Branch had a suspicion that he’d found his brother’s killer.
“OH, SHADOE,” Katie sighed against his jacket, her storm of tears subsided. “I knew he was ill, but I never thought…”
“He hid much from us, Kathleen. I lived with him for weeks before I noticed anything. But he lived a just life, and he chose his manner of death. It is good.”
They stood beside his horse at the edge of a meadow just off the road. She wiped the wetness from her cheeks with her fingertips. Staring up at the sky painted gold and pink and purple from the setting sun, she murmured huskily, “I’ll miss him.”
Shaddoe nodded. He led his mount as they crossed the field. They walked through muted splashes of yellow, blue, and lavender wildflowers and scared a cotton-tailed rabbit into flight. The field was peaceful, and full of life. “Does he rest in a place as pretty as this?” she asked, her gaze on a sad-whistled bird perched in a nearby cedar.
“It’s a beautiful spot, Kathleen. He chose it himself before he died.” They walked in silence toward the Cherokee village that had welcomed them both during their youth. Now, abandoned and destroyed, it offered a place to grieve and remember better days.
Then Shaddoe grinned and spoke in a teasing tone. “Mon Dieu, I thought I’d never find a moment alone with you.” He picked up her hand and kissed it.
Katie accepted his attempt to lighten the mood, and she gave an inelegant snort as she snatched her hand away and replied, “You shouldn’t have baited Branch like you did. Men. Nothing but tall, ornery boys, that’s what you are.”
“Ah, you wound me, mon ami.”
“You deserve it. My poor husband is convinced I’m being stalked by a peacock with illicit intentions.” She wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Why have you made St. Pierre so gushy, Shaddoe? You were nothing like that when you first came to Texas. Actually, I think the Cherokee civilized you after your savage New Orleans childhood.”
Shaddoe frowned and delayed answering her question. He wrapped his horse’s reins around a tree, and catching Katie’s hand once more, he led her down a familiar forest path. The fragrance of pine and cedar intermingled, triggering memories of her father, and as Katie followed her friend, she thought of better days.
Eventually, he addressed her question. “You wish to know why St. Pierre has become such a gallant? I thought it best to return as a man unlike Dances In The Night. A number of citizens in Nacogdoches remember a half-breed runaway who searched the forests for his father. Don’t forget the rewards Emile Marchand posted for information concerning his grandson. I did not wish to spark best forgotten memories.”
“But why ‘St. Pierre’?”
“St. Pierre is my maternal grandmother’s family name. If it were discovered that Marchand Shipping financed the founding of the MB & T, the connection between Shaddoe Marchand, owner of the former Indian lands, and the ‘breed’ who fought against the Texians in ’39 would be obvious. They hated me then, Kathleen; they would hate me today. You know that.”
“They’d never allow you to stay,” Katie agreed, her nose wrinkling in disgust.
He shrugged. “There is your hunter, too, Kathleen. He is an intelligent man. I must admit I am surprised he has not recognized me yet.”
“You look like a different person now, Shaddoe, with your hair cut short and dressed in gentleman’s clothing. The only time Branch really saw you, you wore that awful paint on your face. Besides, he can’t see past his jealousy.”
“How would he view our deception, Kathleen?”
She pursed her lips and dipped to pick up a pine cone that lay on the forest floor. “Not very well, I’m afraid,” she sighed. “He’s already done a bit of checking into the MB & T. He discovered the land in Da’s name, but he hasn’t learned of the sections I sold to you.” She flicked her nail along the cone’s scales and added, “It seems he had the idea we, the MB & T that is, had something to do with the death of a friend of his.”
“Who?”
Katie opened her mouth to answer, then hesitated. “You know, he never has told me the man’s name, just that he was a government man investigating counterfeit land scrip. I haven’t pressed for details; in fact, I’ve always tried hard to change the subject.”
“Are we connected with this man’s death?”
She glared at Shaddoe. “What do you mean by that?”
“Kathleen, your father told me the real story behind Steven’s death. You should have told me, little one.”
She tossed away the pine cone. “No.”
“I am responsible.”
The wind swooshed through the trees creating an eerie, ghostly sound. Katie shivered and answered, “That’s exactly why I didn’t say anything. I know all the arguments you can use, and not a one of them will make a difference. Steven and I were with you the day you went to your grandfather’s office in New Orleans. We were as much a part of the founding of the MB & T as you, Shaddoe. It was my idea to begin with, I named the company, for goodness sakes!”
Shaddoe halted abruptly. He gazed around him at the myriad of colors, spring greens of every conceivable shade. He saw birds’ nests of straw, heard the chirping of hatchlings. He touched the rough bark of a pine tree and inhaled the musty fragrance of the forest. “I love this land; I’d give my life for it.”
Reaching for Katie, he clasped her hands in his. He stared imploringly into her eyes and poured his heart into his words. “Never, Kathleen, I never wanted Steven to give his. And your daughter—oh, little one, sorrow and shame are viper’s fangs sinking into my soul.”
She yanked her hands from his, then threw herself into his arms, hugging him tight. “No, no, no. You will not do this, Shaddoe Dancer. It is not your fault. I won’t have you accept responsibility for something of which you had no part.”
Shaddoe swallowed hard, stroking her hair, comforting himself as much as Katie. “But it is my land, Kathleen; he died because he helped me obtain it.”
She stiffened in his arms. “He died; they died.” She pulled back and looked up at him. “They died because some creature too low to be called a man chose to blackmail, chose to kill. Enough. Enough, now. I choose to speak of this no longer. Today, now, I’ll grieve only for my father.”
Thunder boomed in the distance as she turned away. She paused, her hand on a leafy green bush that overgrew the path leading deeper into the forest. “Let me be by myself for a little while, Shaddoe. I need some time.” She looked around, noticing for the first time where he had led her. “We’re not far from the village. Go home, Shaddoe. You’ve been away too long.”
“But rain is coming, Kathleen.”
“Please,” she said quietly. “I need to go home, too. I want Branch, I need him to hold me. If I take the horse, I’ll make it before the rain begins.”
He stared deeply into her eyes, then nodded, accepting the truth glowing within their depths. After pressing a gentle kiss against her forehead, he walked away.
SHADDOE WALKED among the charred remains of the Cherokee village and smiled. The cabins were shells burned beyond repair, just as he and Little Mush had intended when they set the fires over three years ago.
The whites may have won the war, but they lost this particular battle. No homes, no crops, not so much as a carrot in the ground had the Cherokees left behind for the whites to appropriate. This was good.
He breathed deeply of the scent of forest, rain, and home. Fertile land—nearby water. A rush of emotion overcame him. Here he would build his ranch. He would build a home to rival his grandfather’s Louisiana plantation house. Using his mother’s legacy, the gifts of his father, the lessons of his heritage, he would make his dream a reality.
He would name it Le Cadeau d’Etoiles, gift of the stars, because he never would forget he owed everything to Steven, Katie, and Mary Margaret Starr, to the monumental sacrifices they had made in the name of friendship.
Shaddoe St. Pierre now legally owned the land on which he stood—in both the white man’s and the Cherokee’s
eyes. No one would take it from him. He would build Le Cadeau d’Etoiles and someday have a family with whom he’d share his memories of his friend, Steven Starr. He would create a base of power—political and financial—so strong that not a single person in Texas could challenge his eventual goal. Dances In The Night, Shaddoe St. Pierre, would bring The People home, just as Steven and Katie and he had planned years ago.
Cold rain pelted the earth, and he lifted his face to the sky, answering the wind’s welcome. He peeled away the trappings of the white man—his coat, his scarf, his shirt. He tugged off the expensive boots and tossed them aside. He dug his toes into the muddied ground and stood with hands on hips, reveling in his homecoming.
He wondered if Kathleen had reached Gallagher’s before the rain.
WHILE THE storm built outside, a tempest gathered force inside Katie’s kitchen. Only this storm was emotional and as cold as a cast-iron coffin. Branch sat at Katie’s work table, one Texas Paterson already cleaned and reloaded, the second in his hands.
She entered the cabin soaked to the skin, a pale-faced wraith in a clinging party dress. “Oh, Branch, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, crossing the room, ready to fling herself into his arms. “I thought you’d still be playing cards, but then I saw the lamplight through the window, so I came on in—”
“Sit down,” he ordered icily. “We’ve some talking to do.”
Katie hesitated and her outstretched arms fell to her sides. “Yes, there’s something I need to tell you. Let me change and then—”
“Sit down now.”
Frowning, she sat, wrapping her arms around herself as though she were suddenly cold. “Branch, what is it?”
He focused his attention on unloading the gun. With a steady hand, he used a ball puller to extract a small sphere of lead from a chamber. “You know, Katie,” he said, dumping the black powder into his flask and repeating the process with the second chamber, “for weeks now you’ve been harpin’ that our marriage was legal. Tell me, does adultery come to you as easily as lying?”
She gasped softly. “You saw me with St. Pierre.”
He tapped the gun’s metal cylinder and more black powder spilled into the flask. “Really, an embrace before you even reach the cover of the trees? Not intelligent at all.”
“Branch,” she said, her voice trembling, “I can see what you must be thinking, but you’re wrong. I—”
“Ah, playing the innocent? You do it so well,” and he sneered the word, “Kathleen.”
She closed her eyes. “You recognized him.”
“Dances in the Night, St. Pierre, what’s in a name? I’m curious, Kate—when he loves you, is he an Indian or a Creole? Is there a difference?”
“Branch, stop.” Katie reached across the table and laid her hand on his forearm. “He brought me terrible news—”
He shook off her touch. “Really? Was it something about the land you sold him for a song? Or perhaps he told you he found another slut to bed, that he didn’t need you anymore? Maybe that’s why you returned here looking like hell.”
“Branch, listen to me.”
He looked at her then. For the first time since she entered the room, he allowed her to see the rage burning inside him. “Shut up. You’re gonna listen to me.”
He took the pin from the Paterson, and the barrel slipped into his hand. Then he slid the cylinder off the handle and set the gun’s three pieces onto the table. “I’m gonna tell you a story,” he said, the ice back in his voice. Dipping his rag into a pot of hot water, he picked up the Paterson’s handle and began to wipe it clean. “Years ago, your dear friend, Shaddoe St. Pierre, financed the establishment of a land company using Steven Starr as front man. He arranged for people he trusted—you and your father—to file claims on the land he wanted as soon as it became available. That is, as soon as the Cherokees lost the war with the Texians. Then, when the mood suited him to return to Texas, he’d buy said property from his friends. The Indian would once again own his lands.”
Using a second rag, Branch meticulously dried the Paterson’s handle. “You told me this morning that someone had blackmailed your husband into dealing in counterfeit scrip. But,” he said, putting down the handle and picking up a straight, thin stick, “what if that is a lie? What if your husband and your lover went further with this scheme of theirs? With the company set up already, why not expand their operation and milk a few settlers out of their money?”
His gaze was cold and impersonal as he said, “I think Starr and St. Pierre were partners in dealin’ in phony scrip.”
“No!” Katie shook her head furiously.
He shrugged, wrapping a strip of cloth around the tip of the stick and dipping it into the water. He rammed the wet rag through the gun barrel. “Suppose, then, that the partners had a fallin’ out. Maybe over money—more likely their woman.”
“Branch, stop this,” Katie interrupted. “You have it all wrong!”
He ignored her, continuing to speak as he plunged the makeshift ramrod through the other end of the Paterson’s barrel. “A government man was in the area looking for the counterfeiters. You told me earlier, my dear, that Steven Starr had a plan of how to deal with this phantom blackmailer.” Branch wiped the gun barrel dry and set it on the table. “Could be,” he drawled, “that in a scheme to double-cross his partner, Starr went to this agent and set up a trap. I know for a fact that the government agent moved to a farm near Nacogdoches a short while before he died.” Lifting an eyebrow, he asked, “Could have been your farm, right, Mrs. Starr?”
Katie pushed to her feet. “I won’t listen to any more of this. I can’t, not now, not today. Shaddoe brought news, Branch.”
Hearing the Cherokee’s name on her lips strained the tenuous hold Branch had on his temper. Viciously, he snapped, “He may as well have brought you the clap for all I care. I’ve got some questions and, by God, you’re gonna answer them.”
“No!” She swiped at the cluster of lead balls, and as she ran to her bedroom they scattered, rolling off the table and rapping against the puncheon floor. Branch left them where they lay and quickly cleaned and dried the Paterson’s cylinder. After coating the metal parts with bear oil, he reassembled and loaded the gun. Standing, he holstered both weapons and walked to the bedroom door.
She’d latched it. He kicked it open.
Katie stood at the window, peeking through the curtains, dressed in a dry chemise and drawers. A corset dangled from one hand.
Branch leaned casually against the splintered door jamb, his arms crossed, and spoke as though the conversation had never been interrupted. “The way I figure it,” he said, “is that Starr got caught in the teeth of his own trap. I’ve a notion you can tell me whether the agent was snared at the same time.”
Tears glittered in her eyes as she looked over her shoulder. In a weary voice, she asked, “What do you want to know, Branch?”
“This morning you told me that this nameless blackmailer killed your husband and daughter. Was anyone else with them?” He stepped into the room, stalking her like a predator after his prey. “Did another man die that night?”
“Yes.” She shut her eyes and her hand gripped the curtain. In a dry whisper, she said, “There was someone else. He’d been staying at the farm helping Steven. He was a carpenter.”
“No, he was land commissioner for the Republic. His name was Robert Garrett, and he’d come to East Texas to investigate rumors of fraud connected with the Matagorda Bay and Texas Land Company.”
“I didn’t know. He said he had family in the government—” Katie’s hand dropped to her side as she stiffened. A wild look entered her eyes. “A government man. You said you’d come here looking for the person who killed a government man!”
Branch moved closer. In a flat, cold voice, he said, “I came here looking for Rob Garrett’s murderer. I’ve found him.”
She swallowed visibly. “What are you saying, Branch?”
“I’m saying that your lover, Shaddoe St. Pierr
e, escaped the trap Steven Starr and Rob Garrett had set for him. I’m saying that your lover killed your husband and daughter. He killed my brother.”
“Y… Your brother?” Katie’s face blanched. “Mr. Garrett was your brother?”
He nodded curtly and reached for her, tracing the curve of her chin with his finger. “How does it feel, Kate, to know you’ve been bedding your daughter’s murderer?”
“No! I promise you, Shaddoe didn’t do it!” She shoved his hand away and pushed past him, crossing the room. She stood at the foot of the bed, a hand grasping the footboard. Her head bowed, she murmured, “Oh, God, he was your brother.”
Branch stepped toward her, the instinct to offer her comfort reflexive. But he stopped himself. Hell, how can I feel sorry for her? She deserves any grief she gets. Besides, whether or not she actually cheated on Steven Starr, she damn well cheated on me. “He’s a dead man, you know, your Cherokee.”
Katie looked up at him. “You plan to kill Shaddoe because you believe he killed your brother?”
“Among other things.”
For a long moment she looked at him, and a myriad of emotions flashed across her eyes. Then she gave a rueful laugh and pointed toward one of his guns. “You may as well take care of it, here and now.”
Branch fingered the Paterson’s handle. “The Cherokee’s at the inn?”
Katie squared her shoulders. Her tongue circled her lips as she drew a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “No. Not Shaddoe. I’m the person you want. I shot Robert Garrett.”
“What?” He stood still, his face a mask, but inside his chest a huge knot swelled. It took all his effort to draw a breath.
“I’m the one who shot your brother, Branch. But I had a good reason.”
His heart pounded, pumping ice-cold rage to every inch of his body. With blurring speed, he moved, grabbing her and shoving her onto the bed. Looming over her, he spat a vile curse and said flatly, “Let it go, Katie. You can’t save your Indian with your lies.”
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