Brides of Texas

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  “Must’ve been the way you basted the rabbit with your songs. You surely can sing. It was a pure pleasure sitting and listening to you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gregor.”

  “You look bone weary, lass. Sleep. I’ll have one last cup of coffee and hit my bedroll, too.”

  Kathryn nodded and sidled over to her bedroll. While he’d been busy dressing the rabbit, she’d laid out their bedrolls—one on either side of the fire. Now she sat down and tentatively lifted her arms, removed all of the hairpins, and let her hair uncoil. She dragged the brush through the heavy tresses, then swiftly wove them into a single, fat braid to keep her hair from tangling during the night. That done, she opened her quilt, laid down, and flipped half of it back over herself. She didn’t know if she could ever fall asleep. At least I have his Bowie knife.

  It took Kathryn a long while to coast off. Chris angled his stance so he could see her. Working in the mines taught him a man had to prepare for the unexpected. That being the case, he made a habit of carrying a knife up his left sleeve. Duncan had created a clever sheath that lay hidden there. Wren remained blissfully ignorant about it, so she’d finally fallen asleep. Even in her sleep, she clutched his knife. Puir wee lass.

  He looked closer and scowled. Shivers wracked her frame. He got a second blanket from the buckboard and carefully sneaked over to her.

  The softest, sweetest smile he’d ever seen tilted her lips when the extra weight descended. Chris fought the urge to hunker down and run the backs of his fingers down her cheek. He wanted to touch her hair, too. When she’d taken it down, he’d almost choked on his coffee. All twisted up in that stingy schoolmarm bun, it wasn’t worth a second look; but hanging loose and free, it took a man’s breath away. Abundant tresses flowed in luscious waves clear down to her hips, and the firelight brought out golden highlights. She had no notion how stunning her hair was. If she did, she’d have worn it in a softer, more inviting style—one that tempted a man to steal a quick touch but still prim enough that he’d have to concoct an excuse like a piece of fuzz or a speck of dust. She’d smile her thanks, and he’d melt.

  Then Chris reconsidered. Maybe Wren knew how beautiful her hair was and hid it away, just as she dressed in a homely mud-brown dress to downplay her appeal. With a man like Hepplewhite bothering her, she might have hoped looking drab would discourage any attention.

  In his line of work, he’d seen all sorts of people assume disguises. It took a lot to throw him off, but she’d succeeded. Beyond her ugly dress and hairstyle, beneath the dark circles under her eyes and timid ways, Kathryn Regent possessed a natural beauty. Without the thick spectacles, her eyes were an incredible color—one that drew a man closer and enticed him to examine their depths. Yes, the little wren was far more than her plumage promised.

  As he did when on the trail, Chris dozed very lightly. Whenever he lifted his head to check on her, she was in the very same place. The poor thing was so exhausted, she didn’t have the strength to toss and turn. He’d tell Mercy and Carmen to make sure to feed her well and make her take naps.

  Moving quietly, Chris broke camp as the sun rose. Letting Miss Regent have an extra bit of sleep wouldn’t hurt anything. Hazy beams peeped over the rock, filtered down, and kissed her awake. The wisps of her hair that broke free during the night coiled in a nimbus, and the golden light turned them into a buttery halo. Sleepy eyed, she looked up at him, then scrambled to her feet.

  “Good morning, Miss Regent. We’ve a long day’s travel ahead of us.”

  “Good morning.” A fetching blush filled her cheeks as she bent, shook out her blankets, and folded them.

  Her bashful nature gave her a certain maidenly appeal. What am I thinking? I dinna care how sweet and innocent the lass is, I’m not about to be tied down.

  “I’ll refill the canteens.”

  “I’ve already seen to that and watered Nero. Here. Eat up.” He pushed a wedge of cheese and a chunk of bread into her hands.

  “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

  “You’ll eat, regardless.” He glowered at her.

  Wren gave him a disgruntled look. “You’re going to hound me until I eat this, aren’t you? Of course you are. Why did I bother to ask?”

  “The better question is—why don’t you take better care of yourself?”

  “I can’t very well talk and eat at the same time.” She took a bite.

  Chris threw back his head and chortled. “I never imagined beneath your prim and proper ways you had a feisty streak.”

  After swallowing, she started to lift the cheese to her mouth. “In Scotland, don’t they quote the maxim of not judging a book by its cover?” Straight, white teeth sank into the cheese.

  If a little witty repartee would make her eat, Chris was more than willing. He crooked a brow. Just in case she couldn’t see him well enough, he teased, “Whoever made up that saying never saw those dime novels. The cover is just as absurd as the contents.”

  “Mmm.” The corners of her mouth tilted upward. “You have to have read some of them to be able to speak with such authority.”

  “If this were a court of law, I’d have to plead guilty to the charge.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And you, Miss Regent? Have you indulged in frittering away time reading them?”

  “No.” She ate another bite.

  Something about her tone made him suspect she hadn’t told the truth. “Now how did you manage to step outside the courtroom?”

  “You were in that pretend courtroom. I wasn’t.”

  “Feeling sassy, are you? Well, well.” He smirked. “I’ve attended some trials. If people don’t want to appear but they’re forced to be witnesses, they’re called hostile witnesses. I’m now dragging you into my courtroom, Miss Regent.”

  “That’s not very gentlemanly of you.”

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole—”

  “I beg your pardon!” She didn’t look in the least bit upset. Instead, her eyes sparkled and her smile grew. “I’m a lady. Ladies do not swear.”

  He refrained from mentioning that ladies didn’t speak with their mouths full of breakfast. After all, the whole notion of him standing here, goading her, was so he’d be sure she ate—and she was. “Then promise you’ll be honest.”

  “Sir, you wound me, implying I might be dishonest. If you wouldn’t believe me in times past, how could you possibly give weight to my words now?”

  “If you ever give up on being a seamstress, you might think about becoming an attorney.”

  “Never. I wouldn’t want to have to deal with the unsavory types. But I will confess, I’ve read some of the dime novels. They span from insipid to inspired.”

  “We—” He went silent as the sound of hooves in the distance reached him.

  “Yes?” She looked at him expectantly.

  “Someone’s coming.” Chris strode over, grabbed her by the arm, and tucked her into a small cleft in the boulder. “Stay there and dinna make a sound.” He turned away and grimaced. Even if Wren obeyed his edict, the riders might still spot the buckboard. Dogtail was by far the nearest town, and from the direction the riders were coming, Chris feared that was their destination. Lord, let me be wrong. Let these be good people, or at least let them pass by on the other side of the boulders. I brought the lass out here, and I’m responsible for her. Just in case, he reached for his weapon.

  Three men stopped on the other side of the boulders. Chris silently thanked the Lord for the wind—it had caused him to camp on this side of the rocks, had obliterated any footprints he might have left, and had long since blown away any lingering scent of food or fire.

  “Let’s see what we got,” one of the men said.

  Three of them. I have the element of surprise. But I’ve got the woman. If something happens, she’ll be at their mercy.

  “Money’s easy to divvy up. The rest—well, I reckon whatever each of us took, we ought to keep.”

  “Listen up, kid. You get what the boss decides. Ge
t it?”

  “Sure.” After a short pause, the young voice added, “I’ve never had a timepiece.”

  “You fancy this one?” another voice asked.

  “Unh-huh. Wow. Thanks.”

  A gunshot echoed off the rocks. Wren’s scream mingled with it.

  Wren clapped a hand over her mouth, but she knew it was too late. She’d given away their presence. One of the men on the other side of the rocks just killed his partner in cold blood. From the voices, she thought there were three of them, but she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t tell where Mr. Gregor was either.

  She huddled behind the bush and prayed she’d go undetected. Just to back up her plan, she carefully slipped her fingers into the pocket of her dress and withdrew the tiny pocket derringer.

  For a split second, she clutched it to her bosom. Wren couldn’t help but wonder if she’d loaded it correctly. After all, she’d read the instructions countless times by the flickering light of her barely lit lantern. She’d gotten the tiny weapon from Mama after Papa died. Mama told her it was a ladies’ gun, so he wouldn’t have objected.

  Now, though, she’d have to use it. How could she shoot another human being? How could she even manage to aim the weapon? Without her spectacles, she was virtually blind.

  Curses filled the air. They came closer, too. Kathryn ducked down and pressed as far back into the cleft as she could. Gunshots fired from above her. Others came from several yards in front of her. At the same time a body tumbled from the rocks and landed mere feet from her, another man shot from around the side of the rocks. From the pause in gunfire, Wren assumed Chris was reloading his weapon. He’d stepped in to defend her. She could do no less. Her hands shook so badly, she couldn’t hold the derringer. Wren threw herself down on her stomach and rested both elbows on the hard ground to steady her hand.

  The man sidled around the rocks and stood close enough that she saw a star shape branded into the leather on the side of his boot. Kathryn looked upward, saw badly worn trousers, a dirty plaid shirt, and a face that was too far away to focus upon distinctly. The sound of his pistol cocking made her blood run cold, and she shuddered. The action discharged her weapon.

  “Whelan!” Chris fired as he shouted.

  The man shot back, but just as he did, he jerked to the side and began to fall. His loud, raw words made it clear he wasn’t near death. He tumbled to the side and pulled the trigger, but the empty sound tattled he’d used all his ammunition.

  “His gun’s empty!” Wren cried out.

  Chris shouted, “Wren, get back!”

  “Wren?” Whelan scrambled away. Mere seconds later, a horse galloped off.

  Chris charged toward her. He halted briefly to confirm the other man was dead, then reached Kathryn’s side. He grabbed her by the arms. “Are you hurt?”

  Tears slid down her cheeks.

  He shook her gently. “Lass, are you all right?”

  Eyes swimming with tears, she looked at him and lifted her right hand. She rotated it a bit, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Her hand started to shake, so he peeled the tiny vest-pocket derringer from her fingers and tucked it into his belt.

  “So that’s why he flinched and missed me.”

  “Dead.”

  “Nae, lass. You dinna kill him.” He stayed close. “There’s blood on the ground. I probably got him. I know you did, too. I canna say for certain ‘twill keep him occupied. Whelan might double back on us. I’m getting you out of here.”

  Wren shook her head. Her voice quavered but still held conviction. “He won’t come back.”

  “You canna be sure.”

  “His gun was empty.” Gregor’s a bounty hunter. Her shaking grew worse. “I shot him.”

  “Aye.”

  Her knees gave out on her. I shot my brother.

  Chapter 5

  Wren huddled under her shawl next to Chris on the seat of the buckboard. Two horses plodded along, tied to the back of the wagon where Wren couldn’t see them. A dead body was draped over each saddle. Chris scanned the landscape. The road with virtually no good ambush points led to the nearest town: Dogtail.

  Once again, Chris assessed the situation. If Miss Regent weren’t so rattled, he’d gladly leave all her possessions behind. As for the thieves—dead was dead. Taking care of the living rated as the priority here. He longed to dump off one of the bodies, put her on the horse, and ride like the wind. He couldn’t. The poor lass would fall right out of the saddle.

  “Whelan.” The name came out in a low, angry rasp. He’d been tracking the man ever since Connant was slain. If he didn’t have Wren along, he’d have followed the outlaw and apprehended him. As it was, all he had were two bags of loot and a pair of dead bodies.

  And a witness. Wren would be able to testify that the men had brought the loot. But could she identify Whelan? “Wren, you saw Whelan.”

  She shuddered. “I couldn’t see his face.”

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  “The man fell.” Her voice quavered. “He was dead.”

  “Aye.” He frowned at her pallor, then patted her. “But we’re alive. ’Twas either them or us. They started the shooting.” His words should have given her comfort, but it would probably take some time for a delicate lady to get over the shock of seeing a dead body fall within a few feet of her.

  Whelan got away, but Wren would be a neutral witness who could at least connect him to the stolen goods. Pitiful as that charge was, if he’d killed anyone to gain those possessions, the connection would prove vital in court. “The one who got away—Whelan. What else did you see?”

  “I didn’t have my glasses.”

  “I’ll help you get some spectacles right away. Aye, I will. You willna feel so lost and helpless then. In the meantime, I’ll help you. I need your help, too. Was there anything else you did make out?”

  “Just blue jeans. And boots.”

  His breath caught. “Was there anything special about his boots? Plain, or any designs?”

  “Plain. Only one star,” she said in a vague tone.

  “A star? You’re positive of that, Wren?” The star on Whelan’s boot was a trademark piece of evidence. Lawmen knew about it, but they didn’t let common folk know. It was the sort of thing, if blabbed about, would make Whelan shed his boots. “What did it look like? How big?”

  Her hand shook as she lifted it. Holding her thumb and forefinger apart about two inches, she said thickly, “This big.”

  Whelan’s boot. Clear as could be. “Tell me anything else you saw and heard.”

  “I shot him.” She doubled over, as if in agony, and shook her head.

  He took off his bandanna, folded it, and poured water from the canteen on it. “You feeling sick?”

  She moaned.

  “You’ll be feelin’ better soon. Sure you will,” he soothed as he brushed several darling little curls from her nape, then pressed the cool cloth to her soft flesh. “The day’s turning hotter than the hinges of Hades. This’ll help. Just keep your head down for a few minutes and breathe slow and deep. Slow and deep. There you go. Take your time. When you’re ready, you can tell me more of what happened.”

  After taking a few shaky breaths, she said, “I don’t want to talk about it. When we get to a town, I’ll speak with the marshal.”

  “Whelan and his gang killed a dear friend of mine. I’m longing to get him.”

  She nodded slowly and tried to straighten up.

  He continued to apply pressure to keep her head down. Judging from her extreme pallor, he was sure she’d faint dead away if he let her up too soon. “So you know it’s Whelan.”

  “You called his name, Mr. Gregor.” She turned her face toward him and opened her eyes. They’d darkened to pools of blue anguish. The bandanna slithered away, and he glided his hand down to her shoulder and drew her upright. She started to tremble again, so he nudged her into resting her cheek on his chest.

  “Worse, I called your name,” he confessed grimly. “Wren is, unfortunately,
a unique name. He’s shrewd. Once he overhears someone mention you, he’ll be able to track you down. I’ve put you in terrible danger.”

  “No one will talk about me. I’m utterly forgettable.”

  Chris snorted at that proclamation. Less than twenty-four hours after meeting her, he’d come to realize little Wren wasn’t at all what she masqueraded as. Just scratching the surface showed her to be intelligent, well-spoken, and resourceful. A good cook and a fine seamstress. Pretty, too. Some man was going to get a prize when he wed her. If I can capture Whelan before he finds her.

  “From now on you’re Katie, not Wren. Not even Kathryn. Are you understanding me?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Aye, and I’ll be sure you learn how to fire a rifle.” His brows knit with a sudden realization. “You lied to me!”

  Looking indignant, she huffed back, “I did not!”

  “You said you didn’t handle firearms.”

  Blinking at him, she tilted her head. “Mr. Gregor, I told you I didn’t touch men’s weapons. We were discussing rifles, and I assure you, I haven’t touched a rifle. I’ve not lifted any other pistol, either. Mama specifically purchased the derringer as it was listed as a ladies’ firearm.”

  “I imagine a derringer, however small, can still kill a man. Why draw distinctions? If it shoots bullets, it’s deadly.”

  Katie blanched. Her eyes went wide with shock, and her lips began to quiver. “Mr. Gregor, do you think my bullet might kill Whelan?”

  “Only if we pray real hard.”

  Her face twisted with revulsion. “I couldn’t ever think to pray for the death of any soul!”

  “I figured as much. Tell me, though—just what were you aiming at when you fired the gun at Whelan?”

  She blanched.

  No one in her right mind aimed a gun, fired it, and hoped the bullet wouldn’t do any damage. She was plumb crazy. No, not plumb crazy, the voice in the back of his mind corrected, just very tenderhearted. He steeled himself with a gusty breath and asked in a voice he considered to be remarkably conversational and restrained, “Miss Regent, gunshots can be—and often are—fatal. What possessed you to draw a weapon if you didn’t plan to inflict damage?”