Mail-Order Man (25 page)

Reverting to the times he'd seen his mother bent over a washtub, a stove, a schoolbook, or doing the hundreds of other tasks she'd performed for her family, he allowed some of his resentment to ebb. The loving respect he'd always had for her began to return. Thanks to Skylla's reminders.

She took the empty glass from his hand. “Come to bed, Braxton. It's late. Near midnight. You've been in that chair for hours. We've got to get a night's rest. We'll need our strength for the trip home.”

“Yeah. All right.”

On leaden feet, he trudged to bed, threw off his clothes, and slid between the sheets. Already Skylla was there. All sweet and soft and comforting. He rolled to her, levering up to take those wonderful lips in desperation. As happened every time he touched her, he got hard as a pistol. He knew women needed foreplay—maybe she'd forgive the selfish act of a husband who needed her with ever cell of his being. “Take me into yourself,” he groaned. “Make me forget how much I resemble that bastard.”

A tear slid from her eye. As Brax lifted it onto his tongue, she said, “You're nothing like that man.”

How little you know, sweet wife
. His fingers clamped on her silken shoulders. “Make me forget everything but you.”

She opened her legs to him.

He loved her as if there were no tomorrow. The blessed softness and tenderness of her body and heart enveloped him, giving comfort, love, and ultimate surrender. She was so tight around him, so giving of herself in every way—so responsive, their lovemaking fanned by passion gone wild. From deep in his lower spine, he sensed the climactic explosion, and it was oh so good. Yet he gave a silent prayer that his seed was benign.

The world would be better for the Hale line dying out.

“You're a sawbones. Do something afore the lad dies!” On the crest of her demand, battle-ax Bertha bore down on John Hale in the upstairs drawing room, where he'd tried to escape this hell of his own making. The quarter-ton muleskinner twisted his ear. “Andrew's dying. And you're ignoring him.”

“I've done all I can. He's resting. He needs rest.”

A week into December, the boy's asthma had gone into pneumonia. The prognosis was bleak. John prayed for a miracle, but would have settled for a dance with the devil. This was the price he paid, he supposed, for deserting his firstborn son. What about the other Hale children? They hadn't been his, but they had believed they were. He shouldn't have made them pay for Elizabeth's transgressions. If he did something to right his wrongs, would God be merciful with young Andrew?

John left his chair, shoving his corpulent mother-in-law out of his path, and hiked to Andrew's room. Harriet was there already. A petite brunette, she sat at her son's bedside. Her gentle eyes turned up to her husband, and he couldn't help thinking how much she resembled his daughter-in-law.

“John.” Harriet rose from her chair.

“Papa,” was Andrew's faint greeting.

“He's so sick.” Abigail left the opposite side of the bed. Tall and thin at twelve, yet beautiful by Hale standards, she looked up with big green eyes. “Make him well, Papa.”

“Wife, daughter, come sit beside me in the bay window. I must bare my soul.” He led the way to a spot overlooking the lights of San Antonio. Abigail crawled onto his lap, burying her cheek against his shirt. Harriet knelt at his knee. “I left a family back in Mississippi . . .”

After he'd cleansed his soul, his wife and daughter still loved him. And Andrew rallied. John was blessed.

 

 

Despite his many blessings, Brax Hale wished to hell he'd never run into John Larkin Hale. Comfort didn't come from the understanding wife who hovered over him. Many times she'd said, “I wouldn't be a wife if I didn't want to help you,” but he wouldn't allow her to intrude upon his darkness.

“You're one dumb hombre,” Geoff pointed out, a week before Christmas. “Pull yourself together, or you'll lose the best thing that ever happened to you. Miss Skylla.”

“She'd be better off without me.”

“You may be right.” For the first time ever, Geoffrey Hale looked at his brother with disgust. “You're a fool.”

“I'm a liar and a thief. I'm a no-good bastard. I am John Hale.”

“Yes, Bubba. That is exactly who you are.”

 

 

One late afternoon in the cookhouse, while Brax enjoyed the product of the distiller's art, the French cook announced the county clerk's arrival. “Monsieur Winslow Packard wishes to saw you.”

“What does he want?”

The cook lifted his palms. “How do I knowing? He say get the boss, and I am here to got him.”

Brax went to the rotund Yankee not seen by any member of the Hale family since Claudine's funeral. “What do you want, Packard?”

“I'm here to explain a few facts. You're disfranchised, Hale. You're no longer a citizen of the United States.”

“Breaks my heart.”

“This ranch could revert to the government.”

Not for a moment did Brax buy into the bluff. “How much money are you after, Packard?”

“Back taxes, for one. But loyalty to a flag is my purpose. Are you prepared to sign an Oath of Citizenship?”

“Hail, hail the bonny blue.”

“No wonder the South lost the war, with your drunken sort fighting for it.”

“I could name a few disgusting bastards on your side, too. Like you, Winslow Packard.” And John Hale. Brax raised his fist. “Get off this land. Before I knock you on your lard-ass.”

Packard drew back a fist, landed a hard blow on Brax's jaw. Brax reeled, stumbled, then fell, nose to the ground.

 

 

Christmas Eve should have provided the perfect occasion for telling Braxton, who considered himself sterile, that he was going to be a father. The parlor had been decorated with garlands, holly; even a spray of mistletoe hung above the archway to the dining room. Popcorn and baubles decorated a cedar tree cut this morning; wrapped presents rested under it.

In the cookhouse, Pearl helped with the wild turkey dinner that the trail cook had been preparing since before the crack of dawn. The table lain, guests would arrive in an hour or so for the feast. Alas, Webb Albright had demurred.

While Skylla grieved for Claudine and the hell her widower knew, she wouldn't allow this holiday to be ruined—the first Christmas in years not plagued by war.

Taking pains to fit candles on cedar limbs, she glanced at her husband. Dressed in a natty suit, its frock coat trimmed in velvet, and with her father's stickpin centered on a striped neckcloth, he brooded into his third eggnog.

Patience would win him over, she felt certain. If she could recover from her many losses, so could he. In her heart lived confidence: he would come around to prospective fatherhood. As soon as he slew the dragon of John Hale.

Tolerance was the magic word. It was going to take more than a few weeks to heal that visit with his all-too-frank sire, but she didn't have enough patience. “It's too bad so many of the boys had other plans,” she said to make small talk. “What with this mild weather, I'd hoped to set up picnic tables so we could all enjoy dinner together.”

“The boys wanted whores, not turkey.”

“I'm pleased Snuffy, Luckless, and René prefer turkey.”

A grunt answered her statement.

Skylla watched Braxton reach for the ladle and pour another cup of eggnog. “Are you going to save any of that for the guests?”

His lip curled. “I'll let you know when they get here.”

“I'm looking forward to our visit with Kathy Ann and her little stepdaughters. And Stalking Wolf, too.”

“Reckon he'll be wearing a Santy Claus suit?”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

Braxton put down the empty cup. His hand spreading on the top of his thigh, he answered, “Yeah. Funny as a dead baby.”

She stumbled away, lest she faint and knock the tree over. “Don't jest.”

He shot her a disdainful look. “Your dander's up because you've been cheated out of children.”

Plumbing her back, she marched to him, thankful for the steadiness given by the padded-sole slipper. “I have a child already. Heaven knows you're acting like one.”

“My father was right. You are a spitfire.”

“I'm going to ask something before the guests arrive. Will you
not
allow John Hale to spoil Christmas?”

“He's spoiled a bunch of them. Why not this one?”

“Why not?” She settled onto Braxton's lap. “I'll tell you why not.” She clasped his ear to give it a loving yank. “Because this is our first Christmas as man and wife.”

He swatted her hand away. “Why don't you give it up? I'm beyond redemption. No devil deserves an angel.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“Not where you're concerned.”

He exhaled. His arm settled on her legs, his fingers pressing her ribs. “I have been an ass. I'm not proud of it, but it seems to be the only way to handle myself.”

It wasn't much, but it was a beginning. “Can you understand that everyone makes mistakes? Honey, to err is human.”

“You've never made a mistake. You're an angel.”

“No one is an angel. We all make mistakes. Haven't you ever done something you aren't proud of?”

His head lifted; he rested it against the chair back to study a faraway spot. “I'll never forget what he did.”

“I'm not asking you to forget. I'm asking you to step into his shoes, then decide how you feel.”

He paused for contemplation, at last answering, “You do know how to break a man down.”

“Then you're not going to let him ruin your life?”

A sigh got rid of the last of his blues. “I can put myself in his shoes. It's easier to make mistakes than own up to them.” His voice dissolved to a whisper. “Thank you for making such a difference in my life.” He eyed the packages awaiting the family. “What do you say about opening your gift before the tribe—literally—gets here?”

 

 

“A cameo! How lovely!”

Cameolike herself in satin and wearing a choker of topaz, Skylla sat next to Brax by the Christmas tree. She held the gift aloft. More than an inanimate face carved in relief, however, she was a living, breathing angel come down to save a blackguard even the devil wouldn't want.

Thank God, she had finally chipped the ice from his soul. Why was tonight different from any other? It was Christmas, she was the most virtuous of angels, and he was tired of fighting the demons of resentment, frustration, and relationship.

“I love you, Skylla Hale.” He hungered to make love to her under those fragrant cedar branches. “Enjoy the cameo.” It looked very like the one he'd sold. He wished he could buy back the original, but however pure his intent, a good gambler always knew when not to press luck.

Skylla took the brooch into the center of her palm. “How very sweet of you.”

What was that funny catch in her voice? It worried Brax, and he didn't want to be worried, not in the aftermath of coming to grips with bygone days. When Skylla had made him think about all that forgiveness stuff, he'd realized that if push came to shove, he hoped she'd forgive his trespasses.

He watched her run a finger along the face of the cameo. “My love, I've been wanting to give you a cameo for a long time.”

“This is your mother's cameo, isn't it?”

“Elizabeth Hale had a fondness for pretty things,” he hedged, sick to his stomach suddenly.

“Before our wedding, Charlie Main showed me this cameo. He said you intended to give it to me during the ceremony. With everything that happened, I thought you'd forgotten. Or you'd lost it. You didn't.” She scooted over to hug him. “This is the happiest Christmas of my life.”

“For me, too, sweetheart.”

“Braxton, honey, there's something wonderful you need to know. We—”

Three bangs on the front door echoed through the house.

“Our guests are arriving.” Brax kissed her nose. “We'll take up where we left off . . . later.”

 

 

The table laden with food and drink, the parlor littered with the debris of gift exchanging, Skylla eyed the seated diners over the flickering of a candelabra. How heartwarming it had been to have gifts for everyone. Even Stalking Wolf had gotten into the spirit, had grinned like a boy upon unwrapping a Bowie knife.

Not simply diners, these were misfits come together to form a family.

Braxton sat opposite Skylla. Flanking them were ranch hands, plus Geoff and Pearl. Stalking Wolf wore buckskin, his ink-black hair braided. A bewildered mien on his broad face, he addressed the obstacle of a fork. Kathy Ann and her girls, both scrubbed and clucked over by their new mother, sat to his right.

Chatter and the clink of silverware vibrated in the air. A recently hired Mexican woman began to clear the dinner plates to ready the diners for mincemeat pie. The trail cook René Boulogne, a charming yet temperamental Norman of forty sporting a strawberry-blond mustache, appeared crestfallen as he contemplated the half-eaten turkey. “I am not very pleasing.”

Confused stares shifted to him. Skylla bit her tongue to keep from chuckling. He had an endearing problem with verbs. Pleasing really meant pleased.

Lately, with Skylla's permission, René had taken over the cookhouse. When he robed himself in the vestments of touchy cook for the upcoming trail drive, she would miss this study in extremes, as well as his tales of faraway France.

He continued. “You did not like my turkey.”

A chorus of “Not so!” greeted this charge. “With all this bounty,” Skylla said, “we don't have room for turkey.”

“I like turkey,” a small voice put in. All eyes turned to the four-year-old Indian girl. She ducked her chin and cuddled her new baby doll, a gift from Skylla and Braxton.

“Would you like some more?” Kathy Ann asked sweetly.

“Yes, please.” With a child's ability to grasp new things easily, she cut the slice with care and ate it, showing René Boulogne that his cooking was indeed well received.

The cook beamed.

Kathy Ann smiled proudly. “Pansy, you're a good, good girl. Mother is proud of you.”

Pansy. Her stepmother had given Eyes Like a Leaf that name. Kathy Ann was giving her savage world a gentility that had been buried within her.
Claudine and
I
didn't fail after all.
No!
Braxton deserves the thanks for turning her around.

Kathy Ann then wiped the chin of wee “Violet.” The tot sat on pillows and grinned with four teeth at Kathy Ann, who now patted her stomach. “Wolf and I haven't decided on what to name the new one. I'm partial to Ambrose.”

Ambrose. After her adoptive father. This made Skylla even prouder. Her glowing sister couldn't be more content, despite all, even the responsibility of a ready-made family. Braxton had been right to permit the marriage.

“Wolf,” said Kathy Ann, “what about Ambrose?”

“Sun In Her Hair, cease!” Stalking Wolf quit eating the strange food and, setting aside his eating utensils, folded his arms over his chest. Though his look was stern, love shone in his eyes. “Medicine man will name the boy.”