Mail-Order Man (23 page)

The funeral and resultant hanging got in the way of everyone's plans. Thus, Geoff Hale was two weeks late leaving for the Comanche encampment. The sun beating down on his old cap, he hummed as he rode the skewbald through the grasses, in the direction Bubba had given to Pearl of the Concho.

Geoff had left the ranch in good hands.

Here lately, more men had shown up, eager to hire on. Rebels mostly, but three Yankees, a couple of freed slaves from Alabama, and a vaquero from the brush country. Three of the Johnny Rebs were skilled cowboys. Bubba figured to train the others. A Frenchman with experience as a trail cook got a job. That René fellow lived up to “touchy cook.”

With the extra help, the cattle drive was taking shape.

And that redheaded piece of work was gone—good riddance. Geoff recalled her burial. No one shed a tear, except for Miss Skylla. Frankly, he'd been surprised when Claudine's widower showed up.

The Yankee major had even witnessed Charlie Main's hanging—justice was swift on the frontier. Some real tears had been shed over Charlie. Geoff had cried for the stupid, gullible cowboy who'd thought he could love above his station.

Was an Indian girl above a quadroon? Some people might think so, but Geoff intended to let Pearl of the Concho make that decision. Raising his chin to the buttermilk sky and giving Molasses a nudge, he burst into song. Here he was, going on eighteen, and on his way to get a wife.

“Geoff! Geoff, wait up!”

He turned in the saddle, in the direction of that feminine voice he didn't have any trouble recognizing. On Luckless Litton's bay mare, Kathy Ann headed straight as an arrow for Geoff. Riding abreast, she patted a burlap sack that jumped in her lap. Her cat, no doubt. “I'm going with you.”

“Uh-uh. You da bad girl, wantin' to upset your sister when she in mournin'.”

“Sarge will make it all right with her. He knows I'm leaving. He gave me his blessing.”

“Da massa love you, Miss Kathy Ann.”

“I know. And I love him, too. But enough about that.” She hitched up a brow. “You can stop with that silly accent stuff. I've heard you talking with Sergeant when you think no one is listening. You're no field nigger.”

“I don't like that word. It's a mean word, Kathy Ann.”

“Don't get your feelings hurt, Geoff. You're all right for a colored boy.”

“A left-handed compliment to be sure.”

“Oh, don't be so touchy.”

“You'll know what it's like to have people look down on you, if you don't turn back. White people accept a white woman married to a savage just about as well as they accept someone who's got ancestors hailing from Africa.”

“Stalking Wolf is a fine man. I'm going to marry him. I'll never look back.”

“Good for you, Kathy Ann. Good for you.”

 

With trouble in his heart, Brax watched his wife crumple Kathy Ann's letter, her shoulders wilting. Why hadn't he told that French cook not to forward correspondence to their temporary address, the Menger Hotel? Skylla hadn't recovered from losing Claudine in such a tawdry fashion, nor was she reconciled to losing Kathy Ann. And now, the letter.

Alone in their suite, Brax took hold of Skylla's shoulders. He knew she wanted to lash out at him for permitting Kathy Ann to follow her heart, but he knew something else. His wife was trying to control her temper, and in the aftermath of the loss of Claudine, she was ever so much more circumspect.

Not a man to shun an advantage, he said, “Be happy for your sister. A babe is a cause for joy. Just think, you're going to be an aunt.”

“I suppose I should be happy for Pearl, too.”

Yes, there were two babes on the way. Geoff had returned to the Nickel Dime with an Indian wife, now known simply as Pearl. They expected their child next summer. So, apparently, did Kathy Ann. Each couple had a child except for Brax and Skylla.

My fault. My damned fault
. Another sign of damnation. When John Hale damned his family, he covered all bases. This, however, was nothing Brax cared to explore verbally.

His fingers slid into the luxurious silkiness of Skylla's dark, dark hair, and he angled his head to kiss her tears away. In a gentle yet firm tone, he tried to reason with her. “You're going to make yourself sick, getting upset. Yes, your sister has married a savage. Yes, she's carrying Stalking Wolf's child. People get married and have babies.”
Everyone but us.
“Skylla, we'll lose Kathy Ann forever unless you're willing to bend. If you accept Stalking Wolf, she'll come back to us. Not alone. With her husband. Someday with her children. But she'll come back.”

Skylla stared up at him, and from the look in her heart-shaped face, he knew she wavered. Wavered, but did not give.

When she slipped out of his arms, she padded barefoot across the suite's lush wine-red rug, going to the window to let in the crisp air of late autumn. A breeze lashed her unbound hair, whipping it behind her. Her shoulders, usually so proudly straight, slumped. She said in a strained voice, “I thought she'd return to us. I can't imagine Kathy Ann content in a savage world. I thought she'd be home by now.”

“Sweetheart, you never gave her her due. She's a clever girl. A clever girl becoming a clever woman.” He knew this for fact; he'd made a trip to the Comanche village. Kathy Ann had blossomed. “She's happy.”

“You make it sound so right.”

“I hope I'm getting through to you.” He crossed the room to help his wife accept reality. “Write her a letter. Luckless will deliver it. Tell her how happy you are she's found happiness. Dollar to a donut, she'll call on us in no time.”

“You're right. You're always right.” Skylla slid her arms around him, leaning her cheek against his chest. “Every night I say a prayer of thanks that you rode into my life.”

Brax had his own prayer of thanksgiving. The ranch had adequate help, was sailing along in preparation for the cattle drive. A goodly amount of money had been deposited in the bank, both from Titus's bounty and the proceeds from the sale of tallow and hides. And from the sale of topaz stones. Further, the drive to Kansas had taken shape. Safe Haven brimmed with five hundred branded longhorns fattening up for the trip.

Everything should have been rosy.

Except that Brax hadn't been able to even the score with Oren Singleterry. He'd given in on the first trip to San Antonio, had agreed not to pay a call on the horse thief. She'd argued that he should forget a few head of horses. He hadn't been of the same mind. “Go on home, sweetheart,” he said. He kissed her forehead. “Let Luckless escort you to the ranch.”

Her arms tightened around him, her sweetness seeping into his being. “Let the law take care of Singleterry,” she said. “You have a good case. Webb and his soldiers will testify on our behalf. They'll say they saw where a running-iron had been burned over the Nickel Dime brand.”

“It could take months for the law to settle the dispute.”

She looked up with those huge brown eyes that now held the glint of reason and common sense. “We've waited this long to get the horses back. What's a few more months?”

Her arguments were getting to him.

Using her fingers as combs, Skylla brushed long hair behind her ears, again looked him straight in the eye, and said, “If I can give up my sister and make peace with myself over Claudine, you can bend on this quest of yours.”

 

 

“We need help.” Brax, his wife to his right, held his oyster-colored Stetson in his hand, facing the sheriff. “We're here to lodge a complaint against a horse thief.”

In his office in the Bexar County Courthouse, Sheriff Hermann Klein pared his fingernails with a butcher knife, blew his nose into a handkerchief that might have once been clean, and sniffed mucus back into his sinuses.

Brax said, “Oren Singleterry, now a resident of Bexar County, stole those horses.”

“We hanged that varmint last month.”

“What?” Brax and Skylla said in unison.

“We hanged that varmint Singleterry last month. For horse-thieving.”

Damn. Double damn.

“What did you say your name was?” inquired the lawman.

“I didn't. But it's Hale. Brax Hale. This is my wife, Skylla Hale. She inherited the Nickel Dime Ranch in Mason County from her uncle, Titus St. Clair. We want Singleterry's horses.”

“You cain't have them. We sold them at auction.”

Foiled again. And it had a nasty taste.

Klein screwed up an eye. “Did you say your name was Hale? I know a fellow named Hale. Used to live here before the war. Came back a few months ago.” As was ordinary around these parts, he asked a question not to be expected in that vast and spread-out region. “Would you be kin to Dr. John Hale?”

Being gut-shot couldn't have hit Brax harder than hearing his father's name. The sheriff's office seemed to ebb and recede, a surging in his ears wreaking havoc with his balance. He planted his palms on the desk and leaned forward to catch his breath. Skylla's fingers wrapped around his biceps, squeezing his flesh to show support. She stepped to the left and settled closer to his side.

“You okay, Hale?” asked Sheriff Klein.

“He's fine,” Skylla lied. “A touch of heart trouble.”

“You ought to take him to John Hale. If anyone can fix a bad ticker, John Hale's the one.”

Brax swallowed, or tried to. After all these years of wanting answers and being thwarted in getting them, he was in the same town as his father. How could that be? John Larkin Hale, Unionist doctor, was supposed to be in the Caribbean.

“Repeat that name,” he ordered.

“Dr. John Hale. He's the coroner here in Bexar County. Right nice-looking fellow, about fifty. A dandy if I've ever seen one. Fact is, y'all look enough alike to be father and son.”

Brax choked out, “Where can I find him?”

“Prob'ly at his infirmary.” The sheriff looked up at the clock on the wall reading one
P.M.
“He ought to be in. Does his doctoring over on Burnet Street, a couple miles from here. Big clapboard place. Porch running all around it. You can't miss it. He's got a sign hanging in the front yard.”

Brax patted his gunbelt. Skylla took his hand, which prompted him to turn to her. Understanding and a silent message to be cautious met his gaze.

Her eyes torn from Brax, Skylla then faced the lawman. “Thank you, Sheriff. We'll be on our way.”

“Right,” her husband muttered. “Let's go.”

Brax Hale had fifteen years' worth of answers to get.

“Are you sick or hurt?”

Skylla held her husband's hand as he bared his teeth at the clinic attendant, a balding man wearing spectacles who stood behind a tall counter that separated this spartan, empty waiting room from the main part of the infirmary. “Do I look sick?” Braxton asked.

The man blinked, then closed a small case containing surgical instruments. “Doc doesn't cure sour dispositions.”

“Then the sheriff's been spreading lies. Said your man was good at healing broken hearts.”

“Weak hearts. The Almighty works on the broken ones.”

From studying her husband, Skylla knew he was about to say God ignored Hale hearts. “Is the doctor in?” she asked. “My husband needs to speak with him.”

“He isn't here. Is your man a patient of his?”

“I'm his—I'm an acquaintance from Mississippi.”

The diminutive man bent a skeptical eye on Brax. “Acquaintance, you say?” A spark akin to recognition glinted in his eyes. With an owl-eyed smile, he offered the olive branch of down-home friendliness. “Come to think of it, I'd guess you a relative. I sure would. Welcome to Texas, y'all.”

“Where is he?” Braxton snapped.

The man swept a hand toward a line of straight chairs. “Have a seat. Dr. Hale is making house calls. He'll be back directly. How about a cup of coffee? Got a fresh pot in the back. It's lip-smacking good. Beans came out of Vera Cruz.”

“Thank you, no.” Skylla let her husband take her arm.

He led her to a pair of chairs. Wordlessly, he plopped down, his face an unreadable mask to the casual observer. He closed his eyes, crossed his legs, and rested his fingers over his stomach in a semblance of casualness.

Her gaze traveled across the room, where a vacant invalid's chair stood, a peg leg lying across it. Almost, she had been doomed to such bondage. She closed her eyes to the memory. From somewhere deep in the bowels of the place, a man cried out, his sob echoing in her ears. She then noticed the stench of sickness and dying, similar to that in the Vicksburg infirmary, though the ailing of 1863 weren't afforded the sharp scent of antiseptic.

She shuddered. Not from thoughts of her own problems. Out of fear of trouble with Dr. John Hale, and of what measures her husband would go to with his long-absent father. She prayed Braxton would leave here with peace of mind. He deserved to know why his father had deserted the family.

And he needed the peace of mind he'd given her.

“You say you knew the doc in Mississippi.” The attendant parked an elbow on the counter, mis-reading—or disregarding—Braxton's surliness. “Comes as a surprise. Never heard Doc say anything about that neck of the woods. When was he over there?”

Braxton opened one eye. “Most of his life.”

“I sure never knew.” The man took his spectacles off to clean them with a rag. “I bet he'll be tickled to see you. He's sure a good man. Been good to this town. I—Did I tell you my name? It's Luther Mullin. I'm head orderly at the clinic.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Skylla put in.

“Yeah, real pleased.”

“Goes for y'all, too.” Mullin smiled. “As I was saying afore I so rudely interrupted myself, ever'body in San Antonio was pleased as punch when the doc came back here. He sure does a lot for the community Even takes care of Mexicans.”

“A saint to be sure.” Braxton's voice dripped sarcasm.

“We sure missed Doc when he served in the Army. Lots of people resented him signing up with the Union folks—not the Germans around here, naturally, since they never believed in slavery—but they tend to change their minds when the doc gets 'em well. Usually for free. Sure enough, it's good to have him back. Him and his pretty little wife and kids.”

Braxton tensed. “Wife and kids?”

“Harriet and the younguns, Abigail and Andrew. Those are sure cute younguns. Abigail, she's a cotton-haired peach. 'Course, the boy could stand to put on some weight.”

His face going pale beneath his tan upon digesting news of his father's second family, Braxton straightened in the chair. Skylla put a hand on his wrist at the same moment he said, “I thought his wife's name was Elizabeth.”

“No. It's Harriet. Harriet Rourke, she used to be. Her widowed mama's been here in San Antonio since the days of the Republic. I've known Harriet since she was a tyke. Harriet Alice Rourke was her name. Now it's Mrs. Hale.”

Skylla stepped into the conversation. “I'm sure they're a lovely family,” she said. “I could use a breath of fresh air. You
will
escort me outside, won't you, husband?”

Before they could exit the infirmary, a buggy pulled up, visible through the window. Braxton's breath hissed through clenched teeth. A tall man, white streaks in the burnished gold hair at his temples, stepped out of the conveyance and turned to pluck a black satchel from the seat. Even from this distance, Skylla saw the resemblance between father and son. As well, she saw a striking difference.