Mail-Order Man (6 page)

“What took him so long?”

“He helped his mother raise the children.”

“How noble.” Actually, she knew much of the Hale history from gossip. She waved in dismissal. “You're excused.”

He turned to leave.

“Geoff, keep your hands off Kathy Ann. She's a mixed-up young lady, and I won't have her influenced by her hormones.”

Again, he turned. “You needn't worry. I know my place.”

“You could be her friend, though.”

“She's not looking for friendship.”

“Then make certain she stays out of trouble.”

This time he departed. And Claudine congratulated herself. She had an ally. Furthermore, it wouldn't hurt for Kathy Ann to have a keeper. It was time sweet Skylla had a break from the exhausting chore of trying to be sister and disciplinarian. As she demanded the best for herself, Claudine wished it for her beloved stepdaughter and friend.

Again she went to the window. Where was Skylla? What kept her and Brax on their little tour?

 

 

Braxton, astride the mount he called Impossible, pointed to a horseshoe-shaped limestone bluff capped with juniper and oak. “See that canyon over yonder, Skylla? I call it Safe Haven Canyon. I used to hustle cattle into it, to get ready for cattle drives. Notice the unfinished rock fence between that squat hill and the bluff? I started it in '60. With help from Luckless Litton and Snuffy Johnson. It needs to be finished.”

Her fingers trembled around Molasses's reins. Still, Braxton had her jittery as a cat cornered by a litter of puppies.
Stop it, Skylla. You'll never learn to be a rancher if you don't pay solemn attention to the master's lessons.

“We need to gather a herd,” he said, “get them ready for market. That won't cost anything but the sweat of our brows.” He rode toward a collection of spotted cows with horns as wide as a man was tall. “We'll worry about money later.”

Skylla tapped Molasses's flank. It took a few more taps to get the gelding going. Shame came over her. The least the ranch should have offered its savior was a good string of horses.

“We'll cull the bulls, first off,” he said. “Make stew meat out of the troublemakers.”

“How do the cows get to water in the canyon?” she asked.

“There's a spring flowing from the rocks on the canyon's floor. It flows back into a pool. We can't see it for the oaks, but it's there. With water and a good crop of grasses—which are there—you've got a fine corral.” He patted his mount's neck. “Without fences, a cowboy must ride guard, but a sizable herd can be confined, corralled, branded, and when the need arises”—slightly downturned lips twitched—“castrated.”

Skylla blushed, not solely from his mention of castration. Braxton might be speaking of business, but his deep baritone hinted at cockiness and dare.

Seeing her flush, he said, “Pardon my choice in word.”

She looked him straight in those splendid eyes. “You needn't tiptoe around my sensibilities.”

“Considering all the work to be done here, have you ever thought about selling the place and moving on to civilization?”

“Never. It's my home. And I'll be buried here.”

He got very quiet. His mien relayed a strong message. He couldn't understand what a greenhorn woman would want with a piece of property on the frontier.

He might as well hear the whole story. “You think I'm a weakling, too sensitive for the frontier. Know something, sir. I won't run scared, and I will carry my weight.”

“Are you sure you're up to it?”

“My leg is impaired, but I'm not crippled.”

A moment passed. “From the way you favor the leg, I gather you were injured. Most likely, you weren't born lame.”

“It happened two years ago.”

“I've seen cripples. Lots of them. I've done my share of treating the afflicted. I always felt it an honor to strap General Hood in the saddle. He'd lost his leg and the use of one arm, you see. Valor on the battlefield hobbled him. It didn't quell his fighting spirit.”

She liked the matter-of-fact way Braxton addressed her problem. “There's no valor attached to my gimp. I was cowering in a cave in Vicksburg when a Minie ball got me.”

“Vicksburg?” he asked, his shoulders going rigid.

“I was there. During the siege.”
Like your family
. She squeezed Molasses's reins. “We—Claudine, Kathy Ann, and I—were there after, after . . . Biloxi.”

“That explains your aversion to rodents.”

It had taken months of carnage to starve and bombard the men, women, and children in the city once pegged the Gibraltar of the West into submission. “Everyone ate whatever was available.”

“So I've heard.” His gaze swiveled away.

Was she bringing up the subject he'd warned her off?

He cut his eyes back to her. His brows furrowed, his mood further darkening. “Why didn't you ladies send up a white flag to Grant and his men? I understand his camp followers had it easy enough. Easy as a Sunday afternoon picnic.”

Skylla made a concerted effort not to fall from the saddle. Did he know about the original sin that it took for the St. Clair women to get aboard a naval ship bound for Texas?

She ordered her back to straighten. “Are you accusing me of treason against the Confederacy?”

“Are you a Blue Belly lover?”

“I judge a man on his merits, not his patriotism.”

“Don't toy with me, Skylla. I heard about Biloxi.”

With false cool, she replied, “Let's get something settled. The matter of Biloxi isn't your concern. And if you can't accept that, Sergeant Hale, I suggest you gather your knapsack, and your serving boy, then ride on out.”

“Braxton.” He sucked his teeth in an arrogance that she reckoned he in no way felt. “You wanted to call me Braxton.”

“I mean it about the knapsack.”

He reached to close his long-fingered hand around the pommel of Molasses's saddle. “By damn, I didn't return to Texas to be turned off the place. You are the same as promised to me, and I have a problem letting promises go by the wayside.”

“You're in no position to be choosy. Or bossy.”

She stared him down. A full minute passed before Brax admitted, “I've got my own afflictions. Everyone who came through the war—Yankee or rebel—bears the scars of it. You've just gotten a gander at my ugly wounds.”

“I have wounds, too. And not simply from my leg.”

“Such as?”

“My father reared me to believe no human should be a slave. He died for his beliefs. I take pride in his sacrifice, but I'm a Southerner. All I know is the South. My friends and family fought for the Confederate States because that was the patriotic thing to do. Right or wrong or in between, I ultimately cheered for a Southern victory. Yet I can't forget the sight of my father's lifeless body swinging from a tree. Nor can I forget Grant's relentless attack on the defenseless people of Vicksburg. I am a living contradiction.”

Braxton squinted at the setting sun before soldering his gaze to Skylla. “You and I don't have a quarrel about the war. I'm a Southerner who never accepted slavery. We're kindred spirits.”

She did nothing to tear her eyes away. And when he said, “I'd appreciate a second chance,” she relented.

“Second chances are the stuff of miracles.” Confessing more than she ought to, and hoping she didn't ape Claudine's style, she said, “I've always wished for a second chance at the dance.” With James.

Braxton leaned over to take her hand. Her bony work-worn hand. He brought it to his chest, where she felt the beating of his heart. When he spoke, his heart went into his words. “I'd consider it an honor if you'd dance with me.”

What sweet words. The words of a gallant. Yet she wouldn't be swayed by mere utterances.
He's being nice because he doesn't know he won't have to fight to marry Claudine
. Somehow she couldn't bring herself to set him straight.

Speaking in generalities, Skylla said rhetorically, “What's the fun of dancing with a cripple?”

He lifted her chin with the crook of a finger. “Your limp doesn't take away from you. Not in my eyes. To dance with you would be my honor.”

“Just like when you were honored to strap John Bell Hood in the saddle?”

He chuckled. “Believe me, Skylla St. Clair, you're the one I want to settle in a . . . saddle.”

“You're a flirt, Braxton Hale.”
A nice flirt. And I'm a cripple. A skinny cripple with little to recommend me.
“We'd best head back. Supper won't wait forever.”

“I'm sick to death of beans,” Kathy Ann complained to the three other diners at the picnic table. Candles flickered, crickets creaked. Night had fallen. Her voice drowned the creaks. “Beans, beans, beans—that's all we ever eat.”

Oh, dear. The ranting and raving again. Skylla saw her sister as a rose in difficulty blooming, and she sympathized with those difficulties, yet she wished Kathy Ann wouldn't misbehave tonight of all nights, Braxton's first night at the Nickel Dime.

She peered over the rim of her coffee cup at the hearty eater. Here in Texas, lots of men didn't dress for supper, but Braxton had changed into another suit of Rebel grays, these not quite as threadbare as his traveling clothes. His hair had been slicked back, his face scrubbed, his uniform brushed. His features, while lean, were handsome in a mannish way, with a strong nose and jaw, and nice teeth sans a rotten one.

The siren, meanwhile, batted her lashes and clucked over him. Skylla was thankful Claudine hadn't put up a big fuss about Braxton. Now that he was here, it would be terrible to lose him. It would be terrible for the ranch.

Kathy Ann turned to face the youth sitting on a stump a few feet away. “Say, Geoff, what do you think about beans?”

“Dey real good, Miss Kathy Ann.”

“Traitor.” The petulant girl fell silent.

Geoff simply smiled.

Earlier, Skylla had asked the likable lad to sit at table. Why uphold the custom of keeping help in their place? He'd declined the invitation. She pegged him as brighter than he let on. He had his reasons, she supposed.

Kathy Ann spoke again. “I don't know why we can't send into town for the fixings for a nice blancmange.”

Ignoring her sister, Skylla continued to eat the tasteless overdone beans—devoid of salt pork—and an even less appealing cornpone. Cornbread without milk and eggs, well, it was something to chew. Land's sake, a blancmange would be nice!

Braxton remarked, “I'm appreciative of this dinner.”

“Dat's what I said,” Geoff reiterated.

“Then you both must've been head-shot.”

Claudine glared. “Kathy Ann, that will be enough.”

“You needn't fuss at me,” the girl came back. “I was expressing an opinion. Ambrose told me it was all right to express my opinion.”

“Father didn't mean insults,” Skylla pointed out.

Braxton tried to make peace. “Geoff and I are just out of our heads being in the company of all you lovely Southern belles.”

“Oh, pulleeze.” Eyes rolled, a tongue lolled, and Kathy Ann fanned her face. “I'm choking to death on cane syrup.”

Surprisingly, Braxton laughed. Claudine and Skylla didn't join in, and Geoff merely slipped the calico cat a piece of cornbread, received with contempt. Braxton's gaze welded to Skylla's.

“Are you always this quiet at supper?” he asked her.

“No.” She motioned to his plate. “You'd better eat up. You're going to need all the fuel we can feed you.”

He chuckled, winked, and started to say something.

Claudine, frowning at his wink, stopped him. “I just can't get over that you, Braxton Hale of Vicksburg, would be the very man to answer our query. Amazing!”

“The world is filled with coincidences.” Braxton leaned back on the bench. “Or are you implying it's strange a Hale of Vicksburg would dare to answer the advertisement?”

“I mean I find it amazing that a former ranch hand at the Nickel Dime would see the query.” Claudine smiled. “By the by, I knew your uncle in Vicksburg. Harry Braxton. Your mother's brother, I believe. Fine people, the Braxtons of Magnolia Mill.”

“That's the story.”

“Isn't it a shame you and I never met?”

Braxton poured a shot from the crockery jug, then swirled his glass. “I suppose, Miss Claudine, if you'd been of a mind to hang around Woody's Blacksmith Shop, you'd have found me.”

“Blacksmith shop? Her? The high-and-mighty Miss Claudine Twill?” Kathy Ann slapped the table. “That's rich.”

“It am, missy. It shore am.” Geoff slapped his thigh twice. “Pappy, mammy, and dat ole Sammy, it am rich.”

Upstanding ladies didn't frequent such shops. They all knew it. Had Braxton meant to be rude? Probably he was letting everyone know he wouldn't hide from his reputation.

Claudine smoothed over the moment. “I left the city at an early age, before you arrived in Vicksburg, I should imagine. I wed at fifteen, you see, and moved south to Biloxi. I must admit I wasn't severed from Vicksburg chatter. You were the talk of the town, Brax. Everyone said you weren't living up to your potential by working as a blacksmith. What made you decide to choose horseshoeing over continuing your education in medicine?”

“Hunger.”

“Harry Braxton had money, at least he did then. He would see after his family.”

“My uncle didn't feed his sister and her four kids.”

Claudine fiddled with the lace of her shawl. “I never dreamed Harry wouldn't be kindhearted. We assumed Elizabeth Hale lived in her quaint little cottage because pride wouldn't let her intrude upon Harry and Mary Esther.”

“I'd rather not discuss my family.”

“I second that. I'm sick of hearing about Vicksburg.” Kathy Ann leaned toward him. “Hey, Sergeant, why don't you send that darkie of yours into Ecru to buy some sugar and eggs?” She stuck her tongue out at Geoff. “Nice speckled eggs. And butter and milk. We need lots of milk for blancmange.”

Skylla spoke gently but sternly. “Mind your manners.”

“I don't have any. And I'm not gonna eat these stinking old beans!”

“Don't talk to your sister like that,” Braxton boomed as she threw her fork to the table.

“Go to hell!” Kathy Ann jumped up to flounce away.

“Mm-mm, dey gonna be trouble.”

Braxton threw his napkin to the table, as if he'd go after the unruly girl, but Skylla stopped him. “It's best you let her deal with this on her own.”

“She needs discipline.”

Skylla looked into his irate eyes. “We'll work this out. Not tonight. But we
will
work it out. Have patience.”

“Ladies, massa, iffen you be excusing me, dis boy be checking da horses. Thank you, ma'ams, fo de hot food.”

Claudine nodded, dismissing the batman. She said to Braxton, “Yes, please do be tolerant. Skylla and I are doing our best for Kathy Ann.”

“Do you know what's best?”

Braxton glanced from Skylla to Claudine and back again. “If you're looking to spoil her, why haven't you done it right? Why don't you have ingredients for that pudding she's craving?”

Skylla set her fork aside. “There's no money. Except for Confederate notes.”

Of course, there were the four gold coins discovered in an empty snuff jar in Titus's dresser drawer. She was saving those for taxes. Talk in town said a tax collector would be appointed first off and any day. She wouldn't chance not having the funds to pay up.

Braxton crossed his arms. “Ladies, you must learn not to count on money. If you want something, find a way to get it. Nothing comes to a seated man. Or woman. Not anymore. You've got cows, thousands of cows. Milk one or two.”

Don't let him shame us
. “We've heard longhorns aren't good milkers. We can't waste time on unproductive undertakings.”

“They give milk. Not like some breeds, but they give milk. You can bet there's enough milk for a simple blancmange.”

Claudine fingered her swanlike neck and bit her lower lip. “Brax, we, um—my goodness!—we don't know how to milk cows.”

“None of you?”

“None of us,” Skylla replied, bravado elevating her chin.

“As I suspected.”

Her pride wouldn't let him think the St. Clair women had done nothing but sit on their hands and gobble down the canned goods discovered upon arrival. “Claudine is an excellent shot and butcher. She's provided us with nice cuts of beef.” She had gotten lucky with a shot
once
. “Kathy Ann is an excellent seamstress. She's made bonnets and so forth. I put in a garden. Within a couple of weeks, we should have snap peas and summer squash.”

Perhaps one meal of each. While it was considered good form for ladies of station to have at least a passing interest in agriculture, Skylla hadn't studied the finer points of farming. Besides, farming hurt. Carrying water from the well always sent her calf into spasms of lightninglike pain. Since she'd bragged on her determination out in the pasture, she boasted further, “I've been watering a hill of berries. Strawberries.”

By moonlight Brax's eyes lit up like the brightest star in the galaxies beyond. “I'll be damned—Uh, pardon me. Geoff and I have dreamed about strawberries here lately.”

“Aren't we blessed fancies come cheap?” Claudine laughed. “Shall we have a picnic someday soon? We shall feast and feast on strawberries!”

“Why not? One of you ladies on this arm.” He lifted his right hand. “And the other on this arm.” He raised the left. “At least until the wedding. Then rest assured”—his gaze returned to Skylla—“there'll be no woman on my arm but my wife.”

Guilt went through her, even before Claudine quirked a brow. Naturally, he supposed the ranch owner would have first rights to the husband. She ought to ease his mind. Now wasn't the moment for such frankness.

In her lonely, lonely heart, Skylla knew she made excuses, to buy time . . . to revel in his attentions. Why would he need to mention his past? On the other hand, she shouldn't tarry in telling him the whole truth. Not tonight. Tomorrow. In the morning she'd get an early start explaining things to Braxton. Mornings were always better. Tomorrow she'd tell him the truth.

For legal reasons, Claudine must be his bride.

 

 

An hour after dinner and a half-hour after he'd strong-armed Geoff into keeping watch at the ranch, Brax pushed open the swinging doors to Leander's Saloon, Claudine's rifle in his right hand, his trusty double-eagle in a pocket. The latter was useless at the moment. In what seemed like a lifetime ago, the coin—a Christmas gift minted by Titus, meant as a joke—had debuted in this very tavern. Debuted and got caught.

Upon a quick inventory of the ranch's valuables, Brax had decided it was the Spencer or his mother's cameo that had to go on the line for blancmange with strawberry sauce.

He scanned the saloon. What a difference four and a half years had made. Gone were the gaggle of customers, the upright piano, the portrait behind the bar of a painted sporting lady. The bald proprietor, wearing a dirty apron and chewing on a toothpick, pointed to the
NO NIGERS OR CHEETERS
sign, then hid a jar of pickled pig's feet marked
HEP URSEF
under the counter. Some things never changed.

Brax flipped Leander the bird, but got worried. His earlier days in Mason County had been upright enough, save for a particular accusation of fraud connected to the trick coin. It wouldn't do for that story to get back to the heiress.

He thanked his lucky stars for Skylla St. Clair. If either the brat pig or that silly twit Claudine were the bride-to-be, he'd collect Geoff, get on Impossible, and ride.

His line of sight moved on. Hatted head leaning to the side and his gray swollen tongue lolling forward, Charlie Main was propped in the corner. Drunk. Passed out. A wet spot staining the placket area of his denims. A credit to white supremacy and Leander's desire for excellent clientele was the bony, coarse Charlie Main.

Brax made a beeline for the lone table of poker players.

A small pile of chips lay on the surface. Two gray-haired men sat playing. He recognized them both. “How ya doing, Luke, Daggitt?” He cottoned to Luke Burrows, but Homer Daggitt wasn't worth the gunpowder to put him out of his misery, in Brax's opinion. “Long time no see.”

The farmer, Daggitt, tipped his chair back, planking a palm on the wooden arm, which emphasized his beer gut and strained shirt buttons. “I'll be dipped in rat shit if it ain't the cowboy from hell. I thought the hogs done et you.”

Putting in his two cents' worth, Leander called out, “Ain't no purty boy no more, that's fur durn sure.”

Brax lifted his hand to offer the barkeep a second shot at the bird, then sized up one of Ecru's most decent citizens. Luke Burrows was thinner than ever, like older men were wont to be, but he looked healthy enough. Brax was pleased to see him looking no worse for the wear.

Luke stacked red and blue chips on the baize-covered table. “You do look a mite drawed, son. Did you get shot up bad in the war?”

It didn't take bullets to get shot up. Brax felt about as wrung out as he'd ever felt on the battlefield, not that he'd ever admit it. “No Blue Belly's a good enough shot to get me.”

“You was prob'ly ducking.”

“Yes, Leander, now that you mention it, that's what I was doing,” Brax snarled. “Every chance I got.”

Luke chuckled, then took a sip of beer. “Have you been out to the Nickel Dime?”

“Could have.”

“You ain't looking to put a claim on the place, are you?”

“I just might, Luke.”

“You're too late, son. Mississippi gals beat you to it. One of them inherited the place from Titus St. Clair. Deed got all changed and everything afore the war was over.”

“I'm working for Miss St. Clair, is all.”

“Iffen she hired you, she shore must be hard up—” Daggitt clamped his overstuffed lips when Brax shot him a glare that dared him to finish the insult. “Welcome back, I guess.”