The Texan's Bride (9 page)

“You didn’t give me the chance to explain. Sprite.” Branch leaned casually against the fireplace, his expression anything but relaxed. “And I didn’t run away, I went after a doctor for Daniel. Some of those cuts are pretty deep, and I’m afraid of infection. Doc Mayfair’s in the kitchen now, working on your brother. You could’ve had a little faith in me.”

After the first fierce rush of relief came a wave of anger so great that she sputtered from the force of it. “Faith in you! Why, you… you…”

“I’ll bet you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? I could hear your brain clickin’ away from over here.” He straightened and took a predatory step toward her. “What am I, Katie Starr, a good boy turned bad or a bad boy turned good?”

She gulped for air and said the first thing that came into her mind. “You’re no boy.”

“You’ve got that much right.” He moved closer, his eyes glinting like sharpened steel.

Katie stepped backward. Her ankle twisted as her shoe slid across the slick surface of a bottle lying on its side, and she stumbled, flinging her hands out as she fell.

She never hit the ground. Instead she found herself yanked against a solid wall of muscle. “Dammit, Sprite, I told you to trust me.”

His lips swooped down upon hers, hard and demanding. He delved into her mouth with his tongue, deeper and deeper, searching and hungry. Angry.

Katie pushed against his chest, her emotions at war. Fury. Jubilance.

She was scared.

She shivered as his lips trailed down her neck, his teeth nibbling at sensitive skin. She gasped for breath and cried, “You don’t frighten me!”

Savagely, he shoved her away. “I swear, woman, you don’t have the sense to spit downwind. You may have a helluva lot of things to be scared of, but I’m not one of ‘em. Don’t you recognize help when you see it?”

Katie steepled her fingers and pressed them against her mouth. She gazed at Branch, her thoughts a whirlwind.

Disgustedly, he swung his boot at a half-buried remnant of a window shutter. Weariness etched his face and his shoulders wore an unfamiliar slump. “Lord knows why I care. You’ve been nothing but trouble. A distraction, that’s all you’re supposed to be. I’ve got business to see to; I don’t need to hang around coddlin’ an old man, a boy, and a woman who thinks I’m dancing with the facts.”

“What facts, Branch?” Katie flung up her hands. The questions that had been swirling inside her for hours, for days, for weeks, burst from her lips. “Just what do I know about you that should give me reason to trust you? Why are you here? You’re more than just a drifter, I’m certain of that. And just who is William Bell?”

Her voice rose as she stepped toward him. “Are you a Moderator spy or a Regulator? Where did you get four thousand dollars’ worth of land scrip? Are you responsible for what happened yesterday? Have you been lying to us? Were you lying to me when you spoke of justice?” She ended her tirade in a shrill, “Why are you here, Branch Kincaid? What do you want?”

He stared at her. She stood in ashes to her ankles, the pockets of her smudged and dirty apron bulging with the fragments of her livelihood. Soot clung to her hair, streaked her face, and soiled her navy homespun dress. She was an Irish virago raging at fate.

She’d never looked so beautiful.

Lust tied his tongue and he spoke only one word. “You.”

“What?”

“You, Sprite. I want you.” He tugged her back into his arms and lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her desperately, the memory of his fear for her at the forefront of his mind. He tightened his hold on her as he tasted that fear along with the sweetness of her lips. Tearing his mouth from hers, he whispered against her cheek, “You little fool, you could’ve been killed.”

She kicked him hard on the shin.

“Ow!” he exclaimed, releasing her to rub his tender leg. Katie glared at him through narrowed eyes, and she flung her words like arrows from a bowstring. “How dare you! How dare you play that game now after all that has happened. Are the only feelings you have those between your legs?”

The barb struck. “Feelings?” he repeated incredulously. “You think I have no feelings? Dammit to hell. Sprite, do you actually think I’m playing a game here? Do you imagine I was amused seein’ a man beaten and a boy whipped half to death? Do you think I enjoyed watching the wanton destruction that took place here yesterday? Tell me true, Kate Starr, do you honestly believe that I liked seein’ that goddamn bastard manhandle you?”

Katie put her fists against her temples and grimaced at the sky. “I don’t know what to think or believe or imagine anymore. You’ve answered none of my questions, Kincaid. You ask for my trust without offering your own. Why?” She flung up her hands. “Is there a reason you won’t talk to me, Branch?”

“Yes.”

She waited. He said nothing more. Her voice trembled with her fury. “Yes. That’s all, just yes?”

With his thumb he nudged his hat back farther on his head. “That’s about the size of it.”

She took a breath to speak but then stopped. She frowned at him as a speculative look replaced the anger in her eyes. Folding her arms, she tilted her head and asked, “Are you a government agent, Branch? Did President Houston send you here to collect information about the Moderator-Regulator War? Is that why you’re so close mouthed?” Had she not watched him so closely, she’d not have noticed the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Aw, Kate,” he drawled, smirking, “don’t you know that next to horse rustlin’, curiosity’s the most dangerous crime? Besides, you oughta know from my kisses that I don’t keep a closed mouth.”

Katie looked down and with the toe of her shoe nudged a charred wooden frame that once had held a family tree done in embroidery. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope. You just have to trust me, Sprite.”

She shook her head and said, “I can’t.”

SIX DAYS had passed since the fire. Six days of cutting, hauling, and stacking logs. Six days of sore muscles and even sorer tempers.

“Absolutely not.” Branch plunged a hand into the ooze and withdrew a fistful of Spanish moss mixed with dirt and water. “I’m leavin’ tomorrow.” He packed the mud between two logs on the north wall of the newly erected barn. “Not the day after, or next week, or next month, or next year. Get it through that thick skull of yours, Irishman. In the morning, I’m gone!” Red globs plopped up onto his face as he slammed his fist into the bucket for more chinking.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough as far as Branch was concerned. Life around the old inn, or kitchen, to be precise, had become downright unpleasant. Katie wasn’t speaking to him. In fact, she went to considerable trouble to avoid him altogether. When he walked into the kitchen, she walked outside. When he went out to work on the new barn, she stayed in to nurse Daniel and spin thread and do what other womanly chores she could think up.

She was madder than a red-eyed cow, and Branch had plumb had enough. Katie Starr could take her temper and stuff a mattress with it. He was going to town and getting on with the business of finding the man who killed his brother. That’s what was important. Not his sparring with a squirrel-slinging termagant. He’d find Rob’s murderer, and then he’d head back to Riverrun and woo the gentle, beautiful, even-tempered Eleanor Garrett.

To hell with the Gallaghers and their problems. They weren’t his responsibility. Besides, he’d done all that could be asked of anyone when he arranged in town for carpenters to come and build them a spanking-new inn.

John Gallagher scowled and said, “Aach, very well. I double your pay.”

“You double my pay! Well that’s a good one,” Branch said scornfully. “Considering that I’ve worked for you a month and the only thing I’ve gotten for it is a hand-me down hat, I’d have to be dumb as a rubbin’ post for that to change my mind. Your promises are as empty as your pockets.” The woebegone expression John adopted didn’t sway him either. Since he’d announced he was leaving, he’d seen it far too often to be bothered by it now.

The wily old Irishman wasn’t prepared to give up, however. He folded his arms and waited as Branch completed the finishing touches on the new barn.

Actually, the term “barn” said too much for the structure. It’d been years since Branch had helped build the log cabin that had been the original building at Riverrun. By the looks of the crude shelter he stepped away from, he’d forgotten what little that experience taught him.

“Hell, it’ll last till spring,” he grumbled, making a mental reminder to have the carpenters do a bit of work on the structure. Anyway, it wasn’t like the Gallaghers had a bunch of stock to protect from the weather.

“It’s a fine barn, Branch Kincaid,” John said, nodding solemnly. “I thank you. We’d never have managed without your help. If you’re set on leaving, I guess I just have to make the best of it.” He rubbed his bristled jaw with his palm. “I’m unable to imagine what we’ll do once you’ve gone, though. Why, even though he’s on the mend, Daniel still cannot do much more than fish. It’s too old I am to be starting over, building a new place and everything.”

“Uh, John,” Branch began. This figured to be as good a time as any to tell him about the new inn, and if Branch had any luck at all, John wouldn’t ask where he had gotten the money for it. That he’d come to East Texas richer than the dirt in an old cow pen would be difficult to explain.

Gallagher was too caught up in his performance to listen to Branch. He hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his leather vest, stared up at the puffy white clouds floating slowly across the pale blue sky, and sighed. “I’m thinking perhaps the thing to do is to move into Nacogdoches. I believe the Mexicans would hire me as their barkeep at the cantina. Katie could wait tables.”

Rocking back on his heels, he added, “Of course, as her father, I’d hate to see her have to dress like one of those Jezebels. It’d be nice if Billy Preston would hire me to work in the Anglo tavern—his women wear more clothes. Seein’ how he’s a Regulator, though, he’d never hire me. Unless”—he lifted his brows innocently—”unless you could get me on, seein’ how you’re one of them.”

Branch gawked in amazement. “You’re remarkable. You’ll try anything to get your way, won’t you, old man? I tell you what, I’ll stay an extra day if you let me be there when you tell Kate she’s gonna have to whore in Nacogdoches.” He hooted with laughter, knowing Gallagher would sell his soul before he sold his daughter.

Picking up the rag lying next to the bucket of red mud, Branch wiped his face and hands. His gaze strayed to Katie, who stirred a tub of laundry with a battling stick. She’d rolled the sleeves of her calico dress up past her elbows and had hiked her skirt beyond the reach of the flames dancing beneath the kettle. Trim ankles and a good bit of shapely leg were displayed in a most enticing manner.

Steam rose, bathing her face, and she lifted a weary hand to brush back twisting, wet curls from her forehead. “John, what has she said to you about that day? Has she asked about my deal with the Regulator?”

Gallagher’s brow wrinkled with worry as he, too, watched his daughter work. “The only thing she mentioned was something about fools and misplaced trust.” He looked quizzically at Branch. “That mean anything to you?”

“Yep,” Branch said, grimacing. He’d never answered Katie’s rapid-fire questions. How could he possibly explain the story he’d given the Regulator boss? The Gallaghers were smackdab in the middle of this clan war, and he just couldn’t risk exposure of his true purposes.

It was a dangerous game he played, with the highest of stakes. Of course, he didn’t believe that Katie’s family had anything to do with Rob’s murder, but they were involved enough for Watt Moorman to have named them as a Regulator target.

Branch had no choice but to play his cards close to his vest, even though the regard in Katie’s eyes had melted away like ice on a July morning. Not that he cared. Why should it bother him that she just wouldn’t trust him?

With an oath, Branch flung the rag to the ground. “John, you know I told the man I’d contact him four days from now. I’m sorry if I’m lettin’ you down by leavin’, but I’ve done my best to help y’all get settled after the trouble, and it’s time for me to move on. The Gallaghers are not my responsibility!”

“If you don’t have a nerve, boyo,” John said, scowling.

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna go wash.” Branch looked down at his hands. In the red mud he saw his brother’s blood, the lashes crisscrossing Daniel Gallagher’s back, and Katie’s disillusioned heart. “I’ve gotta go wash.”

The afternoon was a sun-kissed promise. Almost every winter, this part of Texas was blessed with a couple of weeks that prophesied the coming of spring. At the Angelina’s edge, Branch pulled off his blue chambray shirt and allowed the sunshine’s heat to soak into his bones.

Tired, Lord he was tired. A cardinal’s
whoit, whoit, whoit
, broke the silence, and Branch absently studied the trees, attempting to spot the bright red bird. He splashed icy water on his hands and arms, pulled off his boots, and tossed them away from the bank. Dangling his feet in the frigid water, he lay back and balled up his shirt to pillow his head. He closed his eyes.

The thought whispered, unbidden on the breath of sleep.
Sprite, forgive me. You see, I’ll be his son again
.

A whiff of lye soap together with a tug to his scalp pulled Branch from sleep’s oblivion. He wrinkled his nose and opened his eyes to the sight of Katie’s calico-clad breast dangling inches from his mouth.

She knelt across him. He didn’t know what she was doing and honestly didn’t care. The scooped neckline of the dress teased with a hint of cleavage, and the trailing edge of a yellow ribbon tied at its center brushed a soft caress against his temple.

She must have heard him choke because she dropped her gaze and froze at the sight of his wide eyes. “Your hair is twisted around a button,” she stammered. “I tried to untangle it so that I could take your shirt.” Her voice faded as her tongue flicked out and danced along the ridge of her full lower lip.

Branch swallowed hard. “You can take anything you want.”

Katie sat back, her gaze fastened on his mouth. “I ought to have your pants, they’re the only ones that didn’t burn.”