The Scoundrel's Bride (36 page)

He snorted a laugh. “How could anyone forget her? I haven’t heard that sort of sawing since I visited the logging camps in California. I’m only taking off my shirt. That shouldn’t offend the widow too much.”

He lay beside her and Morality snuggled as close as her injuries would allow. “I never thought you would offend her,” she said sleepily, more comfortable than she’d been all night. “It’s just that earlier she was telling me she suffered palpitations of the heart. A good look at you might just kill her.”

She felt his silent chuckle. “Thanks for the warning. I’d hate like hell to have her death on my conscience.” The humor drained from his voice as he added, “I’m full up as it is.”

MORALITY AWOKE the next morning to the brush of gentle lips across her own and the tease of breakfast in the air. “G’mornin’, sleepyhead. I thought you might want to eat before everything gets cold.”

Before she thought about it, Morality opened her eyes and smiled at her husband’s gentle blue-eyed gaze. “Mmm. I smell ham.”

“Morality?” His voice sharpened and his eyes narrowed intently.

It all came back to her. Reverend Uncle. The beating.

Her blindness. She lifted her hand and rubbed her thumb across his cheek. “You have flour on your face.”

“I don’t give a—” His eyes widened, then filled with a joyous light. “You can see?”

“Oh, Zach,” Morality sighed. “It’s going to be a heavenly day.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE SHERIFF ARRIVED BEFORE noon.

Zach had carried the rocking chair out front, and Morality sat absorbing the sweet sounds and scents and touches of an East Texas spring morning. A trio of mockingbird hatchlings chirped for their mama from their nest in a holly tree. The mild breeze brushed her face, bringing with it the occasional whiff of wild onion, while sunshine seemed to penetrate her skin and bring its healing warmth to yesterday’s aches and pains.

Most wonderful of all were the sights of the morning. Everything was so beautiful. Beyond the garden stretched a sea of prairie verbena, crested on occasion by a white swath of oxeye daisy and showy primrose. She saw the flash of a jay’s wing against the paler blue of the sky; she smiled at the graceful flap of a butterfly’s wings as it lighted on the rip of her soft leather shoe.

Morality rested her head against the rocker’s back and looked to her left where her gaze met the fairest sight of all. A sheen of perspiration glistened on the bare and bunching muscles of her husband’s back as he chopped wood for the fire. She smiled tenderly, marveling at how the same pair of arms could display such strength, and yet such gentleness.

After Eulalie had returned to town, Zach had helped Morality bathe and dress. He had tended her as if she were fragile glass, making the effort as painless as possible. Although her body was stiff and her muscles sore, in some ways Morality felt better than she had in years.

She was home. She had a purpose in life and love in her heart. This difficulty between her and Reverend Uncle would be settled as soon as she had the opportunity to speak with him. She told herself not to hold yesterday’s events against him. Reverend Uncle had always been a fervent disciplinarian, and although he’d never before injured her to such a degree, yesterday’s bruises were not the first she’d received by his hand. Too, she’d known he might react strongly to her elopement. He had wanted to marry her, after all.

“Unlike Zach,” she murmured. He hadn’t wanted to marry her, just to use her—or so he believed. Morality knew better. Look at how he’d defended her. Look at how gently he’d cared for her. The Lord was alive in Zach Burkett’s heart, if only he’d recognize it.

But then, wasn’t helping to cure his blindness her job?

Morality was drifting off to sleep when she heard the stomp of horses running hard and fast from the direction of town. Zach, having carried an armload of wood inside, shrugged into a shirt as he walked out of the cabin and moved to stand by her side. “Who is it?” she asked, trying to make out the riders’ faces.

His voice was as flat and hard as West Texas. “Marstons. Both of ’em. The sheriff. I don’t know the other two.”

Morality pushed painfully to her feet, and without meeting his gaze, asked softly, “What did you do?”

His limbs stiffened. “Nothing they could have caught me at. You could at least—” He caught himself, then said in a gentler voice, “Why don’t you go inside, honey?”

Ashamed of her initial reaction, Morality shook her head. A nameless fear began to niggle at her heart, and as the riders drew nearer, she stepped closer to Zach.

“Morality, go inside.”

She shook her head, and by then it was too late. Joshua Marston was first off his horse, anger burning hotly in eyes identical to Zach’s. He stood beside his horse, chest heaving, as he deliberately drew his gun.

Zach stepped in front of Morality and braced his hands on his hips. “I’d tell you welcome if you were, Daddy. Why don’t you come back another time when you can’t stay as long?”

“You’d best keep a civil tongue, Burkett,” the sheriff said. “You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Morality asked, peeking around Zach’s shoulders. Her gaze flicked between Zach’s furious father, the sheriff, and Congressman E. J. Marston, who watched the proceedings with a mean look in his eyes.

The sheriff shuffled his feet, glanced over at Joshua Marston, then faced Zach. “Do you deny paying a call on Reverend Harrison aboard the
Miracle
yesterday evening?”

“Is that what this is about?” Zach drawled, apparently without concern. “He’s thinking to whine about a few pops to the face after he beat the living hell out of my wife?”

Congressman Marston laughed. “Pops to the face? What an interesting choice of words.”

One of the unidentified men said, “I’ve got my rope. Why don’t we just get it over with here and now?”

Morality could feel the tenseness in her husband’s stance, and the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees. “Sheriff,” he said evenly. “I know you’re likely just doing your job, but I’ll be damned if I let you arrest me for defending my wife.”

“You’ll be damned, all right.” Joshua Marston took a step closer. The cords in his neck stretched taut with the force of his ire. “Anybody who murders a preacher is bound for hell, I’d say.”

Morality went still as a stone. The sheriff tossed Joshua a glare, then faced Morality and Zach, his brow dipped in a grimace. “Step away from the woman, Burkett.”

“Not on your life,” he snapped back.

Then Morality moved out from behind her husband’s back, avoided his grasp when he reached for her, and approached Joshua Marston. “What is it you are trying to say?”

Joshua’s face turned red, and as he opened his mouth to speak, the sheriff interrupted. “I am sorry, Miss Brown, uh…Mrs. Burkett, but I bring you troublesome news.” He rubbed his hand across his mouth then said flatly, “Your uncle was killed last night aboard the
Miracle
. We’re here to arrest your husband for the murder.”

The world stood still. The sky went dark and Morality’s heart stopped beating.
Your uncle was killed last night …here to arrest your husband
. “No. Dear God, no.” She clutched the sheriff’s lapels. “Say it isn’t true!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Morality weaved on her feet. The light, the joy, the miracle of living in which she had rejoiced scant moments before slowly faded, tunneling to a pinpoint. And then it disappeared.

Zach caught his wife as she collapsed in a faint.

THE CELL measured six feet by six feet and smelled worse than a wet buffalo. Zach sat on a splintered wooden bench, absently counting the water roaches as they darted into the crack where wall met floor. The good folk of Cottonwood Creek sure as hell hadn’t wasted any jail space, but he wasn’t about to complain. He felt damn lucky he’d made it to the lockup alive. Talk of a lynching had taken a serious turn a time or two along the way back to town.

The sheriff brought Zach dinner and the news that his wife would stop by the jail as soon as she finished up business at the funeral home. Zach wasn’t certain if it were the bland beans and stale cornbread muffin that made him lose his appetite, or the fact that Morality was finally on her way.

She thought he might have done it. He’d seen it in her eyes when she recovered from her faint, and he never had the opportunity to deny it. The posse had spirited him away faster than a prairie fire with a tail wind, and he hadn’t had time to give her a proper good-bye—or to get rid of the bloody shirt he’d kicked under the bed before lying down with Morality last night.

The barred window in the sturdy wooden door allowed him only a narrow view of the jail beyond his cell. Hearing her voice, he stood and wiped his hands on his trousers, waiting for Morality to move into his range of sight. When she did, he almost groaned aloud. She wore one of her old black dresses, and her purple and blue bruises added the only touch of color to her pasty complexion.

Poor angel
. His arms ached to comfort her. If she’d allow it, that is.

He grasped the iron bars between them and waited for her to meet his gaze. She did, briefly, and he saw such misery of spirit that it took his breath away. He could also see an underlying strength that reassured him. “Hello, Morality.”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she turned toward the sheriff and said, “May we have a bit of privacy?”

The lawman shifted his tobacco chaw from one cheek to the other. “I reckon it won’t hurt nothin’. I’ll be right outside, though, if you need me.”

Zach waited until he heard the sheriff’s footsteps thump their way outside. Intensifying his gaze, he silently demanded that Morality look at him. When she did, he said, “I didn’t do it, angel.”

Her mouth lifted in a brief, sad smile. “Oh, Zach, have you ever heard the story about the boy who cried wolf?”

“I didn’t kill the man.”

“They have witnesses. You met with my uncle aboard the
Miracle
, and you left covered in blood. Patrick told me he saw you. And I found the shirt.”

Zach’s hands clenched. “I’m not saying I didn’t batter him a bit, but he was alive and breathing when I left. He asked for what he got from me when he laid that cane to you.”

“So it was revenge, hmm? We’re back to that again? ‘Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ ” She shook her head. “You have brought all of your troubles on yourself, Zach Burkett.”

He felt cold inside, even as heated words flew from his tongue. “Dammit, Morality, the man beat you black and blue. What kind of a man—what kind of a husband—would I be if I let him get away with that?”

“One who spent his time at home rather than a jail-house,” she snapped.

Zach drew a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. “Look, the thing we must keep in mind, here, is that somebody killed your uncle. That somebody wasn’t me, so that means the real killer is still out there. Any ideas about who it might be? If everyone in town thinks like you do, I’m liable to get my neck stretched.”

Morality tore her gaze from his, turning her head away. “I heard you threaten to kill him, Zach. So did Dr. Trilby, Mrs. Peabody, and Patrick. You’ve previously admitted to taking a life.”

“Two people, remember? The men who shot and killed my mother.” Frustration pumped through his veins. Her and her so-called love—damn her for not believing in him. “You’re right. I did want to kill Harrison for what he did to you. I can’t and won’t deny that. But do you really think I’d be stupid enough to do it like this?” Lowering his voice, he added, “Hell, Morality, you know of my plan for the Marstons. That in itself ought to prove I wouldn’t do in your uncle in a way that offered my neck to a noose.”

She shook her head, holding her mouth slightly open in wonder. “You use your other crimes as defense? You amaze me, Burkett.”

“Yeah, well, you surprise me, too.” He gave the iron bars an ineffective shake. “You claimed to love me. Is this how you show it? You won’t even give me the benefit of the doubt?”

She wrapped her arms around herself and appeared to blanch even whiter. “I’m trying. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. But under the circumstances, it’s difficult. I’m not certain where my duty lies.”

Her teeth tugged at her lower lip, then she repeated softly, “Lies. That’s the problem with them. I’ve told Patrick time and again. This should teach him a valuable lesson.”

She closed her eyes and straightened her shoulders. “What about an attorney? Ginnie and Robert Drake have suggested a Mr. Warren.”

Bitterness soured his mouth. Duty. That four-letter word sounded worse than any that fell from his tongue. Dropping his hands away from the bars, he said without inflection, “No, I’ve sent for Jess. He’s the crookedest lawyer I know, so I figure he can do the best job.”

She nodded. “I’ll be going, then. There’s much to do before the service tomorrow.”

“Is Mrs. Peabody or someone staying with you? I don’t like the idea of your being at the cabin alone.”

She hesitated a moment, then said, “I won’t be at the cabin. I’m staying with Patrick at the Marstons’.”

Zach took it like a blow. His wife had moved her blanket to the enemy’s camp. For a long minute he remained silent, but then his mouth lifted in a mocking smile. “Well,” he drawled. “I can sleep relieved tonight.”

He turned his back on her before she could do it to him. Again.

THE NIGHT looked so peaceful from the window of her room in Joshua Marston’s mansion. Peaceful and deadly. Morality slipped the latch and pushed open the windows, lifting her face to catch the sweet-scented night breeze.

How quickly life had changed. Two nights ago she and Zach were loving on a bed of wildflowers. Now, he slept in jail, she would sleep at his adversary’s home, and Reverend Uncle…

Morality sighed. Reverend Uncle slept forever in a casket made of oak.

She turned at the sound of a knock at her door. “Yes?”

“It’s me, Morality,” Patrick called. “Can I come in?”