by Martha Hix
Why ask how she knew about it? Charlie Main had been talking. But that was beside the point. Why hadn’t Braxton given her the cameo? What was he saving it for? Skylla hated all the questions that chipped at her trust.
“If he didn’t give you the brooch, what could have happened to it, hmm?”
“Maybe he sold it to put food in your mouth.”
“You’d like to think so,” Claudine came back. “Well, I have no choice but to make certain my interests are seen to.” She poured a snifter of whiskey, then sipped it. “When do you plan to file the deed of trust in my favor?”
“For heaven’s sake, Claudi, I must deal with the Reconstructionists about the ranch before I file the life-estate papers.”
“What if those papers are null and void, since we didn’t have a government at the time you signed them?”
“Will you settle for money?”
“You insult me by asking to buy me off. I suppose that was Brax’s idea. He’s ensconced in your bedroom, and I’m to be parceled off with a fistful of coins.”
Skylla studied the floor, recalling his suggestion and realizing home life would be easier were Claudine to go away. Have you no shame?
“Daisy, I’m entitled to part of this property and its resultant profits from here on out. I did—need I remind you?—force myself into sin with Winslow Packard for your benefit.”
“Is this the way it’s going to be?” Skylla asked, falling victim to a headache. “Every time a disagreement arises, you’ll throw that up to me?”
Contrite, Claudine set the snifter down to glide over and take Skylla’s hand. “Forgive me. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“And I don’t want you hurt. Please don’t rush into marriage. We have so many things to settle. Once they are done, then you can make a decision.”
“If you wish, I’ll wait.”
The women had made a stab at peace, yet Skylla’s headache didn’t go away. The pain should have passed by the next morning. It didn’t. In fact, it got worse, thanks to Claudine’s driving away under the auspices of returning Luke Burrows’s buckboard. Skylla sensed that wasn’t her only task. Would she elope with the Yankee major?
The best thing to do, Skylla decided, was to get legal matters in order. Once the deed of trust had been filed, then she would have ammunition to keep Claudine from making a mistake. She began her search, paying little mind to outdoor sounds, although she did hear Kathy Ann’s laughter a couple of times.
Skylla threw off the bedclothes to shove her hand between the mattress and ropes. Nothing. She lifted the mattress, taking a quick look. Again, nothing. The document wasn’t in its hiding place. There was nothing save dust and lots of it.
What could have happened to the deed of trust?
Dressed for her trip to the courthouse, Skylla stopped short. Clothes littered the parlor, Kathy Ann’s clothes. The girl preened in the remnants, twirling around barefoot. Agog, Skylla stared at her sister, who wore a buckskin dress, large in size and decorated with paint along with bright blue stones.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Kathy Ann gushed. “It’s a gift from Stalking Wolf. His braves delivered it a few minutes ago. Oh, by the way, he’s not moving his village just yet. At least that’s what I gathered from Head Too Big. He and another brave took the firewater Sergeant promised them.”
Skylla was in no mood for chitchat. “Take that dress off. I won’t allow you to accept gifts from an Indian.”
“I’m not taking it off. I’m keeping it.” Her hands smoothed down the soft leather. “Unless. . . unless Sergeant says I oughtn’t to.”
All Skylla could do was try to reason. “Lovey, that Indian will think you’re interested in becoming his wife.”
“I am interested.”
Land’s sake! Whatever was Skylla to do? Now she had two relatives with marriage in mind. “You can forget it.”
Pudgy fingers fondled the dress’s ornaments. “If you’re talking about these blue rocks, you needn’t worry. They aren’t real topaz. They’re some of those fakes ones Sergeant had in his saddlebag a while back.”
“Excuse me?”
“He and Geoff had a bunch of colored glass when they first got here.”
Skylla couldn’t imagine what they had had in mind, but she intended to question her husband about it, once he returned from delivering cattle to Camp Llano.
At the same moment she had this thought, she heard a noise from outside. She collected Kathy Ann’s pistol and went to the bedroom window, disturbing Electra on the sill and drawing back the curtain to see a pair of men tying fine-looking mares to the hitching post. One man wore a Rebel kepi over regular clothes, the other the faded uniform of the Confederacy.
Skylla opened the window. “State your business, men.”
They raised their hands to show they weren’t armed. The taller of the two, a fellow with dark hair and blue eyes, ambled toward her. “Would you be Major St. Clair’s niece?”
“I am. I’m Mrs. Braxton Hale.”
“Brax Hale! I’ll be dipped in snuff. Congratulations!”
“Who are you?”
“I be Luckless Litton, ma’am.” He pointed to the other man. “That be Snuffy Johnson.”
As soon as she heard the names, she recognized them, and laid the pistol on the windowsill.
“We used to cowboy here at the Nickel Dime,” said Snuffy, a slim fellow with a head of riotous carrot-colored curls.
Two of Uncle’s ranch hands had returned. Thank goodness.
She waved them indoors, smiling and teasing. “What took you so long?”
Immediately, Uncle’s returned cowboys set to work to complete the fence at Safe Haven Canyon. Working men needed substantial food, and Skylla had to find the new county clerk.
She borrowed Luckless’s fine mare and rode into the county seat, Mason town, where she asked after that official, but was told Mr. Packard had business in Ecru.
Mr. Packard?
She shuddered, hearing the name. Surely not Winslow Packard. The boardinghouse lady didn’t know his given name, so Skylla tucked her fears away and backtracked to Ecru.
She reached a near-to-deserted town, this not being the usual marketing day of Saturday. No one had seen the new county clerk. Darn. She’d so hoped to get his advice.
At least she could buy a few groceries. Herr Kreitz was the only person in his store when Skylla walked in.
“This is a nice surprise, Mrs. Hale.” Wiping his hands on an apron, the Prussian stepped from behind the counter that was sparsely stocked, thanks to the hard times after the war. “How can I help you?”
“I have a long list,” she said proudly, thankful she had plenty of money, for once.
The good-natured grocer couldn’t provide everything, but he had several key items. Before long, she was enjoying, compliments of Herr Kreitz, a huge and briny pickle from the barrel in the middle of the rectangular store.
“Please fish me out a dozen of these,” she said. “We have new men at the Nickel Dime, and they’ll be looking for a nice dinner in a few hours. Actually, they aren’t altogether new. They used to work for my uncle. Do you remember Snuffy Johnson and Luckless Litton?”
“Ja, I remember.” The proprietor smiled. “They are good men. You and your husband will not regret their return.” The last of the requested pickles packed in a large jar, he walked to a line of sausages strung behind the counter. “The boys, I recall, liked this kind of sausage.” He took down a half-dozen strings. “Would you prepare them for your supper? And tell them Emil Kreitz sent the sausages as a welcome home gift?”
“How very kind. Thank you. I’m sure Mr. Johnson and Mr. Litton will enjoy them immensely.”
“They are for everyone at the Nickel Dime.” The grocer had pickled eggs and red cabbage on hand, which he suggested would go well with the sausage.
“How about fruit?” she asked. “I think a nice pie would be in order.”
“Nein, no fruit.” He shook his head. “A lady in Fredericksburg will
send canned peaches. Next week.”
A while back Luke Burrows’s wife had mentioned vinegar pie being delicious—a Texas staple—so Skylla purchased a small jug of vinegar, then asked the grocer to total her bill.
She laid the money on the counter, and said, “Have you met the new county clerk? I heard he was here in Ecru today.”
“I have met him.” The Prussian’s square face twisted. He motioned toward the street. “The jackal is out there.”
“Thank you.”
She picked up her marketing bag, made for the boardwalk, and came up against the stare of a silver-haired portly man wearing a fine suit of clothes. Winslow Packard.
“Fancy meeting you here, Miss St. Clair,” he said as her bag slid to the boards. “But then, I did have the advantage of knowing your destination.” He picked up the fallen goods, holding them. “Where is Mrs. St. Clair?”
It would have been easy to despise Winslow Packard, for great shame is known to rouse such animosity. Yet Skylla found her feelings at cross purposes. Packard was the evidence of the means for the trip from Vicksburg. If not for him, though, how would she and her kin have gotten to Texas?
“Might we sit down?” she said. “I find my leg is sore.” A couple of chairs were lined against the storefront. Gathering her groceries, she limped to one, seating herself. “I never expected to see you again,” she declared, an understatement.
Packard pulled a chair out so he could look straight at her. Seated, he dropped his laced fingers between his spread legs and raised his gray eyes. “I always expected to see the St. Clairs again. I used my clout to garner the clerkship of this county. My intentions are to marry your lovely stepmother.”
Great Scott!
Two suitors in a row for Claudine.
Where had all these men been a few weeks ago?
You can’t be serious. Claudine would no more marry you than she would Charlie Main.
Skylla spoke up. “I’m afraid you’re too late, Mr. Packard. Mrs. St. Clair is engaged to a cavalryman.”
Packard’s face clouded.
Which caused Skylla to groan inwardly. Just what she needed, to alienate the official. Marshaling courage, she elevated her chin. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you, Mr. Packard. There are rumors hereabouts. Rumors that you will invalidate land titles held by former Rebels.”
“The issue hasn’t been decided,” he answered tersely, rising to his feet. “If Mrs. St. Clair would like to discuss the matter, have her meet me at my office. Or better yet, my boardinghouse quarters.”
The innuendo wasn’t lost on Skylla. She wouldn’t allow his blackmail to break her spirit. “The issue isn’t for Mrs. St. Clair to discuss. I own the Nickel Dime Ranch. That is, it belongs to me and my husband. We are ready and willing to pay our taxes. Mr. Hale and I will call on you at your office, unless you’re willing to discuss official business now.”
Herr Kreitz had been right in calling Packard a jackal, for a feral meanness shot into the man’s eyes. “You weren’t so prissy when you were begging to get out of Vicksburg.”
“You weren’t too good to take my stepmother up on her offer, either. I should imagine one night with Claudine St. Clair more than covers our debt.”
“One night?” He sneered. “Do you honestly think I’d compromise a United States naval vessel for one night with any woman? I wonder how Mrs. St. Clair’s fiancé would feel, should I mention that she’d been crawling into my bed for two weeks?”
“That is an ugly accusation, Mr. Packard.”
Skylla didn’t look back as she limped to her borrowed mount. She had just gotten into the saddle when Packard took hold of the pommel, and said, “I make no accusations, Mrs. Hale—or whatever you’re calling yourself. I speak the truth. Claudine St. Clair was my lover. And if you’re wanting to keep that ranch of yours in the family, she will be again.”
It was true. It was all true. When Claudine got back to the Nickel Dime that night, she admitted that she’d been sleeping with Winslow Packard.
“That means you chose to play on my guilt, to make me beholden to you.”
“Don’t be silly, Daisy.” Claudine fluttered a hand. “I did what I had to do. Surely you can’t fault me for that.”
“I most certainly can.”
Their friendship, their familial and business ties—the invisible cord that had tied them together—came loose. “You blackmailed me,” Skylla accused, her heart breaking. “Time and again, you blackmailed me.”
Blue eyes turned to steel. “So what if I did? I had to look out for myself. If your father hadn’t been a slave-monger, we wouldn’t have been in a fix to start with! But no! Ambrose had to get himself lynched for taking in a stupid runaway slave—which lost us everything!”
“You would even insult my father and his values. You have already insulted your adopted daughter. You have insulted me, my husband. And now you expect my sympathy.” Skylla rushed as fast as her uneven legs would permit to the door. She opened it, flourishing a hand toward the road. “Get out, Claudine. Get out now.”
Claudine lifted her nose imperially. “I’ll be glad to. I’ve had enough of watching you lurch around. And I certainly don’t want to see that roué of yours cheat you out of everything you own.”
Sweeping to the door, the redhead fired a parting shot. “I don’t need you. I have Webb Albright. And a cameo that—”
Skylla slammed the door on her and her words. If she never heard of that cameo again, it would be just fine. Yet she had a sneaking suspicion she had not seen the last of Claudine St. Clair.
Twenty
Although she didn’t regret her parting words to the hateful and malicious Claudine, it didn’t take Skylla long to have a change of heart. Just because they didn’t see eye to eye about Braxton didn’t mean a St. Clair should be turned out in anger. Without a dime. With this in mind, and praying the subject of Stalking Wolf wouldn’t come up, Skylla went to her sister. “Kathy Ann, I need your help.”
The word “help” captured the sulking girl’s attention. “What do you want me to do?”
She told her to borrow Mr. Burrows’s buckboard, then carry money to Claudine at Camp Llano. Kathy Ann set off on her errand, and Skylla busied herself while waiting for her husband’s return. The hours ticked by. Then the girl returned home, saying, “She did it. She’s married. She took the money, anyhow.”
“Is she . . . ? Did she say anything about me?”
“Said she was sorry y’all had a fight.”
Skylla dried the last of the supper pans, then put it away. “I’ll give her time to cool down before I pay her a call.”
After sucking a pickle, Kathy Ann asked, “What are you gonna say to Charlie about her getting married?”
“Why say anything to him?”
“Because they’ve been meeting in the barn. They even met on your wedding night. In Mr. Burrows’s chicken coop.”
“Have you been spying on her?”
“Nope. Those chickens were making such a racket, I couldn’t sleep. It’s a good thing the Burrowses are old, else they would have heard the commotion.”
Could it be true about Claudine and the scruffy cowboy? Skylla had suspected as much, but the confirmation made her feel all the worse. She had had everything, while Claudi had been desperate.
Skylla needed time to deal with the problem.
It took three days to move cattle between the northern border of the ranch and Camp Llano. While the roan and the skewbald mare had made the work easier, Charlie’s mule, Patsy Sue, had bitched and complained about pulling the wagon of whiskey. Now that the men of the Nickel Dime were headed home—this afternoon of the fourth day—Braxton took pride in their accomplishment.
Furthermore, he had plans. Webb Albright had put a bug in his ear about money-making. It wasn’t a bad idea.
Charlie Main doffed his sombrero to wipe his brow with a shirtsleeve. From the driver’s seat of the empty cart that had hauled whiskey to the army, he announced, “I’m plumb wore out.�
�
“Say it again, partner.” Geoff nodded. “Dis ole boy, he could use a few minutes of dat ole shuteye.”
Both men had their eyes on the grassy banks of Topaz Creek. It did look inviting. Tired, sweaty, horny for his wife, and favoring his bruised shoulder, Brax saw no reason not to rest up a bit. He cottoned to the idea of not showing up at the ranch too tired to hold his own . . . or Skylla.
Besides, he needed to talk something over with Geoff.
The men climbed from their perches, each lending a hand to unhitch the cart. They watered the animals, then hobbled them in the grass. Patsy Sue joined the equines to munch hungrily.
“I shore could use a shot of that hooch we left them Blue Bellies.”
“Have some water, Main,” Brax said. “You never know. It might do you some good.”
“Water? That stuff’ll rust my pipes.” Charlie Main guffawed at his own joke, then yawned.
He hadn’t been drinking much lately. Matter of fact, he looked and acted a lot healthier. It was love.
After washing his face with a bandanna, the cowpoke took a long drink from the creek, then stretched out on the ground. He had no more than dragged his sombrero over his eyes before loud snores sawed the air, disturbing a nest of sparrows in an oak tree nearby.
Geoff and Brax drank their share of water, then lay down a good fifty feet away from their partner. “What’s the first thing you’re going to buy with all that money?” Geoff asked out of the blue.
“Soon as I get to town, I’m buying a cameo for a pretty little dark-eyed gal answering to Mrs. Hale.”
“I know. A farewell gift.”
“There won’t . . .” Brax knew Geoff had his heart set on California. How could he ease into his plan? “I’m buying a big ox and a bigger string of cutting horses.”
“Cutting horses? What’s the use of workhorses? We need a pair of good travelers to get us to California.”
Brax listened to the gurgling creek. Coercing a yawn, he pulled his hat over his eyes. “Get some sleep, Geoffie.”