The Texan's Bride (27 page)

Oh, sweet Mother of God
, she prayed.

Lord, she makes me horny
, Branch thought. She’s glorious when she gets this way. The woman could make a starving man forget the meat on his fork. He’d spent half the night calling her every filthy name in the book, but put him in the same room with the lying witch for five minutes, and his blood flowed straight from his brain to his crotch.

He took a step toward her.

She backed away.

With his next step, she looked frantically around her. She grabbed the skillet and, using both hands, raised it above her head like a club. “Stay away from me, Branch,” she warned.

“Never.”

Her eyes widened. Her tongue darted out and wet her lower lip. In a flash of movement, he whipped one arm out and grabbed the skillet while the other pulled her close. She shook like a willow branch in a whirlwind as he crushed his lips to hers.

His kiss was angry and fury-filled. His tongue invaded her mouth, plundering, taking without allowing her the chance to give. Then, as was his habit when he loved her, he cursed her. “Damn you, Katie Starr.” He savagely pushed her away. “Tell me. Tell me all of it.”

Katie crashed back to earth. What could she say? How could she explain? Looking at him, seeing the torment etched upon his face, she felt tired, weary of both body and soul. She nervously licked her lips and proceeded to choose her words like the choicest of strawberries. “The land is not Da’s. He filed in his name because the person who purchased the scrip wished to remain anonymous.”

“Who?”

“Please, Branch.”

He walked to her worktable and scowled down at the pan of cobbler. “The Matagorda Bay and Texas Land Company issued every one of those certificates. That company is as crooked as a broken nose, and you folks are caught up in its stink.”

Katie looked into his eyes, begging for understanding. “That all came later. I swear to you. You’re right, we were involved with the MB & T. Steven brokered scrip for the company. He arranged for Da to buy the land for, um, the person who wanted it.”

Branch’s gaze hardened. He opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut and waited, his eyes again angry and accusing.

“It wasn’t Steven’s fault. Someone else, I don’t know who, came to Steven and blackmailed him. That’s when the trouble started.”

He stared at her for a long moment, the emotion in his eyes fading to blank. Then he turned away. When he finally looked at her again, he wore an impassive expression. She suddenly felt nauseated.

“Names, Katie,” he demanded. “Tell me the names, every damn one. Tell me who really owns all that Indian land, tell me who counterfeited the scrip, who passed it, and how it was accomplished.” His voice soft, smooth, and deadly, he added, “Tell me, Kathleen, who killed the government man who was sent here to investigate your crimes.”

Her face drained.
Oh my God
!
I’ve been so stupid, I never made the connection
. Branch wasn’t in Nacogdoches investigating the Regulator-Moderator War, he was looking for scrip counterfeiters.
I should have guessed
!

Her short laugh was filled with scorn. Just last week the San Augustine newspaper
The Redlander
quoted Sam Houston as saying that the counterfeiting of scrip and bank notes in Texas was no light evil. Of course he’d send someone to stop it!

Katie moved to the window and pushed the blue gingham curtain aside, catching the scent of honeysuckle. The air was hot, heavy, and oppressive. In a flat voice, she said, “Steven established the MB & T Land Company years ago for the purpose of laying claim to blocks of land our friend wanted. When the tracks became available for sale, Steven made sure Da was able to make his claim first using scrip he purchased with our friend’s money. Everything was legitimate. We simply desired to make it impossible to trace the true owner of the land.”

“Who is …?”

Ignoring him, Katie continued. “After our deal was done, Steven sold the MB & T to a group of easterners— land speculators. A couple of years ago, a man came to Steven having somehow learned the details of our scheme. He threatened to make the story public, which would not only hurt our friend but ruin Steven’s reputation in East Texas if Steven didn’t cooperate with him by passing counterfeit scrip.”

Branch’s gaze was skeptical. “How would it hurt his name?”

“Well, it’s just that his efforts on our friend’s behalf wouldn’t have been well received by the citizens of East Texas.” She looked over her shoulder at Branch, saying, “My Steven was a proud man. He thought he could outsmart the villain. He wouldn’t tell me his plan, though; he thought to protect me. All I know is that he made some sort of arrangements to trap the blackmailer.”

Clenching her fists, she turned to face him. “You’ve no right, Branch. I lost my husband because of this. I lost my daughter. The blackmailer killed them. I don’t know who he is. I’ve tried to find him. Don’t you realize how much I hate that man? Don’t you know that I’d have sent him to hell if I knew who he was?”

Branch wouldn’t look at her. He stood before the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. His spine was as stiff as an ax handle. “Who is it, Katie? Who owns the land?”

“Damn you, Branch.” She closed her eyes, smiling sadly, so cold inside she thought perhaps her blood had frozen. “I love you, dearly, but I will not betray this secret. I won’t have Steven’s and Mary Margaret’s deaths go for naught. Let it alone.”

His voice was raw. “I can’t!” He whirled on her. “A man is dead, Katie, a good man. You have to tell me.” He pinned her with his stare. “By God, you’re my wife!”

She caught her breath. The words plunged into her heart like the hottest, sharpest of blades, melting the ice inside. “So you finally admit it.”

He glared at her.

Katie shook her head. “I don’t have to tell you a blessed thing, Branch Kincaid. A government man might be dead, but so is the father of my baby. So is my
baby
!” Her voice cracked, and the words became a wail. “Damn you, don’t you understand? She was in her cradle. She was in the cabin, and he set it on fire. She died, Branch.”

In a heartbeat, he crossed the room and folded her in his arms. “Shh, Sprite. It’s all right.” He gently stroked her hair as she sobbed into his chest. “I’m sorry. I’ll not ask you anymore, not now. Shh …”

Branch grimaced as her tears stung his heart. It hurt to see Katie like this, hear her like this.

She’d given him some information and, by God, it wasn’t enough. He knew that Steven Starr, the sainted husband, was a counterfeiter and dead because of it. Rob Garrett, his brother the spy, was looking for a counterfeiter and was dead because of it.

So what did he have? According to Katie’s story, he had two mystery men. The land buyer and the blackmailer. She couldn’t or wouldn’t name either one.

Branch brushed soft kisses on the top of Katie’s head.

It was just too much; he’d let it alone like she’d asked, at least for today.

He’d figure it out. After what he’d just learned, it mattered more than ever. He’d find the bastard—for Katie, for Rob. For the hurt so many had suffered. He’d make the connection; it was only a matter of time.

And when he did, someone would die.

As if she had read his thoughts, Katie shuddered in his arms. Branch stroked her hair, thinking,
Today, though, I’ll let it go
. This was a special day for Katie, she ought to enjoy herself, to have fun. He’d do his best to see that she did.

Tenderly, he kissed her lips. His hands dropped to leisurely fondle the curve of her hip, and a profound sadness settled over him. Good Lord, this caring business could hurt.

Imagine how it’d be if he loved her.

IN KEEPING with Katie’s concern about maintaining appearances, Branch played host to her hostess as the guests arrived at the inn. He stayed beside her most of the morning, even grabbing the opposite end of the jump rope when Katie interrupted her visiting to turn it for the children.

He’d left to join in a game of horseshoes, but appeared almost magically at her side when Sheriff Strickland had stopped her to compliment her on the success of the party. While she organized the serving of the noon meal, he’d commanded the carving knife and served up barbecued beef and bad jokes as the guests made their way through the line. When everyone had been served, he’d carried a plate for her and two of his own over to a quilt he’d spread in a shady spot beneath a towering elm tree.

He was being so nice that Katie knew he was up to no good. Branch was obviously out after the name she’d withheld, and he wasn’t above using any means to get it.

That’s why she was so glad to hear Martha call out her name. The Widow Craig’s head was bobbing like a chicken’s as her gaze searched the crowd for Katie. “Excuse me, Branch,” Katie said, standing to go to Martha.

She wasn’t surprised to see him rise and follow.

Martha stood beside the dessert table with Luella Racine and a tall, dark gentleman who stood with his back to Katie and Branch. Spotting Katie’s wave, Martha met her halfway across the yard.

“I wanted to tell you I made a change in the contest judging. There’s a new man in town, a Mr. St. Pierre, and Luella brought him with her today. Oh, honey, he’s the most handsome man I ever saw—” She broke off and smiled at Branch as he joined them. “His name is S.D. St. Pierre,” she said. “He’s from New Orleans—a Creole gentleman. He’s purchased land scrip and plans to file his headright this week.”

The clang of a ringer and victorious cheer arose from the horseshoe pit, and both Katie and Martha looked in that direction. Branch’s narrowed gaze settled on the stranger; something about the way he carried himself seemed familiar. Branch frowned and thought to himself,
Trident
?
Could I have finally found the bastard
?

“Anyway,” Maltha continued after clapping for the horseshoe winner, “oh, sweetie, wait till you meet him.” She closed her eyes and exhaled a besotted sigh. “Gorgeous black hair, wavy and thick, but cut quite short, dark eyes, that olive skin. Why, if only I were twenty years younger…” The widow preened as she added, “He’s promised to judge the dessert contest for us.”

“Wait a minute,” Branch said sharply. “That’s my job.”

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.”