drinking at Gallagher’s Tavern outside of Nacogdoches. I propose we direct this evening’s efforts against that establishment. Although I have a course of action in mind, I will consider any ideas you may have on this subject.”
Hissing like a nest of copperheads, the Regulators whispered among themselves. As different kinds of punishment were proposed to their chief, the noise level rose. The snakes loved violence.
Listening to the talk. Keeper began to feel like one of the vipers had decided to crawl down his spine and settle in his belly. He knew the Gallaghers; they seemed to be fine folks. Being as how him and Daniel were of an age, he’d talked to the fella a couple of times in town. You had to respect a body that learned to shoot a slingshot so good using just one hand and his teeth. And the lady—she once bought him a peppermint down at the mercantile.
Overhearing what a couple of the more unsavory Regulators whispered about among themselves, Keeper considered retching. He’d seen that kind of stuff go on when he still lived with his mama at The Mansion of Joy. Miz Katie didn’t deserve that.
He chewed the inside of his cheek as the vote was taken. Still, he knew he had to vote with Strickland. As Moorman directed a fifteen-man squad to don their hoods and head north, Keeper figured that things could’ve been worse. Burning and beating’s better than killing. It was just too damn bad about Miz Katie.
THE THUDDING rattle of hooves on the mud-packed road chased away the serenity of early morning in the forest. With ears pinned back, the mare listened to the words of encouragement crooned by the rider, stretching, seeking to hold her lead.
The dun pulled beside her, his nostrils flared and sides heaving with exertion. For the space of three ground eating strides they ran even, the back-and-forth rhythm of the headlong gallop placing first one, and then the other, ahead at the nod.
Suddenly, as though he’d been toying with the mare all along, the dun charged ahead, a flash of black and gold, and his rider’s victorious shout thundered into the pale Texas sky.
Katie Starr muttered an unladylike oath. “Branch Kincaid, I’ll beat you yet.”
Slowing Pretty Girl to a canter and then to a walk, Katie followed reluctantly as Branch turned off the road onto a path that led to a bluff overlooking the Angelina River. Branch swung from the saddle and stood beside Striker, rubbing the gelding’s glistening neck.
He turned to her, eyes alight with victory—and something else. He gifted her with a courtly bow. “I believe the forfeit was a kiss, milady.”
“You cheated,” Katie declared as she slid from Pretty Girl’s back.
A mock expression of pain sprawled across Branch’s face. “You wound me, madam. ’Twas a contest fairly won. Fie on your attempt to cast aspersions upon my honesty.”
“Oh, hobble your lip, Kincaid. I had you beat from the start. That course you marked was a good bit longer than half a mile, and Striker caught Pretty Girl at the dogwood, well past the distance we should have run.”
Katie hated losing, and his blatant delight only made things worse. She sulked, trying to figure how to avoid settling the bet, distracted all the while by the way his shirt clung to his sweaty back.
They walked briskly, giving their mounts a chance to cool. Below them, occasional ripples disturbed the rusty colored surface of the slow-flowing Angelina as bream surface-fed on midges. In the trees, titmice whistled peter peter peter .
A gentle peace stole over Katie. “I was foolish agreeing to your terms,” she admitted. “You and Striker are well matched.” He had fooled her by repeatedly refusing to accept her almost-daily challenge, and it wasn’t until she upped the wager that he had agreed to race.
Now she owed him a kiss.
She gave him a sidelong glance. Toned and tapered, he worked on her senses like a spinster’s dream. She wanted to touch him. She swallowed hard and chewed
Hissing like a nest of copperheads, the Regulators whispered among themselves. As different kinds of punishment were proposed to their chief, the noise level rose. The snakes loved violence.
Listening to the talk. Keeper began to feel like one of the vipers had decided to crawl down his spine and settle in his belly. He knew the Gallaghers; they seemed to be fine folks. Being as how him and Daniel were of an age, he’d talked to the fella a couple of times in town. You had to respect a body that learned to shoot a slingshot so good using just one hand and his teeth. And the lady—she once bought him a peppermint down at the mercantile.
Overhearing what a couple of the more unsavory Regulators whispered about among themselves, Keeper considered retching. He’d seen that kind of stuff go on when he still lived with his mama at The Mansion of Joy. Miz Katie didn’t deserve that.
He chewed the inside of his cheek as the vote was taken. Still, he knew he had to vote with Strickland. As Moorman directed a fifteen-man squad to don their hoods and head north, Keeper figured that things could’ve been worse. Burning and beating’s better than killing. It was just too damn bad about Miz Katie.
THE THUDDING rattle of hooves on the mud-packed road chased away the serenity of early morning in the forest. With ears pinned back, the mare listened to the words of encouragement crooned by the rider, stretching, seeking to hold her lead.
The dun pulled beside her, his nostrils flared and sides heaving with exertion. For the space of three ground eating strides they ran even, the back-and-forth rhythm of the headlong gallop placing first one, and then the other, ahead at the nod.
Suddenly, as though he’d been toying with the mare all along, the dun charged ahead, a flash of black and gold, and his rider’s victorious shout thundered into the pale Texas sky.
Katie Starr muttered an unladylike oath. “Branch Kincaid, I’ll beat you yet.”
Slowing Pretty Girl to a canter and then to a walk, Katie followed reluctantly as Branch turned off the road onto a path that led to a bluff overlooking the Angelina River. Branch swung from the saddle and stood beside Striker, rubbing the gelding’s glistening neck.
He turned to her, eyes alight with victory—and something else. He gifted her with a courtly bow. “I believe the forfeit was a kiss, milady.”
“You cheated,” Katie declared as she slid from Pretty Girl’s back.
A mock expression of pain sprawled across Branch’s face. “You wound me, madam. ’Twas a contest fairly won. Fie on your attempt to cast aspersions upon my honesty.”
“Oh, hobble your lip, Kincaid. I had you beat from the start. That course you marked was a good bit longer than half a mile, and Striker caught Pretty Girl at the dogwood, well past the distance we should have run.”
Katie hated losing, and his blatant delight only made things worse. She sulked, trying to figure how to avoid settling the bet, distracted all the while by the way his shirt clung to his sweaty back.
They walked briskly, giving their mounts a chance to cool. Below them, occasional ripples disturbed the rusty colored surface of the slow-flowing Angelina as bream surface-fed on midges. In the trees, titmice whistled peter peter peter .
A gentle peace stole over Katie. “I was foolish agreeing to your terms,” she admitted. “You and Striker are well matched.” He had fooled her by repeatedly refusing to accept her almost-daily challenge, and it wasn’t until she upped the wager that he had agreed to race.
Now she owed him a kiss.
She gave him a sidelong glance. Toned and tapered, he worked on her senses like a spinster’s dream. She wanted to touch him. She swallowed hard and chewed
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