The Scoundrel's Bride

by Geralyn Dawson

  Her eyes flew open, rounded like the moon. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “What am I doing?”

  Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of revelry coming from a lower floor. “You make me…feel.”

  He stepped closer. “Feeling is good, angel.” He inhaled her fragrance, heard the rasp of her breath. Her lids grew heavy, her eyes soft, and Zach was caught in the web of his own seduction. He lifted his hand to caress the curve of her cheek, but she backed away, shaking her head.

  “No. My uncle says—”

  With desire running hot and heavy in his loins, Zach had little patience for such a protest. “I don’t want to hear what your uncle has to say about anything. It’s just you and me here now, angel. Leave that charlatan out of it.”

  Immediately, he knew he’d made another mistake. Her chin came up, her shoulders went back, and the heat in her eyes changed from yearning to fury. “Stop it! Stop calling him names. He’s a messenger of the Lord, and the things you are saying are evil.”

  Frustration goaded Zach’s words. “I’m saying evil things, am I? Well, I reckon it’s a whole helluva lot better to say them than to do them! I’m on to your game, you know.” Throwing caution to the wind, he sneered, “I know about the ‘miracles.’ ”

  She tried to push past him but he caught her arm. “You’re gonna stop doing them, Morality Brown. Not another one. You understand me?”

  Morality’s scornful, scathing tone filled the small chamber. “What is it, Mr. Burkett? Are you afraid my uncle has upstaged you? Oh, the townspeople might have been caught up in your display at first—the bloody palms were effective in helping make your point—but once Reverend Uncle began to perform his healings, they forgot all about you, didn’t they? Your efforts paled in comparison to my uncles miracles!”

  “That’s enough!” He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a shake. “Dammit, woman. I told you I know all about it! I know he’s not curing those poor souls.” The blaze in Zach Burkett’s eyes could have burned through metal as he stared at her and shouted, “He’s drugging them!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I KNOW IT’S THE bread, Morality.” Zach loomed over her and spoke in a near whisper, somehow more threatening than a shout. “The bread you bake. Tell me, do you grind the seeds yourself or does he give you his own special flour to use for the damn miracle loaves?”

  A cold shadow clutched at Morality’s heart. She didn’t want to listen, but she had to ask, “What do you mean?”

  “They don’t have to be ground. They could be steeped in water till you have a tea that’ll knock you on your butt.” Scorn dripped from his words as he said, “Are the damn seeds in the water too, Morality? ‘Elixir of Life,’ isn’t that what you call it? ‘Elixir of Death’ would be more like it, don’t you think? Because it messes with people’s minds and makes them think their pain has disappeared when it has only been deadened. What happens when its effects wear off and they realize nothing has changed? Does he tell them they weren’t good enough? They didn’t pray enough? Didn’t pay enough!”

  Cold seeped to the core of her bones. “Stop it, stop it now! How dare you say such a thing, Zach Burkett. You are a bastard!”

  “Damn right I am,” he snapped. “And so is your uncle. I’ll bet my mother’s music box I’m right on the mark. The miracle loaves and elixir y’all pass out at the revival meetings are spiked with the product of morning-glory seeds.”

  He paused, taking a deliberate breath. “Can you deny it, Miracle Girl? Have you killed anybody with ‘em yet? Are you a killer just like me?”

  She slapped him, hard. Zach stood there and took it. Staring at her. Not moving a muscle. Accusing her with his silence. When he finally spoke, his voice was as soft as the night wind. “We both know I’m right.”

  “No! You lie! You’re a liar! You admitted it!”

  “I’m not lying now, angel, and you know it.”

  The distant barking of a dog and the sounds of conversation from the meeting room downstairs filled the sudden silence between them. After a few moments, Zach held out his hands, palms up. “Look, I won’t tell anyone. I just want it stopped. Immediately. Harrison needs your help to put this scam over, so quit helping him. Go plant those morning-glory seeds, Morality Brown. Make something pretty out of something ugly.”

  He tilted his head, watching her closely as he added, “I’d like to think you’re not part of this, that you’re simply caught up in something you can’t get out of.”

  Morality summoned her strength, lifted her chin, and met his gaze. What kind of man was he that he could say these things? Why would he bother spouting such non-sense? He wanted her to plant her seeds? Well, she’d just do it in his cornfield. It would serve him right. “You can think whatever you like, Zach Burkett, but you don’t know anything. You don’t know my uncle, and you certainly don’t know me.”

  He reached out to touch her, but she jerked away. She couldn’t bear his touch. She couldn’t bear the sight of him a moment longer. “Go,” she said, her voice low and furious. “Go now. And stay away from me and my family.”

  “Morality—”

  “Go!”

  He gave her a long look, then said quietly, “Hell. Is it possible you didn’t know about this? Could he have kept you in the dark about the seeds? Ah, Morality, are you truly as innocent as you look?” When she didn’t answer, he reached for her again. This time his fingertip gently touched her temple. “Maybe so. It just might be. Talk about blind.”

  Morality shivered as he seemed to gaze into her very soul. “Open your eyes, angel. Think about it. You have ten days until the next ‘healing.’ Don’t make me take care of it for you.” He turned to leave, pausing at the door and looking back over his shoulder. “And whatever you do, don’t eat the bread or drink that elixir. Don’t let the boy have any, either.” With that, he left the tower room.

  Morality sank to the floor. She wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock slowly back and forth. The wind stirred, flowing in and out of the clock tower.

  His words echoed over and over in her mind. Accusations she wouldn’t—couldn’t—believe. Reverend Uncle a charlatan? No. Never. “He’s a soldier of the Lord.”

  It wasn’t at all as Burkett claimed. So her uncle gave her special flour for the miracle loaves, that didn’t prove anything. And the seeds, well, it didn’t matter what Reverend Uncle did with them. They couldn’t be harmful.

  Zach Burkett was lying. He’d lied before and he was lying now.

  But as she sat in the darkness on the hard tower floor, doubt crept past her defenses like a demon. Patrick got sick after he ate a miracle loaf.

  “No!” she cried aloud. It was coincidence, that’s all. Reverend Uncle would never do such an awful, wicked thing. A person would have to be evil to create false miracles, and the Lord wouldn’t use an evil man to do His works. Morality was certain of that.

  She climbed to her feet and gazed out at the lights of Cottonwood Creek flickering below. Dizzy, she swayed, but she clutched the stone sills of the arched opening and watched the light.

  That was her proof. She could see the lights because of Reverend Uncle. Her uncle had healed her. She’d been blind, and he’d made her see.

  In her heart of hearts she knew that God Almighty wouldn’t give such wondrous power to one unworthy of the gift. Morality inhaled deeply, summoning calm to her soul.

  Zach Burkett was the evil one. Lies and falsehoods spilled from his mouth like sugar from a slotted spoon. The purpose behind this particular lie was something Morality had yet to figure out.

  The door to the clock tower squeaked open. She shut her eyes; she couldn’t face that devil again tonight. “Leave me alone, Zach Burkett.”

  Patrick called hesitantly, “Morality?”

  She’d never heard a more welcome voice.

  “Mr. Zach said I should come up here.” Stepping into the room, the boy shut the door behind him, then moved to stand by her si
de. He laid a hand on her shoulder and asked, “Are you all right, Morality?”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t know. Devil doubts and disbeliefs. Oh, Lord, help me. “Patrick, do you know anything about morning-glory seeds?”

  THE WHOO-WHOO of a steamer’s whistle announced the arrival of the Ben Milam at the Northside Landing. Standing near the gangplank, Cottonwood Creek’s most distinguished citizen, Congressman E.J. Marston, waved to the crowd gathered to welcome him and his wife, Henrietta, home from Washington.

  Gossips swarmed like mosquitoes the moment they stepped ashore. Almost immediately, the congressman turned to his wife and the pair engaged in a short, obviously heated, private discussion. Forgoing the usual homecoming speech, E.J. escorted Henrietta to a buggy waiting to carry them to their home, Season’s House. He saw his wife off, then headed for the offices of Marston Shipping. By the time he reached the three-story building on the courthouse square, he’d heard six different accounts of the Burkett Bastard’s return and subsequent public appearance.

  E.J.’s complexion was as red as the building’s bricks when he marched inside and demanded an immediate meeting with his brother, Joshua, president of the company.

  Due to the customary late morning lull in business, all was quiet as the two Marston brothers entered Joshua’s office for a private discussion concerning an old thorn in the family backside—Zachary Burkett.

  Joshua remained silent as E.J. appropriated his desk and chair. Some things never changed. After shutting the door, he took a seat on the opposite side of the broad mahogany desk.

  “Helluva thing for a man to come home to,” E.J. said, exploring the drawers of Joshua’s desk. He pulled out a pair of tumblers and a bottle of aged bourbon. “So,” he abruptly demanded, “how do you propose to solve this predicament?”

  Joshua replied with a scowl. Watching his brother pour their drinks, he took a moment to frame his remarks. At fifty-four, Congressman Marston was a tall, vital man whose silver hair and lined face accentuated the elder-statesman persona he characterized. Younger by four years, Joshua had grown up in awe of E.J.’s charisma and aware of his ruthlessness.

  His sibling could be mean as hell with the hide off. From boyhood, Joshua had learned to imitate his brother’s actions, sometimes taking them a step further in an attempt to prove himself. But the behavior hadn’t come naturally to Joshua, and it had taken years and maturity for him to realize E.J.’s way wasn’t necessarily the best way.

  By that time, a good amount of damage had been done, part of which they dealt with here today.

  “It’s a real problem, E.J., and I’m not at all certain just how it’ll end.” Joshua massaged his graying temples with his fingertips and sighed. “It’s worse than when word got around town that I’d bought the house for Sarah Burkett. You’d think after all these years Louise would have made peace with the idea, but she hasn’t. I worry about what she might do.”

  E.J. Marston shot a hard look at Joshua over the top of his glass as he sipped his bourbon. In a deceptively calm voice, he drawled, “What are you trying to say, Joshua?”

  Joshua’s hands gripped his chair’s armrest, and he pushed to his feet. He paced the room, his footsteps a rhythmic thud against the polished hardwood floor. Twice he raked his fingers through his hair, searching for the words and the courage to say what he must. The nervous crack of his knuckles sounded like gunshots to his ears. He took a deep breath, then said, “My wife wants to tell the truth.”

  For a long moment, silence filled the office. E.J. very precisely set his glass on the desk, then leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. His tone was conversational, but his eyes were blue ice as he said, “My dear little brother, you do understand the ramifications of such an act?”

  Joshua laughed grimly. “I guess the first thing that jumps to mind is the likelihood we’d lose Marston Shipping.”

  E.J. scowled. “You should never have told Louise—”

  “Let’s not get into ‘should nevers,’ all right?” Joshua interrupted, his temper flaring. His brother had no right to criticize. They wouldn’t have this problem had the situation been properly handled thirty years ago. He grabbed his glass from the desk and tossed back the bourbon. The liquor burned down his throat, filling him with a welcome warmth.

  Fear carried a distinctive chill.

  He said, “We need to find out why Burkett has returned.”

  The congressman withdrew a pipe and leather tobacco pouch from his pocket. “I was told he explained that over at the tent revival last night. I understand he put on a real show, preached a blue streak, even held up bloody hands.”

  As he went about the ritual of filling his pipe, he sneered. “Sounded like he was real successful, too. Maybe I should steal his idea, incorporate a bit of blood into my next speech against taxes. Bleed the poor electorate dry, that sort of thing.”

  “This is serious,” Joshua snapped, returning to his seat. “A railroad could put us out of business.”

  “True,” E.J. agreed, nodding. “That’s why we’ve opposed every attempt to run a line through East Texas. What’s it been now, three times?”

  “Four.” Joshua grimaced. His brother’s nonchalant attitude grated on his nerves. “But this Burkett’s taking an approach that just might work. He’s preying on people’s religious beliefs and putting God in the railroad business. Hell, even the Marstons will have trouble battling that opponent.”

  “We are more used to dealing with the devil, aren’t we?”

  Joshua couldn’t argue with that. E.J. drew on his pipe, then blew rings of smoke toward his brother. “You’re right, Joshua,” he said, after a few moments. “These circumstances are different.” Pausing, he pointed his pipe stem in emphasis as he added, “And they’re just what we’ve needed all along.”

  “What?” Joshua was shocked.

  “Think about this, brother,” the congressman instructed. “Up until now, the railroads that wanted to run a line through eastern Texas all had one thing in common. Each was a private company, and none of them offered to let Marston Shipping in on the deal. If what I was told is true, that’s not the way Burkett’s deal is structured.”

  Joshua was beginning to see the direction his brother’s mind was taking. “Burkett’s selling stock.”

  E.J. nodded. “Send a man to the Texas Southern main office in New Orleans,” he said, refilling his glass. “We need to find out if Burkett’s on the up and up. If so—”

  “We’ll buy stock in the Texas Southern,” Joshua finished.

  “Lots of it. If the Cottonwood Creek/Texas Southern partnership is set up similar to the way that railroad has done it in other parts of the country. They form a subsidiary company and split the profits. It works well for both the railroad and the local investors.” He took a long sip of bourbon and said, “We could end up with controlling interest in our local spur.”

  Joshua’s thoughts were rushing. “We could control prices.”

  “Yes. There are many ways we could take advantage of the situation. I’ve wanted a piece of a railroad for a long time, Joshua. It’s a natural expansion of our business. This is the first time a deal’s been right for us.”

  “I don’t know, E.J.” Joshua rubbed his cheek with his palm. “Even if Burkett s telling the truth and he’s doing this out of some religious mission, I don’t see him letting us in on much of the deal.”

  The congressman barked a laugh. “Don’t be a fool. We wouldn’t buy it in our own name. Really, Joshua, I’m surprised you’ve done as well as you have with Marston Shipping if you limit your thinking that way.”

  Joshua’s face turned red. “We’d be fools not to have some suspicions where Burkett’s concerned. Besides, we wouldn’t have to worry about the bastard at all if not for you. I had the problem handled nicely until you got involved.”

  “We needn’t worry about Burkett now—unless you fail to control your wife,” E.J. replied coldly. “It’s the only thing that could destroy
us—an indiscretion on Louise’s part. If I lose this election, then the Red River raft is history. That’s an eventuality Marston Shipping must prepare for, but we’re not near ready yet. This railroad deal should help solve the problem given time, but in order to provide us the time we need, I have to chair that appropriations committee next term. I’m liable to lose the election if Louise talks.”

  Joshua rubbed the back of his neck as he stared unseeing at a paneled wall. Then he voiced the worry that had been plaguing him since learning of Zach Burkett’s return to Cottonwood Creek. “Maybe he already knows, E.J. Maybe that’s why he came back.”

  “He can’t know,” the congressman said flatly. He paused to relight his pipe. Puffs of white smoke rose above his head, and the scent of burley and latakia drifted on the air. “We are the only ones who know the truth.”

  “Henrietta knows,” Joshua corrected, referring to E.J.’s wife.

  His brother arched a brow. “Joshua, you don’t believe she’d say anything, do you?”

  Joshua didn’t have to reply. Henrietta Marston was the very definition of a political wife. She spent a good portion of her time guarding the closet door that hid the family skeletons.

  He’d mentioned her name only in the interest of accuracy. The next name he spoke, he said out of fear. “Sarah Burkett knew.”

  “Come on, brother!” E.J. said, shaking his head. “The woman’s been dead for almost twenty years.”

  “She could have told the boy before she died.”

  “No…” For the first time, Joshua heard a note of doubt in his brother’s voice. The congressman put down his pipe in favor of his bourbon. “He’d have used it before now.”