The Texan's Bride (22 page)

He pulled on his pants, rose from John Gallagher’s bed, and walked over to the woman, who stood facing the fireplace, her back stiff. He tilted her chin with his index finger and stared at her, saying softly, “Please, Katie?”

Moisture flooded her eyes and she nodded.

“I’ll go wash up then,” he said, and walked outside.

Katie sank into a chair at the table and buried her face in her hands, drained of emotion. Her red russet shoe thumped the dough box beneath the table. After a fitful few hours of sleep, she’d awakened to an early-morning sun, a gnawing hunger, and a biting anger. “Hell hath no fury,” she quoted to herself. But her rage had dissolved at the somber expression in her husband’s eyes.
He has something to tell me
, she thought, propping both feet on the box and slumping down in her chair. It was something she wasn’t going to like. She could read it in his face.

When Branch returned, she went through the motions of eating, tasting nothing she put in her mouth. His praise of the meal barely penetrated her stupor.

When he was through, Branch leaned back in his chair and stared at her. “Come on,” he said a moment later. “The weather’s beautiful this morning. Let’s walk down to the river.” Grabbing her hand, he pulled her to her feet and led her from the cabin.

The Angelina’s lazy flow carried an occasional green leaf downstream. Wildflowers hugged its bank, and a bee buzzed from an Indian paintbrush to a dandelion. The sweet fragrance of the season filled the air, soothing Katie’s soul.
It’s spring and I’ll manage
, she told herself.
I’ll manage no matter what
.

Branch opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. Twice more he fumbled before getting a word past his teeth. When he did manage to form a sentence, he said the last thing she expected to hear. “I wanted you in my bed this morning more than a bleeding man wants a tourniquet.” He sat on the bank and pulled her down beside him.

He reached behind him for a honeysuckle vine, plucked a blossom and, slowly pulling its pistil, touched the tip of his tongue to the sweet drop of nectar clinging to the thin fiber. “I laid awake half the night remembering how tight and hot you were around me and how you made that little throaty groan when you took your pleasure.”

Katie shifted uneasily.

A woebegone smile gentled his face as he continued. “It wouldn’t have been right, though, Katie. I gave my word I’d take care of you. Taking advantage isn’t taking care. As bad as I want you, I’ve figured you out enough to know that you need to be married first. We’re not wed, Katie. That marriage bond was no more legal than Houston’s Cherokee wife. I know we don’t see eye to eye on this, but you don’t have all the facts.”

Katie’s pride prompted her to interrupt. “You’ve a nerve, Branch Kincaid, thinking that I’m pining for you. But never mind that, just what are these facts I’m missing?”

He hesitated, as though he weighed his answer. Slowly, he said, “Among other things, we live under a different legal system than did your parents. The Republic doesn’t require the same conditions for citizenship or marriage as Mexico. Katie, that contract wasn’t worth the price of the ink.”

Why doesn’t he call me Sprite
? she wondered. “We’ve talked about this before, Branch. I told you about the San Augustine case. Your argument’s invalid.”

Branch pulled off his boots and dangled his feet in the water. “Well, I guess there actually is something else.” He paused, grimaced, and added, “I didn’t sign my real name.”

“What!” She sat still as a snake curled up to strike.

He glanced at her and said, “It’s a nickname, you see—Branch. I got it stuck on me as a kid. There’s this big old pecan tree at home, and I had a habit of misjudging the clearance beneath one of its limbs. Damn thing knocked me off my horse every other time I tried to ride beneath it. Then there was the time—oh, never mind. Anyway, everyone at home but my pa called me Branch. My name’s really Britt. Britton, that is.”

“So you’re Britton Kincaid, then?”

He looked away and nodded. “Britt.” He said it short and quietly.

“How do you think of yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

Katie sighed. “I mean, do you think of yourself as Branch or Britt?”

“I’ve never really thought about it. I guess I’m Branch except when I’m with my folks. Listen now, Katie, you needn’t take this whole thing personal. Actually, it has very little to do with you.”

Now that set right well. “In what way?” she asked, staring at her hand and picturing one of his Texas Patersons lying there.

“Now, don’t get me wrong. I intend to keep up the act that we’re married; I’m partially to blame for the damage to your reputation.”

“Partially to blame,” Katie repeated tonelessly. Her fingers cocked the imaginary trigger.

“Yeah. I’ll make sure everyone in Nacogdoches thinks we have a marriage made in heaven and the fact that we’re living apart is just bad circumstances.”

“Living apart?”

“Katie, I can’t stay here. I have a job to do, a very important duty. This marriage of convenience isn’t very convenient for me right now, but I’ll hang around until the others move out to the inn. I wouldn’t feel right about leaving you here alone, what with the Regulators actin’ up.”

Katie kicked off her shoes. The carpet of new grass tickled her toes. She wrapped her arms around her legs and said, “Let me see if I understand you.
Branch
. You signed a false name to a legal document of marriage with the sole intention of protecting my reputation. You intend for this marriage to be in name only, and you will leave my home as soon as someone else arrives to take responsibility for me.”

He nodded. “Yep, that about takes care of it.”

“I have a point I’d like clarified, if you will?”

“Shoot.”

I’ve love to
, she thought. “How would your plans be affected were there to be a result from our union?”

He looked puzzled and she rolled her eyes. “What’ll you do if I’m expecting?”

He shrugged, frowning. “Well, if you turn up carryin’, we’ll marry for real. I’ll just have to deal with it. Anything else?”

She nearly shoved him into the river at that point. Instead she gave him a sunshine smile. “That’s all.” She stood, saying, “I guess I’d better get to work. If I’m going to reopen Gallagher’s anytime soon, I’ve much to do.”

His mouth twisted as though he thought to say something but changed his mind. It was a good decision. One more word, and she certainly would have hurt him.

As they made their way back to the inn, Katie considered his confession. She’d bet her very best Dutch oven that a false name wouldn’t nullify the marriage contract. If she remembered right, Ed Black in San Augustine had tried to use something similar in his argument also. Half the people in Texas changed their names when they crossed the border. Britt or Branch, it made little difference.

The man had married her yesterday.

She bit at her lower lip. The way she saw it, she was no longer a widow but a bride. A rejected bride. The question was, just what did she want to do about it?

Looking over at her husband, she took note of his contented manner. So, she thought, he’s been to confession and now he’s feeling sinless. Well, she was no priest offering absolution. Poor Branch. He would soon learn that his bride had her pride and he shouldn’t have trampled all over it. She’d stage the greatest seduction ever attempted, and when he fell at her feet, she’d kick him.

She remembered something her father once told her. “The thing to do with mule-headed men, colleen,” John Gallagher had said, “is to treat them like you’d treat a mule you’re a’fixin’ to corral. Don’t try to drive them in, just leave the gate open a crack and let them bust in.”

That was her answer. She’d show Branch Kincaid what rejection really was. She knew just how to crack open the gate.

AND SO began the campaign to win Branch Kincaid’s body. Like every good general, Katie had learned from the experience of prior battles. Each tactic he had used during the winter maneuvers, she redefined from a feminine point of view and put into action during the spring.

Her first attack was launched with the arrival of the peddler’s wagon three days later. Branch had left Gallagher’s early that morning bound for San Augustine after receiving a message from Sheriff Strickland. She’d been working inside the tavern when harmonica music and a freight wagon’s rattle had announced the advent of Morsey Johnston, Peddler by Profession.

Katie smoothed her hair as she walked onto the porch and waited for the wagon to come to a stop. She was always happy to see Johnston; he had included Gallagher’s on his rounds for years, and he often saved her special items. Usually kitchen utensils, occasionally an extra-fine length of lace or linen, he made a great production of presenting the articles for sale.

Morsey was young, perhaps three years older than Katie, and quite handsome, with emerald-green eyes and cheeks that dimpled with his wicked smile. Women just loved a visit with the peddler, and Katie was no exception. Especially when he came at such an opportune time.

“My divine Mrs. Starr,” he said, jumping from the wagon seat. He bounded up the steps, bowed over Katie’s hand, and said, “An eternity has passed since I last gazed upon your exquisite beauty. Please tell me you’ve reconsidered my offer and are willing to travel the trail to life’s fulfillment with my humble self.”

Katie laughed. “Mr. Johnston, I’m afraid my answer has not changed. I am still unsure as to what you offer with those silky words of yours.”

He clasped a fist to his breast. “I’m crushed, madam. But perhaps I could interest you in a potato masher?”

Katie folded her arms. “Steel?”

“Wire.”

“No, I have a fine one, thank you.” She leaned her head to one side and studied Morsey Johnston’s wagon. She had a glimmer of an idea, one that might cause her embarrassment, but one that might just suit her needs quite well. “Mr. Johnston, you’ve been traveling Texas for some time, haven’t you?”

“Yes, my elegant Mrs. Starr. Almost four years now.”

“Mr. Johnston, as you undoubtedly know, people in East Texas sometimes lower themselves to gossip. I admit to having heard a few tales concerning yourself.”

He dropped all pretense at gallantry and scowled. “Now Katie, if it’s about Marvella Davis, I swear to you that I had no idea she was married.”

“No, that’s not…”

“Jessamine Poteet’s little boy isn’t mine, either. I swear it!”

Katie bit back an exclamation of surprise. She hadn’t heard that particular piece of idle talk. “No, Mr. Johnston. What I’m trying to say is that I’m aware that you make professional calls on the women at The Mansion of Joy.”

Johnston stiffened. “They are customers, Mrs. Starr, with as much right to merchandise as anyone.”

“I agree. But what I’m asking is”—she lowered her voice—“is it true that you keep a particular trunk in your wagon for supplies of special interest to those, uh, ladies?”

His eyes widened and he fell back, leaning against his wagon for support. “Why, Mrs. Starr!”

“Kincaid. I’ve remarried. Recently. I’d like to look in that box, Mr. Johnston.”

Morsey Johnston held her gaze, and a wistful look entered his emerald eyes. “Oh, Mrs. Starr. I’ll tell you true, a man spends his life dreaming to find a woman like you.”

She grinned. “I’m counting on it, Morsey. Now, if I can just see those items?”

Later that afternoon, although it wasn’t wash day, Katie decided to do a little laundry. First she strung a rope from a lower branch of the dogwood tree to the kitchen porch rail a short distance away. Next she built a fire and heated a kettle of water. From her bedroom she took a precious bar of lily-of-the-valley scented soap.

She washed Branch’s bed-sheets, lathering them well, and hung them out to dry. Then she washed her new purchases.

Those she hung on a second rope so that they dangled against the background of her husband’s bright white sheet.

CHAPTER 12

UNDER A BLUE SKY pierced high by a yellow thunderhead, Striker thundered down the road at full gallop, kicking up a cloud of red dust along the well-traveled road between San Augustine and Nacogdoches. Branch eyed the anvil-shaped storm, wishing it had built a day earlier and fifty miles east. Perhaps then his head wouldn’t still be ringing with the sounds of gunshots. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so worried about Katie.

Sheriff Strickland had sent the message just after noon yesterday, and Branch had little choice but to leave her alone at the inn. Honeymoon or no, Deputy Kincaid was needed in San Augustine because rumors of a showdown between the Regulators and the Moderators had reached the sheriff’s ears, and Strickland wanted one of his own men there to send a warning if the fight looked to be spreading to Nacogdoches.

Despite her arguments, Branch had known that Katie would be safer at home than in town when destructive passions were running high. It had surprised him how difficult leaving her behind turned out to be, and he hadn’t liked that one bit.

After all, he’d be leaving for good in a week or so.

Now as his time away from Gallagher’s neared the twenty-four-hour mark, he told himself that as long as Katie had managed all right, the trip had been worth the effort. Holed up in Odd Fellows’ Hall on the second story of William Phillips’s store, observing the fracas down in the street, Branch had about fallen off his chair when Phillips made an offhand remark concerning counterfeit scrip. During the ensuing discussion, Phillips had remembered Rob Garrett’s visit in East Texas and had confirmed for Branch his brother’s location one week before his disappearance.

Rob Garrett had mentioned to Phillips that he had left Gallagher’s Inn and was staying with a friend at a farm outside of Nacogdoches. Now Branch had to find the friend. He figured that this fellow—whoever he was— might have information that could lead Branch to the killer.

This friend might even be Rob’s killer.

It was the most valuable piece of information he’d learned in months. As long as Katie was fine at Gallagher’s, he’d be well pleased with the day’s work.