She buried her head beneath the blanket. He heard her softly wail, “I’m ruined. Oh my heavens, my reputation is completely and totally destroyed. No good woman will even speak to me after word of this gets around.”
Branch lifted Katie, petticoats and all, and carried her beyond the sight of self-righteous eyes. “Now, Sprite, it was just a few women. Delicate women aren’t supposed to discuss such business. Maybe they’ll keep it to themselves.”
She peeked from beneath the yards of cotton long enough to glare at him. “Luella Racine’s mouth runs more than the town pump.”
“For a woman on the shelf, her eyeballs work pretty fast too,” Branch added. Funny thing how spinsters oftentimes knew more about men than wives.
“I’m doomed,” Katie moaned. “The scandal of Da and Daniel helping an Indian steal from Doc Mayfair will be bad enough, but once this gets out, folks will be thinking Gallagher’s is a brothel instead of an inn. Our business will fail!”
“Oh now, Sprite, it’s not that bad.”
She couldn’t get the gown fastened without wearing her corset. She screeched and pushed the cloud of green to her feet and grabbed her stays from the ground. Presenting her back for Branch to tie her laces, she muttered, “It’s all your fault, Kincaid.”
He yanked on the strings. “My fault! Honey, I know we’ve not gotten around to talking about last night yet, but even you aren’t fool enough to place the blame on me.”
She gasped for air and pulled up her gown. “I am too a fool. I’m a fool for not leaving with Shaddoe. I’m a fool for listening to your ideas last night in church.” She whirled and looked at him. He saw fear and vulnerability hiding in the blue depths of her eyes. “I’m a fool for trusting you.”
Hell, he thought, I thought we’d gotten past all that. He tugged on his boots. “You know, Sprite, I gave your daddy my word that I’d take care of you. As well as we know each other—and I figure after last night we know damn near every inch—you ought to have faith in the fact that I keep my word. I promised to watch out for you, and by God I will.”
She threw him a scornful look, saying, “And how do you figure to fix this unholy mess?”
Branch raked his fingers through his hair, then very deliberately set his hat upon his head. “Sprite,” he said, his voice rich and strong. “Have you ever heard of a marriage bond?”
THE WIDOW Craig’s Nacogdoches House was located on a side street, two blocks west of the town square. With her husband’s death three years earlier and with her children grown and on their own, Martha had converted her two story home into a boarding house. She furnished each of the six available rooms with wash stands and mirrors, double tester beds, and a watercolor portrait of Texian heroes like Sam Houston and Stephen F. Austin. The recent arrival of her late husband’s sister, Ella, and her family of five made for cramped conditions around Nacogdoches House, not to mention ruffled feathers on occasion because Martha couldn’t abide Ella’s priggish ways. In addition to her in-laws, Martha furnished rooms for five gentlemen and Branch Kincaid.
Martha realized she shouldn’t tolerate his behavior, but that Branch just had a way about him. When he bent his mind to it, he could charm the bark off a tree. Or, she thought, sliding a look at the girl staring forlornly at her reflection in Deputy Kincaid’s bedroom mirror, the ball gown off a widow.
Katie Starr wasn’t wearing a ball gown this sunny spring morning; she was wearing her wedding dress.
Martha puffed the off-the-shoulder sleeves of the white silk gown and said, “Why, don’t you look pretty. This dress looked nice on my daughter, Pamela, but it is stunning on you. You’re a beautiful bride, Katie dear.”
“Thank you Mrs. Craig. I hope Pamela won’t mind your loaning it to me.”
“Call me Martha, sweetheart, and don’t you worry about the dress. She had it put away for special occasions, but after carrying her fourth child in as many years, my daughter would have to add another width to the waist to fit into this frock again. It’s yours, darlin’. Every woman should have her own wedding dress.”
“I don’t know what to say, you’ve been so kind to me.”
Martha waved away Katie’s gratitude. “Hush about it now. Anyway, I’m just tickled half to death to have the opportunity to move out to Gallagher’s. Why, between you and me, Mr. Craig’s sister is near to driving me silly. Bossy”—she drew the word out—“I tell you what, she makes Abigail Racine look like a pussycat. And when Mr. Branch explained to me that Mr. Payne would be making the move also, well”—she lowered her voice and confided—“I’ll admit to the hope that someone else might be following you and Mr. Branch to the altar.”
Tears pooled in the younger woman’s eyes, and Martha frowned, clucking her tongue at the sight. The poor girl wore the weight of Texas on her shoulders. “What is it, child?” she asked gently, tucking a stray auburn curl back into Katie’s braid.
“It’s not an altar. He doesn’t really want to.”
“Want to what?”
“Marry me.”
“Now, sweetheart, why do you say something silly like that? I’ve seen how that man looks at you. Last night at the dance he had eyes only for you. It’s as obvious as pepper in the sugar bowl that the man’s in love.”
Katie shook her head. “In lust. Not love. He never mentioned marriage until after the incident this morning. He’s only doing it because he promised my father that he’d take care of me.” A lone tear slipped from her eyes and trickled down her cheek. “That’s why he wants us to sign a bond.”
Katie swiped at the wetness on her cheek, took a deep breath, and confessed, “Mrs. Craig, he thinks he’s just pretending to marry me so that I won’t be shunned by you and the other good women of Nacogdoches! He thinks a marriage bond is no longer binding in Texas!”
Martha met Katie’s anguished gaze reflected in the mirror and sighed a humph. “Then he doesn’t know beans from buttons. Why, what about that fuss over in San Augustine back last summer? Judge Phillmont held in Jane Casey’s favor when Ed Black refused to marry her in church, five days after signing a bond and moving in with her and the children. He’s still complaining about the five hundred dollars it cost him!”
“I know,” Katie said. “I tried to tell Branch that. But he thinks that marriage bonds haven’t been in use in Texas since before the Revolution, and that they’re only legal when no clergymen are around to say the ceremony. In his mind, this wedding is all for show. He doesn’t intend for this to be a real marriage.”
Martha folded her arms across her matronly bosom and pinned Katie with a skeptical stare. “He’ll be sharing your bed, won’t he?”
Katie dropped her gaze and tugged at the cuff of her sleeve. “I guess so.”
“Then it’ll be a real marriage, deary.” Martha walked to the bed, sat down, and patted a spot beside her. “Come here, Katie, let’s have us a little visit. Your bridegroom can cool his heels in my parlor just a tad longer. I think you’re needful of a bit of mothering.”
Katie did as she was told.
“Now,” Martha said, “all this talk-talk-talk about what he wants. Let me ask you, what is it you want, pumpkin? Admittedly, the only way to save your reputation is to marry Mr. Branch. But is that the only reason you agreed to marry that scapegrace?”
Katie’s finger slowly traced the circles on the quilt folded at the foot of the bed. Martha wondered if the girl was conscious of the pattern she stroked—the double wedding ring. Martha placed her hand on Katie’s and asked softly, “Why are you marrying him, honey?”
Katie’s head snapped up. She gazed at Martha with pleading eyes and groaned, “I’m so confused!”
“Do you love him?”
“I loved Steven, I know that. With Steven I felt warm and happy and safe. I knew where our lives were headed. He loved me.”
“How does Mr. Branch make you feel?”
Katie hung her head. “He makes me angry. He makes me crazy. Oh, Mrs. Craig, he makes me feel hot and intense and dangero
usly alive. It’s shameful.”
Martha clucked her tongue. “No, honey-love, it’s passion. And it’s a wonderful thing to be found between a husband and a wife, and it’s fertile ground in which love can grow.”
“But I don’t want to love Branch Kincaid. I loved Steven, he was my friend. We made a child together and they died together.” Tears dripped down Katie’s cheeks. “I can’t love Kincaid because… because…”
“Oh, sweetling, it’s no betrayal to Steven Starr for you to love again. I know you loved that young man, and I know that had he lived, you’d love him even more today. But he didn’t live, kitten, and you are still alive. There’s no shame in loving again; it doesn’t lessen your love for your first husband.”
Katie looked at Martha, a world of hurt in her eyes. “But I’m afraid. Steven loved me; it was a safe love and I barely endured the loss of it. Branch would never love me like that; I could never be sure of him. If I fell in love with Branch Kincaid and then lost him, I could not survive it!”
“My poor little lamb,” Martha murmured, gathering Katie to her bosom for a motherly hug. Then she pushed the younger woman away and stood, pulling Katie to her feet. “Enough of this foolishness, I’ll not hear another word. You are a stronger woman than that, Mary Kathleen Gallagher Starr, and don’t you forget it. You’ve managed through some of the worst things life has to offer, the death of a spouse, the death of a child. You’ve done it once, and you can do it again if you have to. But what you can’t not do is live your life. It’s a precious thing, life is. God has granted you the gift, and it is your obligation to make the most of it. Now, you’ve a man downstairs waiting to marry you. He’s a fine, handsome, strapping young man, and he makes your blood sizzle. You go on down and marry him, Katie. You live your life to the fullest. Don’t be afraid of love, embrace it.”
“But, Mrs. Craig, I’m not sure that I do love him. And he certainly doesn’t love me!”
“Pshaw.” She waved a hand. “I don’t believe that. He loves you; it’s written all over him. He’s just using this bond business as an excuse.”
“I don’t think so, Martha.”
“I know so. Some men need an excuse to pledge themselves, and your Branch is one of them. You just go on downstairs and look into his eyes. They’ll tell you what his mouth is a’feared to say.”
In the parlor some ten minutes later, Katie faltered a moment at the first sight of her husband-to-be. No new clothes for Mr. Kincaid, he wore his buckskins, the ones he’d worn the day he blew into her life.
Automatically, her gaze dropped to his pants. They still stretched indecently tight.
“G’mornin’, Katie,” he said.
Katie? What’s this? He never called her Katie. It was always Sprite, or Kate, sometimes Mrs. Starr, but never Katie. What did it mean?
Her heart thumping like a butter churn, she stared hopefully into Branch’s eyes. Nothing. Martha was wrong; neither his eyes nor his mouth were talking. He watched her solemnly, intently, with about as much enthusiasm as a chicken eyeing a Sunday skillet.
She nodded a greeting and blinked her eyes against a wave of self-pity. She’d been weepy all morning and it had to stop. She hated feeling this way; it just wasn’t like her.
But then, solemnity wasn’t like Branch, either. She frowned, puzzled, as he held her gaze, his golden eyes somber. Her eyes widened as she realized what was different. Lust! The lust was gone! He always looked at her with lust in his eyes! Every single time. Something was horribly wrong here!
“I can’t do this,” she said, shaking her head and backing slowly from the room.
Branch reached her in two strides. “It’s all right, Katie. Everything’s ready, all we have to do is sign our names.” He lowered his voice and added, “You needn’t worry anymore about John and Daniel. I spoke with Strickland, and looks like they got away clean. I bet they’re halfway to the Red River by now.”
Katie breathed a relieved sigh. “Thank goodness. What about you, Branch? I guess the sheriff knows you didn’t go out to the inn last night after all.”
He nodded. “Yeah, well, this wedding business is going to work out well, because the sheriff’s not too happy with me right about now. It’s a good time for me to get out of town for a bit.”
“Wedding business,” Katie repeated, burying her face in her hands.
Branch put a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Now, Katie, I know you’re probably feeling a little anxious, but remember it’s all make-believe.”
Make-believe, hah. “Branch, I’ll attempt this one more time. Marriage bonds are a legal means by which to wed in the Republic of Texas. If we sign that paper this morning, we’ll have tied the knot!”
He nodded. “But it’s a slipknot, Katie. You needn’t worry.”
But worry she did. She worried when she read the first sentence of the document: “Be it known that we, Branch Kincaid and Kathleen Gallagher Starr, of lawful age of Nacogdoches County, wish to unite ourselves in the bonds of Matrimony, and there being no Buddhist Monk in the county to celebrate the same …”
“Buddhist Monk!” she exclaimed.
Branch grimaced. “Well, the bond I copied had ‘priest,’ and I couldn’t very well use that. There’s at least four priests in town today that I know of, and well, I don’t like to be messin’ around with the Church. Sort of tempts fate, to my mind.”
Shaking her head, Katie continued to worry when she read further and saw the words: “We mutually bind ourselves to each other in the sum of five thousand dollars to have our marriage celebrated by a monk when the opportunity offers.”
“Five thousand dollars?”
He shrugged. “Round number.”
She worried as she lifted the pen from the inkwell and signed her name to the document. She worried when he scratched Branch Kincaid below hers and when Martha made her mark as a witness.
All that worry paled in comparison to the anxiety she felt when one of the boarders spoke from the parlor doorway, “Well done, Kincaid. Now you can kiss your bride,” and Branch kissed her cheek.
Just her cheek.
So much for worrying about love. Now she had gone and lost his lust.
CHAPTER 11
BRANCH AND HIS BRIDE rode double on Striker along the dusty red road leading southeast out of Nacogdoches. Pretty Girl, having thrown a shoe an hour from town, trailed riderless behind them. Lack of space in the saddle had dictated that Katie remove all but one of the petticoats she wore beneath her long, full riding skirt before mounting her husband’s horse. After that, the usually loquacious Branch had held conversation to a minimum, throwing terse, one-word replies over his shoulder in answer to Katie’s infrequent questions. Their bodies, however, maintained a constant dialogue.
And Branch didn’t like it.
He set an arduous pace, determined to ignore any tingles or tautness or tensions below his neck. His brain had resumed control of his reasoning, and he was busy trying to figure out why in the hell he’d spent those critical hours early this morning letting his pecker do his thinking for him. Hellfire, it wasn’t like he was eighteen and constantly on point. No, he scolded himself, you’re thirty-four, and one woman keeps your blood too busy in your lower half to ever make it to your top half.
He felt like wash-water scum. He’d given John Gallagher his word, but he’d not given John Gallagher’s daughter his name. Not his real name, that is.
Not Britton Kincaid Garrett.
There was no way he could have used that name on the bond, what with half the gossips in town dropping by to confirm the end of the year’s most delicious scandal. Besides, if he had used his legal name, he might have really ended up married! It would be just his luck for Katie to be right about marrying by bond, and there was no way in hell he intended to allow himself to be shackled by a name on a piece of paper. He had but a single purpose in East Texas, and marrying a beautiful, passionate, squirrel-swinging spitfire wasn’t it.
He was here to find out who had murdered his b
rother.
His back burned where Katie’s breasts pushed against him, and he remembered how they’d looked, how they’d felt, how they’d tasted. Damn, how much farther to Gallagher’s? She was beautiful, provocative. And the most wanton bit of woman he’d had in years.
She truly believed she was his wife—he knew it just as sure as a Comanche rides a horse. Undoubtedly, she’d be expecting him to pick up where they’d left off that morning. The thought created a surge of heat in his loins, and he shifted in the saddle, trying to find a comfortable position.
He snapped his attention back to the road. He couldn’t allow himself to love her again. There was no going back to before that phony reverend’s shout. The differences between that time and this might be subtle, but they did exist. Sure, he’d given John Gallagher his word that he’d see after Katie, and true, the first thing he’d done was sleep with her. But during the whole of that luscious night, the word “marriage” had never once hovered between them. Comfort had been a part of it, pride, certainly on his part, and from what he could figure, for Katie, reaffirmation of life. Neither of them had thought that there was any more to it. Signatures on a single sheet of paper had changed all that.
Now she believed they were married and he couldn’t convince her otherwise. But he would never take advantage of her by bedding her under false pretenses. He may not have his name anymore, but he damn well still had his honor.
Since Branch had failed in his efforts to convince the Widow Craig that he and Katie didn’t need a honeymoon, Rowdy Payne and his son wouldn’t be bringing Martha to Gallagher’s for two weeks. Katie’s fingers tightened at his waist as she shifted her weight, and he realized that getting through the next fourteen days would be trickier than eating red beans with a pitchfork.
He felt her gentle breath at the back of his neck and muttered to himself, “Fourteen days. Three hundred thirty-six hours. Twenty thousand one hundred sixty minutes.” Oh Lord, it would be a long two weeks.
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