The Scoundrel's Bride

by Geralyn Dawson

  Harrison proclaimed, “Brothers and sisters of Cottonwood Creek, I give you one of your own, Mr. Zach Burkett.”

  Not a hand among them applauded. Instead, the crowd leaned forward in their seats, their expressions reserved, some downright hostile. Zach popped the last of his bread in his mouth, swallowed, and stepped into the tent.

  Maintaining a solemn expression, his gaze roamed the collection of suspicious faces aimed his way. Not a Marston among ‘em. He hadn’t figured any of them would attend, but as he took his spot on one side of the lectern, Zach admitted to a small amount of disappointment.

  It would’ve been fun to perform for the family.

  Nevertheless, it was time to begin. In a booming voice, he proclaimed, “I am the blackest sinner in this crowd tonight.”

  He moved, twisting his body so that the jet-colored duster he wore swirled like Satan’s cape. He positioned himself where the light spread upward by lanterns placed on either side of the pulpit cast his features in devilish shadows. “You all know who I am,” he continued matter-of-factly.

  “It wouldn’t do me a lick of good to pretend to be what I’m not.”

  Leaning to the left he pointed a finger and said, “You, Peter Norris.” To the right. “And you Permelia Scott.” He stepped forward. “All of you know who I am. You all know the mischief I made in the misspent years of my youth. Devilment that gave you cause to consider me a hell-born brat.”

  With apologies to his mother’s memory, Zach added, “You know too that I was born in sin.” His jaw tightened at the sight of agreeing nods, but he pushed onward. “That was nothing next to the sinning I willfully threw myself into. I’m talkin’ ba-a-a-d sinnin’.” He whipped his head around to stare at those off to one side, and his voice dropped low. “I’m talkin’ low-down, snake-belly, law- breakin’ meanness.”

  He caught the look on Morality Brown’s face. Her complexion had turned pea-green. Hold on, angel, it’s gonna get worse.

  Zach thrust his hands into the duster’s pockets and felt for the first oilskin pouch. “I was an Abomination before the Lord,” he declared. “A Hell-bound Soul slinking upon the earth. When the worst of all sins called me, I embraced it.”

  Allowing the tension to mount, Zach drew his fists from his pockets. He raised them in slow motion with the palms toward himself. Every eye in the place was fixed on his fisted hands in the shifty lantern light.

  “Blood!” he shouted, flashing red palms toward the townspeople. “Sinful red blood stains these hands before you now!”

  The crowd gasped. A few of the women screamed. His acting rusty from disuse, Zach had to fight to keep the grin from his face. The old trick of sponges soaked with chicken blood worked every time.

  A white-faced woman sitting near the front slid off her apple-crate seat in a faint. Another lady jumped up and ran from the tent. She’d be back. Zach stifled a contemptuous smile. They always came back.

  After inhaling a deep breath, he declared, “Brothers and sisters, the sin of murder—yes, I said murder—stains my soul as sure as my hands. I broke the most sacred law of God and man by taking the life of not one person but two. I stand before you a double murderer!”

  Bowing his head below his red hands, face hidden, Zach sneered as the buzz of voices swelled. So, I turned out just like you figured, huh, Cottonwood Creek? Well, you sons of bitches are just as responsible for the Lovelace brothers’ deaths as I am.

  From the corner of his eye, he again noticed Morality Brown. The green tint to her face had bleached white. Caught up in the meanness of the moment, Zach felt a satisfying wash of retribution. What’s the matter, angel, afraid you shouldn’t have tangled with me earlier? Worried you might have gotten more than a kiss?

  Deliberately, he shifted his gaze. He lowered his hands and felt for the second set of sponges in a separate pair of pockets to wipe off the blood. He waited, head bowed, for the noise level to peak and slope off to breath-holding silence.

  Unbuttoning the duster, he looked up and continued. “Citizens of Cottonwood Creek, do not despair, for God Almighty deigned to save me from the degradation of my birth and black-hearted sins. I was wandering the earth, tormented and demon-possessed, when the Lord reached down to me.”

  Walking around the lectern, he leaned on it and proclaimed, “God guided my stumbling feet off the trails of wickedness and onto the footpath of righteousness. He led a holy man to my aid. This servant of the Lord plucked me from the mire of the ungodly. He adopted me and taught me to walk the road toward eternal salvation.”

  Skeptical faces accompanied the rumbles reverberating through the audience. Zach realized the time for transformation had arrived. Stepping away from the lantern’s Satanic upward cast of light, he whipped off the black duster.

  The crowd gasped at the sight of his fashionable white suit, won off a riverboat gambler just a month ago. Stepping to the lectern, he leaned over it toward the towns-people. They settled down, awaiting a new scene to unfold.

  “The teachings of that man of God is the reason I’m here in Cottonwood Creek among you today,” he continued. “I learned the lesson of repentance. For God’s holy word says, ‘they should repent and turn to God and perform deeds worthy of their repentance.’ ”

  Heads swiveled toward neighbors in the audience, and the clucking of tongues swelled. Again, Zach let them run down before recalling their attention.

  “What deeds could possibly show repentance for murder, you wonder? So did I. I saw no way to redeem myself. But the Lord Almighty granted me the opportunity to save my sin-blackened soul. He led me to a passage in the scriptures that brought me back here to you.”

  He nodded solemnly. “I was praying over my Bible late one night when God showed me the second lesson I had to learn: atonement.” Holding up a battered Bible, he opened it above his head. “God guided me to Proverbs, where words leapt to my eyes. Holy words that turned my life around and turned my feet homeward.” Zach quoted, “ ‘By loyalty and faithfulness iniquity is atoned for.’ ” He allowed his stare to range over the gathering in the tent. Unerringly, he found Morality Brown, and he captured her storm-cloud gaze.

  She folded her arms and sat back in her chair, her color normal once more. She obviously wasn’t impressed by his show.

  Inexplicably, his heart lightened. He enjoyed few things more than a direct challenge. Heightening the energy of his act, he continued. “Well, folks, I knew it would take a heap of loyalty and faithfulness to atone for my mountain of iniquity. I prayed for the Lord to show me how to go about it. His answer, I came to realize, was for me to show loyalty to my roots—to the community where I was born into sin. Only here in Cottonwood Creek, where I started down the road to eternal damnation, could I earn deliverance from it.”

  Now Zach had worked the crowd to that state of breathless hush that meant success—in the old days, a heavy collection plate. Tonight it meant buying into his swindle.

  In the checkerboard of faces out front, one shone out at him. Was that a hint of doubt in her expression? Damn, Burkett, but you are good.

  For a moment, he allowed his gaze to linger on her, and he felt a surge of fever himself. He wanted her. Badly. He damn near forgot what came next in his carefully planned speech.

  Zach shook his head. Gripping the lectern’s side and gathering his wayward thoughts, he said, “I don’t expect you good people here tonight to kill the fatted calf; I’m not the Prodigal Son. Living with your suspicion is justice for a sinner like me. But the Lord says in His book”—he raised the battered Bible again—“ ‘by their deeds ye shall know them.’ So what I’m asking is for you to give me a chance to do you a good deed.”

  Like a field of wheat bent by the wind, the entire crowd leaned forward. Zach raised his clean hands above his head in the manner he had used earlier to show bloodied palms and launched toward the denouement of his speech. “Give me an opportunity to clean the blood of my sins off my hands once and for all, good people. Allow me to do my birthplace an act
of loyalty and faithfulness.”

  Every eye followed his hands as he reached inside his white coat, bringing out a folded parchment sheet. Zach unfolded it reverently and dangled it over the front of the lectern. “Everybody here knows what the proposed removal of the Red River raft will do to the economy of this community. When the raft goes, Cottonwood Creek won’t be far behind. Knowing this, I’ve persuaded business associates to offer an opportunity that will be the salvation of Cottonwood Creek. And in your salvation lies mine.”

  Assuming a look of holy joy, Zach let his voice ring out. “Brothers and sisters, the Lord has sent me. Here, to Cottonwood Creek! As an act of loyalty to the place where I was born and bred, I’m bringing the…” He paused and his gaze scanned the entire crowd. “I’m bringing the railroad to town.”

  The audience gasped as one.

  He continued. “In a few short months, the Texas Southern Railroad will arrive to save you, me, and the good town of Cottonwood Creek!”

  All hell broke loose among the revival crowd.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE ARCHITECT IN CHARGE of designing the county courthouse some six years earlier had been instructed to create a large room on the second floor to serve the community as an all- purpose meeting hall. Members of the Cottonwood Creek Baptist Church were especially pleased with the arrangement, as the room they’d previously used for large gatherings had an unseemly location at the Creekside Inn, one floor above the saloon.

  Following the extraordinary revival meeting hosted by the Church of the Word’s Healing Faith, those present— almost to a one—congregated at the courthouse. Food baskets in hand, they gathered together presumably to share fellowship and break bread with their neighbors.

  Truth be told, the main item on the menu was gossip.

  “The richest railroad in the South!” one person exclaimed.

  “But it’ll ruin Marston Shipping!” another declared.

  “A railroad will save our town!” a chorus replied.

  The matter was cussed and discussed at length, opinion falling into two fundamental camps: those who believed Zach Burkett was a reformed Christian man who truly wanted to redeem himself in the eyes of his hometown, and those who didn’t believe a word the Burkett Bastard had uttered—except for the killing part, that is.

  Hidden behind an earnest, honest façade, Zach observed the delineation with calculating shrewdness. Those folks connected by family, friendship, or business to the Marston clan had lined up against him. Those with less of a stake in the status quo appeared willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  He tickled a baby’s chin as he explained the public version of his plan in further detail to a group including a cotton farmer and his wife, a mill worker, the editor of the local newspaper, and a widow-lady, Mrs. Eulalie Peabody. “I’ll be in my office tomorrow for those of you who want to buy stock,” he said, his gaze drifting toward the doorway as he anticipated the arrival of Morality Brown.

  Mrs. Peabody sniffed loudly. “I wouldn’t be so quick off the draw if I were you, sonny. You’ve a pretty way of talking, to be sure, but remember, Cottonwood Creek is no backwater town. What proof do we have that you are legitimate?”

  The farmer’s wife gasped, and the men shared embarrassed looks, their gazes dropping to the floor. Eulalie Peabody stood her ground and didn’t flicker an eyelash.

  Zach chuckled. “Well, ma’am, I reckon it’s business you’re asking about, and I’ll be more than happy to give you a name you can check with at the Texas Southern.”

  Harrumph. “Some lackey, no doubt.”

  “Actually, Jess Tanner is a vice president. His father founded the railroad.”

  The editor’s bushy red brows drew together in a frown. “Mr. Jesse Grimes Tanner is your reference?”

  “Jess Tanner is my friend.”

  The editor and Mrs. Peabody shared significant looks as a disturbance in the doorway caught Zach’s attention. The man of the hour had arrived, followed by a vision in faded calico and young Patrick Callahan, who made an immediate beeline toward the buffet table.

  Harrison and his niece were instantly surrounded by a flock of bleating admirers. As Zach observed the sharper’s toothy, benevolent smile, he managed to repress a nauseated grimace. The healings had made him ill.

  Once the furor from Zach’s performance had settled down, Harrison had gone to work making miracles. Instructing Morality and the boy to pass the loaves among the multitudes, he’d preached a “loaves and fishes” sermon. The Miracle Girl and her assistant then passed among the congregation, offering swigs of the “Elixir of Life.” Shortly after that, J. P. Harrison began his healings.

  Zach figured out the scam after the third religious mystery. Had the act not been so deplorable, he would have been impressed. It wasn’t prayers that had the dozen or so folks claiming miracles at the meeting, it was the bread and water and Morality’s morning-glory seeds.

  His stomach had churned at the sight of a poor old arthritic woman climbing to her feet and dancing a jig. He hoped to hell that when the effects of the bread wore off, she’d not discover herself crippled up even worse than before. Harrison ought to be shot for pulling this type of scam.

  There weren’t many things in life Zach wouldn’t do— he’d lie and cheat and steal with the best of swindlers—but he drew the line at narcotics. He had witnessed firsthand the ravages of addiction in the opium dens of San Francisco, where men sold their souls for a puff or two at a pipe.

  In the community room of the Cottonwood Creek courthouse, Zach’s eyes narrowed as he watched the adulation offered the preacher. An overwhelming sense of disgust all but killed his appetite. Reverend Harrison was drugging his flock.

  And Morality Brown was helping him do it.

  Did she know? he wondered. How could she not? She’d have to be stupid not to see through the scam, and the woman didn’t strike him as stupid. He’d thought her innocent and naïve. She’d nearly fooled him with her “I believe in miracles” act.

  The strength of his disappointment surprised him. Why should he care that Morality Brown was just another scam artist in a world full of masters?

  His gaze shifted to the preacher’s niece, and watching her smile that innocent’s smile up at an unsuspecting admirer, he realized the answer to his question.

  He cared because he had liked her. Because she’d appealed to a side of himself he seldom acknowledged, a part of him that wanted to believe some good still existed in the world, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

  Because in some obscure way, she reminded him of his mother.

  Zach swallowed a curse, grateful that a question from the widow demanded his attention. “Yes, Mrs. Peabody,” he replied. “That’s correct. Before the Texas Southern will begin laying tracks, the citizens of Cottonwood Creek must prove their support by purchasing sufficient stock to finance the project.”

  Having offered a fact to feed the conversation for some time, Zach was able to refocus his concentration on the preacher and his niece. He watched her carefully, noting her sincerity as she spoke with individuals in the crowd. He should take comfort in the fact that he wasn’t the only one who had fallen for her con. Look at them, fawning over the angel in their midst.

  Zach scowled inwardly. Morality Brown. They thought her beautifully innocent. Innocently beautiful. Kind and sweet and gentle. She was Miraculous Morality, the closest thing to an angel to be found here on earth.

  And every damn bit of it was a lie. Angels didn’t play apothecary with unsuspecting fools.

  Deliberately returning his attention to those grouped around him, he caught sight of young Patrick Callahan from the corner of his eye. The boy snatched a muffin from a basket on the food table and furtively stashed it in a pocket.

  Zach opened his mouth to comment on a statement the editor had made, but a sudden thought stopped him. Did the boy know? Was he part of the scam, too?

  He had to be. Patrick had warned him not to eat the miracle bread, so he
must have known the loaves were doctored. Zach frowned, his gaze shifting from Patrick to Morality, then back to Patrick again.

  So, if the boy were part of it, why that scene between him and Morality in the alley behind the Marstons’? Why all the going on about lies?

  Zach shook his head. What did it matter? He shouldn’t waste his time worrying about it. After all, in the grand scheme of his scheme, the answer didn’t matter for beans. He’d gotten what he’d needed from the Church of the Word’s Healing Faith. He’d preached his scam from the pickpocket’s pulpit. It didn’t make one bit of difference what amount of success Harrison and his helpers enjoyed. Zach should be happy to see the townspeople being taken for fools.

  Except he couldn’t put the morning-glory seeds from his mind. He couldn’t forget that jig-dancing woman. Zach hated opiates with a passion.

  Well, hell. There was no sense stewing about it anymore tonight. The reverend wasn’t going to feed anyone his seeds anytime soon. At the meeting, Harrison had announced he’d conduct a second healing the final night of the revival—ten days from now. Zach figured the timing had something to do with contributions. Anticipation and pent-up demand must add to the weight of the collection plate.

  He looked around the room, freezing as lamplight highlighted the glisten of fire in Morality Brown’s tresses. Red hair. That should have clued him in to her true character right off. Angels were never redheaded.

  Redheads were Delilahs and Jezebels. Sinners.

  Heat pooled low in Zach’s body as his gaze swept over Morality’s curves. Sinners. There was something to be said for sinners. He could do with a little taste of sin right about now. Maybe he’d mosey on over and see if he couldn’t convince the jezebel that she was hungry, too.

  Pasting on a smile, he interrupted the Cottonwood Creek Clarions editor, who was expounding on the upcoming statewide elections. “Excuse me, but I see my supper companion has arrived. She’s promised me first choice of her fried chicken.”