The Texan's Bride (38 page)

In an aisle between rows of pine benches, Jack Strickland paused, his brow knitting as his gaze flicked from Hoss to Branch. Then, like a striking snake, he moved, yanking the woman at his side in front of him, shielding himself from the gun Branch had aimed at his chest.

Branch heard a faint, feminine whimper of fear. Something cold slithered around in his belly as suspicion crawled up his spine. Briefly, but long enough for time to grind to a halt, he darted another look at the woman.

Oh, Lord. Katie. And her baby
.

“Chase?” Branch’s quiet voice was deadly.

“I’ve got a gun on him.”

Black eyes glowed, and Strickland’s smile gleamed white with menace as he said, “And I have one on the lady.”

The air inside the room was heavy, thick with tension. “Let her go, Strickland,” Branch said, his voice hard, his finger tickling the Paterson’s trigger.

“I think not.” Strickland sneered, an evil chuckle shaking his shoulders. “Isn’t the lady here the object of this exercise? I assume I’m facing the jealous husband?”

“No,” Hoss Garrett called out from the judge’s chair. “You are facing your victim’s father, brother, and cousin. Remember killing a man named Garrett? Land Commissioner Garrett?”

Strickland frowned and slowly nodded. “I remember him, but I sure as hell didn’t kill him.”

“Not directly, perhaps.” At Branch’s nod Chase spoke from behind Jack Strickland, reminding the judge of his presence. “But you started the fire that burned him.”

“A gunshot killed that man.” Strickland tightened his hold on Katie as she began to squirm. He said, “Surprised me at the time—I was sheriff, you know, and investigated that fire. Garrett hadn’t even been at the farm that night as far as I knew. You, Kincaid, have the wrong man for that particular crime.”

Branch’s voice was cold and flat. “No,
Trident
, I have you dead to right on this.”

“So, you know that too? It took you long enough to figure it out.” His lip curling in an amused smirk, Strickland added, “I had you completely fooled, didn’t I? Even the lady, here.” He shook his head and grinned. “I never did think you were much of a man, and I knew it for certain when your lady came running after me before your dust had even settled.” Tracing the barrel of his gun down Katie’s cheek, he said, “She’s a fine lay, don’t you think, Kincaid? Spirited. Why, when I had my mouth on her titties, well—”

Branch’s finger tightened on the trigger.

“Branch?” Katie pleaded, fear dulling her blue eyes. “Branch, please. My baby!”

Strickland poked her breast with the gun.

“Hoss,” Branch said through gritted teeth. “Come here and get the child.”

Strickland gave his head a curt shake. “No. The other one. Have him come over here where I can see him.”

“Do as he says, Chase,” Branch ordered.

Chase moved with careful steps until he stood an arm’s length away from Katie. “Give me the baby now, sweetheart,” he said, both hands extended, his gun still trained on Strickland.

“Not yet.” Strickland turned sideways, his grip on Katie tight and the gun held beneath her chin. “Kincaid,” he asked, “is this your kid?”

What
? Branch wondered. Why the hell is he asking that? He hesitated, not knowing what to say. Would Katie’s child be in more or less danger if he claimed it? He simply didn’t know.

But it felt good when he said, “Yes, that’s my baby.”

Strickland grinned. “Then catch it.”

Everything happened in an instant. Strickland grabbed for the infant, stripping him from Katie’s arms at the same time he pushed her into Chase. As Katie knocked Chase to the ground, Strickland flung the child in the air toward Branch.

Each second passed as an hour. Branch shifted his aim as the baby came at him. He saw a flash at the barrel of Strickland’s gun, heard Katie scream and the infant shriek. Dropping his gun, he lifted his hands to catch the child. A bullet rammed into his shoulder.

Both his hands clasped the infant’s waist. A second gunshot tore into his side. Blood spattered the baby’s white bonnet.

Jack Strickland ran out of the courtroom.

“Son!” Hoss Garrett’s hoarse voice shouted. “Britt!”

Branch sank to his knees still gripping the child, suddenly desperate to see beneath the hat’s ruffled bill. What color hair did this fair-skinned baby have?

Gently, he laid the infant down before tumbling to the floor, unconscious.

THE CRAGGY-FACED doctor lifted his hands from a white basin filled with bloodied water, wiped them on a towel, and said, “You understand that if he dies, I’ll tell the truth about the bullet in his shoulder.”

Hoss Garrett shrugged, afraid to speak. Afraid he’d retch. That was his boy’s blood staining the water, the towel, the white sheet spread across the table.

“I don’t want him moved for at least twenty-four hours—if he makes it that long.” The doctor rolled down his shirtsleeves and donned his jacket. “Somebody needs to stay with him. When he gets feverish, he’s liable to roll right off that table.” He paused at the door and barked a short laugh. “Helluva place to do surgery, you know. Usually my job’s done before it ever gets to the courtroom.”

Hoss stared down at his son’s pasty face, his emotions a jumble of anger, grief, and guilt. It was the second wound—the one in Branch’s side—that now threatened his life. The gunshot that Hoss himself had fired. He’d drawn a bead on Strickland, right at the heart. And then Branch had moved. “Hell boy, why didn’t you let that damned baby fall?”

A knock sounded and Hoss turned to see Chase enter the courtroom. “Uncle Hoss, how is he? The doc wouldn’t say a word, just rushed on out.”

Hoss had to clear his throat before he spoke. “He… uh… we’ll just have to wait and see. The doc wouldn’t make any promises.”

Chase walked up to the table. “Damn, he’s as white as bleached bones. When I catch up with Strickland, I’m gonna—”

“He hasn’t been caught?”

“No. I don’t think the sheriff much believes the tale we told him either. Seein’ how we couldn’t very well tell him we’d planned a murder that doubled back on us, well… I imagine we’re the only ones that care much if Strickland gets found.”

Hoss brushed a lock of hair from Branch’s brow before turning away and saying, “It’s all that damn woman’s fault. Is she still out there?”

“Yes, but—”

Guilt ate through Hoss like an acid as he walked the aisle toward the back of the courtroom. He shoved open the doors, his gaze raking the hallway until it came to rest on the petite woman who knelt on the hardwood floor, her head bowed in prayer.

So great was his pain that he lashed out against the one person in the world whose love for his son equaled his own. “Yes, pray, damn you! Pray for the salvation of your soul. He’s dying, woman, and it’s all your fault.”

Katie lifted red-rimmed eyes to look at him as Hoss pointed a trembling finger at her. “You,” he fumed. “Your fault. You couldn’t settle with killing only one of my sons, could you? You had to take them both.” He spat on the floor beside her and said, “Better for my family that you had never been born.”

A tear dripped down her cheek as she softly agreed. “I know.”

Nudging her with his boot, he said, “Stand up, witch. Leave here. Now. I don’t want you here. I won’t have you tending a death watch for my son. I won’t have you at his funeral.”

Katie climbed to her feet, not meeting the fury of his glare. Head bowed, shoulders slumped, she walked the length of the hall, then paused. For a full minute she stood there unmoving.

Then her spine straightened and her shoulders squared. She turned around, head held high and said, “I’ll grieve for Branch Kincaid whenever, wherever, and however I choose. You cannot stop me, Hoss Garrett.”

Her cold eyes narrowed as she smiled, and the air about her fairly shimmered with malevolence. “Neither can Jack Strickland. Although he’ll undoubtedly wish he could.”

Garrett stood at a window watching her as she walked outside and met an older man and a woman who held that cursed babe. A boy helped her into a carriage, and as it pulled away from the capitol grounds, Hoss shuddered. A man has to be mighty careful when he chooses a woman for an enemy.

There’s never any telling what one of them’ll do
.

BY THE time the travelers returned to Nacogdoches, Katie’s plans were made. With the former sheriff on the loose, Gallagher’s Inn wasn’t a safe haven for her loved ones, and Martha, Rowdy, and Andrew readily consented to settle in with Johnny at Le Cadeau d’Etoiles. They were not so quick to agree when Katie declared her intention to leave Shaddoe’s home in search of Jack Strickland.

Katie ignored their protests and slipped away one night armed with numerous weapons and a burning need for revenge. Locating Strickland was surprisingly easy. Bold and without fear, he’d assumed his judgeship and set about doing his duties as Shelby county judge.

She shadowed his movements for two weeks, planning and revising until she’d perfected her strategy. On a Monday, she penned and posted her note.

Wednesday morning found her alongside an overgrown trail that once was a path between Cherokee villages, a wild green onion stalk held in one fist, the other clasped to her breast. “‘By this leek, I will most horribly revenge. I eat and eat, I swear.’”

A hysteric giggle escaped Katie’s throat. One seldom quoted Shakespeare while setting a bear trap, but then, one seldom began the day intending to torture and murder a man before noon.

Dawn illuminated the vivid greens of early spring in the eastern Texas forest as she strained to turn the screw that would open the rusty steel trap. Crushed bits of animal flesh clung to its dull metal teeth. She wrinkled her nose and swallowed hard as a wave of doubt washed over her.

No, she thought, hardening her heart, this man has destroyed everything I have held dear. He’s an evil man, who merits this end. He deserved it years ago.

He deserved it that day in Austin
.

The widening jaws of the trap emitted a tormenting creak. It echoed through her mind like the smoke smothered cries of her daughter.

She wedged a clamp over the leaf spring and moved to set the second lever. Fleeing Austin a lifetime ago, she’d clamped her emotions just as securely. She allowed but one desire to exist, and it was a fever in her blood.

Katie lived for vengeance.

The trap lay open wide. She pulled up the pan and set the trip lever. Swallowing hard, she removed the clamp and stepped away. A grim smile tugged at her lips as she swore, “Jack Strickland dies today.”

Carefully, she hid the trap beneath decaying leaves and brush, then checked her cache of weapons and supplies. The shotgun, bullwhip, and knife lay in readiness, tucked beneath an evergreen. She could reach them with ease from her position between the trap and the holly.

Her fingers brushed the cool, smooth neck of a bottle of Irish whiskey, and she pulled it from its hiding place. Staring at the amber liquid sloshing inside, she thought of her father. Da
had
loved his whiskey. “That’s something else I owe Strickland for,” she vowed. But for Sheriff Strickland, Da wouldn’t have traveled to Indian Territory; he’d not have contracted smallpox. A doctor might have saved him from the stomach ailment had he had the chance.

Yes, Jack Strickland more than deserved the torment she planned for him. For Da, for Mary Margaret, for Steven, and Rob Garrett. For Johnny, especially Johnny, who would grow up knowing his mother as a murderer— the woman who killed his uncle Rob.

And Branch. Oh, God, Branch. And herself
.

“No!” she cried. She’d not think in this manner any longer. The clamp in her chest wiggled dangerously.

She pulled the cork from the whiskey bottle and took a good-sized swallow. Fire burned her throat, and she choked and coughed while her eyes watered. “Oh my,” she wheezed, “how do men do that?”

By now the sun rose well above the trees, bleaching the cloudless sky an oyster white. The temperature climbed steadily and perspiration trickled down the back of Katie’s neck.
He’ll be here soon
, she thought, inhaling a deep, calming breath. The trap was set. Now came the time to bait it.

Katie reached beneath her skirt and loosened her petticoat. She wiggled, and it dropped to the ground as her fingers worked the buttons at her bodice. She’d chosen this dress for its color; the lilac would show up well against the dark green foliage of the holly. It would never do to have him ride by without noticing her presence beside the road.

She pulled her arms from the sleeves and pushed the material over her hips. The morning air kissed her bare skin and she shivered—but not from cold. Grabbing the petticoat, Katie tossed the garment toward the center of the trail. The skirt billowed and floated gracefully to the ground. “A blind man would see that,” she assured herself.

Line of sight would lead him to the splash of color she hung on the evergreen. But just seeing wasn’t enough. She had to make sure he’d want to touch. Of course, she didn’t really doubt he would, but a little extra effort never hurt. Katie took the bottle of liquor and stepped carefully around the trap to the sliver of space in front of the holly.

After taking one small sip, she tipped the bottle, and the liquid with its potent fumes cascaded down her front. The thin white cotton of her chemise and drawers absorbed the wetness and clung to her curves, outlining the fullness of her breasts and the gentle flare of her hips beneath a slim waist.

That’s what I want him to see
, she thought, looking down at the transparent fabric. She counted on those curves to bring Jack Strickland into her clutches.

A mirthless smile curled Katie’s lips. She was ready.

JACK STRICKLAND tied his horse to a dogwood tree at the spot where the Indian path crossed the road. He continued his journey on foot, gun drawn, and senses alert. He tasted danger on the wind, smelled it. He knew he walked toward a trap, only he did so with anticipation.

Yesterday he’d received the note, read it, and promptly tossed it into the trash basket. But a strange feeling made him retrieve the letter. Smoothing the crinkled paper, he’d reread the words: “If you want to know who really killed Land Commissioner Garrett, meet me tomorrow at nine o’clock at the Cherokee village on the banks of Rocky Springs Creek.” The handwriting was hauntingly familiar. He remembered a note warning of smallpox tacked on a cabin door.