The Texan's Bride (7 page)

“Well, after the way you stomped out of the tavern last night, I wondered if you’d even be here this morning. Who was that man, Branch? You and Mr. Bell didn’t exactly look like friends during all that whispering between you. What did he say to upset you so?”

Her eyes widened as, for just a moment, he became a cold, forbidding stranger. His golden eyes shuttered, and his body tightened into a long, angry line. Automatically, Katie took half a step back.

He visibly forced himself to relax his stance, although the tension in his eyes lingered. “He’s a friend, I told you that,” he said. “Anything more is not really your business.”

Stung, she looked away. For all their bickering and bantering, nothing he had said had actually hurt her feelings before now. Suddenly she wanted to cry.

Their wanderings had led them to a spot not far from the graves of her family, and upon that realization, she murmured a distracted, “Excuse me,” and left.

He didn’t follow her at once. She had cleared the refuse of dead leaves and pine needles from both Mary Margaret’s and Steven’s graves and had begun to work on her mother’s when Branch spoke from the edge of the graveyard. “How did your husband die, Kate?”

Kneeling beside Steven Starr’s final resting place, Katie’s back stiffened. “Murder. He was murdered. My daughter, too. She was just a baby, a beautiful, healthy little girl.”

Branch’s curse was short and explicit. “Texas is a damned hard land, isn’t it?”

“No.” Katie shook her head as she brushed brittle dogwood twigs from the base of the cross that marked Mr. Garrett’s grave. “It’s not the land that is hard, Branch. It’s the people. But people have to be hard to survive in a place such as this. The problem is that mixed with the toughness is the evil. Texas has more than her share of evil people.”

She saw the scuffed tips of his boots as he walked to her side and squatted down. He took her hand. “You want to tell me about it?”

She couldn’t help herself. She said, “It’s none of your business, Kincaid.”

He grimaced. “I deserve that.” Gently, he brushed an errant curl from her forehead, an apology in his touch. “I’ve got some ghosts in my life, too, Sprite. Sometimes, like last night, they rise up to haunt me.”

Dirt clung to the fingers she lifted to rub at the pressure building behind her eyes. He took the hand and pulled her to her feet. They walked to the riverbank, where he wrapped her in a comforting hug, and in silence, they watched the water drift slowly past.

Katie shivered as emotion swelled within her, and when the words stumbled out, she spoke as much to herself as to Branch. “I made a promise the night they died. I promised them I’d find the one responsible and make him pay. It’s been so long now, and I haven’t learned anything, I haven’t done anything. I feel so… so…”

“Powerless,” Branch concluded. “I know, Katie, I know.”

“But you don’t, Branch, you can’t.” The trembling began, and she clenched her teeth against it. The thing that lived in the darkness of her soul, the animal that had teeth sharpened by hatred, blood pumped by rage, and a roar given voice by anguish, strained against its bonds here beneath the warmth of the midmorning sun. “I want revenge.”

Branch squeezed her tightly. “I do understand. More than you can guess, I understand. But don’t get yourself all worked up over it, Sprite. What you are feeling is warranted. You have a right to want justice.”

“Not justice, Branch.
Vengeance
. I want to make the murderer suffer like he made Steven and Mary Margaret suffer.” She pictured in her mind the events of the night that had ended lives and torn apart her own. “I want to make him hurt.”

She heard the frown in Branch’s voice as he slipped his hand along her braid. “Aw, now, Katie. You may think you want that, but I know you really don’t. It’s only natural to want to hurt someone when they hurt us. That’s human nature. But it’s not civilized, and though it doesn’t seem that way at times, we are civilized here in Texas.”

He pressed a quick, friendly kiss to her cheek. “Come on, let’s start back. Graveyards are poor places to reason.”

She chose to accompany him, though in her thoughts she protested his claim of empathy. He couldn’t grasp how she felt. But then, there was no reason why he should. He’d never lost any family to a murderer’s gun. He’d never felt the guilt.

Some fifteen minutes later, they walked their horses through a meadow not far from Gallagher’s. The sun warmed the gentle breeze as Branch reached down and pulled a withered stalk of grass. He stuck it between his teeth, saying, “I bet this field comes alive in the spring.”

Katie nodded, the topic of spring a welcome direction for her thoughts. “Oh, it does. The birds sing and wild flowers blanket the ground. They’re mostly buttercups and black-eyed Susans, but every so often a few blues sneak in. I’m kind of partial to blue.”

“Me too.” He said it with a purr in his voice, and when she looked at him, she knew by his expression that he referred to the color of her eyes.

Nervously, she glanced away. She lifted her gaze to the sky, where high above, a bird soared with the current. “We’re busiest in springtime,” she said, anxious for a safe topic of conversation. “Every year we get more and more settlers through on their way south and west. I’m always worn out at the end of the day during spring and summer.”

“I’ve often wondered why you have no slaves at Gallagher’s,” Branch said. “Running your place is too much work for three people.”

Katie shrugged. “During the busy season Da tries to hire some help from town. He won’t hold for owning slaves, though.” Pretty Girl stopped to pull at a clump of grass, and Katie tugged on the reins. “Actually, he’ll tell you all about it if you ask. My father ran from his indenture in Tennessee. That’s what brought him to Texas to begin with.”

They reached the edge of the meadow and took the forest path that led back to Gallagher’s. Katie continued. “It’s quite a romantic story, he and my mother fleeing in the night, hitching a ride on a flatboat down the Mississippi to New Orleans. They sailed on the
Good Intent
to Texas in ’22.”

“And you were born here?”

“Shortly thereafter.”

“Sounds more harrowing than romantic to me,” Branch drawled. “But since you brought the subject up, I seem to recall something about a wager.”

“Now, that’s harrowing.” Katie stopped with a sigh and rolled her eyes. The wolf look was back on his face. She should have known he wouldn’t forget. “All right, do it,” she demanded.

He halted, arching his eyebrows in innocence. “Do what, Mrs. Starr?”

“Kiss me. Get it over with.”

He threw back his head and laughed. She almost punched him in the stomach. “Ah, but, Kate, that wasn’t the bet. You’re to kiss me.”

“Oh,” she said. Pretty Girl snorted and tugged at the reins. Katie started walking, her thoughts in a whirl as she tried to figure an advantage to this development. So she was supposed to kiss him, was she? She’d best not allow it to happen.

She liked the idea entirely too much.

Then the answer came to her. “If I do the kissing, then I get to choose the time and place.” She smiled smugly. “Fifty years from today sounds good to me.”

Branch just looked at her and grinned. She felt his gaze on her backside as he followed her, whistling, until they reached the remains of the old stone fence that stood a short distance from the tavern. That’s when he grabbed her.

“Now,” he demanded, backing her against the wall. He rested an arm on either side of her and stared at her lips.

“Now what?” she asked, but she knew. “Y— you said I was to do it. I get to say when.” Her tongue nervously circled her lips.

“Do it now.” His whisper soaked through her skin. She felt him everywhere, but he never touched her.

“No. I don’t want to. I don’t have to. It’s the rules. You said so yourself.”

He shifted to the right, still not touching, and blew a gentle stream of breath into her ear. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” he said.

Heat seared her body, and Katie surrendered. After all, she’d been dreaming of this for six weeks. “Shakespeare from a Texian drifter?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Taming of the Shrew.” His gaze melted her mind.

She pressed herself against him, shaking her head. “Hamlet.”

“Oh,” he said, and his lips captured hers.

Liquid heat coursed through her veins. Her arms snaked around him, and the hard cords of his muscles flexed beneath her fingertips.

Then Branch pulled back. He turned his head and listened, a wild thing sensing danger. Katie gawked at him until the crackle and scent of burning pine broke horrifically through her senses.

Crack … crack
. Gunshots drilled the air.

“Da! Daniel!” she cried, pushing at Branch’s chest. He held her like an afterthought, his brow wrinkled, his eyes topaz hard, as the whoops of destructive, victorious men reached their ears. “Let me go,” Katie cried.

“I’m goin’. You stay here.” He grabbed her chin and glared into her eyes. “You move so much as a jackrabbit’s whisker, and I’ll tan your hide.” He gave her a shake. “Do you hear me, Kate?”

She nodded.

The moment he let her loose, she darted off. Da always said she moved quick for a gal with such short legs, but Kincaid reached her in three strides.

She lost her wind when he tackled her. “Blast it, woman, I can throw you farther than I can trust you,” Branch said. He pulled her to her feet as she struggled for breath and dragged her back to the horses. Katie twisted and kicked, fighting him desperately. “Let me go!” she screamed. “I have to help my family!” She viciously bit the hand that clenched her arm.

“Damn it, Kate. Settle down. This tantrum’s wasting time. I’m gonna take care of your people; you’d just be in the way.” He lifted a rope from his saddle and proceeded to tie her to the nearest sturdy tree.

“Please, Branch,” Katie begged. “Don’t do this. They’re in trouble and I’ve got to help.” Tears of fright and frustration streaked her face.

Ignoring her pleas, he grabbed the weapons he always carried on Striker, making sure to snatch up extra ammunition and loading equipment. Branch never went anywhere without his bowie knife, Texas Patersons, and plains rifle.

When her little brother’s agonized scream filled the air, Katie whimpered. Only the rope held her upright as she gazed helplessly at Branch. He looked cold as a January norther.

“I can’t lose them, too,” she whispered.

“You won’t.” Branch kissed her forehead and ran toward the shroud of smoke.

CHAPTER 5

TONGUES OF ORANGE FLAME licked the sky. The inn, the barn, the storage shed, even the vegetable garden—all were in the throes of destruction. Chaos reigned as hooded men atop prancing horses held torches aloft, shouting and whooping, with violence and ruin riding their blood like a fever. Men afoot cackled at the spectacle of squawking chickens, their feathers alight, darting about the barnyard in a frenzied dance of death.

Branch stood motionless just inside the tree line, and the apocalyptic sight before his eyes flashed him into the past. Instead of the inn’s roof crashing to the ground, he saw the Virginia plantation’s huge Doric columns tumble into flaming rosebushes. He heard pops and crackles and screams—oh, God, the screams! The clouds of gray smoke engulfing him stank not of pine but of burning flesh— animal flesh, human flesh. Fear clutched his belly, slithered around his feet, and he could not move.

Mommy, I’m scared
. The man looked to his fist and saw a seven-year-old boy’s hand holding a matchstick.

Then the groan, a long, agonized wail of pain, snapped him back to the present. The Gallaghers! John lay facedown beside the horse trough. Alive or dead, Branch couldn’t tell. Daniel, strapped lengthwise on a tanning log, his shirt ribboned and bloodied, was sobbing.
Damn the bastards
, Branch thought. Flexing his fingers, he ached to pull his Colt and drop the bear of a man who wielded the whip.

Rage constricted his throat as he quickly searched his mind for a way to help the Gallaghers. Outgunned, any of his shots would likely be answered with bullets plugged into his friends.
Think, man
! Considering and discarding several options, he arrived at a plan. Risky, not much more than a gamble, but a plan nonetheless. He took one bold step from cover when the sound pierced his heart like a Comanche arrowhead.

Katie’s shriek stopped every man in his tracks as she burst through the trees and launched herself at the man holding the whip. They tumbled to the ground. When sunlight caught the knife blade she raised above the man’s chest, Branch reacted. “Holy hell,” he exclaimed, and fired off two shots.

The first bit the dirt at her knees. The second sailed wide of her hand. Together they grabbed her attention, buying him time to reach her. Where in the hell did she get a knife, he wondered as he pointed his Colt square at her head. Deliberately, he said, “Drop the knife and get up, Mrs. Starr.”

Katie stared at him, her eyes frozen blue ice. Her gaze never left him, even when she reeled from the force of the backhanded blow delivered by the man dressed entirely in black, the one who’d been shouting orders earlier.

Branch’s thoughts turned savage. Fury pounded through his veins. He reached deep for control and swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. Pasting a friendly smile on his face, he extended a hand to the tall man. “The name’s Branch Kincaid, sir.”

The Regulators closed in on Katie, yanking her to her feet. Branch inwardly recoiled at the hate she hurled his way, and when one yellow-toothed blackguard reached out and cupped her breast, he went rigid. His jaw muscle twitched as he inhaled a deep breath.

Turning his back to her at that moment was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

The leader’s dark eyes gleamed through slits cut in the black cotton hood. He brushed dust from his coat and asked in a muffled voice, “Have we met before?”

Branch looked up a bit to meet his eyes.

The scoundrel may have been taller, but Branch outweighed him by a good twenty-five pounds.
And someday he’ll feel every one of them
, he promised himself. “No, we’ve not met, but you men are pretty famous in these parts,” he said aloud. “I’ve been looking forward to makin’ your acquaintance.”