Strickland took a step forward, his hands tearing at the buttons on his shirt. She felt detached from the entire scene, simply a casual onlooker. “Why did you bring me all the way out here? Why not approach me in town?”
“Too dangerous. Hoss Garrett’s nephew has already been to Gallagher’s looking for me, and as easy a time as I had finding you, Chase will be right behind me.”
Strickland scoffed as he unbuckled his holster and allowed it to slide carefully to the ground. “The Garretts can’t hurt me here. East Texas is my stronghold. They can come at me all they want, but I have the men and the power to stop anyone they send.”
“I know. That’s why I came to you.” Katie looked at his chest and the tattoo that stained his breast. Inside, she was shaking like a tree in a gale, but outwardly she remained calm. Her hands hovered at the drawstring of her drawers. “Are you ready to seal our bargain now?”
He unbuttoned his pants. “Nothing can stop me, Miz Katie.”
Pulling off his brass-toed boots, he tossed them to the ground. How many men, Katie wondered, had he kicked with those particular items of footwear? He stepped toward her. Closer… He’ll scream… closer … There’ll be blood, lots of it, more than when Steven died … closer … crushed leg, slivers of bone, maybe severed… closer… I really will be a killer.
“Stop!” she screamed, grabbing the shotgun. She shoved the gun into the trap, tripping the spring, thereby saving the man she hated with every ounce of her soul from the fate she had dreamed for him.
“What the hell!”
Katie’s shoulders slumped as she sank back onto the ground. The very last bit of fight she possessed flew out of her, escaping into the endless Texas sky. “I couldn’t do it. Oh, holy saints above, I couldn’t do it.”
Strickland’s gaze burned a furious path toward her. He bent, scooped up his gun, and leveled it at her head. Obviously, he now understood what had been her intentions.
“Why, you damn bitch!”
Katie raised her head and looked at him through life weary eyes. “I want to kill you. Lord, I need to kill you. But I can’t.” She shook her head and laughed incredulously. “Can you believe that? I can kill a friend, but I can’t kill the river scum responsible for the deaths of people I loved.”
Keeping his gun pointed at Katie, Strickland reached down and pulled hard, dragging the trap out of his way.
“You are crazy, aren’t you? Just like Kincaid claimed the night I burned down your inn. Now,” he said, straightening and walking toward her, “as you know, I’ve been appointed Shelby County judge. I guess it’s time to haul the criminal before the law, isn’t it?”
He rubbed his hand slowly across his crotch.
It was as if another person lived within her body, watching Strickland shuck out of his pants. That person didn’t even flinch as his sex sprang free, reaching grotesquely toward her. He set his gun aside and squatted down before her. With a vicious yank, he rent the thin cotton chemise in two, completely baring her breasts. “Damn, you have a pair of melons on you. This time, bitch, I’m finishing what I started long ago.”
Melons… fruit… peaches. Oh, Branch, I loved you so. The thought summoned her resistance from the wind. As Strickland groped, she reached and found the knife hidden beneath the bush.
She stabbed him in the shoulder.
He screamed, she pushed, and scurried away from him. Quickly, she pulled on her dress, pausing only long enough to say to the writhing man who reached to pull the knife from his back, “Go to hell, Jack Strickland. My greatest regret is that I haven’t the strength to start you on your journey.”
Katie ran for the horse she had tied in the woods. The bay pricked his ears and nickered as she nervously untied the reins and mounted. Now that she’d decided to live, she’d best be about making sure he didn’t catch her.
“Let’s go, boy,” she said, slapping the horse’s rump. She couldn’t return to Shaddoe’s, she didn’t dare lead him to Johnny. People were her best hope. She doubted she could hide from him in the thicket; Strickland was known to be a good tracker. Her best protection would be to surround herself with people until she could find a way to send for Johnny and disappear completely. When she reached the road, she turned the horse toward Nacogdoches.
It proved to be a poor choice. Before dark, the county sheriff and two deputies had taken Katie into custody. By nightfall, she was ensconced in the Nacogdoches jail charged with, of all things, the murder of Robert Garrett, Jr.
Katie wondered why she’d not been accused of the attempted murder of Jack Strickland. But when the authorities deemed the crime against Rob Garrett had occurred in Shelby county and transferred her trial to Shelbyville, understanding dawned. Scheduled to begin in two weeks, the case against Katie Kincaid would be heard by the newest county judge, the one who’d already condemned two men to hang—Judge Jack Strickland.
He was out for her blood.
CHAPTER 20
FRAGRANT WISTERIA CRAWLED ALONG the red-tiled roof line and drooped down into the patio of a hacienda halfway between Austin and San Antonio de Bexar. Chase Garrett sat at the edge of a bubbling, double tiered fountain in the center of the courtyard, one bare foot splashing lazily in the water. He used the other to balance himself as he stretched out on the blue-tiled font.
For the past ten minutes or so he’d been fighting the hiccups, a result, he felt certain, of too much cayenne pepper in the gumbo served tonight at dinner. “That’s what I get for trying to teach a Mexican cook how to fix Creole food,” he grumbled, followed at once by another hiccup.
He groaned and thumped his chest with a fist as he heard his cousin’s roar explode from his bedroom in the east wing of the house. Well, from the sounds of that yell, I give him less than a week, Chase told himself. He’d be strong enough to sit a horse for the trip to East Texas by then.
Branch Kincaid did not make a good invalid. It was bad enough that Hoss Garrett imposed on the hospitality of old friends for a private place where Branch could recover from a serious gunshot wound. What Chase’s ailing cousin especially didn’t appreciate was the fact that Hoss kept sending the daughter of the hacienda, a black-eyed senorita named Concheta upstairs to nurse him.
Heartburn got the better of Chase, and he rolled off the fountain. Padding around the courtyard toward the kitchen with the intent of pilfering a glass of buttermilk, he glanced inside as he passed the library doors. That’s strange, he thought, watching as his uncle knelt at the hearth and put a match to kindling. The air tonight had a muggy, head-aching edge. It was not the night for a fire.
Chase’s brow knotted as he moved back into the shadows. Why would Hoss be building a fire when it had to be eighty degrees outside? And at this time of night, in Don Andres Montoya’s library of all places?
Hoss rose and walked over to the desk. He picked up a stack of newspapers and tossed them one by one into the flames. The fire flared as it fed upon the paper. Chase took a look at his uncle’s expression and blinked in surprise. Hoss’s eyes were as hard as the marble hearth, his smile nothing short of malevolent.
What in the hell was in those newspapers? Smothering his hiccups, Chase waited until the fire died and Hoss had left the room. A thick carpet cushioned his feet as he crossed the room to the fireplace.
Only ashes and the distinctive scent of cedar kindling remained.
He pursed his lips, staring at the grate. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had taken place here moments ago. But what?
“Damn, what was in those newspapers?” They’d arrived in today’s batch of mail. A boy brought it out twice weekly with his deliveries from the mercantile in Austin. The Garretts had been here long enough that they were receiving their own mail in the bag with the Montoyas. “I wonder,” Chase said quietly. “Would the lovely Concheta sneak me her father’s newspaper?”
It took him only a few minutes, three Spanish phrases of adoration, and one stolen kiss to find out. The señorita met him back at the foun
tain, paper in hand.
“It’s the Telegraph and Texas Register,” she said. “Will that do?”
“I think it might, querida.”
She handed the paper to Chase, who immediately glanced at the headlines. Political news and the editorials dominated the front page. He could see nothing of special import in such information.
The paper rustled as he opened it, and Señorita Concheta said, “I imagine you’re anxious for news about the trial, aren’t you?” She shook her head. “It’s such a sad thing. Your poor Uncle Hoss.”
Chase looked up sharply. Concheta’s smile was full of pity as she continued. “The article’s on the back page. The trial’s getting press all over the state, so I’ve heard, what with the scandal of it all.”
The headline blared at Chase. Woman charged with murder in Shelbyville. Trial begins Monday.
Chase felt the color drain from his face as he read the account. Hell, Katie, why couldn’t you have stayed out of trouble, at least until Branch got well? Chase raked his fingers through his hair. He’d bet his bottom dollar Branch didn’t know Katie was in the Shelbyville jail right now. Hoss apparently did. Sonofabitch! By the appearance of things, he didn’t want any other Garrett to learn what was happening in the East Texas forests. Hoss must really hate Katie Kincaid to pull a stunt like this. Chase knew his uncle held her responsible for Rob’s death, although to Chase’s way of thinking, Hoss ought to be glad she’d spared his son from lingering on in pain. But 0l’ Uncle G. didn’t feel that way and, in fact, he blamed her for Branch’s being shot, too.
His thoughts spinning, Chase absently thanked Señorita Montoya with a distracted kiss and headed to his room. A thunderstorm building in the west obstructed the dawning stars. Watching the cloud steadily dim the sky’s light, he felt as though something similar had a hold on the Garrett family.
What should he do? Branch couldn’t travel yet, it’d kill him. Learning about this would kill him. That copy of the Register was a week old; could the trial be over already? Dear Lord, they wouldn’t hang a woman, would they?
IT LOOKED like they’d hang her, for a fact.
Katie sat on the splintery defendant’s bench in the courtroom and watched a parade of witnesses—most of them strangers—come forth to malign her character. After the first day and a half, the outcome of the trial was a foregone conclusion, punishment being the only question remaining. With Jack Strickland sitting as judge, she feared the answer was inevitable.
She had held out some hope even after realizing the judge counted her own lawyer among his cronies. Katie never liked to give up a fight, but the day the prosecution read a letter from Hoss Garrett urging for swift and strict justice, she conceded. Apparently, the way out of this mess didn’t lead through a courtroom.
Martha Craig laid a comforting hand on Katie’s shoulder as she rose to hear the verdict. It would have been nice if Shaddoe had been here, she absently thought. Had news of the trial reached him in New Orleans? A weak smile stretched across her face. She certainly could use one of his spells right about now!
Strickland’s smirk revealed the judgment before it was read. Despite herself, Katie’s stomach clenched, and perspiration wet her brow as she waited to hear her sentence pronounced.
Seizing upon the presence of reporters from across the state to further his political ambitions, Judge Strickland lectured, “The murder of a government official cannot go unpunished. This woman, despite her gender, committed a vile, contemptible crime. We’ve heard testimony as to the watonness of her conduct, of the audacity of her actions. Who here can forget this woman married the brother of the man she murdered to secure his wealth? I tell you, people of the great state of Texas, this we cannot abide.”
He looked directly at Katie. She read the hate in his eyes and her stomach soured. A blackmailer and a murderer prepared to serve her with a penalty for a crime for which he was responsible. How’s that for justice?
She fixed her gaze upon the red, white, and blue Lone Star flag hanging on the wall above the judge and thought, Holy saints above, I don’t want to die.
“Kathleen Gallagher Starr Kincaid, you have been tried and convicted for the murder of Commissioner Robert Garrett. By the power afforded me by the State of Texas, I hereby sentence you to death by hanging.”
The courtroom erupted, cheers and jeers, and a horrified shriek from Martha Craig. Strickland raised his voice to be heard over the commotion. “In order to provide the opportunity for the citizens of Texas to witness the execution, and to allow sufficient time for the erection of a scaffold, I declare the punishment will be delayed until one week from today. At that time, Katie Kincaid, you will be hanged by the neck until dead.”
Gleefully, he declared, “This court is now adjourned.”
SHELBYVILLE MERCHANTS knew from experience that executions swelled profits. But even the most knowledgeable of businessmen never expected the extent of interest hanging a woman had generated. The night before Katie’s scheduled execution, every bed in every hotel, residence, tavern, and whorehouse in town had been claimed. Hundreds of visitors waited impatiently to see the State of Texas stretch Mrs. Kincaid’s lovely neck.
Hoss Garrett could be counted among the multitudes, and his presence did not escape notice. One man in particular made note that the head of the Garrett family traveled to watch his daughter-in-law die. Muttering an obscenity, he decided that with this, Garrett had gone too far to be forgiven.
PUFFY CLOUDS concealed the crescent moon, plunging the streets into near blackness. A tall, solid shadow separated from the building opposite the jail, then faded into the inky alleyway. Information had been gathered. Two guards, four guns. Simplicity itself.
FEELING HIS way with his good hand, a specter dressed completely in black crawled atop the mercantile’s roof. From that vantage point, he scanned the top of the building next door, searching. There, just as he had hoped, a thin wisp of smoke rose from the stove pipe.
ON THE courthouse lawn, the scaffold flashed beneath the intermittent moonlight. A near-silent scrape of metal on metal betrayed the attendance of mischief beneath the trap door. The creak of a twisting screw gave evidence of tampering on the crossbar. However, only the one who did the work heard the sound.
FOOTSTEPS PACED the wooden planks of a fancy-house room outside town. A muffled curse escaped the walls as an ankle twisted in unfamiliar feminine shoes. The notched tip of a forged steel bowie pricked the deep pockets of the dress. In lieu of an ammunition pouch, extra bullets went into the flowery plumage of a stylish hat. The occupant checked his rouge, then left the room.
HE POURED an equal amount of black powder into each hole of the Paterson Colt’s cylinder. Then he took a bullet from a soft leather pouch and placed it on the mouth of one chamber. Rotating the cylinder until the ball was under the loading lever, he rammed it home. He whistled a tune beneath his breath as he repeated the process for each chamber.
A small box sat beside him on the bed, and from it he took small brass percussion caps and placed them one at a time on the five nipples at the back of the cylinder.
The smile that crossed his face was ugly. He cocked the Paterson, and as was its design, the trigger dropped. He fingered the cool steel carefully, an imaginary scene playing out in his mind. Lamplight cast a dull blue gleam on the well-oiled surface of the gun as he uncocked it and tucked it into his belt.
He stood, gathered his other weapons, and set a wide brimmed, low-crowned hat upon his head. The door closed silently behind him.
BENEATH THE light of a single candle, Katie affixed her signature to the letter with a sense of finality. It was done. Thank goodness for that. Never before had committing her thoughts and feelings to paper proved so difficult. Probably the fact that she’d not defined those emotions to herself beforehand made the difference.
For the past week, she’d spent her time composing this letter to her son, hoping all the while that he’d never see it. Hour after hour, she’d worked to find just the right
word, the perfect sentence to convey her thoughts.
The letter explained and denied, requesting and defended. It was a mother’s deathbed letter to a son she’d never know, a man who would grow to adulthood under the stigma of family scandal. She’d cried over the missive, and laughed. She’d confessed her deepest secrets and warmest memories. Most of all, she’d told her son of the great, undying love she’d felt for his father.
More than anything else in the world, she longed for the chance to tell him all this in person.
But just in case she couldn’t, if this plan she’d also composed during the last week failed, the letter would be delivered into Shaddoe St. Pierre’s hands as she had requested. Shaddoe would keep it for her, for Johnny. He’d make sure her son received it when the moment was right.
Shuffling footsteps interrupted her reverie. A key jangled in the lock and the cell door squeaked open. Sheriff Llewellyn massaged the back of his neck as he said, “Mrs. Kincaid, the streets are fairly clear now. If you’ve still a mind for that bath you asked for, I’ve informed the hotel to clear a room for you and heat up some water.”
His fingers pulled at his beard as he continued, “This is pretty irregular, and you have to know I’m obliged to stand guard over you. But seeing how it’s your last request, I’ll take you on over there if that’s what you want.”
Katie stood. “Thank you, Sheriff. I appreciate your kindness.”
He ducked his head, shifting uneasily. “Sorry I couldn’t get you a better table to write at than that old barrel. Nothing else would’ve fit in here, though. Hope you got all the writing done you needed. I’ll take good care of your letters.”
Katie smiled at him. As he took her arm, escorting her from the jail, Katie fretted over her intentions. Of all the men who had a part in this farce orchestrated by Jack Strickland, Sheriff Llewellyn had proved to be the single honorable man. He upheld the law and performed his duty, although he obviously felt uncomfortable dealing with a woman prisoner.
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