Martha took his arm and patted his hand. “Well, now, Mr. Branch. Seeing as how you’re part of the Gallagher family, and since my Katie here has entered her peach cobbler, I decided it would be more seemly to have someone who’s not connected with the inn and who’s never had her dessert to judge for us.”
Branch scowled, absurdly disappointed, as Martha tugged on Katie’s hand. “Come, my dear, Mr. St. Pierre has said he’s dying to meet you. Besides, we really should save him from Luella. You know what a magpie she can be. She entered her loaf cake, and she’s trying to prime him on picking her as winner.” Pulling Katie toward the stranger, Martha huffed with disgust and added, “Foolish woman; why, one time I saw Frost Thorn using one of her loaf cakes for a doorstop down at the mercantile.”
“Martha!” Katie scolded. Branch shoved his hands in his pockets and followed the two women.
“Mr. St. Pierre,” the widow called. “Allow me to introduce you to our hostess.”
The Creole turned. Katie made a choking sound, and Branch looked at her. Her eyes were dancing like fireflies in the forest, and her teeth were nibbling at her lower lip as if to prevent a delighted smile. He followed the path of her gaze to the newcomer.
The devil’s black eyes twinkled at Kate, bold as a billy goat after a nanny in season. He wore a double-breasted, navy-colored coat expertly tailored to fit his broad shoulders. From his white linen shirt to his highly polished boots, the stranger bespoke money, power, and arrogance. In all of it, Branch detected a haunting familiarity. He pictured the dark-eyed devil with a hood over his head. Could be, he decided. Then the Creole opened his mouth and spoke.
“C’est magnifique! Such beautiful women in Texas. Had I but known, I would have made this journey years ago. Please, Mrs. Craig. I beg an introduction to the mademoiselle.”
St. Pierre’s voice was smooth as fresh churned butter and had nothing in common with that of the one called Trident.
Katie smiled radiantly and lifted her hand to the Creole.
Martha said, “Mr. St. Pierre, may I present Mrs. Starr.”
“Kincaid,” Branch corrected her.
St. Pierre clicked his heels and bent low, kissing Katie’s hand. “Madame. Please call me Dee, Madame.”
“Dee?”
“My initials, S.D. The French tends to trip one’s tongue. I find it—friendlier, s’il vous plait.”
“Charming,” Katie replied. “And you may call me Katie.” Her cheeks flushed a dusty rose, she added, “We Texians rarely stand on formality.”
Branch was clenching his teeth. He shoved his hand between the two, effectively blocking the Frenchman’s view of Katie’s bosom. Then he draped his other arm possessively about her shoulders. “Branch Kincaid.”
The black eyes gleamed with humor as the two men clasped hands. “M’sieu.”
Damn but the dandy has a grip, Branch thought. And what’s so blasted funny? Katie sounds like she’s got a bug in her throat. “So,” he said, “what brings you to our neck of the woods, St. Pierre? Making a grand tour?”
“Actually, I plan to establish a ranch in Texas.”
“Really?” Branch drawled. The Creole’s diamond stickpin glittered in the sunlight. “Well, you seem more the cotton type to me, Frenchie. You gonna turn your slaves into wranglers?”
“I do not keep slaves,” St. Pierre replied squaring his shoulders.
Branch lifted an eyebrow. “A New Orleans Creole who doesn’t keep slaves? Well, who’d a thunk it?” Branch knew he was being difficult, but something about this fella just stuck in his craw. “Martha says you’re gonna file a headright tomorrow. You just now come to Texas?”
“Oui.”
“Then it seems you’ve plumb run out of luck, Frenchie. The Republic quit issuing headright certificates a good while back.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Damn shame.”
The Creole’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He shrugged. “Eh, bien! What’s a few hundred acres more? I’ve purchased sufficient scrip to meet my needs.”
Tension dripped over the group like cold molasses. Martha hurriedly assembled the contestants in the dessert contest and made a production out of presenting the Creole with a spoon and a fork.
As he sampled the sweets, St. Pierre regaled those around him with stories of the rigors of his journey, and listened to suggestions about where he should locate his land.
Personally, Branch thought Comanche territory an attractive spot.
Katie bubbled like a mineral spring from the Creole’s attention, and it seemed to Branch that she was receiving more than her fair share of it. The stranger actually winked at her when he tasted a molasses cookie. Branch managed to tolerate the Creole’s behavior until he sampled his way toward a dish of peach cobbler Branch recognized as having come from Katie’s kitchen. As St. Pierre lifted his spoon to dip into the dessert, Branch acted.
He reached over and grabbed it.
“Kincaid!” Katie fussed.
“Mr. Branch,” Martha fretted.
St. Pierre flashed an amused smile. “A possessive husband it appears. I take it, sir, that this is your wife’s dessert?”
Branch gathered a fork from the table and plunged it into the middle of the cobbler. “Sure is, Frenchie, and I don’t like to share. You’d be well advised to remember it, too.”
Taking Katie’s elbow, he tugged her through the crowd, ignoring her sputtered protests. “Hush now,” he said, as he led her toward a spreading oak tree at the side of the inn away from the crowd.
“You make me so mad, Branch Kincaid,” Katie pouted. “I wanted to win that contest.”
“Sprite, if we’re going to continue with this little marriage of ours, you’ve gotta get one thing straight.” Sitting, he cradled the pan of cobbler in his lap and waved his fork in Katie’s face. “You bake only for me. I won’t be having another man’s mouth on your sticky-sweet baked sin.”
She stared at the dessert, and her voice was syrupy as she said, “Branch, it’s a deal as long as only my cobbler sits on your lap.”
ST. PIERRE watched Katie Kincaid stare into a pot of boiling sorghum molasses. When she announced the mixture thick enough, the children around her cheered and clapped their hands. She began to pour it onto greased platters. The taffy pull was about to begin.
The youngsters divided up into pairs and proceeded to pull and fold the sticky substance with greased fingers until it lightened in color. Finally, after much work, the taffy could be twisted into a long, slender rope.
Half the fun of a taffy pull was in stealing a well pulled rope from an unwary contestant. Due to uneven numbers, Katie had paired with a boy of about nine, and they laughed as they yanked and tugged the candy. St. Pierre sneaked up behind his hostess and caught the boy’s attention with a coin. The result was that the boy turned his end of the rope over to St. Pierre.
“You slipped him money, sir,” Katie said, her lips pursed in disapproval.
“Bribes have never been beneath me.”
“How well I know.” She tugged hard on the taffy, and they shared a smile. “Tell me the news, I’ve been dying to hear everything.”
St. Pierre looked past her and shook his head. “I’m afraid we haven’t time. There is an angry bear headed in our direction.”
“Branch?”
He nodded. “We must meet alone. When and where?”
“Why alone?” Katie asked, her expression troubled. “What’s wrong?”
“Quickly, love.”
“Later, just before dark. He’s playing cards with guests up at the inn. Come to my kitchen—I haven’t moved up to the inn.”
St. Pierre shook his head. “No, more private. Our regular place.”
“But it’s the first night we have guests. I can’t get away.”
“Your husband is upon us. Meet me there.” He flashed Branch Kincaid a wide smile. “Monsieur, you have come to help?”
“Yes. Why don’t I just take that off your hands, Frenchie.”
St. Pi
erre tossed Branch the sticky rope, winked at Katie, and left.
“Really, Branch,” Katie said, shaking her head. “You’ve not been very polite to our guests. I do believe you’re jealous, Kincaid.”
“Jealous? Me? Why, that’s a dumb fool idea if I ever heard one.” His lips curved in a smirk, but Katie thought his narrowed, golden eyes gleamed suspiciously green as he glared at the Creole’s back. Seeing her amusement, Branch yanked on the taffy and snapped the candy rope in two. He stared at the sticky mess dangling from his unbuffered hands and muttered. “The stuff sticks like a goat-head to a horse’s tail.”
Katie’s gaze raked him, pausing on the candy and then on his face. “I don’t know, Branch. This picture calls to my mind another part of a horse’s anatomy.”
TO ALLOW the visitors who chose not to stay the night at Gallagher’s Tavern and Travelers Inn the time to return to their homes before dark, the festivities had been scheduled to end during the late afternoon. In making her plans for the party, Katie had chosen to end the affair with a bang, literally, and Andrew Payne had been sent around to farms and plantations in the area in search of the needed supplies.
Now with everything at the ready, Branch stood beside the anvil, torch in hand, while Katie, Martha, and Rowdy supervised the line of anxious, giggling children. “Ready?” Rowdy Payne asked. At Katie’s nod, he handed a long stick to his son, whose eyes shone with excitement as he held it out over the fire. At the end hung a hog bladder, filled with air and tightly tied. When held to the heat, it exploded with a satisfying BANG! At the first pop, the waiting children squealed and called for their turn. Soon the air was filled with noise, bangs and squeals and laughter, a fine way to end a wonderful day.
When all the bladders had been popped, Branch made a short speech about the heroes of the Battle of San Jacinto, then put the final touch on the celebrations. Black powder had been packed into the hollow of an anvil, which had been set upright on a stump. Branch lit the fuse and the anvil exploited into the air with the sound of a cannon. As it thudded back to earth, Branch grinned like a schoolboy.
He and Katie waved to their departing guests from Gallagher’s front porch, and for the first time, Branch felt like a married man.
Taking her hand in his and watching the wagons pull out, he told himself, You’d best guard against it, Kincaid. Feelings like that could be fatal to a man’s bachelorhood.
After mounting his horse, Jack Strickland paused for a moment, his stare locked on Katie Kincaid as she waved goodbye to a wagon load of her guests.
She’s beautiful, he thought. And gracious. He’d found the opportunity to speak with her at length earlier in the afternoon, while that bird dog husband of hers was riding his horse in the race. It had been amusing to watch the Creole beat Kincaid and his dun. The Frenchman rode like an Indian.
Katie Kincaid had proved to be a true gentlewoman. How could he have not seen it before? Although she lacked formal education in the traditional subjects like French and Italian, drawing and painting, she could both read and write. The pillows in her parlor showed a talent for needlework, and she demonstrated a vast exposure to classical literature.
Mrs. Kincaid could hold her own with any of the ladies he’d courted at home in Boston.
It truly was a shame he’d not noticed her before she became entangled with Kincaid. She’d have made a fine wife for the son of a United States congressman, and the benefits that a Texas-bred bride would bring to his political aspirations in the Republic of Texas were extensive.
Of course, if his father managed to straighten things out in Massachusetts, he wouldn’t necessarily need a Texian woman for a wife. But then again, a beautiful, witty, charming wife was always an asset. Especially one unafraid to demonstrate her passions, as evidenced by her rendezvous with her husband-to-be in church.
In church!
The woman was wasted on a man like Kincaid.
CHAPTER 15
LAUGHTER AND MUSIC FILLED the tavern as those guests who had taken rooms at Gallagher’s continued the day’s merriment. Branch paused in the doorway, conscious of the pleasure he derived from having provided this for Katie—even though she’d no idea he was Finian Trahern.
She was as excited as a puppy with two tails about getting the inn up and running. She’d been fun to watch, and all in all the day had been quite a success.
If not for the Creole, he thought, a scowl touching his lips. He appeared entirely too familiar with Katie, to Branch’s way of thinking. He’d be one worth watching. A loose horse is always looking for new pastures, and Branch figured to make sure that smooth-speaking stud didn’t try to feed where he didn’t belong. Thank goodness St. Pierre had gone back to town; perhaps now Branch could enjoy the poker game.
Sam Cavanaugh and two other of Gallagher’s guests waited for him at a table. Cigar smoke and banjo music swirled around the room, and Branch waved a greeting at Rowdy Payne, who was working the bar.
Branch got a tankard of ale, then straddled a chair and said, “Deal me in, boys.”
“You know, Kincaid,” Sam Cavanaugh said, “I never have seen you sit a chair properly.”
“Well, I don’t know, Sam, it’s just that some things seem to be a bit more fun when you try ’em a little differently.”
The three men looked at him and said, “Hmm.”
“Sure was a nice day today, Kincaid.” Sam studied his cards with a frown. “You and the Missus put on a right fine festivity.”
Branch sipped his ale and said, “I didn’t have anything to do with it. The Widow Craig and Rowdy and his boy did all the work helping Katie with the barbecue. But you’re right, it was a nice day.” He grinned and added, “I’m afraid I might have overindulged on the dessert, though.”
“Ate too much, huh? Easy to do with a woman as talented as your wife doing the cooking.”
“If you only knew, gentlemen. Now, I think I’ll raise you five.” He tossed a coin into the pot.
They’d played for almost an hour when Sam happened to mention his job. “It’s been a busy time lately, especially with all the business that friend of yours is doing.”
Branch looked up from his card hand. Sam was the county land agent for Nacogdoches, and Branch couldn’t imagine what friend of his had been doing business with Sam. “Friend?”
Sam looked over the wire rims of his glasses. “That Frenchie. The one who bought your land.”
The weather that afternoon was warm, the air stifling and difficult to breathe. It was the type of evening that gave birth to twisters, one of those little tricks nature pulled when she got really riled. Branch tugged at the front of his shirt where sweat had plastered it to his skin and repeated, “The one who bought my land?”
The agent’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “You know, Deputy, those acres that have been held in your wife’s name for the past couple of years. She sent a letter through Rowdy Payne verify in’ the purchase four days ago.”
Suddenly the slice of Luella Racine’s loaf cake he’d been forced to eat sat uneasily in his stomach. “And the purchaser?”
Sam laid his card hand facedown on the table. “There’s not a problem is there, deputy? I mean, I recognized her hand, and I knew Payne was working for her out here. In fact, he even had a letter from her discussing the sale of those particular acres.”
“Payne? She sold land to Payne?”
“No. The fellow from New Orleans. St. Pierre. He bought the land. I even asked Miz Katie about it today, being as how she sold it for next to nothing. I didn’t want him cheatin’ her, but she was insistent. She told me you knew all about it, Deputy.”
“Oh, I know, all right.” The pieces clanged together in Branch’s mind, and a rush of cold rage swept through him.
S.D. St. Pierre was one of the mystery men—the landowner whose name Katie had refused to reveal. Branch’s heart pounded furiously. But who the hell was S.D. St. Pierre?
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m afraid I must see to a little problem.” His chair
scraped the floor as he got to his feet with great deliberation. Katie had said she needed a nap, and she’d been sleeping, tucked snugly in her bed, when he’d last checked on her.
Following the path between the inn and the kitchen, Branch cursed the fact that she’d lied time and time again. Was the Creole her lover? How was he connected with the MB&T? Did the Creole have anything to do with Rob’s murder?
Is my wife protecting my brother’s killer? his thoughts raged.
He slapped open the kitchen door and banged open the bedroom door. She wasn’t there.
Leaving the kitchen, he started back up the path to the inn when a movement at the edge of the forest caught his attention. What he witnessed cut him like a bowie knife twisting in his gut. His Katie—his Sprite—was locked in the Creole’s embrace.
He stood, trembling, as a fury unlike any he’d ever known, a rage even more intense than what he’d experienced the night Hoss Garrett banished him from Riverrun, ate through his soul. He stood frozen, unable to speak, as St. Pierre mounted his horse, then pulled Katie up behind him. Damn her, damn her, damn her, he silently cursed. Then, just before the riders disappeared into the trees, a cloud slipped across the sun. Shadows slashed across the Creole’s face, casting a stripe along his cheekbones. Branch realized that he’d seen the man before.
That night in the church. Painted and feathered. Katie’s Shaddoe Dancer.
His deceitful, betraying bride was running off for an early-evening rendezvous with her Cherokee lover.
He turned on his heels and headed for the barn and Striker. The dun stamped a foot nervously as Branch flung his saddle on the horse’s back, intent upon following the amorous pair. As he fastened the leather girth, though, a thought occurred to him, and he froze, staring at the strap in his hand.
No, it couldn’t be, could it?
A chill swept through him. He needed to think—to reason this out. Katie and her Cherokee could wait.
Branch removed the saddle from Striker and left the barn, walking the short distance to Katie’s kitchen. Once inside, he built up the fire in the hearth and put a pot of water on to boil. He’d clean his guns while he worked through this idea. He just might be needing them soon.
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