Daniel sat up, frowning. “What do you mean, Shaddoe?”
“He coughed blood, Daniel, had for some time. He was dying slowly and with pain. When he saw a way he could help others, he welcomed the risk involved. Your father died bravely and with honor.” Shaddoe stared straight ahead. “Grieve, but be proud.”
Daniel’s jaw dropped, and tears flowed from his haunted eyes. “I didn’t know. Why didn’t he tell me? He should have seen a doctor!”
“His choice,” Shaddoe replied. “He wanted his days with you unspoiled. Remember the joy of the times, Daniel. That is what John wanted.”
The boy wrapped his hands around his knees and lowered his head. Shaddoe tore a second limb from the tree and ripped at the leaves until he realized what he was doing. Disgusted with himself, he flung the limb away, frowning at the green stain on his fingers.
In a tremulous voice, Daniel asked, “Shaddoe, what’s going to happen now? To me and Keeper, I mean.”
Shaddoe sat beside Daniel. He sat cross-legged and absently smoothed the soft fringe on his leggins. Waiting until the grieving boy looked up at him, he captured his gaze and stated, “Your choice. Your father requested it be so. You know of my plans; I shall return to Texas and finish what was begun there. If you wish to come with me, I will take steps to insure your safety from those who would hold the vaccine theft against you.” His lips tightened at the thought. “But if you wish to remain here, with the Cherokees, know that you are more than welcome. I have spoken to the others, and they have assured me that the one who stole the jar of life-medicine will always have a home among The People.”
“Keeper too?”
Shaddoe smiled. “Do you have a doubt?” Keeper McShane reigned as hero: the one whose body made health magic. He could live with honor among the Cherokee till the end of his days, and he gloried in the attention he received.
“They don’t mind my hand,” Daniel said after a time.
Shaddoe nodded, his hearing tuned to the coo, coo, coo, of a mourning dove. Daniel was stronger now, having proved himself among The People. This would be a good place for him.
Daniel’s brow knotted in thought. “What about Katie, though?” he asked. “We can’t just desert her—she’s waiting for us to come home. I have to go tell her about Da.”
“I can bear that burden, Daniel. You need not worry. And remember, she is not your responsibility; Branch Kincaid now has that honor. He gave his word.”
Shaddoe shrugged and the beads on his fringed tunic rattled. “Know that I will watch over your sister, Daniel. Kathleen will have so many people protecting her that she will despise it. And my first act upon my return will be to make sure Branch Kincaid is treating our Kathleen properly.”
Daniel heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. When will you leave?”
“Soon. I cannot leave this situation unattended for much longer. I cannot allow the sacrifice to be an empty one.”
Daniel stood and dusted the dirt from his pants. He wiped the wetness from his face. When he straightened his spine, a young man stood in place of the boy. “I’ll stay. I can learn so much from the Cherokees.”
Shaddoe rose to his feet and nodded solemnly. “Very well. I shall miss you, Daniel Gallagher, my brother. I shall speak to Keeper, but I have no doubt he, too, will remain.” He offered his left hand, and Daniel grasped it firmly.
As Shaddoe walked away, he heard Daniel Gallagher say, “Da, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, you know.” His voice was soft, but strong. “Goodbye, Da.”
ALONE IN her room at Gallagher’s, Katie Kincaid stared at her reflection in a mirror and stifled a sob. Freckles. Fine. So she had a few freckles. And true, her eyes were more often red than blue these days. But her hair wasn’t too bad, she felt confident of that much. And the bosom that had affected him so from the very beginning still sat right there on her chest.
“Then why?” she asked herself. Tears rolled down her face. If wounded pride was a terminal condition, she lay at death’s door. Her husband didn’t want her.
He not only didn’t want her, he’d rejected her. Twice. Two separate times he’d made love to her, taken her as his own, and then slapped her pride and her feminine senses by shutting her out of his life. Only this time he’d not simply sent her away, he’d up and abandoned her!
Just when she’d figured out that she loved him.
“Honey child,” Martha called as she knocked on the door, “are you all right?”
“No, I don’t think I am.”
Martha was beside her in a minute. “What is it, sweetkins?”
Katie sniffed. “Oh, Martha. I have such a problem.”
“Tell ol’ Martha all about it, dearling,” the widow said as she gave Katie a comforting hug.
“I don’t think I can. It’s so personal.”
“I see.” Martha frowned and heaved a heavy sigh. “Katie, my dear, how old were you when you mother passed on?”
Curious, Katie looked at her. “Nine.”
Martha nodded. “I’ll bet she never got around to explaining to you about men, did she?”
Katie shook her head.
“Honey child, there is something you need to know. Us women have to stick together, especially when it comes to dealing with men. They’ll just ride roughshod all over us if we allow it, and it’s up to each of us to share the tricks of preventing that from happening. Now, I can help you, dear. Tell me what that scapegrace Branch has done, other than disappearing’ into town for two weeks, that is.”
Tears rolled down Katie’s face. “Oh, Martha, why is it I always let you see me cry?”
“Oh, baby, tears are just another one of the secrets women have that men haven’t discovered yet. You go ahead and cry, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You know you’ll feel better afterward.”
“But tears don’t change anything, Martha, I’ll still be awful at it after I cry!”
“Awful at what, darlin’?”
Katie sniffled twice and said, “Sex.”
Martha’s eyebrows climbed to the top of her forehead. “You! Why I don’t believe it. You get passionate about the weather, Katie Kincaid. Now, how did you ever get such a stupid idea? Never mind, I just answered my own question. What did he say to you?”
“It isn’t what he said, it’s what he did and didn’t do!”
Martha gasped. “Don’t tell me he didn’t bed with you.”
“Well, sort of.”
“What do you mean?”
Katie stood and paced the bedroom. “He did once, and then he didn’t anymore, and then he did a lot, and then he left.”
“A lot?”
“Seven times.”
Martha pursued her lips and fussed with her sleeve. “Well now, Katie, you were with him only two weeks. From my experience, that was actually quite a bit.”
Katie halted and cried, “It was one night!”
“One night?” Martha’s jaw dropped. “Seven times!”
Katie nodded.
“Oh, my stars!” Martha exclaimed. “And he had the strength to move the next day?”
“He left the next day. He left without saying goodbye and went back to Nacogdoches. Oh, Martha. I must be the worst lover ever born!”
“Um, um, um,” Martha said. “Seven times. Katie, you don’t need to worry about not pleasin’ the man. Why, it’s obvious to me that you pleased him too much. For a man to get that het up, well, he’s got to have some mighty powerful feelings. He didn’t leave you, girl, he ran from you.” She rubbed her hands together and giggled. “He’s guarding his little baby feelings.”
“I don’t think so Martha.”
“Well, I do. Seven times—why that Mr. Branch is purely something else.” Martha shook her head. “No, Katie, if he doesn’t love you yet, he’s awful close. He’s running from you, and listen to me dear, this is another of our woman’s secrets. When he’s running from you hard and fast, well… that’s the best time to catch him.”
“But I’ve tried to catch him. I couldn’t.
”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Martha said. “You’ve not been listening, child. Here’s how to go about it.” She lowered her voice and explained to Katie how to play Branch Kincaid like a fiddle.
When she finished, Katie was laughing.
BRANCH KINCAID’S bride had done come to town.
For three days now he’d been living under carnal siege, and as a result, he stomped around Nacogdoches with his hat covering his crotch more often than his head.
And the little witch had decided to bathe. Again. Katie Kincaid, as she called herself, must be the cleanest damned woman in Texas. One more glimpse of bare legs or naked breasts would have him either running for the border or the bed. Either way, he was doomed.
She’d traveled into Nacogdoches to conclude preparations for the reopening celebrations for Gallagher’s Tavern and Travelers Inn, which were to be held a little over two weeks from now on San Jacinto Day. She was hosting a barbecue complete with a Best Dessert of the Day contest. Everyone in town had received an invitation. Everyone but Branch.
Of course, he wouldn’t go even if he had been asked. He had more important things to do.
Still, he would have appreciated an invitation.
Katie had arrived unannounced at Nacogdoches House and had moved into Branch’s own room and into his own bed, commenting that appearances must be kept up. She kept to her own side, though, never touching him during the night. Not even when he lay awake and willed it. Never once had she referred to the night they’d spent together, nor asked why he’d left before she awoke.
That annoyed him. Damned if it didn’t up and get him riled. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure the woman out.
For one thing, she’d gone and lost her modesty. She’d settled into the boardinghouse like a wood floor. No matter how careful a fella stepped, she creaked at him. Little things—brushing her hair in the candlelight, kicking off her shoes the minute she entered their room, and wiggling her toes right at him. Katie Kincaid shed her widowhood, and her clothes followed shortly. “Gonna make herself soap-sick,” he grumbled.
She should at least yell at him for loving, then leaving, her. That’s what a normal woman would do. But as he climbed the stairs to his room, he reminded himself that Kate was no normal woman. What would she be doing tonight? Would he find her naked again? Perhaps he’d finally see her in that scarlet corset and she’d scream and yell at him for running out on her. Then, when she was in a high passion, he’d pull those black ribbons and loosen her stays. Maybe he’d use his teeth.
He took the last few steps two at a time. He dusted off his shirt and straightened the kerchief at his neck before he turned the door handle and entered the room.
She was gone.
Damned if she hadn’t packed up and left. Her dresses, her shoes, her blessed sweet-smelling soap, all of it.
A note lay propped on the bed pillow. Branch crossed the room and slowly picked up it. Gallagher’s Tavern and Travelers Inn was inviting him to attend their Grand Reopening on San Jacinto Day, April 21, 1845.
Katie had penned a note at the bottom, asking him to judge in the contest.
“Hmm,” Branch said, hovering between a grin and a scowl. “I hope she bakes her cobbler.”
“I’D LIKE to see the records of land claims filed in this county over the past five years.”
The starched-collar clerk in the land office frowned over the tops of his spectacles at Branch’s question. “That’s quite a bit of paper, sir. What specifically are you looking for?”
Branch slipped his hand inside his vest and pulled his deputy’s badge from his shirt pocket. He glared at the man behind the counter. “Just bring me the files.”
With a sniff, the clerk turned away to do his bidding. Branch lifted a pencil from the counter and began tapping it impatiently. This was the fourth county land office he’d visited in the last week, and he was getting pretty damn tired of government flunkies.
I have to gather all the information I can about MB&T Land Company, he told himself. He’d wasted too much time cozying up to the Regulators and the Moderators without learning a thing. He’d been so sure that if he wormed his way into their confidences, he’d find his man. He’d imagined that with a little footwork, he could locate the farm where Rob spent his last days and learn just what had happened the day he died. But he’d been wrong.
Branch hated to be wrong.
But this MB&T business felt right. He was close this time, he could feel it. And the sooner he ran his prey to ground, the sooner he could go home to Riverrun. The pencil slipped from his hand as the vision of an auburn haired spitfire floated in his mind. Tomorrow was San Jacinto Day, and he’d be riding out to Gallagher’s, perhaps for the last time.
The clerk dumped an armful of files before him, shaking Branch from his reverie. He stared at the piles of paper. It has to be here, he thought. He damn well knew it.
There were two ways a man could use counterfeit land scrip. He could sell it to gullible immigrants, or he could use it to claim land himself. The volume of folks moving into Texas made the first method of disposing of phony scrip easier to accomplish, but it also was the most risky, because the forger would be forced either to meet his victim directly or allow others into his scheme. While Rob’s letters to his father mentioned a ring of counterfeiters, Branch had yet to uncover any evidence that more than a single man, or a single land company—the MB&T—was involved.
That led him to believe the second method of scrip disposal, purchase of the land itself, might just be the one utilized. But for all the offices he’d visited, Branch had yet to figure out just what it was he looked for. He had a gut feeling that he was on the right trail, though, and that instinct had seldom let him down before.
He ran his finger along the stiff edge of the top file and murmured, “Maybe today.” If he had any luck at all, maybe this time he’d discover the clue that would put it all together. He was beginning to think he was needing to put some distance between him and a certain innkeeper.
“I’ll need the county map also,” he said to the clerk as he opened the first folder in the stack, the one entitled donation grants. Donation grants and bounty grants were issued to individuals for service during the Texas Revolution. He skimmed the certificates until one particular name caught his eye, and an old hurt bubbled up inside him. The paper read in part: “Known to all men that James Bowie Having Fallen in the Alamo 6th March 1836 is entitled to Six Hundred and Forty Acres of Donation Land.”
Damn, but Jim had been a good man, a good friend, Branch thought, shaking his head. It’s good to know that a relative got some good out of his sacrifice—a fine section of die East Texas Redlands—but this business made for a heavy heart. Sifting through the names of those who fought in the battles of the Revolution revived the faded nightmare in his memories.
He slammed the file shut, blowing dust up from the counter. The government man sneezed. Branch doubted he’d find his answers among the donation grants or the bounty grants. The muster rolls from the Army of the Republic of Texas were too easy to check—any criminal with any sense wouldn’t risk counterfeiting grants. “I’d bet my own donation grant on that,” he muttered.
Besides, the MB&T dealt mostly in sales scrip—paper sold to anyone with the purchase price. Headrights, also, weren’t so easy to check. Every man who moved to Texas had qualified for a headright up until recently. The forger would have pretty pickings with those. The answer had to be in either the headright certificates or sales scrip filed in the counties around Nacogdoches, and in the last week Branch had checked most of them.
He tossed aside the donation grant file and opened the headright, second-class, folder. He asked the clerk, “Now, what are the dates again on what type of classification a man receives for his headright?”
The clerk answered with a whine in his voice. “First class arrived in Texas prior to March second, 1836. Married men received one league and one labor of land, while single men received one-third league.”
Branch interrupted. “Just the dates. I know how much land a man’s entitled to.”
The clerk tightened his lips into a thin line. “Second class rights are issued to those who arrived between March second, 1836, and October first, 1837. Third is after October first, 1837, to January first, 1840. Fourth is from January first, 1840, to January first of this year.”
An idea niggled in Branch’s mind. Something about the dates… what was it? He looked more closely at the map. Most of the claims were in leagues and labors. First-class headrights. Early settlers.
Branch tapped the pencil rhythmically. Dammit, think. He’d studied a passel of county maps in the last couple of weeks. What was it about them that bothered him? He tried to recall the details of each map.
Very little unappropriated land remained in any of the counties he’d checked; therefore, most of the land was illustrated in blocks. Claimed labors and leagues took up major portions of the counties. Branch stared at the map before him and concentrated.
Rob was investigating scrip when he died. Scrip was usually sold in sections, 640 acres, or even half sections. Branch noted the names of men who filed on less than a league of land, trying to draw a connection between them.
He frowned. This was San Augustine County. He knew this county—he’d hunted the land for the Gallaghers. The prime land in this county had been claimed in 640-acre sections, not leagues of 4,428 acres. That made no sense. Why wouldn’t the earliest settlers have claimed the best land?
The answer hit him like a wild mustang’s kick. Indians. Chief Bowles’s Cherokees. Katie’s Shaddoe Dancer. Happy horse dung, the dates! Branch sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands, straining to put the information together.
July 1839—the Cherokee War. The phony land scrip that had brought his brother to East Texas began to surface in ‘42 or ‘43. Who had settled the Indian land? Was that what this was all about, ownership of the prime, eastern Texas land from which the Indians had been driven? Branch looked up at the clerk. “How was the Cherokee land appropriated?”
The Texan's Bride Page 20
