by Martha Hix
Careful. She’s skittish already over the wedding. Don’t do something to turn her against it forever. He broke the kiss, but his palms framed her face. Gazing into thick-lashed eyes silvered by moonbeams, he let his feelings override his sensibilities. “Marry me, sweetheart. Marry me tomorrow.”
Her head turned away. Without a word she left the log, distanced herself from him. He’d pushed her too far, too fast.
This was not going well.
Having deserted Braxton at the creek, Skylla shook and shook and shook as she hurried to the sanctity of her first-floor bedroom. She wilted onto the edge of the bed, lest her legs give out. One hand gripping the brass bedstead, she carried trembling fingers to lips still tingling from his kiss. Had she lost her mind, allowing herself to feel anything for Braxton? She didn’t want him to matter. To forget James so easily was almost criminal!
To forget her pact with Claudine, worse.
The confusion of her feelings twisted her insides.
Claudine opened the door and ducked her head into Skylla’s bedroom. “What happened to your hair?”
Guiltily, Skylla reached for her hairbrush. “I was just beginning to brush it.”
The redhead walked over to her. “What did Brax say when you said he’s mine?”
“I didn’t tell him. All I could bring myself to say was that he’s free to marry you.”
“And he didn’t jump at the chance?”
That remark hurt Skylla, even though Claudine had spoken the bald truth.
“Forgive me, Daisy. I didn’t mean to sound cruel.”
“You needn’t apologize. I’m more upset by Braxton.”
“Are you attracted to him?”
“Yes.”
“Understandable. He does have his charms.” After a gentle kiss on her stepdaughter’s cheek, Claudine said, “Let me handle him. Just go about your business, and I’ll take care of everything. Including our handsome soldier.” She gave her a hug of assurance. “Daisy, it’s best we do what we decided weeks ago. I must take the first husband. Braxton Hale would chew you up and spit out the leftovers.”
“That is an unkind thing to say.”
“I know whereof I speak. I know men. After four husbands, I surely do.” Both women chuckled nervously. “Of course you realize I don’t degrade your father with that statement. Ambrose was my finest husband. My only love.”
Skylla and Claudine laced fingers.
“I want you to have that kind of love.” The redhead sighed. “I pray to God a wonderful man will arrive on our doorstep and sweep you off your feet. One who isn’t carrying the baggage of a lost family and a tarnished reputation.”
“What if God sent Braxton to me?”
“Darling, don’t forget that I know of our newly arrived knight-in-tattered-armor. He was quite the lady-killer in his younger days. Many upstanding matrons waited until the dark of night for their carriages to stop near Woody’s Blacksmith Shop.”
“The libertine business.”
“Yes. When a lady wished to be a wanton, she turned to Braxton Hale. I never heard a whisper of disappointment. But he never gave anything but his well-endowed body. He doesn’t have a heart to give to a lady.”
What about the Indian girl? Uncle Titus claimed Braxton had loved Song of the Mockingbird dearly, and somehow Skylla didn’t doubt the depth of the fair-haired soldier’s feelings. For ones he held dear, he had a huge and generous heart.
“He’s too forceful for your gentle sensibilities.”
“If you mean to repulse me, dear Claudi, I’m afraid you’ve failed. I find it intriguing that so many women desired him . . . when he could be ours forever and evermore.”
“Daisy, I wish you wouldn’t—”
Unfazed, Skylla nailed her colors to the mast. “We should rethink our pact.”
A frown lessened Claudine’s beauty. “Shall I remind you of the legal repercussions that could come up? Moreover, we decided not to change the rules, no matter what.” She stood, staring down at Skylla. “Daisy, we must abide by the rules, or the Nickel Dime could be jeopardized. He may be a charlatan after no more than the ranch. He could sell it from under our feet, if we don’t protect ourselves.”
“He could have demanded the ranch in payment for Uncle’s debt, but he didn’t.” Skylla trusted Braxton, but she left the bed to pace and ponder. After a few trips up and down the carpet, she decided caution was the prudent course. “The future of the ranch must remain our first consideration.”
“I’ll have a chat with him.”
“No. The Nickel Dime is my responsibility. So, it’s my duty to bear the tidings.” A chill went through her. “I’ll tell him everything. Later. In the morning. At daybreak, when he milks Bossy. Then I’ll tell him the truth.”
“Don’t put it off, Daisy. The longer you do, the more difficult it’ll be.”
“I know.”
Instead of retiring to her bedroom to wait for Skylla’s honesty, Claudine marched outside into the night. She would not sit on her hands and allow her stepdaughter to steal Brax Hale.
She considered forging a note “from Skylla,” asking Brax to meet her in the stable. She’d take down her hair, throw off her clothes, and offer him a midnight ride. She remembered her monthly Drat! It was then that she saw a shadowy figure open the barn door. “To heck with the monthly. That’s Brax, and I’m going after him.”
She took down her hair as she marched toward the barn, throwing hairpins as she went and shaking her thick red curls into a cloud around her shoulders. Two blouse buttons unfastened, she moseyed on in. It smelled musty inside. Musty, dusty, and too much like cows. Oh, well. “Hello, hello. I know you’re in here. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
She scanned the dimly lit barn, her eyes stopping in the corner. Noises from there ceased.
“What are you up to, naughty boy?” She simpered. “Do you need help?”
“No.”
“Now, Brax.” Actually, he didn’t sound as cocky and confident as a golden-haired warrior, but what man would, getting caught doing something that seemed suspicious? “Are you playing with yourself?”
“No.”
Knowing the open barn door would limn her body in silver, she swayed her hips while walking toward him. Brax was sitting down now, she imagined. . . watching her. She lifted her hair, let it drop, then fanned her face. “I do declare, it’s close in this barn. Shall I take off a few of these clothes?”
“Yeah.”
She stopped a good ten feet from Brax. Oh, for a good look at him! He had to be getting hard, what with her stripping off her clothes like this. “Do you like what you see?”
“Yeah.”
By now she was down to her chemise. “How about you take care of the rest, hmm?”
“Yeah.”
A smile of glee lifting her lips, she rushed forward and threw herself into his waiting arms. Even before she landed on a lapful of something round and hard, she was screeching—the stench had gotten to her. “Good God!” She rolled away. “You’re not Brax Hale!”
“ ’Course not. I’m Charlie. I found Titus’s good whiskey.” He lifted the crockery jug from his lap. “How ’bout a drink, missy? Then we’ll get on to the sparkin’.”
Desperate as she was for a man, Claudine considered his offer. Then she reconsidered. “I would never let a filthy peon touch me!”
She made a quick exit. This is a sign, she warned herself. This is a sign to let matters take care of themselves. Skylla had said she’d talk to Brax, and she would. It was only a matter of time until wedding bells would ring for Claudine.
Over and over, those words echoed in her head. All night she tossed and turned, arguing with her decision. At first light, she’d changed her mind slightly. Yes, she would wait for Brax, but she wouldn’t wait too long.
Skylla couldn’t spoil the breathtaking sunrise with her announcement, not the next morning or the next. And not for the three days after that. A tennight passed, and still she hadn’t been hone
st. The more she put it off, the harder honesty got.
Cowardice kept her from admitting to Braxton the advertisement had been for two husbands. If only some wonderful candidate would arrive and sweep Claudine off her feet, Skylla’s troubles would be over. None did. And she said nothing. Every moment, every day gave her a little more time to live in a dreamworld of what-should-not-be.
What would Papa think if he knew he’d reared a spineless daughter? Always, Papa had taught her that St. Clairs didn’t wear their hearts on their sleeves, that it was weak to cry or to raise one’s voice in anger or frustration. Yet Papa had died with her irate words in his ears. And her parting words to James had been spoken with annoyance. Never again would she part from someone dear with angry words between them.
She sensed Braxton would be angry.
Then Claudine began threatening to tell him herself.
When the men had been at the ranch two weeks, Skylla promised herself and her stepmother, “Tonight will be the night.”
They had settled into a routine by then. Miraculously, Braxton had brought item after item to the ranch, which made the living easier. Everyone was putting on weight. Everyone but Kathy Ann, who had fallen into a black mood that nothing or no one could bring her out of.
Supper tonight was roast beef, boiled potatoes, and snap beans from the garden. Skylla barely touched her food, in spite of all these weeks spent dreaming about harvesting and preparing her measly bounty. You’ve got to tell him.
Once coffee was finished and the diners scattered, Claudine set out to do up the dishes. Skylla started toward the bunkhouse, but met Braxton on his way out of the stable. He carried a saddle and kept walking. She followed along.
“Charlie and I will be gone awhile.” He tossed the saddle atop Impossible, then bent to fasten the cinch. “Could be three or four days. Geoff will stay to watch out for the place.”
The women had spent months here without male escort, yet Skylla didn’t protest Geoff’s guard. There were no guarantees Stalking Wolf and his tribe of Comanches wouldn’t attack, even though they had been keeping their distance of late.
“Where are you going?” Skylla asked.
“Menard.”
“Why Menard? And what for?”
“There’s an old Spanish aqueduct over there. I’ve seen it before, but I want to study it. An irrigation ditch could water your truck garden. And make farming easier for you.”
His ideas and consideration roused her appreciation, yet she read between the lines. She’d heard that Oren Singleterry could be found near Menard; she imagined Braxton had heard the same. It wouldn’t surprise her if his plans included an attempt to retrieve Uncle’s horses.
That spelled danger. If he wasn’t inclined to go looking for trouble, then she didn’t wish to give him any ideas. The last thing they needed was trouble.
He stepped toward her, saying, “I think it might be appropriate, a goodbye kiss between us.”
If they kissed again she’d never be able to explain herself, for their one and only kiss lingered too much in her thoughts and ignited her selfish passions. She turned. As fast as her maimed leg would carry her, she bolted. Once again.
Dammit.
What was wrong with her?
Tightening his jaw, Brax watched Skylla flit away, if you could call her pace flitting. Every time he brought up the subject of marriage, or even so much as a kiss, she ran like a crippled rabbit.
She’d better not expect him to keep on working like a dog and bringing in the bacon, not without reward. Unfortunately, the bacon was at end. The poker tables of Ecru had closed to Brax, none of the boys wanting to lose more livestock or goods. So much winning bespoke bad gambling, and Brax had known it going in, but he’d been set on bringing home the largesse and hadn’t taken any chances.
Now he was just as set on reclaiming Titus’s horses, though he’d changed his mind about sending Geoff on the mission—too green. No show herd could be collected without good horseflesh.
Brax’s eyes followed the path Skylla had taken during her latest retreat. If she hadn’t started the wedding plans by the time he got back from his showdown with Singleterry, he was going to hog-tie her and make her tell him why not. There wasn’t an excuse in the world that would be good enough in his ears.
His patience had run low. Into the empty zone.
As he started to put his booted foot in the saddle, Claudine appeared in the moonlight. “Isn’t it a lovely evening? The stars look like diamonds in the sky. And that moon—oh, mercy! Could there be anything up there but cheese?”
He told her he was in a hurry, but she kept on jabbering.
He didn’t trust this iron magnolia. Her whimsical act was just that, an act. He much preferred Skylla’s practicality. In fact, her calm mien offset his hair-trigger temper. Nicely.
“Kind sir, may I beg your indulgence for a few minutes?”
The Spencer settled into its scabbard on Impossible’s saddle, Brax replied after a long pause, “Go ahead.”
“I thought you’d want to know I’ve spoken with Reverend Byrd. He’s agreed to conduct the wedding Saturday week.”
Brax chewed the crumb of comfort. At last. At long last. “I’ll make a point to be back by then.” First, though . . . “Claudine, will you take care of the invitations?”
“Of course. Did you have someone in particular in mind?”
“Luke Burrows and his missus, Gertie Many.” Confident as a peacock, Brax leaned into a relaxed pose and placed a palm on the saddlehorn. “What about a dress? Skylla says her sister can sew. Tell Kathy Ann to look for needle and thread.”
“That won’t be necessary, I’m sure,” Claudine replied.
“We can’t have a wedding without a nice wedding dress.”
Just how he would get the materials was a horse of a different color, but Skylla would, by damn, put away those widow’s weeds. For ever and ever.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Sergeant.” The widow fluttered her long slender fingers. “I have several lovely gowns that I brought over from Mississippi. Perhaps they are a bit dated in fashion, but they’re still lovely.”
“I don’t want Skylla married in someone else’s dress.”
The twit bore down. She pressed Brax’s hand against her heart. “You and Skylla aren’t meant to be. She’s still in love with poor James.”
Shoving the woman’s hand away, Brax felt a rage run through him. “Who the hell is James? Is he the ensign?”
“Oh, yes. James was Skylla’s lover. I suppose you know he died in the war.”
When she’d told him about her dead suitor, he’d assumed their courtship had been innocent enough. Thus he’d thought Skylla chaste. Now Brax felt as if a cannon had struck him in the gut. He couldn’t stand the thought of another man having touched her.
Get a grip, Hale. What difference does it make that she spread her legs for some now-dead salt? Actually, it was better this way. Virgins had a way of making a sentimental journey out of their maiden voyage. Now that he knew the truth, he could breathe easier when the leaving turned ripe.
“About the wedding,” he said, getting back to the business at hand. “It will march on.”
Claudine shook her head. “Since Skylla can’t bring herself to explain things, it’s my place to tell you that you are mistaken.” Like a cat, the widow stretched and preened. “You were never, ever meant for Skylla. She doesn’t want you. All along she’s been adamant about marrying the second candidate.”
Cold water rushed through his veins. “Second candidate?”
“We asked Virgil Petry to find two men. One for me, one for her.” She wriggled closer. “You are meant for me.”
His muscles locked. As if in slow motion, he closed his eyes. I’ve been had. Once more I’ve been had. Like General Lee at Appomattox Court House, he smelled defeat.
Like hell!
Nine
Skylla rued the day she and her stepmother had made a pact about husbands. In the dark of her bedroom s
he forced the motions of calm by slipping a lawn nightgown over her head and taking down her hair. A half-dozen strokes later, she stilled. Thoughts of Braxton had gotten the better of her.
The hairbrush tossed on the bureau next to Electra, who awakened to hiss and paste her ears to her head, Skylla lamented to the annoyed cat, “I have to tell Claudi the truth. Braxton is taking James’s place in my heart. I know I’d be going back on my word, but I want Braxton for myself.”
Squaring her shoulders, she started for the stairs. Surely Claudine was abed. A door slammed shut somewhere.
Electra ran for cover.
“Stay back, goddammit! I’m warning you, Claudine St. Clair, keep your distance. Turn around and head out that front door. I am going to have a word with Skylla. A private word.”
Braxton.
“He knows.” Skylla cringed. “He knows.”
Uncertain of how to deal with his temper—in fact, impotent to fathom the extent of it—she backed against the bureau at the same moment he shoved her door open. It slammed against the wall, matching the furies of betrayal evident in his stance, his face, his eyes—his soul.
“I . . . I’m—”
“You lied to me,” he interrupted, kicking the door shut. “I ought to choke you for leading me on. You never said a damned thing about two husbands!”
Her heart pounded. She didn’t know what to do, or how to deal with him. Would he wreck the room? Hit her? Do worse?
He took a forward step.
The fingers of one hand clutching the edge of the bureau top, she steeled herself for the worst. “Don’t come any closer,” she demanded, her voice as even as she could make it under the circumstances. “Not a step closer.”
He stopped.
Thankfully.
Her breath came easier, but not a lot. He was in no way appeased. Stay calm. He has a right to be upset. But don’t let him see you cowering. Straightening, she gathered courage and wits from somewhere. “Braxton, I should have been honest. I knew I was doing wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. I was afraid. I was afraid you’d leave.”