by Martha Hix
There was a collective response of: “That’s what I’ve been afraid of.”
“Do you think they can do that?” Skylla asked.
“Leastwise the Huns will be spared.” Luke Burrows’s shoulders drooped, as he no doubt wished he’d sided with his Teutonic neighbors. “Mason County’s got plenty Huns, but there’s a durned sight more of us.”
“People could lose their land,” Claudine said, as if she gave a damn about anyone but herself.
Brax frowned. “Let’s not borrow trouble.”
“What is more troublesome than being tossed off one’s property?” Claudine inquired. “I’ve heard stories. These good people will back me up.” She nodded at the guests. “Confederate veterans may well be in the same dilemma that plagued the holders of Mexican land grants. Rebels will suffer.”
Brax recalled the decency of Webb Albright and his cavalry unit. “The Unionists won’t be vindictive.”
Emil Kreitz spoke, his accent heavy. “I have studied the history of Texas. After independence from Mexico, the Texians—good Americans—voided many Mexican land grants.”
Brax watched his stepmother-in-law hide a grin of triumph. The bitch had orchestrated this tempest in a teacup, had timed it to spoil the evening.
Is the ranch lost? Well, lost or not, don’t show this viper she’s got you sitting on thorns. Don’t let her spoil your wedding night with your wife. However, despite his intentions, he couldn’t rid his mind of what the future might hold.
“Thank goodness they’re finally gone.”
“Amen, sweetheart. Wife.”
In the parlor after the last wedding guest had departed, Skylla turned to that deep resonant voice, feeling sweet anticipation as she feasted her eyes on the tall and broad-shouldered form of her new husband. He’d never looked more handsome than in his fine suit of clothes. And he’d never looked more unhappy.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” His eyes betrayed his smile. He shrugged his coat off, then pitched it onto a chair. Next came the neckcloth, which he held in his hand. “Thank you for the stickpin. I wish I had something more than a wedding band and a pair of shoes to give you in exchange.”
A small voice within Skylla asked when he’d give her the cameo, but she shushed it. He’ll pull it from a pocket. I know he will. He didn’t. She held her beringed hand to her chest. “Don’t forget the wine and music. They were lovely.”
“Cold comfort.”
“Don’t belittle your gifts, my darling. I will treasure them until my dying day.”
Still, his mind was troubled. The cloud of the Reconstructionists—that had to have troubled him. Unionist officials might indeed turn the Lone Star State on its end, and she prayed that wouldn’t occur, for their neighbors would suffer. The Hales and their kin wouldn’t suffer. Not with Uncle’s fortune found.
A footstep separated them; she took it and placed her hands on his muscled upper arms. “Braxton . . .”
“You look especially lovely tonight,” he said in an obvious attempt at disregarding the specter in his mind. He fingered the veil that cascaded down her back, then took her headpiece off, tossing it onto the settee. “I especially like your hair loose.” His head bent, and he ran a heavy hank of hair across his lips. “I want more. I want the pleasure of undoing the clothes that keep me from feasting my eyes on you.”
Her veins heavy with desire, she inhaled deeply. She’d tell him about the fortune . . . in time. Right now she wanted to savor—and relish—these tender moments. She helped him divest her of the dress. In her chemise she then stepped from dotted Swiss, watching as he set it across a chair.
When his eyes took in her lamplit form, she stood without fear. Once upon a time, not so long ago, his intimate gaze would have given her cause to hide her affliction, but his affection had given her a delicious confidence.
His roving hands on her arms, he bent to kiss her lips lightly and to murmur, “Weddings ought to be conducted in the nude. It would sure save time.”
She chuckled at his audacity.
In short order, he undid his shirt, placed it next to her dress. Her gaze rivited to the light brown hair that dusted his solid chest, during which he did the strange dance of a man shucking his boots while standing. Still in britches, he skimmed his hands along her bare shoulders. “Shall we go to the bedroom, or shall we make love in the front room?”
A smile worked at his lips. Once more, she noticed it didn’t travel to his eyes. The ranch. That was it. The ranch and its muddled future. It was no way to start a marriage, obstacles separating a husband and wife. “Braxton, if you’re worrying about losing the ranch, don’t.”
She took him by the hand, leading the way to the dining room, where, beneath the linen cloth that had been one of Uncle’s concessions to conventional decor, stood a wooden casket. Sturdy, made of mahogany, strapped with wide swatches of brass, the chest compared to a valise in size.
“Your surprise,” she stated pridefully, enthusiastically.
Staring first at the case, then at Skylla, Braxton bent down, then rocked back on his heels. His hand went to the clasp, but stilled.
“Go on. Open it.” She took a lamp from the buffet to give this special moment the benefit of brilliance. “Behold our rich future.”
He unfastened it, lifted the lid. Gold and cut stones gave off a light show of breathtaking proportions.
As if the lid had suddenly gone hot, Braxton let it go. “This is Titus’s lost fortune. The Comanches didn’t take it.”
“Apparently not.”
“This was here, while . . .” Levered to his feet, Brax had a bleak countenance. “What in the hell is going on? Why did you pick this particular night to show this off?”
Her excitement deflating, she explained about finding the treasure, ending with: “Our ranch is secure. We needn’t worry about anyone taking it from us. We can pay whatever it takes to keep the Nickel Dime in our family.”
“Are you crazy?” His fingers locked on her elbows. “To hell with this place. We can pack up and be out of here by sundown tomorrow.”
Her voice seemed to come from a distance as she replied, “You can’t mean that.”
“I said it. I mean it. Skylla, California is a wondrous place. We can live there, be the toast of San Francisco.”
San Francisco? San Francisco! That he would mention such a place meant that it had been on his mind. Who was this man she’d married? Where was the rancher who’d worked like a slave to keep them afloat? Was Claudine right about him?
“Does our land mean nothing to you?” Skylla asked, hoping against hope he’d put her mind at ease.
“This ranch is the devil’s backyard.”
Her illusions were shattered. Her confidence ebbed. She backed away, shod in the shoes she’d prized only moments ago. Her hips bumped against the table on which were the leavings of the wedding cake. Since she’d been wrong about his feelings for a home they both had a stake in, how wrong was she about his feelings for her?
“Skylla? Skylla, talk to me.”
“You’re a stranger, Braxton Hale.”
“I’m the husband who wants a good life for the Hales.”
“I thought you wanted all that was offered here. Including the crippled woman who owns the place.”
He stepped forward to lay his fingers against her chilled cheek. “You know I want you.”
“I don’t know anything anymore.”
“Then let me show you what to think.” He reached for her, but she drew away. Tasting bile at not getting his way, he cursed. “You’re my wife. I mean to have you. Come here, Skylla.”
“Save your charity.”
Eyes closing, he lifted his head toward the ceiling, then leveled his green gaze to take in the uncertainty and crushed dreams evident on her face. “I’ve never considered you with charity.”
Oh, how she yearned to believe him. But she wouldn’t allow herself such folly. What should she do, and which way should she turn?
&n
bsp; He soldered his grasp to her elbows. “I’m going to ask you again, Skylla. Come away with me.”
The terrible temper that she had carefully guarded for so long snapped. “Never! I will never, ever leave this ranch! And you’re mistaken if you think you’ll change my mind!”
“You’ll by God do what I say.”
“You’ve never been more wrong.” She pried his fingers away. Her hand raked into the wedding cake, and she threw a big wad of it at him. The mass oozed through the hair of his chest.
Wiping his hand down the offensive pastry, he said tightly, “What’s wrong with you that you’d want to stay five minutes in this abyss of hard work and little reward?”
“It’s my home!” She whipped around, meaning to seek out her bedroom and the comfort of solitude.
A roar like a lion’s shook the rafters; then a huge chunk of white icing and fruitcake flew in front of her advancing form, causing her to stumble into what was left of their wedding cake.
One foot flew out from under her; she slipped in the slickness. Falling backward, she felt strong hands grabbing her. No! She wouldn’t tumble into the well of his demands.
Yet he turned her into his arms, and then they were both on the floor, him above her, amid the destroyed cake. Their destroyed dreams.
“I’ll show just how much charity I have for you.” His mouth descended as if to kiss her, but she ran her nails down his jaw, scratching him.
At feeling blood under her nails, she heard another leonine roar, this one reverberating in her skull.
“Get off me,” she moaned.
But he didn’t. His fingers clamped her shoulders; he held her to the floor. The sheer weight of him nearly smothered her, and she wasn’t strong enough to stop the onslaught of his lips. His tongue, harsh and cruel, invaded her mouth. The punishment should have caused her to fight him all the more, yet the torture became tinged with sweetness as his hold on her shoulders lessened and his tongue began to slide along her teeth in an action not unlike the primal motions of mating.
Mindless, she moaned. Her arms closed around his back as he writhed against her. He murmured her name into her mouth, and she met his undulations with her own. A cry of passion on her lips, she dug her fingers into his back and arched against him. It was then that he rolled to the side. They were a mess of cake and icing and the trickles of blood from his jaw.
“I’m going to take this chemise off you.”
When she was naked below him, he ran his hand along the indentation in her calf. She tried to move away, could not. When his mouth settled on her scar, she bit her lip.
“This is the charity I feel for you, Skylla Hale.”
His tongue slid along the mess of cake and the damage war had done her limb. A gentle massage followed, one that slew her insecurities about her appeal. He murmured words of reassurance and affection that went straight to her heart.
His gooey hand traced a path to her hip. His lips then replaced it. When she forced herself not to respond to his touch, he brought her atop his long, hard body. He reached behind her head to cradle her nape. “I love you, Skylla Hale. I love you with all my heart.”
“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“You don’t. I’ve yearned for you since the day I first saw you standing beside that magnolia tree, a butterfly on your finger. I love you, you’re my wife, and I aim to claim you.”
“You lie about your feelings.”
“Yeah, I’m a liar. I’m a lying son of a bitch. I’m not worth the soap to clean your shoes, but I’m your husband. A husband whose blood is afire for you.” His lips ascended to her throat. “Don’t ask me to stop, because I won’t. I’ve lain awake too many nights wanting you. For tonight, for now, don’t let anything stand between us. I need you so badly I don’t know what I’m capable of if I don’t find out what it’s like to put myself deep inside you.”
Her arms closed around him again. Tomorrow, she could cry for shattered illusions.
Sixteen
Their mouths met with a fevered passion befitting to lovers. Rearing above her, Braxton curved his palms around her breasts, his thumbs and forefingers teasing her nipples. Skylla combed through the curls of his hair, while with a masterful touch he caressed her. She responded to his touch, from her toes to the top of her head, feelings settling deliciously into her womanly parts. She must have moaned in delight, for he laughed softly, bringing her fingers to the prickly, sticky hairs on his chest. To doubt his passion would be idiotic. He wanted her. She didn’t doubt that.
The lamp that had illuminated a king’s ransom flickered, then died, leaving the dining room in shadowy moonlight.
“I’ve got to get these britches off.” He left the floor to stand above her, his gaze never leaving her face. His torso was limned in silver as she watched him.
“On second thought . . .” Stretching out beside her, he brought her hand to the top of his trousers. “Take them off me.”
Sticky fingers fumbled with the buttons; her attention centered on the bulge of his sex, swollen and straining against the material. His hand clamped over hers, and pressed her palm against it. “Touch me, Skylla. Touch me.”
Her fingers slipped beyond his waistband, and she sucked in her breath at the feel of velvet-covered steel. But he then countermanded his own order. Saying he needed more, he rolled onto his back, lifting his slim hips to shove the last of his clothing away. Naked, he brought her into his arms again.
Yet terrible thoughts raced into her mind. What if this turned out to be their only night of marital congress? What if he left her for the greener pastures of California?
“You’re pulling away from me,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are. Stop, Skylla. Stop it right now.” Aligning himself with her nude body, he brushed hair and goo from her temple. His voice troubled, he asked, “Am I losing you?”
“Have we lost each other?”
“Never. We’ll work something out. I promise we will.” His gaze gripping hers, he ordered softly, “Open your legs, sweetheart. Let me into your body. Let me stay in your heart.”
Appeased, she let him nudge his knee between her legs. Oh, how she relished the feel of him. Levered above her, he dipped his mouth to hers, his hands encircling her face. She felt his long and thick member settle at her womanly crevice. Her legs spread wider. And with one magical thrust he sealed their marriage.
She moaned her pleasure. He moved slightly, then, with a forceful lunge, caused her to gasp for air. He withdrew and plunged again, and her arms closed around him, gripping him. Even before she reached the shattering climax that left her panting for breath, she knew he was her husband for all the days of their lives.
And beyond.
She was Mrs. Braxton Hale.
Completely, unequivocally.
Mrs. Hale of the Nickel Dime Ranch. The property that would remain in this family beyond the time she and her husband were in their graves. She would accept nothing less.
Somehow she’d talk him out of California.
The place stank in more ways than one. Claudine scorned her poor excuse for a lover, as she did their chicken-coop meeting place at the Burrows farm. “Get dressed, Charlie.”
In the dark and amid the roosting chickens, he stepped into his britches, then snapped his suspenders. “Pumpkin, ain’t you gonna say nothin’ about me not bein’ too old for ya?”
“You’re wonderful.” Her lie flowed smoothly.
“Don’t ya wanna hear ’bout that Menard whore?”
“What about her?” Claudine bundled up their pallet.
“I was over to Ecru yesterday. That good-looking gal what lived there ’fore the war was in town—Jane Clark—be wearing the cameo I seen here at the ranch.”
In Claudine’s estimation, Charlie Main had no eye for the finer things in life. To her, he’d mistake a toad for a cameo. And anyway Skylla would never believe the story. Unless Claudine could get some hard evidence against Brax Hale, the cameo tale
wasn’t worth looking into.
If it proved true, the marriage between Brax and Skylla was done for. Skylla might not believe gossip, but she’d have to believe her own eyes.
“You’d best get back to the ranch, Charlie. You’re supposed to round cattle up in the morning.” Claudine left the coop and crawled back into the bedroom window of her temporary room at the Burrows farm.
In the still of night, Braxton carried her to the room that had been laid out for them, and Skylla marveled at the magnolia blossoms that carpeted their bed. He set her onto her feet, those blooms filling her nostrils with the rich scent of their oils.
“There’s wine,” he whispered. “Let me pour you some.”
She nodded, speechless. Though he might not love the Nickel Dime, love for her was evident in the attention given to making their wedding night special.
They sipped from the same glass, smiling and kissing between swallows. When they had finished, he broke away, saying, “I think we should avail ourselves of the pitcher and bowl.”
“We are a sight,” she returned with a small chuckle.
He ran a soft wet cloth over her body, his lips checking the result. Anew, her passions built. And she gave the same ardent care to his sinewed flesh. Once more, he lifted her into his arms to settle her on the heady blossoms.
And they made love again, this time with even wilder abandon. At some time before dawn, they fell asleep, locked in each other’s arms. Never had she slept with a man, and her dreams were involved with the joys of this new experience. When she awakened, the scent of magnolias clinging to her skin, she burrowed into his warmth.
Yet California whirled into the forefront of her thoughts. How could she talk him out of such an idea? How could she make him love something he didn’t love?
The parlor was a mess. Skylla glanced toward the closed bedroom door. Should she awaken her husband and ask him to help with the cleanup? No. She needed quiet time to amass her strategies to keep Braxton here at the ranch.