The Texan's Bride

by Dawson, Geralyn

  Bell sipped at his drink and commented, “You were thirteen.”

  “No, fourteen. My birthday was two days before Rob’s. Not many people knew it.”

  Conversation ceased as the men stared at the cards in their hands. Bell frowned and tossed a coin onto the table, but his next words proved the direction of his thoughts. “Hoss was wrong, Branch. Terribly wrong. I know that in his mind he recognizes it. I believe that he has been looking for a way to bring you home for years. The problem is that you two are so much alike. That damnable Garrett pride is keeping you apart. This is your chance, son, seize it. Be the better man. Forgive him.”

  Branch turned his head away and stared into the flames dancing in the hearth, the memory of a blaze in another time, another place, searing his heart. How different a life would he have lived if the fire in Virginia had never happened, if his mother and grandparents had not met their deaths when Eagle’s Nest burned?

  Certainly Branch would not now be a Texian. Hoss Garrett joined the many Southerners who painted GTT— Gone To Texas—on their front doors only because he fled painful remembrances. Hoss and his sons would not have established Riverrun. Branch wouldn’t have been banished from his home. Rob wouldn’t have died in East Texas.

  Hell, why waste his time wondering about it? What’s done is done. Nothing could bring Rob back to life.

  But Branch could return to Riverrun.

  When he spoke, his voice betrayed his emotion solely by the flatness of its tone. “Hoss’s bellow rose above the music and laughter, everybody heard. Do you remember, William? I’d ridden his prized thoroughbred trying to impress Eleanor, and he cursed me for it, condemned me before all of South Texas. He declared his hatred of me and demanded that my friends and family hate me too.”

  “Branch, he may have said that, but no one—”

  “William, we talked about this before when you ran me to ground at the Colby’s ranch. I took only my nickname and my mother’s maiden name when I left Riverrun that night. I’ve done fine with my life up till now. Why should I want to change? I’ve got a good thing going here at Gallagher’s.”

  He looked toward the door through which Katie had exited moments earlier. “In fact, I’m presently embroiled in a skirmish that’s making life more interesting than it’s been for quite some time. Maybe I’ll forget what brought me here and simply enjoy myself instead.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you loved your brother. Because even if you choose not to admit it to yourself, you love your father.”

  Branch’s words blazed across the table. “Go to hell, William.” His chair banged against the floor and he stomped outside into the bitter winter night.

  ABOVE THE small clearing the thinnest of homed moons hung in the west, and stars died beneath the dawning light of day. Under the cold air a rounded roll of fog followed the twists and turns of the creek that meandered across the meadow, while at the forest’s edge, indigo shadows hid from sight the tearing, splintering progress of a tree choosing the moment of dawn to crash to an ignoble end.

  As daylight burst upon the land, thirteen-year-old Keeper McShane peered furtively at the motley collection of humanity gathered around Regulator leader, Colonel Watt Moorman. Goramighty, Keeper thought. It’s a good thing it was dark when I got here, or I’d a been pure-dee scared of these creepy-crawly folks.

  At least thirty men and horses now crowded into the small clearing. Grubby hands passed a bottle half-full of clear liquid from man to man, and Keeper grimaced while watching a chaw of tobacco balloon a fellow’s cheek as he took a long, thirsty pull. “Goramighty,” he murmured.

  The cold stung his nostrils as he breathed air scented of sweat, saddle leather, and last night’s whore. Watching the bottle with a wary eye, he wondered what he should do when it came around to him. He didn’t want to look less than a man on this, his first ride with the Regulators, but someone had laughed that it was Willie Thompson’s home recipe they were passing about. That rotgut had damn sure killed somebody just last week!

  His hand trembled as he accepted the bottle from the man beside him. The neck was warm in his hands. Wondering if he could get away with skipping his turn, he sneaked a look at Sheriff Strickland. Amusement crinkled the corners of the lawman’s eyes, and the dimple in his chin deepened as one corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. When he raised his hand and ran a finger along his thin, straight nose, Keeper knew what he was supposed to do. It was the sheriff’s way of telling a fella to get on with a thing.

  Sheriff Strickland got more talking done with his eyes and his fingers than he ever did with his mouth.

  Keeper brought the bottle to his lips. The liquor’s kick about knocked him off his horse. The man next to him pounded his back as he choked and coughed, fire burning its way to his belly. “Good stuff, ain’t it boy?” the man said. “Tastes like the backwoods of Kentucky, just like 0l’ Willie said. Family recipe, you know.”

  Keeper ignored the man and turned watery eyes to Strickland. The sheriff smiled an encouragement. Despite the burn the liquor caused in his innards, the boy shivered and the tears in his eyes took a bit to dry. Sheeeit, he thought, glancing around. An ocean of men surrounded him; he couldn’t run away and puke even if he did get the nerve. When Watt Moorman started talking, he listened with half an ear.

  “Glad to see so many of you turn out today,” the colonel said, hooking his thumbs under his arms. “This council has much to consider on such a fine January morn.”

  Attempting to ignore the rumbles in his gut, Keeper watched the Regulator chief and tried to figure why he’d been chosen as leader rather than the sheriff. After all, since the group had organized in order to take the law into its own hands, it made sense to pick its only real lawman to be the headman.

  Moorman was a strange character; he always dressed like he was late for the Battle of the Alamo. Today he had on a half-military coat and a black hat with a red feather in the band. He carried a brace of single-shot pistols and a bowie knife, and rode with a hunting horn hung on his saddle cantle. But in Keeper’s eyes, Colonel Moorman couldn’t hold a candle to the sheriff. Jack Strickland was tall with coal-black hair. He had a mouthful of straight white teeth that sent womenfolk to swoonin’ when he smiled. Sheriff Strickland could draw a pistol slicker than snot and shoo the stinger off a mud dauber at fifty feet.

  But most important of all, Strickland was the one that got him out of the whorehouse.

  The boy snapped back to attention when the men around him all raised their right hands. He didn’t have a clue what was being voted, but when Strickland’s hand went up, his did too.

  Moorman said, “It’s unanimous. We continue our war on the lawless group Edward Merchant formed to oppose us—the Moderators.”

  The band of Regulators cheered. “We are the leaders of our communities,” Moorman continued. “We own the towns and the courts. We will use the power of our positions to squash the rebels like pesky mosquitoes.”

  Some men fired pistols into the air. Keeper about fell off his horse.

  Moorman smiled and held up a hand, signaling for quiet. He said, “It has come to my attention that many of the Moderators have made it their habit to do their drinking at Gallagher’s Tavern outside of Nacogdoches. I propose we direct this evening’s efforts against that establishment. Although I have a course of action in mind, I will consider any ideas you may have on this subject.”

  Hissing like a nest of copperheads, the Regulators whispered among themselves. As different kinds of punishment were proposed to their chief, the noise level rose. The snakes loved violence.

  Listening to the talk. Keeper began to feel like one of the vipers had decided to crawl down his spine and settle in his belly. He knew the Gallaghers; they seemed to be fine folks. Being as how him and Daniel were of an age, he’d talked to the fella a couple of times in town. You had to respect a body that learned to shoot a slingshot so good using just one hand and
his teeth. And the lady—she once bought him a peppermint down at the mercantile.

  Overhearing what a couple of the more unsavory Regulators whispered about among themselves, Keeper considered retching. He’d seen that kind of stuff go on when he still lived with his mama at The Mansion of Joy. Miz Katie didn’t deserve that.

  He chewed the inside of his cheek as the vote was taken. Still, he knew he had to vote with Strickland. As Moorman directed a fifteen-man squad to don their hoods and head north, Keeper figured that things could’ve been worse. Burning and beating’s better than killing. It was just too damn bad about Miz Katie.

  THE THUDDING rattle of hooves on the mud-packed road chased away the serenity of early morning in the forest. With ears pinned back, the mare listened to the words of encouragement crooned by the rider, stretching, seeking to hold her lead.

  The dun pulled beside her, his nostrils flared and sides heaving with exertion. For the space of three ground eating strides they ran even, the back-and-forth rhythm of the headlong gallop placing first one, and then the other, ahead at the nod.

  Suddenly, as though he’d been toying with the mare all along, the dun charged ahead, a flash of black and gold, and his rider’s victorious shout thundered into the pale Texas sky.

  Katie Starr muttered an unladylike oath. “Branch Kincaid, I’ll beat you yet.”

  Slowing Pretty Girl to a canter and then to a walk, Katie followed reluctantly as Branch turned off the road onto a path that led to a bluff overlooking the Angelina River. Branch swung from the saddle and stood beside Striker, rubbing the gelding’s glistening neck.

  He turned to her, eyes alight with victory—and something else. He gifted her with a courtly bow. “I believe the forfeit was a kiss, milady.”

  “You cheated,” Katie declared as she slid from Pretty Girl’s back.

  A mock expression of pain sprawled across Branch’s face. “You wound me, madam. ’Twas a contest fairly won. Fie on your attempt to cast aspersions upon my honesty.”

  “Oh, hobble your lip, Kincaid. I had you beat from the start. That course you marked was a good bit longer than half a mile, and Striker caught Pretty Girl at the dogwood, well past the distance we should have run.”

  Katie hated losing, and his blatant delight only made things worse. She sulked, trying to figure how to avoid settling the bet, distracted all the while by the way his shirt clung to his sweaty back.

  They walked briskly, giving their mounts a chance to cool. Below them, occasional ripples disturbed the rusty colored surface of the slow-flowing Angelina as bream surface-fed on midges. In the trees, titmice whistled peter peter peter.

  A gentle peace stole over Katie. “I was foolish agreeing to your terms,” she admitted. “You and Striker are well matched.” He had fooled her by repeatedly refusing to accept her almost-daily challenge, and it wasn’t until she upped the wager that he had agreed to race.

  Now she owed him a kiss.

  She gave him a sidelong glance. Toned and tapered, he worked on her senses like a spinster’s dream. She wanted to touch him. She swallowed hard and chewed at her lower lip. When he chuckled, she felt it in her knees.

  “What’s the matter, Sprite? Not thinking of welching on the bet, now, are ya?”

  “Of course not,” she scoffed. Actually, she was beginning to wonder if she’d lost the race on purpose.

  They walked silently for a time. He caught her hand in his and she didn’t pull away. He began to whistle that same tune he’d been humming off and on since the day she left him in the brambles. “What’s it called, the song, I mean?” Katie asked. “It must be a favorite of yours.”

  “Lay the young… oh, I don’t remember the name. Just a catchy tune I can’t seem to forget,” he answered.

  She looked at him suspiciously. He’s up to something, she told herself. He’s wearing that angel’s face again. “I thought perhaps you wouldn’t want to race today.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “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.”