The Scoundrel's Bride (2 page)

His mother had talked to Zach about anything under the sun—except his daddy.

Joshua Marston was one name that never passed Sarah Burkett’s lips. Except for today. The only reason Zach had learned of his connection to Cottonwood Creek’s leading citizen was because that worm Peter Norris had overheard his parents talking about it and squealed the secret at school. That was the first time he’d heard himself called the Burkett Bastard.

“Is that what Joshua Marston called me when he hired the Lovelace brothers to kill us?” he wondered aloud, then wished he hadn’t. Voicing the thought made it real, and reality punched him in the gut and left him gasping.

His mama was dead. His father had paid to have her murdered. Joshua Marston had paid to have them both murdered.

Oh, God, help me
. He’d killed two men today, and sure as the blood on his hands, if he tried to go back home and bring his dear old daddy to justice, the son of a bitch would turn it against him.

He wiped his hands on a tuft of green grass at his side. His mama was dead. He was shot up, beginning to feel right sickly, and alone. So alone. He lifted his face to the sky and asked, “What do I do now? Where do I go? Who’s gonna help me?”

He didn’t hear an answer.

Angrily, he swiped his arm across his face, rubbing the tears away.
To hell with it
. He didn’t need help anyway. He’d just take care of himself, all by himself. He didn’t need any daddy, or any family, or any friends, or any damn Cottonwood Creek, Texas.

And someday, when the time was right, he’d make each and every one of them pay for their part in what had happened here today.

Zach swallowed hard and gently closed Sarah Burkett’s eyes. Then the young man lay down beside his mother, gathered her against him, and held her until she grew cold.

CHAPTER ONE

Cottonwood Creek, Texas, 1860

MORALITY BROWN SPIED THE figure slumped against the newspaper office back door and wondered if he posed a threat. The grimy poncho, the wide-brimmed hat pulled low on his brow, and a full, scraggly beard combined to create a thoroughly disreputable appearance. Hesitant to pass the man in the narrow alley, she paused, but the sound of young Patrick Callahan’s angry muttering drew her onward.

She caught her breath at the obnoxious odor of whiskey emanating from both the man and the earthenware jug at his feet. A drunkard, that’s all he was. Relieved, Morality flashed him a weak smile as she passed. Under other circumstances she might have stopped and offered assistance, but at the moment her concern for Patrick overrode any sense of duty or obligation generated by her position in her uncle’s ministry.

Some thirty feet beyond the drunkard, she stopped. Pulling her cloak tight against the afternoon chill, she looked above her and said, “Patrick, come down from the tree.”

“No,” came the muffled reply.

The boy straddled the limb of a cottonwood, his legs locked at the ankles. Morality noted the hole worn in the sole of one boot and made a mental note to have it repaired. “Please?” she asked, lifting her hand to push back the bonnet brim partially blocking her view. “We need to talk about this, and I’ll get a crick in my neck if I have to look up while we’re about it.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Patrick swiped a blue flannel sleeve across his nose, and Morality bit her tongue to keep from inquiring after his handkerchief.

“Even to hear me say ‘I’m sorry’?”

That got his attention. Patrick looked down at her, his spaniel-brown eyes filled with accusation. Her heart ached at the sight, and she suddenly wished she’d never interrupted the group of young boys congregated at the river landing a short time earlier. “Come down, Patrick.”

He wasn’t ready to give in. “I like it up here. I can watch the sparrows catching a drink from Mrs. Marston’s birdbath, and there’s a pair of squirrels running ‘twixt the trees.”

Morality sighed. The only thing that interested Patrick Callahan more than mischief was his abiding interest in birds and animals. Perhaps he’d be a veterinarian one day—if he didn’t get himself killed first.

She’d caught him red-handed, dicing with a band of knife-carrying ruffians.

At the memory, anger kindled anew. As if the deplorable act itself wasn’t enough, the boy had lied to her about it. Lied! If there was one sin in particular that made her bristle, it was lying. And Patrick knew it.

She wanted him down from that tree.

Morality eyed the limb above her. The cottonwood stood toward the back of the Marstons’ yard, and the branch Patrick had claimed as his refuge stretched over the cast-iron- and-brick fence and into the alley. From her position, the limb looked strong and sturdy. If she climbed the fence, she could reach it easily enough. Dare she give it a try?

She glanced over her shoulder. The alley remained deserted but for the drunkard, who now sat turned in their direction, the whiskey bottle dangling from one finger. As Morality watched, he brought the jug up to his mouth and tipped his head for a drink.

She could almost feel his gaze upon her.

Well, so what if she had an audience? He obviously wasn’t the type of man likely to search out her uncle and tell the reverend he’d caught his niece climbing trees.

She eyed the limb once again and grimaced. Her tendency to suffer vertigo made tree-climbing no mean feat. Lifting her mouth in a rueful smile, she decided it might be best to have a witness after all. If she fell and broke her neck, Patrick could ask the man’s assistance in moving her body.

Morality slid her foot between two iron rails and hoisted herself onto the fence.

Patrick’s voice betrayed a spark of concern as he asked, “Morality, what are you doing?”

“If you won’t come talk to me, I’ll come talk to you. This isn’t something we can hide from or ignore, son.”

“I’m not your son!” He snapped a twig from the tree and threw it to the ground.

Morality winced and wanted to kick herself. That had been a thoughtless, insensitive remark, something she would never have said under normal circumstances. Patrick still grieved for his parents, and he would resent the idea of anyone trying to take his mother’s place. “No, you’re not. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t presume a relationship where none exists.”

Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip as she searched her mind for just the right words. “You are not my son, Patrick, but you are like family. Like a brother. And family shouldn’t fight.”

In a sullen voice, he accused, “That’s right. They shouldn’t holler and shout at a fella in front of his friends, either.”

“And family shouldn’t lie to one another,” she shot back. Halfway up the fence, determined to ignore the spinning in her head, she reached for the limb.

“Tarnation, Morality! You can’t climb a tree with a cloak on. Can’t climb a fence that way, either. Get down. Your dizziness will act up and you’ll fall and hurt yourself.” In a smooth, expert movement, he slid from his perch and jumped to the ground. Keeping his back toward Morality, he took a marble from his pocket and tossed it from hand to hand.

Thank goodness. Morality very carefully stepped down to safe, solid ground and drew a relieved breath as the reeling in her head subsided. For a moment there, she’d feared she’d be forced to go through with it.

Turning to the problem at hand, she smoothed her skirts and searched for the proper words to make her point. “Patrick, how long have you been traveling with Reverend Uncle and me?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Year and a half, I guess.”

“Closer to two years. And in that time I think it’s safe to say we’ve come to care for one another. To trust one another.” She walked around in front of him and folded her arms. “Do you have any idea how much it breaks my heart to know that you lied to me?”

He pressed his lips together, his brow dipping over eyes that flashed rebellion.

“Lying is sinful, destructive behavior that can hurt other people in ways you never imagine,” she explained. “Oh, Patrick, don’t you see? If you lie to me often enough, I won’t be able to trust anything you say, and that’s a terrible way to live. How can we be friends without trust?”

Returning his marble to his pocket, he kicked at the dirt with the toe of his boot. “It was just a little lie.”

“Little lies become big lies.”

“It didn’t hurt anyone.”

“It hurt me.”

He rolled his eyes and Morality folded her arms. He made her so angry when he did that. Hidden beneath her skirt, her toe began to tap. Obviously, Patrick wasn’t hearing what she was trying to say. Stubborn boy. Sometimes he could be downright pigheaded.

Of course, he might still be in shock, considering he’d never before seen the side of her temper she’d displayed to those ruffians.

She hadn’t meant to punch that young man. She’d been just as surprised as everyone when her fist connected with his jaw. Surprised and more than a little ashamed. A godly woman didn’t stoop to violence.

Why, in recent days, had anger so often become her first response? Why was it becoming increasingly difficult to live up to her uncle’s—and her own—expectations? She’d been on edge for weeks—ever since her uncle’s traveling ministry had left Nacogdoches and the man she had hoped to marry. All sorts of new emotions had been bubbling up inside her, and no amount of prayer or self-flagellation had smoothed the waters.

Truth be told, she’d been spoiling for a fight. Catching Patrick in the middle of a lie had been just the catalyst to send her anger soaring.

And look at the trouble it had caused. Patrick had closed his mind to her just when she needed him to listen. This matter was too important, too basic to her beliefs, for him not to understand. For the two of them to share the kind of family relationship she hoped for, they’d have to reach an agreement on the subject of lies.

Perhaps it would help if she told him why she felt the way she did.

Morality closed her eyes, pain washing through her fresh and sharp.
She was a child again. Her name was Lilah. She wore a white dress and clutched her mama’s lavender-scented handkerchief in her hand.

She stood in front of a window waiting for someone who never arrived
.

Oh, my. Morality took a deep, strengthening breath and repaired the breach in her defenses. She glanced over her shoulder toward the drunkard, only to see the man slouched to one side, apparently passed out. Good. Witnesses to this confession were neither required or welcome.

She ignored the twinge of guilt created by her satisfaction at the man’s inebriated state. She’d repent that sin another time. “Listen to me, Patrick. I have something to tell you, something important. It’s something I’ve never told another person.”

That grabbed his interest as she had known it would. “When I was a few years younger than you are now, my mother told me a lie. It too was just a ‘little lie.’ She took me to her sister, my aunt Mattie.”

“Reverend Harrison’s wife?” Patrick asked, stooping to lift a twig from the ground. “I guess she wasn’t dead, then, huh?”

Morality nodded, her gaze on the stick he rattled across the fence’s iron rails. “My mother kissed me good-bye and promised she’d be back soon. I believed her. I trusted her. Day after day I sat by the window, watching for her. She never came.”

“Where did she go?”

She shrugged. “For many years they wouldn’t say. Then, mainly to quiet my questions, I believe, my aunt confessed the truth.”

Morality swallowed hard. “My mother abandoned me. She’d never intended to return. The ‘little lie’ was to prevent my tears when she left.”

“Confound, Morality, that’s awful!” Patrick’s stricken expression reflected her own emotions. He took a step toward her and laid a hand on her arm. “She must’ve died, like my mama.”

“No.” Morality couldn’t stop the bitter smile. “No. I heard rumors she’d run off with a man. A gambling man.”

He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “That’s why you got so mad about me rollin’ dice with Pete and Tom and Billy.”

“Not the dice, Patrick,” she said, shaking her head. “Although it’s true they are the devil’s tools and Reverend Uncle would certainly be appalled by your behavior.” She stared earnestly at the boy and prayed he’d understand. “It was the
lie
that made me so angry. That you lied to me about what you were doing. True, I shouldn’t have yelled, and I certainly should never have struck that young man—”

“I’ll say,” Patrick interrupted. “He’s twice as big as you. Three times, even. Jeez, Morality, you popped Mean Billy Steene!”

“I’m ashamed of myself, and I’ll apologize at the first opportunity.”

“You’d best stay away from him. The only reason he didn’t do nothin’ was ‘cause he was so surprised. And maybe ‘cause you’re so pretty. Mean Billy’s old enough to notice that.”

“Well.” Morality looked down and brushed dirt from her cloak. A warm feeling spread through her. It was nice to think someone might think her pretty.

Vanity is a sin too, Morality. Don’t you think you should concentrate on the matter at hand
?

“Never mind all of that,” she said, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is important to me. I may not be your mother or even your sister, but I care about you, Patrick, and I’m asking you to respect me on this. I want there to be trust between us.”

“Dadgummit, Morality.” He fell silent as he kicked at the dirt. A small cloud of red dust puffed up over her skirts. Finally, he looked at her and said, “I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I played the dice, and I’m sorry I lied about it.” Tossing the stick to the ground, he shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Guess if you want to pretend you’re my sister, that’d be all right with me.”

He grimaced slightly and added, “I’ll try real hard about the lyin’. I gotta tell you, though, it won’t come natural for me on account of my brother. Curtis taught me how to tell good stories, and we had lots of practice before he died.”

“
Lying
is a difficult habit to break, I’m sure.” She nodded solemnly. “I’d appreciate your best effort, Patrick. I truly can’t abide the lies.” Bending over, she kissed him on the cheek, causing another roll of his eyes.