Mail-Order Man (10 page)

“He's ruint.”

Miss Skylla cried out at Charlie Main's pithy statement about her man, while her stepmother dragged the brunette away.

“What happened?” Geoff asked over and over, getting no answer as he and the cowhand lugged Bubba to the first-floor bedroom. The men got Bubba settled on the quilt.

“He's gettin' blood all over hisself.” The ranch hand grabbed a folded white garment from the bedside table—probably Miss Skylla's nightdress—and slapped it into Geoff's hand. “Do somethin', boy. Else, he'll die. I need a drink.”

The cowboy beat a hasty retreat.

Frozen, Geoff stared at the material, then gaped at his brother's ashen face. He'd seen countless men die for Jeff Davis, and one of them had been his blood kin, same as Bubba, but this was the first time Geoffrey Hale yearned to cry out to The Maker above—and beg for a man's recovery.

“Stop the blood, Geoffie—do it,” Bubba ordered, his voice weakening. “Am I ruined?”

It took force of will not to gasp when Geoff gaped at the crease in his brother's groin. He sat down on the bed's edge to press a cloth against the crimson flow. “You're not ruined, but she like to got you,” he joked for the sake of sanity. “An inch to the left and you'd be singing soprano in the church choir.”

Bubba's face twisted into the guise of a smile. “Then you think my career as a Romeo isn't over?”

“Heck, Bubba, in no time you'll be flaunting your scar to Miss”—he swallowed—“to the painted ladies in San Francisco.”

“Yeah. That's right. Dance-hall girls.”

Miss Skylla charged through the door right then.

“Braxton.” The crippled girl went around Geoff to kneel beside Bubba, burying her head on his arm. “Oh, Braxton, what have we done to you?”

He put his hand on her head. “You've done me wrong. Make it right, Skylla. Say you're ready to be mine.”

She lifted her head, and the look they exchanged was one of two people in agony. In agony from the mess of their lives. Anyone could see that it took a great effort for her not to throw the outside world to the winds and give in to her heart. Why didn't she just do it? Why didn't she give her man the comfort he begged for?

Something died in those pained green eyes. “Go away, Skylla.” His voice brooked no argument. “Go away and let Geoff tend me.”

Like a wounded doe, she retreated, closing the door softly. Why hadn't she consoled Bubba?

His eyes on his adored brother, Geoff pressed harder on the wound. “Help me,” he said, his vocal cords stretched tight. “Tell me what to do.”

“You've seen me work on bullet wounds. You've got to take a few stitches to stop the blood. We'll worry about the bullet if I get septic. Get a needle and thread from Piglet.”

“I ought to shoot her.”

“Don't. She's just a stupid kid. Besides, who gives a damn about her? She's not the problem here.”

“Seems to me she is the problem.”

“Not hardly. This is a helluva fix we're in.”

Bubba's voice hadn't been this hopeless, this dejected, since word had arrived all the girls were dead. They had both cried, grieving for Diana and Susan and Larkin's pretty bride. The baby was newborn when the war started. Lilly had been a cute little baby. Bella said she'd just started being a rambunctious toddler when the malnutrition set in. The Hales were a doomed lot.

One time, in a weaker moment, Bubba had talked about the day Massa John sailed out of their lives—Geoff couldn't remember the day that hexed the Hales. John Hale, a physician trained to save lives, damned his family to hell. His curse was coming to fruition.

Geoff looked at the last of the white Hales. “Don't you dare die on me, Bubba.”

“I'm too damned bad to die. The devil is giving me a taste of hell on earth, I reckon.” Wiggling, he shoved a pillow behind his back. “Of all my schemes, trying to collect on Titus's debt is the most wild-eyed of the lot.”

“Don't talk. I've got to stitch you up.”

Ignoring the advice, Bubba said, “Geoffie, they've made fools of us. As soon as I get back in my boots, you and I are hightailing it west. Forget the nosegay of baby's breath.”

“What are you talking about, ‘made fools of us'?”

“That redheaded twit did more than pick your brain. She's manipulated Skylla into giving her an interest in the ranch. She's worked it so I can't sell the place. Ever.”

“She can't do that.”

“Wrong. That pansy Virgil Petry had an ace in the hole. I'm pegged to marry Claudine.”

It was all Geoff could do not to laugh. That didn't fit. She wasn't the crippled girl possessing the calm temperament and loving nature necessary to deal with a flawed fellow like Bubba.

Geoff had been pushing for California and all it held, but lately he'd had second thoughts. Miss Skylla would be good for Bubba. Very good. And she needed a man to cluck over. That Claudine would never be good for anyone but Claudine.

Warm blood began to seep over Geoff's hand. “I've got to cut these britches off you.”

“Yeah, do it. See if there's water in that pitcher over yonder, and don't forget to wash the wound. Fetch the medical supplies from the cookhouse, too.”

The wound washed and a fresh cloth over it, Geoff rushed out of the room, nearly knocking Miss Skylla to the floor when he hurried past the staircase in the parlor, where she'd been holding onto the railing for dear life. He righted her.

“What can I do to help him?” she asked, worried.

“Give him time. Keep your distance.”

She nodded, wilting to sit on one of the steps.

From the corner of his eye, Geoff saw that redheaded piece of work relaxing in a horned chair, swilling her favorite one-hundred-proof beverage. Like nothing much had happened. “You didn't keep Kathy Ann out of trouble,” she charged.

“Neither did you. Ma'am.”

Geoff carried on toward the cookhouse. Bubba didn't need the bother of that black-widow spider.

All his life, Geoff had worshiped Brax Hale. As a youngster, he'd been the older boy's shadow, hanging on to his every word. Bubba had seemed as tall as a tree, as solid as its roots. Without being told by a spiteful little neighbor girl, Geoff had guessed they were brothers. Already, Geoff had made a promise to himself. He would follow Bubba wherever he went. Nevertheless, Bubba had left without him, once. When he came here to Texas to search for “Massa John.”

By the time the war came around, Geoff had been on the brink of manhood. Thirteen. There had been no stopping Geoffrey Hale when the white Hale men had left Vicksburg with Titus St. Clair, bound for the battlefields. Geoff caught up with them.

He witnessed his brother's valiancy in the theaters of war. He hurt for him when the major let him down. The day General Lee surrendered to General Grant, the same general who'd laid waste to Vicksburg, Geoff stood at Bubba's side as he gave over his sword and rifle. Through it all, he'd been a partner in many schemes and tricks.

Now—by a flea-bitten hound of Jeff Davis's!—he would get Bubba well.

 

 

Geoff hurried into the cookhouse. Kathy Ann was there already, shoving something into her pocket. No telling what.

“Where's your needle and thread?” he asked.

“In the satchel.” She pointed to the cracked leather bag. Afterward, she took bottles down from the cupboard. “He'll need medicine, too, I guess.”

It ought to be anger that he felt, facing the girl who had shot Bubba. There were tears in her eyes, and some had made runnels down her pudgy cheeks. He walked over to pick through the dusty bottles and jars. Concerned she'd cause more trouble, he asked, “You gonna be okay?”

She gave a half-nod, then wilted on a chair. “Oh, Geoff, I'm so sorry! I thought he was hurting her. I didn't want her to end up dead like my real mother. Yvette.”

“Da massa, he wouldn't hurt Miss Skylla.”

Stepping back, she wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Will he be all right?”

“Shore. He gonna be fine,” Geoff hedged.

Without a word she placed bottles and bandages in the black bag. “Soon as I apologize to him, I'm going away.”

“Why you wanna do somethin' like dat?”

“All I am is trouble. If I'm on my own, then I won't be trouble to anybody.”

Geoff took hold of her wrist. “Doan you be doin' dat. You am trouble, by dat ole mutt Sammy, you am trouble. But you be troublin' dat sister of yours more iffen you leave.”

Her old defiant self, she stuck her tongue out. “What do you know, you stupid darkie? I'm leaving soon, and don't you dare tell anyone where I'm going.”

Tucking the satchel under his arm, he didn't stop her when she flounced outside. Nonetheless, he departed the cookhouse to yell, “Doan you forget you promised to stay 'til you say you sorry!”

Stay, she did, although no effort to face her victim was forthcoming. After a long exacting night of tending his wounded brother, Geoff passed her at breakfast. She said nothing. At noon, she held her cat to her chest under a magnolia tree. Once more he reminded her of the promise, which she answered by turning her tear-streaked face away.

The crisis increased with Bubba, especially by the second day. Never once did he allow Skylla to cluck over him, and when Claudine sashayed in, he threw a bedpan at her. But that wasn't the worst of it. A fever had begun to rage in him.

Skylla kept a kettle of chicken broth simmering on the stove, in hopes that Braxton would accept some of the nourishing liquid. He didn't want anything to do with whatever she had touched. Each time she attempted to see him, he had behaved cantankerously; being uncouth, cross, belligerent, furious, delirious, hateful, sarcastic, or occasionally unconscious.

On the third morning, Claudine entered the cookhouse, where Skylla was squeezing a lemon into a glass. Yesterday she'd gone into Ecru to trade a jug of whiskey for that lemon.

“Brax is especially testy.” The redhead plopped an empty enameled bowl down before taking a dishrag to dab at a hank of wet, chicken-smelling hair. “He threw your broth at me.”

Skylla yearned to go to him, to soothe his brow, to make it all better. But what could she do, outside of giving in to his proposal? She was on the verge of it. Oh, was she on the verge.

Sugaring the lemonade, she asked, “Will you see that Geoff gets this drink? Have him tell Braxton Charlie made it.” Charlie Main, a total wastrel these past days.

“I'll take the lemonade.” Claudine stayed put. “Geoff is going to ride into Mason town to fetch the doctor.”

“And Brax agreed?”

“Of course not. The numskull thinks that quadroon will heal him.” Claudine smoothed her hair. “Someone needs to watch over the patient. Naturally, Charlie isn't available. He's probably drunk somewhere.”

“We can't ask Kathy Ann to sit with Braxton. I'll do it.” She expected Claudine to protest.

“If he'll let you, fine. I need a change of scenery,” Claudine announced. “A ride into Ecru will do me good.”

A glitch in her stepmother's tone caused Skylla to decide: more than an outing was the intent. So be it.

“Before I go, there's something I want to say.” The redhead got one of her determined looks on that cameo-fair face. “I'm not liking the way this deal is turning out. His aims are suspect. When a guileless man discovers defenseless women have done something to arm themselves, he'd—”

“Arm themselves? Such as with a pearl-handled pistol?”

“I'm not talking about his injury, and you know it.”

“Why should he be expected to come up with a compromise when neither of us has any earthly idea for one?”

“I think he's up to no good. I intend to check him out.”

“Fine. Do it.”

Claudine started to leave, but Skylla stopped her. “He's done so much for us. Ever since he arrived, life has shown promise. And, Claudi, he has a right to be at the ranch, too. Uncle's debt, remember.” Getting no response, she went on. “If you're worried about your place here, you shouldn't. Anyway, we're making too much of this. He'll get well, and we can go from there.”

“Really? After he threw that bowl, he had the gall to say he'd marry me when fish wear pigtails!”

Skylla couldn't help but laugh, despite her tormented heart. “Oops. Sorry. He won't be cross, once he's feeling better.”
If he ever is
. . .

Taking a step forward, the redhead said, “If I find nothing to concern us about him, I will marry Brax Hale. For the sake of this ranch. You do understand that, don't you?”