Mail-Order Man Read Free Page A

looks of the deed took precedence over her physical appearance, though he did hope she didn’t resemble a warthog. After all, celibacy stank.
    â€œI want her. Get busy, Virg.”
    â€œBut you’re a Lothario, not to mention that nasty business of two weeks ago.”
    â€œThe latter being when I beat the shit out of two Blue Bellies after they laughed about Hale womenfolk dying ‘with their noses to the ground’ in the Siege of 1863.”
    â€œI suppose you were upset over Larkin, too.”
    â€œI’ve had three years to mourn my brother.” His death still hurt. There was little in Brax’s life to celebrate.
    â€œAnd then there’s the matter of your father.”
    Brax went cold. His muscles locked. Willing himself not to appear too disturbed, he said, “Ah, dear dad. Dr. John Hale, who sold the Hale holdings downriver, then abandoned his family to their own devices.”
    In 1850, Elizabeth Hale and her children, along with Bella and her son, migrated up the Mississippi from Natchez, settling here. From the start, they were shunned by Vicksburgers, even the relatives they had counted on. Once Brax reached puberty, though, a goodly number of ladies sought him out. But those were bygone days. “I’m not responsible for my father’s actions.”
    â€œClaudine is from here. Likely, she’ll know about you.”
    â€œI’m not marrying Claudine. Get busy, Virgil. I want out of jail, quick like, so I can be on my way to Texas.”
    â€œWell, I, well, I . . . I mean Claudine—”
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you? What kind of lawyer can’t string two words together? Why are you scared of the woman?”
    Petry licked his bulbous lips. “Claudine doesn’t scare me. She’s a friend of long standing. She used to be Claudine Twill. You know, the Twills of River Bend. She’s their daughter. You remember her, I’m sure.”
    Brax knew some highfalutin Twills, but he didn’t recall any Claudine. One thing cleared up, though. Virgil Petry had been, or was, close with a particular Twill, closer than two dogs huddled together in the Klondike.
    A wicked chuckle accompanied this thought. Brax now knew how to blackmail the weasel. “Speaking of human frailties . . .”
    A quarter-hour later the lawyer was all too willing to recommend Braxton Hale to the post of prospective husband. Two days later Brax and the black Hales boarded the steamship Jackie Jo. Onward to the good life.
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    Gunfire banged from the cookhouse, aimed at a quartet of thieving, and now retreating, Comanches. It masked their savage whoops and the roar of Indian ponies’ hooves striking the hard dry earth. The rifle butt bruising her thin shoulder, Skylla St. Clair fired yet another futile bullet.
    Suddenly the stick that held the flap-window aloft flew away from its mooring. The heavy wooden closure slammed down. It caught the rifle barrel. The butt kicked up to catch Skylla’s chin. She screeched in pain and fell hard on the earthen floor.
    The events of this sweltering morning in July were enough to reduce a woman to a bucket of tears. One of the other two females in the enormous cookhouse was already so reduced, but Skylla wouldn’t let herself cry.
    â€œIt’s over.” She got to unsteady feet, brushed the skirt of her widow’s weeds, and forced a smile at her fearless adopted sister, who blew on the pistol barrel she’d leveled at the marauders. Skylla walked to the whiskey still, then lent a hand to her cowering stepmother. “You can quit crying. Stalking Wolf is gone.” For now . “We’ll be okay.”
    â€œWill we?” Claudine lifted trembling fingers to her thick red hair. “That evil Indian and his awful band are stealing us blind. I told you, you should’ve let me at the Spencer.”
    Skylla wouldn’t point out that her stepmother could barely hit a grazing