Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty Read online

  THE KERRIGANS A Texas Dynasty

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J. A. Johnstone

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You had to do it, Miz Kerrigan,” Sheriff Miles Martin said, hat in hand. “He came looking for trouble.”

  Kate Kerrigan stood at her parlor window, stared into moon-dappled darkness, and said nothing.

  “I mean, he planned to rob you, and after you fed him, an’ all,” Martin said.

  Kate turned, a tall, elegant woman. Her once flaming red hair was now gray but her fine-boned, Celtic beauty was still enough to turn a man’s head.

  She smiled at Martin.

  “He planned to murder me, Miles. Cover his tracks, I guess.”

  “Where is Trace?” Martin said.

  “Out on the range, and so is his brother,” Kate said.

  “And Miss Ivy and Miss Shannon?”

  “My segundo’s wife is birthing a child. Doc Woodruff is off fly-fishing somewhere, so Ivy and Shannon went over to Lucy Cobb’s cabin to help. Lucy has already had three, so I don’t foresee any problems.”

  Then as though she feared she was tempting fate, Kate said in the lilting Irish brogue she’d never lost, “May Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the saints in heaven protect her this night.”

  “He was a city slicker,” Martin said.

  The sheriff, a drink of water with a walrus mustache and sad brown eyes, stood in front of the fire. He had a Colt self-cocker in his holster and a silver star pinned to the front of his sheepskin.

  The fall of 1907 had been cold and the winter was shaping up to be a sight worse.

  “He had the look of one,” Kate said.

  Martin looked uncomfortable and awkward, all big hands and spurred boots. He chose his words carefully, like a barefoot man walking through a nettle patch.

  “How did it happen, Miz Kerrigan? I need to ask.”

  “Of course, Miles,” Kate said. “Why don’t you sit and I’ll get you a brandy. Only to keep out the chill, you understand.”

  The big lawman sat gratefully in the studded, leather chair by the fire.

  “I’m right partial to brandy,” he said. “Warms a man’s insides, I always say.”

  Kate poured brandy in two huge snifters, handed one to Martin and settled herself in the chair opposite.

  The lawman thought she sat like a queen, and why not? Kate’s range was larger than some European kingdoms.

  Martin played for time.

  He produced the makings and said, “May I beg your indulgence, Ma’am?”

  “Please do. My son Quinn is much addicted to cigarettes, a habit he learned from our vaqueros who smoke like chimneys.”

  “Doctors say it’s good for the chest,” Martin said.

  “So I’ve heard, but I do not set store by what doctors say.”

  Kate sipped her brandy, and then stooped to poke the logs into life. She didn’t look up.

  “I’ve killed men before, Miles.”

  “I know, Miz Kerrigan, but I was trying to spare you a lot of fool questions.”

  The woman’s emerald green eyes fixed on Martin’s face.

  “I’ll tell you what happened here earlier this evening and you can ask your questions as you see fit.”

  The lawman nodded.

  “I’d given the servants the night off, and I was alone in the house when I heard a horse come to a halt outside.”

  “What time was that, Miz Kerrigan?”

  “It was seven o’clock. I was here, sitting by the fire eating the cold supper the cook had prepared for me, and heard the grandfather clock chime in the hallway. A few moments later a knock came to the door.”

  Kate’s blue silk day dress rustled as she sat back and made herself more comfortable.

  “I answered the summons and opened to a man, an ordinary looking fellow wearing an old dark jacket that was several sizes too large for him. He had no overcoat; the evening was cold and he shivered.

  “He said he was hungry and could I spare him a bite of food? Since I’d no kitchen staff available, I opened the door and let him come inside.”

  “That was a mistake, Miz Kerrigan,” Martin said.

  Kate smiled.

  “Miles, over the years I’ve let many men into this house. Geronimo once sat where you’re sitting. We had tea and cake and he wanted to talk about old Queen Vic.”

  The lawman stirred uncomfortably in his chair and glanced over his shoulder, as though he expected to see the old Apache’s ghost glowering at him from a corner.

  “Well, I led the way to the kitchen and the man followed me. He said his name was Tom and that he was looking for ranch work. He had the most singular eyes, rather mean and foxy, like those I used to see in some Texas gunmen back in the old days. I must admit, I did not trust him.”

  “You did right,” Martin said. “Not trusting him, I mean.”

  “Thank you, Miles. I’m sure your approval will stand me in good stead should you consider hanging me.”

  “Miz Kerrigan! I have no intention . . . I mean . . . I wouldn’t . . .”

  Kate gave the flustered lawman a dazzling smile.

  “There, there, Miles, don’t distress yourself. I’m certain the facts of the case will speak for themselves and banish all doubt from your mind.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sorry. Please proceed.”

  Martin was fifty years old and Kate Kerrigan could still make him blush.

  “I fixed the man some beef sandwiches, and indeed, he was as wolf hungry as he professed,” Kate said. “It was after he’d eaten heartily that things took a dangerous turn.”

  “Was the sugar scattered all over the kitchen floor part of it?” Martin said.

  “Indeed it was. A small sugar sack had been left on the counter by a careless maid and Tom, if that was really his name—”

  “It wasn’t,” Martin said.

  Kate looked at him in surprise.

  “Please go on, Miz Kerrigan,” the lawman said.

  “Well, the man jumped up, grabbed the sugar sack and threw the contents over the floor. He shoved the empty sack at me and said, ‘You, fill this. The jewels you’re wearing first.’”

  “‘Mister,’” I said, “‘I’ve been threatened by mor
e dangerous bad men than you.’”

  Martin reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a revolver.

  “Then he drew this on you.”

  Kate glanced at the gun.

  “Yes, that’s it, a Hopkins and Allen in thirty-two caliber. He said to fill the sack or he’d scatter my brains.”

  “Oh, Miz Kerrigan, you must have been terrified,” Martin said.

  Kate shook her head.

  “Miles, you’ve known me how long? Thirty years? You should remember by now I don’t scare easily.” She frowned. “And for God’s sake, call me Kate. You never called me anything else until I got this big house and eight hundred thousand acres of range to go with it.”

  Now it was the lawman’s turn to smile.

  “Kate it is, and you’re right, you never did scare worth a damn, beggin’ your pardon.”

  “I also used to cuss, Miles, before I became a lady.”

  “You were always a lady, Kate. Even when all you had to your name was a cabin and a milk cow and a passel of young ’uns.”

  Kate nodded.

  “Hard times in Texas back in those days after the war.”

  “We’ll wind it up,” Martin said. “It’s growing late and I’m only going through the motions anyhow.”

  “The fact remains that I killed a man tonight, Miles. It’s your duty to hear me out.”

  Kate rose, poured more brandy from the decanter into the lawman’s glass and then her own.

  She sat by the fire again and said, “When the man pointed the gun at me, I took off my necklace and bracelets and dropped them in the sack. He wanted my wedding ring, but I refused. When he looked at it and saw it was but a cheap silver band, he demanded the expensive stuff.

  “I told him I kept my jewelry in my bedroom and he told me to take him there. He also made an extremely crude suggestion and vowed he’d have his way with me.”

  “The damned rogue,” Martin said, his mustache bristling.

  “In my day I’ve heard worse than that, but right then I knew I was in real danger.”

  Kate’s elegant fingers strayed to the simple cross that now hung around her neck.

  “There’s not much left to tell, Miles. I played the petrified, hysterical matron to perfection and when we went upstairs I told the robber that my jewels were in my dresser drawer.”

  Kate smiled.

  “How often men are undone by their lusts. The wretch was so intent on unbuttoning the back of my dress that he didn’t see me reach into the dresser drawer and produce—not diamonds—but my old Colt forty-four.”

  “Bravo!” Martin said, lifting his booted feet off the rug and clicking his heels.

  “I wrenched away from him, leveled my revolver and ordered him to drop his gun. His face twisted into a most demonic mask and he cursed and raised his gun.”

  “The murderous rogue!” Martin said.

  “I fired,” Kate said. “John Wesley Hardin once told me to belly shoot a man and I’d drop him in his tracks. I followed Wes’s advice—the only bit of good advice he ever gave me or mine—and hit the bandit where a respectable man’s watch fob would have been.”

  “But he got off a shot,” Martin said. He reached into his pocket again and held up the spent .32. “Dug it out of your bedroom wall.”

  “Yes, he got off a shot but he was already a dead man. He dropped to the floor, groaned for a few moments and then all the life in him left.”

  “Kate, you’ve been through a terrible ordeal,” Martin said.

  “I’ve been through it before, Miles. The man who came here was intent on raping and robbing me. I fight to keep what is mine, whether it’s a diamond ring or a single head of cattle. I’ve hanged rustlers and other men who would threaten Ciarogan and as God as my witness I’ll do it again if I have to.”

  Sheriff Martin’s eyes revealed that he believed every word Kate had just said.

  He’d known some tough, fighting ranchers, but none even came close to Kate Kerrigan’s grit and determination.

  She’d built an empire, then held it against all comers, an amazon in petticoats.

  Martin built a cigarette and without looking up from the makings, he spoke.

  “His name was Frank Ross. He’d served five years of a life sentence in Huntsville for murder and rape when he killed a guard and escaped. He later murdered a farmer and his wife near Leesville and stole three dollars and a horse.”

  Martin lit his cigarette.

  “Then he came here.”

  “Miles, why didn’t you tell me all this before?” Kate said.

  “After what you’ve gone through, I didn’t want to alarm you.”

  Martin read the question on the woman’s face and shrank from the green fire in her eyes. She had an Irish temper, did Kate Kerrigan, and the sheriff wanted no part of it.

  “I got a wire a couple of days ago from the Leesburg marshal and he warned that Ross could come this way,” he said. “I never thought it could happen the way it did.”

  “It did happen,” Kate said.

  “Yes, Kate, I know, and I’m sorry.”

  Martin rose to his feet.

  “I’ll be going now. One of my deputies took the body away. You should know that. I’ll see myself out.”

  The big lawman stepped to the door, his spurs chiming.

  He stopped and said, “My respects to your fine family.”

  “And mine to Mrs. Martin.”

  Martin nodded.

  “I’ll be sure to tell her that.”

  Kate Kerrigan had defended herself and her honor, just another battle to stand alongside all the others that had gone before.

  But the killing of Frank Ross hung heavy on her, and she felt the need for closeness, to hold something her husband, dead so many years, had touched.

  All she had was the ring on her finger . . . and the letter that had begun it all.

  Kate walked to her office, unlocked the writing bureau, and took the worn, yellowed scrap of paper from a drawer.

  She returned to the parlor, poured herself brandy, and sat again by the ashy fire.

  After a while, she opened the letter and read it again for perhaps the thousandth time . . . the letter that had founded a dynasty.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In April 1862, on the eve of a battle that would pass into American legend, a barefoot Johnny Reb handed a sealed letter to another.

  “You’ll give it to her, Michael, give it into the hand of my Kate,” Joseph Kerrigan of Ireland’s green and fair County Sligo said.

  “And why would I, Joseph Kerrigan?” Michael Feeny said. “When you’ll be able enough to give it to her yourself.”

  Kerrigan, a handsome young man with eyes the color of a Donegal mist, shook his head.

  “That I will not,” he said. “Did you not hear it yourself in the night, out there among the pines?”

  “Hear what?” Feeny said, his puzzled face freckled all over like a sparrow’s egg.

  “The banshee, Michael. She screamed my name. Over and over again, coming from her skull mouth, my name . . . my name . . .”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and Saints Peter and Paul, it cannot be so, Joseph. You heard the wind in the trees, only the wind.”

  “You’ll give my Katherine the letter,” Kerrigan said. “She’s a strong woman and after she reads it she’ll know what to do. And tell her this also, that her husband fell fighting for a noble cause and brought no disgrace to his name.”

  “And it’s an ancient and honorable name you bear, Joseph Kerrigan, to be sure,” Feeny said. “You say you heard the banshee, and I will not call you a liar, but she screams for someone else, not you. Many men will die this day and the next.”

  “And I will number among them,” Kerrigan said.

  He shoved the folded letter into Feeny’s hands.

  “As you see it is sealed, Michael. Captain O’Neil used his own candle and impressed the molten wax with the signet off his finger. And why not, since I have no ring of my own and the captai
n’s bears the crest of Irish kings?”

  The two young soldiers marched together, the swaying, shambling, distance-eating tramp of the Confederate infantry.

  Their regiment, the 52nd Tennessee, was part of Braxton Bragg’s Second Corps of the Army of the Mississippi, and there wasn’t a man who shouldered a rifle that day who didn’t believe that he could take on the entire Yankee army by himself and send them running all the way across the Potomac.

  “I’m charging you with a great duty, Michael,” Kerrigan said. “Contained in that letter you bear so carelessly tells Katherine what she and our children must do to go on without me, and, if need be, where she can find help to do it.”

  Michael Feeny thrust the letter back toward Kerrigan.

  “No need for it,” he said. “Give it to her from your own hand when all this is done.”

  “When all this is done, I will be done as well,” Kerrigan said. “Think you, Michael, that the banshee cries for no reason?”

  “A man knows not the hour of his death, Joseph. If he could, what man would walk blindly into the path of a galloping carriage or cross a railroad track at the wrong moment?”

  Feeny doffed his kepi and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

  “The banshee is a demon, but God is with us, Joseph. Ah man, you will bear whatever message you have to your Katherine upon your own lips.”

  “It will not be, Michael. I have no desire to die on the field of honor, but I am confident that is my fate. But even so, I hope so very powerfully that I am wrong and you are right. Death is no boon companion whose company I seek.”

  Feeny grinned, and placed the kepi at a jaunty angle back on his head.

  “Remember this one?” he said.

  He tilted back his head and sang.

  “Oh, my name is George Campbell

  and at the age of eighteen

  I fought for old Erin her rights to maintain,

  And many a battle did I undergo,

  Commanded by that hero called General Munroe.”

  A big, grizzled soldier with corporal’s stripes tapped Feeny on the shoulder and grinned.

  “And didn’t we English stick his honor’s head on a pike at Lisburn castle?”

  “Aye you did, and be damned to ye,” Feeny said. “You should be marching for the Tyrant, Englishman, and not for the South.”