Katie measured him with her look, trying valiantly to bury the pain this day’s revelations had brought. Dealing with the killer came first. “I can handle the man myself if I must. However, vengeance must wait until I’ve delivered my child—I’ll not put this baby at risk.”
“You’re a nervy witch.”
She smiled blandly and said, “Sheriff Jack Strickland.”
Something dangerous flickered in Branch’s eyes. “Explain yourself.”
She began her story at the beginning, with Rob Garrett’s tormented words. “I always wondered what he meant,” she explained. “In my mind I took to calling the killer Pitchfork.”
Branch rose from the desk and paced the room as Katie related the days following his flight from Gallagher’s. He sneered at the mention of Strickland’s frequent calls and scoffed at her claim of belief that the sheriff had offered only friendship. “If any of this is the truth, which I’m not saying it is, mind you, you were being downright dumb to believe him. That man’s wanted in your skirts for months.” He picked up a paperweight from the desk and studied it as he casually asked, “Did he get there?”
Katie’s teeth clenched. She refused to answer, continuing her story. “Strickland is from a powerful political family in Boston. He claimed he’d come to Texas because he’d been unjustly accused of a crime. Proof of his innocence has been unearthed, and he’s now free to return home. He wanted me to go with him. He asked me to marry him.”
She paused to organize her thoughts, the memories vivid and frightening enough to set her to babbling. Branch stood with his back toward her, ramrod straight and attentive. Katie smoothed her skirts and spoke in a flat tone of voice. “He tried to convince me.”
“Convince you?” Branch repeated sharply, twisting around to look at her. “How?”
She pinned her gaze on the shelves of books lining the opposite wall. Ignoring his question, she said, “That’s when I saw it, on his chest. I realized what it was, who he was. He was trying to make love to me, and it was all I could do not to retch.”
She vaguely heard his whispered, “Make love to you?” Hanging her head, she pressed her hands to her temples and grimaced. “I didn’t kill him. I could have, he was right there. But I had the baby to protect. I was alone at the inn and I couldn’t be certain, so I let him—”
“Oh, God, Kate, did he hurt you?”
She lifted her gaze. Branch knelt before her, his face flushed with fury, anguish glittering in his golden eyes.
Her voice small, she said, “It was a tattoo on his breast. It was a pitchfork in flames, just like Rob said.”
Branch grasped her shoulders with trembling hands. “Sprite, did he rape you?”
She flinched at the words and believed that the look in his eyes, the white-hot murderous rage, was reflected toward her. “Damn you,” she hissed. “Is that all you care about, how many men have my body? No, he didn’t rape me.” She slapped his hands away from her, “I didn’t let him do it. I outthought him, outsmarted him. I’ll allow no man to hurt me, Britt Garrett! Not even you.”
Swiftly, he stood and backed away from her, his expression cold and impassive. “You think this tattoo proves he’s the killer?”
Angry, she nodded.
He took a sheet of paper from the desk drawer and inked a pen. He laid the pen beside the paper, gestured toward the desk. “Will you draw it?”
Katie stood, distressed to find her knees a bit wobbly. She bent over the desk and mentioned as she drew, “It really is appropriate for the man. He’s the devil himself.”
Finished, she stepped back, allowing him to see the sketch. She sensed rather than saw him stiffen and when she looked at him, he was staring at the paper, his expression stony.
“Well?” Katie asked.
He lifted his gaze, looked at her with probing eyes. “Kate, if ever anything between us was true… No, wait. On your Mary Margaret’s soul, Katie Starr, is this true? Is your story true? If St. Pierre sent you to me with this tale, I demand you tell me now. Otherwise, swear to me on your daughter’s soul that you tell me the truth in this.”
Katie hadn’t realized she had anything left within her to hurt, but his words found something. A wave of pain buffeted her as she answered, “How dare you, how dare you say that to me! I hate you, Britt Garrett, and yes, I tell the truth.”
Branch nodded once and turned a deadly look at her drawing. In a cold voice, he stated, “It’s a trident. He’s Trident. Dammit, Katie, he didn’t settle with killing your family and my brother. He’s also the bastard Regulator leader that burned Gallagher’s!”
He quizzed her then, sitting at the desk and taking notes of every bit of information she remembered Strickland imparting. He shook his head when she mentioned the sheriff’s desire for a politically minded wife and threw down his pen when she mentioned his intention to seek the presidency.
They’d been in the library an hour when a knock sounded on the door. Hoss Garrett opened the door and stiffly said, “Britt, your guests have arrived. You must excuse yourself, now, to prepare for the celebration of your engagement.”
Branch threw him an absent look. “Sure, Hoss. I’ll be finished here in a few moments.” Hoss Garrett frowned at Katie, then withdrew.
Katie laughed, and the sound echoed in her ears like shattered crystal. “How inconsiderate of me to arrive on the day of your engagement ball. What a social quandary—a wife and a fiancée at the same event.”
Branch scowled. “We were never married, Kate.”
Katie whipped around and glared at him, her hands planted firmly on her hips. The legitimacy of the child she carried was at stake here. “Yes, we were.”
“No. I signed that bond Branch Kincaid. There is no Branch Kincaid.”
Her fingers itched to hit him. Instead, she crossed the room and put the desk safely between them. Throwing him a contemptuous look, she said grimly, “You fool. Half the men in Texas call themselves a name other than the one their parents gave them. You signed the marriage bond. It matters not whether you signed it Britt Garrett or Napoleon Bonaparte, you married me that day.”
He stood and placed both hands on the desk. Against her will, she noted the slender strength of his fingers supporting his weight as he leaned across the highly polished wood to snap, “No, I didn’t.”
“You signed the bond.”
Branch threw up his hands. “Okay, the bond. The damn bond. I signed it. What did it say? I’ll marry you or pay you, if I remember correctly. Well, by God, woman, I choose to pay!”
He grabbed a key from a desk drawer and went to the bookcase where four volumes of Shakespeare concealed a safe. He shoved in the key and turned the lock. Then he reached in and withdrew a blue velvet coin pouch.
He poured out a handful of gold.
She backed away from him as he approached her. But then she remembered that she was just as mad as he, so she stopped and lifted her chin. He slipped his fingers inside the scooped neckline of her dress, pulled out the bodice, and shoved the money into her corset.
Katie angrily blinked back tears. “Damn you, Branch Kincaid!” she cursed, reaching down her front for the cool metal that scorched her skin. “I don’t want your money.” She threw the coins at him with all her strength.
Katie wrenched open the door. Faint sounds of music and laughter floated from the third-floor ballroom. The two Garrett men and Eleanor waited outside, their expressions ranging from embarrassment to fury. For the baby’s sake Katie turned and spoke to Branch before them all. “We’re legally married, sir, whether you like it or not. You can have as many other wives as you care to collect, but make sure you divorce me first.”
“I’ll not allow you to give my name to your bastard, woman.”
Katie opened her mouth to deny his accusation, but then she hesitated. Obviously now, her grand dream would not come true. There would be no Mr. and Mrs. Branch Kincaid and family.
But if she was careless here with her words, her greatest fear might come to p
ass. Branch’s father might see to it that Mr. Britt Garrett’s new wife, Eleanor, took a stepchild into Riverrun to mother.
They’ll have to bury me first. Katie gave a short, un-amused laugh. “Don’t fret, Britt,” she said. “I would never consider bestowing such a dishonorable name as Garrett upon my child. You have my word that this baby will carry his father’s name. Besides”—she paused and smiled sweetly—”the French language does roll so pleasantly from one’s tongue, don’t you agree?”
Katie marched across the hall and out the front door, ignoring the cacophony of questions being hurled at Branch by the members of his family. Seeing the wagon and driver waiting at the bottom of the steps, Katie sent a quick prayer of thanks heavenward. She climbed into the seat and said, “Please, sir. I’m ready to leave now.”
The driver’s expression was quizzical, but he whipped the reins and turned the horses down the drive.
Katie couldn’t stop herself from looking over her shoulder. Britt Garrett stood framed in the doorway, watching her. A single tear slid from her eye. Damn you, Branch Kincaid. I loved you.
And I know that you loved me.
Damn you, Katie Starr. Is it true? Did you betray me? Or could it be that the child you carry is in truth mine?
Inhaling a deep breath, Branch turned around and faced the family. Aw, hell, he thought, exhaling in a rush.
Eleanor stood with her hands clasped to her heart, a stricken expression on her face. Chase looked past him at the retreating wagon, an eyebrow quirked speculatively. Hoss Garrett had swelled in indignation, his mouth moving silently open and shut. Branch thought of a riled-up catfish in a waistcoat.
“Well, folks, shall we adjourn to the parlor?”
Hoss found his voice. “Perhaps it would be best if you and I had a private conversation.” He turned to his nephew and said, “You will escort our Eleanor upstairs to our guests, Chase?” In an undertone he added, “We’ll join you directly.”
Hoss led Branch back to the library, his brows lifting at the sight of the coins strewn on the floor. He settled into his chair and folded his hands on the desktop. “Care to explain what’s going on around here?”
Branch scooped a coin from the floor as he sat in a chair. “I was wrong about Rob’s killer. I’ll be going after him first thing in the morning.”
“This man Starr didn’t kill my boy?”
Branch flipped the coin. “Actually, Starr is a woman, and yeah, she was the one who pulled the trigger.”
“A woman killed Robert?”
“The woman who just left here. My wife.” As the color drained from Hoss’s face, Branch said, “Let me tell you the whole story.”
It took him the better part of half an hour. He told him about Shaddoe St. Pierre and how he’d believed him to be the blackmailer. He explained why Katie had shot Rob and relayed his brother’s dying words. He spoke of Katie’s subsequent discovery of the tattoo. By the time he finished, Hoss had paced the room, lit and crushed out three cigars, and rearranged the entire section of Shakespeare on the shelves. Into the silence, Branch’s father asked, “Did you ever check on her claim concerning the legality of a marriage bond?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“It’s tricky. I didn’t sign it Britt Garrett. My lawyer’s checkin’ into it now.”
“Divorces can be granted by the legislature. Have you made the arrangements should they be necessary?”
“No.”
Hoss slammed his hand against the desk. “Then how in the hell did you ever intend to marry Eleanor?”
Branch looked him right in the eye. “I’d have checked it all out before a wedding. But to tell you the truth, I don’t believe we’d ever have reached such an occasion.”
“My God, Britt. You are married to your brother’s killer!”
“Hell of a note, ain’t it.”
Hoss sputtered and spat. Branch shook his head. “Listen, Hoss, it’s not really like that. I explained it to you, she acted humanely. You or I’d have done the same thing.”
“You’ll divorce her at once,” Branch’s father demanded, lighting a fourth cigar.
Branch’s mouth thinned as he said, “No, I’m going after Strickland at once. He’s the one responsible for all this death and destruction. I’m going to find him and kill him.” Softly, he added, “Before he tries to do any more convincing.”
Hoss’s eyes widened. “By damn, you care for the woman. I don’t believe it. She’s about to present you with a bastard, and you have feelings for her.” He shook his head in wonder. “My God, boy, I’ve always known you were weak. Even so, I never thought you’d sacrifice everything for a chit.” His whisper trembled with loathing: “God, you make me sick.”
God, you make me sick. A repeat of the words father had said to son decades earlier, a return of the same bony fingers of pain seizing Branch’s gut. He could smell the smoke and hear ten-year-old Rob’s voice whisper in his ear. “Don’t tell him, Britt. Please! He’ll skin me for sure. You’re tougher than I am, you can take it, he can’t hurt you. Please, Britt, please promise you won’t tell him it was me that started the fire!”
“I promise.”
“What?” Hoss Garrett’s voice penetrated the haze of Branch’s memory, pulling him back to the present. But the past still held him in its tormenting grip, so he asked the boy’s question in his man’s voice.
“Why have you always hated me, Papa?”
Garrett sat back heavily in his chair. “What do you mean?”
Branch repeated his question. Hoss stared open mouthed for a long minute; then a blaze of pure fury burst upon his face. “Damn you, boy! You cost me everything, every single thing I valued through your carelessness. Garretts wrestled the Virginia plantation from the wilderness, built it in the midst of hostile Indians, defended that house in the American Revolution. You destroyed my heritage! You and your damnable reckless ways.”
The boy within Branch screamed silently, Papa, it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. Branch the man thought, You’re a fool for not having seen the truth. Aloud, he said, “I was a child, a boy. You’ve held that against me for twenty seven years, Hoss Garrett. Don’t you think it’s time to let it go?”
“Dammit, that’s what I’m doing. I’ve made you my heir. You’ve got it—Riverrun’s yours if you don’t throw it all away now. Don’t you know how much it galled me to offer that to you?”
“I’m beginning to.” Branch drew his lips into a long, thin line and approached the desk. It hurt. After all these years it still hurt. Well, he’d made an attempt at being a dutiful son, and look where it got him. For a while he’d thought… oh well, what did it matter now?
He leaned forward, resting his weight on the fingers he splayed on the desktop. Softly, he said, “It’s too late for regrets now, Hoss. You’ve made me your heir. I’m going after Strickland, and when I come back, I’m coming back here to stay. You’ll get to see my pretty face every day the rest of your life.”
“I’ll change it back. I’ll disinherit you,” the elder Garrett snapped, his eyes flashing.
“Just try it, old man. I made sure that agreement we signed was irrevocable before I ever went to Nacogdoches.”
“No, you haven’t met the terms. You didn’t kill the murderer.”
Branch’s laugh sounded hollow to his own ears. “Read the paper. All I had to do was find the killer. Period. You just assumed that a killer like me wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.
“Besides,” he added, “Jack Strickland’s the real murderer. You can bet your sweet cigar that he’s already a dead man. And if you try using the fact that Katie Starr pulled the trigger to weasel out of the agreement, I’ll do something you’ll really love.”
“What?”
Bitterness lay behind Branch’s threat. Twenty years’ worth. Why in the hell couldn’t the man have loved him, even just a little bit? He smiled evilly and said, “Why, I’ll bring my wife home to Riverrun.”
Hoss turned a mottled red as
he shouted, “You’ll not bring that murderess into my home!”
Branch straightened, braced his feet wide apart, and crossed his arms. “Even better, I’ll claim her child.” He cocked his head and nodded. “I’ll bet she has a boy. Yep, you fight me on this, and I’ll declare her infant—her Indian half-breed’s son—as my own. How do you like that Hoss? We’ll give Riverrun back to the Indians.”
He lifted his hand in a cocky salute and turned to leave. But Hoss had another question. “What about Eleanor?”
“You marry her,” Branch said over his shoulder. “I promise you that as long as she remains lady of Riverrun, she won’t care who the hell she’s married to. In fact, she’d probably rather have you, anyway. All she really wants is to get new furniture for the room upstairs and go to Paris.”
Hoss flinched visibly from the slap of Branch’s words. “Damn you, boy. Damn you to hell.”
“Ah now, Daddy, you did that years ago.” The door shut silently behind him.
BRANCH LEFT Riverrun early the following morning headed for Nacogdoches. Upon his arrival in the city, he learned that Sheriff Strickland had resigned his office some six weeks earlier and had left instructions for his mail to be forwarded to the home of Congressman William Strickland in Boston, Massachusetts.
Gallagher’s Tavern and Travelers Inn wasn’t actually on the route to Boston, but Branch believed the slight detour to be a necessary one. Time spent in the saddle gave a man the opportunity to ponder, and Branch had spent a good bit of his travels thinking about Katie Starr.
He had a notion that he’d made a mistake. He wanted to talk to Katie.
Martha Craig met him on the inn’s front porch. “No, Mr. Kincaid,” she said, all signs of friendliness wiped from her face. “Katie hasn’t returned home as of yet. She sent word from Galveston that she intended to visit a relation in Alabama for a month or longer.”
Branch didn’t believe her. Katie wouldn’t make a trip like that when she was in a family way. “You wouldn’t mind then, Martha, if I took a look around?”
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