For a moment, the only sound to be heard was the nervous tap of Katie’s foot.
He hiccuped before he shuddered. “I swear, woman, that was worse than eating Mexican grapeshot.”
That broke the spell. Nobody crawled in here and criticized her cooking—even if it was deserved. She jumped to her feet and grabbed the carving knife. “If you like that so much, it’s a shame you won’t be around to taste the roast wolf I’m serving up for supper.”
He stood suddenly, sending his chair banging against the floor. “Sprite, if you can’t take a little honest evaluation of your cooking skills, maybe you’re working in the wrong room of the inn.”
Katie groaned and raised the knife. He retreated from her advancing figure toward the half-open door opposite the pie safe.
Backing into the room, he threw a glance over his shoulder. Katie saw her mistake in the delight reflected on his face. She’d chased him into her bedroom.
He lunged for her, and in a flurry of movement, he knocked away the knife and pinned her beneath him on the bed. He smiled that wicked-wolf smile and said, “I’m glad to see you’re taking my advice.”
She spat in his face.
The teasing light in his eyes died. How could they be so hot and so cold at the same time, Katie wondered?
“Enough!” His voice grated like corn in a gristmill.
Katie bucked and wriggled, ignoring the tight, grim set of his jaw. He yanked her arms above her head, pinioning both wrists with one hand. His free hand traced the gentle curve of her cheek, and for the first time, she feared him.
“Go ahead,” she forced the bravado into her voice. “I goaded you into it. No one will blame you. Why—” she gave a brittle laugh—“my father probably will say I asked for it.” She blinked away the blur in her eyes. “For some reason, he’s been trying to foist me off on a man, any man, for some time now.”
The anger drained from his features. “Silly little girl. So brave and so foolish. Next time, though, try making your point without a knife.”
He pressed a feathery kiss to her forehead, then rose, pulling Katie up to stand before him. “Now, listen well, Sprite. I’ve accepted this job and I’ll be around for a while. You’d best get used to the idea.”
He smiled at her again, and it touched her clear to her toes.
He said, “I won’t disappoint you. Don’t worry. I always get what I aim for.” He stared into her soul. “You can count on me to put something in your belly.”
CHAPTER 3
BY THE TIME THE norther moved out, after three long days, Katie knew something must be done. The man made her life miserable.
In the space of seventy-two hours, Branch Kincaid had ingratiated himself with her father by accomplishing a multitude of chores and repairs around the inn. He had deluded poor Daniel into thinking he deserved hero status on a level equal to Jim Bowie. Really, he had a nerve, claiming to have been gifted with those fancy guns by Commodore Moore himself. Most likely he’d stolen the revolvers he called Texas Patersons.
“Well, at least that scoundrel’s good for something,” Katie told herself. Thoughts of him kept melancholy at bay. She sat back on her heels and surveyed the small grave she’d been tending. Fragrant pine nettles and waxy holly leaves with their lush red berries provided a splash of color to the image of decaying grass. Spring would bring a blanket of green to cover the father and child who slept side by side, but for now, the meticulously arranged twigs of evergreen softened the image of the winter grave.
Katie rose to her feet and dusted the dirt and clinging leaves from her skirt. She clutched a finely sewn baby quilt to her bosom as she fought back tears. “Someday I’ll find him, I promise.”
She’d never give up. If it took her entire lifetime, if it cost her life, she would find the devil responsible—him and his pitchfork and flames. Her words were satin steel as she swore. “When I do, he’ll pay.”
Mary Margaret would have been walking now, speaking a few words, saying “Mama.” She’d be hugging and kissing, returning the affections Katie would have showered on the girl. A single tear spilled from the mourning mother’s eye, one of millions she’d shed during the past eighteen months. Would she ever overcome the grief? Would she always have this great, yawning hole in her soul?
The baby had been two months old when she died. Katie pictured in her mind dark curls and china-blue eyes, a toothless grin newly mastered, a smile criminally cut short.
Katie buried her nose in the quilt, hoping desperately to catch a lingering whiff of that cherished, unique infant perfume. There, so faint, was a tangible assurance that for a little while, Mary Margaret Starr had lived.
Losing a husband was hard. Losing a child, too, well— Katie wondered if any experience life held could be more devastating. Especially when a mother was at fault. It was a mother’s responsibility to protect God’s gift from harm, and Katie had failed in her duty. Though her faith assured her she was forgiven, she’d yet to forgive herself. She doubted she ever would.
Staring down at the limestone marker her father had tearfully carved, Katie prayed she’d someday have the chance to atone for her sin. If sometime in the future, the Lord ever placed another child in her care, she would face hell itself before she’d allow any harm to befall him. Perhaps in some small way, it would redeem her.
Stooping to brush a rock from the top of Steven’s grave, Katie said a silent goodbye to the loved ones buried on that picturesque bluff above the Angelina River: Mama, who’d died so long ago; Steven, her husband; Mary Margaret, her daughter; and Mr. Garrett, the visitor unlucky enough to be at her home the night of the fire.
Katie turned her back on the row of markers and started down the hill. “I’ll think no more sad thoughts,” she said, stroking the quilt. A gloomy day would better serve such bleak memories.
Today’s azure sky triumphed over the dreary gray of the storm. Sunshine toasted her back and the air’s fresh scent tickled her nose. She flung the covering across her shoulder. On this dazzling morn she’d devote herself to finding a solution to the problem that called himself Branch Kincaid.
“The audacity of the man, moving that hulk of a horse into Pretty Girl’s stall,” Katie fussed, bristling at the memory. Never had a person presumed so much. Even worse than that were the comments he’d made just this morning concerning Pretty Girl’s looks.
“Just you wait, Mr. Know-Everything Kincaid. Before I manage to send you on your way, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I do believe a horse race is in order. I think I’ll show you just how my horse lives up to her name.”
A worried frown replaced Katie’s self-satisfied smile when a breeze whipped the quilt from her shoulder. She watched the multicolored coverlet fly over her head and snag on a high, leafless branch of a red oak.
“Oh, saints a mercy,” she groaned, eyeing the treasured blanket flapping high above the ground. The quilt was one of the few things of Mary’s that she had kept. She had to go after it.
She walked to the edge of the tree and kicked off her red russets. The ugly leather shoes would be more hindrance than help climbing the gnarled bark of the oak. Luckily the trunk veed about four feet from the ground, so she didn’t have far to climb for a foothold.
Struggling up to the perch, Katie grimaced at the new stains and snags in her faded yellow homespun. At least she’d worn her oldest dress today, knowing she’d be working at the graves. She hadn’t planned to be imitating squirrels, however.
Looking above toward the patchwork coverlet, she planned the best route up. A thick, sturdy limb stretched beneath the dangling blue-trimmed corner, and she figured she just might be able to grasp it if she stood on her tiptoes. She climbed to the branch and, straddling it, began to ease her way out.
Directly beneath the quilt, Katie stopped. This would be tricky. The only thing she had to hold for balance when she stood were thin twigs growing up from the limb that held her. She positioned one bare foot atop the branch, yanking her skirts out of the
way. The breeze whistled in her ears as she placed her other foot upon the limb. Cautiously, she stood. Weaving back and forth, Katie fought to maintain her balance. She grasped a twig and finally steadied herself.
With care, Katie extended her arm above her head. She stretched. The quilt swayed just outside her reach. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she inched up on the tip of her toes. Her fingers brushed a soft cotton edge. Clenching her teeth she tried again. Up… up… “I got it!” she cried.
Then she tumbled from the tree.
Katie screamed as she fell backward into the jumbled clump of wild blackberry vines growing at the base of the red oak. Dust rose around her as dozens of spiny thorns pierced her skin. She sneezed and the thorns pushed deeper. She tried to rise, and a frustrated, pain-filled screech exploded from her lips as what felt like half her hair was plucked from her scalp.
“Kincaid,” she cursed. “This is all your fault!”
BRANCH HAD four rabbits to his credit this morning, but that wasn’t near enough to satisfy Colonel Kate back at the inn. Honestly, if William Travis had been blessed with Katie Starr at the Alamo, Santa Anna would never have breached the walls. A more organizing, demanding, persnickety woman he’d yet to meet. She had every male in the place dancing to her tune—and half of them didn’t even realize it.
“Well, she’s fixin’ to learn a brand new jig,” he declared. As much as he wanted this job, he’d about taken all he was going to from the tiny tyrant.
Never had he been so pleased to see dawn break clear as he had been this morning, although after three days of constant harassment, he’d probably have gone hunting in a blizzard. To top it all off, she’d met him in the barn with that… list. As if he’d actually hunt according to her whims. “She’ll cook what I bring back, and if she doesn’t like it, she can suck a green persimmon,” he grumbled.
He tugged in his line and checked his bait. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the chance to fish, and by damn, he wasn’t going to ruin this pleasure thinking about Katie Starr. The worm-baited hook landed with a plop in the middle of the gently flowing Angelina River.
Of course, he thought, propping one boot against a bleached hunk of limestone, pleasure didn’t necessarily preclude that saucy short-stuff. She’d felt mighty nice beneath him. Branch shook his head and pulled a straw from a dried-up clump of wildflowers. He placed one end between his teeth and snickered as he remembered just how he’d fired her fury. He mused, “I guess I might’ve asked for a bit of the grief she’d been giving me, after all.”
The late-morning peace was shattered when the biggest bass Branch had ever hooked exploded from the water.
At the same time, a female scream blew through the trees from somewhere behind him. His cane pole bent toward the river. The caterwaul sent shivers up his spine.
“Help!”
“Damn.” He dropped the pole and grabbed his gun. “This had better be good,” he muttered, racing through the woods toward the commotion. He stopped when he saw the baby quilt lying on the path. He couldn’t see much of Katie, but there was no missing the clamor she made. He grinned. “I’m shocked, Mrs. Starr. I wouldn’t have believed a lady like you would have knowledge of words like those.”
She lay on her back in the middle of a large clump of thorny vine. Blackberry cane wrapped her from head to foot, completely entrapping her with its clinging briar.
At the sound of his voice, she froze.
“Mrs. Starr,” Branch observed, unable to keep the humor from his voice, “you seem to be in a bit of a tangle.”
She kept quiet for at least a full minute. A sigh preceded her words. “Mr. Kincaid, as much as it pains me, I must request your assistance.”
“What are you saying, Sprite, the briar is thornier than the Branch?” He burst into laughter. This was almost worth losing that black bass.
He could just see over the top of the bramble. It’d be a task to comb through them or even cut a path with his bowie knife. “How in the hell did you manage to wind up in the center of a blackberry patch? If I’m not mistaken, blackberry season’s long gone.”
Katie didn’t answer.
What was it about this woman that gave him such pure pleasure to tease? Obviously, she’d fallen from the tree; a low-hanging limb stretched above her. He eyed the red oak. Probably be easier to lift her out of there than to cut her out, he thought. The tree looked sturdy enough. Of course, he did outweigh her by at least a hundred pounds.
“Mr. Kincaid, are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to help me?”
“Keep it up, lady, and I’ll go back to my other fish.”
Branch didn’t like the idea of thrashing through the thorns to retrieve the prickly female, but he didn’t relish climbing an oak either. After all, there was his questionable history with tree branches to consider. That’s what had earned him his nickname to begin with.
“Aw, hell,” he finally muttered. Shucking out of his jacket, he walked to the tree and, grasping a lower limb, began to haul himself up. While he worked his way to the branch above Katie, he wondered how she could have become so entangled just from falling. He inched his way out along the arm of the tree, gripping the coarse, corky bark with his hands and his thighs. “Since I’m up here risking life on limb, don’t you think you should show a bit of gratitude? The least you could do is tell me how you managed to get up to your—”
“All right, all right,” Katie interrupted. “My quilt got hung in the tree and I slipped. I’m afraid I lost my temper a bit when I tried to rise and couldn’t.”
“Pitched a bloomer-bustin’ fit, huh?”
“Just get me out of here, please,” Katie implored.
Branch grinned. That “please” must have cost her a full measure of pride. He lay balanced on the limb, his long, powerful legs wrapped around its width, and reached below to pluck the vines from the Irish-Texian bundle of trouble.
He started with her hair. As gently as possible, he unwrapped the mahogany strands from the cane. She had beautiful hair—he hated to see any of it torn from her head. Fine and silken to his touch, its soft texture soothed the prick of the thorns his fingers encountered.
He talked as he worked. “I’ll have you know, I was on the verge of landing a huge bass when I heard your scream. You ought to appreciate me more. I’ll bet there’s not a dozen men in Texas who’d have dropped a catch like that at a woman’s holler.” He looked down at her. Each breath she took lifted her breasts toward him. He almost fell out of the tree.
“Of course,” he clicked his tongue, “my daddy always taught me the best fishing’s found in a brush patch.” He grinned at her. “You ever tried a worm, Katie Starr?”
She glared at him, then puckered her mouth into fish lips. “Your bait wouldn’t land a minnow, Branch Kincaid,” she retorted.
“Well, we’ll just have to see about that now, won’t we?” He’d loosened most of her hair, and he went to work on her clothing. This could take all day. He sat up to stretch his cramping muscles and came to a decision. He eased his way back to the trunk of the tree and hopped down.
“Mr. Kincaid. Hey, Mr. Kincaid, where are you going? Don’t leave me here. Branch!”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he called over his shoulder. Quickly, he made his way back to the river and his gear. “Shame about that fish,” he said to himself as he pulled his bowie knife from the trunk of a cottonwood tree. Earlier he’d used the weapon to cut his fishing pole, and he’d grabbed only his Colt when he heard the scream. He headed back to Katie with a merry whistle on his lips.
She was reciting the Hail Mary when he returned. “I’m back,” he called. She switched to the Lord’s Prayer. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was scared.
Katie grimaced as she turned her head to watch him climb the tree. He winced at the thought of her pain. Even scratched and tattered, wrapped in thorns and remnants of spider webs, she attracted him like a drink of cold water on a hot afternoon. He stretched abo
ve her on the limb. Katie peeked through her eyelashes, then her eyes flew open wide. “He’s got a knife,” she cried aloud.
“And he’s going to use it,” Branch replied. “You know I won’t hurt you, Sprite. What’s the matter?”
Katie’s gaze was glued to the wicked curve near the point of the forged steel blade. She swallowed hard. “What… what are you going to do?” she asked.
Branch gave an exasperated grunt. “What do you think I’m gonna to do? I’m gonna cut you out of the blasted cane.”
“I knew that,” Katie said. “But listen, couldn’t you just pluck away the thorns and lift me out? I think that would be better.” While she argued, he slipped the cold steel blade inside her bodice and split the yellow dress from neck to hem.
He peeled away the cloth, trying not to hurt her as he pulled the thorns from her flesh. Her drawers remained relatively free of spikes, so he left them intact. The chemise, however, went the way of the dress. Engrossed in his task, Branch ignored what he’d uncovered. At least, he did until he touched her.
Sliding his arm beneath her, he intended to pull straight up and free her in one quick motion. But the vision of those bare, bountiful breasts, rising up to meet him, was his undoing. His body’s immediate reaction made his position on the limb downright painful. He jerked his arm away and sat up, disregarding Katie’s grunt of pain as she sank heavily into the brambles. He stared stupefied at the woman displayed beneath him.
Her glorious breasts rested proudly upon her chest with dusky tips erect. Their fullness served to emphasize her incredibly narrow waist, and the thin cotton of her drawers did nothing to conceal her gently flaring hips and shapely legs. Fair, unblemished skin provided the perfect backdrop for her thick, auburn hair. Even the scratches looked good on her. Consumed with lust, he absently wondered how mingled pain and pleasure would feel from loving on a bed of thorns.
The Texan's Bride Page 3
