Texas Born (36 page)

'And what?'

Elender stared intently at her. 'The
nightmares may return.'

Elizabeth-Anne's face wore a fearful
expression as she stared at Elender. Then slowly she turned to
Zaccheus.

He smiled, reassuringly, coiled an arm around
her shoulders, and hugged her warmly. 'I'll help you, darling,' he
said quietly. 'Together we can conquer this. Together we can do
anything we set our hearts on. As long as we're together, only the
sky's the limit.'

'Yes,' Elizabeth-Anne said sincerely.
'Together we can do it. I know we can. Oh, I want us to have
healthy children, Zaccheus! I . . . I think I can face my
nightmares now.'

'Dr. Purris said to tell you he will be only
too happy to help you in any way he can. His door is open to both
of you, at any hour of the day or night,' Elender sighed. 'That is
the first serious problem which will confront you both.'

'And the second one?' Elizabeth-Anne asked
fearfully.

Elender nodded at Zaccheus, and slowly, in a
painful voice, he told Elizabeth-Anne everything. He talked half
the night long and left nothing out—not his mother's illness, nor
his robbing Bensey's Jewelers. How he had escaped from jail and was
on the run from the law.

As Jenny listened outside the door, her face
took on a rapturous expression. Her heart pounded excitedly.
Zaccheus—a thief? she thought with dizzying joy. Oh, how precious!
How very, very precious! She could just see it. The moment the
reverend would ask if there was any just reason why these two
people should not be united as man and wife, she could blurt out:
'Because he's wanted for robbery!'

But she would not do that. That would be far
too easy. For once, she would guard her valuable secret. She wasn't
going to do a thing, not yet. She would bide her time and wait
patiently—for years, if she had to. And then, when least expected,
when Zaccheus and Elizabeth-Anne had the most to lose, just when
they felt the safest—then, and only then—would she spring the
trap.

After a while, only silence came from the
parlor. Then Zaccheus spoke again. 'Does this mean you no longer
want me, Elizabeth-Anne?' he asked hesitantly.

Elizabeth-Anne gazed at him for what seemed
an eternity. 'No, it doesn't mean that at all.' She took his hand,
held it tightly, and kissed it. 'I love you,' she said huskily,
'just as you told me you love me. If you hadn't told me about it
and I'd found out, well, that would have been different. But I love
your honesty. I love you. ' She paused and added softly, 'Your past
changes nothing.'

'Then you will marry me?' he asked
excitedly.

She clutched him fiercely. 'Yes, darling!'
she cried. 'Yes, yes, yes!'

And outside the door, Jenny raised her head,
smiled wickedly, and tiptoed off to her room.

It was the time they spent at the Byrd
cottage that Elizabeth-Anne would remember as the happiest and most
fulfilled years of her life. And what a beautiful, charming,
idyllic place it was! Home, honeymoon cottage, hideaway, birthplace
of her children—no matter how far she would roam to the ends of the
earth, or how high up the social ladder she would soar, or with how
many countless multimillions her bank accounts would eventually
swell—somehow, everything that was ever truly important to her
could be encapsulated, could be condensed down to its beginnings,
to the Byrd cottage. It was where her life truly started and where
it was lived to the fullest—where life began, where life continued
and thrived. If walls could tell tales, then it was the tales these
walls contained which she wanted told most, for they were stories
of love gained and love lost, of happiness and sorrow, of illness
and health, of triumph and defeat, of endurance and strength, and
laughter, and tears.

She had always been charmed by the coziness
of the cottage, but the moment that Zaccheus swooped her up off the
ground and carried her giggling and squirming along the flagstone
path to the cottage, past the white picket fence and through the
creaking gate—that was when the magic began. And the instant he
carried her over the threshold, the cottage took on a quality she
had never known a house to possess. It was a haven. A
sanctuary.

Above all, it was home.

'Zaccheus! I still can't believe it!'
Elizabeth-Anne squealed as he carefully set her down in the small
front hall. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him
fiercely. 'Elizabeth-Anne Hale. How does it sound?'

'Sounds great to me.'

'I'll never let go of you!' she promised,
trapping his neck in the extended scissorlike pose of her arms.
'Never ever! Not for as long as I live!'

'You'd better,' he suggested laughingly, his
blue eyes dancing, 'or else you'll never see our new home.'

She let go of him instantly, stood still, and
gazed in silence around the front hall. The breath caught in her
throat. It was too beautiful for words.

I'm not going to change a thing
,
Elizabeth-Anne decided instantly. It would be a sacrilege to spoil
this beauty.

Suddenly she tugged at Zaccheus' hand and led
him around the cottage, chattering excitedly as she pulled him from
room to room, studying the layout and decor, poking her nose into
every last niche and cranny. 'I love it!' she said.

'I do too,' he said, smiling, loving the
excited gleam in her eyes, the rosy flush brought on by her
excitement. She had never, he decided, looked more beautiful.

Elizabeth-Anne took a deep breath. 'Zaccheus!
Just close your eyes and smell it!' She closed her own eyes and
breathed deeply. The cottage had its own particular fragrance, a
fruity aroma with floral overtones and the sweet scents of nuts and
honey and the spicy smells of herbs.

The small living room was paneled, and the
walls were hung with Audubon bird prints. A large needlepoint rug
covered the floor, and all the upholstery was cabbage-rose chintz.
It was an English country look, not at all stuffy, prim Victorian,
or neither spindly, nor masculine frontier: everything was
eminently comfortable. A woman would be at home here, but it was no
less comfortable for a man. The small mullioned windows were
swagged with the same chintz that covered the chairs and couch, and
lace curtains diluted the sharp, intense Texas sun. A japanned
table, one tiny Queen Anne tray table, and a butler's table in
rich, glowing mahogany served the conversation grouping which faced
the large fireplace. Cut-crystal boxes, hand-painted Bavarian china
plates, cobalt-blue glass, Chinese cachepots, and intricate
needlepoint cushions, obviously crafted by Samantha Byrd herself,
abounded. Everywhere, vases held assorted bouquets of giant pink
peonies and fragrant roses.

'The flowers are a gift from Auntie,'
Zaccheus said. 'It's her housewarming present. She told me, quote
"I knew there was a good reason why I've been watering those plants
around the rooming house for all these years," unquote.'

'I must not forget to thank her,'
Elizabeth-Anne said. 'What's this?' She pointed to the couch. On it
rested a large package wrapped in pale violet and tied with a
flamboyant violet ribbon delicately edged in white lace.

'I don't know.' Slowly Zaccheus picked it up.
It felt surprisingly light. He squeezed it gently. It was soft too.
He noticed a small envelope pinned to it. He handed the envelope to
Elizabeth-Anne.

She tore it open and slid out the card.
Painted in the left-hand corner was a lovely watercolor of a sprig
of violet, and the message was inscribed in florid peacock-blue
ink:

A small something for your happiness forever.

The Byrd Sisters

'It's a gift!' Elizabeth-Anne cried.
Carefully she unwrapped the package. Then she let out a cry of
delight. It was a needlepoint cushion depicting the facade of the
cottage, and the embroidered words read:

May all who live here,

No matter how far they roam,

Return to this place,

Which will always be home.

'It's lovely!' Elizabeth-Anne cried softly,
the tears moist in her eyes. 'I'll treasure it always.'

'There's more to see.' Zaccheus could barely
contain his excitement. 'Come on.'

She hugged the pillow against her breast and
followed him back out into the hallway and through a doorway to the
sunny little dining nook. The tiny room was white, with French
doors and a skylight. And everywhere she looked, there were pots of
ferns. They were of all sizes and species, from luxurious
gray-green staghorns to delicate maidenhair.

Between the living room and the dining nook
was the kitchen. It was enormous, taking up most of the ground
floor. The ceiling was of rough smoke- blackened beams and the
floor was laid with Mexican terra-cotta tiles. Black iron skillets,
copper pots and pans, wooden mixing bowls, earthenware crocks, and
enamel colanders hung in profusion. A long refectory table, scarred
and battered, with six rush-seated chairs, stood in the center of
the room. Along one wall was the wood-burning stove and two large
galvanized washbowls set flush in a wooden counter: water would
have to be fetched from the pump behind the cottage. One entire
wall consisted entirely of shelves displaying a conglomeration of
plates and saucers, cups, and, incredibly, an antique birdcage
fashioned of wood and wire in the shape of a castle. It was purely
decorative; no songbird inhabited the splendid premises.

'I'll buy us a canary the next time there's a
fiesta in Mexican Town,' Zaccheus promised. 'That way, while I'm at
work and you're at home, you'll have company.' He drew her close.
'Until our firstborn arrives, that is,' he said softly. 'Then I'm
sure you'll have more company than you know what to do with.'

But it was the upstairs of the cottage that
Elizabeth-Anne fell in love with the most. One bedroom was entirely
devoid of furnishings. 'The nursery!' she cried.

And she knew by the way Zaccheus squeezed her
hand that he had thought exactly the same.

The master bedroom, tucked under a slanting
eave, was heavenly as far as Elizabeth-Anne was concerned.

Pale green walls contrasted with molding of
rough, stained saplings. The bed was of thin metal, with a swirling
headboard, and was strewn with lacy pillows. The crocheted spread
was bordered with tassels that swept the floor. Above the headboard
hung a portrait; to either side of it were four framed flower
prints, one hung directly over the other. A small writing desk,
pushed against the wall in lieu of a nightstand, its tooled-leather
writing surface folded out, held writing implements and a lamp. The
lace curtains, an ethereal pattern of delicate flowers drawn across
the dormer window, let in the softest, most muted, romantic
northern light possible.

Elizabeth-Anne charged breathlessly into the
room, pulling Zaccheus along by sheer momentum. They tripped and
fell backward, startled and laughing, and bounced onto the cushiony
softness of the bed, which creaked in protest. 'While we're here .
. .' Elizabeth-Anne whispered solemnly.

Zaccheus finished the sentence: '. . . let's
take advantage of it and not waste a minute.' He enfolded her lithe
body in his strong arms, and she sighed happily as he began to
unbutton her dress. She gazed dreamily up at the ceiling. Suddenly
her breath caught in her throat.

'What's the matter?' he asked with sudden
concern, tenderly brushing her cheek with his fingertips.

She struggled to sit up, and stole another
glance at the ceiling. He twisted around and followed her eyes.

Centered on the ceiling directly over the bed
was a large red valentine. A copy of their wedding picture was
glued to the heart. But this valentine was no symbol of love. It
had been torn, rent right down the middle, tearing Elizabeth-Anne
and Zaccheus away from each other.

There was something so shocking, so sick, so
cruelly chilling about it, that neither of them was able to
speak.

Zaccheus tightened his lips and shook his
head angrily. He did not need to hazard a guess as to whose
handicraft it was. He hugged Elizabeth-Anne tightly, trying to
shield her from the chill dread which he knew engulfed her. 'Try to
forget this,' he said softly. 'It will never happen again.'

'But . . .' She stared up at him, her
aquamarine eyes dulled with hurt. It was at once a plaintive and
fearful look, a prognostication of more suffering to come. For too
long now she had been victimized by Jenny's vindictive plots and
ploys. The message behind the torn valentine was only too clear.
'You don't know Jenny,' Elizabeth-Anne whispered, 'or the lengths
she will go to, to break us up. This . . . this proves it.' She
gazed up at the ceiling and shuddered.

He reached up and tore the ugly valentine off
the ceiling. A portion of the pale paint tore off along with it,
leaving a white comma-shaped streak. He crumpled the torn heart
into a ball and tossed it to the floor. 'Jenny will eventually come
around,' he said, hoping to sound confident. 'And if that doesn't
happen, I'm sure she'll at least stay out of our lives.'

'But what if she doesn't?'

'She'll have her own life to live. She'll
find a husband, have children, occupy herself with more important
things than you and me.'

Elizabeth-Anne gazed at him and nodded
solemnly.

'Ours is going to be the perfect marriage.'
He was silent for a moment while he traced an invisible line with
his fingertip from her forehead, down to her nose, and to her lips.
'You'll see. Nothing will come between us. Ever. Not Jenny. Not
anybody or anything. Our marriage is a marriage made in
heaven.'

And it was.

Perhaps it was because it was Zaccheus' child
she was carrying; perhaps it was the mother instinct with which she
thought all women were born. Through sheer willpower and with
Zaccheus' help, Elizabeth-Anne never touched laudanum again. And
nine months later, she received her reward: a beautiful, lively,
healthy baby girl.