Mail-Order Man

by Martha Hix

  “You’re just tearing my heart to itty-bitty pieces, Winslow.” Ten minutes ago, Claudine had stepped into his office, and was proceeding to win him over to her side. “Kiss me.”

  “Go home, Claudine.”

  That was exactly where she intended to go after she got through at the Mason County Courthouse. And after she got through with her mission at the Nickel Dime. In the saddlebag of the fine mount her new husband had provided was a beautiful cameo brooch once the property of Elizabeth Hale.

  Winslow Packard would be her insurance, in case Skylla proved too obtuse to see the light.

  Claudine batted her lashes at the fat Yankee’s frowning face. “Surely you’re not mad at lil ole me for getting married. I waited and waited for you, sweetie pie. Waited until I just couldn’t wait any longer.” She patted his jowls. “How about I prove just how sorry I am I didn’t wait a tiny bit longer? Hmm?”

  Packard stepped back to pull the window shades. He asked over his shoulder, “What would your husband say to all this?”

  Plenty. But Packard held the key to her revenge, since the Mason County records were in his possession. If there was any way to get back at Brax and his traitorous wife, provided the cameo didn’t do the trick, it was through the county clerk.

  She swayed over to her prey. “Don’t you worry about Webb. He’s out playing soldier with his Army chums.” Her hand moved down Packard’s mountainous gut, stopping where she knew she could get the better of him. “Has Peewee missed me, hmm?”

  Now that she was playing with his toothpick of a pecker, Packard got that dumb look of men ruminating on their own satisfaction. His fingers moved swiftly to disengage the prize from his trousers. “Kiss it,” he groaned.

  She played with it instead. “I’ll kiss it. I’ll kiss it anytime you like. Provided you do me a favor.”

  “Anything, anything,” he croaked.

  “Find where title of the Nickel Dime Ranch passed to Titus St. Clair. Then I want you to burn the whole record book.”

  He pressed her nose to Peewee.

  He was no Webb Albright. The sight and smell of Packard revolted her. She wrenched away, sickened at the act she’d fallen to.

  “What’s the matter with you, Claudine?”

  “I-I can’t, Winslow. Please forgive me, but I can’t continue with this.” How could she have fallen so far? Blaming it on the events of wartime and afterward, she examined her soul while Packard bellowed his discontent.

  Once, she’d been the decent person Skylla had always believed her to be. She could be that person again. The war was over, the aftermath following its natural course. With the goodness of Webb having come her way, why hadn’t she accepted with good grace her fifth chance at love?

  “Forget the deed book, Winslow.”

  His face got mean. “Believe me, I wouldn’t have compromised public records for a piece of Southern trash.” He buttoned himself up.

  “You’re right. I’ve been behaving like trash.” She gathered her gloves from his desk. “Goodbye, Winslow.”

  “Planning to sneak back to your hubby?” He sneered.

  “Actually, I’m planning to atone for my trashiness,” she answered, not that he’d care. “I’m going to call on my daughter and her husband. It’s time I offered best wishes for their long and happy life together. And begged their forgiveness.”

  On her way, she’d toss that cameo in the Llano River.

  “Clawdeeen!”

  Startled by the opening of the door as well as that plaintive cry, she whirled around to see a gun pointed at her head. “No!”

  Charlie Main pulled the trigger.

  The bullet struck her in the face. For a split second she felt horrendous pain. Then she felt nothing.

  The bleak and drizzly day of the funeral matched the dark clouds in Skylla’s heart. Throughout the service at the Ecru cemetery, witnessed by the departed’s family plus the county clerk and a throng of busybodies, Skylla tried to keep her composure. As if they were lifelines, she clung to Braxton and Kathy Ann, yet she couldn’t stop her tears.

  It was a Southern tradition for friends and family to gather after a funeral, yet Webb Albright, too deep in shock for tears, declined Kathy Ann’s invitation to visit the Nickel Dime. His eyes never turning to the jail where Charlie Main awaited the hangman, he rode hard for Camp Llano.

  Few people gathered at the ranch, the scandal keeping them away, and that was fine with Skylla. She did appreciate the kindness of Oliver Brown, the Burrowses, Emil Kreitz, and the ranch hands, Geoff as well. Yet she appreciated it more when everyone left.

  They sat on the settee then, she and Braxton, Kathy Ann serving cup after cup of coffee. “Sit down, lovey,” she said. “I need to hold your hand.” Already Braxton held one of her hands. His strength and Kathy Ann’s flowed into her—mere touch could do so much. Would she ever be herself again? Or must she live with a guilty conscience for letting a loved one die with a rift between them?

  Into the quiet, Kathy Ann spoke. “I wonder what she was doing in the county clerk’s office?”

  “She must have been checking to see if I filed some papers in her favor.” Claudine’s repute had suffered enough from her getting shot by a spurned lover. Skylla wouldn’t add to it by mentioning the affair she’d had with the Yankee. Braxton wouldn’t mention it, either, she was sure.

  “Skylla,” he said, “Packard called me aside.”

  “I know. I saw him.”

  “What did he have to say?” Kathy Ann asked.

  “He told me why Claudine was in his office. He said she dropped by on her way to visit us here at the ranch. Skylla, she was going to wish us well.”

  “Really?” Kathy Ann said, aghast.

  Braxton nodded. “She intended to ‘beg’ our forgiveness.”

  “What was she telling him for?”

  “Lovey, no more.” Skylla brooked no argument. Tears welled; she leaned her head back, yet some of the awful weight lifted from her heart. “I’m glad Mr. Packard spoke with you, Braxton. It reinforces what she told Kathy Ann. I couldn’t live with it if I thought she wouldn’t let go of hard feelings.”

  “Too bad that old drunk killed her.”

  “It would be easy to hate Charlie,” Skylla replied to her sister. “We mustn’t. Life is too short for hate.”

  “Here, here.” Braxton put an arm around her.

  Kathy Ann sniffed back a tear. “But I wanted you and Claudine to kiss and make up. For your sake.”

  “That cannot be, though I’ll always regret that we didn’t make amends with each other.” Skylla would forever grieve for her stepmother and the end of their lengthy friendship. “But, lovey, if she was on her way here, then she’ll rest in peace.”

  “Amen.”

  The funeral and resultant hanging got in the way of everyone’s plans. Thus, Geoff Hale was two weeks late leaving for the Comanche encampment. The sun beating down on his old cap, he hummed as he rode the skewbald through the grasses, in the direction Bubba had given to Pearl of the Concho.

  Geoff had left the ranch in good hands.

  Here lately, more men had shown up, eager to hire on. Rebels mostly, but three Yankees, a couple of freed slaves from Alabama, and a vaquero from the brush country. Three of the Johnny Rebs were skilled cowboys. Bubba figured to train the others. A Frenchman with experience as a trail cook got a job. That René fellow lived up to “touchy cook.”

  With the extra help, the cattle drive was taking shape.

  And that redheaded piece of work was gone—good riddance. Geoff recalled her burial. No one shed a tear, except for Miss Skylla. Frankly, he’d been surprised when Claudine’s widower showed up.

  The Yankee major had even witnessed Charlie Main’s hanging—justice was swift on the frontier. Some real tears had been shed over Charlie. Geoff had cried for the stupid, gullible cowboy who’d thought he could love above his station.

  Was an Indian girl above a quadroon? Some people might think so, but Geoff intended to let Pearl
of the Concho make that decision. Raising his chin to the buttermilk sky and giving Molasses a nudge, he burst into song. Here he was, going on eighteen, and on his way to get a wife.

  “Geoff! Geoff, wait up!”

  He turned in the saddle, in the direction of that feminine voice he didn’t have any trouble recognizing. On Luckless Litton’s bay mare, Kathy Ann headed straight as an arrow for Geoff. Riding abreast, she patted a burlap sack that jumped in her lap. Her cat, no doubt. “I’m going with you.”

  “Uh-uh. You da bad girl, wantin’ to upset your sister when she in mournin’.”

  “Sarge will make it all right with her. He knows I’m leaving. He gave me his blessing.”

  “Da massa love you, Miss Kathy Ann.”

  “I know. And I love him, too. But enough about that.” She hitched up a brow. “You can stop with that silly accent stuff. I’ve heard you talking with Sergeant when you think no one is listening. You’re no field nigger.”

  “I don’t like that word. It’s a mean word, Kathy Ann.”

  “Don’t get your feelings hurt, Geoff. You’re all right for a colored boy.”

  “A left-handed compliment to be sure.”

  “Oh, don’t be so touchy.”

  “You’ll know what it’s like to have people look down on you, if you don’t turn back. White people accept a white woman married to a savage just about as well as they accept someone who’s got ancestors hailing from Africa.”

  “Stalking Wolf is a fine man. I’m going to marry him. I’ll never look back.”

  “Good for you, Kathy Ann. Good for you.”

  Twenty-three

  San Antonio, Texas

  November 29, 1865

  With trouble in his heart, Brax watched his wife crumple Kathy Ann’s letter, her shoulders wilting. Why hadn’t he told that French cook not to forward correspondence to their temporary address, the Menger Hotel? Skylla hadn’t recovered from losing Claudine in such a tawdry fashion, nor was she reconciled to losing Kathy Ann. And now, the letter.

  Alone in their suite, Brax took hold of Skylla’s shoulders. He knew she wanted to lash out at him for permitting Kathy Ann to follow her heart, but he knew something else. His wife was trying to control her temper, and in the aftermath of the loss of Claudine, she was ever so much more circumspect.

  Not a man to shun an advantage, he said, “Be happy for your sister. A babe is a cause for joy. Just think, you’re going to be an aunt.”

  “I suppose I should be happy for Pearl, too.”

  Yes, there were two babes on the way. Geoff had returned to the Nickel Dime with an Indian wife, now known simply as Pearl. They expected their child next summer. So, apparently, did Kathy Ann. Each couple had a child except for Brax and Skylla.

  My fault. My damned fault. Another sign of damnation. When John Hale damned his family, he covered all bases. This, however, was nothing Brax cared to explore verbally.

  His fingers slid into the luxurious silkiness of Skylla’s dark, dark hair, and he angled his head to kiss her tears away. In a gentle yet firm tone, he tried to reason with her. “You’re going to make yourself sick, getting upset. Yes, your sister has married a savage. Yes, she’s carrying Stalking Wolf’s child. People get married and have babies.” Everyone but us. “Skylla, we’ll lose Kathy Ann forever unless you’re willing to bend. If you accept Stalking Wolf, she’ll come back to us. Not alone. With her husband. Someday with her children. But she’ll come back.”

  Skylla stared up at him, and from the look in her heart-shaped face, he knew she wavered. Wavered, but did not give.

  When she slipped out of his arms, she padded barefoot across the suite’s lush wine-red rug, going to the window to let in the crisp air of late autumn. A breeze lashed her unbound hair, whipping it behind her. Her shoulders, usually so proudly straight, slumped. She said in a strained voice, “I thought she’d return to us. I can’t imagine Kathy Ann content in a savage world. I thought she’d be home by now.”

  “Sweetheart, you never gave her her due. She’s a clever girl. A clever girl becoming a clever woman.” He knew this for fact; he’d made a trip to the Comanche village. Kathy Ann had blossomed. “She’s happy.”

  “You make it sound so right.”

  “I hope I’m getting through to you.” He crossed the room to help his wife accept reality. “Write her a letter. Luckless will deliver it. Tell her how happy you are she’s found happiness. Dollar to a donut, she’ll call on us in no time.”

  “You’re right. You’re always right.” Skylla slid her arms around him, leaning her cheek against his chest. “Every night I say a prayer of thanks that you rode into my life.”

  Brax had his own prayer of thanksgiving. The ranch had adequate help, was sailing along in preparation for the cattle drive. A goodly amount of money had been deposited in the bank, both from Titus’s bounty and the proceeds from the sale of tallow and hides. And from the sale of topaz stones. Further, the drive to Kansas had taken shape. Safe Haven brimmed with five hundred branded longhorns fattening up for the trip.

  Everything should have been rosy.

  Except that Brax hadn’t been able to even the score with Oren Singleterry. He’d given in on the first trip to San Antonio, had agreed not to pay a call on the horse thief. She’d argued that he should forget a few head of horses. He hadn’t been of the same mind. “Go on home, sweetheart,” he said. He kissed her forehead. “Let Luckless escort you to the ranch.”

  Her arms tightened around him, her sweetness seeping into his being. “Let the law take care of Singleterry,” she said. “You have a good case. Webb and his soldiers will testify on our behalf. They’ll say they saw where a running-iron had been burned over the Nickel Dime brand.”

  “It could take months for the law to settle the dispute.”

  She looked up with those huge brown eyes that now held the glint of reason and common sense. “We’ve waited this long to get the horses back. What’s a few more months?”

  Her arguments were getting to him.

  Using her fingers as combs, Skylla brushed long hair behind her ears, again looked him straight in the eye, and said, “If I can give up my sister and make peace with myself over Claudine, you can bend on this quest of yours.”

  “We need help.” Brax, his wife to his right, held his oyster-colored Stetson in his hand, facing the sheriff. “We’re here to lodge a complaint against a horse thief.”

  In his office in the Bexar County Courthouse, Sheriff Hermann Klein pared his fingernails with a butcher knife, blew his nose into a handkerchief that might have once been clean, and sniffed mucus back into his sinuses.

  Brax said, “Oren Singleterry, now a resident of Bexar County, stole those horses.”

  “We hanged that varmint last month.”

  “What?” Brax and Skylla said in unison.

  “We hanged that varmint Singleterry last month. For horse-thieving.”

  Damn. Double damn.

  “What did you say your name was?” inquired the lawman.

  “I didn’t. But it’s Hale. Brax Hale. This is my wife, Skylla Hale. She inherited the Nickel Dime Ranch in Mason County from her uncle, Titus St. Clair. We want Singleterry’s horses.”

  “You cain’t have them. We sold them at auction.”

  Foiled again. And it had a nasty taste.

  Klein screwed up an eye. “Did you say your name was Hale? I know a fellow named Hale. Used to live here before the war. Came back a few months ago.” As was ordinary around these parts, he asked a question not to be expected in that vast and spread-out region. “Would you be kin to Dr. John Hale?”

  Being gut-shot couldn’t have hit Brax harder than hearing his father’s name. The sheriff’s office seemed to ebb and recede, a surging in his ears wreaking havoc with his balance. He planted his palms on the desk and leaned forward to catch his breath. Skylla’s fingers wrapped around his biceps, squeezing his flesh to show support. She stepped to the left and settled closer to his side.

  “You
okay, Hale?” asked Sheriff Klein.

  “He’s fine,” Skylla lied. “A touch of heart trouble.”

  “You ought to take him to John Hale. If anyone can fix a bad ticker, John Hale’s the one.”

  Brax swallowed, or tried to. After all these years of wanting answers and being thwarted in getting them, he was in the same town as his father. How could that be? John Larkin Hale, Unionist doctor, was supposed to be in the Caribbean.

  “Repeat that name,” he ordered.

  “Dr. John Hale. He’s the coroner here in Bexar County. Right nice-looking fellow, about fifty. A dandy if I’ve ever seen one. Fact is, y’all look enough alike to be father and son.”

  Brax choked out, “Where can I find him?”

  “Prob’ly at his infirmary.” The sheriff looked up at the clock on the wall reading one P.M. “He ought to be in. Does his doctoring over on Burnet Street, a couple miles from here. Big clapboard place. Porch running all around it. You can’t miss it. He’s got a sign hanging in the front yard.”

  Brax patted his gunbelt. Skylla took his hand, which prompted him to turn to her. Understanding and a silent message to be cautious met his gaze.

  Her eyes torn from Brax, Skylla then faced the lawman. “Thank you, Sheriff. We’ll be on our way.”

  “Right,” her husband muttered. “Let’s go.”

  Brax Hale had fifteen years’ worth of answers to get.

  “Are you sick or hurt?”

  Skylla held her husband’s hand as he bared his teeth at the clinic attendant, a balding man wearing spectacles who stood behind a tall counter that separated this spartan, empty waiting room from the main part of the infirmary. “Do I look sick?” Braxton asked.

  The man blinked, then closed a small case containing surgical instruments. “Doc doesn’t cure sour dispositions.”

  “Then the sheriff’s been spreading lies. Said your man was good at healing broken hearts.”

  “Weak hearts. The Almighty works on the broken ones.”