by Martha Hix
“In the satchel.” She pointed to the cracked leather bag. Afterward, she took bottles down from the cupboard. “He’ll need medicine, too, I guess.”
It ought to be anger that he felt, facing the girl who had shot Bubba. There were tears in her eyes, and some had made runnels down her pudgy cheeks. He walked over to pick through the dusty bottles and jars. Concerned she’d cause more trouble, he asked, “You gonna be okay?”
She gave a half-nod, then wilted on a chair. “Oh, Geoff, I’m so sorry! I thought he was hurting her. I didn’t want her to end up dead like my real mother. Yvette.”
“Da massa, he wouldn’t hurt Miss Skylla.”
Stepping back, she wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Will he be all right?”
“Shore. He gonna be fine,” Geoff hedged.
Without a word she placed bottles and bandages in the black bag. “Soon as I apologize to him, I’m going away.”
“Why you wanna do somethin’ like dat?”
“All I am is trouble. If I’m on my own, then I won’t be trouble to anybody.”
Geoff took hold of her wrist. “Doan you be doin’ dat. You am trouble, by dat ole mutt Sammy, you am trouble. But you be troublin’ dat sister of yours more iffen you leave.”
Her old defiant self, she stuck her tongue out. “What do you know, you stupid darkie? I’m leaving soon, and don’t you dare tell anyone where I’m going.”
Tucking the satchel under his arm, he didn’t stop her when she flounced outside. Nonetheless, he departed the cookhouse to yell, “Doan you forget you promised to stay ’til you say you sorry!”
Stay, she did, although no effort to face her victim was forthcoming. After a long exacting night of tending his wounded brother, Geoff passed her at breakfast. She said nothing. At noon, she held her cat to her chest under a magnolia tree. Once more he reminded her of the promise, which she answered by turning her tear-streaked face away.
The crisis increased with Bubba, especially by the second day. Never once did he allow Skylla to cluck over him, and when Claudine sashayed in, he threw a bedpan at her. But that wasn’t the worst of it. A fever had begun to rage in him.
Skylla kept a kettle of chicken broth simmering on the stove, in hopes that Braxton would accept some of the nourishing liquid. He didn’t want anything to do with whatever she had touched. Each time she attempted to see him, he had behaved cantankerously; being uncouth, cross, belligerent, furious, delirious, hateful, sarcastic, or occasionally unconscious.
On the third morning, Claudine entered the cookhouse, where Skylla was squeezing a lemon into a glass. Yesterday she’d gone into Ecru to trade a jug of whiskey for that lemon.
“Brax is especially testy.” The redhead plopped an empty enameled bowl down before taking a dishrag to dab at a hank of wet, chicken-smelling hair. “He threw your broth at me.”
Skylla yearned to go to him, to soothe his brow, to make it all better. But what could she do, outside of giving in to his proposal? She was on the verge of it. Oh, was she on the verge.
Sugaring the lemonade, she asked, “Will you see that Geoff gets this drink? Have him tell Braxton Charlie made it.” Charlie Main, a total wastrel these past days.
“I’ll take the lemonade.” Claudine stayed put. “Geoff is going to ride into Mason town to fetch the doctor.”
“And Brax agreed?”
“Of course not. The numskull thinks that quadroon will heal him.” Claudine smoothed her hair. “Someone needs to watch over the patient. Naturally, Charlie isn’t available. He’s probably drunk somewhere.”
“We can’t ask Kathy Ann to sit with Braxton. I’ll do it.” She expected Claudine to protest.
“If he’ll let you, fine. I need a change of scenery,” Claudine announced. “A ride into Ecru will do me good.”
A glitch in her stepmother’s tone caused Skylla to decide: more than an outing was the intent. So be it.
“Before I go, there’s something I want to say.” The redhead got one of her determined looks on that cameo-fair face. “I’m not liking the way this deal is turning out. His aims are suspect. When a guileless man discovers defenseless women have done something to arm themselves, he’d—”
“Arm themselves? Such as with a pearl-handled pistol?”
“I’m not talking about his injury, and you know it.”
“Why should he be expected to come up with a compromise when neither of us has any earthly idea for one?”
“I think he’s up to no good. I intend to check him out.”
“Fine. Do it.”
Claudine started to leave, but Skylla stopped her. “He’s done so much for us. Ever since he arrived, life has shown promise. And, Claudi, he has a right to be at the ranch, too. Uncle’s debt, remember.” Getting no response, she went on. “If you’re worried about your place here, you shouldn’t. Anyway, we’re making too much of this. He’ll get well, and we can go from there.”
“Really? After he threw that bowl, he had the gall to say he’d marry me when fish wear pigtails!”
Skylla couldn’t help but laugh, despite her tormented heart. “Oops. Sorry. He won’t be cross, once he’s feeling better.” If he ever is . . .
Taking a step forward, the redhead said, “If I find nothing to concern us about him, I will marry Brax Hale. For the sake of this ranch. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“I don’t think we should decide anything at the moment.”
Blue eyes hardened. “You weren’t so mealy mouthed when the chips were down in Vicksburg. You were so anxious to get out of Mississippi, you were quite willing to let me sleep with that potbellied Yankee official in exchange for free passage to your dream. You said you’d repay me.”
Skylla could have gone through the floor, the shame of that bargain with Winslow Packard prowling through her very soul. “You promised we’d never speak of that. You promised.”
“And you promised to give me the first husband.” A pause. “If Brax meets my standards, you will step back. Understand?”
Skylla may have nodded, yet she couldn’t bear the idea of being his stepdaughter.
“Incest. I like the idea of it. Right here in my old buddy Titus’s squeaky brass bed.” Braxton patted the mattress next to the sleeping calico cat. “Get in bed, daughter. Daddy need some lovin’. Come to Daddy.”
At least he hadn’t demanded she get out of his sight.
Skylla, setting the lemonade on the bedside table, soundlessly counted to ten, then reached for the pillow he’d tossed to the floor during an earlier fit of temper. Plumping it, she tried to ignore his orneriness. “You seem to be doing fine. You must be improving.”
“Right. Geoff’s gone for the doctor so we can play gin rummy. Get lost, Skylla. Your stupidity grows tiresome.”
Same goes for you. “You’re a doctor. You should know a positive approach has a great bearing on recovery. I know from my own travail. So, you see, I wasn’t making an idiot’s attempt at downplaying the extent of your predicament.”
“Always ready with an excuse for her behavior, that’s Skylla St. Clair.”
She supposed she had that coming. Concentrating on the benign, she noted his appearance. His hair glistened with beads of water and had been slicked back, the teeth of a comb having made a pattern in the curls of old gold. Even sick and filled with the poison of being thwarted and all, he was handsome. “I see you’ve availed yourself of the water pitcher and towels.”
“I got myself dolled up, just in case that big-busted redhead wants to come by to inspect the rack of meat.”
In the wake of frazzled nerves combined with being reminded of how the St. Clairs had gotten here—not to mention three nights of lost sleep—Skylla had had just about enough. Her composure slipped. “I was under the impression she brought you a bowl of broth and you threw it at her. You’d do well to collect your wits and recognize where your bread is buttered!”
“Open that window,” Braxton barked. “It’s hotter than hell in here.”
His demand complied
with, she handed him the lemonade. “Drink. It’ll do you good.”
He shoved the glass away. “What I need is the urinal. Some genius set it out of my reach.”
She went to the bureau where it sat next to the collection of outdated medicines and paltry sickroom supplies. One item wasn’t paltry. Ether.
Braxton, last night, had lamented to Geoff that while this anesthetic had lay idle here, Confederate soldiers had been hacked to pieces without so much as a slug of whiskey to deaden their horrific pain. Then, and now, Skylla prayed that James had gone to a quick and numbed death.
Warning herself off the subject of her fallen ensign, she held the urinal gingerly between the tips of her thumb and forefinger, and carried it across the room. “I’ll leave you alone with this.”
He grinned nastily. “Why don’t you stay and watch? Then you can see how I measure up to Jimmy Boy.”
In no mood for crudity or arrogance, Skylla retorted, “What if you come up short?”
“I’ll show you my tongue.”
“I’ve no desire to see it. You’re beyond insensitive to make light of a sainted son of Dixie.”
“What will you do about it? Run me off?”
“You’re doing an excellent job of that on your own. Granted, you’re the injured party here, but you’re not doing yourself the least bit of good by being hateful.”
Skylla pivoted around and left the room. Limping to the porch—her leg hurt worse today than it had in ages—she came to grips with a possible solution to the impossible problem of Braxton Hale, provided he survived. He would have to leave.
While the St. Clairs were indebted to him, they could offer to repay the debt in time. This was the only recourse, for Skylla couldn’t stand the rift that was splitting her and Claudine, and becoming his stepdaughter would jeopardize her very existence.
In spite of the sense she made from chaos, her heart objected. She wanted him. She needed him, and not just for this ranch, for he’d given her a reason to hope and to dream of something more than a fresh start provided by having a home.
Moreover, he needed her. Her greatest wish, beyond her totally feminine desire to be his, was to help in his emotional as well as physical recovery. If Claudine didn’t stand in the way, she could, and would, devote herself to making peace from the disarray of his spirit.
Where did that leave poor departed James? He’s gone. He told you to get on with your life, Should he not return. James would approve. At last she felt free. Free, yet caged.
“Hullo, beauty.”
Charlie Main’s loud drunken articulation clattered in her ears. Propped against the well, he had a jug tipped to his mouth. When he lowered it, he wiped his mouth on a sleeve and leered. The disgusting sight he presented made it difficult to believe this was the ranch hand who’d been such a good worker. Before his boss got shot.
Standing over Main, she said, “You gave Sergeant Hale your word not to drink during daylight hours.” She dabbed her forehead before stuffing the linen cloth back in her pocket. “We are very disappointed in you.”
“You sound just like Momma.” He took another big slug, liquor running down his chin. “Poppa choked her for nagging.”
“I trust he had an appointment with the gallows.”
This path would lead nowhere. Skylla grabbed the jug. With trembling hands, he reached to retrieve it, but he wilted upon getting it through his thick skull that she meant business.
“Get up,” she ordered. “Get up and go wash yourself. I have a pot of coffee in the cookhouse. Drink several cups of it. There’s work to be done. Get busy.”
“I ain’t going’ after that snot-nosed sister of yourn.”
“What does that mean?” Skylla and Kathy Ann hadn’t spoken since the night of the shooting. Which didn’t mean she had no regrets about their argument. It did trouble her. Mightily. “Where is she?”
“Don’t ask me. She tookened off a coupla hours ago.”
Suspiciously, Skylla asked, “Why is it you waited until now to mention this?”
Charlie Main shrugged. “Ain’t nobody asked me.”
“Disgusting lout! Collect your mule and be gone.”
What am I going to do about Kathy Ann? Remorse had eaten at Skylla over their argument. No wonder the girl had fled. Will a third loved one go to a grave with my hatefulness in her thoughts? I can’t let anything happen to her!
Her gaze turning westward, Skylla made plans. Once Geoff and Claudine returned, the three of them must spread out in a search. The doctor could watch over Braxton. And just what could the misfit threesome do? Hare off on a pair of princely steeds known as Impossible and Molasses? Two displaced Southern ladies and a youth, all new to the West—green, in other words—what could they do in the face of Indians on the warpath?
Since Braxton was once married to an Indian, maybe he’d know how to handle this.
Right then, the curtain of the sickroom moved aside. Liquid from a container got pitched out the window. “Good gracious, he’s out of bed! What else can go wrong?” As soon as she entered the front door, she knew what else could go wrong.
Boom!
“Awwggghhhh! ”
Skylla rushed into her bedroom cum sickroom, finding what she expected: Braxton, a sheet draped around his middle, had tumbled to the floor. Oh, dear!
Electra peered over the bed’s edge as Skylla gave aid. His heavy body put a terrible strain on her leg, but at last he collapsed onto the mattress and dragged the sheet under his armpits. His face held a grayish tint, lines she’d never before noticed bracketing his mouth.
“I’ll take care of you,” she whispered softly.
“For that I thank you.” His expression softened. “And for helping me see the error of my ways.” His was a whisper uttered pleasantly. Surprisingly so. Considering his earlier crossness and acute distress. His right hand scooted to Electra, who, now calm, leaned her tricolored chin into his scratching fingers. “Skylla, I apologize for the insults. All of them.”
“You were feverish. I have no hard feelings.”
He lifted his free arm. “Take my hand. Sit down beside me, sweetheart, and take my hand.”
Such a move would weaken her decision to send him on his way, eventually. Yet . . . Relieved at his change, and being weak where he was concerned, she laid her fingers within the much larger glove of his red-hot hand.
“What’s the matter?” he asked when he detected her trembling.
“My sister.” Skylla curled her shoulders. “She’s gone. I’m scared Stalking Wolf has her.”
Braxton uttered something, and it may have been, “There is a God,”She’ll have them running for cover in no time.”
“If you mean to ease my mind, you’ve failed.”
“Then you don’t give her her due. If she fought alongside Cornwallis, Yankees and Rebs alike would be subjects of Queen Victoria. If Napoleon had had Piglet’s services, we’d all grieve for Wellington at Waterloo. If she’d been at the right hand of Bobby Lee, Unconditional Surrender Grant would have met his Waterloo.”
“It’s generous of you, giving such august credit. But her strengths are besidewould have met his Waterloo.”
“It’s generous of you, giving such august credit. But her strengths are beside the point.” Skylla licked her lips. “You know Indians ways, you were married to one. What—”
His face became an unreadable mask. “I suppose Titus told you about Songbird, too.”
“Yes. I know you married her, for love. And I know you turned your back on doctoring when you couldn’t save her life.”
“I’d already made up my mind one Hale doctor was enough.”
“Your father?”
“Yes. My horse’s ass of a father. I won’t discuss him further.” Brax rubbed a hand down his face. “Skylla, for God’s sake, the clock is ticking for your sister. Fetch Main.”
“I can’t.” She made explanations. “There’s only me.”
“And me. I’ll go after her.”
“
You can’t leave this bed!”
A half-dozen heartbeats passed before Braxton admitted, “You’re right. I’m in no shape to do anyone good. Skylla, this bullet has got to come out.”
As if a gust of winter wind had blown through the open window, she shivered. “Dr. Brown should be here soon.”
“No time. Find a jug of good booze. It’s hidden behind some old bales of hay in the barn. I’ll down half the hooch. You pour the rest in the puncture. Then dig the bullet out.”
Panicked, she knew nothing about medical procedures, save what it was like to be a patient. “What about the ether?”
“Forget it. Insensate, I couldn’t tell you what to do.”
“I’m no doctor. We must wait for Oliver Brown.”
“How are you at undertaking?”
A hellish question.
“Skylla, get the forceps and scissors, and clean towels. Find the needle, too, and bring heavy sewing thread. Boil the instruments for ten minutes. Once they’re cool, bring them here. I’ll cut the bullet out.”
Oh, yes. Of course. No problem. Had he gone mad!
He threw back the sheet, exposing the length of his nude body. Skylla had seen a naked man, once. The twilit day she’d given James her virginity. It had been pleasant enough, coitus, although that one time nowhere near matched the heat Braxton generated in her. As well, Braxton would not come up short.
Why try to deny Braxton Hale was the more beautiful specimen? Except for the hunk of wounded flesh on his upper thigh exposed when he peeled away the bandage.
She gasped, realizing the import of his situation. That he was able to talk seemed a wonder. Skylla couldn’t count herself a healer, but she knew when a wound had gone bad.
Nothing might be enough.
Eleven
Skylla sterilizing medical instruments, Brax nursed a question: How much did she know about Songbird? Granted, Titus had ratcheted his mouth, but how much did she know of the whole story? No way could she know about his plot to sell the ranch.
Brax tried to get more comfortable in bed. The moment he moved, pain zigzagged up and down his spine. He gawked at his wound. “Shit.” From the looks of it, Braxton Hippocrates Hale would have an appointment with the undertaker before August switched to September, less than a week away. His father’s curse was coming to pass. I pray you never have the satisfaction of knowing your victory, John Hale.