Beloved Counterfeit (14 page)

Caleb’s grin surprised Micah. “I’m sure that was partly true, only the object he was looking for was money. Seems as though he figured he might uncover something to take back to the boys in New York City.”

“Like what? You run a tight ship here.”

“And that’s all the man’s got to take back to his superiors.” He sighed. “Turns out he’s been going up and down the coast, checking up on things for quite some time. Said mine was one of the few islands where there wasn’t some question as to where the profits went.”

“Well, at least he turned out to be legitimate. I fear not all who appear harmless are.”

The judge gave him a stern look. “You know more than you’re saying, Micah. What is it?”

“Nothing I’m free to say just yet,” he said, “though between you and me, I’m of a mind to marry up with Ruby O’Shea.”

There. He’d said it. Out loud. Micah leaned back to watch the play of emotions cross Caleb Spencer’s face. “Surprised?” he finally asked.

“A little.” He braced his elbows on the desk. “Have you declared your intentions to her?”

“In a matter of speaking, yes.”

“And she’s accepted your proposal.”

It was Micah’s turn to sigh. “She will.”

* * *

He knows.
 

Viola thought for a moment she might blurt out the obvious. Might say the words long awaiting release.

With deliberate slowness, Viola turned to face her brother. The expression she’d seen so often applied to schoolyard bullies or used in moments of irritation was now squarely fixed on her.

“The truth,” she said as she felt the life drain out of her, “is that I do not remember. Indeed, had I the chance, I know I would have done it, but I truly remember only fragments of the day.”

“Fragments?” he echoed. “Come and sit. You look to be ready to topple.”

Remy led her back to the settee and situated her there. As patient as he was persistent, her brother merely stood in silence while she worried the lace on her sleeve. Then a loose button caught her attention and held it.

Each inane thought pushed away a more dangerous one. Even so, snippets of a complete memory surfaced. Andre’s shouts. Fear she might be hauled back to New Orleans to face the marriage she’d fled.

And then two guns. Andre held one, and the other. . .

Or was Andre unarmed while she and the doctor both carried pistols?

Viola sighed. Like pearls on a broken strand, the memory fell away and disappeared. Retrieving the final clasp that would complete the strand proved once again impossible, though she walked in her mind through each moment of the horrific event as if she were actually there.

She might have remained so occupied had Remy not plopped down beside her. “Careful,” she said. “This is not a particularly sturdy piece.”

“Then I’ll buy you a new one.” Remy rested his hand on her shoulder, his jesting mood obviously gone. “I feared I would find you rotting away in some jail cell.”

“A fate perhaps better than not knowing,” she said.

“This doctor.” Remy shifted positions and faced her. “What does he say of it?”

Viola sighed.
That this shooting will forever stand between us
.
“That a woman of my delicate upbringing could not possibly shoot with such deadly accuracy.”

The look that passed between them caused Viola to shiver. At once, she knew. The string of pearls met and closed.

“Come home, Vivi,” Remy said. “Think on it no more, and come home.”

How easy it would be to do as he asked and put the world that was Fairweather Key behind her. To be sure, the specter of Andre Gayarre would never leave her no matter where she went, but perhaps it would rise up less frequently once she was no longer forced almost daily to walk past the place where he died.

“I want to meet him.” Remy rose and hauled her off the settee with a yank of her hand. “Where might I find this doctor who has you so enthralled?” When Viola did not answer quickly enough to suit him, Remy grabbed his hat and marched out the door.

Viola trailed just far enough behind to watch where he went without being close enough to be coaxed into following. She held her breath until he turned right at the corner, a direction that would take him decidedly away from the person he sought.

Then she spied Ruby O’Shea hurrying past and stepped onto the porch. After calling to her, Viola went to the gate. “Might I trouble you to do me a favor?” she asked. “If you’ve the time, that is.”

Chapter 17

Ruby suppressed a grin. She saw how it was: an overprotective brother intent on giving a slow groom a push toward the altar. What might that feel like? Still, she’d come this way in hopes she’d find someone altogether different: Micah Tate.

The basket on her arm held an offering of sorts. A few slices of bread, some of last night’s fried chicken, and the first slice of what promised to be a particularly tasty pie.

“Thank you, Ruby,” Viola said. “I’m much beholden to you.”

“Oh no,” she said as she turned her attention to the situation at hand, “though I wonder why it wouldn’t be a proper good idea to let your brother and the doctor have a conversation.”

Viola’s grin went south. “I, well, you see. . .”

Adjusting the basket, Ruby shook her head. “No need to explain. I’ll do what I can, though I can’t promise I’ll even find him.”

She needn’t have worried. Another turn down the street leading to the clinic, and she found Remy Dumont seemingly waiting for her. Something in the way he smiled made her wonder, though she quickly removed all traces of a grin in response.

“He’s not in,” Viola’s brother said as she reached for the latch on the gate. “There’s a note if you’d like the details. I didn’t bother.”

“He?” Ruby glanced toward the doctor’s office and noticed that a slip of paper had been tacked on the door frame. “Oh yes, of course, Dr. Hill. Well, I will have to come back another time, won’t I?”

“Don’t know. Something I can help you with?” His gaze swept over her in that manner some men have of making a woman feel indecent when she wasn’t. Or in her case, when she wasn’t anymore. “You don’t look as if you’re in need of medical attention.”

“I’m not. I just. . .well. . .it can wait.”
Mission accomplished.

Turning on her heels, Ruby headed back in the direction she’d come. He was an impertinent man, that Remy Dumont, and though she’d come to respect his sister, Ruby couldn’t be sure how she felt about him. Perhaps it was his youth, though at most he likely bore a year or two more than she.

No, she decided as she reached the corner. There was something to Remy Dumont that reminded her of herself. Something that threatened to be unleashed should good manners or restraint give way.

She breathed a sigh of relief that she’d not been forced to entertain some sort of lengthy conversation with the man. What could they have possibly discussed beyond the weather and perhaps a shared story or two about Viola?

The handsome newcomer suddenly fell into step beside her, and Ruby found nothing to say at all. Not that she needed worry, for Remy Dumont quickly filled the silence with a barrage of questions about Fairweather Key and its inhabitants.

She answered each one as best she could, considering she’d only been a resident for a short while herself. Finally, silence reigned, and she felt obligated to ask a question of her own.

“So what do you do back in New Orleans?” was the best she could come up with.

Long fingers that looked as if they belonged dancing over the keys of a grand piano in some elegant salon swept a dark curl from his face. “How did you know I’m from New Orleans? Have you more interest in me than you let on?” Before she could respond, he laughed. “My, but aren’t you easy to flummox?”

“Flummox?” She shook her head. “I’ve no idea what that means, but I don’t think I like it.”

“I assure you, confusion renders you no less lovely.”

She shifted her basket, putting it squarely between them. While Remy Dumont might present an attractive distraction, Micah Tate was the only man who’d offered protection. Pretty wouldn’t protect the girls should Tommy and his men come calling.

“Miss O’Shea, are you lost in thought or merely lost?” When she reluctantly gave him her attention, Remy shrugged. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but it appears you’ve no particular destination in mind.”

“To the contrary,” she said, “I’m visiting.”

“Tell me the truth, Miss O’Shea.” Remy leaned close and gripped the edge of the basket, blocking her plans to leave. “You appear to be a woman of some passion. And a widow. Might I arrange to see more of you?” Closer still. “My sister regards you highly, but I don’t feel she sees you as I do.”

The nerve. Anger rode high in her mind and in the heat flooding her face. Were she a man, she might have called him out. A woman, however, had two choices: Endure the ribald comment and walk away, or consider the attention a compliment.

In the old days, there would have been a third option. But these were not the old days, and she was a new creation in Christ. Once lost but now found and made clean.

Her vision tunneled, and Remy Dumont alone filled her field of view. Back came the long-absent gnawing urge, an old familiar want that could be so easily remedied in the arms of Remy Dumont. She closed her eyes. Prayer was so close, yet the choice to do so evaded her.

Temptation.

The word rose ugly before her. Remy Dumont, young and handsome, sweet with words. He bade her return to a life she swore she’d abandoned.

Tempted her to forsake the real for the temporary.

What harm would come of a stolen afternoon? It’s not like I’ll become what I was.
The curve of his mouth told her he’d be a man of practiced abilities. A man who could kiss a woman and make her forget her cares.

And there were many cares. Fears. Worries.

“Yes, that’s it, Ruby. You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Now he held her forearm, and though the basket hid them, his fingers were not still. “Steal away with me,” he whispered as he leaned close enough for her to feel his breath on her cheek. His free hand tangled in the ribbon holding her hair in place. “I long to loose this braid of yours. Such a lovely shade, this scarlet hair of yours.”

Scarlet.

“Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.”

Shock poured over her like cold bathwater.
Sins of scarlet
.
So easily she’d nearly fallen. Her heart sank as a mixture of humiliation and sorrow filled her down to the bone.

When she looked at Remy Dumont again, all she felt was the need to run. To flee before good sense and seven weeks of newfound faith were tossed aside once more.

“Excuse me, but I must. . .” Without bothering to finish her good-byes, Ruby turned on her heels and fled, nearly slamming into Mr. Russell’s prize mare. “Excuse me,” she said to the animal as it stood tethered before the mercantile.

The mercantile.

A slow glance up at the windows showed her that their exchange had been witnessed by a half dozen of Fairweather Key’s citizens.

She ducked around the tail end of the horse so as to avoid the condemning stares and found herself ankle deep in the muck that was Main Street after a decent rain. Her head held high, she plodded across the street and paused to shake what mud she could off the hem of her dress.

“I’m hopeless,” she said as she reached the boardwalk then nearly slid to her doom from the mud on her shoes. “Truly hopeless,” she added when she righted herself.

Thankfully, Remy Dumont seemed content to remain on the other side of the street, though he shadowed her as she continued to walk. Her fingers shook, but she formed a fist with her free hand and forced her attention forward.

To turn around would be to meet Remy at the point where Main turned upward toward the boardinghouse. Better to keep walking until he tired of the ruse and let her be.

If
he tired of it.

She cast a sideways glance and found him watching her. Ruby wished for the distraction of a familiar face who might want to stop and chat. None appeared.

Just keep walking. Don’t stop.
So she did, and by the time she realized where she’d gone, she was standing within a stone’s throw of the docks.

And so was Remy.

And so was Micah Tate.

Chapter 18

So the Dumont fellow had designs on Ruby O’Shea. That much Micah could easily discern from their walk down the hill and the conversation they’d obviously had in front of the mercantile. He shifted his attention to Ruby, who wore a flushed expression.

For a moment he allowed himself to believe she hadn’t been walking with the fellow. Then, by degrees, the reality of it sunk into his tired bones.

Dumont was young, as was she, and obviously interested in the lovely redhead. But then, what man with a pulse and no wedding ring wouldn’t be?

Micah reached to shake Dumont’s hand, making sure to squeeze extra hard as he said, “Tate, Micah Tate.”

To his credit, the young man didn’t so much as flinch. Rather, he gave as he had received. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve heard about you. Good things,” he added with a glance down at Ruby, “from my sister.”

To answer would have been the proper thing, but watching Remy Dumont wither under his stare was more amusing.

“His sister is Viola Dumont.” Ruby must have realized she’d jumped into a conversation in which she did not belong, for a lovely shade of pink dusted her cheeks. “Of course, you know her.”

Again he might have answered, but where was the humor in that? And with all the grief he’d endured at the hands of Ruby O’Shea, a bit of fun was certainly due him.

Then came the all-too-familiar twinge of conscience that caused him to soften his expression and take up the lost thread of conversation. “I’m responsible for mustering up a militia of able-bodied citizens of Fairweather Key.” Micah gave Dumont another long look and pretended not to notice Ruby’s discomfort. “Planning on being here long?”

“I wasn’t, actually,” he said in a tone that let Micah know what he thought of their backwater town. “I’ve only come to fetch my sister home and perhaps see a bit of the island’s lovely attractions as well.”