The Texan's Bride

THE TEXAN'S BRIDE

by

Geralyn Dawson

Copyright 1993 and 2012 by Geralyn Dawson

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder.

The Texan’s Bride is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.

Cover Design by CMW Design

Dedication

For Steve.

Thanks for the time, the understanding, and the support. You've shown me what a true Texan hero is all about
.

PROLOGUE

REPUBLIC OF TEXAS, 1843

ROB GARRETT LAY DYING. He knew it. He wanted it. But Dear Lord, why was it taking so long?

Unbearable pain radiated from his spine, eating through every inch of his body, searing his soul. Still, he remained conscious. Penance, perhaps.

He cradled the child to his chest. She was cold now, cold and still. Eternal sleep.
I’m sorry, Pumpkin. I tried. But the smoke. At least you were spared this
.

Fire. What irony. And Britt, nowhere near this time. He’d never know the score was settled.

Another wave of pain. He clenched his jaw against it.
Please, Lord, let me die
. Tears escaped his eyelids. Left a trail of salty pain down his cheeks. He smelled charred flesh.

What was that sound? His tortured eyes opened. Tried to focus. Recognized the face. White as the child in his arms. Then the gun. Praise God. A gun.

“Shoot me,” he begged, barely moving his lips. “Shoot…”

The baby was lifted from his arms. He watched the gun. “I tried to save her. She didn’t burn. I tried.”

Wide, blank eyes stared at him.

A voice spoke from somewhere beyond the face. A boy’s voice. Young. Scared. “He’s burnt bad,” he said. “All across his back and legs. I think we should do it, Katie.”

“Who did this?”

Oh, Lord, the pain
! His, hers. Words a mountain to climb. “No name. Pitchfork. Flames.”

The boy again. “He’s hurtin’ something awful.” “Please!” Rob begged. “I went after her. You owe me.”

He saw the barrel of the gun rise. Point straight at him. He smiled. Goodbye, Eleanor. Heard the click as the hammer cocked. Pa, the fire was my fault—not his. Closed his eyes. Sorry, Britt.
Crack
.

CHAPTER 1

REPUBLIC OF TEXAS, 1845

RIDING THROUGH THE VAST expanse of pine forest, Branch Kincaid failed to notice the black cloud rising above the horizon. Land fraud, murder, dusty dreams, and promises swirled in his thoughts. He broke from the trees at the crest of a hill just as the storm darkened the afternoon sun.

“Aw, hell,” he muttered, looking north. A smoky blue mist billowed across the land in front of the tempest. It tumbled forward like an ocean wave breaking on the shore and approached with ominous speed. He should have known it was coming.

For the past couple of days, the early January weather had been passing close to hot. When a cool breeze had awakened him this morning, he’d been so busy enjoying the change, he never considered the obvious—a blue norther headed his way.

He leaned into the horse and Striker lengthened his stride. “You’d think I was a greenhorn, the way I dawdled this morning,” Branch grumbled. Two days of oppressive, warm air, a few hours of chill—why any Texian who’d spent a single winter here knew what was bound to happen next. Damnation. What had he been thinking of?

Rob, of course. His older brother. His murdered brother. For almost as long as Branch could remember, Rob had been the fair-haired son of the Garrett clan. He had been the man who rode beside Sam Houston when Texas won her independence from Mexico. He had served the Republic as commissioner of the General Land Office, a position of power that reflected favorably upon the family.

While Branch struggled to survive, Rob married the woman Branch wanted and accepted the designation as sole heir to Riverrun, the family sugarcane plantation on which Branch was forbidden to step.

Now Hoss Garrett, grieving over the loss of a much loved son, found himself willing to do anything to punish his son’s killer, even offer reconciliation to the second son. All Branch had to do was find and dispense with a murderer, and he could go home to Riverrun.

Shrugging as a chill whipped over him, he grumbled, “So here I am, smackdab in the middle of East Texas, a good three miles from the inn where my investigation begins, and the weather is fixing to get colder than a witch’s kiss. Kincaid, you’re one damn fool Texian.”

The wind picked up, whistling through the trees. He urged Striker even faster. Reaching behind his back, he fumbled with the strap on his saddle pack. Once he opened the leather bag, he felt inside for the coarse texture of his blanket coat. He yanked the coat out, knocking a tin of tobacco to the ground.

Branch cursed but kept on riding. Shelter seemed more important than a smoke right now. The mist bounded toward him, and he slipped the brightly colored poncho over his head. The wool had absorbed the tobacco’s woodsy scent, and the aroma teased him before being swept away by the numbing blast of cold air that suddenly enveloped him.

Within moments, he was chilled to the bone.

The wind shrieked against man and horse; they fought for every step. Branch yelled an exceptionally vile curse as the gale whipped his favorite wide-brimmed felt hat from his head and carried it south.

He looked above and saw that the edges of the tumultuous storm were tinged in green. Well, that’s a little better, he thought. By the looks of it, this promised to be a typical blue norther. Although they appeared pretty nasty coming at you, clouds like this rarely held any moisture. “Maybe this is the worst of it, old boy,” he told the horse through dry, chapped lips. “At least we won’t get wet.”

The howling wind captured his brittle laugh when he felt the first bite of sleet on his face. His ears ached and tears blew in wrinkles across his temples.
I reckon this is a fitting way to arrive at Gallagher’s
, he thought. He’d been ice inside anyway since his father’s messenger had found him at the South Texas ranch where he’d been working.

Finally he caught the scent of burning cedar and saw a glow of light filter through the trees signaling road’s end. With renewed strength, he and Striker pushed for Gallagher’s Tavern and Travelers Inn.

The barn door groaned against the wind as Branch pulled it open. Light spilled into the structure through the open doorway. He counted nine horses tied wherever room allowed, with probably the ugliest mare he’d seen in his life occupying the single enclosed stall. “Waste of good space,” he said, shaking his head.

The animals stirred when he led Striker into the barn. “Barely enough room to turn around in here,” Branch grumbled. Without hesitation he moved the mare, tying her to a support post. Striker deserved the best accommodations available.

The big dun was Branch’s truest friend. Striker had helped him out of more tight places than there were Indians in the Llano Estacado. He owed the horse his life, and he never forgot it.

Quickly he uncinched the girth and pulled the saddle from Striker’s back. He used a blanket lying in one corner of the enclosure to rub down the horse. After adding more oats to the bucket hanging in the stall, Branch left the barn to seek his own comfort

Hunching his shoulders against the elements, he trudged the short distance to the inn. When he pulled the door open, a gust of wind yanked it from his numbed fingers. The door banged against the log wall, and a good measure of the storm blew past him into the room.

A voice rang out above the clatter of tankards and whiskey-pitched conversations. “Shut the door, mister. We’d just as soon keep the weather on the outside if you don’t mind.”

Branch was tired and hungry. One thing he didn’t want right now was to listen to some smart-mouthed fool. He shut the door and turned with a caustic remark on the tip of his tongue.

He swallowed his words, choking.

The source of the carping voice carried two dead squirrels by the tail, stood all of five foot tall, and wore a high necked, long-sleeved calico dress that stretched tight across a positively bodacious bosom.

Branch stood there, staring at the barmaid. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, “but couldn’t you turn a blue norther red hot, little honey.” He wouldn’t mind a bit scorching some sheets with her a little later.

She glared at him through narrowed, bluebonnet colored eyes. A flush crept over highly placed cheekbones, painting her fair skin an appealing pink beneath the light dusting of freckles. A long auburn braid fell over a shoulder. She tightened her full lower lip into an angry frown.

I wonder what’s rattled her slats
, Branch thought as his gaze swept her body before lifting to fasten on her chest. A blaze of lust melted the norther’s chill from his bones. Plenty of curves for such a tiny package.

He was somewhat surprised at his reaction to this little bundle of femininity. He’d not dallied with a tavern chippy in years. Although never a man to shut his eyes when offered a spectacular view, he’d always looked for more in a woman than mere physical appeal. In this case, however, he desired to search no farther than the obvious set of features that even now approached.

A slow grin spread across his face as she walked toward him. He never lifted his stare above her neck.
I do believe I’d rather watch her walk than eat fried chicken
, he decided.

She stopped less than an arm’s length away. He vaguely noticed the tapping sound her foot made against the puncheon floor; he was fascinated by the effect such a movement created.

She caught him completely by surprise and square in the face when she slapped him with the two dead squirrels.

“Thunder in the valley, woman!” Branch raged. He backed up a step and wiped his face with a corner of his coat. The blasted squirrels left something wet behind.

She dropped the animals and, with hands on hips, moved forward. He felt the wall against his back. Why, she wasn’t the least bit cowed by his bellow, he realized. Male pride reasserting itself, he put his hands on his hips and leaned forward. Glaring down at her upturned face, he growled through clenched teeth. “What in Sam Houston’s name do you think you’re doing?”

She punctuated her words with a surprisingly powerful jab to his chest with her index finger. “I think, mister, that you had best keep your eyes to yourself, or you’ll be back out in the sleet looking about as healthy as these squirrels.”

Branch shook his head in amazement. Nobody, especially not a hundred-pound little-bit, had dared to pull a stunt like this on him since his voice stopped cracking.

The only sound he heard was the slurping of ale as the occupants of the room watched the confrontation with rapt attention. He wondered what would happen if he gave the tiny termagant what she so obviously needed. He decided to settle for less, for now. What he had in mind required more privacy than the tavern presently offered.

He brought his right hand to his chest, rubbing the spot she had stabbed. His left hand snaked out to grab her wrist. Angry blue eyes widened at his action, and trepidation glimmered across her face. So she does have some sense after all, he thought, and grinned.

He looked deep into her eyes. Loosening his grip, he slid his hand over hers in a gentle caress until he held only her fingertips. He bowed low and pressed a honeyed kiss to the back of her hand. “I humbly beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said in a loud voice. “I fear the bitter cold must have affected my sense. I acted the rogue and I apologize.”

She tugged on her hand but he held it tight. In a lowered voice only she could hear, he continued, “One thing though, Sprite. From here on out,
I
do all the pokin’.”

With a gasp, she yanked her hand away as though burned. She whirled and darted toward the exit. Branch laughed aloud when she stopped short at the doorway, turned, and marched back to retrieve her squirrels. With her perky nose high in the air, she flounced outside, not even bothering to don a cloak. The door slammed behind her.

“That was a right gentlemanly apology, boyo.” The voice, a curious blend of Irish brogue and Southern drawl, boomed over the noise that again filled the tavern. A grizzled man stood behind an oak bar that ran half the length of the room. He gestured for Branch to approach, then placed a shot of whiskey before him. “Welcome to Gallagher’s,” he said. “The first one’s on the house, on account of your reception.”

Branch laughed. “I’ve been greeted at the door with dinner before,” he said, “but never quite like that.” He drained the whiskey in one gulp and signaled for another. For a travelers’ inn in Texas, the liquor wasn’t half-bad.