Britt wrinkled his nose at the production of rolling crushed leaves inside a larger one. “I don’t see why you want to light it. It makes a great haystack for my soldiers to hide behind.”
“Hush, Britt. You’re such a baby. Now, hand me those matches.”
The dream altered, and the man in the bed tossed and flung up his arm to guard his face from the phantoms whose features burned black and crusted. They leaned over the young boy Britt, shrieking in his ear. His grandfather, his grandmother. His mother. Fire crackled around them, dancing, its smoke oozing over him and carrying the stench of death. “Your fault… your fault,” they chanted, reaching for him with bony hands.
“No!” he screamed.
“Branch, Branch, wake up.” The soft, soothing angel’s voice summoned him back from hell.
As he opened his eyes and gazed at Katie, he knew a relief so encompassing that his naked, sweat-soaked body shook with it.
A lighted lamp cast a golden glow around the room, haloing the woman who sat on the bunk beside him, her gentle hand stroking his cheek, his temple, his hair. Her voice was husky as she said, “Welcome home, Branch.”
Panic had wrapped a noose around his neck, but her every touch served to loosen the knot. She said, “Such a terrible place you must have been.”
“Oh, God, Sprite.” His pulse slowed, and the coppery taste of fear left his mouth. Branch shut his eyes and grimaced. He hated this. He was a man, dammit. Not some snot-nosed boy who cowered at the demons in the night. He hated that she’d seen him this way; he hated that he wanted her comfort. “The fire, I dreamed about a fire.”
At his temple, her hand trembled. The catch in her voice betrayed her own nightmares as she whispered a strained, “How terrifying.”
Kincaid, you’re a bastard. Branch grasped her hand and pulled it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Grimly, he said, “I’m sorry, Kate. I shouldn’t… you don’t—”
She placed her finger against his lips. “Ssh. It’s all right. I understand.”
Their gazes met and he searched her eyes, knowing a sense of kinship with the tragedy reflected there. “You do know, don’t you?”
“Yes, and somehow the dreams are almost more frightening than the reality.”
Suddenly, he wanted to tell her. He’d never shared it, not once. But here in the teeth of the night, with this woman whose own trials would render empathy, he needed to share his loss. “My mother died in a fire. When I was a boy. My grandparents, too.”
“Oh, Branch, how awful for you.” She leaned down to kiss his forehead. From beneath the drape of her high necked, long-sleeved gown, her breast skimmed his cheek.
In that moment, a totally different kind of fire kindled inside him. No scarlet corset or chemise to tempt, just the downy brush of well-worn flannel and her scent, feminine and warm. Wholesome. A light to the darkness lingering within him.
All thought of honor or resistance vanished as the flame burst to life. He ached for her, hard and hot. Lifting his hand to cup her chin, he said, “Come to me, Kate. Lie with me.”
Her mouth curved in a soft smile, and she turned into his palm and kissed him. Her hair spilled across her shoulders in a silky, auburn wave and Branch grabbed it, threading his fingers through its length to tug her gently down beside him. “Sprite,” he murmured, his breath ragged with need. Pressing his hand against her lower back and fitting her intimately to him, he rocked against her in a movement as old as time.
Her hips rolled in response, and a great rush of heat threatened his slimly held control. “Slow, sweetheart,” he breathed, his fingers working the buttons at her neck. His kiss found first her eyelids, then trailed across her temple to the sensitive skin behind her ear. He pushed the gown from her shoulders, exposing the full round globes of her breasts, and his mouth followed the trail of his fingers.
He knew her arousal; felt the shudder in her bones, scented the musky addition to her fragrance, tasted the salty sheen glistening on her skin. Wild and deep, an answering, primitive force coursed in his veins and battled with the civilized part of himself. Branch rose above Katie, tearing her gown completely away, baring her to his gaze.
She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
A low moan, almost a growl, rumbled from his throat, and he said, more to convince himself than her, “We’ll go slow.”
He meant to. He intended to draw it out, to pleasure her inch by inch, to share with her the exquisite torment of lazy loving. But then her hands were touching him, stroking, cupping, and caressing. This was not a night for good intentions.
His control shattered. Rational thought disintegrated. He surged against her, thrusting into her warm, welcoming heat. Taking her.
And Katie reveled in the taking. She watched him, the set of his jaw, the almost painful wrinkle of his brow. The elemental power of the hunger glowing in his eyes.
Such fires, burning in this cabin tonight.
Katie sank her nails into his back as she arched, drawing him deeper. Tension sparked and coiled, tightening as he rode her, her hips hammering back at him. She was as fierce as he, straining, seeking that wild relief that only this man could give her.
That’s when she recognized the truth. Somewhere in the midst of that storm of sensation, as ribbons of lightning sizzled down her nerves and the great quaking spilled from her womb, knowledge burst upon her mind.
Her plans had gone awry. This act had nothing to do with seduction. Oh, Lord, help me.
She loved him.
THE SUN was a fiery fingernail on the horizon when Branch awoke, his body weary from too little sleep and too much exertion. For long moments he lay without moving, suspended between heaven and hell; between Katie Starr and reality.
He slipped from the bed, quietly dressing as the first rays of sunlight beamed through the window and illuminated her face, revealing the soft, satisfied smile on lips still swollen from his kisses. For several minutes with his hat in his hand, he stood beside the bed watching the even rise and fall of her breasts, memorizing the classic lines of her stunning face. Gently, he covered her with the sheet
Silently, he left her.
CHAPTER 13
MAKING HIS WAY ALONG the Nacogdoches streets on his way from the rooming house to the jail, Branch scowled, his dark mood a poignant contrast to the cheerful spring morning. Staring at his feet, he almost plowed right into the oaken wagon parked in front of the mercantile, its bed loaded with wet-wrapped jugs of buttermilk and chickens in cages made of cane.
He glared at a rooster. “It’s been long enough, you’d have thought they’d have sent some sort of message to tell me how they’re making out.” Fourteen long days had passed since he rode away from Gallagher’s Inn while Katie still slept. Thirteen days since he made sure Martha and Rowdy Payne hightailed it out to stay with her.
He’d heard nary a word of her since then. “I’ve sent two messages. The least they could do is reply!”
The cock jerked his head, his bright red wattle bobbing as if in agreement. Branch yanked his hat farther down his forehead and continued, “It’s just plain rude.”
Almost as rude as loving a woman and leaving without a goodbye.
Branch did his best to put Katie Starr from his mind as he sauntered toward the jailhouse. His “marriage” had made his life around town—around both the Regulators and the Moderators—more than a mite uncomfortable at times.
Lately, tensions had surged between the two vigilante groups. Branch was walking a delicate path in his guise as a two-timing spy, and as confrontations between the factions grew bloodier and more deadly, his distaste for the entire venture grew.
Especially since he had yet to discover to whose farm Rob had moved before he died. Branch had visited almost a dozen homesteads in the past two weeks and garnered nary a clue.
He found Strickland seated at his desk, going through the mail. The sheriff always paid careful attention to the letters that arrived, and Branch approved of his conscientious
attention to “wanted” flyers and requests for information.
“Mornin’, boss,” he said, attempting to ignore the stench coming from the back of the building. Nothing like the aroma of a drunk’s vomit to get a fella’s day started, he thought.
Strickland nodded a hello. “Thank you for the invitation, Kincaid. It sounds as though you and your wife have chosen an excellent way to mark the reopening of her family’s hotel. After all, San Jacinto Day is our biggest holiday, and folks will enjoy an all-day picnic at the inn as a change from the normal ball here in town. Good thinking.”
What the hell? Branch thought. He hung his hat on a wall peg, missing twice to give himself time to think of a suitable reply. He turned and said, “Uh, yeah.”
Strickland leaned back in his chair. “Sounds like a lot of fun. I know the children will enjoy the taffy pull.” He frowned then and hesitated a moment before saying, “There is one thing, though, Kincaid. In truth, it just doesn’t seem right for you to put all that work into that particular travelers’ inn. The Regulators did choose to burn the inn once. Aren’t you afraid the bosses might decide to do it again?”
“I don’t think that’ll happen,” Branch said, shrugging as though unconcerned. In reality, his muscles were wound tighter than an eight-day clock. “From what I’ve been told, they burned it to begin with because it was a Moderator hangout. Well, the Moderators sure the hell ain’t gonna be using it anymore, what with my wife running the place. She knows where our loyalties lie this time around.”
“But what about that trouble her father and brother caused?”
“Katie didn’t have anything to do with that business; she was with me the whole time. Hell, Jack, that’s how I ended up married to the woman, after all!”
The sheriff scowled. “You deserved to be leg-shackled, Kincaid. Really, taking her on a church pew.”
Branch forced a grin. “Yeah, well, she’s religious about some things.”
Strickland leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. He gave Branch a measured look. “Tell me something, Kincaid. That woman of yours is beautiful, and when I met her at the Independence Day Ball, she demonstrated impeccable manners. She appeared to be a gentle-woman.”
Branch sauntered over to the window and looked out into the street. His casual stance was at odds with the emotion churning inside him. He didn’t like the way this conversation was going. He didn’t like Jack Strickland talking about Katie. “She is a gentlewoman and she’s very much a lady,” he stated flatly.
“Then why did you tell Trident her father sold her to you? Is she a lady or a whore?”
Branch squared his shoulders, furious that anyone would call his wife whore. He whipped his head around to snap at Strickland when the entirety of the man’s question sunk in.
“Trident? Who the hell is Trident?”
“Trident is one of Colonel Moorman’s lieutenants. One of his right-hand men. You know him—he leads the raids that originate from Nacogdoches.”
“The tall man, always dressed completely in black?”
Strickland nodded.
“I know him,” Branch agreed, “but who is he? I’ve been wondering about that for some time now.”
“Why do you want to know?”
Branch pulled a cane-seated chair from the corner and straddled it. “We do a little business together, and I don’t know how to reach him when I need him.”
“Kincaid, Trident’s identity is a closely held secret, one to which you are not privy.” Strickland shuffled through papers on his desk, adding, “You’d best keep your curiosity to yourself; it can be a dangerous habit to indulge.”
“Maybe so, but we’ve an agreement between us, and I might need his help real quick someday. I need to know who to go to.”
The sheriff pinned him with his gaze. “Me, Kincaid. Come to me. I know Trident, and I can pass him your information. Now, enough of this. You never answered my question.”
“What question?”
“About your wife. Is she a whore, a crazy one at that, like you claimed the night Gallagher’s burned?”
Katie. What was this business about Katie? Why was Strickland interested in her? What was this business about an invitation? Branch didn’t like it one little bit. He didn’t like that… glow in the sheriff’s eyes when he mentioned the woman. He pushed up from the chair, saying, “Dammit, Katie is no whore. I lied to your Trident that night. She was actin’ crazy, and I was afraid he’d hurt her.”
“You have a funny way of protecting a woman, Kincaid, destroying her reputation.”
“I said the first thing that popped into my mind. It seemed right at the time. But listen, Sheriff, her father didn’t sell her. I want you and everyone else in town to know that she is a lady.”
Strickland nodded. “I thought as much.” He picked up a paper and began to read.
Apparently, their discussion was over. Good, Branch thought. The sheriff had best keep his attentions on his work and away from my wife. Then he frowned as he realized he’d referred to the title he’d given the woman in his own mind. Walking over to the desk, he cursed beneath his breath, then asked, “Anything for me?” He lifted an envelope from the stack.
“Keep your hands to yourself, Kincaid.” Strickland snatched the letter from Branch but not before the deputy managed to read the return address. The Matagorda Bay and Texas Land Company.
Branch’s heartbeat accelerated. As commissioner of the General Land Office for the Republic of Texas, his brother had become personally involved in the investigation into counterfeit land scrip. Phony scrip issued by the MB&T Land Company was what had brought Rob Garrett to East Texas and subsequently led to his death. Why would the Matagorda Bay and Texas Land Company be corresponding with Sheriff Strickland?
Then an agonized moan drifted from one of the cells. Strickland scowled. “Go see to the prisoner, Kincaid. He’s in number three. I don’t care what you do to him, but make him shut up. That bawl of his is irksome.”
“Who is it?” Branch asked, reaching for the keys.
“Oh, a Moderator Trident interrogated last night. Picked him up for stealin’ one of Ayer’s slaves. Fellow claims he hired a freeman to work at his place, but Ayer says otherwise.”
Ayer was a Regulator, an eerie-looking character with one green eye, one brown, who wouldn’t think twice about lying or murdering for that matter. This prisoner sure had picked the wrong man to tangle with, Branch thought, shaking his head.
The sight that met him in the cell forced all consideration of the Matagorda Bay and Texas Land Company from his mind. A young man, early twenties from what he could tell, lay tied to the bunk. He was pale as Jim Bowie’s ghost—all except for his right hand, that is. Dried, dark red blood smeared the squirrel trap that imprisoned mangled fingers.
“Damnation, boy, what happened to you?” Branch knelt beside the man and removed the trap. Bright red blood gushed with the release of pressure, and Branch hurriedly wrapped his kerchief tight around the wounds to halt the flow. The young man opened pain-glazed eyes, lifted his head, and croaked. “I don’t know anything about slave stealing. I swear.”
Branch winced as the prisoner fell back into unconsciousness. Damn, who the hell does this fool Trident think he is, interrogating prisoners in such a manner?
Strickland spoke from the doorway. “That boy didn’t hold out more’n five minutes. I’m afraid he’ll never make it in Texas.”
Branch looked over his shoulder. “Trident did this? Why? You’re the sheriff, why aren’t you in charge of such things?”
The sheriff simply shrugged. “It’s Regulator business, Kincaid. I may not like it, but I’ve nothing to do with it. I take orders just like you.”
Branch picked up the trap and examined it, then tossed it aside. The clank of it hitting the wood reverberated through him. He stood and faced Strickland. “Does he do this often? This Trident sounds like a Texian Torquemada.”
The sheriff’s b
lue eyes hardened. “I suggest you not state opinions concerning things of which you know nothing, Kincaid. A man could end up hurt that way.”
Branch knelt beside the prisoner and laid the damaged hand gently across the boy’s chest. “Did Trident get what he needed from him, or does this child have more of this fun ahead?”
“Oh, he got his information. You’ll see, Kincaid, that Trident always gets what he wants.”
NOT FAR from the Platte River in Indian Territory, beneath the glare of a brilliant sun, Dances In The Night approached the boy who sat sobbing at the base of a gnarled oak tree. The day was warm, the air sweet and clean, but bitterness filled the man. He laid a hand on the youngster’s shoulder and hunkered down beside him.
“It’s not fair!” the boy whimpered.
“I know, Daniel. It is not fair. But then, such is the manner of life.” Anguish twisted the Cherokee’s face. “I loved him also. Your father filled a place in my heart that now aches in emptiness.”
“I don’t love him—I hate him! He was stupid. A stupid idiot. Coming here, going to that village and never taking the vaccination. He asked for it to happen. Well, I don’t care. I’m glad he’s dead!”
Shaddoe’s fierce shove sent Daniel sprawling. He loomed over the boy, his blood thundering like stampeding buffaloes. He grabbed Daniel’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Never speak of John Gallagher in such a manner again. I will beat you.”
Shaddoe pulled back. He leaned against the tree, teeth clenched and breathing heavily. Reaching above, he yanked at a pencil-thin limb, tearing it from the tree. He stripped the leaves one by one and tossed them to the ground. Heaving a long sigh, he apologized. “Forgive me, Daniel. My grief controlled my actions.” He kicked at a leaf with his moccasin and continued, “He was dying. He knew it. He told me of the great pain eating him from within. Could you not read his face and see the agony he lived? Did you not notice the skin shrink around his bones?”
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