The Scoundrel's Bride (3 page)

This time she laughed. “We’d best be going. Mrs. Marston held a supper plate for you, and I know you’ll want to eat before the revival meeting.”

Patrick nodded. “I’m sure glad she invited the reverend to Cottonwood Creek, aren’t you? This is the nicest home we’ve stayed in since I signed on to drive the church wagon. Mrs. Marston’s cook makes the best pecan pie I’ve ever tasted.”

“Why, Patrick Callahan!” Morality exclaimed, leading the boy to the Marstons’ back gate. “What about that pecan pie I made when we were meeting in Nacogdoches?”

Patrick looked up at her and snorted. “What do you want me to say? Didn’t we just have a set-to about lyin’?”

Morality’s laughter followed them across the yard.

A few moments after the back door banged shut, the drunkard unfolded himself and stood, brushing the dirt off his poncho as he stared after the pair. A moment later, he walked over to the cottonwood limb, reached up, and swung himself smoothly onto the branch.

He took the card deck from the bird’s nest where the boy had hidden it. Pocketing the pack, he chuckled and mumbled something about sin.

Then Zach Burkett went back to work—spying on the Marston household.

FLICKERING TORCHES cast shadows across the faces of the faithful gathered to hear Reverend J. P. Harrison, founder of the Church of the Word’s Healing Faith, preach his message. Anticipation gripped the listeners as the reverend stepped up to the lectern, and the low-pitched murmur of voices died as he sounded out a greeting.

Morality sat on her sugar barrel seat and observed the man whose passionate sermonizing brought beads of sweat to his ruddy complexion no matter the temperature. Reverend Uncle’s brown eyes glowed with zeal; his tall, brawny frame trembled with the power of his message. His fist clenched in emphasis of a point, and a number of souls in the mesmerized crowd mimicked his action unknowingly. Morality shook her head in wonder. The man truly had a gift.

She wished she had her uncle’s talent with language. Had she made her point this afternoon? Had Patrick truly understood how strongly she felt about people who lie?

Reverend Uncle would have found the proper words to convey his message. He would have articulated his thoughts in such a way as to convince his listeners without baring his soul. Morality muffled a groan. She couldn’t believe she’d actually told Patrick about her mother, never mind that she’d grown accustomed to sharing both her hopes and her fears with the boy.

Despite the difference in their ages, they’d become the best of friends. In many ways he seemed older than eleven, while she often felt decidedly younger than nineteen. She figured the answer lay in their pasts. A person who’d been sheltered by overprotective, devoutly religious guardians had a different view of life than a child raised on the frontier— especially one who’d witnessed the deaths of his entire family during an Indian raid. In some ways, he was older than she.

It worried Morality. Sometimes Patrick needed more than just a friend. She never knew from one day to the next which Patrick would say good morning on a particular day—the mischievous boy or the anguished young man. As a friend, she knew how to deal with the boy, but the young man so full of pain and heartache needed a parent’s shoulders to lean on. Her uncle didn’t try to play father, and every time she attempted to do a little mothering—like this afternoon—she failed miserably.

Morality stared unseeing at a beetle making his way up the chair leg in front of her. Maybe that was why God gave children to women as babies. That way, they had time to learn how to mother with relatively easy problems—like scraped knees—before working their way up to burdensome issues—like dealing with grief.

Thankfully, it was the boy who leaned from the seat at her side and hissed, “Morality, I need to talk to you.”

Frowning, she dipped her head and whispered back, “Not here, Patrick.”

He waited until the preacher had turned to sermonize in the opposite direction. “This can’t wait. I heard something you’re gonna want to know about.”

She tried to ignore him, but short of clapping her hand across his mouth, there wasn’t much she could do to keep him quiet.

Patrick spoke out of one side of his mouth. “Reverend Uncle said you’re getting hitched.”

“What!” she exclaimed too loudly, certain she’d misheard.

Reverend Harrison looked their way, delaying the boy’s reply. Morality waited anxiously until the congregation rose for a hymn, thus making conversation possible. Patrick stood tall, pretending to sing, as he softly relayed his information. “I was studying the Marstons’ globe when I heard Mr. Peterson from the shaving saloon stop by and ask for your uncle. They headed for the library, and I ducked quick as a minute underneath the desk.”

He paused and loudly joined in the chorus of the hymn. At the start of the second verse, he added, “Mr. Peterson asked if he could escort you to the Founder’s Day Ball.”

Morality’s heart leapt. Dancing at a ball was one of her secret dreams.

Patrick continued. “Your uncle told him you don’t dance, and then, when Mr. Peterson asked permission to court you, Reverend Harrison told him you were a catfish whisker from being betrothed.”

“He said what!” Morality squealed, totally out of tune with the song. At the curious looks from those around her, she offered an embarrassed smile and patted her throat.

Patrick whispered, “Not in those exact words, but he did say he has your intended all picked out and that you’ll be getting married soon.”

“Who?” Her voice wobbled off-key.

“He didn’t say. Mr. Peterson seemed real disappointed, too. I think he likes you, Morality.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Shock was strangling her throat. Mr. Peterson from the shaving saloon? She didn’t even know the man.

When the song ended and the congregation took their seats, Morality slumped onto her barrel, knees as weak as dandelion tea.

Reverend Uncle said she’d soon be married? No. It couldn’t be. Patrick must have misunderstood. Why, just weeks ago in Nacogdoches her uncle had turned down another marriage proposal on her behalf—the third such refusal the past six months. She’d begun to doubt he’d ever approve of any suitor for her hand.

The longer she thought about it, the more Morality fretted. The more she fretted, the less she guarded her thoughts. As her uncle’s sermon droned on, the side of her spirit she’d been taught to suppress took over, and Morality indulged in a little honest contemplation.

She wanted to get married. Husband, home, and family—it was the normal desire of almost all young women. Choosing a husband was one of the few decisions a woman was allowed to make; almost the only way a decent woman had to change the path of her life.

Morality wanted to travel a different road so badly.

It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate her gift. She knew she was blessed; she wanted to witness to her deep religious faith. But in her heart of hearts, she believed it could be accomplished by methods other than traveling from town to town, standing before strangers and repeating her story time and time again.

She wanted to teach by example. To demonstrate the healing power of God’s love by living it. She wanted to be a good wife, a wonderful mother, a contributing member of a community. As grateful as she was for all her uncle had done for her, her wish for a permanent home—one filled with children—grew stronger with each passing month and every town and city they visited. The yearning for a man to hold her, to love her, plagued her more and more each day.

And sometimes during the night.

But would she ever get the courage to tell Reverend Uncle of her wishes? Had she waited too long?

He has your intended all picked out
. As her uncle called for the congregation to rise for yet another hymn, she pondered Patrick’s claim. What if he had heard correctly? Who could this mystery man be? Someone from Cottonwood Creek? No, that made no sense. They had arrived in town only last week.

Unless…Morality tapped her foot against the dirt. Could Reverend Uncle have made some sort of arrangement with Mrs. Marston when they’d met in Austin last summer? That was when the socially prominent, deeply religious woman had invited the Church of the Word’s Healing Faith to her hometown. She’d offered them rooms in her very own house and promised to see to their every need. Could Louise Marston have had a reason other than religious devotion for issuing the invitation?

She didn’t have a son, did she?

No. Morality heaved a silent sigh. If so, he’d have made an appearance at dinner sometime this past week or at the very least his name would have been mentioned.

He has her intended all picked out
. She’d be getting married. She should be thrilled.

She was distraught. She’d wanted to choose her own husband. Her ideas about what makes a good mate would not necessarily correspond to her guardian’s. Reverend Uncle wouldn’t think of kindness, generosity, or gentleness in selecting a husband for her. He would pick the man who would most benefit the ministry, because to Reverend J. P. Harrison, the church always came first.

Reverend Uncle might well sell her to the highest bidder.

“No!” she said aloud, appalled at the sinful thought. Where in the world had that come from? She didn’t believe that. She wouldn’t believe it. It was nonsense. Wicked nonsense.

Reverend Uncle loved her. He did. He only wanted the best for her. Isn’t that what he’d told her when he’d refused the marriage offers she’d previously received? Maybe…

Morality’s eyes rounded as a new thought pushed all other niggling questions from her mind. Maybe her uncle had changed his mind about her latest beau. Maybe she’d chosen her husband, after all.

Morality inched up on her tiptoes and glanced around the tent. Reverend Simpkins might have come after her!

Scanning the faces of the crowd gathered in bunches and rows around her uncle, she looked for the Methodist minister from Nacogdoches. She’d had such hopes when he’d approached Reverend Uncle for her hand. After all, she hadn’t believed her uncle would discover anything to disapprove of in such a kind, thoughtful, modest man of God. How disappointed she’d been when Reverend Simpkins had been refused.

She still didn’t believe the size of one’s ears made a valid argument against marriage.

Her gaze trailed over the crowd. Ladies, some dressed in homespun, others in silk, listened with rapt attention to Reverend Uncle’s preaching. As a whole, the gentlemen appeared a little less attentive. One man played with the watch fob attached to his red brocade vest. Another pulled at his whiskers and gazed absently toward the top of the tent, while a third gentleman impatiently tapped his boot as he twirled the fringe on his buckskin sleeve. Reverend Simpkins was not in attendance. Disappointment overwhelmed her as she took her seat along with the rest of the congregation.

He has your intended all picked out
.

Morality shut her eyes and tried to turn her thoughts in a positive direction. After all, there was no need to panic yet. Reverend Uncle hadn’t said a word to her about marriage. And who knows, perhaps he would choose a man who would be just perfect for her. He might be a young Presbyterian gentleman. Morality liked the Presbyterians; they added a little spice to the stew between the Baptists and the Methodists here in Texas.

She leaned her head toward Patrick. “Maybe he’s—”

“Morality! Patrick!” The sound of her uncle’s voice caused her to start and nearly fall from her seat. “Please stand and pass the plates.”

Embarrassed at her inattention, Morality did as she’d been asked. Reverend Uncle Harrison had reached the section of the service dedicated to the condemnation of penurious donations. “Be generous with the Lord’s gifts,” his voice boomed as Morality handed the collection plate to a gentleman at the end of a row.

Coins clinked as the faithful contributed and passed the offering on. Keeping a watchful eye on the plate as she had been taught, she sensed a curious tension in the atmosphere that prompted her to straighten her spine and smooth the folds of her gray woolen cloak. The feeling persisted, and she glanced over her shoulder just as the lady to her right handed her the heavy brass plate.

Clunk
. It spilled from her hands onto the ground, and everything happened at once. Coins, few that there were, rolled across the dirt and under women’s skirts. Youngsters squealed and scurried from their seats, rushing to rescue the money. The good reverend roared, “Morality, what devil’s work is this?”

Morality ignored it all. She was held prisoner by the bluest pair of eyes she had ever seen.

He was tall—tall with broad shoulders that strained at the elegant cut of his coat. He slowly walked forward, thumbs hooked through the armholes of his green satin vest. The wavy lock of raven hair that fell across his forehead gave rakish relief to a face set in angles, void of all expression.

Morality swallowed hard as he paused. His gaze swept her cloak-wrapped body then lingered on her hair. Regret engulfed her. Devil color. Hellfire red. The oft-repeated words rang through her mind. Good men do not approve, she’d been taught. Oh, why hadn’t Reverend Uncle allowed her to wear a bonnet! Why hadn’t she been born blond!

Then, amazingly, a twinkle kindled in those wonderful eyes. A smile softened the stranger’s face, displaying two breath-stealing dimples. He slowly, deliberately, winked at her.

Morality hardly noticed as the crowd began to buzz.

“It can’t be him.”

“It must be him.”

“I remember that smile, those dimples,” one woman said.

“I’ve never forgotten those eyes,” another lady allowed.

“He’s the spittin’ image of his father,” a widow draped in black declared.

Then a man seated at the front of the congregation pushed to his feet and cried, “Good Lord. It is him.”

“The Burkett Bastard is back!”

CHAPTER TWO

OVER THE YEARS ZACH had imagined his return to Cottonwood Creek in thousands of different ways. He’d dreamed of arriving by steamer a rich and famous man, stepping off the gangway to a chorus of cheers. He’d considered returning as a thief, sneaking into town to burgle the homes and businesses of those who’d treated his mother so meanly. He’d even toyed with the thought of setting black powder charges and blowing the town to perdition. Never once had he thought he’d make his grand appearance at a scripture screecher’s circus.