Morality swallowed hard. “All right, do it.”
“Do what?”
“Ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
She eyed the pitchfork. “Mr. Burkett, I have received three previous marriage proposals. Not a one of those men enjoyed the superb verbal skills you so frequently display. However.” She drew it out, folding her arms and squaring her shoulders. “Each of them managed to pay me the courtesy of actually posing the question!”
“Oh. You want me to ask you, huh?”
She answered with her most ferocious glare. Then, when the gleam kindled in his eye, she began to reconsider. He took a step forward, she took one back. Morality thought the heat in his eyes raised the temperature in the barn ten degrees.
He kept coming and within moments she felt the barn’s wall against her back. He put his hands against the boards, caging her between them.
“Marry me, Morality,” he said, leaning close, touching her only with his gaze, and with his breath, and with the music that poured from his soul and vibrated the air between them. “Marry me and be my wife. I’ll take you places you’ve never dreamed, show you worlds you’ve only imagined. We’ll share a bit of heaven here on earth, and I’ll fill you with life and with love and with joy.” His mouth mere inches from hers, he said in a husky whisper, “Marry me, angel. Be my wife.”
Morality ached for his kiss. Craved his hands on her body. Yearned to take him inside her and fill the emptiness she’d known all her life. “Yes, Zach Burkett. I’ll marry you. Yes, please, I’ll marry you.”
In that moment, Zach wanted her, body and soul. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted another woman. Even more than he had wanted her that morning, when he’d awakened hard and hot with her soft seductive body wrapped around him like a Christmas morning ribbon.
As he fit his mouth to hers, he ignored the whisper in his mind that told him this was more than just a con.
Somewhere along the way, Zach had forgotten he was lying.
A STORM had been brewing all afternoon, only this tempest had nothing to do with the weather outside the cabin. Zach was reminded of the day years earlier when he’d been working on a small central Texas farm. An hour before the vicious, twisting cloud had appeared in the sky a curious tension had filled the air. The birds quit singing, the horses went skittish, and the hair on the back of Zach’s neck stood up. He’d thought at first it was Indians. He and the fellow helping him plow a cotton field had made a beeline for the meager shelter of a nearby outcropping of rock.
The trouble, when it came, made a Comanche raid look like Sunday-morning church service.
Zach had never seen such natural violence as the churning, air-sucking cloud that roared overhead and destroyed the sturdy stone farmhouse, the barn, henhouse, and storage sheds faster than the blink of an eye.
Now today, the air inside his cabin vibrated with another sort of natural tension. A violent force in its own right.
Neither he nor Morality had much to say. She was acting jumpy as a basketful of frogs, and his neck hairs were standing at attention. As was another part of his body. Which was the problem. Zach had pretty much been on point ever since that kiss out in the barn. Judging by the blush that reddened Morality’s skin every time their gazes chanced to meet, she hadn’t been exactly unaffected herself.
She’d talked a blue streak once they headed back inside, relaying bits and pieces of anecdotes about her life on the healer circuit. Yet, the entire time her mouth yammered on, her eyes and expression revealed the fact that her mind wandered elsewhere.
Morality was obviously nervous and apprehensive. Perhaps a little bit frightened. She was also clearly filled to the brim with excitement over the pending change in her life.
Zach was brimming with something a bit more earthy.
Morality Brown lured him with her innocence. She enticed him with her smile. She beguiled him with her beauty and tempted him with her wit. She was Morality in her heart, but Delilah everywhere else.
From his position in front of the fire, Zach gazed across the room to his bed, where Morality sat, needle and thread in hand, repairing ripped stitches in his mother’s quilt. Her braid fell over one shoulder, and his fingers itched to pull out the plaits, to lay her back and fan that silken fire across his pillow.
Abruptly, Zach moved away from the hearth. More heat was exactly what he didn’t need. Morality glanced up at him and smiled so sweetly Zach nearly groaned aloud.
Well, hell. There she was on his bed. His beautiful betrothed. His alluring angel. There was but one way to solve this problem.
“C’mere, Morality,” he said, walking to stand before the worktable. “I’m gonna teach you to make chili.”
THAT EVENING Morality watched anxiously as Zach lifted his spoon to his mouth. His brows rose, he chewed thoughtfully, then slowly, decisively, he nodded.
Happiness sang in her veins, and she flashed him a brilliant smile before sampling her own spoonful of chili.
It was good. It was hot. She grabbed for her cup of water.
Zach laughed. “You put a good scald on the pot, angel. It’s a fine bowl of chili. What did you add to give it its kick?”
When she could breathe again she answered, “It’s a pepper, a Mexican pepper. When Reverend Uncle preached in San Antonio, our hostess added it to a number of her dishes. You said you liked hot chili, so…”
“Give the woman a recipe and she makes it even better.” He held out his bowl for a second helping. “How about a little more?”
She spooned another serving into his bowl, then handed it to him, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Are you making sport of me, Burkett? If you don’t recognize the taste of habanera peppers, then why were they in your stores?”
“I’m serious as snakebite. This chili is good, real good. As far as the pepper goes, it was in the box of foodstuffs Ginnie Drake gave me.”
“The carpenter’s wife?”
He nodded. “It was a welcome-to-town gift.” Then, after pausing to take another bit of chili, he added, “I’m glad she did it, too. I wouldn’t have thought to buy all those things, and the supplies have come in handy.”
Aware that Ginnie Drake was Mrs. Virginia Marston Drake, Morality decided to broach a subject she had hoped to discuss with Zach since the altercation at Joshua Marston s home. Sometimes, she knew, difficult topics were best eased into. “I met Mrs. Drake the other day. She seems like a very nice person.”
“She is pleasant.” A bitter note seeped into his voice as he added, “Especially for a Marston.”
“From the talk I’ve heard in town, that family has not treated you properly.” His sole reaction was an undignified snort, and she chose her next words with care. “It surprises me. Louise and Joshua have been terribly kind to me.”
“Yes, sending you out into a sleet storm is real friendly.”
“Now, Zach. I told you. She was upset. This loan business had her so distressed that neither one of us thought to check the weather.”
His mouth lifted in a sneer. “And being upset excuses her changing your entire life? You wouldn’t be marrying me if Louise Marston hadn’t sent you out into that storm.” Scowling, he set down his spoon. “I’ve lost my appetite. Don’t trust them for a second, Morality. When the Marstons get really upset they kill people.”
“Are you certain of that, Zach? I simply cannot imagine—”
“The gunman said it, sweetheart. Right after he shot my mama and me. We were only a few hours from town, headed for Nacogdoches, when they showed their guns. The Marstons drove us out of town with hired killers leading the way.” Zach pushed his chair back from the table. “Now, I don’t want to talk about the Marstons anymore. Gives me indigestion. Besides, I don’t want anything to mess with my memory of this delicious chili.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “It was good, wasn’t it? But Zach, about that diary—”
“Finish your supper, Morality. I’m through talking about the Marstons.” Zach stoo
d and carried his dishes to the wash pot where he plopped them into the water with more force than was necessary.
Morality had no trouble taking a hint like that. She went on to another important subject. “If we’re still iced in tomorrow, do you think we could work on biscuits?”
Zach was staring at a soap bubble in the water, his mind focused on Morality’s earlier question. He’d thought about it off and on since she’d made her dramatic entrance last night. The diary. Why had it been so important to his mother? Why did Louise Marston go to such lengths to safeguard the thing? And why was the idea of finding and reading the book somehow repulsive to him?
Had his mother had a secret he didn’t really want to know?
Morality touched his arm. “Zach, didn’t you hear me?”
“I’m sorry. Did you say something?” She smelled good. Like molasses cookies—sweet and spicy at the same time.
“I was wondering if you could teach me how to do biscuits tomorrow? If we’re still stranded here, that is.”
He had a sudden picture of Morality covered in flour and little else. “The thought makes my mouth water, angel.”
They talked local politics as they cleaned up after supper, avoiding any mention of the upcoming congressional election in favor of the hotly contested mayoral race between the incumbent, Wilson Thomas, and the challenger, Paul Rankin, who served as Cottonwood Creek’s undertaker.
“I hope Mr. Rankin wins,” she said, handing Zach the final dish to dry.
“Rankin! You must be kidding. I met him the other night at the church supper. The man is dumber than a box of rocks.”
“He thinks women should have the right to vote.”
“See, I rest my case.”
Morality wrinkled her nose. “And I thought I was marrying a progressive thinker.”
He laughed. “If that’s the case, you’re better off not thinking at all. Good thing you’ve got me to make the wedding plans.”
A serious look replaced the teasing light in Morality’s eyes. “I do?”
The argument that followed lasted the rest of the night and half of the next day and succeeded in diverting Zach’s attention from the bed, and Morality, and the possibility of sharing it.
But just barely.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A WELCOME WARMTH MELLOWED the air as Cottonwood Creek returned to life. Citizens and visitors stirred from their burrows in homes and hotels after four days of near total confinement. All around town folks exchanged stories of the ice storm and argued which was worse: the Big Slick of ‘60, or the Blizzard of ‘44. The blizzard carried the question with a two to one margin.
At Ginnie Drake’s home on Pecan Street, sunlight glistened on the icicles hanging from the roof. Melting drops of water dribbled down their surfaces, then fell with a plop to puddles below.
Ginnie nursed the babe at her breast and listened to her mother’s plans with growing irritation. Henrietta Marston acted as if she, personally, were responsible for the storm that had effectively canceled little Will’s christening and allowed her time to revamp all of her daughter’s plans. Moving Will to her shoulder for a burping, Ginnie felt as if her mother had taken hold of the olive branch she and Robert had extended and was beating her with it.
“…should give Governor Houston time to travel from Austin for the festivities,” Henrietta was saying. “The roses will be in bloom by April. I’ll have to hire musicians from New Orleans, of course. There’s not a decent violinist in all of East Texas.”
That was it. Ginnie had had enough. Robert Drake could play the strings off a fiddle and everyone knew it. She simply refused to listen to any more criticism—implied or outright—of the man she loved. If it ended this reconciliation with her parents, then so be it.
“No, Mother,” she said, the tempo of her pats to her son’s back increasing. “This is not what Robert and I want for Will. I won’t have his special day turned into one more campaign rally.”
Henrietta Marston’s eyes narrowed, and she drew a furious breath. “Virginia, how dare you speak that way to me! It’s that man who has done this to you, that…that…carpenter. Why, I’ll have you know…”
As Henrietta launched a vituperative attack on her daughter’s beloved husband, Ginnie purposefully ignored what her mother was saying. The old, familiar hurt swept through her, however, and she wondered yet another time why her mother had become such a hard woman. At times like this, Ginnie had trouble loving her mother. She certainly didn’t like her when she adopted her superior, Washington-wife persona. The woman could be downright mean.
Disliking the picture her mother made, she shifted her gaze, looking casually around the cozy little parlor. Until what she saw in the window made her stop and blink in surprise. My goodness, can she fly, too?
Morality Brown, the Miracle Girl, smiled shyly and waved at her through the backyard window, which stood a good eight feet off the ground.
ZACH WAS having a difficult time keeping his mind on his work. Normally when he had a woman’s legs around his neck he was busy doing something more interesting than peeking in windows.
Unexpectedly, Morality shifted her weight, and Zach bit back a curse. Although she wasn’t any bigger than a minute, holding her was complicated by the fact that he stood on a layer of ice, the parlor window at the back of the house being shaded from the sun. Every time she shifted her fanny, his feet went to sliding. “Hold still or I’m liable to drop you in the hollyhocks,” he grumbled softly. “Can you see who it is she’s talking to?”
“Quit complaining, Burkett,” Morality hissed back. “I can see Mrs. Drake just fine, but the other lady has her back to the window. She’s older than Mrs. Drake, I think, but…uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh? Uh-oh, what?”
“She sees me.”
Immediately, Zach moved away from the window. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her off his shoulders, saying, “Who, dammit?”
“Watch your tongue, Burkett.”
She really shouldn’t say that when he had her in this position. Especially dressed in disguise as she was in a pair of his britches cut down to size. “I’m trying, angel, but you’re not making it easy.” He set her on the ground, supporting her elbow when she slid on the ice. “What did she do when she spotted you?”
Morality tugged on her coat—his favorite Mexican-style poncho he’d donated to the cause. “Nothing. I think she was surprised to see me.”
Zach lifted his hat from its tree-limb hook and plunked it down on her head. “Fancy that,” he drawled sarcastically, leading her toward the back door.
“What do we do now, Zach? We can’t just stand here waiting. Someone will see me, and they’ll go tell Reverend Uncle, and we’ll never get aboard that boat. Oh, he’s going to find me, Zach! I know it. It’ll all be over. Everything. I’ll be in so much trouble. Do you think—”
“Hobble your lips, woman. Here, sit down.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he guided her onto the back-porch steps. “I’ll go around front and knock on the door. As long as it’s not your uncle in Ginnie’s parlor, I guess it doesn’t matter who’s there. Stay here until I come get you, angel. If anyone walks by, make sure to keep your head down.”
“But Zach, what about—”
He put his finger to his lip and disappeared around the corner of the clapboard house.
With little Will cradled in her arms, Ginnie Marston answered his knock. “Hello, Zach,” she said, smiling and stepping aside. “It’s nice to see you. Please come in.”
“Virginia, don’t you dare allow that bastard into your house!” Venom dripped from Henrietta Marston’s voice.
“Mother!” Ginnie’s eyes widened in embarrassment as Henrietta stormed into the entry hall, hatred blazing in her eyes.
Zach folded his arms and studied the congressman’s wife. Now, there was a woman who would turn a man’s head—if it were skewered on a spit, that is. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman. Tall and statuesque, fashionably dressed. He found it easy to ima
gine her at a Washington ball, rubbing shoulders with the powers that be. Zach found it more difficult to picture her in the role of doting grandmother.
Especially when she whipped out her hand and slapped him.
“Mother!” Ginnie exclaimed with a gasp.
“How dare you approach my daughter!”
Zach curled his lips in a humorless smile. “I’ll give you that one free, Miz Marston, but touch me again and you’ll regret it.”
Ginnie stepped between them. “Mother, I believe it is time you leave. Mr. Burkett is here at my husband’s invitation. Go ahead and make whatever plans you wish for the christening.”
Henrietta shoved her nose so high in the air that Zach thought she could balance a ball on it. The idea amused him. This entire family was a circus. He stepped away from the doorway as Henrietta grabbed her coat and bag and flounced from the house. Ginnie rocked her baby in her arms and watched her mother depart, grumbling softly, “The biddy.”
He lifted a curious brow. “You lied to your mama, Ginnie. Robert doesn’t know I’m here.”
She shrugged. “I’d have told her there’s a tribe of Comanche in my kitchen if it would have gotten rid of her.” Turning, she headed for the stairs, saying, “Why don’t you go on into the parlor and make yourself at home. Let me put Will down for a nap, then I’ll be right back. Help yourself to a drink if you’d like.”
Zach detoured to the back door on his way to the parlor, and when Ginnie came downstairs, she found not only her cousin standing by the window, but the Miracle Girl sitting in a chair. She was dressed in men’s clothes. “Well,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “I’m glad to know I wasn’t seeing things. You gave me quite a shock, Miss Brown.”
“Call me Morality, please,” she replied shyly. “I am sorry about that. It’s not my habit to play the Peeping Tom, but we heard voices and thought it best to check. No one can know that I’m here, you see.”
Ginnie looked at Zach, her blue eyes brimming with curiosity, as she took a seat on the sofa.
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