Mail-Order Man (4 page)

The only thing of value now in his possession? A cameo brooch which had belonged to his mother. That, and one gold piece. A double eagle—with a pair of eagles on each side. This, he'd never part with; it was a tool of his trade. Alas, his trade demanded suckers with something to gamble.

Broke, desperate, and out of luck, Brax needed time to regroup. It would be at least six months before Bella docked in San Francisco, so he didn't have to worry about her, not at the moment. In the meantime he and Geoff needed decent horses, decent clothes, and more than a few decent meals before they set out to cross the Indian lands of the great desert to the west.

His choices were marry the girl, marry the girl, or marry the snot-nosed brat.

Use your head, he advised himself. Marry the girl, sleep on the floor. When the courts go into session—lie! Lie about the consummated part. No jury would believe a tactless child who chewed with her mouth open and left no good impression.

His bride-to-be opened the front door, allowing sunlight to spill inside.

“Kathy Ann!” a woman called. “Do come on outside, lovey. And bring our guest. He must be parched from his long trip. Did you offer him something refreshing to drink?”

Kathy Ann?

He took a giant step toward the door. “Why, you little fiend. You tricked me. You're not Skylla St. Clair.”

She stuck her tongue out while poking her thumbs into her ears and waving her fingers. “Had ya fooled, had ya fooled.”

Brax parked his hands at his waist, throwing his head back, and let a laugh vibrate him from head to toe. It felt good to laugh. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done it. “Piglet, you'll keep me on my toes, I'll wager!”

Now—on to meeting the real Skylla St. Clair.

The moment Braxton Hale caught sight of the real Skylla St. Clair, he exhaled in relief. He wouldn't be marrying any piglet, he'd be getting himself a pioneer princess who held herself like a queen.

They stood near the well, a semicircle of magnolia trees behind them, she and Geoff. Dressed hoopless and in faded black, she held two things in one hand. An old hoe and the strings of a slat bonnet. The hard scrabble of ranch life softened to whimsy, though, for her free hand lifted toward the boy, a butterfly batting its wings from the perch of her fingers.

Piglet grabbed his hand. “Come on, Sergeant.”

The girl dragged him forward. Brax caught up, taking a long look at the true heiress. Her hair, a rich brown with sparkling highlights, was piled atop her head and secured with hairpins, yet a long curl had come loose to drape over her shoulder, fetchingly.

His luck was rolling sevens.

He had itched for a brunette.

“Here he is.” The child's voice disturbed the butterfly; it flew away. “He brought the chess piece.”

“Yes'm, he be de massa,” Geoff said. “A fine, fine one.”

Brax, in spite of the hot afternoon, felt the cool tingle of excitement heighten as he turned his attention back where it belonged. He called, “Good afternoon, ma'am.”

Doffing his kepi and inhaling the fragrance of magnolia, Brax made up his mind. Some night—and soon—he would make love to her on a bed of magnolia blossoms. Damned right he would.

Cocky as hell, he reached the trees Titus had transplanted from Mississippi, halting a respectable distance from the lady in old black cambric. Halfway between tall and short, she'd be just right for his six-one.

Her cheek had a streak of dirt, her clothes the evidence of manual labor. Thin, almost frail, described her, yet her posture showed straight, ladylike, proud. Brax saw eyes of brown. Dark, dark brown, like the deepest of chocolate. Strength fused with naiveté shone from them, as if she dared the world to defeat her, all the while conceding that it could. Braxton Hale had fought a war for states' rights, not for slavery. But at this moment, he had the damnedest wish to beckon a cadre of slaves to do her bidding.

Where was Rastus when she needed him?

Brax introduced himself.

“Welcome to the Nickel Dime, sir.” She answered his bow with a wobbly curtsy. “Thank you for responding to the advertisement. We need you so desperately.”

Her voice matched her demeanor. It held a sweet sadness, almost a defeat, he noted as he took her chapped hand to touch his lips to the base of her fingers. Be she sweet or sour, though, he wouldn't get blindsided. He couldn't afford to feel anything for her, not anything above his waist at any rate.

Play his cards and play them right—even though there would be a lot of dealing from the bottom—that was the task. “Whichever way I might help, ma'am, I will serve with pleasure.”

“Oh, yuck. Get a bucket, I think I'm gonna be sick. I don't believe
he
said that.” Piglet made a show of gagging, which Geoff seemed to enjoy. “You better listen up, Sister Skylla. He's a scalawag. Just a few minutes ago, the sergeant was wanting to head on out. And he's aiming to leave thousands of dollars richer.”

Damn the piglet, he didn't want all the cards on the table during the first hand.

A question appeared in Skylla's features. “We were specific on the subject of character, and I would have expected better from . . . Surely Mr. Petry wouldn't have—” The agreeable light in those brown eyes faded. “You aren't here to become a husband. You want money.”

Why did she say a husband instead of
my
husband? Did it have anything to do with that “first husband” business? “I am here to be your husband.”

“Dat money, it a debt your uncle made dis here massa. Dey wuz in de army together, da major and da massa.”

“Geoff, I'll do my own talking. Ma'am, I do hold your uncle's marker. But I suffered under a wrong impression when I offered to settle the matter with your sister. She engaged in a game of deception that drove me to an unseemly suggestion. I won't press my case, now that I've seen the whole situation.”

“What about the part where you punched her uncle Titus and got in trouble?” Kathy Ann prompted.

“My later deeds reinstated my worth to the army.”

Piglet didn't let up. “I don't believe any old half-breed. He said himself he's the son of Pocahontas and that old drunk from town, Charlie Main.”

Brax shook his head. “You misunderstood. While Pocahontas might be from the original first families of Virginia, I am not related to Charlie Main. I said Charlemagne. Charlemagne of the Holy Roman Empire, for heaven's sake, child.”

“Don't call me child, soldier. I'm going on sixteen!”

Brax retaliated, but not to Piglet. “Miss St. Clair,” he said to Skylla, “the young lady has a way about her, and I doubt it's a new development or needs clarification. I should imagine the proportions of the dear child's pranks are monumental.”

“Are not!” Kathy Ann stuck her tongue out.

“I beg that you draw your own conclusions,” Brax continued, his eyes on the woman he would, by damn, wed and bed.

Geoff chuckled. “Oooh, wee . . .”

Aggravated at the intrusions, Brax barked to his partner, “Those horses are still saddled. See to them.”

Geoff was smart enough to know Brax meant business. He excused himself after Skylla suggested he put their gear in the log cabin that served as bunkhouse. Brax would sure be glad to move into the ranch house. It had feather beds.

Kathy Ann, her arms crossed over her chest, darkened her round face with a pout. “Well,
what about
the part where you punched her uncle Titus? What about the part where you said you're a doctor? I bet you lied. Liar, liar, pants afire.”

Skylla sighed. “Lovey, dear, please. We all suffered the past few years, so we shouldn't jump to conclusions.”

“Don't you tell me what to do. You're not anything but a gimpy old sister, and not even a blood one at that.”

“Now, Lovey.” Skylla explained to Brax. “When my late father married Claudine, I finally got my wish for a sister.”

“Aren't you fortunate.”

“When my father married my former governess's niece”—a spark of pain flashed in her eyes—“he was finally able to put away his awful grief over losing my mother.”

Her compassion appealed to Brax. Usually a daughter would have her claws out when her father took up with a new woman.

“Kathy Ann, you see, is her daughter,” Skylla went on, “from a previous marriage.”

“Am not. My mother is buried in New Orleans. Claudine and two of her husbands adopted me, that's all.”

“Let's take a walk,” Brax said to the true heiress, having heard enough of Piglet's genealogy.
“Alone.”

“Yes, of course. And you'll want a refreshment.”

Skylla shook the rake, then smiled. While Skylla St. Clair might not have been the most beautiful woman in Dixie, she was damned fine looking. And she blinded him with that smile.

“I was on my way to put this rake away and see after supper,” she said. “Perhaps you might join me?”

He took the rake into one hand, put the other on her elbow, and they started toward the cookhouse. The lurch of her step caused his gaze to turn. Her eyes and chin were elevated as she limped along.

 

 

Despite his curiosity about the source of her limp, Brax didn't ask Skylla about her affliction. It took less than a couple minutes to reach the cookhouse. By then he'd decided it would be a favor, freeing her from the hell of ranch life.

No.

That was the sap's way out. When Brax had needed help for defenseless women, Skylla's uncle had laughed.

Brax faced the present. His olfactory senses had kicked in. The scent of pinto beans filled his nose—boy, those beans smelled good. Pinto beans sat well with him. And he speculated about the quality of Skylla's biscuit-making.
Be careful.

He took a look around. It was a big rectangular kitchen, designed to accommodate a slew of ranch hands. Titus built it of granite walls and wooden shutters, the latter opening from the bottom to lend a view of the cattle-dotted south pasture and to let in the breezes. No breeze blew on this late afternoon.

Gone were the row upon row of canned goods and provisions that Titus's cook had stockpiled. Some items remained, however. A shelf held a collection of ointments and unguents, as well as a cracked leather satchel, a black bag typical to physicians.

Brax continued on. A whiskey barrel sat next to a dusty contraption with coils and tubes that stood in the corner, same as always. One evening in this kitchen, he'd entertained a lady from Ecru. Titus and a candidate for Mrs. St. Clair had retired to the ranch house after a supper of brisket and potato salad, leaving Brax and Jane Clark to sit at the rough-hewn oak table and chairs. They had drunk from a jug of aged corn liquor, making more than small talk.

“Why don't you sit down?” a different woman now suggested.

He looked at Skylla St. Clair. Jane was a pretty little gal, near as he recalled, but he had eyes for the heart-faced brunette stirring a pot atop the iron stove.

“Meow.”

An insolent calico cat, perched atop the pie safe, grabbed his attention. She imparted a dirty look and hissed, then jumped to the floor—heavily—to flounce out of the kitchen.

“That's Electra.” Skylla chuckled. “She thinks she's our queen. Definitely, she has little use for her subjects.”

“Powerful name. It fits her.” Thinking about Electra's avoirdupois, Brax commented, “She must be quite a ratter.”

“Don't talk about rats. Please.” Skylla, shuddering, rushed on. “Supper will be beans and cornpones.”

“Sounds plenty fine to me. Plenty fine.” Peaches and fudge would have been a nice treat for her.

She eyed him squarely. “Sergeant Hale, what is the true reason you've backed down on my uncle's debt?”

“I need a woman.” That was partly true.

“Oh, uh, um.” Skylla picked up a potholder and waved it in front of her face. “My goodness, it's hot in here. Heat of late July, added to this cookstove fire, phew!” Her hand shook. “How . . . how about a nice cup of tea, Sergeant? I'll just put on a kettle of water, and—”

“No tea, thank you. I'd prefer a slug of something stronger.”

“Help yourself.” She gestured toward the still. “There's a jug hidden in a box.”

“I know where Titus kept it.” If memory served him right, Titus had also hidden barrels of aged whiskey in the barn. Brax selected one of several crockery jugs from a sawdust-packed wooden crate. Pouring corn liquor into a glass, he added, “I used to cowboy for your uncle.”

“I know.”

Damn, he hoped she didn't know everything. What all had Geoff said?

She lifted a pristine white apron over her black dress, and Brax moved behind her to tie it around her trim waist. Skinny she might be, but she had a nice shape. With no corset to get in the way.
Behave, this is a lady
. It wouldn't do to make her think he was an American Romeo, especially since the stepmother might have a lot to say about his reputation.

He settled on the situation at hand. “Tall order, keeping a ranch going without cowboys.”

“It hasn't been ‘going.' We expected . . . more than we found.” She looked away. “We thought the cowboys would come back, since the fighting's over.”

While Brax sympathized with her predicament, what was the use of pussyfooting around the truth? “Forget the cowboys.”

He knew what he was talking about. According to Titus, most had quit, then scattered, when he'd volunteered for the army. Of the eight who followed the major, five died in battle. That left Tennessee Frost, Snuffy Johnson, and Luckless Litton. Tennessee lost his sight at Gettysburg, which sent him to a sister in Flat Creek. Brax and Geoff had stopped there on the way from Virginia. Ole Tennessee had taken up preaching.

“After Chickamauga I lost contact with what was left of the Nickel Dime cowboys. That's when I parted from Hood's Texas Brigade, Chickamauga. When John Bell Hood took a shell in his leg. He recuperated in Richmond. I was with him,” Brax explained. “If Snuffy and Litton are alive, they may or may not show up. It's a long haul back to Texas.” Brax thought about his once brutalized feet. “Especially if they're walking.”

“We had so counted on them. Claudine and I have considered mounting a trail drive to the port of Indianola.”

“You've named a trail boss?” He suspected not.

She licked her lips. “Would you be willing . . . ?

Yep, strong back required. “It takes thousands of dollars to get a herd to market. Salaries, grub, supplies.”

She blew a stream of air toward the ceiling. “What about a tannery? We've heard there's good money in hides and tallow.”

“You ever been around a tannery?”

“No.”

“The stink would gag a buzzard.”

Her cute little nose lifted. “I assure you, I am no shrinking violet. I have smelled many putrid things, Sergeant. A tannery couldn't be worse than the smell of rotted flesh.”

Ah, the bliss of ignorance. Tinhorns always came to Texas thinking they were tough enough. Many a man and woman had turned tail and sprinted east in the face of hardships much more demanding than the whiff of rotted flesh. “Maybe you ought to look into tanning supplies.”