The Loyal Heart

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  Immediately, Mr. Winter looked down to his hands, which were now clutching the crumpled bills. After smoothing them out, he began counting them, all in lightning-quick motions. After writing the amount in a ledger, he tore off a receipt. “Here you are. Sir.”

  “I’m glad we understand each other now.” Robert took it, then turned back to Miranda, who was perched on the edge of one of the dark wooden chairs. “Mrs. Markham, are you ready to leave now?”

  “Yes, I am.” She rose gracefully, then took his elbow. She looked wary, but her eyes were shining.

  Robert wondered if that new gleam was from happiness, unshed tears, or amusement. He hoped it was the latter. He would like to think she had enjoyed seeing that little worm of a teller finally get his comeuppance.

  As he guided her out of the ornate building, Robert didn’t look at the teller again. He didn’t make eye contact with any of the men and women who had been eavesdropping curiously.

  But most important, he made sure not to look at Miranda. There was only so much a man could handle at any one moment. He wanted to enfold her in his arms and promise that she would never be treated so shabbily again.

  Furthermore, he knew if he saw that it wasn’t amusement shining in her eyes but new pain, he would be very tempted to go back into that building and punch that teller for his insolence.

  But that was not what she needed. She needed a protector, not a bully. And for her to accept his protection, she needed to first trust him. That meant he couldn’t do anything to make her fear him.

  He couldn’t afford to do that. She couldn’t afford that.

  When they stepped outside, the cold air slapped their cheeks, making his eyes water and, as he saw when he finally looked down at her, her skin flush.

  He wished he had a soft scarf to wrap around her.

  She paused on the steps and breathed in deeply.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Markham?”

  As she turned to him, he noticed her eyes were no longer shining but were a clear blue. “I believe I am. Thank you for what you did in there. Mr. Winter has always been rude, but he has never said such things to me before.”

  “You never need to thank me for defending your honor.”

  “He looked browbeaten.”

  He wished he could have simply beaten the man. “Mr. Winter was insolent and disrespectful. He needed to be reminded of his manners.”

  “I believe you did that.”

  He couldn’t resist smiling. “I think so too.” He gestured toward the street. “Shall we?”

  She nodded, leaning into him when he rearranged his hands so one was resting on her back while the other was gripping her elbow.

  He liked how she was depending on him to help her.

  He probably liked it too much.

  But at times like this, he missed the easy retribution that he’d learned on the streets of Ft. Worth. There, violence wasn’t a last resort; it was the norm. Men didn’t hold their tongues; they spoke their minds and made sure each word was sharp.

  Reputation was everything, and a healthy dose of intimidation was often employed.

  He had known that life and had been good at it. Robert also realized right then and there that if there came a time to unleash his baser qualities, he would look forward to it.

  Perhaps far too much.

  4

  FROM THE TIME HE’D RETURNED MIRANDA TO HER HOME, Robert fumed about his visit to the bank with her. At first, he’d been so angry about Winter’s treatment of her that he’d been tempted to return to the bank and show the man what happened when someone was rude to a woman Robert cared about.

  Just imagining how good it would feel to knock some sense into the clerk had made Robert smile. But of course, no doubt Miranda would not appreciate the use of such violence on her behalf.

  He made do with going for a long walk before supper, stopping and chatting with assorted passersby on the Strand and around the port. He’d learned a great many things about the island, its part in the war—and the rumors swirling about Phillip Markham and his widowed bride.

  After supper, when Miranda had actually apologized for making him witness her abuse, he’d gotten angry all over again. He’d paced back and forth in his room, silently fuming. Over and over Robert reminded himself that he was no longer a daredevil soldier in the wilds of Arkansas. Instead, he was a gentleman whom Miranda needed to trust. That helped a bit, though punching a hole in the wall or ripping something into shreds was tempting.

  Now, in the dim, winter morning light, Robert realized what the correct course of action needed to be. He needed to write that letter to Captain Monroe.

  With a new intent, he sat down at the small corner desk, dipped his quill into ink, and began. After writing a few lines about his travels and the state of Miranda’s boardinghouse, he got to his point.

  The situation here is beyond disturbing, sir. In fact, it borders on disbelief. The woman is treated like a pariah. She is avoided by practically every man and woman in the city, both because of rumors that Phillip was a traitor and because they think her boardinghouse is not a respectable establishment, though it most certainly is. It is as if everyone feels the need to make sure she is held in contempt, which makes no sense. Phillip told me she was from a good family and that their courtship, while impetuous, was not out of the ordinary.

  He paused, letting his quill drip ink onto the corner of his paper. Only a quick dab of blotting paper prevented it from bleeding onto the rest of the page.

  After reviewing what he’d written and being satisfied that he was neither exaggerating nor presenting Miranda Markham’s situation too lightly, he continued.

  Furthermore, from what I understand, no one has any true knowledge of what Phillip Markham actually did other than “giving the enemy secrets.” It’s all innuendo and veiled accusations. However, those allegations have already done terrible damage to our friend’s reputation.

  He gripped the quill, holding it so tightly he feared he was in danger of snapping the instrument in two.

  He forced himself to inhale. Exhale. Repeat the process. Gathering his wits, he added:

  I will attempt to further investigate this matter and discern how these rumors started. I will also do my best to try to alleviate some of Mrs. Markham’s worst fears.

  I’ll write again in a few days.

  He reviewed his words one more time, then signed his name. Next, after blotting the page, he carefully folded the paper and stuffed it into the awaiting envelope.

  It was time to post it and move forward.

  If he thought too much about his words, he would be tempted to tear the missive and rewrite it. But that would prove to be unnecessary and foolhardy. There was really nothing else to say and not much else to report. If he added too many of his thoughts or emotions, the captain would suspect that he had already begun to become too involved in the woman’s life.

  And that was not why he was there. No, it was far better to let the letter speak for itself and concentrate the rest of his energies on calming down and appearing detached.

  Yes, that was how he needed to be. Detached.

  At last satisfied that he had regained his composure, Robert carefully splashed water on his face, rolled down his shirtsleeves, slipped on his coat, and headed downstairs.

  As he walked across the foyer, he passed a maid. She was small in stature, slim and petite. She was also on her hands and knees, scrubbing diligently at a scuff mark on the floor. Unable to help himself, he paused to watch her, enjoying how her black dress and crisp white apron coordinated with the black-and-white floor.

  As if she noticed his regard, she stopped and stared up at him. “May I help you, sir?”

  “No. Thank you.” He turned on his heel and walked out the door before he did something foolish and started asking about her employer’s mood that morning.

  Now just past noon, the sun lay nestled in a mass of low-hanging clouds. Rain was in the forecast, he supposed. Perhaps it would be welcome. Th
ough the temperatures were hovering around the forties, the air was thick with a strong, clawing humidity. His shirt stuck to his back and his lungs felt parched.

  The humidity brought back memories of marching for hours in the Georgia heat, the red dust staining his uniform and black boots. Instinctively, he reached for his collar, his fingers fumbling with the starched seams, reaching for the button before remembering that he was no longer in a snug uniform. He was also no longer in a Yankee prison camp. He no longer had to fear running out of breath.

  Would he, too, be forever marked by his months in captivity? Inwardly scarred from the traumas that had befallen him, that had befallen all of them?

  Shaking off the doldrums, he crossed the road and headed toward the mercantile. He assumed he could post a letter from inside. Then perhaps he could find a place for some lunch and a drink.

  A striking young woman with golden hair and wearing a well-tailored shirtwaist greeted him as he approached.

  “Sir. How may I help you?”

  Her voice was lilting. Melodic and surprising to find in the city. Since he’d arrived, a haze of depression had seemed to encompass almost everyone he met. Though it was no different from the atmosphere throughout much of the South, he’d naively expected something different in Galveston.

  After all, it had survived the war better than most places. Its port was bustling, and it was the ranking port when it came to exporting cotton. The crowded warehouse district was full of it, and he’d heard that the business provided many men, both white and freedmen, with work.

  So different from the parched plains of northern Georgia when he’d marched and fought there that one awful summer. There, pain and suffering and deprivation were daily occurrences.

  In spite of the direction his thoughts were heading, he found himself smiling at her. “I need to post this letter, miss. Would you be able to assist me?”

  A dimple appeared in her cheek, giving that final touch of ingénue and beauty that he hadn’t even believed she lacked. “Of course.” After taking the letter from him, her blue eyes examined him curiously. “You don’t sound like you’re from here.”

  “That’s because I am not.”

  The dimple disappeared as a new suspicion appeared in her eyes. “You from the North, sir?” Her voice now sounded brittle, as if her composure could easily break.

  “No.”

  “Forgive me. It’s just that you sound different.”

  He knew his captivity on Johnson’s Island had altered his accent. Maybe it had altered many things about him. “I’m from all over,” he said simply.

  Then, because he knew his answer told her nothing, he smiled again. Though this time, his smile was forced, brought forth for him to get his way. As much as he was eager to be done with the girl’s company, he wondered if she might be the person he needed to discover just how Miranda Markham was doing among the people with whom she surely did business.

  “I see,” she said, her eyes lighting with interest, just as if he’d uttered something of value. “I’ve never met anyone who was from all over before.”

  Her gentle flattering inspired his vanity. He’d never been a man especially in need of female appreciation, but he couldn’t deny that it did his soul good to realize he was not without certain charms.

  Or perhaps it wasn’t his charms. She was likely very skilled in conversation.

  The thought amused him.

  Remembering his goal, he lowered his voice. “More of us are from nowhere than one might assume,” he murmured. He knew, of course, that this answer, too, told her nothing. Therefore she had nothing to remark upon. “How much?”

  “Two bits.” She smiled, revealing her one flaw, a set of crooked teeth. “Are you here for very long?”

  “A month. Maybe longer.”

  “Oh? Where are you staying? At the Tremont?”

  “No. At Mrs. Markham’s house, the Iron Rail.”

  She blinked. Then visibly straightened. “Forgive me for being so blunt, but you really shouldn’t be there.”

  “Why is that?”

  She looked ready to blurt something, then glanced away. “It’s just that the Tremont is far nicer. You should consider relocating.”

  “Relocating sounds like a lot of trouble. I’m sure Mrs. Markham’s boardinghouse will suit me fine.”

  Her expression darkened. “You won’t find many here of the same mind. Trust me, sir. You should take heed to what I say.”

  “You sound sure of yourself.”

  “I am. And you should listen. It’s for your benefit, you see.”

  Seeing as he had no one standing behind him, Robert took the bait. “Why would you say such a thing? Is it because of the rumors surrounding her husband?”

  “You’ve heard of them?”

  “It’s hard to be in Galveston five minutes and not hear them.”

  “There is a reason for that. He was a traitor.” She lifted her chin. “As far as most good people are concerned, Miranda Markham should have done the decent thing and left Galveston Island. She could have sold her house and left the rest of us in peace. Not set up a boardinghouse.”

  “You’d ask her to leave her home? That sounds exceedingly harsh.”

  The girl looked as if she considered arguing that point, but instead simply stared steadily at him. “Sir, you have not paid me yet. Do you intend to?”

  He dug in his pocket and pulled out the coins, slapping them on the counter with, perhaps, a bit more force than was actually needed.

  She palmed them with alacrity. “Good day, sir.”

  He tipped his hat before turning, realizing several men and women were now behind him.

  Had his skills deteriorated so much that he hadn’t even been aware he was surrounded? The thought was disconcerting. If the captain had been around to see that, the man would have boxed his ears good. The childish punishment would have been no less than he deserved too.

  With effort, Robert hid his chagrin and nodded at the four or five pairs of eyes watching him suspiciously.

  It was time to exit the building, take a stroll back to Recognition Square—or whatever the Sam Hill that place was called—and make himself focus. He needed to get his head back on straight and become more alert. He needed to concentrate on the reason for being here. The multiple reasons for being here. Then, once he was firmly reminded of that, he needed to make a plan.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Robert looked to see a dapperly dressed man, perhaps five years younger than him, staring at him intently. He was standing a good two yards away, almost as if he didn’t trust Robert enough to venture closer. His denims were new, his chambray shirt worn. On his feet was a fine pair of brown leather boots, the likes of which Robert hadn’t seen in ages. Not since he’d witnessed a trio of cavalrymen taken to their barracks back on Johnson’s Island. A Yankee soldier had claimed one of the men’s boots in exchange for a freshly washed blanket. While Robert had burned at the indignity of it, the cavalry officer had merely shrugged, saying there wasn’t a great need for good riding boots at the moment.

  Hating that the memories he’d held at bay for so long seemed to be creeping back into his head like forgotten relatives who refused to stay away, Robert cleared his throat. “Yes?” he finally muttered.

  Looking pleased that Robert had acknowledged him at last, the man stepped forward. “My name is Jess Kern, Mr. Truax.”

  The name meant nothing to him. But then, as the man’s intent dark eyes remained steady, a sudden memory returned. “You were there,” he said. “You were at Johnson’s Island too.”

  Looking pleased to be remembered, Kern nodded. “I was. Though not too long. Only a few months.” He added, “I was captured in January of ’65.”

  Robert remembered his long captivity in terms of how cold he’d been. “Just in time for the lake to freeze.”

  “We marched on the ice from Sandusky to the barracks.”

  Robert felt chill bumps form on his skin just from the memory of it
all. “January was a difficult month on the island.”

  Kern shivered dramatically. “If I close my eyes, I can remember the chill that permeated my skin. Some nights the men in my unit huddled together. We told ourselves it was for company, but it was certainly for warmth.”

  They’d done that, too, though he and his comrades had been there long enough to not need reasons to share cots. They simply were glad there was someone near enough to take the edge off the constant ache.

  Those memories were so clear, so piercingly real, that he had to close his eyes to forget them.

  “There were a lot of men there. Over two thousand at the end of the war. I’m surprised you recognized me.”

  “Everyone knew who you were.”

  Robert lifted his chin. “Why is that?”

  “You were with Captain Monroe.” Looking a little sheepish, Kern said, “He was a formidable figure, even though he was only a captain.”

  “He was a formidable figure.” Looking at Kern intently, he added, “He still is.” No man would ever get far if he dared to say anything bad about his commanding officer.

  Kern’s eyes widened. “Hey, now. No need to get riled up. I meant that as a compliment. After all, there were generals in camp with us.”

  “There were.” They’d been impressive. Some had been West Point graduates. Yet even those men had treated their captain with a combination of awe and respect.

  Eager to find a few minutes of solitude, he stared at his interloper coldly. “You have the advantage of me. While we might have both had the misfortune to be detained in the middle of Lake Erie, I do not know you. Furthermore, I am afraid I don’t take pleasure in remembering my time in captivity.”

  Something uneasy flickered in Kern’s eyes. “No, I don’t reckon you would.”

  That told Robert nothing. Losing patience with the man’s lack of information, he bit out, “Any particular reason you wanted to say hello?”

  “There is.” After another brief moment, the corners of the man’s lips turned up. “Though I told you my name, I should also let you know I’m the sheriff here.” He paused, presumably waiting for Robert to give him his due.