The little man looked offended. “Why, the same method as any land, of course. Sam Houston made sure of it. He pushed a law through Congress that insured the land was divided into sections and sold. He wanted all the proceeds to go to the Republic, not land-grabbers.”
“Who bought it and how?” He asked the question, but he already knew the answer. He’d bet half of Riverrun that the killer owned that land, and that he’d claimed it using counterfeit scrip.
“Listen, Deputy, I don’t mind cooperating with the law, but your attitude …”
“Answer me!” Branch snapped, leaning forward with his hands planted firmly on the counter, glaring at the little man.
“I’ll have to check.” The clerk glanced nervously at the map, then fingered through the files.
“Why have I been so blind?” Branch muttered. It made perfect sense. The man he searched for must have some connection to the MB&T, and Rob must have found it. The Cherokee land was prime property, extremely valuable, and for someone, worth killing for.
“Here’s the file, Deputy,” the clerk said, handing him a folder.
Branch opened it and began to read. Most of the land had been claimed with sales scrip—scrip issued by the Matagorda Bay and Texas Land Company. Now he needed to check the certificates. They would confirm the name.
He thumbed through the papers, matching land sections with scrip certificates, and his blood chilled like the Brazos River in January. Most of the certificates were filed by the same man.
John Patrick Gallagher.
CHAPTER 14
SAN JACINTO DAY DAWNED bright and clear with a warm April breeze stirring through the trees. In Gallagher’s yard, gingham cloths covered tables ready to be laden with food. Iron stakes rose from sand-filled horseshoe pits, and along the road, red flags flapped from tree branches, marking the start and finish lines for the horse races planned for that afternoon. Up at the inn, the last of the window curtains had been hung, the furniture dusted, and everything made clean and gleaming in anticipation of the formal reopening of Gallagher’s Tavern and Travelers Inn.
Katie, Martha, and the Paynes had been up before the sun seeing to the final preparations for the party. Already the aroma of slow-cooking beef rose from the barbecue pit, leading Andrew to complain of a rumbling stomach as Katie and Martha prepared breakfast.
“Hush your mouth, boy,” Martha said, pulling a tray of biscuits from the oven. “You’re not about to starve. I watched you snatch four molasses cookies not twenty minutes ago, so I’m certain you can wait another five minutes for Miz Katie to get the eggs scrambled.”
Katie laughed, saying, “Go tell your father breakfast is ready, please, Andrew. And make sure you wash up before you come back.”
“Yes’m, Miz Katie,” the boy said, swiping a hot biscuit from Martha’s tray and dodging a wrap on his knuckles before dashing from the kitchen.
“Rowdy ought to take a belt to that boy of his,” Martha fussed. “He’s getting more ornery every day.”
“He reminds me of Daniel,” Katie said. “I’m happy to have him around for nothing more than that.” Dishing the on-the-runny-side scrambled eggs from her skillet into a wooden bowl, she asked, “Martha, were there any strawberries left over from the pies? I’ve a mind for fruit with my breakfast.”
Martha didn’t answer. Katie glanced over her shoulder. The landlady stared toward the door, grimacing with concern. Slowly, Katie turned around.
Branch stood in the doorway with thunderclouds on his brow. He hurled his words like hailstones. “Damn you, woman! Tell me every single detail of this scam you Gallaghers are running!”
“I beg your pardon?” Katie clipped her words.
“I should damned well hope so. I may be the world’s greatest fool, but I don’t believe you and your father are killers.” He stepped into the kitchen, the fire in his eyes scorching a path to Katie. “I do know that you are thieves. Thousands of acres, patented to John Patrick Gallagher. No wonder the old leprechaun didn’t want to take you with him. He needed someone to stay around and keep an eye on his land!”
Katie inhaled a deep breath and set the empty skillet on the table. Branch’s gaze never left her as he said to Martha through gritted teeth, “Please excuse us, Mrs. Craig.”
Her stare fastened on the pulse throbbing at his temple. “No, Martha. Stay where you are.” Katie had learned survival skills at a very young age. “Branch, I can see that you are somewhat upset. However”—she raised her voice to be heard over his guffaw—“however, you labor under a misconception.”
Sarcasm dripped from his words. “I labor from the labors of land you’ve stolen.”
Oh, that man! She slammed the spoon against the tabletop. She had never stolen anything in her life—and neither had Da. Outrage at his false accusation starched her spine, but feeding the fury was her sense of guilt.
She hadn’t stolen that land, but what she had done was much worse.
Shame and anger forced bravado into her voice. “How dare you! I’ll have you know that the last person who accused me of theft found herself taking an unplanned swim in the Angelina. Of all the nerve!”
She put her hands on her hips and glared at him, fuming. “You slander my name, allowing me no chance to explain, and do it in front of a witness yet! Well, I’m of half a mind to show you the door for good.”
“You’re half a mind, all right,” he raged, advancing on her. “And if you don’t use that sassy mouth of yours to answer my question this minute, it’s gonna see the back of my hand.”
“You wouldn’t slap me.”
Branch’s jaw clenched. His words slithered across the room and curled around her neck. “Don’t count on it. You’ve got more nerve than a whore at a tent revival.”
His voice was deceptively mild when he spoke again. “You’re right, Katie, I’d never hit your face. But you can bet every acre of land in your precious Da’s name that I’d give you the spanking you deserve. Now start talking.”
“Oh, you… you…” she stuttered. She glanced around the room, searching for a weapon. The skillet. She stretched for the handle when her gaze snagged on the wooden bowl full of cooling eggs.
“Uh-oh,” Martha said. “Honey child, you’d best not.”
Branch’s glare promised certain retribution.
Katie didn’t care. Guilt was a living, breathing monster inside her. Anything would be better than telling him the truth.
Martha groaned as the gooey, yellow mess tumbled down upon Branch’s head.
The bowl clattered to the floor. He raised a hand and calmly brushed the egg from his hair and shoulders.
“I think I’ll go find Rowdy and Andrew and tell them breakfast will be a bit late,” Martha said, removing her apron and heading for the door. “I’ll make sure you two are not disturbed.”
Katie watched a slimy, yellow streak dribble slowly down Branch’s shirt. Oh my, you’ve done it now, Katie girl. She clasped her hands in front of her in a futile attempt to control the trembling. “You can’t leave me, Martha. He’ll hurt me, he’ll kill me.”
Martha twisted her lips in a frown, then asked, “You gonna kill her, Mr. Branch?”
His gaze locked on Katie, he gave a slow, negative shake of his head.
The older woman nodded once. “Very well. Sweetheart, I’m afraid that short of murder, you’ve got it coming to you. I’ll give you your privacy now.”
As her only defense exited the room, Katie faced the enormity of her mistake. He looked down at his shirt, grooming himself like a tawny panther with enormous paws, and she stood frozen in place like a frightened rabbit. With an almost casual air, he lifted his head and impaled her with glowing eyes. A feral grin spread across his face.
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 s
ame 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. W
hen 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.”
The Texan's Bride Page 21