The Texan's Bride

by Dawson, Geralyn

  Katie hugged Branch securely as he increased their speed. His scent—musky, heavy, uniquely his own— penetrated her senses. She suffered the seductive harmony of his muscles flexing and relaxing in tune with Striker and thought that she just might not survive the ride. Branch Kincaid confused her. She confused herself. How dare she even think such thoughts at a time like this?

  The afternoon was warm and wind-wisped with cottony clouds on high blue air. It was a day for banter and lightness of heart, not for awkwardness and suffocating grief. She wanted to be home, she needed to be home, and as the time of their travel neared the three-hour mark, she listened almost desperately for the familiar bells that would tell her they’d reached the inn.

  The wind chimes in the design of a four-leaf clover indicated the turnoff from the main road to Gallagher’s Inn. A few years earlier, Da had traded two nights’ accommodations for the work of a smithy establishing a new business in a nearby town. From the beginning Katie had loved the hollow music played so furiously on occasion by strong winds or, at other times, the lone note exposed by an errant breeze.

  But today all was silent

  They didn’t speak as Striker carried them the last few miles to the inn. The closer they came to her home, the less attention she paid to the way her breasts tingled as they brushed his back. Striker made the final turn beside, the wind chimes. Home, she thought joyfully. Thank you, Lord. Her home, her security, her strength.

  Unconsciously she leaned forward, waiting for that first glimpse of Gallagher’s. She hardly noticed the caustic odor of smoldering timber and burned hair.

  Branch did. The stench was filed right next to horror in his mind. He pulled Striker to a halt just beyond sight of the inn. “Wait here,” he said, swinging to the ground and grabbing his guns from his saddle. “I mean it, Katie. Stay right where you are.”

  “What is it, Branch?” Her eyes widened with worry and she nibbled her lower lip.

  “Probably nothing. Just let me check, all right?”

  She folded her arms, hugging herself, and nodded. Branch paused at the edge of the stand of pines that blocked their vision of Gallagher’s. “Promise me, Kate, you’ll stay here this time?”

  “Yes.”

  He walked through the woods. “Damn the bastards,” he breathed as he saw the destruction. “Damn them to the lowest pit of hell.”

  It was only a warning, but oh, what an ungodly threat. The outhouses had been burned to the ground. Two charred carcasses, a milk cow and her calf, hung suspended from the upper porch above the steps leading to the front door. Blood had pooled on the whitewashed step and painted a garish streak down each stair to the ground. An R drawn with blood defiled the front door. “Oh, Sprite, I wish I could have spared you this.”

  A pitiful whimper, like a puppy caught in the steel jaws of a trap, reached his ears. He knew as he turned that Katie once again had disregarded instructions. She stared at the dead calf, her skin drained of color, her blue eyes glazed.

  He clenched his jaw and lifted her from Striker’s back. “Woman, you haven’t the sense God gave green apples,” Branch said gently as he turned her head away from the inn and folded her into his arms.

  Katie held him like a lifeline, her tears falling relentlessly down her face as she sobbed out her pain. She cried for Da and Daniel, she cried for Shaddoe, she cried for herself. She even cried for Finian Trahern. Branch discovered he was hoping to hear his own name in there somewhere, but she never mentioned him.

  He held her for the longest time, the tension in his body making his arms tremble. What he wouldn’t give to wrap his hands around a Regulator’s neck right then. It’d be a pleasure kill, and he wouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt about it. The agony Katie was living wrenched at him, and he ached to give her ease.

  But this time he wouldn’t ease her body. He would, however, do his level best to ease her soul. Her tears spent, she eased away from him, and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief he’d removed from around his neck.

  “Come on, Sprite. Your kitchen looks like it’s just as you left it. Let’s settle in over there, and while you’re cooking me some supper, I can tidy things up here. Cornbread and beans’ll be fine.” As he led her away, he looked back over her shoulder and added, “I’m not rightly in the mood for meat tonight.”

  KATIE WASHED up, changed from her riding skirt into a serviceable blue homespun, put on a pot of beans, and mixed a batch of cornbread. Then she crawled into bed for a nap. A limit existed to the amount of turmoil with which a mind could deal in a single day, and she had reached it. She slept deeply and without dreams, awaking at dusk to the sound of Branch moving about in the outer room.

  Dinner was an awkward affair, with conversation stilted and limited to a discussion concerning proper seasonings for pinto beans cooked meatless. The argument centered on garlic. While Katie had slept, Branch had taken it upon himself to add a full clove to the pot bubbling over the fire. While she appreciated his help—he did, after all, save the cornbread from burning—she couldn’t abide the taste of garlic in her beans.

  Especially considering the fact that this was her wedding night.

  A thunderstorm hit just after dark. Lightning split the sky while rain pounded the earth, and Katie watched the downpour, praying that her family was safely sheltered from the storm’s fury. As long as Da, Daniel, and Shaddoe were protected, the torrent was a welcome one. It would wash away the stains on Gallagher’s front porch and clear the air of that vile scent of destruction. Too, the intensity—the tension, the electricity—of the storm fit her mood.

  Tonight Branch would join her in their marriage bed.

  He put on a slicker and left the cabin to see to the horses. Katie lit the lamp in her bedroom, poured water from a ceramic pitcher into a bowl, and washed. Anticipation filled her as she loosened the buttons of her dress. Last night had left her feeling ashamed—she’d given herself outside of marriage. No, she thought ruefully, actually she’d taken a man outside of marriage. Tonight would be different; it was a beginning for her and this hunter who had preyed upon her emotions for so long now. Perhaps tonight could be the beginning of love.

  Wearing only her chemise and drawers, Katie reached into her bureau for a night rail. Holding the soft batiste shift trimmed in lace and embroidered with flowers, she hesitated. It was a beautiful gown, her prettiest. But she had worn the same gown on another wedding night. She had worn this gown for Steven.

  Quietly and decisively, she shut her dresser drawer. Stripping off her underclothes, Katie slipped naked into bed. She waited.

  And waited, and waited even more. Finally she heard his footsteps on the stoop. He entered the outer room, and she listened as first one, then the other, boot hit the floor. She caught a glimpse of white through the half-open door when he tossed his shirt onto a chair. The rustle of his trousers made her swallow.

  Then she heard an unexpected sound, an unbelievable, disconcerting, completely frustrating noise. They had not moved the bunk John Gallagher had used in the kitchen up to the new inn, and Katie’s chin dropped when the bed ropes creaked as Branch settled himself onto the mattress. “Good night, Sprite,” he called.

  Two minutes later, his snores bounced off the walls and pounded Katie’s heart.

  BRANCH NEVER realized cast-iron pots could make so much noise. But then, he’d never before heard someone sling them around the kitchen with quite so much fervor. Recalling the events of the previous night, he reluctantly opened his eyes to the sight of a violent Texas thunderstorm dressed in blue homespun right there in the kitchen.

  Slamming cook pots supplied the thunder, bacon sizzled and popped like lightning, wind whipped through the room in the tempest’s wake, and a veil of rain pooled in the black thunderclouds of her eyes. Yep, Kate was a might unhappy.

  May as well face the fury now and get it over with, he thought. Storms such as this tend to make a man’s afternoon miserable. In his most pleasant tone he said, “What’cha cookin’ Katie? Sure smells
good.”

  She turned on him like a twister. “Certainly a peccary like yourself can recognize the smell of griddled ham.”

  He frowned. “If I understand what you’re saying, it’s my butt you like to think you’re fryin’ up, huh, Katie?”

  “Precisely.” The sun peaked through the storm clouds.

  Damn, but she’s beautiful. No matter how good the intentions, some habits were hard to change. Knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to stop, he drawled, “I can hardly wait for you to eat your breakfast.”

  The Dutch-oven lid she’d held in her hand clanged against the floor, and by the looks of her, he knew he was lucky she hadn’t aimed it at his head. Hastily, Branch added, “Look, I know we’ve got some talkin’ to do. We’ll feel better if we have a bit of that meal you’ve gone to the trouble to fix before we get serious.”

  He pulled on his pants, rose from John Gallagher’s bed, and walked over to the woman, who stood facing the fireplace, her back stiff. He tilted her chin with his index finger and stared at her, saying softly, “Please, Katie?”

  Moisture flooded her eyes and she nodded.

  “I’ll go wash up then,” he said, and walked outside.

  Katie sank into a chair at the table and buried her face in her hands, drained of emotion. Her red russet shoe thumped the dough box beneath the table. After a fitful few hours of sleep, she’d awakened to an early-morning sun, a gnawing hunger, and a biting anger. “Hell hath no fury,” she quoted to herself. But her rage had dissolved at the somber expression in her husband’s eyes. He has something to tell me, she thought, propping both feet on the box and slumping down in her chair. It was something she wasn’t going to like. She could read it in his face.

  When Branch returned, she went through the motions of eating, tasting nothing she put in her mouth. His praise of the meal barely penetrated her stupor.

  When he was through, Branch leaned back in his chair and stared at her. “Come on,” he said a moment later. “The weather’s beautiful this morning. Let’s walk down to the river.” Grabbing her hand, he pulled her to her feet and led her from the cabin.

  The Angelina’s lazy flow carried an occasional green leaf downstream. Wildflowers hugged its bank, and a bee buzzed from an Indian paintbrush to a dandelion. The sweet fragrance of the season filled the air, soothing Katie’s soul. It’s spring and I’ll manage, she told herself. I’ll manage no matter what.

  Branch opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. Twice more he fumbled before getting a word past his teeth. When he did manage to form a sentence, he said the last thing she expected to hear. “I wanted you in my bed this morning more than a bleeding man wants a tourniquet.” He sat on the bank and pulled her down beside him.

  He reached behind him for a honeysuckle vine, plucked a blossom and, slowly pulling its pistil, touched the tip of his tongue to the sweet drop of nectar clinging to the thin fiber. “I laid awake half the night remembering how tight and hot you were around me and how you made that little throaty groan when you took your pleasure.”

  Katie shifted uneasily.

  A woebegone smile gentled his face as he continued. “It wouldn’t have been right, though, Katie. I gave my word I’d take care of you. Taking advantage isn’t taking care. As bad as I want you, I’ve figured you out enough to know that you need to be married first. We’re not wed, Katie. That marriage bond was no more legal than Houston’s Cherokee wife. I know we don’t see eye to eye on this, but you don’t have all the facts.”

  Katie’s pride prompted her to interrupt. “You’ve a nerve, Branch Kincaid, thinking that I’m pining for you. But never mind that, just what are these facts I’m missing?”

  He hesitated, as though he weighed his answer. Slowly, he said, “Among other things, we live under a different legal system than did your parents. The Republic doesn’t require the same conditions for citizenship or marriage as Mexico. Katie, that contract wasn’t worth the price of the ink.”

  Why doesn’t he call me Sprite? she wondered. “We’ve talked about this before, Branch. I told you about the San Augustine case. Your argument’s invalid.”

  Branch pulled off his boots and dangled his feet in the water. “Well, I guess there actually is something else.” He paused, grimaced, and added, “I didn’t sign my real name.”

  “What!” She sat still as a snake curled up to strike.

  He glanced at her and said, “It’s a nickname, you see—Branch. I got it stuck on me as a kid. There’s this big old pecan tree at home, and I had a habit of misjudging the clearance beneath one of its limbs. Damn thing knocked me off my horse every other time I tried to ride beneath it. Then there was the time—oh, never mind. Anyway, everyone at home but my pa called me Branch. My name’s really Britt. Britton, that is.”

  “So you’re Britton Kincaid, then?”

  He looked away and nodded. “Britt.” He said it short and quietly.

  “How do you think of yourself?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Katie sighed. “I mean, do you think of yourself as Branch or Britt?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it. I guess I’m Branch except when I’m with my folks. Listen now, Katie, you needn’t take this whole thing personal. Actually, it has very little to do with you.”

  Now that set right well. “In what way?” she asked, staring at her hand and picturing one of his Texas Patersons lying there.

  “Now, don’t get me wrong. I intend to keep up the act that we’re married; I’m partially to blame for the damage to your reputation.”

  “Partially to blame,” Katie repeated tonelessly. Her fingers cocked the imaginary trigger.

  “Yeah. I’ll make sure everyone in Nacogdoches thinks we have a marriage made in heaven and the fact that we’re living apart is just bad circumstances.”

  “Living apart?”

  “Katie, I can’t stay here. I have a job to do, a very important duty. This marriage of convenience isn’t very convenient for me right now, but I’ll hang around until the others move out to the inn. I wouldn’t feel right about leaving you here alone, what with the Regulators actin’ up.”

  Katie kicked off her shoes. The carpet of new grass tickled her toes. She wrapped her arms around her legs and said, “Let me see if I understand you. Branch. You signed a false name to a legal document of marriage with the sole intention of protecting my reputation. You intend for this marriage to be in name only, and you will leave my home as soon as someone else arrives to take responsibility for me.”

  He nodded. “Yep, that about takes care of it.”

  “I have a point I’d like clarified, if you will?”

  “Shoot.”

  I’ve love to, she thought. “How would your plans be affected were there to be a result from our union?”

  He looked puzzled and she rolled her eyes. “What’ll you do if I’m expecting?”

  He shrugged, frowning. “Well, if you turn up carryin’, we’ll marry for real. I’ll just have to deal with it. Anything else?”

  She nearly shoved him into the river at that point. Instead she gave him a sunshine smile. “That’s all.” She stood, saying, “I guess I’d better get to work. If I’m going to reopen Gallagher’s anytime soon, I’ve much to do.”

  His mouth twisted as though he thought to say something but changed his mind. It was a good decision. One more word, and she certainly would have hurt him.

  As they made their way back to the inn, Katie considered his confession. She’d bet her very best Dutch oven that a false name wouldn’t nullify the marriage contract. If she remembered right, Ed Black in San Augustine had tried to use something similar in his argument also. Half the people in Texas changed their names when they crossed the border. Britt or Branch, it made little difference.

  The man had married her yesterday.

  She bit at her lower lip. The way she saw it, she was no longer a widow but a bride. A rejected bride. The question was, just what did she want to do about it?

 
Looking over at her husband, she took note of his contented manner. So, she thought, he’s been to confession and now he’s feeling sinless. Well, she was no priest offering absolution. Poor Branch. He would soon learn that his bride had her pride and he shouldn’t have trampled all over it. She’d stage the greatest seduction ever attempted, and when he fell at her feet, she’d kick him.

  She remembered something her father once told her. “The thing to do with mule-headed men, colleen,” John Gallagher had said, “is to treat them like you’d treat a mule you’re a’fixin’ to corral. Don’t try to drive them in, just leave the gate open a crack and let them bust in.”

  That was her answer. She’d show Branch Kincaid what rejection really was. She knew just how to crack open the gate.

  AND SO began the campaign to win Branch Kincaid’s body. Like every good general, Katie had learned from the experience of prior battles. Each tactic he had used during the winter maneuvers, she redefined from a feminine point of view and put into action during the spring.

  Her first attack was launched with the arrival of the peddler’s wagon three days later. Branch had left Gallagher’s early that morning bound for San Augustine after receiving a message from Sheriff Strickland. She’d been working inside the tavern when harmonica music and a freight wagon’s rattle had announced the advent of Morsey Johnston, Peddler by Profession.

  Katie smoothed her hair as she walked onto the porch and waited for the wagon to come to a stop. She was always happy to see Johnston; he had included Gallagher’s on his rounds for years, and he often saved her special items. Usually kitchen utensils, occasionally an extra-fine length of lace or linen, he made a great production of presenting the articles for sale.

  Morsey was young, perhaps three years older than Katie, and quite handsome, with emerald-green eyes and cheeks that dimpled with his wicked smile. Women just loved a visit with the peddler, and Katie was no exception. Especially when he came at such an opportune time.