Mail-Order Man

by Martha Hix

  Whatever the case, Brax would die before he could make love to Skylla in this very bed . . . or on the bed of magnolia blossoms he’d been thinking about for weeks.

  Damn, he hated leaving Skylla without a better fight. No. The real trouble lay in the fact that he admired the serene brunette too much. She’d neither collaborated with the enemy to the north, nor hated him for marrying the enemy to both North and South. She was the kind of woman any man would be lucky to claim until death parted them.

  She was hell on a plan.

  His thoughts traveled down the avenue to other important personages. What about Geoff? What about Bella? Brax couldn’t die right now. He had to see Geoff and his mother settled. As he had many times during the past weeks, he hoped Bella’s voyage to San Francisco was pleasant enough.

  He had to live. His work wasn’t finished here on earth. Including the search for Piglet.

  “Miz Skylla,” he heard Charlie Main say in a muffled voice from the parlor, “I’ve been thinking ’bout what you said. I done drunk some coffee. I got Patsy Sue saddled, too. I’m ready to go after your sister, if you’re of a mind, ma’am, to give me a second chance. I owe it to your man. He saved my hide back in ’60, and I been needing to show him my appreciation.”

  Brax didn’t listen to Main’s description of heroism. He was no hero. Anything good he’d ever done, it had been by reflex rather than from a sense of nobility. Braxton Hale had no use for heroes or heroics. That didn’t stop him from being glad Skylla had found a rescuer for the pistol-packing brat.

  Skylla’s good qualities passed in his review. She was too noble for the collection of misfits, liars, and thieves populating this damned ranch.

  A collection of admirers, all married or too old to do her any good in bed, circled the seated Claudine St. Clair and chattered like geese. She held court in Emil Kreitz’s store. The proprietor hadn’t joined the gaggle. Kreitz stood behind the counter, licking a pencil tip and tallying up the purchases of a dressed-up wishbone, the farmer Luke Burrows.

  Homer Daggitt, obese as a bear, chomped down on a pickle, squirting juice on the sawdust-powdered floor. “You wuz askin’ after that so-and-so Brax Hale.” He gifted the circle with a open mouthful of green. “That rascal cheated me outta a hunnerd dollars, Christmas of ’60.”

  Claudine batted her lashes. “That’s the same as calling him a thief. Is that what you’re doing, Mr. Daggitt?”

  The cluster of men turned their eyes to Daggitt. “That be exactly whut I’m doing, Miz St. Clair. He done cheated ever’ man here outta goods and livestock. Ain’t that so, boys?”

  Luke Burrows spoke up. “You’re being a sorry loser is what you’re being, Homer Daggitt. He earned that stuff fair and square in poker games.”

  The cluster mulled the statement, then took Burrows’s side. Nonetheless, Claudine frowned. She’d hoped against hope that her disquiet concerning Brax’s motives was unfounded. But there had to be fire behind the smoke of Daggitt’s charge. Maybe she ought to give up ideas of marrying Brax.

  He caused too much friction between her and Skylla.

  While she’d always been a woman to look out for herself, Claudine regretted her arguments with Skylla. That lie about Winslow Packard—Never could she admit going to his bed before any mention of Texas had occurred. It had been evil to perpetrate the lie, done to keep the upper hand.

  Yet Skylla meant more than any hairy-legged man who just might have ulterior motives when it came to the Nickel Dime. If Claudine couldn’t have that golden-haired ladies’ man, Skylla shouldn’t either. How could she make her think twice?

  Skylla watched in amazement as Braxton, a sheet shielding his privates, snipped the stitches in his upper leg. His bravery and courage added to her respect. You can’t send him away. You know you can’t. Somehow, in some way, the dilemma of who would become his bride would come to a natural conclusion.

  “Tie me to the bed.” He dropped the last stitch in a bowl. “Do it, Skylla.”

  She tied strips of material around his wrists and the rungs of the bedstead.

  “Now pour some of that good alcohol in the puncture.”

  Not nearly as brave or courageous as the virid-eyed man of medicine, she said, her voice a croak, “Whiskey. Drink some whiskey.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I need my wits.”

  She forced herself not to look away when she poured the antiseptic into the gaping hole. A litany of disjointed prayers rushed from his lips. The brass rungs molded to his grasp and bent inward.

  Her composure slipped. “I—I’m a mess at this.”

  His face a mask of pasty white agony, he whispered hoarsely, “Undo these straps and hand me the forceps.”

  She did as ordered. He began to dig into his flesh. She yearned to remove her gaze, but didn’t. The least she owed him was a show of bravery.

  “Sit on my leg and hold my elbow,” he said, his voice hollow. “I’m shaking.”

  She rested her weight on his leg, and couldn’t figure out who did the most shaking, him or her. In shameful awareness, she realized how nice it felt to touch the hard muscles and hair-dusted body belonging to Braxton.

  Yet weariness reminded her of three nights of no sleep. Could she hold up to the surgery in progress? She feared if she closed her eyes, she’d sleep the sleep of the dead.

  “Get rid of this damned sheet,” he ordered. “It’s getting in my way. And hold the wound open.”

  She moved the offender away. When she placed her fingers at the appointed spot, his privates nudged against the heel of her hand. Her heart tripped. His conspicuous sex made her think things she ought not to think at a time like this.

  The forceps went still. Brax spoke in the low timbre of a hardy and healthy male when he said, “Someday soon you’ll hold those beauties in your hands.”

  “Don’t do this to me. We’re in the middle of surgery!”

  He chuckled. “Why can’t I flaunt my scar?”

  “It isn’t a scar. And it’ll never get to that point if you don’t behave.” She gathered her wits again. “Set to work on yourself, sir, else I’ll take up your scalpel and divest you of those items you are so inordinately proud of.”

  “Good idea.”

  Again, he bent over his upper leg. It seemed an eternity passed before he held up a red slime-covered object, pitched it into a small bowl, then let out a sigh of relief. Calmly, surprisingly, as if he had just done surgery on someone else, he ordered, “Pour more alcohol on there and then give me the needle.”

  Needle and thread in hand, he set to stitching. His long-fingered broad hand whipped in and out of the mangled hole. Nausea roiled within her all of a sudden. The last stitch in place, Braxton looked up at Skylla.

  “Don’t faint now, sugar. The worst is over.”

  “I . . . I wasn’t going to faint,” she lied and gathered herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “What do we do now?”

  “Think you’re up to some nursing?”

  “I . . . of course.”

  “Wet a clean rag with some of that corn liquor. I need a washing up.”

  Trembling and weak, she reached for the necessary gear, and dabbed the cloth on his stitches. But her muscles began to freeze. “Br-Braxton, I . . . I can’t. I am overcome.”

  He swung aside at the moment she fainted.

  It took Herculean effort on Brax’s part to get Skylla settled on the bed, but he did it. Free to avail himself of Titus’s best aged whiskey, he took a big slug of the smooth liquid lightning. Better, he said to himself. Much better. Strong liquor and soft woman, a damned fine combination any day of the week, and especially after a shock to the system.

  Soon, his toes began to chill. He glanced down to see the sheet had come loose from its mooring. He tucked it under; the tips of his fingers struck something between the mattress and the ropes. A folded piece of parchment left its hidey-hole by way of his grasp.

  He took another sip of whiskey before unfolding the paper. He read the deed of trust on
ce, then twice. It carried Skylla’s signature. Dated July 10, 1865, it conveyed a lifetime estate in the Nickel Dime Ranch to Mrs. Ambrose Arthur St. Clair, née Claudine Twill. Brax studied the bottom carefully.

  A smile as wide as the mighty Mississippi spread across his face. The deed wasn’t legal.

  It couldn’t be.

  There was no county clerk in Mason County on the tenth of July. Deeds didn’t require witnesses, not if they were filed with the county, but Petry should have advised Skylla to take that precaution, in view of the unsettled civil situation. Until the Reconstructionists got seated and the deed had been filed, it wasn’t worth a red cent.

  Hot damn! My luck’s changed again.

  Mentally, he danced a jig. Physically weak as a kitten, he took a match to the paper. The woodsy scent of burning paper drifted as he angled to toss the offender out the window.

  Settled back in bed, satisfied and confident, he slipped his arm under Skylla’s shoulders and brought her to him.

  “You will be mine, bet your booty on it,” he murmured against her dark, dark magnolia-scented hair. Magnolias. He hadn’t a clue whether they grew in California, and he decided not to speculate on it. Yet he wondered if Skylla might like that part of the country. What would be wrong with taking her away from here? He didn’t want to speculate on that.

  When he pulled the sheet over them, he heard the whimpers of her awakening. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. We both need sleep. I’ll need all the strength I can get.” . . . To make you my wife in the eyes of God and his witnesses.

  She cuddled against him—thankfully on his good side—and the blessing of a deep sleep overtook her. The feel of her gave Brax a sense of calm, despite his horrendous agony. And he would have to have been dead not to skim his hand along the soft, soft skin of her arm. Fast asleep, she sighed and cuddled closer . . . and he got on with his exploration.

  He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t in shape for a woman, either, he realized. His eyes started to close. They flew open when the twit Claudine flounced into the room.

  Her mouth fell open, her eyes as big as saucers. “What is she doing in bed with you!”

  “Shhh.” Brax tapped his finger against his lips. “Don’t disturb her. She’s exhausted from the workout I gave her.”

  “Such brag. You’re not in any shape to satisfy a woman.” Utter malice radiated from the whole of Claudine St. Clair. She advanced to the bed. “I’ve been to town. I know about your lying and cheating. You’re a blight on society, Braxton Hale. You’re no better than your lout of a father.”

  The charge of scoundrel he wouldn’t defend, but cold hatred iced his veins at her mention of John Larkin Hale. Thankfully, Skylla didn’t awaken. He didn’t want her to witness the dirty look he shot her stepmother. Nor did he want her to hear what he had to say. “Watch your words. If you don’t, I’ll be forced to see you on your merry way. With nothing more than a half-dead horse and a by your leave.” He kissed Skylla’s head; she smiled instinctively and made the sweet murmur of a woman pleased at where she was. “A supposed female friend can’t hold a candle when a woman has found her mate.”

  “The truth shall set her free of you.” Claudine pointed an unladylike finger. “You’re on your way out, blackguard.”

  “Not on your life. I’m here to stay. And I’ll stay as Skylla’s husband.”

  Malice watered to a sneer. “I think you’re a confidence man out to steal this ranch.”

  She was bluffing, he felt certain. “Claudine, you’re looking for trouble in all the wrong places. We’ve got enough already. Kathy Ann is missing. Charlie Main’s gone after her, but Skylla’s afraid the Comanches have her.”

  Claudine blanched, but recovered. “Leave her to heaven.”

  “What would Skylla think if she knew you don’t care whether her adored sister is seized by savages?”

  “Why is it always Skylla, Skylla, Skylla? What makes her so special to you?”

  He looked the redhead square in the eye. “For the same reason she’s special to you. Because she is special.”

  “All right. You’ve won this round. But mark my words, Brax Hale, this fight isn’t over.”

  She whirled around, her skirts belling, and beat a hasty departure. Brax knew the fight wasn’t over. For now, though, he was out of fight. He fell into a restless sleep punctuated by a redheaded demon welcoming him to the gates of hell.

  The specter of Satan appeared to lead Brax into the fiery underworld. With hair of gold and eyes of green, the Lord of Evil had no horns, nor did he carry a pitchfork. He wore natty clothes and carried a satchel. He smiled a brilliant smile that displayed a set of perfect teeth. “Welcome to hell,” he intoned. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I’m glad you’re dead.”

  “I’m not dead. The pure die young. You and I are still on earth. It’s my duty to see that you’re never content. Son.”

  “You’ve done that, John Hale.”

  Midday in Austin, Texas—a scorcher in late August of 1865—John Hale, M.D., wore a fine set of clothes as he sauntered into Governor A. J. Hamilton’s office in the capitol building. He strolled in triumphant, a conquering hero.

  The governor rose from his oversize walnut desk. “John Larkin Hale, welcome back to Texas.”

  “Thank you, Governor. Same to you.”

  The bespectacled Hamilton, a Texan of long standing Unionist sympathies, had been newly appointed by President Andrew Johnson. Hamilton had returned to Texas in June from an exile in Mexico. Order was begun. John Hale intended to be part of it.

  The governor rested his elbows on the desk and laced his fingers over the buttons of his waistcoat. “We set those seditious slave-mongers on their posteriors, didn’t we?”

  “That we did.”

  “You came through the war no worse for the wear, I note.”

  “I do fine for my age.”

  He did more than fine for fifty-seven. Few men in middle years had a young wife and two pubescent children. Hell, most men his age couldn’t even get it up, much less once a week. If only Harriet weren’t tied to her mama’s apron strings . . .

  “I have my health, my good looks, and I’m never without a superlative tailor. Moreover, I went to the winning side in the rebellion. What more could I ask for?”

  Hamilton fiddled with a watch fob. “How’s the family?”

  John knew Hamilton didn’t mean his faithless wife and her miserable issue in Mississippi. Them, he’d been able to keep hidden. They were no longer cause for concern, anyway; word had reached him a year ago that Elizabeth and the rest were dead.

  Thank Lucifer.

  For the past fifteen years, John had enjoyed a bigamous relationship with a wife who knew nothing of his first family. And he now had a pair of beautiful children whom he knew to be his.

  “John?”

  “Oh, pardon me, Governor. You asked about Harriet and the youngsters. The climate in the islands has taken—”

  “Islands? I thought they rode out the war at her sister’s home in Pennsylvania. You don’t mean they were with you at your post in the Caribbean Sea? Let’s see. You were a major in the medical corps stationed at the prison camp on the Dry Tortugas, I do believe.”

  John looked down his patrician nose, verily smelling the fruits of disrespect. “President Lincoln himself decreed that my experiences warranted a high rank. I was a colonel in the United States Army. I assumed you kept up with my doings.”

  “John, John, don’t get touchy. I had many people to keep up with, from a backwater country without proper lines of communication. Please go on telling me about your family.”

  “Harriet and the children joined me at Fort Jefferson. They were headed for her sister’s in Harrisburg, but stopped their sea voyage for a visit. A detestable place if there ever was one.” John brushed the arm of his silk suit, remembering with displeasure his days as prison-camp physician. “Nevertheless, we decided to stay together as a family.”

  “It brings me joy to see suc
h devotion in a family.”

  “Thank you, Governor. But the climate in the islands took its toll on young Andrew. His asthma. I thought he might outgrow weak lungs, but he’s now a lad of ten, and his lungs, well . . . The drier air in the West should do wonders for him.”

  “And the little girl, Abigail. How does she fare?”

  “Like her mother and brother, she’s anxious to resettle in Texas.” John was aggravated by the delays that kept his family in those infernal coral islets near Key West. “I’ll send for them, as soon as you appoint me to a post . . .”

  “Yes, of course.” Hamilton picked up a sheet of paper, scanning it. “You’ve applied for a coroner’s office.”

  “To go along with my medical practice, naturally. I have plans to open another infirmary. We’d hoped for Bexar County.”

  “Bexar County is yours.”

  Though he’d gotten his wish, it would be a mixed blessing. John didn’t find himself anxious to face Bexar County at all, but Harriet whined to be near her battle-ax mama in that county’s seat. There were times John wished he hadn’t married a younger woman. They tended to have mothers on the loose.

  At least Elizabeth hadn’t had a mother to breathe down his neck. But that was her only saving grace. The happiest day of John’s life was the morning he had abandoned Natchez—and the adulterous Elizabeth Braxton Hale.

  Twelve

  Skylla couldn’t believe her ears, for Claudine, now that Braxton’s fever was gone, had just said, “I demand you send that blackguard away.”

  Up to her elbows in soap suds, she scraped discarded bandages against the rub board. “No.”

  “No?” Claudine used her foot to shove the wash pail away. Water sloshed on the cookhouse floor as well as on the hem of her skirts. “How can you tell me no?”