Mail-Order Man

by Martha Hix

  Skylla set her fork aside. “There’s no money. Except for Confederate notes.”

  Of course, there were the four gold coins discovered in an empty snuff jar in Titus’s dresser drawer. She was saving those for taxes. Talk in town said a tax collector would be appointed first off and any day. She wouldn’t chance not having the funds to pay up.

  Braxton crossed his arms. “Ladies, you must learn not to count on money. If you want something, find a way to get it. Nothing comes to a seated man. Or woman. Not anymore. You’ve got cows, thousands of cows. Milk one or two.”

  Don’t let him shame us. “We’ve heard longhorns aren’t good milkers. We can’t waste time on unproductive undertakings.”

  “They give milk. Not like some breeds, but they give milk. You can bet there’s enough milk for a simple blancmange.”

  Claudine fingered her swanlike neck and bit her lower lip. “Brax, we, um—my goodness!—we don’t know how to milk cows.”

  “None of you?”

  “None of us,” Skylla replied, bravado elevating her chin.

  “As I suspected.”

  Her pride wouldn’t let him think the St. Clair women had done nothing but sit on their hands and gobble down the canned goods discovered upon arrival. “Claudine is an excellent shot and butcher. She’s provided us with nice cuts of beef.” She had gotten lucky with a shot once. “Kathy Ann is an excellent seamstress. She’s made bonnets and so forth. I put in a garden. Within a couple of weeks, we should have snap peas and summer squash.”

  Perhaps one meal of each. While it was considered good form for ladies of station to have at least a passing interest in agriculture, Skylla hadn’t studied the finer points of farming. Besides, farming hurt. Carrying water from the well always sent her calf into spasms of lightninglike pain. Since she’d bragged on her determination out in the pasture, she boasted further, “I’ve been watering a hill of berries. Strawberries.”

  By moonlight Brax’s eyes lit up like the brightest star in the galaxies beyond. “I’ll be damned—Uh, pardon me. Geoff and I have dreamed about strawberries here lately.”

  “Aren’t we blessed fancies come cheap?” Claudine laughed. “Shall we have a picnic someday soon? We shall feast and feast on strawberries!”

  “Why not? One of you ladies on this arm.” He lifted his right hand. “And the other on this arm.” He raised the left. “At least until the wedding. Then rest assured”—his gaze returned to Skylla—“there’ll be no woman on my arm but my wife.”

  Guilt went through her, even before Claudine quirked a brow. Naturally, he supposed the ranch owner would have first rights to the husband. She ought to ease his mind. Now wasn’t the moment for such frankness.

  In her lonely, lonely heart, Skylla knew she made excuses, to buy time . . . to revel in his attentions. Why would he need to mention his past? On the other hand, she shouldn’t tarry in telling him the whole truth. Not tonight. Tomorrow. In the morning she’d get an early start explaining things to Braxton. Mornings were always better. Tomorrow she’d tell him the truth.

  For legal reasons, Claudine must be his bride.

  An hour after dinner and a half-hour after he’d strong-armed Geoff into keeping watch at the ranch, Brax pushed open the swinging doors to Leander’s Saloon, Claudine’s rifle in his right hand, his trusty double-eagle in a pocket. The latter was useless at the moment. In what seemed like a lifetime ago, the coin—a Christmas gift minted by Titus, meant as a joke—had debuted in this very tavern. Debuted and got caught.

  Upon a quick inventory of the ranch’s valuables, Brax had decided it was the Spencer or his mother’s cameo that had to go on the line for blancmange with strawberry sauce.

  He scanned the saloon. What a difference four and a half years had made. Gone were the gaggle of customers, the upright piano, the portrait behind the bar of a painted sporting lady. The bald proprietor, wearing a dirty apron and chewing on a toothpick, pointed to the NO NIGERS OR CHEETERS sign, then hid a jar of pickled pig’s feet marked HEP URSEF under the counter. Some things never changed.

  Brax flipped Leander the bird, but got worried. His earlier days in Mason County had been upright enough, save for a particular accusation of fraud connected to the trick coin. It wouldn’t do for that story to get back to the heiress.

  He thanked his lucky stars for Skylla St. Clair. If either the brat pig or that silly twit Claudine were the bride-to-be, he’d collect Geoff, get on Impossible, and ride.

  His line of sight moved on. Hatted head leaning to the side and his gray swollen tongue lolling forward, Charlie Main was propped in the corner. Drunk. Passed out. A wet spot staining the placket area of his denims. A credit to white supremacy and Leander’s desire for excellent clientele was the bony, coarse Charlie Main.

  Brax made a beeline for the lone table of poker players.

  A small pile of chips lay on the surface. Two gray-haired men sat playing. He recognized them both. “How ya doing, Luke, Daggitt?” He cottoned to Luke Burrows, but Homer Daggitt wasn’t worth the gunpowder to put him out of his misery, in Brax’s opinion. “Long time no see.”

  The farmer, Daggitt, tipped his chair back, planking a palm on the wooden arm, which emphasized his beer gut and strained shirt buttons. “I’ll be dipped in rat shit if it ain’t the cowboy from hell. I thought the hogs done et you.”

  Putting in his two cents’ worth, Leander called out, “Ain’t no purty boy no more, that’s fur durn sure.”

  Brax lifted his hand to offer the barkeep a second shot at the bird, then sized up one of Ecru’s most decent citizens. Luke Burrows was thinner than ever, like older men were wont to be, but he looked healthy enough. Brax was pleased to see him looking no worse for the wear.

  Luke stacked red and blue chips on the baize-covered table. “You do look a mite drawed, son. Did you get shot up bad in the war?”

  It didn’t take bullets to get shot up. Brax felt about as wrung out as he’d ever felt on the battlefield, not that he’d ever admit it. “No Blue Belly’s a good enough shot to get me.”

  “You was prob’ly ducking.”

  “Yes, Leander, now that you mention it, that’s what I was doing,” Brax snarled. “Every chance I got.”

  Luke chuckled, then took a sip of beer. “Have you been out to the Nickel Dime?”

  “Could have.”

  “You ain’t looking to put a claim on the place, are you?”

  “I just might, Luke.”

  “You’re too late, son. Mississippi gals beat you to it. One of them inherited the place from Titus St. Clair. Deed got all changed and everything afore the war was over.”

  “I’m working for Miss St. Clair, is all.”

  “Iffen she hired you, she shore must be hard up—” Daggitt clamped his overstuffed lips when Brax shot him a glare that dared him to finish the insult. “Welcome back, I guess.”

  Luke eyed the proprietor. “Leander, bring the boy a glass of beer. On me.”

  “Much obliged.” Brax pulled out a straight chair, sat down, then anted the Spencer. “Deal me in.”

  “Nawsir,” Daggitt objected. “I ain’t forgit that hunnerd you tried to take off me with yore two-tailed gold piece, Christmas of ’60.”

  “What about that fifty you won from me a week later?” Brax countered. “Deal me in, boys. I haven’t had the challenge of playing cards with”—picking clean—“a couple of topnotch Texans in much too long.”

  “Our cards.” Luke pointed to the deck on the table.

  “Suits me,” Brax replied with a smile.

  Within an hour he had all the chips in front of him. And it hadn’t taken sleight of hand. Brax took the rifle and leaned it against his chair. “Had enough for an evening, gentlemen?”

  They had.

  Brax was in no hurry to settle up. “What’s going on around here? Seen any Yankees toting carpetbags?”

  “Not a one,” Luke replied, “but I heared there’s some over to the east. The scalawags are headed this way, I reckon.”
>
  Good. A buyer on the move, with any luck. Since Brax’s fortunes were definitely looking up, he had every reason to be tickled over the prospect of a sucker approaching.

  What about now, though? His first thought centered on Skylla. The lady was a dervish, even with a lame leg. A grin edged its way around his mouth. A woman that energetic ought to be hell on wheels in bed. First, he had to get her there.

  Which meant planning, workwise and otherwise.

  What about what she said out at the canyon? Straight out, she said she was glad to have a home and would work for it. Can I turn her off the place? Damn tootin’.

  In the meantime, the Nickel Dime would be better off if Titus’s horses were back where they belonged. “Say, either of you know what happened to Oren Singleterry?”

  “Whud if I do?” was Daggitt’s response.

  “I heard something.” Luke ran a hand down the gullies of his face. “Heard he stolt Titus’s horses when he pulled out last November. Also heard Singleterry was over in Menard. Raising horses. Wouldn’t surprise me none if them horses’ve had a running-iron put to their hides.”

  Brax’s sentiments exactly. “Sounds like I need to see about collecting Nickel Dime property.”

  “Now that ya mentioned Menard . . .” Daggitt took a fat wad of tobacco into his fat wad of a mouth. “Ya know that gal ya used to spark? Jane Clark be her name.” He dribbled brown juice onto his stubbled chin. “Didn’t wait on ya, naw she didn’t. Got herself all married off. Why, you was hardly outta the county.”

  Relieved he wouldn’t have the bother of a lady wanting to take up where they left off, Brax shrugged. “Jane and I didn’t make any promises to each other.”

  “Ain’t you lucky?” Daggitt sucked, then spat, missing the spittoon. “Oh, did I tell ya? She’s aliving over to Menard. She was left a widder woman. The war, ya know. I heared she was working as a—”

  “You yap too much,” Luke interrupted.

  Choicer words were never spoken. Brax surveyed his chips. “Time to pay up, boys.”

  Each pulled out bills.

  Confederate greenbacks.

  “‘That’s not money.” Brax leveled a glare at each man in turn. “You owe me. Gold.”

  “How the heck can you expect anything different than dixies?” Daggitt’s face turned the hue of purple cabbage. “Where would we get any gold? I done give near on everything I had to ole Jeff Davis.”

  “Me, too.” Luke nodded. “We just play for fun nowadays.”

  “I wasn’t playing for fun.”

  Leander came over to collect dirty glasses. He screwed up an eye, smirking. “Luck’s run out, ain’t it, purty boy? Warms the cockles of m’ heart.”

  “Will you take our markers?” Luke waited with bated breath.

  Brax was finished with markers. But he wasn’t finished with Daggitt and Luke. The farmer might be friendly, and Brax did cotton to the man, but all men knew poker playing to be serious business. “Tell me something, Luke Burrows. You still raising hogs?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I’ll settle for one.”

  “We only got two breeders. And a half-growed shoat.”

  If Luke weren’t the most decent fellow around, Brax would demand one of those breeders. “I’ll take the shoat. Deliver it to the Nickel Dime tomorrow. Before noon.” He turned to the corpulent farmer. “I suggest you hightail it over to your place. Bring me a couple of chickens. Caged. Raid your wife’s pantry while you’re at it. For butter and sugar. A bottle of vanilla would finish off the debt.” Kathy Ann would have her dessert, by damn. He didn’t give a hoot in hell about her, but he knew the hurt of a craving gone too long unsettled. “I’ll wait right here for you.”

  Neither acted excited about giving over such prizes, but each left.

  Brax stood up, stretched a kink out of his shoulder, then strolled over to Charlie Main. “Get up, asshole.” He thumped the toe of his boot hard against the drunk’s butt, twice. “Get up. It’s time to go to work.”

  Charlie mumbled incoherently. He swatted an arm. His sweat-stained sombrero fell to the floor, exposing greasy hair in a shade which might be kindly described as dung brown.

  “Get up.”

  A bellow of foul-breathed indignation met that demand. Charlie Main did have a temper.

  “Sober, you used to be the best damn cowboy in Texas, outside of me. And I’m betting you’re still tall in the saddle. Get up, Charlie. I’ve got all the booze you can guzzle back at the ranch. All you have to do is rope a few cows during the day. Then you can wallow in piss and rotgut all evening long.”

  “Getthehellouttamysight!” Charlie came alive, and roared to his feet like a mad bull pawing the ground. “You sumbitch!” He drew back his fist to plow it into Brax’s face. “Getoutta—”

  Brax lunged for the cowpoke’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “Make some coffee, Leander.”

  By midnight Brax was riding Impossible back to the ranch. The Spencer nestled in its holster, the foodstuff in the saddlebag. A cage of upset hens hung from the saddlehorn.

  On a complaining mule rode Charlie Main. Brax intended to set the cowpoke on a path—with Geoff’s assistance—to repairing the outbuildings, collecting stolen horses, and rounding up a herd to show off to a sucker.

  Once Brax taught those women—preferably Skylla alone—how to milk a cow, he’d have done his part to get the Nickel Dime presentable. Here on out, he would do nothing but kick back, wait for a sucker, and eat milk pudding.

  Seven

  “Milk that cow? I can’t. I simply can’t—won’t!”

  This was not a good morning, certainly no venue for true confessions. The blood drained from Skylla’s face as she eyed an expanse of sharp horns and wild beast. Even though the cow’s horns were tied between the corral fence and Molasses’s saddlehorn, Geoff atop the gelding, Skylla drew no comfort.

  Braxton wanted her to learn to milk a cow.

  Furthermore, he’d brought that awful Main drunkard to the Nickel Dime. Already, Charlie Main had insulted Claudine and had rendered the outhouse unfit for even Kathy Ann, much less for those of delicate sensibilities. On Braxton’s orders, the derelict was hauling water to clean up after himself.

  “Come on, honey,” Braxton prompted.

  “I’m not going near that creature. Or her calf.” Skylla cut her eyes to the bullock hogtied nearby, then back to the mother. “Her horns . . . ! Braxton, I don’t want to be gored. I’ll do anything else. Whatever you deem me fit to do. Why don’t I take care of the laundry?”

  “Not a chance.” He dangled the pail from a forearm, and took hold of Skylla’s elbow with his hand. “We’re gonna walk over to that mama cow, and you’re gonna talk real sweetlike.” His eyes half-lidded, he gave Skylla a meaningful look that sent her heart to pitching from something that had nothing to do with cows or milk. “Talk like you used to talk to the swains of Biloxi, back when the moss swayed in the oak trees and Rastus used to turn the ice-cream crank.”

  “I gots to tell ya, Miss Skylla, he know milking. He a good hand at it. He real good at eberthing.”

  Skeptical about herself, she said, “I don’t know . . .”

  Braxton laced his fingers with hers. “Come on, sweetheart. I promise she won’t disturb a hair on your head.”

  He said it. Skylla decided to believe him. He has lots of fight, she realized. The sun hadn’t been up any time, yet she’d already marveled for an hour at the amazing Braxton Hale.

  Moreover, wasn’t it gallant, Braxton spending his money on supplies and livestock? Imagine—setting hens and the ingredients for dessert. The prospect of a shoat. Lots of milk. Braxton, you’re a wonder. And he’d called her sweetheart. What would be the shame in basking in that for a spell?

  “Are you ready to give milking a try?” He winked one of those impossibly wonderful green eyes.

  She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and advanced on a ton of beef on the hoof. “Let’s do it.”

  Electra got wind of
opportunity, prancing up with a meow. She really was a tart, going to whoever could do right by her.

  No milking stool to sit on, Braxton crouched back on his heels and motioned for Skylla to do the same. Recall flashed across his face as he glanced at her skirts. “Claudine is better suited for this chore,” he said, pandering to her affliction.

  “I won’t let my lame leg get in the way of chores.”

  He looked up at her with the gaze that turned both her legs lame. “Skylla, would you let me examine your limb? I’ve had some experience along the healing line, you know.”

  “I can’t be helped. Several doctors have told me so.”

  Braxton nodded, understanding and carrying on without comment. Thankfully. “Since I’ve sent Claudine and Kathy Ann out on a hunt,” he said, “why don’t you stand here and just watch? I’ll milk ole Bossy this time.”

  “Th-thank you.”

  Why had she stuttered? Skylla had never been anxious of speech. It’s because you’re too chicken to ’fess up. Or did it have to do with the feelings she’d thought had died with James? Braxton, the model of indomitable spirit, reminded her she was far from dead. With Claudine just as alive, Skylla realized hers was a collision course with disaster.

  Rather than dwelling on it, she glanced at the comical calico. Electra posted herself to Braxton’s left, then licked her paw and imparted a hurry-up-you-laggard look his way. He began to address the cow. She tried to turn her head in his direction, the ropes restraining her. Yet the look in her round bovine eyes spoke an eloquent language: “Who is this fool, and what the dickens is he up to?” She expelled a moo that thundered across the corral and set Electra’s hackles on end.

  “There’s a good girl, good, good girl.” Shoulders hunching, Braxton reached for an udder. Bossy danced from one leg to the other, flipped her tail. With sure, expert motions, he quieted her and guided a stream of white liquid into the pail. “Good girl,” he crooned. “Giving us nice milk for blancmange.”