The Texan's Bride (2 page)

He grinned and shook his head. “I didn’t mean to insult your help,” he told the barkeep, “it’s just that seeing something like that when you come in out of the cold, well, it warms a man up right quick.”

He raised his glass to his lips for a sip as the older man tossed back a drink of his own and lamented, “I know just what you mean. Me daughter looks just like her mother did at that age.”

The whiskey spewed from Branch’s mouth. Chuckling, the bartender reached across the bar and pounded the visitor’s back. “I’m John Gallagher,” he said. “Me Katie’s the one with the squirrels. She’s not exactly the help— ‘general’ comes closer to describing her position around here.”

“I’m Branch Kincaid,” he groaned, figuring he was destined to sleep with Mother Nature tonight after all.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kincaid,” Gallagher continued. “Don’t let the girl be bothering you. She was cross before you arrived, and I’m afraid her storms tend to blow as fierce as the one going on outside.”

Branch nodded, uncertain how he should respond. He hadn’t exactly planned to make this sort of first impression around here. Ogling the owner’s daughter wasn’t usually the way to secure a job. Still, Gallagher didn’t seem to mind too much. Probably with a gal like that around the place, it happened all the time.

A disgruntled voice demanded another drink, and the tavern keeper moved to refill the cups of a group of card players at a table in front of the fireplace. Branch shifted his position and took a lazy look around the room. The limestone hearth filled most of the wall farthest from the door, and a dozen or more roughhewn chairs sat scattered through the room. Shutters hung on rawhide hinges allowed a good bit of frigid air into the room through the single window on the south wall.

By the look of the place, Gallagher’s had begun as a typical dog-run style cabin. The narrow steps built in one corner probably led to one large sleeping room upstairs. He hoped he’d not be asked to share a mattress with a stranger tonight, as often happens in a Texas inn. He’d be damned before he’d bed down with a man, and that attic floor would sure be cold tonight with only a blanket between him and the pine.

Branch’s gaze fixed on a sampler hanging on the wall. Tiny stitches embroidered the quotation: “There is nothing which has yet been contrived by man by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn—Samuel Johnson.”
Couldn’t be her handiwork
, he thought. Somehow he just couldn’t picture the spitfire sitting passively before a hearth with needlework in her lap. A shotgun, maybe.

Gallagher returned to his place behind the scuffed and dented bar, interrupting Branch’s train of thought. The Irishman studied Branch. “You look familiar, young fella. You been here before?”

Branch frowned. “Nope. First time through East Texas. Pretty country up this way, though.”

“Aye, “Tis the evergreens a keepin’ the land from looking so barren.” Gallagher poured another drink. “So where do you hail from?”

“Virginia originally. My Pa brought me and my brother to Texas back in ’18. For the last few years I’ve been making my livin’ down south, ropin’ mustangs.”

“Really now. I’ve heard that’s a good bit of work to get into.”

“Used to be,” Branch said. He took a sip of whiskey. “Too many people now, drivin’ the herds too far west. I’m not anxious to lose my scalp to a Comanche.”

Gallagher shrugged. “Where you headed?”

This is it
, Branch thought.
Make it good
. “Well, I don’t rightly know. I’m lookin’ to file my head-right and claim the land the Republic of Texas is willin’ to give me.”

“Is that so? What class of head-right do you have?”

“I came to Texas before Independence Day in ’36, so mine is first class. I’m a veteran of the Siege of Bexar, so I’ve also got a donation grant coming. That qualifies me for a good amount of land, but I’m wanting to ranch. The more sections I can claim, the better.”

Pausing, he swirled the whiskey in his cup, carefully considering his next words. His brother had been killed while tracing a trail of counterfeit land scrip in East Texas, and Branch intended to find that path himself. He said, “I’ve got a bit of coin saved, and I’m willin’ to put it into scrip for additional acres if I can find the right piece of land. What do you know about the availability of good ground around here?”

“I’ll tell you the truth of it,” Gallagher said, scowling. “If there are two words that mean the same thing in Texas these days, they are ‘land’ and ‘fraud.’ You be mighty careful, boyo, before you give your hard-earned money to an agent dealing in land scrip. Check him out all the way back to his great-great-gram to make sure you’re not getting took.”

Branch held his excitement in check. “What do you mean?”

“When the government decided to authorize agents to sell certificates for land as a way to raise money, they made a big mistake. There’s enough counterfeit scrip out there to paper the road from here to San Antonio de Bexar.”

You’re right about that, Irishman
, Branch thought. Rob Garrett had discovered that some of it led to Gallagher’s own door. Casually, he asked, “Well, who’s making it? Can’t the law do something about it?”

Gallagher’s eyes narrowed, and he gripped the spill cloth in his hand until his knuckles whitened. “The law is part of it,” he stated flatly. He made an obvious effort to relax before he asked, “So, you got a family you’ll be a’bringin’ to this ranch?”

“Nope.” Branch shook his head. “I’m a single man.”

Pursing his lips, Gallagher nodded. “There’s your problem. You get a league and a labor of land if you’re a family man, rather than the third of a league single men receive. You’d be safer to get yourself a wife than to spend your money on risky scrip.”

Branch laughed. “I think I’d rather take the risk of being stuck with counterfeit paper than a false woman. Good women are hard to find in Texas—they get snapped up before they’re out of pigtails.”

Gallagher fixed a considering gaze upon Branch. “You might just be surprised, boyo. Tell me, now, are you hoping to settle ’round here?”

“Yeah, I’m in no hurry, though, what with winter comin’ on. I’m gonna look for work and take my time hunting the best piece of land.”

“Funny you should mention hunting.” The tavern owner rubbed a hand across his whiskered jaw, his light blue eyes steady as he gave Branch a measured look. “That’s one of the things that had me Mrs. Starr in a huff when you blew in.”

Branch lifted an eyebrow. “Mrs. Starr?”

“Katie. It’s a widow woman she is. Well over a year now.”

The way the old man tilted his head and the satisfied gleam in his eyes caused Branch to shift uneasily. The fella shouldn’t look so pleased, seeing how not ten minutes ago he’d eyed the man’s daughter like she was hot peach cobbler.

Gallagher continued. “Those squirrels she belted you with were the last of our fresh meat. Our hunter quit a couple of weeks ago.” A ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. “Seems he couldn’t get along with the cook.”

“The cook?”

“Katie. Anyway, me boy, Daniel, is not able to use a shotgun.” John lifted his chin defensively. “His right hand is crippled.”

“Sorry to hear that. Must be a hard prospect to live with,” Branch replied.

Gallagher appeared pleased with Branch’s answer. “An accident. Hard for a youngster to accept what happened. He wants so bad to pull his weight around here, but he just can’t provide meat enough for the family and the guests. Think you could handle the job? It’d be a good way to get a look at the land around here.”

“You offering?” Branch asked.

“If you think you can do it, the work is yours.”

Branch grinned. He’d never hoped for something to suit this well. He offered his hand. “You’ve got yourself a new hunter, sir. I’m proud to take the job.”

Each man smiled at the other while they shook hands on the deal. Branch knew his own motivations, but he could only wonder at John Gallagher’s.

“If you want,” John told him, “you can head out to the kitchen and tell Katie I said to fix our new man a meal. She ought to have those squirrels ready in a while. The kitchen’s out back to the left. After you’ve eaten, Daniel will be showing you where to put your gear.”

As Branch rose and started for the door, Gallagher called out to him. “And never you mind what Katie says, you’re hired. Don’t let her scare you off about how she made the last hunter leave. What she’s liable to tell you would be only a portion of the truth.”

That made Branch pause. He lifted a hand to his face where every so often he’d pick up the scent of dead squirrel. He owed her. This just might be fun.

CHAPTER 2

COCOONED IN THE WARMTH of her kitchen, Katie struggled to dismiss that overgrown oaf from her thoughts. But as she tested the cutting edge of a carving knife against her thumb, she pictured glowing, golden eyes, a cocky smile, and shoulders that filled the doorway. She stabbed the pumpkin before her with uncharacteristic viciousness.

“Were I not a good Catholic girl, I’d send him on his way,” she grumbled. The sharp knife bit into the tabletop; two hunks of orange gourd rocked on either side. “Without a coat.” She chopped each half into quarters. “Barefoot.”

Certainly he deserved no better. Only his size and the voice that had rolled over her like warm molasses made him different from any other first-time patron of Gallagher’s. Katie placed the pumpkin into a Dutch oven and set it onto the coals to bake.
I should be used to it
, she thought. After all, hadn’t O’Dell Thompson pinched her behind right before the stranger came in? And hadn’t the card player from Austin just asked her to show him to his mattress and stay awhile?

“Men!” she exclaimed. She ought to know by now that the majority of the men who walked through the front door followed the divining rod in their pants. They took one look at her and wanted to dig for water. And Da—half the time he’d pull a shotgun on them and the rest of the time he’d invite them to stay a couple of days extra—on the house! She’d realized right off that he was husband hunting for her.

“And isn’t
that
just what I need,” she mumbled. She peeked into the brick Dutch oven built alongside the fireplace. The aroma of baking cornbread escaped to mingle with the other tempting scents wafting through the room.

He’d smelled of tobacco.

She shook her head as though that would dislodge the memory, then turned her attention to the skinned and dressed squirrels, muttering, “Seven men, Daniel, and myself to feed with two measly squirrels.”

She sucked her lower lip, considering the best way to stretch the small amount of meat. “Brunswick stew is the best I can do,” Katie decided. Picking up a large kettle from the hearth, she carried it back to the worktable. She dropped the squirrels into the pot, then gathered vegetables from shelves, bins, and baskets that sat around the room.

“Better add extra of everything,” she fussed. “No doubt that scapegrace will eat for three.” Da ought to charge a man that big more than the usual fee. Gallagher’s surely would lose money boarding him.

Katie added lima beans and corn to the pot, and then picked up her knife to peel the last of the fall tomatoes. Actually, he wasn’t that tall. Why, Steven had stood to six feet, and the stranger was only a bit taller than that. He just had a lot more meat on him than had her husband.

Dear Steven, how she missed him
. A friend long before he became her sweetheart, Steven had loved the person she was beneath these female characteristics men seemed to find so fascinating. While they had enjoyed the physical side of marriage—after all, they had wanted a family—the true strength of their love had been the friendship that had bound them together since childhood.

The kitchen door flew open and the bitter wind swirled into the room, displacing the warmth and cozy aromas with hollow chill. She looked up to see Daniel wrestling to pull the door tight against the gale. “Do you need a hand?” she asked, then immediately cringed at her thoughtless words.

Her brother secured the door, then turned a sullen face toward Katie. “Yeah, you got an extra one you can sew on for me?” he asked, holding out his right arm. From the cuff, the crushed, mangled hand drooped pathetically toward the floor.

“I’m sorry, Daniel. My mind’s full of clover this afternoon. ’Fraid I had some trouble with one of the guests, and it left me a tad flustered.”

The boy’s expression lit. “So I heard,” he said with a smile. “Squirrel slapping’s something new for Gallagher’s.” He walked over to the table and grabbed a handful of shelled pecans. He pulled out a chair and sat down, plopping a nut into his mouth.

“Oh, posh. I don’t need any sass from you, young man,” Katie said.

“Sass?” he asked with innocence.

Katie rolled her eyes. That look reminded her of the stranger. Do they practice, or are men just born with it?

She reached beneath the table to grab a potato from the bin next to the dough box. “Have you finished with the beds?” she asked.

“Yeah, except we don’t have enough blankets,” Daniel answered. He looked at his sister expectantly, as though he knew what her words would be before she said them.

Katie frowned. “Well, any traveler this time of year ought to carry his own blanket, even if he does plan to sleep at inns. And they shouldn’t be complaining, either. We’re the only hotel in a hundred miles that offers each guest his own mattress. They’re lucky to be staying at Gallagher’s!” she finished in a huff.

Daniel peered into the kettle, now piled high with vegetables, and licked his lips. “They’re extra lucky ’cause you’re the cook,” he declared.

Katie smiled. She was a good cook. She’d worked hard to learn. That first year after Mama died, she’d almost run off all the business with the meals she’d put on the table. Of course, even then, Gallagher’s food wasn’t much worse than what the average hotel in Texas offered.

She cut up one last potato and added it to the stew. From a basin she took fresh water and poured it over the mixture, before adding salt and pepper as the final ingredients. She looked at her brother. “Would you carry this over to the fireplace for me?” she asked.