Mail-Order Man (17 page)

 

 

It had been a stupid mistake, his blabbing about California, one that could have cost Brax his wife. In the aftermath of backing down, and in afterglow of making love to her in the cookhouse, Brax came to grips with the future. San Francisco would be nothing more than a concept.

He could live with that. As long as he had Skylla at his side. A smile traveled across his face. Damn, he loved that woman. And he'd never had better luck than to find her, then marry her. An added bonus was the wonderful lover she'd turned out to be. The finest woman in the world and with a fortune to line their nest. Was there a luckier man on earth?

In the bedroom—she was outdoors—he dressed for the cattle drive. A thought chipped into the crevices of his mind. Geoff's mother had to be halfway to California by now. How could he get word to Bella about their changed plans?

He mulled the problem while exiting the bedroom, then stared at the treasure that could have saved Diana and the rest. He threw the lid back. How much worth did it encompass? A great deal. What else had Titus hidden? Who gave a damn?

He scooped up a handful of coins and topaz. Riches with which to buy his wife a cameo as well as a few creature comforts. Was it wrong to help himself to Skylla's fortune? No. At least five thousand dollars of this lucre belonged to him.

Did Claudine know about the gold and jewels? From her actions of late, Brax doubted it.
Don't let her get her paws on it.
The cameo money got shoved in his pocket. Calling up his strength, he scooted the heavy chest to the bedroom. Chances were, it would fit under the bed until he and Skylla could find a better hiding place. When he pushed the bedstead aside, dust motes swirled. And he got an eyeful of a trapdoor.

He lifted it. The dank awful smell reminded him of the Vicksburg jail. Rats skittered about on the ground below, which caused him to shiver. This was not a hidey-hole he wanted to make friends with, but it would do until he and Skylla decided where to deposit the casket's contents. The muscles in his arms were strained as he wrestled the whole chest down below.

Finished, he rearranged the room and wiped his hands.

A commotion and a woman's scream from outside drew Brax's attention. He rushed to the window to see Claudine, her chignon askew, pulling Luke Burrows's buckboard to a grinding halt in front of the house. Dust devils whirled, the horse whinnied, and Claudine continued screaming, “Someone come quick!”

Brax grimaced.
What kind of witchery is she up to now?

Skylla limped from the cookhouse, in her stepmother's direction. Brax strapped a gunbelt around his hips, just in case Claudine wasn't the problem.

The Comanches had captured Kathy Ann.

Claudine sank onto the settee in the parlor, took a restorative swig of last night's wine. “We were riding home this morning. She saw that cat of hers run into the woods. Kathy Ann jumped down from the buckboard and rushed after Electra.”

“Oh, no.” Skylla blanched.

Brax gave her hand a squeeze of assurance that he in no way felt. It had taken a good while for his impression of Kathy Ann to change, but that had come about.

Claudine, her face broken into welts, blew her nose into a handkerchief. “She said she wouldn't let savages get Electra. She caught the cat.” Tears came. “It was awful. She wasn't fifty feet from me when a half-dozen redskins surrounded her.”

For a moment Brax wondered if this was a hoax dreamed up by a woman in fear of her fate, but he gathered that wasn't so. Claudine might be a witch, but she wasn't without some heart. He loaded the Spencer as well as Kathy Ann's six-shooter.

Red-rimmed blue eyes turned to him. “What happened to your face?”

Skylla did the answering. “Mind your own business.”

Brax agreed. Besides, there was a more important matter here. Did Stalking Wolf know the Army had arrived? Did he know a measure of the white man's law and order was on the horizon? Brax doubted it. Unless the Comanche chief looked to get his people obliterated, he wouldn't be making trouble if he knew white soldiers and lots of them would come after him and his. Of course, the presence of the white force might be what was prodding the chief to move deeper into the Comancheria before trouble broke out . . . and to take a young blond captive along?

Skylla placed her hand on Brax's arm. “Braxton, what's happening to her?”

“Unless they're planning to move out, I doubt they'll want her scalp. I reckon they'll use her as ransom. Or . . .”

“Or what?” Skylla asked.

“I figure he's lost a loved one recently. Maybe a wife. He may be looking for a new one. I'll bet all that blond hair looks mighty good to him.”

“Kathy Ann as wife to some redskin?” Claudine made a gagging noise. “Why, I never heard anything so absurd. Besides, she's only fifteen!”

“Which was your age when you took your first husband,” Brax pointed out. His eyes went to the dining room, where a slab of wedding cake had been recovered, no doubt by the bride. “Skylla, slice and box up the rest of that cake.”

“What for?” she asked.

“For Indian children. They like sugared treats.”

The cogs in his brain turning, Brax made a list of other handy items. One of these he could get from the medical supplies.

He said, “I'll be back soon as I can.”

A biscuit tin of leftover cake held close to her chest, Skylla looked up at him. “I'm going with you.”

“If you feel a need to help, fetch Main.” Of course, his leaving would set free the gathered cattle, but this was no time to worry about a promise to the Army.

Claudine nodded, disturbing the last trace of her chignon. “Yes. Go for Charlie.”

Skylla stuck to her guns. “I said I'm going after my sister. And I won't bend.”

Claudine hopped up from the settee. “We've got to form a search party. We must get in touch with the new sheriff.”

Patting the air, Brax said, “No. If there's anything I learned during my time with the Comanches, it's that they are proud people. Their culture isn't ours, but, like all men, Stalking Wolf won't stand for being cornered. He'll come out fighting. Kathy Ann and her cat won't be the only victims.”

“You don't know that Indian,” Claudine pointed out with open hostility. “You have no way of predicting his behavior.”

They did need a safeguard. “Claudine, can I depend on you to drive Luke Burrows's buckboard to Camp Llano? The army will help us. If necessary.”

She nodded reluctantly. “I'll need a map.”

He gave directions to the new outpost, ending with, “Ask for Major Albright. Major Webb Albright. Tell him . . . if I'm not returned by tomorrow noon, come after me.”

“Us,” Skylla corrected. “Tell him to come after us.”

The tin of cake in her hand, she hobbled toward him. She'd turned into a feisty thing, his wife. If he rode out alone, she wouldn't be far behind. “Let's go, wife.”

She smiled, taking his hand, and they rushed to saddle their mounts. They reached the stable and got a shock. Geoff and Charlie had the skewbald and one of the roans, horseflesh traded from the Army, but the other roan was gone.

Impossible and Molasses remained.

Brax broke into laughter, not feeling half as amused as he sounded. Perhaps Stalking Wolf really did want Kathy Ann for his woman, and considering the missing horse, Brax figured the Comanches were on the move. Considering the late hour, he nixed any idea of changing mounts with Charlie Main. No time for it. “We'll ride the geldings.”

 

 

Kathy Ann heard the Indians laughing even before the riders arrived in the Comanche village that was in the beginning stages of being dismantled. Well, they were funny looking, Sergeant and Skylla galumphing in on elderly geldings.

Already she knew her captors had stolen the roan. That had to have Sergeant mad. Kathy Ann wished she could get a better look at her saviors. Saviors? They could be here solely to reclaim horseflesh.
Sergeant wouldn't be that unkind. He must be here to help me.

Naked as a worm—except for moccasins and a breechclout—Stalking Wolf left her side to meet the riders. Strapped to a tree and with a quartet of elderly squaws, all with mutilated fingers, circling her, Kathy Ann couldn't do as she pleased.

Little good it had done to rescue Electra. Already those hags had laced the calico cat inside a wigwam and were boiling a bag of weeds to make some sort of witch's brew. It looked as if one of the squaws was sharpening a knife.

Probably to butcher Electra.

Kathy Ann wasn't one to cry. But she had to sniff back tears. She couldn't stand the thought of Electra becoming anyone's feast. As for herself, she didn't feel any fear. Matter of fact, she'd hoped Stalking Wolf and his braves would find her. It was time she got her own man. Here lately, her dreams had been filled with a black-haired warrior who sashayed around, naked as a worm.

Her gaze followed him. Wow, he was a well-muscled worm, and she liked the looks of his coppery skin. A fellow like Stalking Wolf would never have the anemic look. And he'd talked about Cynthia Ann Parker. Trouble was, Kathy Ann had never gotten around to asking if the white girl had owned a cat.

She lost sight of him, thanks to one of the squaw guards stepping into her line of sight. Thankfully the old biddy and a couple of others got interested in the visitors; the trio, jabbering in their unintelligible tongue, walked toward Sergeant and Skylla, who were no more than ten yards from Kathy Ann.

Raising his right hand to shoulder level, Brax spoke gibberish to the chief and his clutch of followers.

“Stalking Wolf speaks English,” Kathy Ann called out, wanting to hear and understand every syllable that got uttered.

One of her guards shook some sort of rattle to shut her up. If Kathy Ann had been inclined to talk, no dumb rattle could stop her. She stuck her tongue out at the stupid old squaw.

With interest, she noted her sister and new brother-in-law as they began to haggle for her release. They weren't after horses alone. A comfort. In truth, though, she didn't want to be returned. If Electra didn't turn up in someone's cooking pot.

A dirty Indian girl of three or four walked up, staring solemnly. Her eyes, strangely, were hazel. A swarm of flies accompanied her.

“Get away,” Kathy Ann ordered. “You're making me sick to my stomach.”

Naturally, the girl didn't budge.

Kathy Ann pulled a face and made a rude noise, which got rid of the pest.
She's kind of cute, though
. Someone ought to see after that kid, clean her up.
Not my problem.

Free to ruminate over her captor, Kathy Ann smiled despite her bonds. Back in the woods, Stalking Wolf had treated her royally. And he'd handled Electra gently, even after the cat scratched him. He'd tickled her chin and said something in a sweet tone, before passing her to Head Too Big for the trip here.

When Stalking Wolf had pulled Kathy Ann up in front of him on the paint pony and had ridden west, she hadn't sensed a meanness in him. She hadn't fought the Comanche chief, either—the pony had protested her weight, though. The rough-rock crags of Stalking Wolf's handsome face intrigued her.

Stalking Wolf's unbound hair whipped in the breeze, now and again whipping forward into her face. The other men wore braids, but Kathy Ann liked Stalking Wolf's look better. Then the red man touched her tenderly and spoke gently, in English.

“Sun In Her Hair,” he'd announced. “That is what I will call you.”

The sway and dip of the horse rocked Kathy Ann against him. “Say, Wolf, have you ever heard of Cynthia Ann Parker?”

“She was the white-eyes woman of Peta Nocona.”

“Did she like being Peta Nocona's wife?”

“It has been said that she loved him. I do not know for myself. Peta Nocona and his tribe live to the land of the dawning sun. The drums say she is mourned.”

Kathy Ann leaned back against the chest of her captor. “I wouldn't let anyone take me where I didn't want to go.”

“You do not behave like other white women.”

“I dance to the beat of my own drummer.”

“Yes, Sun In Her Hair, I sense that.” His arm moved against her midriff. “I would like to know . . . have you visited the inside of a man's tepee?”

“Nope.”

“Have you followed a man to a place by the stream?”

“Are you asking if I'm a virgin?”

“A virtuous girl is a prize to behold.”

“Behold the prize. I'm a virgin.”

She could feel his smile against her hair. “I would be honored to break the trail for you and allow you to carry my possessions on your back.”

While pleased at his interest, Kathy Ann had to think about that offer. Carry his stuff on her back? What kind of deal was that? Moreover, she hoped she heard him right—he was kind of broken-spoken—about that breaking-trail business. She hoped he hadn't said he'd do her the favor of breaking wind.

“Will you not speak to me, Sun In Her Hair?”

“A gentleman carries things for his lady.”

“Such a shame for white women.” Stalking Wolf kneed the mount, and turned the sleek pony in a westerly direction. “The women of my tribe are honored to carry their men's bundles and cook their meals, and make the tepees warm. It is a greater honor for the braves to protect and cherish these fine women.”

“I can think of worse things to happen, I suppose. Like, one time I had a tooth pulled. That's worse than cooking and hauling and making a tepee into a castle.”

“Have you lost many teeth?” he asked, worry in his tone.

“No, why?”

“If an Indian cannot chew pemmican, nothing can be done. That person must be banished to meet the Great Spirit.”

“Ugh.”

“Tell me, Sun In Her Hair, if the men carry the belongings, who saves these women when they are attacked?”

“The men do.”

She felt his nod of head. “That is why we are able to take many white captives,” he said. “The white man must put down his woman's work before he can pick up a long-knife.”

“Personally, I think your way stinks.”

“There is nothing wrong with the way we smell, unless the buffalo fat turns rancid.” He leaned his mouth close to her cheek. “Do I smell bad to you, Sun In Her Hair?”

“You might try a splash of lavender water behind the ears and under the arms.” She giggled. “No, Wolf, you don't smell so bad. You smell nice.”

At least a half-dozen minutes passed before he said, “I have need of a woman to carry bundles for me and my daughters.”

“Daughters?” Darn, he was married.

“I have two strong daughters. One is four summers, the other is in her second summer.”

“Just a doggone minute. You ought to be ashamed. What do you think you're doing, making sweet-talk with me? What would your wife think if she knew you'd asked me to carry your junk?”

“I am entitled to two wives.”

“I know she'd love to hear that. Your poor wife is at home—uh, at your tepee—breaking her back lugging your stuff around, slaving over a hot cookfire, getting ready to welcome you, when you yammer about taking another wife.”

“She has gone to the happy hunting ground.”

“Is that far from here?”

“Very far. She is dead.”

Goody!
“I'm sorry, Wolf. You must miss her.”

“Yes, my daughters and I miss her. She had no sisters for me to take to wife. And I cannot marry any woman in my own tribe. I must look outside my village for a wife.”

“Oh.”

“My daughters . . . In truth, Sun In Her Hair, they belong with my wife's people. It is against our customs for me to hoard them. But I would miss my little daughters if they were no longer around to toss in the air and kiss on the cheek.”

“Seems to me your in-laws would be willing to let you keep the girls, if you asked nicely.”

He laughed sadly. “I am in no danger of losing my papooses. The family of their mother does not want them.”