Mail-Order Man (3 page)

All day, all night, Skylla scrambled for an alternative to the mail-order husbands. At first light she rode into Ecru. Her best shot? Selling her mother's string of pearls, the proceeds of which would be earmarked for another go at finding and hiring decent cowboys. No one had money to buy pearls.

Charlie Main did offer his dubious services in exchange for all the whiskey he could guzzle. (A talented jewel-cutter, Titus had also possessed skill at the distiller's art, and false rumor had it he'd left a bountiful legacy.) Skylla declined the filthy sot's offer.

The grocer, Emil Kreitz, agreed to take the pearls in trade for a sack of flour, a bushel of potatoes, and a box of bullets. He even threw in a dozen sticks of horehound candy—a true delicacy in these times—for Kathy Ann.

It took two more days of soul-searching before Skylla gave up. She went to Claudine. Bent over the writing desk in her second-floor bedroom, the redhead set her pen down.

“You win, Claudi. I won't fight you over the husbands.”

“Thank heavens.” Claudine quit the chair. “I'll post a letter to Virgil Petry, and remind him to be exacting and discriminating. I insist on the best of men for the two of us.”

“One should hope.”

Reaching to open a desk drawer, Claudine extracted a long envelope, then pulled papers from it. “From Virgil. It has to do with legalities. We must discuss them before we tie ourselves legally to anyone.”

Skylla read six pages of flowery script, one a dummy deed of trust. Marrying could have its repercussions, if the St. Clairs weren't careful. Thankfully, Solicitor Petry was a master at his craft.

“Where's my cat?”

The ladies swiveled around to face the insolent Kathy Ann.

Claudine gritted her teeth. “You're supposed to be confined to your room, young lady.”

Earlier, the girl had charged from the house when Claudine had insisted she couldn't have all the horehound candy at once. Kathy Ann had stayed away for hours, scaring Skylla half to death, for she'd feared the Indians had gotten her sister.

“Where's my cat?”

“Lovey.” Skylla spoke gently, moving across the room to put her arm around corpulent hunched shoulders. “I thought you were going to hem the hand towels. We do need them so, and your handwork is the most delicate I've ever seen.”

Kathy Ann jerked free. “Where's my cat?”

“I put Electra outside, where she will stay,” Claudine snapped, her fingers twitching, as if they tingled to cane the girl. “And you know why.”

“I wish you'd left me in New Orleans.” Kathy Ann whirled around, stomping away and rushing down the stairs.

Skylla wilted onto the edge of the bed, closed her eyes, and dropped her chin. “Oh, Claudi, let's pray our husbands will guide Kathy Ann with more sense and sensibility than we've used.”

“Let us pray.”

 

 

Three weeks after collaring Virgil Petry, Brax and company sailed into the Texas port of Indianola. He arrived filled with vim, vigor, enthusiasm. Get to the Nickel Dime, get it sold, get gone. Piece of cake. In between? Three hot meals, a feather bed, and a dutiful wife to tumble in that feather bed.

How simple the future seemed as he and Geoff disembarked the
Jackie Jo
, then waved goodbye to Bella, watching as she sailed away, bound for San Francisco around the Horn. Then . . .

It was just one thing after another, the deflating of Brax's great expectations. Nothing was as he remembered. He'd assumed Texas would remain basically unscathed. Wrong. The whole state had gone to pot, and July's blistering heat helped neither matters nor tempers. While the rumor mills had it that a provisional governor had been named and Federal troops were landed at Galveston to the east, the streets of Indianola were rife with the anarchy caused by rowdies and their shoot-'em-ups. Price gouging had reached ridiculous proportions.

Posthaste, Brax and Geoff headed their newly purchased elderly geldings—embarrassments to ride, little better than traveling by foot, but all they could afford after paying Bella's passage—in a northwesterly direction toward Mason County.

Arriving at the eastern edge of the Nickel Dime, Brax got a gander at the valleys between hills of limestone and outcroppings of granite. “Look at all those cattle,” he told Geoff. There wasn't just a profusion of the longhorns that had made Titus rich; the herd had increased tenfold during the war. Who needed the bother of cows? Cattle meant work. Culling, branding, castrating, herding to market.

“We've got to get rid of this place as soon as possible,” he said to Geoff. “Thank God we've got a plan.”

Lately the partnership of Hale and Hale had discussed the easiest way to offload the ranch. They'd decided to seed Topaz Creek, which would give the impression topaz could be had by the ton, for the mere scooping up rather than from the elbow grease required for prospecting. Their saddlebags held a collection of blue glass fakeries.

Brax clicked his tongue to keep the bay gelding Impossible on the trail. Molasses started to step into a hole. “Careful!” Brax yelled. “A snake.”

Yelping, Geoff got Molasses out of the line of trouble. “ 'Bout scared the heck out of me, Bubba. I thought I was gone for sure.”

“Watch the trail, Geoffie. You can never be too careful in Texas.” The youth nodded; Brax changed the subject. “I've got a powerful hunger.” He eyed a choice cow with rust and black spots. “That mean-eyed heifer sure would make good steaks for a couple of hungry Mississippi boys.”

“Pappy, Mammy, an' dat ole Sammy. Dat right fine, suh.” Geoff reverted to his natural speech pattern. “Do you reckon Miss St. Clair will cook us a big supper?”

“I imagine. If you show up willing to work. Let's see,” Brax goaded. “You could anchor your foot in a snake hole and get yourself bit. That ought to impress the heiress.”

Geoff clammed up.

Growing pensive, Brax saw too much work ahead for any one man. Or for a full battalion.
Now what? Let the Blue Belly buyer worry about it.
He sallied forth, Geoff in his wake. They rode past a copse of oaks—the gaits of their mounts uneven. A rise speckled with trees, outbuildings, and a house came into view. Nickel Dime headquarters. Brax's spirits plummeted.

Any fool could see Oren Singleterry hadn't ridden out the war at his post. Desertion had done nothing to preserve the value of Titus's legacy. “Damn, Geoff, it'll take more than seeding the creek to fool a carpetbagger into forking over cash.”

“Don't get down at the mouth. Look at the major's magnolia trees. He spoke of them often. They look right nice, don't they, Bubba?” Geoff pointed to the grove by the well. “Reminds me of Mississippi, seeing those pretty blooming trees.”

“They're the only thing that looks nice.” Brax eyed the homestead. A wide porch ran across its front. The widower had built the house in anticipation of remarrying and raising a family, which never came to pass. “Correction. The house weathered the war.”

Conflicting sentiments curled through Brax. When last he'd laid eyes on the residence, he'd still considered Titus a straight shooter.
What's going to greet you on this go-around?

He kneed Impossible. “Let's go meet the women.”

Brax and his partner were tying up to the hitching post within five minutes. By the time he knocked the second time on the oaken front door, a young blonde, plump as a piglet, responded and offered a pouty yet toothsome smile.

In no way did she resemble any of the russet-haired Twills. Nor did she favor Titus. But this had to be the heiress, though she was way too young to be the former Miss Twill.

Skylla St. Clair stood in the shadowed doorway. Her hair curled in ringlets, her eyes too beady for classical beauty. Wearing a hooped frock with a crocheted bertha that extended to the waist, she was not dressed for chores.

Facing his bride-to-be, Brax removed his Johnny Reb kepi. He ought to call in proper clothes, not the tatters of his gray uniform, he told himself. He used to take pride in looking presentable.

She took a half-step forward. “What do you want?”

“Are you Miss St. Clair? Miss Skylla St. Clair?”

“Could be. Are you peddling something?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Assessing the female he would take for his second wife, Brax saw that her coloring appeared more pasty than alabaster, alabaster being the complexion most prized in the South. And those eyes were not only beady, they had a nasty little cast to them. No matter how low his expectations, he'd truly rolled snake eyes one more time. This St. Clair woman was no prize.

She wasn't even a woman. She was a girl. Probably no more than a well-developed fourteen or fifteen. Geoff's lie had come to pass. No wonder Brax hadn't recalled Titus's description—she'd been but a babe at the time. Damn. Double damn. “Are you sure you're Skylla St. Clair?”

“Are you some sort of pervert, or are you plain deaf and stupid? I said I'm Miss St. Clair.”

Great.

Damning the fates, Brax patted his pocket to make certain the envelope containing the St. Clair marker hadn't slipped. “May I present myself?” He sketched a bow. “I am Braxton Hippocrates Hale of Mississippi and Texas. Descendant of Charlemagne and the first families of Virginia. A—”

“Who?”

He repeated the lineage that had brought his mother great pride, but had elicited yawns from Brax. Until now. When he needed to make a good impression. “. . . and I am a combat veteran of Major Titus St. Clair's company, Hood's Texas Brigade, the Army of Northern Virginia. As well, I was a subordinate to your late uncle before his demise at Second Manassas. Later I served the Confederacy as physician to the maimed lion, General John Bell Hood.”

He took her hand and feathered a kiss across its chubby, stubby fingers before handing over an ivory chess piece, the queen. The signal of Petry's approval. “Virgil Petry sent me.”

The scrutinizing gaze she took was one normally reserved for a persnickety cook picking through a mess of okra to cull the wormy ones. “I kinda wanted a darker haired fellow.”

“How 'bout I slap some boot polish on my head?”

“It's worth a try.” She dropped the antique chess piece into a pocket of her skirts; it clinked, as if solid had contacted solid. Miss St. Clair turned, her hoops billowing. “You might as well come on in. I guess.”

Geoff, who'd stayed out of sight on the porch, but close to Brax's right, handed over a jar of peaches and a pan of chocolate fudge. These luxuries, bought from a farm wife near Fredericksburg, had taken the last traveling money, but Brax had felt it only proper not to arrive empty-handed.

He started to cross the threshold. Sensing Geoff in his trail, Brax thrust the heel of his Wellington back toward his accomplice's shin. “Tend the horses,” he mouthed silently.

Titus St. Clair's niece wheeled around. “Are you just gonna stand there all day, staring off into space like some lunatic?” she demanded. “Are you head-shot or something?”

Her uncle had been many things, but not ungracious. On the other hand, his niece, if she had ever learned anything about Southern hospitality, had forgotten it. When Brax attained the house's cool and shadowed interior, he said, “These are for you. Thought you might enjoy a treat or two.”

“Yum!”

Standing in the middle of the front room, she snapped up the gifts as fast as a hound gobbled a pan of scraps. She dug out a piece of the fudge, stuffed it into her mouth, tucked the pan under her arm, unscrewed the jar lid, and was sucking the syrup off a slice of peach. All in the blink of an eye.

A person could be ravenous for sweets, but it was downright greedy not to offer to share. Brax's favorite treat happened to be the sweetness of a woman, but how many months—years—had it been since Geoff tasted a candied repast?

On the forty-mile trip between the candymaker and the nearby community of Ecru, it had taken much guarding to keep Geoff out of the fudge and the melting sun off the pan.

His gaze slid to the Belle of Biloxi, who was chewing with her mouth open. He couldn't imagine getting it up for her, despite his long dry spell since that gal in Richmond. Now what?

Skylla St. Clair slurped the last of the syrup, then looked up. “Oh, you. Sit down.” She waved the pan; he remained standing. “What's your age?” she asked. “You look pretty old.”

“Thir—Twenty-nine.” He recalled the age limitation. “Thanks for the compliment.” His lip curled. “How old are you?”

“Old enough. Fifteen.”

Girls sometimes got married as young as twelve in Mississippi. Judging from first impressions, this girl would forever be eleven to Brax.

California slipping between his fingers, Brax had a word with himself about judgments. “Miss St. Clair, my batman is outside. It's a hot, hot day. He's mighty thirsty. Do you think he could impose upon your well? He has his own dipper.”

“If you're so broke you're here about the advertisement, how come you can afford an attendant?”

“He works cheap.”

She wriggled over to a window near the staircase, drawing back the drape. Brax took a look around. The front room and the dining room—connected by an archway—hadn't changed since Titus's days. Racks of horns decorated the walls. Four chairs, with cow horns for arms and legs, were clustered incongruously around a lyre-shaped settee. The house still had a masculine cast to it, with none of the doodads women like to set around. Certainly nothing in the soft-currency line of plate or cut crystal caught his eye.

But the jewel-cutting wheels and polishers remained on a bench by the window, just as Brax remembered them. A strange feeling of familiarity went through him. After a life of upheaval, Braxton Hale took comfort in that small anchor.

“Those sure are nice-looking horses,” the girl baited, smothering a laugh and catching his attention.

“They got us here.” Offended for Impossible and his sidekick Molasses, Brax glowered.

“By the way, your batman's helped himself to the water.” She dropped the curtain, leaving the room in shadows again. “What are you doing with a darkie? We aren't supposed to have them anymore. You'll have those awful Federal people down on us the minute they reach Mason County.”

“Would ‘awful Federal people' bother you so sorely? They're downright friendly with
some
Southerners.”

“If you're referring to that nasty Biloxi business, hold your tongue.” She made for the settee to sit down, Brax rushing to help seat her. The springs groaned as her weight hit them. “Sometimes people have to do what people have to do,” she explained. “And if you don't like it, tough.”

He chewed aggravation. California rearing its beautiful head, he asked, “Miss St. Clair, may I call you Skylla?”

“If you call me Skylla, I won't answer to it.”

He read the situation. She was obstinate for the sake of obstinacy. Could it be she played some sort of game? It wouldn't surprise him. She had all the earmarks of deviousness.

“All right, Miss St. Clair, be that way. You do have to do what you do have to do,” he mocked. “But we might as well get acquainted as quickly as possible.”

“Aren't we doing that?”

“If you'll indulge me in a question or two, I'd be appreciative.” She lifted a shoulder in answer; he asked, “Why did you open your door to a stranger? A ragged stranger who might have been out to slash your throat.”

“If you'd been all gussied up, I'd've found that peculiar. I haven't seen a man in a nice suit of clothes since before the war.” She patted the area near her hip. Her fingers dug into her pocket, extracting a pearl-handled pistol, which she aimed at his face. “I knew there wouldn't be any trouble.”

Brax's heart slammed against his chest. He wasn't a coward, but he did have a healthy respect for bullets.

“Your face is white as biscuit dough.” She snickered, then lowered the barrel. The last of the fudge stuffed in her mouth, she made a trip with her tongue around the outside of it. “Got any more candy?”

“No, ma'am, I don't.”

“Too bad.”

Into the lull that followed, Brax said, “I was given to understand you have a stepmother. Where is the good lady?”

“Claudine's out trying to shoot one of those dumb cows. Makes me sick just to look at those ugly old animals.”

Plainly the heiress didn't fuss about eating the result. “Who does the rest of the chores?”

She opened her mouth, then shut it quickly. “We hired a few stragglers. Stole everything they could get their hands on, even one of Claudine's many wedding rings. One guy got scared off, once he realized the Injuns are at our back door.”

“I can help there. I know the ways of the Comanche.” No doubt the ones from past years had moved on, but Brax felt confident of his abilities. “I'm fluent in their language.”

“I guess you came by that from your mother.” Before he could ask for an explanation, she screwed up one of those pellet eyes. “I don't have any use for Injuns.”

If there were any avenue short of committing as much as an hour to this odd girl, Brax needed to find it. “Miss St. Clair, your uncle passed on owing me a large amount of money. Since you aren't disposed to accept me as a bridegroom, I'd like to retire the debt. Do you have five thousand dollars, U.S.?”

“I didn't say I don't want you for a husband.”

“You and I aren't meant to be, if for no other reason than the gap in our ages.” He took a forward step. “I do have a valid claim against your uncle's estate, though. And I mean to collect. Nevertheless, I
might
be willing to settle for two thousand dollars.”

“You're out of luck.”

“How about a thousand?”

“Nope.”

Searching for honorable escape, he asked, “How 'bout two hundred? Confederate.”

“Are you trying to renege on the wedding?”

Patience. Forget exits. Keep your mind on the better life you can get for Geoff and Bella
. “I look forward to marriage. But I—”

“You'd better not expect to sleep with me.”

A warning sign went through him. If the marriage wasn't consummated, he'd have no legal hold on the Nickel Dime. “I can only assume you're jesting.”

“I'll let you know after you tell me whether you stick your tongue in a girl's mouth when you kiss.”

She was a rotten child, worrying a bug to death, and Brax thought about turning the tables on her.
Worry her like she's worrying you
. He might be a louse, but he wasn't a child. “A marriage in name only is for the best. You're young, you might find true love someday and want to marry the man. I, of course, wouldn't wish to stand in the way of lovers. And you'd want to give the flower of yourself to him.”

“
Flower
of myself?” Her features contorted. “
Flower
of myself? What does that mean?”

God, he would love to choke the girl. He walked to the fireplace and ran his hand across the place where Titus's favorite rifle used to hang. Was there any way to best the porcine beast? “Flower doesn't refer to your manners.”

“Prig.”

Brax couldn't help but laugh. He'd been called many names in his thirty-one years, but prig hadn't been on the list.

She wiggled on the settee. “You said you were a doctor to General Hood, but you're wearing a sergeant's stripes. If you're a sawbones, how come you weren't an officer? All I see is a regular ole soldier.”

He started to ask if she got her training in social graces at the W. T. Sherman Academy of Compassion and Comportment, then he couldn't bring himself to be that awful to the detestable girl. “I got demoted,” he finally answered. “I got demoted for pounding my fist into Titus St. Clair's nose.”

“I love it!” She laughed. “How come you punched him?”

“Because he crossed me.”

Right then he heard laughter from outdoors. Geoff's laughter. A woman's laughter, too; probably the stepmother's.

“Oops.” The blonde left the settee and waddled past him.

Brax twisted the kepi in his hand, yanked it on his head, then wondered what the heck to do next. He couldn't marry this girl. No way. She was a child. A loathsome beast.

Somehow he'd get the money for a Texas lawyer to get the ranch for him. True, he didn't hunger for ranching. He pined for the easy life, but an asset was an asset. Someday the Nickel Dime would become his, without marrying the girl.

When was someday? The courts weren't in session. Hell, no one was even keeping the peace, much less arbitrating civil disputes. All that, of course, would change, once the Reconstruction people got settled in. But what about now?
Are you ready to walk out that door, and forget the debt?
During the sweet stupidity of his youth, he would have traipsed off, depending on serendipity and his looks, along with sleight of hand, to sustain him.

What did he have at present?

No money, and not even a good horse or a sidearm to call his own. The Yankees had shot the black stallion Rapier from under him after he'd parted ways with John Bell Hood. He'd gotten separated from his medical instruments on the last day of fighting at Appomattox. There, he'd been forced to give over his rifle and sword.