Mail-Order Man

by Martha Hix

  “By cart. Our horse died a couple of weeks ago.”

  Great. Just great. Next she’d tell him someone had stolen her Bible.

  He took a look out the window to all those unbranded longhorns grazing in the south pasture. No way could this ranch be worked with Impossible and Molasses. Moving his line of sight to the empty kitchen shelves, he saw that everyone on the place needed sustenance.

  “Does Emil Kreitz still own a store in Ecru?” he asked, recalling the good-hearted Prussian’s bent toward credit. “I could send my boy . . .”

  Those brown eyes flashed. “What do you mean by ‘boy’? He does know he’s freed, I trust.”

  “By boy I referred to his youth. And, yes, he knows he’s free. He’s been free for as long as he can remember. He’s with me because he doesn’t have any place else to go.” Yet.

  She sighed; her bosom rose and fell. Brax noticed that despite her lack of weight, she wasn’t hurting for bosom.

  “As for Emil Kreitz,” she said, “don’t bother sending Geoff unless you’ve got gold to pay with. Herr Kreitz isn’t in a position to do business like he did before the war. He’s a dear and considerate man, but he must have payment upon purchase.”

  Damn. Double damn.

  “What exactly do you have in mind?” she asked when Brax didn’t reply.

  Studying Skylla’s exquisite face, and seeing a slight resemblance to her uncle in the way her eyebrows arched and the determined upward tilt of her chin, he gave thanks she hadn’t inherited the St. Clairian potato nose. “I can’t recall what Titus said about you.”

  She jacked up one of those St. Clair eyebrows. “I remember everything he said about you. Uncle Titus mentioned you at length.”

  Mentioned at length? That Titus would mention his name even once took him aback. Worry worked its way into Brax’s surprise. “I’d be interested to know what he had to say.”

  She set the spoon aside. “In ’61, when my uncle was on his way to impress you into the war, he stopped at Beau Rivage. That was our home in Biloxi, Beau Rivage. Uncle Titus told me what a fine young man you were. He loved you like a son.”

  Deliver me from a father’s love, if it comes from Titus St. Clair or Dr. John Hale. Twice, a father figure had let him down. John deserted his family, damning them to hell as he left. Then Titus did his part to destroy the Hales.

  Not wishing to discuss either bastard, Brax reached for the handle of the big shoo-fly fan suspended from the ceiling. He tugged on the handle that moved the wide paddle from side to side; the motion fanned the heiress. “How’s that? Cooler?”

  “Much.” She smiled her appreciation, then opened a canister of meal to begin preparing cornpones. “Thank you, Sergeant Hale.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” He stared at the mourning clothes. “Forgive my forwardness, but are you a widow woman?”

  “Not.”

  “Whom do you mourn?”

  She took a moment to answer, “The death of innocence.”

  He chuckled dryly. He liked this lady. What a shame, her reduction to searching out a husband. The South might be hurting for eligible men, but a woman this lovely ought to get the pick of the paltry crop. “Do you mind if I call you Skylla?”

  She added sprinkles of salt to the cornmeal. “Not if you allow me to call you Braxton.”

  “Most folks call me Brax.”

  “All the more reason to call you Braxton.” A rosy blush tinted cheeks of alabaster, an intake of breath harmonizing her appeal. “Please don’t stare at me.”

  He gave the fan three more swings before he said, “Couldn’t help myself.”

  “You stared as if you’d never seen a cripple before.”

  “No, ma’am.” The beans boiled over, juice sizzling onto the stove, and Brax got a sizzle in his loins that reminded him of how little her affliction bothered him. “I was looking at you because I was thinking how much I’d like to kiss you.”

  She studied the floor.

  His heart beat a tattoo. His blood started swirling to places it ought not to swirl in front of a maidenly lady. And his lips—damn! If he didn’t taste her delicious lips, and soon, he’d starve to death. Settle down. Ease into this.

  As he continued to fan her, she bolted her gaze to his. “Braxton, something’s troubling me. Why did you hit my uncle?”

  “He refused to pay his marker.”

  “You hit an elder over money?” Censure filtered into the open features that would never make it at the poker table. “That doesn’t bespeak the Southern gentleman.”

  “Neither does welshing on a debt.”

  It had been an eye-opener, the year and a half between the poker game here at the ranch and Major Titus St. Clair’s death. The night before a Yankee cannonball got him, Titus let it be known in jeering terms that he’d never pay his debt.

  Brax liked to keep the past close to his chest, but he decided the less intrigue in this relationship, the better it would be for not rousing suspicions. “I was out of my head that night. My brother’s brains were still wet on my grays.” The calmness of his tone belied the rank hurt and sorrow that still tore Brax’s heart. “I had my brother’s widow to think about, be responsible for. My sisters and my niece, too. My sisters were widowed at Shiloh, you see. But what could I do? I couldn’t desert. I couldn’t get Titus to give me the money to send to my womenfolk. So I pounded my fist into his laughing face.”

  Compassion in her expression, Skylla sat down on a chair and looked up at Brax. “How cruel of him not to understand your predicament. Did he give you a reason?”

  “Said he didn’t have that much money on him, that he’d have to write to his banker in Galveston. That I was making a fool of myself by nagging him. Said that I should have made better provisions for my family before I left Vicksburg. He also said I was a fool for taking his marker in the first place, that I should have demanded the money here in Texas.” Swallowing the bile that soured his tongue as well as his soul, Brax closed his eyes for a moment. “And he was right.”

  “Uncle Titus was a strange man, but I find it hard to believe he’d be so callous. He spoke warmly of you.”

  “Who’s to know his feelings? They died with him.”

  Sensing his needs, Skylla refilled Brax’s glass. He quaffed the shot of mean-eyed moonshine, which whirled like a tornado in his stomach. She started to pour him another, but he put his hand over the glass.

  “Your family in Vicksburg,” she said, “did they come through the war all right?”

  “They did not. And I’ve said all I’ll say about them. Ever. So, I’d appreciate your not broaching the subject.”

  “If you wish.” She closed her small chapped hand over his fingers. “There’s one thing I feel compelled to say, so I beg your indulgence. From what you’ve said, I presume you answered the advertisement for a special reason. Since Titus St. Clair let you down, you feel you deserve a stake in his ranch.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “Then something good has come out of your pain. You will fight for this place.”

  Lying to a straightforward woman didn’t come easy. “All of my efforts will be for this ranch.”

  The lyrical sound of a woman’s contralto floated through the open shutter. “Skylla sweet? Where are you?”

  Skylla smiled a smile that gripped Brax smack in the solar plexus. “That’s Claudine. You’ll love her!”

  Five

  Her nerves ajitter from meeting Braxton, Skylla found relief in hearing Claudine beckon from outside the kitchen. Agreeing the Nickel Dime needed husbands, then facing the first one—different propositions altogether. Yet he had her mightily impressed. He was a good man, a family man aggrieved for lost relatives. Just as she knew loss, he had suffered it.

  “Shall we go?” he asked, offering his arm.

  She took it as well as a certain comfort, despite her discomfiture, in his arrival here. Uncle’s indifference would be remedied. While Brax would have to marry to be part of the ranch, he was a m
an with a stake in its success. He would be good to, and for, the Nickel Dime.

  That’s not all you feel for him. Her gaze lifted to his face. The intriguing patina of burnished gold in his hair, plus the green of his eyes, reminded her of another man. James. Her fiancé who had been lost at sea.

  Braxton opened the door and waved her outdoors, where Claudine stood by the well, calling, “Hello, hello!”

  Straightening her spine, Skylla led Braxton to the beauteous redhead. She didn’t doubt, he’d be smitten. It was always that way with men.

  Somehow Skylla pushed introductions past her tumbleweed-dry throat. As suspected, his attention centered on the cameo-fair Claudine; he took her hand and his lips seemed to linger on her knuckles. And the redhead went into action.

  “My dear Sergeant Hale, never in my wildest dreams did I think a man so handsome and gallant would come our way.”

  “You’re too kind, ma’am.”

  Claudine batted her lashes, then whirled around. Sunlight sparked the brilliance of her hair; she lifted her arms skyward. Her exuberance sliced years off her thirty-three.

  “This is truly a day for celebration! Let’s do celebrate. After your long journey, a man deserves to be pampered.”

  Like others of his gender, he puffed his chest. “Name me a man who doesn’t enjoy pampering? I, myself, like to give as good as I get.” He winked at Claudine, then had the benevolence to gift Skylla with a second one.

  They had a tiger by the tail, Skylla decided on the uplift of a brow. Braxton’s ragged uniform, too-thin frame beneath wide shoulders, and courtly manners did nothing to mask the sensuality of a passionate man just waiting to brand a woman his own.

  Which could be overpowering.

  Claudine performed some sort of little dance step, one not uncommon in flirty females. It was the unspoken language of a woman showing her approval to a man. “Did Skylla offer you a nice drink of something strong, hmm?”

  “She did.” He was beginning to look uncomfortable, but Skylla couldn’t imagine why.

  “Let’s do sit down for a spell and get acquainted.” Claudine gestured majestically toward the picnic table.

  “Actually, I asked your stepdaughter to take a ride around the pasture. I’d invite you to go along, but I’m afraid my two horses aren’t of an age to carry a double load.”

  “Now, now. A ride can wait a few minutes.”

  Skylla considered giving up her spot to let Braxton and Claudine have time together, but decided against it. While the redhead had a vested interest in the ranch, Skylla and the soldier would be the working partners.

  “Okay, let’s sit down.” She longed to get off her aching leg. Besides, why not give them a moment to get acquainted?

  When they got to the table, Claudine maneuvered Braxton into seating her first. The redhead reached for the glasses and jug of whiskey she kept at close hand. And Skylla felt the electric charge of his touch as he helped her to the bench.

  Dainty hands placed drinks in front of each of the threesome. Claudine lifted her glass. “Here’s to the future.”

  Skylla did no more than touch the lip to her mouth. Straight whiskey never appealed to her anyway, so how would she react if it hit her already knotted stomach?

  She stole a glance at Braxton. His thumb moving along the glass, he gazed at Claudine. No doubt admiring her beauty. For the first time in years, Skylla wished more beauty had come her way, but she gave orders to her heart to stop being silly.

  “Were these mint juleps, my, what a toast we could propose!” Claudine refilled glasses. “You do like mint juleps, don’t you, Sergeant Hale? Skylla and I find them divine.”

  “They beat straight whiskey,” Braxton replied.

  “Heavenly days, don’t they?” Claudine sighed.

  Skylla agreed, but she was practical enough to know that the good life which that symbolic drink represented had died with The Cause. “Why don’t I make a pot of coffee?” she suggested.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Daisy. Whiskey will do fine.” Claudine turned her smile-of-a-thousand-lights to Braxton. “Let’s pretend these are mint juleps. We shall cast aside the sorrows of the war, right here under the blazing sun, with the rustle of oak leaves in our ears and a stiff drink in our veins!”

  Such prattle caused Skylla to shudder. As much as she loved Claudine, it was rather embarrassing when the woman acted ridiculous in front of men. Braxton showed nothing but approval, for he chuckled at the remarks, becoming infected by the inanities.

  “Y’all are truly something.” He grinned. “When I left Vicksburg, I never imagined I’d find such vibrant ladies at the Nickel Dime.”

  “Vicksburg, you say? Why, of course, you’re from Vicksburg. Where else would you have seen the advertisement?” Claudine rose from the table. With her hands reaching skyward, she twirled around. “Oh, how I miss the antebellum days of Vicksburg. Mama and Papa and I, and my dear uncle, Teddy, and Virgil, of course, used to picnic on the bluff overlooking the mighty Mississippi. What lovely memories those are!” Claudine closed her eyes. “I left as a girl of fifteen, but it’s as if I can hear the foghorns from the steamboats and the lovely voices of the dock workers as they sing and load cotton on barges.”

  “Those were the days,” Braxton commented dryly.

  Those were the days, all right. Skylla grew weary of all this reminiscing. When Claudine stood behind Braxton, laid her hand on his shoulder, and bent to touch her cheek to his, she tingled with jealousy.

  Claudine purred, “If you close your eyes and let your imagination flow freely, you can hear them. Can you hear the sounds of Vicksburg, Sergeant Hale?”

  “Prettiest sounds on earth, the river and the gospel.”

  He was hooked.

  Happily, he would accept a lesser interest in the ranch, the downside of becoming Claudine’s fifth husband. The next candidate would take the leavings, but as Skylla’s husband, he’d have control of the Nickel Dime to console him.

  So be it.

  Claudine patted Braxton’s shoulder. “What is your first name? I do declare, I don’t believe Skylla mentioned it. Surely I would have remembered.”

  Jumping in to answer, Skylla said, “As a lad, Sergeant Hale knew Uncle Titus in Natchez. Later, he worked here at the ranch.” Before today, he’d been just one more cowboy with an odd twist to his background. Before today. “His name is Braxton.”

  “Call me Brax.”

  Claudine blanched. “I—I’ve heard of you,” she said to him. “From friends in Vicksburg. Virgil Petry . . . Surely he wouldn’t—I seem to have a headache. You’ll excuse me. Skylla, come along. You need to rub my scalp.”

  “I can’t imagine why in the world Virgil Petry would send a libertine to the Nickel Dime,” Claudine said as soon as the front door was closed. “I was specific about character.”

  “Claudi, he’s here. He brought the chess piece. Mr. Petry surely sent him, and your solicitor and family friend wouldn’t do us ill.”

  Chewing her lip, the redhead nodded.

  Skylla explained about the lost Hales, Uncle Titus’s misdeed, and Braxton’s natural interest in the ranch. “I feel badly for him. Somehow it seems he needs us more than we need him, needs family and the security of having a home.”

  “Always the nest-maker, my Skylla.”

  Skylla recalled the conversation she’d had with her uncle upon his visit to Biloxi en route to the war. Limping over to the staircase and taking hold of the newel cap, she turned back to her confidante of long-standing. “When Braxton was first here in Texas, he searched for his father.” Since Claudine didn’t like Indians anymore than Skylla did, she decided to omit the part about his captivity with the Comanches, then his marriage to a widow named Song of the Mockingbird. “It was only natural to stop here at the Nickel Dime, to see if Uncle could give him a clue. Titus St. Clair and John Hale were acquaintances of old, you see. In Natchez.” It went without saying the St. Clair brothers grew up there. “Uncle once courted Braxton’s mother.
Braxton sent his salary home to her,” she added to show his character further.

  Always one to lap gossip up, Claudine said, “No one in Vicksburg had the vaguest idea where the mysterious Dr. John Hale ended up. Did Titus know where to find him?”

  “I think so. Uncle acted strange when I asked. He said, ‘Some secrets are best left a riddle.’ ” Hindsight being clear, she concluded, “If Uncle knew where to find John Hale, he should have put Braxton’s mind at ease.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t bring up the subject of Brax’s missing father if I were you. After all this time, why ask for trouble?”

  “Good idea.” If she must wait to bring up a subject, then Claudine must not want to send him off. “Shall we send him away?”

  It took a long moment for Claudine to answer. “He can stay. I can handle a libertine. And we have Virgil Petry’s advice to protect us. You won’t forget our pact, will you, Daisy?”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “I do have a headache.” Claudine rubbed her temple. “I need to lie down. Go for your ride, Daisy. But don’t get too close to him. He might make an advance.”

  “He doesn’t scare me.” It was a lie. She kept thinking about those eyes, those nice lips, and his undeniable sensuality.

  Skylla opened the door, then went into the light, where a stony-faced Braxton waited with a pair of pitiful horses. Was he concerned that she might throw him off the place?

  “Is she all right?” Brad asked slowly.

  Skylla decided to take the light approach. “She said you’re a libertine and that I should take heed with you. You won’t make a pass at me. Will you?”

  He grinned. “Not unless you want me to.”

  “I do not.”

  Something akin to disappointment flashed. “Then I’ll help you into the saddle, and we’ll be off.”

  “I can get in the saddle under my own steam, thank you.”

  From her second-story bedroom window, Claudine watched Skylla ride away with the greatest lover Vicksburg had ever known. The redhead champed at the bit for not taking the younger woman’s place on the tour. Alas, her monthly flow had started today, so she hadn’t chanced the embarrassment of soiled clothes. It won’t last forever. She’d be back in the saddle soon.