The Scoundrel's Bride

by Geralyn Dawson

  The infants mouth opened and his tiny tongue poked out. Morality felt an overwhelming need to respond to him by sticking out her own tongue. She resisted, only out of fear that the others might misunderstand.

  A baby. An infant. A little angel from God. Whether married to a man selected by her uncle or to one she chose herself, this might well be her future. Motherhood.

  Morality drew a deep breath. Responsibility settled on her shoulders like a wet wool blanket, but the joy that sang in her soul made the burden as light as Valenciennes lace. She’d be the kind of mother she’d always wished she’d had. She’d stand beside her child at each step through this painful life. She’d dedicate herself to the health and happiness of the tiny soul she’d carry, and the baby would love her.

  “Can I hold her?” The words just popped out of her mouth. The young mother turned, surprise on her face. Morality blushed as the rest of the company turned to look at her. So much for eavesdropping, now.

  She cleared her throat. “You have a beautiful child, ma’am, and holding babies is my favorite thing to do. I’m sorry, you don’t even know me, so of course you wouldn’t—”

  “Hand over little Patricia, Emily,” the widow said, waving a hand. “This is the preacher’s niece. The Miracle Girl. Can’t ask for a better pair of hands to hold the child. Some of the miracle just might rub off on Baby Patricia. I’m Eulalie Peabody. Welcome to Cottonwood Creek.”

  Morality exchanged greetings with the women and accepted the weight of the child with a sense of bittersweet. Her miracle again. Just sometimes, she wished it would cease. Then she smelled that sweet, unique infant scent and peace stole over her soul.

  As she and little Patricia gazed at one another, conversation continued around her. Mrs. Hart’s lips dipped in a frown and she risked her tongue. “Zach Burkett setting up shop in Cottonwood Creek. Why, I wonder? The way feelings run in this town, what makes him think he could be successful at anything?”

  “It’s a curiosity. It surely is,” the widow replied, straightening the folds of her shawl.

  Mr. Nichols then voiced the question for all of them. “What in God’s green earth is the Burkett Bastard up to?”

  Having lived with her uncle long enough to recognize a cue when provided one, Morality looked up from the infant’s captivating eyes and said in a clear, pleasant voice, “Come to Reverend Harrison’s meeting tonight and find out. Mr. Burkett requested the opportunity to witness.”

  A DISMAL sky hung above bleached grasses, swallowing the tips of faded cedar trees planted in windbreak rows behind a cabin that was dingy from weather and neglect. A limestone chimney rose from one end like a monument, buffeted by the gray blow of a gray wind.

  The air of ruin blanketed the meadow as Zach knelt on one knee beside the chimney, heedless of the damp chill that seeped through his trousers. He stretched a finger toward the heart-shaped leaves cradling the lone splash of color in the monotony of the day.

  A morning glory. “Fancy that,” Zach murmured. He was surprised to see the bloom this time of year. Late February was more than a month too early for morning glories, even in Texas. Sarah Burkett would have viewed the flower and deemed it a miracle. She had set great store in miracles— miracles and morning glories.

  She had sometimes called the flowers heavenly blues, and she’d laughed when others named morning glories weeds to be obliterated from cultivated fields. She’d nurtured the vines, feeding and watering, training the creepers to twine toward the sky using the cabin’s walls for support. Then, when the funnel-form flowers burst forth in a profusion of blue, she’d smiled as warm as summer sunshine.

  “Well, you were right, Mama,” Zach observed, his tone soft like the morning glory’s blossom. “They’re still here, long after you and I have headed elsewhere.”

  Hardiness in the face of neglect—those were the words she’d used. One corner of Zach’s mouth lifted in a rueful smile. He’d never forget the humiliation he’d suffered the day she’d called him her morning glory in front of one of his schoolmates.

  He stood and brushed the damp red dirt from his knee. “But I’m back now. Just like I always said I’d be.”

  So where was that rush of satisfaction he’d expected to feel?

  Backing away from the vines that hugged the cabin wall, Zach braced his hands on his hips and stared at the house. He’d dreamed of returning here for more than twenty years. It never mattered that he owned a place four times its size in New Orleans and another just as big in San Francisco. This was the place he’d ached to return to. This little cabin was his home.

  And yet it wasn’t. Sarah Burkett wasn’t here; the color was missing. The reds and oranges and yellows—the greens and purples and pinks—all had vanished from this land. The vibrant palette of life had faded to a bleak, monotonous landscape.

  Except for the heavenly blues.

  He muttered a curse and said, “I’m sure as hell no morning glory, but since I’m here, I might as well stay.” At least until he’d finished his business with Marston and the godly folk of Cottonwood Creek.

  The first order of business was to make the place livable again. To that end, Zach unloaded from the bed of his brand-new buckboard the supplies he’d rounded up earlier that morning and toted them inside the house. Scowling, he grumbled, “Haven’t seen such a mess since the Baptists and the Methodists got to arguing at a San Jacinto Day pie supper.”

  Shucking off his coat, he started with the rafters and worked his way down, ruthlessly destroying every web and nest in his way. He swept out the sleeping loft and cleared out the chimney, chasing away one black crow, a pair of squirrels, and enough spiders to keep a family of lizards fed until spring.

  Climbing and cleaning warmed him despite the chill, and a fine sheen of perspiration covered his body. Muscles stretched and strained, working away the tension that had tugged at his gut all morning. Coming home had proved more difficult than he’d ever imagined.

  With the critters and dust chased from within the cabin’s confines, Zach paused and extended his arms above his head. Stretching long and hard, he twisted his torso and flexed his muscles while gazing around the room. Mentally, he added a rocking chair, a wardrobe, cast-iron skillets hung from pegs on the fireplace, and lace. Sarah Burkett had loved lace doilies. He imagined he’d find a stack of them in the trunk out in the wagon.

  The trunk. Zach moved toward the window where a fitful breeze rapped the wooden shutters against the cabin’s log walls. Gazing outside, he stared at the buckboard and the wooden chest with weather-rusted hardware and worn leather straps sitting on its bed. The trunk and the items it contained were all he had left of that early portion of his life.

  He’d carted it with him all around the country. He’d left it stored in different towns for years on end. To Zach, the trunk had been both symbol and promise. A childhood locked away the day his mama died, both inside that trunk and within himself.

  Now that the time had arrived to face the memories, to open the trunk and return the items inside to their rightful place, he found himself surprisingly reluctant to act.

  “Well, hell,” he cursed, disgusted with himself. With a scowl set firmly on his face, he marched out to the wagon and heaved the trunk into his arms. Carrying it back inside, he set it in its old spot against the wall near the fireplace and took a couple of steps away. “Well, hell,” he repeated.

  Maybe he should take a break and eat some lunch before finishing up. He’d had a busy morning, after all. He’d worked up a powerful hunger.

  For the next half hour Zach used every excuse he could think of to delay the opening of the wooden chest. He walked to the nearby creek to wash up before eating the sandwiches he’d brought with him from town. He laid a fire in the hearth and put on a pot of coffee. He checked the horses and climbed onto the roof to repair a small section of cedar shakes loosened by weather and time.

  Eventually, he found himself standing before the trunk, hands braced on his hips, an emotion he dared not nam
e swelling in his chest.

  He hadn’t looked inside since the day his mama died.

  “Well, hell!” He flipped up the latch and lifted the lid. The first thing he saw was a layer of lace doilies. “Ah, Mama,” he muttered.

  As he pulled each item from the depths, Zach felt more lonely, and yet at the same time, less alone, than he had felt since that bloody afternoon years before.

  A glass vase, a mantel clock, a small drawing of the Shenandoah River done in charcoal and framed in oak, the quilt that had graced Sarah Burkett’s bed—each item evoked a memory both bitter and sweet. He took his time, allowing his mind free rein, savoring the images he’d denied himself for decades. By the time he’d emptied the trunk, Zach’s emotions were raw and ripe for the sentiments that now took control.

  Hatred, anger, and rage. The passions that had burned inside him for more than twenty years flamed to new heights, fanned by the force of feelings long nursed and now literally brought home.

  Carefully, he placed the rosewood music box that had been his mother’s most prized possession beside the clock on the mantel, then abruptly, he turned, grabbed his rifle, and left the cabin.

  He’d heard the whistle of a steamer. The bayou marked the eastern boundary of his land, and he knew a prime spot for viewing the sternwheelers that plied the waters between Cottonwood Creek and Shreveport on down to New Orleans.

  Zach had a sudden hankering to take a few potshots at the name painted across the riverboat’s bow—Marston Shipping.

  By the time he reached the bayou’s edge, he’d calmed enough to recognize the foolishness of such an act. Shooting at a riverboat was a boy’s retaliation and had no place in the grand scheme of vengeance invented by the man. Nor was it the true reason Zach had fled the cabin. Emptying that trunk had whipped him like a woodshed lecture. He’d needed a bit of time away.

  He sat beneath a pecan tree and absently gathered a handful of fallen nuts. Cracking them one against the other in his fist, he watched the riverboat belch black smoke into the sky, the paddles on its sternwheel slicing the water, pushing the boat forward until it disappeared from sight. From somewhere in the brush to his left a bird sang a low-pitched, melancholy song. Try as he might, Zach couldn’t place the name of the bird, but he was glad it was there. The tune fit the moment, and the company was nice.

  He popped the shelled pecans one by one into his mouth, enjoying the subtle flavor of the meat. When the songbird ended his serenade with a rustle of brush and a flash of wing, Zach figured it was time to head back to town. The cabin was livable now, and he’d a few supplies to gather up before tonight’s performance. He’d best be about it.

  Brittle leaves crunched beneath his heels as he made his way back toward the cabin. All in all, he felt good about coming home. He’d faced his ghosts, and in doing so, reaffirmed his resolve. The time had come to bring Cottonwood Creek to its knees.

  As he approached the cabin, the familiar song of his mother’s music box played through his mind. Over the years he’d heard the music performed dozens of times, in both concert halls and brothels. Yet, no orchestra had ever played the waltz as lovely as did the echo in Zach’s memory.

  Yards from the house, his steps slowed as he realized the music he heard was real and not a haunting recollection. Either he had a ghost to deal with, or someone had invaded his home.

  Zach mouthed a vicious curse. Whoever was inside had picked the wrong damn time to trespass. And if stealing was their intent, well…

  Nobody was getting his mama’s things.

  The tinkling notes of the music box sounded loud as a brass band as he lifted his gun and stepped inside the cabin. His finger tickled the rifle’s trigger even as he identified the intruder and thundered, “What the hell are you doing here!”

  Standing near the fireplace, Morality Brown shrieked in surprise and whirled around. The music box sailed from her hands.

  The rosewood box tumbled end over end through the air. They both made a dive for it, Zach stretching with his free hand, Morality with both of hers. Zach had a longer reach and his fingers brushed smooth wood.

  Morality’s found cold, hard metal.

  Falling to the floor, Zach reacted just an instant too slowly.

  He watched in horror as the rifle exploded.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE DEAFENING SOUND OF the shot reverberated through the small cabin. Zach’s voice, when he managed to force it past the lump in his throat, boomed even louder. "Dammit, woman. I could have killed you!”

  Morality lay sprawled atop him. For a long moment, she didn’t move, then she slowly lifted her head and stared down at him, a dazed expression on her face. In a quavering voice, she asked, “Mr. Burkett, do you like fried chicken?”

  Zach’s ears rang and his heart pounded like a ballpeen hammer at a barn raising. “Fried chicken?” he repeated, glaring up at her. “You’re a whisker’s width away from having your head blown off, and you ask me if I like fried chicken?”

  She nodded slowly. “I could stew it if you’d prefer.”

  Zach rolled from beneath her and sat up. He put a thumb to her brow and lifted her eyelid, studying her pupil. “Did you hit your head, Miss Brown?” he inquired, checking the other eye.

  “No.” She trembled as he helped her climb awkwardly to her feet.

  “You’re all right, then? Not hurt in any way?”

  “N-n-no.”

  He braced his hands on his hips and shouted, “Then what the hell do you think you were doing? What business did you have in my house?”

  She cringed, looking guilty as a cookie thief, and spoke in a rush. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Burkett. You see, mainly it was supper, but then there’s the morning-glory seeds, and the door wasn’t shut tight, and I thought I heard you call.”

  “Drag your tongue down a notch, woman,” Zach interrupted, laying a finger on her lips. “I can’t make sense of what you’re saying.”

  She nodded, took a deep breath, then lifted her gaze overhead as if asking for heavenly guidance. She froze. Emerald eyes grew wide, and she blinked. Color washed from her face, and Zach followed the path of her stare.

  The sky was clearly visible through the gaping hole in his roof.

  He looked down to where they had fallen, then upward once more, tracing the trajectory of the bullet. “You’ve got lady luck camped on your petticoat, don’t you, gal? Bullet didn’t miss by much.”

  At that, Morality sank like a sheet pulled free of the clothesline. Zach caught her inches away from banging her head against the sharp, rocky edge of the fireplace. “Damn fool woman,” he grumbled, as the fear that clenched his stomach slowly eased. Carrying her over to the bed, he lowered her gently onto the new mattress he’d brought with him from town. He covered her with his mother’s quilt, then took a deep, calming breath and said, “Doesn’t have the sense God gave a goat.”

  It was hard not to stare at her—a porcelain doll with long, curling eyelashes and a Cupid’s-bow mouth shaped for kissing. Recalling the curves now hidden beneath the quilt took his musings a step further. If she were someone other than the preacher’s niece, he might consider breaking in that new mattress.

  He fingered a soft red curl. Sex was a natural thing to think of after an accident, the celebration of being alive and all of that. At least, he was inclined to think so right then. He smiled a mocking grin. Somehow he doubted the preacher’s niece would view it quite the same way.

  Morality Brown. What was she doing here? Had she been searching his cabin? If so, what was she hoping to find? Having little experience with swooning women, Zach had no idea how long she might be out. He wanted answers to his questions.

  Spying a basket on the table beside the door—a basket that hadn’t been there when he’d left to shoot at the boat—he crossed the room to investigate, pausing first to lift the music box from the floor.

  He flipped up the lid and smiled upon hearing the song. The damage appeared limited to a pair of scratches, and as he returned the box
to the mantel he realized he’d had a little luck of his own.

  Morality’s basket proved to be a puzzle. Pine needles, a clump of Spanish moss, and fragrant twigs of cedar were pushed to one side, while the rest of the space was filled with literally hundreds of seed pods. Zach recognized the seeds; he’d noticed similar ones earlier that morning.

  The woman had enough morning-glory seeds in her basket to ruin a nice cornfield.

  The dried pods crumbled in his fingers, crackling open to display small, dark seeds nestled inside. “Got a bone to pick with a farmer, preacher’s niece?” he mused.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Zach glanced over his shoulder. Sitting up in his bed, she looked pale and confused and so lovely it made him ache. His voice was gruff as he replied, “Mature morning-glory vines can snap the blade off a plow easy as sin.”

  Morality slowly shook her head. “Easy as sin,” she repeated. “Isn’t that the truth?” She followed the observation with a sigh so filled with woe that it made him smile.

  “I owe you an apology, Mr. Burkett. It was wrong of me to enter your home uninvited.” Hands clasped in her lap, she glanced toward the hole in the roof, then flashed him a sheepish smile. “I guess I deserved to be shot for doing so.”

  Zach arched a brow. “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as that,” he drawled, toting the basket back to the bed. “Stabbed, maybe. I figure shooting goes a tad too far. You feeling better now?”

  She blushed a rosy shade of pink and nodded.

  Zach sat beside her, and her color deepened. “So, Morality, what brings you to my bed?”

  She bolted off the mattress like a wild mustang through a corral gate. Zach couldn’t stop the chuckle that rumbled through his chest as she took a position within darting distance of the door. He reckoned he might just enjoy this little encounter with Miracle Morality.

  Folding his arms, he stated, “I would like an answer. That music box happens to mean quite a lot to me, and I have to wonder why you were fiddling with it. Were you looking for something in particular? Money, perhaps?”