The Texan's Bride (31 page)

She fanned herself faster as she observed Katie greet Jack Strickland at her door. The girl should have made the trip to New Orleans with Mr. St. Pierre, as he had asked. Now there was a good man, a real friend for her little dearling. He had no evil intentions on his mind; he’d made that much clear to Martha when she’d challenged him shortly after Mr. Branch’s departure.

She had stopped St Pierre one morning on his way to Katie’s kitchen and ordered him to accompany her into Gallagher’s parlor. There she had told the Creole that although she liked him, he was about as much good for her Katie as a sore tooth. The poor thing was vulnerable, grieving as she was over the loss of her father.

Martha had admitted that, truth be told, Katie and Mr. Branch suffered a spat, but such things happen all the time with newlyweds. And while it might serve Mr. Branch right to return and find his place taken by another, Martha, in good conscience, could not allow it to transpire.

By then, St. Pierre was holding himself ramrod straight, his expression fierce. “Mrs. Craig,” he’d said, “I assure you I have no designs upon Mrs. Kincaid. Friendship is all I offer or request.”

Martha had believed him. She’d yet to meet a man who could lie to her face and not falter in the doing. It was the mother in her, she believed. The way she folded her arms across her bosom and looked over the rims of her spectacles appealed to the boy in every man and made him feel as if he were lying to his mama.

St. Pierre had not lied, but he wasn’t around to help, either. It was simply a crying shame that his grandfather had summoned him to Louisiana at this particular time. As Martha watched Katie allow Strickland into her home, she repeated aloud, “A crying shame.”

Martha wasn’t any happier two days later when Jack Strickland arrived at Gallagher’s to collect Katie for Sarah Jane Abernathy’s wedding. The sheriff arrived driving a two-person chaise, rather than the larger carriage he usually drove, thereby foiling Martha’s plan to interrupt his sinful scheme by playing chaperon.

“That man is up to no good,” she grumbled to Katie as the women rose from the swing on Gallagher’s porch.

“Now, Martha, you just hush,” Katie replied as she lifted a hand and waved at the sheriff. “I’m well and truly tired of your dire predictions. Mr. Strickland is as fine a gentleman as I’ve ever met.”

“Fine like a firefly in the butter churn is fine.”

“Martha,” Katie scolded. But she couldn’t say too much because, in truth, Martha was right. Jack Strickland was courting her. Katie knew it, and she was indulging in a little feminine thrill at the notion. This handsome, debonair man had taken a shine to her, regardless of her questionable marital status. His flattery, the simple gifts he gave her, and especially the respect with which he treated her were balms to her battered spirit. She thoroughly enjoyed these stolen moments spent with a man who appreciated her.

It was such a change from being with Branch Kincaid.

She’d been up front with the sheriff, telling him right off that she considered herself a married woman. That he didn’t seem to set any more store in her marriage bond than had Branch didn’t surprise or trouble her much. Men were just naturally ignorant about some things. As long as Jack Strickland was willing to accept the limits she put on their friendship, she’d enjoy his company. Despite Martha Craig’s grousing.

The drive to the Abernathy farm was a pleasant one, the summer afternoon unseasonably cool with a light breeze blowing from the northeast. Once a flash of white in the woods caught their attention, and they looked closely to see the fluffy white tails of a doe and her fawn disappear into the forest.

Conversation centered on Strickland’s family back in the States, something Katie had learned over the past weeks was always a favorite topic of the sheriff’s. Today he related a particularly amusing story involving his grandfather, the senator, and former President Van Buren. Watching the smooth, expressive hand movements he employed to punctuate his speech, Katie wondered if he’d touch a woman with such flare. She recognized that with little effort on her part, she could easily find out.

That the thought even occurred to her further proved just how badly Branch had damaged her feminine sensibilities.

You’d best beware, Katie Kincaid
, she told herself as they arrived at the Abernathys’. Human nature being what it was, she wouldn’t be the first woman to seek solace in another’s arms while suffering from rejection by the one whom she loved.

A crowd of people waited in front of the bride’s family’s dog-run style cabin. Having drawn close enough to make out faces, Strickland muttered, “I thought the Abemathys were Methodists.”

“Baptist, actually,” Katie replied, fighting a sudden attack of nausea. “Oh, Jack,” she added, “I don’t believe I’m up to facing the likes of him.”

Reverend T. Barton Howell and a goodly number of his goodly flock congregated to one side of the yard. A full thirty minutes before the wedding was due to start, he was warming up the crowd with a dose of hellfire and damnation.

Strickland took Katie’s hand in his and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Don’t concern yourself with the preacher, sweetheart. I’ll make certain he stays out of your way.”

Katie noted his use of the endearment, but she didn’t fuss at him about it. His reassuring touch and soothing voice were too welcome at the moment. She smiled at him.
Maybe I should forget Branch Kincaid
, she thought, gazing into Strickland’s somber dark eyes filled with compassion and strength. After all, there were times when a woman needed a man—and not just those times when she wanted a man. Instances like now, when half of East Texas would turn their heads and look at her, their minds busily making comparisons between today’s wedding and her own, minds deliberating the chances of Sarah Jane’s bridegroom hanging around longer than had Katie’s husband.

Strickland helped her from the chaise, his hand lingering at her waist longer than was necessary, as one of Sarah Jane’s five brothers approached. “Missus Kincaid, am I glad you’re here,” he said, taking off his hat and wiping a sweaty brow. “Sarah’s pitchin’ a regular fit, and, well, since Ma is gone and we have no other womenfolk, the boys and I are in a fix. We thought that with circumstances bein’ what they are, you might just have a special understanding you could offer our sister.”

His jaw hardened as he continued. “This wedding is gonna happen no matter what. We’d be much obliged if you could get Sarah to attend without being hogtied and gagged.”

“I’ll be glad to see what I can do,” Katie said, turning a questioning look upon her escort.

Strickland nodded. “Go right along, Miz Katie. While you’re busy, I’ll have a look at that squeak in my buggy’s right wheel.” He rested his hand against the chaise as he added, “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

“Thank you, Jack.” His support warmed her as she followed the Abernathy brother inside the cabin. It helped her see her way through the next few minutes with the babbling bride.

Sarah Jane was barely seventeen, a beautiful girl with round brown eyes and springy blond curls. Taller than Katie, but with just as many curves, her only protection from silver-tongued men had been the presence of five burly brothers.

Obviously, upon at least one occasion, the brothers had been lax in their duty. Sarah Jane’s apron strings were riding high, and her groom awaited the nuptials out in the shed, tied and under the aim of a double-barreled shotgun.

After a few hugs and bucket of tears, Katie discovered that Sarah Jane wasn’t opposed to marrying the father of her child, she feared being made to look the fool before all her friends and neighbors when her brothers dragged a protesting groom before the preacher.

“Now, Sarah Jane,” Katie said, patting the younger girl’s knee. “Not to worry, I know just how to settle your fears. I’ve a wedding gift for you that I guarantee will have that man stepping lively toward the altar. I’ll be back in a few moments, and while I’m gone, why don’t you see to getting out of that pretty dress. I’ve something for you to wear.”

A short time later, the bride, once again dressed but now glowing with happiness, listened with pleasure to the lilting sounds of the wedding music the fiddler played outside the cabin.

Inside the storage shed, one Abernathy pointed the shotgun while another glowering brother untied the bridegroom’s hands and handed him a couple of coins and a note.

Morsey Johnston, Peddler by Profession, frowned as he unfolded the sheet of paper. Then as he read, a slow smile spread across his face. Soon he was whistling, brushing dirt from his jacket, and straightening his tie.

Suspicious, one of the Abernathys swiped the note from his hands and read: “Felicitations on your upcoming marriage. Included with this note is payment for my purchase this day from a certain trunk in your wagon. It is my gift to you and your bride. I chose the purple. I think the color suits Sarah Jane quite well. I’d have made this payment in person, but I am helping Miss Abernathy dress for the wedding. (Signed) Katie Kincaid.”

The ceremony went off without a hitch, considering that Reverend Howell accepted full credit for saving the two “wicked souls” from the “fires of hell” for “indulging in fleshly sin.” Jack Strickland stood at Katie’s side during the service, taking her hand as Morsey and Sarah Jane repeated their vows.

The newly wedded couple led off the dancing, and Katie and her escort quickly joined them. She had a marvelous time; Jack was protective and courteous and ever-the-gentleman. Katie pointedly turned her back on a disapproving trio of matrons, Martha Craig and the Racine sisters, and basked in the sheriff’s devoted attentions.

It wasn’t until she returned home and bid Jack Strickland goodbye with a sweet, tender kiss—their first—that doubts began to plague her.

She couldn’t keep this up. It wasn’t fair to either the sheriff or to herself. Until she was informed otherwise, she remained a married woman. Branch had yet to divorce her. She could not, in good faith, continue to encourage Sheriff Strickland’s attentions.

She didn’t love the man. She couldn’t. There was no room in her heart. Dusk fell, bringing with it an attack of the nausea she suffered nightly. Yes, it was time to be honest with her suitor. Having bent over a basin and lost her supper, Katie groaned, “Branch Kincaid, this is all your fault.”

RIVERRUN’S BIG House rose majestically atop a bluff above the Brazos River. With three stories plus a captain’s walk, the red-bricked house looked as though it belonged along Louisiana’s River Road. Six huge columns supported a portico, and all the wood trim gleamed a pristine white.

Ornate gardens surrounded the family home. Rose beds filled open spaces while shade-loving plants hugged the bases of live oak trees. Red amaryllis lined brick walkways. Pink crepe myrtle formed a hedge along the side fence, and bois d’arc separated the decorative landscape from the more functional vegetable and herb garden near the kitchen.

Branch took a turn in the garden after dinner, his fiancée on his arm. Damask roses ringed the gazebo, their fragrance spicing the evening, while from the slave cabins came the sound of a woman’s voice singing a churning song to charm the butter into coming.

Branch’s gaze roamed over the lady at his side. Eleanor was a stunning woman, with her big green eyes and those soft golden curls. Moonlight complimented her creamy complexion, and the blue silk dress she wore displayed her curves to perfection.

The promise of youth had been fulfilled in maturity. The children Eleanor had borne his brother had ripened her tall, willowy figure without marring its perfection. Branch wondered about her daughters, twelve and nine respectively and attending school in the east. Did they take after their mother or their father?

He regretted their absence from the plantation at his homecoming. He liked children, and he didn’t approve of sending such little women off to a distant place to live. Nor did he understand the reasoning behind such a decision. He wanted family around him here at Riverrun.

Unbidden, the image of twinkling blue eyes replaced green and the petal-soft hand on his arm became one reddened and callused from work.
Dammit
, he thought,
leave me alone, Katie Starr
.

Eleanor prattled on concerning her plans to redecorate the suite designated to be theirs upon their marriage. She bemoaned the time required to import costly, but necessary, French fabrics, and pouted prettily over Branch’s refusal to take her to Paris on a honeymoon. Eleanor Garrett was the ideal of a Southern planter’s wife, beautiful, courteous, and virtuous.

She bored him to tears.

Conversation with Eleanor consisted of puppy-dog admiration and plaintive entreaties for material goods, very nearly a repetition of their discourses years ago. Branch remembered that at one time he’d thought her manner quite enchanting. Her empty-headed worship had boosted his pride and appealed to his vanity. But in the weeks he’d been home, especially since bowing to his father’s pressure for the engagement, he’d discovered that what had attracted the boy at sixteen held no allure for a man of thirty-four.

Eleanor gave him a shy smile, and sardonically Branch returned it. The woman was nice but dumb as a box of rocks. How could he have missed it before? Of course, back then he’d not been overly concerned with any woman’s intellect. Her looks today were more than enough to quicken a man’s blood, and back when they’d both been sixteen, well, she’d kept him hot enough to melt leather.

But now, as her babbling caused him to wonder if there was anything in her head, he recalled against his will another woman’s quick wit and intelligent conversation. Stimulating conversation. Oh, Lord, how in the hell could he face the rest of his life married to Eleanor? How could he face the rest of his life without Katie Starr?

Damn, I keep forgetting how much I hate the woman
. “Let’s go inside, Eleanor,” he said. “I’d enjoy hearing you play the piano this evening.” A lie, he admitted, but memories of a certain deceitful innkeeper occurred more often outdoors, beneath the moon and stars, than in the ornate rooms of Riverrun.