The Scoundrel's Bride

by Geralyn Dawson

  “Reverend Uncle?” Morality’s voice filtered through the wooden walls.

  “Yes?”

  “I have the repast you requested.”

  Harrison ground out his cigar and shoved the liquor bottle and glass beneath his cot. Unlacing a canvas flap over one window, he waved the smoke out into the night air, calling, “I’ll be with you in a moment, Morality.”

  Damn, he’d be glad when he could stop this foolishness. As the years had passed, he’d found it increasingly difficult to hide his vices from the girl. He swept the money into a box and dropped it into his satchel, then withdrew a Bible and laid it open on the table.

  “Enter,” he said. Spying the tray in her hands, he added, “Ah, sustenance. What a welcome sight. As behooves our status as invited guests, Louise Marston has given us full access to her kitchen and her cooks. See that my food arrives immediately following the meeting next time, Morality.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, shifting her eyes away.

  He noticed the slightest tightening of her fingers against the tray, and he wondered if he’d see a flare of temper in her eyes were he to demand she look up.

  Harrison frowned and flexed his fist. After he had her safely wed, he’d deal more forcefully with this attitude she’d begun to display. He didn’t know what had gotten into the girl lately, but he knew how to knock it right out.

  Morality set the tray on the table and proceeded to pour him a cup of tea. Harrison’s gaze snagged on the swell of her breast, and he swallowed a rueful sigh. Such an earthy angel…

  Morality noticed him looking and self-consciously turned away. Harrison cursed his mistake. It wouldn’t do to have her suspect anything. He wasn’t ready for the girl to know—not just yet.

  With much practiced skill Harrison schooled his expression to that of benign interest as she took her seat opposite him, notepaper and pencil at the ready, for his nightly critique of her testimony. He was three-quarters through his venison steak and halfway through his lecture when someone knocked on the wagon’s door. His eyebrows rose and he looked at Morality. “Young Callahan?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Patrick wasn’t feeling well. He left for the Marstons’ and his bed as soon as we finished cleaning up after the service.”

  “Are we expecting a caller?”

  “Not that I am aware of,” she replied.

  Harrison lifted his napkin and wiped his mouth, gesturing for Morality to see to the visitor. Observing the rounded shape of her hips as she stepped to the front of the wagon, he shook his head regretfully. Patience was such a difficult virtue.

  Outside in the creeping cold of night, Zach Burkett watched the sky. Uncountable stars hinted of worlds yet unknown, and the evening was so peaceful that he resented the intrusion of the sounds around him; the murmur of voices inside the wagon, the faint, tinkling notes of the piano in Dewberry’s Saloon half a block away, and the fading echo of his knock.

  He flipped up the collar of his heavy wool coat and waited for the pulpit pounder to answer. He’d taken some time to think since the service ended, and though he had a play in mind, he was a tad uncertain of the actors.

  He knew certain-sure Reverend J. P. Harrison was crooked as a dog’s hind leg, but he entertained a doubt or two where Miss Brown was concerned. Why the show this afternoon with the boy? The kid had worked the revival; he was obviously part of the flimflam family. So why the heartfelt speech about lies? Was Patrick not a part of the scam? Was it just the girl and her uncle?

  Could she actually believe this miracle nonsense?

  Well, time and perhaps a closer study of Miss Morality Brown would tell.

  He turned as the wagon’s wooden door scraped open. Lamplight illuminated the long, curling lashes that framed the soft green eyes staring down at him. “Yes?”

  “Hello, Miss Brown. My name’s Zachary Burkett.” He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small leather pouch. He tossed the bag from one hand to the other, and the unmistakable clink of coins echoed in the night. “I’m here to make a contribution to your church.”

  “Zachary Burkett.” His name seemed to roll off her lips, and when she smiled he couldn’t help but grin back.

  He heard a scurrying sound, and the lady moved to one side, revealing Reverend Harrison’s toothy greeting. “Mr. Burkett, please come in. Evidently you heard the Lord’s message tonight.” As Zach climbed into the wagon, the preacher continued. “May I offer you refreshment? I have a tin of molasses cookies donated by one of the local ladies, and my niece would be happy to pour you a cup of tea.”

  Tea and cookies? He’d have preferred one of the smokes he noticed in the box poking out from beneath Harrison’s cot. “I figure a couple of cookies might hit the spot,” he said, flashing his dimples in Miss Morality’s direction. A blush tinted her cheeks as she busied herself arranging the sweets on a plate.

  Harrison cleared his throat, giving Zach a mild look of warning. “So, Mr. Burkett,” he said, gesturing for Zach to take a chair. “You were touched by what you witnessed this evening?”

  “Oh, I was touched all right.” Zach turned to Morality, watching her closely as he said, “Miss Brown, you’ve a powerful way of stating your message. Mighty powerful. Why, you spoke to parts of me that normally do their listening when the devil starts to talking. I was lifted up, Miss Brown. Rose like biscuits in a hot oven.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Burkett.”

  She didn’t flicker an eyelash. Setting a plate of cookies before him, she proceeded to pour his tea. She was either the damn best actress this side of the Mississippi, or else she truly was an innocent. Zach simply couldn’t tell which.

  The reverend was another matter entirely. He’d picked up on the innuendo right off, and the guileless expression Zach pasted on didn’t go far to convince him. But the money pouch he laid next to the plate of cookies finally managed to distract the pulpit pounders suspicions.

  Restraining a knowing smile, Zach said, “I wished to speak with you privately, Reverend Harrison, because I’m in desperate need of advice.”

  Taking it as her cue to leave, Morality said, “Excuse me, gentlemen,” and turned to go.

  “Wait, Miss Brown,” Zach said, lifting a hand palm out. “I would also appreciate your guidance on this problem.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You would?”

  “Mr. Burkett,” Harrison interrupted, a stern expression on his face. “My niece does not involve herself with the flock. Her only role in the ministry is to testify. I’m sure you can respect that.”

  Only a pair of sharp eyes enabled Zach to catch the fleeting, frustrated glare the young woman shot her uncle. Hiding a chuckle by clearing his throat, Zach nodded at Harrison and said, “Of course. You can rest assured I have the utmost respect for Miss Brown. If you will allow me to explain, you’ll see why I’m interested in what she has to say. This concerns your revival meeting, and I realize she’s an important part of your ministry.”

  Without a pause, he continued. “I’m a rich man, Reverend Harrison.”

  That did it. Zach had known it would. The healers face glowed like a jack-o’-lantern’s, avarice supplying the light. While Morality glanced nervously at her uncle, Zach continued. “I have learned the hard way that my considerable wealth will not buy that which I desire most of all.”

  “The love of a good woman?” Morality asked softly.

  The reverend scowled. Zach’s lips twitched, but he managed to reply solemnly, “No, ma’am. I’m afraid money makes that easy. What I long for is roots. Family roots. You see, I was born here in Cottonwood Creek, and I lived here until I was eleven years old.”

  He slumped his shoulders, drawing on acting skills learned years before. “My mother…” He paused and licked his lips. “Well, I was born a bastard.”

  He heard her muted gasp, but he could not interpret the light that entered Miss Brown’s eyes. Harrison shook his head sympathetically and intoned, “The evils of the flesh are the devil’s playground.”
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br />   Zach imagined his fist smashing the reverend’s nose. He could almost feel the cartilage give way. Discipline enabled him to turn toward the window and continue. “I’m afraid I had the devil riding my shoulder while I lived here. I was not an asset to the town.” He glanced first at the reverend, then at Morality, and said with the sincerity of a saint, “I want to change that, now.”

  “We all have the ability to change, Mr. Burkett,” Morality said with a tender smile.

  Damn, but she came across as genuine. “And I have changed, Miss Brown, if only others will recognize it. You see, I have the opportunity to do something of great importance for Cottonwood Creek, but I need to convince the townspeople I have seen the error of my ways. Reverend Harrison, as I sat at your service tonight, the Lord Himself spoke to me, told me what to do to open the minds of those I sinned against.”

  “He spoke to you?” Morality’s eyes glittered with wonder and awe. “Oh, Mr. Burkett, how wonderful! You know, I’ve had a miracle, but I’ve never actually heard Him. Why—”

  “Morality!” her uncle snapped.

  Seeing the glow in her eyes die, Zach sent his imaginary fist flying one more time. Then he pushed the money pouch toward Reverend Rake-it-in. “I’d like the opportunity to testify at your meeting tomorrow night.”

  Harrison snatched the bag, even as his brows lifted in surprise. “That is an unusual request, Mr. Burkett. If your reputation is as bad as you have stated, providing you a forum might well cause damage to my ministry here.”

  Zach nodded. “I can understand your hesitation, Reverend, but allow me to assure you that nothing I’d say would cause you injury. I simply want the opportunity to speak to the citizens of Cottonwood Creek at a time when their ears, minds, and hearts are prepared to listen to what I have to say. You see, Reverend, I want to explain how I came about my wealth in the gold fields of California, and I wish to tell them how I’ve arranged to share that wealth with each and every citizen of Cottonwood Creek.”

  Harrison pinned Zach with a questioning gaze. “Wait a moment, Mr. Burkett. You said yourself that money cannot bring you that which you desire.”

  “That’s right,” Zach agreed, slapping the table with his hand, jangling the teacups. “I want those roots—a home and family and the time to find them both. I’m afraid that unless Cottonwood Creek listens to what I have to say, the town won’t be alive long enough to give me the time I need.”

  Wiping up the sloshed tea from the tabletop, Morality asked, “What do you mean?”

  Zach looked Harrison in the eye. “You’ve heard of the Red River Raft?”

  “No,” the preacher answered impatiently, obviously not following Zach’s pattern of thought.

  “It’s a logjam on the river, Reverend Uncle,” Morality explained. “I remember reading about it in the Redlander.” She looked at Zach. “The Raft blocks the flow of the river and raises the level of Cottonwood Bayou. It’s the reason Cottonwood Creek is the westernmost navigable city along the Red.”

  Zach nodded, surprised. He wouldn’t have figured her for the type to read a newspaper. Apparently, beauty did not mean an absence of brains in the young woman standing before him.

  Was he wrong about her role in Harrison’s fraud? Well, one way or the other, it didn’t affect his plan. “All the commerce out of north-central Texas flows through Cottonwood Creek on the way to New Orleans. It’s what keeps the town afloat.

  “The Army Corps of Engineers has scheduled the logjam for removal,” he continued. “The town has been saved thus far because one of the congressmen from Texas, E. J. Marston, has blocked the appropriation of funds for the project. Congressman Marston is up for reelection, and he’s facing strong opposition by an opponent from South Texas.”

  “Eugene Railsback,” Morality said.

  “Yes. If Railsback wins, Cottonwood Creek will soon be left high and dry.” Zach arched a curious brow. “You have an interest in politics, Miss Brown?”

  “My late aunt, God rest her soul, was a teacher. She believed in a well-rounded education for male and female alike.”

  This girl was obviously sharp. He looked forward to matching wits with Miss Morality Brown. “Quite forward-thinking of your aunt. You both must miss her a great deal.”

  “Of course we do.” Harrison waved a hand dismissively. “What does this river raft project have to do with your proposed testimony at my revival meeting?”

  “I can save Cottonwood Creek, Reverend Harrison, if the people will believe in me. I saw the effect Miss Brown’s miracle had on the gathering, and while my gifts are more worldly than miraculous, I believe my story too can influence the crowd. The Lord has gifted me with the power to help, Reverend, and by leading me to your arena, He has shown me how to go about it.” Zach reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a second pouch. He offered it to Harrison, saying, “So, may I give witness at your service tomorrow night?”

  Harrison’s gaze locked on the brown leather bag. “I can see the good Lord led you to me. I’ll make sure that is understood during my sermon.” He reached out and snagged the pouch, holding it in his palm as he judged the weight inside. “All right, Mr. Burkett. You may help the people of Cottonwood Creek while I heal them.”

  Satisfaction put a smile on Zach’s lips. There was nothing a man such as himself enjoyed more than putting the swindle to another fraud.

  Then Morality Brown spoke up. “Mr. Burkett,” she said, an emotion that looked suspiciously like hope shining in her eyes. “If Mrs. Burkett traveled with you, I’d be honored to have her sit with me tomorrow night.”

  “There is no Mrs. Burkett.”

  Zach’s smile wavered a bit as he heard her murmur beneath her breath, “Will miracles never cease?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  DURING THE NIGHT A norther blew through Cottonwood Creek and morning arrived dark and damp. A low fog clung to the ground, while from above sounded the calls of ducks flying half hidden in the mist. Morality shivered, partly from cold, partly with worry, as she left the Marston home in search of Patrick Callahan.

  She’d gathered her anxieties concerning her uncle, husband, and home, and locked them all away. Patrick was her main concern. His bed had not been slept in.

  This wasn’t the first time daylight had found Patrick gone missing. Whenever the dreams came, he tended to wander until he’d walked away his demons. Then, he’d invariably make his bed somewhere near the horses.

  Morality checked the Marstons’ stable first. She found tack, feed, and some of the finest horseflesh in East Texas, but no towheaded eleven-year-old boy. She swung the door shut behind her as she left, and the rusty squeak of hinges echoed hauntingly in the heavy air. For a moment she stood unmoving, knowing she probably worried needlessly, but admitting she’d fret until she found him, nonetheless.

  The livery. She’d try there. The owner, Mr. Kirkland, had a dog at the livery yesterday. Patrick loved dogs even more than horses.

  Weeds and winter grasses grabbed at her hem as she walked down Main Street, soaking her skirts with the chilly remnants of the overnight rain. She said a silent prayer that Patrick had found a warm, dry spot in which to rest both body and soul.

  Morality had learned not to attempt to stop his wanderings. Once, when awakened by his screams during a vicious spring thunderstorm, she had restrained him, forcing him to remain inside his room. She would never forget the terror in his voice as he’d cried over and over again, “Papa, Papa, Papa.”

  He’d refused her comfort, and eventually, she’d let him go. Rain had fallen in sheets as she’d trailed him to their host’s stable, where for an hour, he’d silently groomed the horses. Watching the calm slowly steal over his features, Morality had realized that in the animals, Patrick found his peace. Since then, whenever the dreams visited, she’d left him alone.

  But still, she worried. It had been cold and wet last night, and he’d been feeling ill when he’d left the revival tent. Resentment flared inside her as she tugged open the livery door. Re
verend Uncle shouldn’t have made Patrick leave his dog behind when they departed the Callahans’ burned-out homestead. Morality felt certain if he had his collie to cuddle, Patrick wouldn’t brave the cold night air to keep company with horses.

  Hazy light stole into the livery’s interior through the open door, and Morality peered into the early morning gloom. “Patrick?” she softly called.

  After a pause, the boy replied in a croak, “Morality? Is it morning already?”

  “Afraid so.” She stepped inside, and when her eyes adjusted to the minimal amount of light, she spotted the shadow burrowed against a stack of baled hay. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

  Patrick groaned, whether at the endearment or due to his physical state she couldn’t say. He sat up and slowly twisted his head from side to side. Grimacing, he said, “My head aches something fierce.” Then, half under his breath, he added, “But at least I’m not seeing things anymore.”

  “You had the nightmares again?” Morality pressed her hand against his brow to check for fever.

  The boy shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. It was different this time, like I was having a dream, only I was awake. And it weren’t no good dream, neither.”

  “Wasn’t a good dream,” Morality automatically corrected. She eyed him closely. “Should I go for the doctor?”

  Patrick gave a bitter laugh. “Come on. Reverend Harrison would just love paying a doctor for seeing to me.” He pushed away from her and reached for his boots, all business with hardly a trace of boy in evidence. “I just need to move around a bit, I figure. Now, what are we doing today?”

  Experience having taught her the uselessness of pursuing a subject once Patrick adopted that particular tone, Morality followed his lead by saying, “Reverend Uncle has handbills he wants you to post. I’m to gather morning-glory seeds to replenish his supply.”

  “Again?”

  “It’s that time of year.”

  “What’s he do with them?”