claudine would make certain they were hers.

 

 

Eating dinner, Brax ignored the changeable redhead, and stewed over the strawberry incident. He'd be damned if he could understand why Skylla coddled the fiend. Once he was legal head of this family, Kathy Ann would change—or the sun wouldn't set in the west!

“Dis am nice smothered steak,” Geoff complemented.

“Mr. Main provided us with a cut of beef,” Skylla said. “Thank you, Mr. Main.”

Charlie Main belched in reply.

Kathy Ann rolled her eyes and chowed down.

“You never said anything about the roasts I provided.” Claudine didn't cotton to having attention centered on anyone else, but who the hell cared what that twit thought?

Charlie Main pushed his plate toward the center of the table and stood up. “I'm going to bed.”

No doubt to down the jug of moonshine Brax had promised as a reward for the ranch hand's afternoon of butchering, carrying water, and chopping wood.

Once the main course was through, Brax didn't tarry. Certainly he didn't hang around for blancmange. He made for the bunkhouse, his partner behind him. As the Hale men prepared to bunk down for the night, Main already snored on his cot.