The Texan's Bride (3 page)

“Sure,” the boy said matter-of-factly, but he stood a little straighter as he grabbed the handle and toted the kettle across the room. He hung the pot on the iron crane that pivoted in and out of the fireplace so that Katie could tend her victuals away from the heat. He pushed the metal arm into the opening that was big enough to roast a small steer. “You need anything else, Katie? I thought I’d help Da for a while.”

Katie shook her head, clicking her tongue. “Don’t you help him like you did last week. You get into that corn liquor again, and he’ll skin you alive.”

Daniel shuddered, moving toward the door. “Not likely. I’ve never been that sick before in my life!”

Katie laughed, remembering the boy’s green face. “There is one thing, Daniel,” she said. “We’ve got all the horses inside the barn because of the storm. I’d hate for any to get loose. Would you check on them please?”

“Yes’m,” Daniel answered. Passing the table, he grabbed another handful of pecans.

Katie slapped at his hands and laughed. “Get out of here, or I’ll make you eat one of those dough balls I fixed for breakfast,” she warned. She’d attempted a new recipe for the rolls, but it had failed miserably.

Daniel held his hand to his throat as though choking. “That’d make me sicker than the corn brew, for certain.” Laughing, the boy scampered out into the cold, heading for the barn before his sister could scold him.

That boy
, Katie thought with tenderness. It’s so good to hear him laugh again. For more than a year following the fire, Daniel had wallowed in guilt; he’d survived and the others had not. The mischievous little boy transformed into a melancholy young man, and she’d begun to fear he’d never deal with his grief. But eventually time began its healing, and now, in these last few months, he appeared to be putting the horror behind him.

That’s why she’d been happy to be the target of one of his pranks yesterday. Before the trouble, he’d pestered everyone in the county with his practical jokes. When he’d tripped her with that hidden rope, she’d wanted to shout for joy, but she’d boxed his ears instead. He needed to believe everything was back to normal.

Katie’s heart lifted. Things would be just fine around Gallagher’s Tavern and Travelers Inn. She walked to the fireplace, took a spoon from a hook hanging above the hearth, and stirred the stew. Well, they’d be fine once Da got the food problem solved.

During that first disastrous year as mistress of the inn, Katie learned how much a well-laid table meant for business. Stories of burnt meat, decaying vegetables, and predictable menus commonly offered at hotels across the Republic made an indelible impression on the young hostess. She realized that a reputation for fine food would stand Gallagher’s in good stead.

So she bent herself to the task of learning new methods for preparing the staples—corn and pork—and oversaw the planting of a variety of vegetables in the garden. She learned the location of every fruit and nut tree in the area. At her insistence, a hunter had been hired to provide an assortment of game for the table.

Then, as a combination wedding gift and bribe not to move to the Starr family land, Da had built the new kitchen to her exact specifications. It came complete with a connecting bedroom for Katie and her new husband to share. She stayed and cooked, and now Gallagher’s was well-known for the fine fare served to guests. Why, not a month ago, a visitor told Da that he made a detour on his journey in order to stay here and sample the delicious bear steak he’d heard so much about.

“Of course,” Katie muttered, “a month ago we had a hunter.”

She bent over to look into the oven at the cornbread. Frowning, she remembered their last hunter. He’d worked for the inn almost six months before he decided to try his trapping skills on the cook. She shuddered as she recalled his rancid breath against her lips and his groping hands. “I wonder if he can walk without wincing yet,” she mused, deciding the bread was just about done.

A frigid draft encircled her exposed ankles and shimmied up her skirts. Without turning, she called, “Daniel, either get in or stay out. You’re almost as bad as that yellow-haired wolf I tussled with earlier over the very same thing.”

She straightened and stepped back—into a wall of muscle and two very large hands that grasped her firmly around the waist.

“Grr…” the blackstrap voice growled into her ear. “What big muffins you have, my dear. Care if I take a bite?”

Her outraged gasp preceded a screech that made the lamp chimneys vibrate. “You! Take your hands off me this instant, you—”

The overbuilt animal released her before she could finish her outburst. She twisted to face him.

He wasn’t looking at her.

He gazed past her into the oven, and she almost could see the halo above his head. “I sure do love the taste of cornbread right out of the oven,” he said.

He’s perfected that look. I’ve got to keep him away from Daniel
, she told herself. She pushed past him and marched to the worktable. Armed with a rolling pin, she demanded, “What in heaven’s name do you think you are doing?”

He flashed a cocky grin over his shoulder. “I believe I asked that same question a little earlier. Only I didn’t much like your answer.” He moved to check the contents of the kettle. Squatting down, he peered into the pot and asked, “Is this where my squirrels ended up?”

Katie dragged her gaze from his behind. Really, those buckskins stretched indecently tight. He’d caught her looking, and as he rose, his grin became a knowing smirk.

She felt her face flush.
Oh, saints above. Get hold of yourself, Katie
, she silently fumed. She should be scared, alone in the kitchen with this muscle-bound brute, the wind howling so fiercely outside that no one would ever hear her screams.

But she wasn’t afraid, just very, very aware.

Embarrassed and ashamed, she declared, “Listen to me, you uncouth man, I don’t know why you came into my kitchen, or what possessed you to paw me, but I tell you this: You just lost yourself a place to stay tonight.” With each word her voice became more strident until she ended with a shrill, “Get out of my kitchen and this hotel! In fact, leave the blessed Republic this instant!”

He pivoted and walked toward her, his magnetic eyes capturing her own. “Sprite, you use the words ‘man, possess, and me’ all in one sentence, and you’re liable to cook up more than squirrel stew.”

With a yelp, Katie scurried to the far side of the table and raised the rolling pin. He stopped with the table between them, grabbed a chair, and straddled it.

He folded his arms on the back of the chair and said, “To answer your sweetly asked questions: Branch Kincaid, dinner, you backed into me, and I’m not leaving because your father just hired me to be Gallagher’s new hunter.”

The rolling pin clattered against the wooden floor. “He what?” Katie had to force the words.

Branch cocked his head to one side and answered, his golden eyes twinkling. “Yeah, I’m now gainfully employed by the famous Gallagher’s Tavern and Travelers Inn in the capacity of game procurer. I assume that means the four-legged kind. Although I have nothin’ against the two-legged variety. It’s just that things tend to get a little messy tryin’ to stock the stable, so to speak.”

Katie sank into her chair, then buried her head in her hands.
In a minute, she told herself, in a minute I’ll pitch a fit. I’ll get this all straightened out. What was his name, Limb or something
?

“Brunswick,” she finally muttered through dry lips.

He arched a blond brow.

“The stew. Not just squirrel, Brunswick stew.”

He nodded solemnly. “Heaven for the senses, I’m sure.” He launched into an explanation of the travails of his journey and what had led him to Katie’s kitchen. She comprehended about one word out of every three. But while her mind was a mass of confusion, the rest of her was busy reacting to the hunk of masculinity across the table.

His voice flowed across the table, touching her, bringing shivers to her skin. Tendrils of heat spiraled throughout her body, and she tingled in places that had no business tingling. It was all she could do not to squirm in her seat.

Slowly Katie lifted her head and looked at him. He rested his chin atop his hands, and she heard words like “storm,” “barn,” and “card game.” But his compelling eyes spoke a different language, and she understood every word.

He fell silent. His lips curved into a slow, secret smile.

“You had it wrong, you know,” she eventually said.

Again, he quirked one eyebrow.

She watched his mouth. “You said it backward. The muffins. Red Riding Hood says what big teeth you have, not the wolf. He says…”

Kincaid interrupted. “The better to eat you with, my dear.” With that, he picked up a dough ball from a bowl on the table and took a large bite. He chewed once, and a peculiar look crossed his face. As he continued to chew, his brows met in a K and he began to blink rapidly. With great effort, he swallowed.

For a moment, the only sound to be heard was the nervous tap of Katie’s foot.

He hiccuped before he shuddered. “I swear, woman, that was worse than eating Mexican grapeshot.”

That broke the spell. Nobody crawled in here and criticized her cooking—even if it was deserved. She jumped to her feet and grabbed the carving knife. “If you like that so much, it’s a shame you won’t be around to taste the roast wolf I’m serving up for supper.”

He stood suddenly, sending his chair banging against the floor. “Sprite, if you can’t take a little honest evaluation of your cooking skills, maybe you’re working in the wrong room of the inn.”

Katie groaned and raised the knife. He retreated from her advancing figure toward the half-open door opposite the pie safe.

Backing into the room, he threw a glance over his shoulder. Katie saw her mistake in the delight reflected on his face. She’d chased him into her bedroom.

He lunged for her, and in a flurry of movement, he knocked away the knife and pinned her beneath him on the bed. He smiled that wicked-wolf smile and said, “I’m glad to see you’re taking my advice.”

She spat in his face.

The teasing light in his eyes died. How could they be so hot and so cold at the same time, Katie wondered?

“Enough!” His voice grated like corn in a gristmill.

Katie bucked and wriggled, ignoring the tight, grim set of his jaw. He yanked her arms above her head, pinioning both wrists with one hand. His free hand traced the gentle curve of her cheek, and for the first time, she feared him.

“Go ahead,” she forced the bravado into her voice. “I goaded you into it. No one will blame you. Why—” she gave a brittle laugh—“my father probably will say I asked for it.” She blinked away the blur in her eyes. “For some reason, he’s been trying to foist me off on a man, any man, for some time now.”

The anger drained from his features. “Silly little girl. So brave and so foolish. Next time, though, try making your point without a knife.”

He pressed a feathery kiss to her forehead, then rose, pulling Katie up to stand before him. “Now, listen well, Sprite. I’ve accepted this job and I’ll be around for a while. You’d best get used to the idea.”

He smiled at her again, and it touched her clear to her toes.

He said, “I won’t disappoint you. Don’t worry. I always get what I aim for.” He stared into her soul. “You can count on me to put something in your belly.”

CHAPTER 3

BY THE TIME THE norther moved out, after three long days, Katie knew something must be done. The man made her life miserable.

In the space of seventy-two hours, Branch Kincaid had ingratiated himself with her father by accomplishing a multitude of chores and repairs around the inn. He had deluded poor Daniel into thinking he deserved hero status on a level equal to Jim Bowie. Really, he had a nerve, claiming to have been gifted with those fancy guns by Commodore Moore himself. Most likely he’d stolen the revolvers he called Texas Patersons.

“Well, at least that scoundrel’s good for something,” Katie told herself. Thoughts of him kept melancholy at bay. She sat back on her heels and surveyed the small grave she’d been tending. Fragrant pine nettles and waxy holly leaves with their lush red berries provided a splash of color to the image of decaying grass. Spring would bring a blanket of green to cover the father and child who slept side by side, but for now, the meticulously arranged twigs of evergreen softened the image of the winter grave.

Katie rose to her feet and dusted the dirt and clinging leaves from her skirt. She clutched a finely sewn baby quilt to her bosom as she fought back tears. “Someday I’ll find him, I promise.”

She’d never give up. If it took her entire lifetime, if it cost her life, she would find the devil responsible—him and his pitchfork and flames. Her words were satin steel as she swore. “When I do, he’ll pay.”

Mary Margaret would have been walking now, speaking a few words, saying “Mama.” She’d be hugging and kissing, returning the affections Katie would have showered on the girl. A single tear spilled from the mourning mother’s eye, one of millions she’d shed during the past eighteen months. Would she ever overcome the grief? Would she always have this great, yawning hole in her soul?

The baby had been two months old when she died. Katie pictured in her mind dark curls and china-blue eyes, a toothless grin newly mastered, a smile criminally cut short.

Katie buried her nose in the quilt, hoping desperately to catch a lingering whiff of that cherished, unique infant perfume. There, so faint, was a tangible assurance that for a little while, Mary Margaret Starr had lived.

Losing a husband was hard. Losing a child, too, well— Katie wondered if any experience life held could be more devastating. Especially when a mother was at fault. It was a mother’s responsibility to protect God’s gift from harm, and Katie had failed in her duty. Though her faith assured her she was forgiven, she’d yet to forgive herself. She doubted she ever would.

Staring down at the limestone marker her father had tearfully carved, Katie prayed she’d someday have the chance to atone for her sin. If sometime in the future, the Lord ever placed another child in her care, she would face hell itself before she’d allow any harm to befall him. Perhaps in some small way, it would redeem her.