Mail-Order Man by Martha Hix Read Free Book Online

elbow, and they started toward the cookhouse. The lurch of her step caused his gaze to turn. Her eyes and chin were elevated as she limped along.
    My God, she’s crippled.
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    Despite his curiosity about the source of her limp, Brax didn’t ask Skylla about her affliction. It took less than a couple minutes to reach the cookhouse. By then he’d decided it would be a favor, freeing her from the hell of ranch life.
    You ought to set her up in town when you ride out.
    No.
    That was the sap’s way out. When Brax had needed help for defenseless women, Skylla’s uncle had laughed.
    Brax faced the present. His olfactory senses had kicked in. The scent of pinto beans filled his nose—boy, those beans smelled good. Pinto beans sat well with him. And he speculated about the quality of Skylla’s biscuit-making. Be careful.
    He took a look around. It was a big rectangular kitchen, designed to accommodate a slew of ranch hands. Titus built it of granite walls and wooden shutters, the latter opening from the bottom to lend a view of the cattle-dotted south pasture and to let in the breezes. No breeze blew on this late afternoon.
    Gone were the row upon row of canned goods and provisions that Titus’s cook had stockpiled. Some items remained, however. A shelf held a collection of ointments and unguents, as well as a cracked leather satchel, a black bag typical to physicians.
    Brax continued on. A whiskey barrel sat next to a dusty contraption with coils and tubes that stood in the corner, same as always. One evening in this kitchen, he’d entertained a lady from Ecru. Titus and a candidate for Mrs. St. Clair had retired to the ranch house after a supper of brisket and potato salad, leaving Brax and Jane Clark to sit at the rough-hewn oak table and chairs. They had drunk from a jug of aged corn liquor, making more than small talk.
    â€œWhy don’t you sit down?” a different woman now suggested.
    He looked at Skylla St. Clair. Jane was a pretty little gal, near as he recalled, but he had eyes for the heart-faced brunette stirring a pot atop the iron stove.
    â€œMeow.”
    An insolent calico cat, perched atop the pie safe, grabbed his attention. She imparted a dirty look and hissed, then jumped to the floor—heavily—to flounce out of the kitchen.
    â€œThat’s Electra.” Skylla chuckled. “She thinks she’s our queen. Definitely, she has little use for her subjects.”
    â€œPowerful name. It fits her.” Thinking about Electra’s avoirdupois, Brax commented, “She must be quite a ratter.”
    â€œDon’t talk about rats. Please.” Skylla, shuddering, rushed on. “Supper will be beans and cornpones.”
    â€œSounds plenty fine to me. Plenty fine.” Peaches and fudge would have been a nice treat for her.
    She eyed him squarely. “Sergeant Hale, what is the true reason you’ve backed down on my uncle’s debt?”
    â€œI need a woman.” That was partly true.
    â€œOh, uh, um.” Skylla picked up a potholder and waved it in front of her face. “My goodness, it’s hot in here. Heat of late July, added to this cookstove fire, phew!” Her hand shook. “How . . . how about a nice cup of tea, Sergeant? I’ll just put on a kettle of water, and—”
    â€œNo tea, thank you. I’d prefer a slug of something stronger.”
    â€œHelp yourself.” She gestured toward the still. “There’s a jug hidden in a box.”
    â€œI know where Titus kept it.” If memory served him right, Titus had also hidden barrels of aged whiskey in the barn. Brax selected one of several crockery jugs from a sawdust-packed wooden crate. Pouring corn liquor into a glass, he added, “I used to cowboy for your uncle.”
    â€œI know.”
    Damn, he hoped she didn’t know everything. What all had Geoff said?
    She lifted a pristine white apron over her black dress, and Brax moved