“You think I’d lie about something like this?” she cried.
“I think you’d do anything to save your lover.”
A single tear slid down her cheek. “You’re my lover, Branch,” she swore vehemently. “I love you!”
His breath hissed between his teeth, and his chest heaved with the force of his wrath. Then he gave a short, bitter laugh. “Me and how many others, Katie Starr?” His callused hand slipped beneath her chemise and roughly cupped her breast. “God, woman, I hate what you do to me; I hate what you make me feel. I look at you and I want you and it makes me sick.”
Katie flinched at his words. Dear Lord, it hurt. Why, she wondered, had she allowed herself to love him? Hadn’t she learned from experience—the wrenching, devastating pain of losing those she loved? And tonight her loss was doubled. She’d lost her father and now her husband. She saw it in his face—in the disgust so plainly visible in his hard, topaz eyes and in the desire he could not hide.
Branch would leave her.
Damn him.
His lips descended on hers hot and wild. She responded with a whimper—of protest or passion she didn’t know—and he used the moment to take her mouth with his tongue.
Burying her hands in his thick hair, Katie pulled him against her with a savagery to match his own. She ached. She burned. She wanted him, this one last time.
With a fluid motion, Branch stripped off her clothing. They rolled and groped and groaned, at war as much as at love. He pulled away and she lay watching him, struggling to breathe and embracing the naked intensity in his eyes. His fingers tore at his shirt and then at the buttons of his pants. The magnificence of the body revealed as he peeled away his clothing burned a picture in her mind, and she knew she’d never forget this man—the look of him, the scent of him, the taste of him.
His knee parted her legs, and as he probed at her, the words burst from her lips, “Branch, I love you so.”
He froze. His eyes glittered with fury as he said in a guttural voice, “Sex.” He entered her with a surging, driving thrust. “That’s all it is. The same as I could get over at The Mansion of Joy.”
For just a moment, she believed him. Pain lanced her. Then she felt the pounding of his pulse beneath her hands.
“No,” Katie said, lifting her legs to hold him. “It’s more than that and you know it.”
He rode her hard and she lifted her hips, meeting him, in a primitive rhythm. On and on it went, until she was beyond hearing or seeing, only feeling. As he spilled himself inside her and she trembled with the force of her own release, Katie knew that never before had love been so right or so bittersweet.
When his body relaxed against her, while he was still too drained for anger, Katie explained, “The cabin was on fire, Branch, and Mr. Garrett went inside to save my baby. He burned, Branch. He was in so much pain and dying so horribly. He asked me to shoot him; he begged me.”
For a long moment, Branch lay still, his head resting against her chest. Then, in silence, he rolled from the bed and dressed. At the door he turned. “You killed my brother. You betrayed me, Katie Starr.”
The rain fell in torrents as he left her.
CHAPTER 16
RIVERRUN PLANTATION, JUNE 1845
BRANCH STARED AT THE flickering candlelight and thought of parlor chairs and a horsehair sofa. He saw a marble-topped table with a single sheet of parchment lying on top—a bond.
Three months ago today. The anniversary of a travesty—a wedding that was not a wedding.
He smirked and raised his glass of French brandy in toast to the bayberry-scented candles.
“Britt, Britt, darling,” a feminine voice spoke from the doorway, “Father Garrett is asking for you to join us in the salon.”
Branch continued to stare at the gleaming brass candelabra, the only source of light in the library, but he answered in his most civilized tone of voice. “Please tell him I’ll be right there, Eleanor.”
Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she retreated down the hallway. Ah, Eleanor, his first girl. He had loved her with the hot fire of youth, with the idealism of innocence. He’d humbled himself, begged for her love only to lose it to the one who took everything. Lovely Eleanor had married his brother.
Branch swigged the brandy and lifted the decanter, intent on refilling his crystal glass. Yes, Eleanor. She was as beautiful today as when he first met her. Blond and tall and graceful, she played the part of Riverrun’s lady superbly. And now she was a widow.
Widows. What cunning creatures. Aptly named. Eight legs to crawl over a man, distract him with tantalizing touches, then kill him with a bite.
The last drops of brandy wept from the neck of the decanter into his mouth. He took pleasure in the ill-mannered act of forgoing his glass—a decidedly ungentlemanly thing to do.
He was nothing these days if not a true Southern gentleman. Wealth, power, prestige, a beautiful woman on his arm—he had it all. Branch swayed and steadied himself by catching a corner of the desk.
He wasn’t drunk. No self-respecting South Texas planter allowed himself to demonstrate the effects of overindulgence. Now that he had been named his father’s heir, he followed all the accepted precepts of behavior.
Including entertaining the idea of offering for the hand of the lovely Eleanor as expected by Hoss Garrett and all South Texas society.
With a harsh puff of breath, Branch blew out a candle. Why the hell not? He’d put them off for weeks now. And why? Because of some lingering desire for an auburn haired liar? Because he left a job unfinished in Nacogdoches?
Unfinished, perhaps, but not unattended. He’d sent for William Bell. While Branch took his rightful place as heir to Riverrun—because, after all, he had met the letter of Hoss Garrett’s law, he had found his brother’s killer—he intended to send William to New Orleans to investigate a half-breed named Shaddoe St. Pierre.
William would bring him proof, and then he’d see to the Cherokee’s destruction. Branch spent a good portion of his time envisioning how he’d accomplish the feat. Somewhere private, certainly, where he could administer one or two of those tortures the Comanches had perfected. He could see it now, St. Pierre staked out naked beneath the relentless Texas sun, his eyelids sliced off, maybe some ants feeding on honey applied to slashes across the most tender portions of his body.
Ah, what perfect revenge it would be. In the semi-darkness, Branch held out a hand and bowed to the candles. “Mistress Kate, allow me to present St. Pierre, the man responsible for the fire that killed your daughter.” Because of course, she would attend the celebration. It wouldn’t be the same without her.
Branch stumbled, losing his balance. He fell into a chair. Still holding the decanter in one hand, he propped his elbow on his knee and rested his chin in the other hand. Damn the liar—the beautiful, hideous woman.
He’d told his father he’d destroyed his brother’s killer, and he had, after a manner. He’d raped her. Hadn’t he? He’d tried to do it. He’d wanted to. She was a slut, and she’d killed his brother. Except, when Branch remembered that last time with Katie Starr, he was afraid that he’d loved her instead.
Love. Branch snorted. She threw the word around as much as she threw around her body. Damn her for saying she loved him. Damn himself for believing her.
I came so close to loving her. Branch’s chin slipped from his palm, and he slowly lifted his head to stare unseeing across the room. He shuddered. He must truly be drunk to be thinking such thoughts. Katie Starr was a woman he was lucky to be rid of. Eleanor and all the dreams of his youth awaited him in the salon just a few doors down the hall. Finally, after all these years.
The hell of it was, he didn’t want Eleanor. He hadn’t wanted a woman since he left his Sprite.
Damn the witch.
Branch heaved a sigh. King Hoss was growing impatient. Required grandchildren, he did. Male grandchildren. The two daughters Rob had sired didn’t count. Boys were needed to secure the reuniting of Riverrun with E
leanor’s daddy’s plantation bordering theirs. Stubborn Britt must perform his obligation.
“Hell. Why not.” Branch rose unsteadily to his feet He caught sight of a ceramic egg sitting on the desk and remembered mornings spent gathering chicken eggs and hauling water. With a curse, he flung the empty decanter at the ornament, knocking it from the table. Both pieces shattered as they hit the ground.
He blew out the candles one by one. Then, crunching the pieces of glass beneath his boots, hard and empty and fragmented like the crystal decanter, Branch left the library. He made his way to the parlor to do his duty and offer his hand.
His heart was no part of the deal. What use was something broken?
MARTHA CRAIG lowered herself gratefully into the rocking chair that sat on the porch of Gallagher’s Tavern and Travelers Inn. Closing her eyes and resting her head against the back of the chair, she waved a green silk fan in front of her face and sighed. It was hot this afternoon and sticky. Muggy. What she wouldn’t give for a nice summer shower to cool things off a bit.
Hearing the creak of approaching wheels, she cocked open one eye and watched a chaise pull up to Katie’s kitchen. “There’s more than weather needing to be chilled hereabouts,” she observed, wrinkling her nose with disgust. Sheriff Strickland descended from his carriage and knocked on Katie’s door.
The man was on the prowl. At least three times a week he drove out here from town and pestered poor, vulnerable Katie. He claimed he felt responsible, considering Kincaid had been his deputy before he up and disappeared. At first, Katie had turned Strickland away, but more and more she accompanied him on excursions into the country, and on two separate Sundays he’d escorted her into Nacogdoches to church.
Martha was worried. Katie had disregarded all her warnings, saying that the sheriff offered simple friendship. Certainly, Martha thought. Like the fox knockin’ on the henhouse door wants to be friends.
She fanned herself faster as she observed Katie greet Jack Strickland at her door. The girl should have made the trip to New Orleans with Mr. St. Pierre, as he had asked. Now there was a good man, a real friend for her little dearling. He had no evil intentions on his mind; he’d made that much clear to Martha when she’d challenged him shortly after Mr. Branch’s departure.
She had stopped St Pierre one morning on his way to Katie’s kitchen and ordered him to accompany her into Gallagher’s parlor. There she had told the Creole that although she liked him, he was about as much good for her Katie as a sore tooth. The poor thing was vulnerable, grieving as she was over the loss of her father.
Martha had admitted that, truth be told, Katie and Mr. Branch suffered a spat, but such things happen all the time with newlyweds. And while it might serve Mr. Branch right to return and find his place taken by another, Martha, in good conscience, could not allow it to transpire.
By then, St. Pierre was holding himself ramrod straight, his expression fierce. “Mrs. Craig,” he’d said, “I assure you I have no designs upon Mrs. Kincaid. Friendship is all I offer or request.”
Martha had believed him. She’d yet to meet a man who could lie to her face and not falter in the doing. It was the mother in her, she believed. The way she folded her arms across her bosom and looked over the rims of her spectacles appealed to the boy in every man and made him feel as if he were lying to his mama.
St. Pierre had not lied, but he wasn’t around to help, either. It was simply a crying shame that his grandfather had summoned him to Louisiana at this particular time. As Martha watched Katie allow Strickland into her home, she repeated aloud, “A crying shame.”
Martha wasn’t any happier two days later when Jack Strickland arrived at Gallagher’s to collect Katie for Sarah Jane Abernathy’s wedding. The sheriff arrived driving a two-person chaise, rather than the larger carriage he usually drove, thereby foiling Martha’s plan to interrupt his sinful scheme by playing chaperon.
“That man is up to no good,” she grumbled to Katie as the women rose from the swing on Gallagher’s porch.
“Now, Martha, you just hush,” Katie replied as she lifted a hand and waved at the sheriff. “I’m well and truly tired of your dire predictions. Mr. Strickland is as fine a gentleman as I’ve ever met.”
“Fine like a firefly in the butter churn is fine.”
“Martha,” Katie scolded. But she couldn’t say too much because, in truth, Martha was right. Jack Strickland was courting her. Katie knew it, and she was indulging in a little feminine thrill at the notion. This handsome, debonair man had taken a shine to her, regardless of her questionable marital status. His flattery, the simple gifts he gave her, and especially the respect with which he treated her were balms to her battered spirit. She thoroughly enjoyed these stolen moments spent with a man who appreciated her.
It was such a change from being with Branch Kincaid.
She’d been up front with the sheriff, telling him right off that she considered herself a married woman. That he didn’t seem to set any more store in her marriage bond than had Branch didn’t surprise or trouble her much. Men were just naturally ignorant about some things. As long as Jack Strickland was willing to accept the limits she put on their friendship, she’d enjoy his company. Despite Martha Craig’s grousing.
The drive to the Abernathy farm was a pleasant one, the summer afternoon unseasonably cool with a light breeze blowing from the northeast. Once a flash of white in the woods caught their attention, and they looked closely to see the fluffy white tails of a doe and her fawn disappear into the forest.
Conversation centered on Strickland’s family back in the States, something Katie had learned over the past weeks was always a favorite topic of the sheriff’s. Today he related a particularly amusing story involving his grandfather, the senator, and former President Van Buren. Watching the smooth, expressive hand movements he employed to punctuate his speech, Katie wondered if he’d touch a woman with such flare. She recognized that with little effort on her part, she could easily find out.
That the thought even occurred to her further proved just how badly Branch had damaged her feminine sensibilities.
You’d best beware, Katie Kincaid, she told herself as they arrived at the Abernathys’. Human nature being what it was, she wouldn’t be the first woman to seek solace in another’s arms while suffering from rejection by the one whom she loved.
A crowd of people waited in front of the bride’s family’s dog-run style cabin. Having drawn close enough to make out faces, Strickland muttered, “I thought the Abemathys were Methodists.”
“Baptist, actually,” Katie replied, fighting a sudden attack of nausea. “Oh, Jack,” she added, “I don’t believe I’m up to facing the likes of him.”
Reverend T. Barton Howell and a goodly number of his goodly flock congregated to one side of the yard. A full thirty minutes before the wedding was due to start, he was warming up the crowd with a dose of hellfire and damnation.
Strickland took Katie’s hand in his and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Don’t concern yourself with the preacher, sweetheart. I’ll make certain he stays out of your way.”
Katie noted his use of the endearment, but she didn’t fuss at him about it. His reassuring touch and soothing voice were too welcome at the moment. She smiled at him. Maybe I should forget Branch Kincaid, she thought, gazing into Strickland’s somber dark eyes filled with compassion and strength. After all, there were times when a woman needed a man—and not just those times when she wanted a man. Instances like now, when half of East Texas would turn their heads and look at her, their minds busily making comparisons between today’s wedding and her own, minds deliberating the chances of Sarah Jane’s bridegroom hanging around longer than had Katie’s husband.
Strickland helped her from the chaise, his hand lingering at her waist longer than was necessary, as one of Sarah Jane’s five brothers approached. “Missus Kincaid, am I glad you’re here,” he said, taking off his hat and wiping a sweaty brow. “Sarah’s pitchin’ a regular fit, and, well, since Ma i
s gone and we have no other womenfolk, the boys and I are in a fix. We thought that with circumstances bein’ what they are, you might just have a special understanding you could offer our sister.”
His jaw hardened as he continued. “This wedding is gonna happen no matter what. We’d be much obliged if you could get Sarah to attend without being hogtied and gagged.”
“I’ll be glad to see what I can do,” Katie said, turning a questioning look upon her escort.
Strickland nodded. “Go right along, Miz Katie. While you’re busy, I’ll have a look at that squeak in my buggy’s right wheel.” He rested his hand against the chaise as he added, “I’ll be right here if you need me.”
“Thank you, Jack.” His support warmed her as she followed the Abernathy brother inside the cabin. It helped her see her way through the next few minutes with the babbling bride.
Sarah Jane was barely seventeen, a beautiful girl with round brown eyes and springy blond curls. Taller than Katie, but with just as many curves, her only protection from silver-tongued men had been the presence of five burly brothers.
Obviously, upon at least one occasion, the brothers had been lax in their duty. Sarah Jane’s apron strings were riding high, and her groom awaited the nuptials out in the shed, tied and under the aim of a double-barreled shotgun.
After a few hugs and bucket of tears, Katie discovered that Sarah Jane wasn’t opposed to marrying the father of her child, she feared being made to look the fool before all her friends and neighbors when her brothers dragged a protesting groom before the preacher.
“Now, Sarah Jane,” Katie said, patting the younger girl’s knee. “Not to worry, I know just how to settle your fears. I’ve a wedding gift for you that I guarantee will have that man stepping lively toward the altar. I’ll be back in a few moments, and while I’m gone, why don’t you see to getting out of that pretty dress. I’ve something for you to wear.”
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