The Texan's Bride (5 page)

He plunged into the scintillating pleasure of her kiss.

She tasted sweet as the sugarcane grown at Riverrun and, despite her fall, smelled as fresh as the forest after springtime rain. So tiny and soft, so fragile—he felt as though the slightest pressure from his hand would break a bone.

But Katie was anything but fragile. To his surprise, she met his invading tongue with a demanding passion that stole his senses and left him heavy with desire. She took control, teasing, exploring, plundering. Swept into the vortex of craving she created, Branch relaxed his arms and allowed her to move as she wished.

Impatient fingers worked the buttons of his chambray shirt, and she pushed it from his shoulders. One hand brushed a feathery caress across his back while the other gathered the shirt and flung it to the ground.

Katie broke the kiss and pulled back. Her eyes beckoned with sultry promise. Then she reached to grasp a limb above, and her breasts lifted in pagan offering. He leaned to accept just as she pulled herself up to stand upon the wood. The vision of the thinly veiled triangle right at eye level held him spellbound as she raised one leg and wrapped it over his shoulder.

“Oh Lord, Kate,” he murmured. His chest heaved, and it took all his restraint to allow her to proceed at her own pace. Apparently the merry widow knew exactly what she wanted and far be it from him to deny her desires. A tree. A doggone tree. This one would certainly give a new dimension to his name, that’s for sure.

Ever so slowly, he felt her weight shift as she brought her other leg up. She straddled his shoulders, holding herself away as she shifted her hands, getting a firmer grip upon the limb. He could stand it no more. He reached for her, his hands cupping the softness of her buttocks. Her throaty laugh filled his ears, and she flattened her feet against his back. Then just as he brought her to his mouth, she pulled up. She rose over his head, and before he knew what happened, Katie planted a mighty shove to his back, and pushed him from the tree.

He hit the blackberry vines face first. Cane snapped beneath his weight, and biting thorns jabbed deeply into his skin. Stunned silent, not from the fall but from disbelief, Branch listened as that conniving little witch descended from the tree. Her bubbling laughter poured salt on every damned scratch on his body.

Branch roared with the savagery of a rabid coyote. Thrashing to his feet, he spit dusty spider-webs from his mouth as he pinned his gaze upon Katie. Laughing with delight, she was buttoning his shirt over those remarkable breasts and wearing a disgustingly smug expression.

“I swear, I’m gonna kill her!” he growled.

At that, she lifted her chin and looked at him, her brilliant blue eyes alight with mirth. Standing there amid the winter-stark forest, her mahogany-colored hair in tangled disarray, with his shirt all but swallowing her in its voluminous folds, Katie Starr smote him with her heart stopping beauty.

“But first,” Branch promised himself, “I’m gonna have her.”

Yanking his way through the cane, he ignored the pricks of the thorns and marched toward her. Clenching his jaw, he fixed her with his most ferocious look.

Unbelievably, the audacious minx put her thumbs to her ears, wiggled her fingers, and stuck out her tongue. And he wanted her as he had never before wanted another woman.

Katie’s laughter filled the forest like songs of returning birds in spring. She scooped up the baby quilt and darted off in the direction of the inn.

While watching her flee, a lazy grin crept across Branch’s face. He fought on through the vine and finally broke free. He winced when he looked down at his bare chest and saw blood oozing from a myriad of cuts, not to mention the splinters that lay embedded in his skin in a dozen places. He lifted a knuckle and wiped at a warm trickle of wetness that ran down his cheek. The grin reappeared as he gathered his gun and knife and walked back to the spot by the river where he’d been fishing.

Branch knelt and washed in the cold, clean water of the Angelina, whistling a bawdy tune he’d first heard in a Mexican bordello. This situation would require careful consideration. The little general had declared war and could claim victory in the initial skirmish. “However”—he lifted his chin, clasped a fist to the breast in mock solemnity, and quoted John Paul Jones—“I have not yet begun to fight.”

Rising, Branch gathered his belongings and picked up the rabbits and a stringer of fish he’d enjoyed catching before he was interrupted. That’s it, he decided. He’d plan the next assault with the strategic finesse of Alexander the Great. He’d storm her defenses like Saxons at England’s castle walls. He’d conquer Katie Starr as Napoleon had conquered Europe, and within a month, the spoils of war would be in his bed.

Confident of victory, Branch headed for Gallagher’s and the field of dishonor. He broke into song, his baritone forming the ribald words that became his battle hymn.

He did his best to forget the niggling thought that even Napoleon had his Waterloo.

CHAPTER 4

OCCASIONAL BURSTS OF LAUGHTER split the muted hum of after-dinner conversation in the main room of the tavern. Pine logs crackled and popped in the fireplace, working to displace the January chill seeping through cracks in the log walls’ chinking. Overall, the atmosphere in Gallagher’s was cozy and comfortable as the inn played host to eight guests.

The two ladies, sisters traveling with their husbands to visit family in Liberty, had already retired for the night, seeking their beds upstairs. Their mates had joined a dice game in progress and were now expansively detailing the beauty of the Sistine chapel to two buffalo hunters headed west and a patent-medicine salesman who eyed their pocket watches with interest. The aroma of roasted turkey mingled with the pungent scent of cigars and lingered with the soulful notes Daniel Gallagher pulled from his harmonica.

The inn’s other guest sported an elegant frock coat of dark blue broadcloth over a red satin vest—quite a contrast to his poker opponent’s buckskins and wicked smile. Katie worked behind the bar, polishing spotless glasses as her gaze returned time and again to the gentleman and Branch Kincaid, who apparently had taken this night off from the siege he’d declared on her virtue.

For the past three weeks, Gallagher’s Tavern and Travelers Inn had served as the staging area for a war equal in intensity, if not in violence, to Texas’s War for Independence. Not that the skirmishes between Branch and Katie lacked for havoc; they just weren’t as mortal.

Although she was a skillful strategist and had evaded most of his maneuvers, Branch had managed to capture a few stolen kisses over the days. More and more she felt like the walls of the Alamo; another kiss, and Santa Anna Kincaid would breach her defenses.

She filled a cup with water and drank from it, glancing over its rim to the golden-haired warrior whose eyes set fire to her fortress. Honesty forced her to admit that sometimes, in the middle of the night, defeat sounded so good.

Branch lifted the tankard of ale to his lips and sipped. His opponent laid down his hand and said in a voice that carried, “Two pair, jacks high. My win, Kincaid.”

Branch tipped back in his chair, grimacing. “That brew is green. Next time you buy me a drink, William Bell, make it whiskey. Gallagher’s Irish is pretty darn good.”

“I’m not here to discuss the relative merits of this establishment’s beverages,” the visitor said with a wry smile. He paid careful attention to gathering his small pot of winnings from the middle of the table. “Branch, cease with the evasions. I rode through a two-day snowstorm to reach this rustic little dwelling, and I believe I deserve some answers. Now, what have you learned since your arrival at Gallagher’s?”

“Hah.” Branch’s scornful scoff caught Katie’s attention. Her long, auburn braid swung across her shoulder as she gave him a curious look. He flashed her his rakish grin and winked. Loud enough for her to hear, he said, “I’ve learned that war can sometimes be a helluva lot of fun.” Katie rolled her eyes and returned to her business of dusting the various bottles and glassware behind the bar.

“Branch?” William Bell inquired.

“What have I learned?” The front legs of his chair thumped to the floor. He fastened a frigid gaze on the impatient messenger and said in a low, deliberate voice, “I’ve learned that if Hoss Garrett wants me to do this job, he’d best stop sending you to check up on me.”

Bell calmly swept an imaginary speck of dust from his well-tailored coat. “Your father wishes for a simple status report. That should not be too much to ask.”

“Don’t call him that! Around me he’s Hoss Garrett!”

Branch swiped up the deck of cards and shuffled them, his movements abrupt and angry. His voice snapped as he added, “But I guess if Hoss wants a report, I’d best give you one. I like you too much, William, to send you back to 0l’ Split-foot empty-handed.”

Bell thumped his tankard against the tabletop. “That is enough.”

Ignoring Bell’s outburst, Branch continued. “Here it is, short and sweet.” He slapped the card deck onto the table. “That envelope you gave me when I signed Hoss’s contract contained more than just the anonymous note sent to Riverrun informing the family of Rob’s death. There was a packet of letters my brother had written to Eleanor and Hoss. In one of them he wrote that the principal players in the counterfeit scheme met regularly at a tavern outside of Nacogdoches run by an Irishman and his daughter. It was easy enough to determine that Gallagher’s was the place. I’ve been spending all my time”—he stopped and looked again at Katie—”well,
almost
all of it, buying drinks and playing cards with every visitor to the tavern.”

He paused and took a sip of his ale. “You know, if nothing else, I’ve proved I can hold my liquor with the best of ’em.”

Bell sighed impatiently. “But what have you learned?”

“Most of the men who come in here are members of an organization they call the Moderators. From what I can figure, it’s a vigilante group formed to oppose another bunch of rabble-rousers who call themselves the Regulators. Actually, Will, it seems to stop something just short of an all-out war. Last August, Sam Houston sent in a militia and rounded up the leaders, forcing them to sign a treaty of peace. All that did was send the brawling underground. Now nobody really knows who’s fighting who.”

He briefly considered the story he’d heard the previous evening about a Moderator who’d been bound to a log and whipped to death. “It’s been a bloody little feud, this Regulator-Moderator thing. Neither side is all good or all bad; it’s basically the old-time settlers against the newcomers. I’m fairly certain, though, that an inner circle of one of the two gangs is the source of the counterfeit land scrip. The problem is finding out just which group.”

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. His voice grated as he said, “So you can trot yourself back to Riverrun and tell the old bastard that I’m hard at work on the case. I’m sure he’ll have his doubts, considering it’s me he has doing his huntin’ for him. But at least he ought to have confidence that I can finish the job once I find Rob’s murderer. After all, I
am
a killer.”

William Bell’s face flushed as red as his vest. He slammed his fist against the table. “Boy, I bounced you on my knee when you were young, and I have always defended you to your father. Don’t spout such stupid things to me. Your fath—” He stopped as Branch shot him an icy look. “Hoss Garrett is offering you a chance, Branch, to grab what you’ve always wanted. I know how you feel about Riverrun. And Eleanor is a widow now; she’s as beautiful as ever. Don’t allow false pride to get in the way of your heart’s desire.”

“I’ve had little luck with my desires of late.” Branch’s gaze went unerringly to Katie. Eleanor Garrett wasn’t the only beautiful widow in the Republic of Texas. “Buy me another drink, William, a real one this time.”

He glanced toward Katie, who had dropped all pretense of ignoring the whispered conversation taking place at the table in front of the fire. “Sprite,” he called, “as your father is fond of saying, I’m in need of a wee drop of the Irish.”

Katie approached carrying two glasses and a bottle of John Gallagher’s best. Undisguised curiosity put a glow to her face that made Branch want to laugh. It made him want to throw her over his shoulder and carry her up the stairs to his bed and answer all the questions that really mattered.

She poured each man a drink and waited expectantly. Branch looked up at her. “I guess you want an introduction.”

She shrugged. “Well, this gentleman is the first of our guests to inquire after you by name. Obviously, you are acquaintances, and I’m always interested in learning more about our employees.”

Branch shook his head at her demure look. Really, the woman should be on stage. “Mrs. Starr, may I present Mr. William Bell. William is a friend.”

Bell had stood as Branch spoke, and both he and Katie waited a moment for Branch to expound on the relationship between them. When it became obvious that Branch had no intention of doing so, Bell bent over Katie’s hand and gave it a courtly kiss. “I’m honored, madam. Please allow me to tell you how much I enjoyed the meal this evening. The turkey was roasted to perfection, and that cornbread dressing was the most delicious I’ve ever tasted. You must share your secret so that I may tell my wife.”

Katie’s smile beamed her pleasure. “Why, thank you, Mr. Bell. It’s rewarding to know that my guests enjoy my cooking.” No one but Branch knew she punctuated that statement with a kick to Branch’s shin.

She’s never goin’ to let me forget those doughballs
, he thought.

“I normally do not share my recipes, Mr. Bell, but since you are a friend of Mr. Kincaid’s, I’ll make an exception.” A teasing twinkle in her eyes, she looked first over one shoulder, then the other, and whispered, “Two pours of Irish whiskey.”

“Aha.” Bell chuckled. “What an innovation!”

Katie nodded. “Actually, one might say it’s my father’s discovery. He’s the one who tipped the bottle over in my kitchen one afternoon.” She smiled warmly at William and added, “Welcome to Gallagher’s, Mr. Bell. Make yourself at home. If I may be of any assistance, please let me know.”