Mail-Order Man (26 page)

What will Braxton and I name our child?
Skylla wondered if their babe would be a boy or a girl. Would it look like its mother or its father, or neither of them? None of that seemed as important as giving birth to a healthy child.

So far, she hadn't had a sick moment, which had thrown her off. Now that another monthly hadn't appeared, there could be no explanation save for pregnancy. As near as she could figure, Miss or Master Hale would arrive in July A year after Braxton had answered that advertisement.

If only Claudine were here. And happy. Skylla would forever mourn the ending of their friendship, as well as her stepmother's untimely death.
You didn't allow John Hale to ruin this holiday, why are you allowing Claudine to do it?

Skylla pulled herself together. Fingering the cameo fastened to the neckline of her dress, she smiled. Earlier, she'd thought, This isn't the same brooch. Of course it was the heirloom. She'd forgotten what it looked like, that was all.

“Let's see.” Geoff took a sip of wine. “We're going to take five hundred head to Kansas next month. Do you suppose we'll try for a thousand in '67?”

“That's what the boss done said,” replied Luckless.

Geoff got into a lively discussion with Luckless about the cattle drive. Snuffy just ate. So did Pearl, who had a good appetite for an expectant mother. Though as quiet by nature as the cowpoke, she smiled now and then.

Skylla sipped coffee and said a prayer of thanks for this brood. Who would ever have thought last Christmas, in the very worst of war's hell, that so much bounty would be hers—theirs!—this year? And next year . . . Next year a new face would grace this table. As would a high chair.

Correction. There would be three high chairs. Wow, what a roar would fill this dining room!

“Sounds like someone's at the door.” Braxton placed his serviette on the table. “I'll see.”

“Keep your seat, honey. Guadalupe is right behind you with a nice piece of that pie René worked so hard to bake.”

The Frenchman puffed out his chest.

Skylla left the table, walking to the parlor and opening the door. To Webb Albright. A bittersweet smile on her lips, she said, “Please come in.”

“No.” His mouth grim, he lifted a small box. “This was in Claudine's saddlebag. I found it after, after . . . She wanted you to have it—your name's written on the box. I figured Christmas would be a good time to bring a remembrance.”

Skylla could have cried at the poignancy of the moment. She touched his elbow. “Please come in and have an eggnog.”

“No. I've got to be going.” He shoved the box into her hand. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hale.” He hurried to his steed, got in the saddle, and rode away.

“What was that all about?” Braxton strode up.

“The grief of a troubled man.” She lifted the box. “He brought this.” Unwrapping it, she took the gift in hand. “Oh, my goodness. It's a cameo. She knew I'd wanted yours.”

Skylla swallowed the lump in her throat. If only she could thank Claudine . . .

Braxton stepped to the side, and bright lamplight spilled over the brooch. Shock and confusion then struck Skylla, and her eyes went to her husband's ashen face. “This is . . . this is your mother's cameo. How can that be?”

“Skylla, we need to talk.”

When the last guest at the Christmas feast departed, Braxton repeated his words of thirty minutes earlier. “We need to talk.”

Skylla had spent a troubled half-hour, imagining all sorts of reasons for her husband's lying about the cameo. How many other things had he distorted? What did she really know about this father of her child? “I'm waiting.”

“I didn't give you my mother's cameo.” His handsome face was contorted. “I sold it in Menard. To finance our wedding.”

Once, she had thrown this option out to Claudine. It was certainly the most reasonable possibility, and now it had proven truthful. “Who would have money to buy a cameo? And why did you feel the need to lie about this?” She pointed to the one he'd given her.

“Because I sold it to a whore.”

“What . . . what caused you to call on a whore?”

“These are hard times. Jane was the only person with money for frippery.”

“Jane?” Skylla echoed, not caring for his familiarity with the woman. An argument from the past arose in her mind. “Claudine mentioned the cameo, but I cut her short. She had it in her possession days before she died. No matter what Winslow Packard said, Claudine schemed against me.” No longer would she grieve for the woman who was not a friend. “She knew you'd been to a whore. She figured tangible evidence would reinforce her charges against you. They were true, weren't they?” On his face was guilt. It hurt Skylla to press the issue, but she did. “How well do you know that whore?”

“As well as a man can know a woman,” he replied in a hollow voice. “But, Skylla, I didn't—”

“No. Don't say a word.” She wanted to pummel him, to make him hurt as she did, but fear of expressing her anger made her proceed with caution. “I need to be alone.”

She wanted to tear something to shreds; better a pillow than a deceitful husband. But how did one deal with a deceased villainess? Raising her chin in wounded dignity, Skylla made for the darkened bedroom. Yet he wouldn't leave her be.

Not five minutes later, he stopped in the doorway, a dark figure against the light behind him. Gone was the frock coat. He strode toward her, lighting the lamp. His features pleaded for understanding. Seated on the bed, she fiddled with the clasp and handed the cameo to Braxton. “I'd rather not wear this.”

He gave the brooch a tiny toss, as if it were hot in his hand, then caught it and set it on the nightstand. Taking a sidestep, he crowded her sight. She stared at her father's stickpin and closed her left hand, letting her nails dig into the palm. “Why did you to go to a whore when we were engaged?”

Braxton hunkered down, getting eye to eye. “I didn't sleep with her.”

It took Skylla's store of patience not to tear him limb from limb. “I should imagine you did little
sleeping.”
Her gaze went to the masculine part of him so evident against the material of his trousers. “Where has that thing of yours been?”

The crook of his finger raised her chin. “I swear I haven't touched her since before the war.” Her teeth ground together as he persisted. “I swear to God I haven't.”

How could she believe a hot-blooded man hadn't taken care of his needs? She shoved the hand away that he tried to place on her cheek. “Don't make me say things I'll regret later. Leave me be. I want to be alone tonight.”

“Where shall I go? Perhaps the pigsty, so I can be with the other swine?” He rose to stand. “I won't be turned out because I made your wedding special, while you hoarded a king's ransom.”

“Hoarded a king's ransom? You weren't on the premises when Kathy Ann discovered the treasure,” Skylla said, marshaling an even tone. “I find it very difficult to like you right now.”

“Same goes for you, cupcake.” He didn't bother with the door as he stomped away. The front door did close with a slam.

She went to the parlor and let her temper go, picking up item after item to toss at the doorway. “Damn you, Braxton Hale! Damn you for a liar and a whoremonger!”

Somehow she got undressed and into bed. Her bladder warned her about not taking care of necessities, but she told it to leave her alone. Some time later, arguments from the heart intruded on her anger. He'd said he wanted to make their wedding special. He'd sworn his hands hadn't lately touched that whore. But why did he have to go to such a woman to sell the cameo? Simple. Like he'd said, who else could afford a bauble?

“I'm not going to make excuses,” Skylla muttered and got out of bed, unable to deny her screaming bladder.

The chamber pot stood ready, but some unknown something propelled her to the outhouse. On the trip there, as well as on the return, her eyes scoured the surroundings for her aggravating husband. He wasn't in the pigsty.

By the cookhouse a tepee had been erected, a couple of Indian ponies tethered next to it. Kathy Ann and family had stayed over. Skylla took comfort. She'd have her sister's presence in the morning. As for tonight . . .

Where was Braxton? She marched into the bedroom, then locked the door. She took up her brush and yanked the bristles through her tangles, taking solace in physical pain. When she turned to the bed, she saw Braxton. In the far corner, standing in the dim light, wearing nothing but his britches.

Neither spoke a single syllable.

Her blood began to heat, and it wasn't in anger.

He stepped into a ray of moonlight, and his tall body became limned in silver. “Forgive me. Forgive me, Skylla. 'Cause if you don't, I'm going to lose my mind.”

She opened her arms.

 

 

Just before dawn, he still held her tightly, whispering tender words into her ear. Their love played sweet, gentle, for he'd cherished her with a reverence that took her breath away. Then he'd loved her with such passion that she believed an earthquake had shaken them to pieces.

She couldn't tell him about the baby now, not while rolling along the tremendous hills and valleys of making love. Baby news wasn't something to blurt out.

Way past first light, René tapped on the window. “Are you wanting breakfast?”

Braxton jumped from bed, jerking on clothes. “This may be Christmas Day, but ranching never takes a holiday.”

No way would she demand he neglect the Nickel Dime for their splendid news. Instead, she got presentable, then moseyed out to the cookhouse. She might have abdicated the cookstove, but her fingers weren't yet weaned from lifting the lids on pots. Still, she grew impatient to call Braxton aside.

She said to René, “You take over.”

“D'accord.”
His hand made a shooing motion. “You are not needing. Too many cooks spoil the soup.”

She'd rather spoil her husband, which didn't necessitate ruining René's soup. The matter of the cameo was dead, as dead as Claudine, and that was that.

Already she'd garbed herself in the trousers and shirt she'd long ago decided were the only proper clothes for ranching. Intent on saddling the dappled mare dubbed Pretty Girl, she started toward the stable.

“Morning, Skylla.” Kathy Ann walked toward her, worry on her moon-shaped features. “Are you all right?”

She flushed, realizing she hadn't thought about family since that trip to the outhouse. Kissing her sister's cheek, she said, “Did you sleep well? Did your family?”

Kathy Ann would have none of this banality. “What did Major Albright do to upset you?”

“Nothing that Braxton and I didn't work out.”

“That's obvious enough. You look like you spent the night being tumbled.”

“Guilty! ”

“It pleases me to see you happy.”

“That goes double for you.” They embraced, and Skylla considered their new closeness. For years she'd given her friendship wholeheartedly to Claudine, yet Kathy Ann had become an enduring friend. She confided, “I'm on the way to break wonderful news to Braxton.”

“That you're pregnant?”

“How did you know?”

“Wild guess.” Kathy Ann winked. “Congratulations!”

Fingers smoothed blond braids. “I'm so happy about your baby. Just think, our children will be playmates.”

“I'm looking forward to that.” Kathy Ann spoke softly. “I know you're in a rush to find Sarge, but before you chase off, I have something to give you.” She reached into a beaded pouch that hung from her shoulder. “We exchanged a lot of presents last night, but I held one back. Sergeant gave me this.” She placed a gold coin in her sister's hand. “You know the night.”

“I remember.” A warmth swirled as Skylla slipped the coin into her breast pocket. “I'll forever cherish it. Maybe I'll even”—she winked conspiratorially—“ save it for my firstborn to use in case of emergencies.”

“Do that, Skylla. You do that.”

The sisters parted, the elder one making for the stables and the gray, Pretty Girl. Soon, with the wind in her hair, Skylla was on her way to Safe Haven Canyon. Trouble met her as she topped the first rise. Winslow Packard rode toward her on a stout mount.

The county clerk brought his big horse to heel. Pomade glistened in the sunlight as he doffed his hat. “I bring bad news,” he said without preamble. “After you paid your taxes a couple days ago, I tried to abstract the deed to this ranch.”

Yes, she'd paid back taxes, but she couldn't fathom what he meant about the deed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I find no record that a title passed to Titus St. Clair.”

“You must be mistaken. The Confederate county clerk said there was no problem with transferring the title to my name.”

“Well, Mrs. Hale, that's a Reb for you.”

She clenched her teeth. “Word has been running wild here lately, Mr. Packard. You Reconstructionists are doing your best to make life uncomfortable for Southerners.” With a haughty glare, she added, “But there's something more here, isn't there? I believe you have some sort of ax to grind over Claudine. Why was she in your office that day?”

He pulled a cigar from his coat, bit the end, and spat it at the ground. Next, he lit a match, cupping his hand around the flame as he ignited the stogie. Blowing smoke toward Skylla, he replied, “She asked me to destroy the deed book. I didn't buy into her conniving ways. But she did give me pause to wonder about the legality of your claim.”

Oh, Claudi, you didn't!
But she had. “If the deed isn't legal, fine. My husband and I will buy the ranch.”

“Do that, Mrs. Hale. Be at the courthouse steps on the morning of January fifteenth. That's when the sheriff will conduct the auction.” He turned his mount around. “By the way, I've set the opening bid at fifty thousand dollars.”

His crop struck his prancing mount and he galloped away.

 

 

Winslow Packard took delight in this altercation with Claudine's kin. That redheaded bitch had gazed upon his meager equipment with disgust, which reinforced the laughter that rang in his head. Many a whore had scorned him. But he would have the last laugh, for he had the power to break Claudine's family.

He eased his mount into a canter, then recalled the day Claudine had called to beg that he destroy public records. As he had told her, he wouldn't do such a thing, and he wouldn't have, no matter how many times she might have gone down on him.

“Zephyr, I shouldn't have been weak at the funeral,” he said to the stallion. “I shouldn't have eased the family's mind about her change of heart, her intentions to make peace.”

Zephyr, snorting, twisted his neck to listen to his master, and Packard elaborated, “There's no need for weakness now. There's no deed to the Nickel Dime. I will have the place for myself. I will have what that Rebel bitch connived to get.”

Shaking, Skylla stared as Packard faded over a hillock. He hadn't been joking. Fifty thousand dollars! The San Antonio bank held forty thousand in the Hale account. Ten thousand short. An impossible amount. She must find the deed.

What had transpired to transfer the ranch to her name? Her uncle's will in hand, she'd called on the county clerk. Bernard Loez, his dark hair an unruly shock, had assured her the deed wasn't necessary “We've got it on file,” he'd said. Had he been lax?

She couldn't solve her problems in the pasture. She rode fast for the house and hurried inside, Kathy Ann and Pansy, along with Guadalupe, behind her. Speaking hurriedly, she explained the situation to her audience. “We've got to turn this place upside down,” she then declared.

Kathy Ann ordered Pansy to look under every bed, every table; they also searched the attic. Skylla conscripted Guadalupe. First off, they shoved the bed aside to lift the trapdoor. Skylla peered downward. Nothing. Nothing but dark and a scurrying of varmints. Poking her head out the window, she called René as he ambled past with a bucket of slop: “Help!”