The Scoundrel's Bride (37 page)

“Please do.” She was lonely and would welcome the company.

The door swung open and Morality saw immediately that he didn’t come alone. “Patrick Callahan, what have you brought?” she asked, smiling at the picture he made with a white ball of fur cradled in his arms.

“A kitten. The mama is a mouser over at the livery, and she had these babies while you were gone. I thought maybe you’d…sometimes it helps me to…here.” He held the kitten out to Morality.

Smiling, she brought the downy fur up to her cheek. “So soft. And warm. I can feel her tiny heart beating away.” She lifted a tear-filled gaze to Patrick. “You were right, she will help. Thank you.”

He shrugged his shoulders and scuffed the toe of one boot against the floor. Morality gave him a hug then sank a bit stiffly to the floor. Fishing a small ball of yarn from his pocket, Patrick joined her, and they played with the kitten for some time, laughing at its antics. Then, suddenly, the boy looked up and asked, “Did you go see Mr. Zach?”

He’d caught her off guard, and her heart clutched painfully. Keeping her gaze focused on the kitten, who swatted at the yarn she dangled from her fingertips, Morality nodded.

“Come on, Morality. What did he say?”

“He claims he is innocent.” She tossed the entire string to the cat. “At least, he says he didn’t do it.”

Patrick dug around in his pocket and pulled out a ball. He rolled it from hand to hand, and she tangibly felt his gaze. “What do you think?”

She stroked the kitten, smiling sadly as she tried to frame her answer. “I’m so mixed up inside. Part of me believes him, believes in him.” Looking up, she added in a broken tone, “Another part of me feels like I betrayed Reverend Uncle by even visiting Zach.”

“Aw, Morality.” Patrick awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Don’t think like that. I know you’re caught smack-dab in the middle here, but let’s face it, your uncle is dead. I don’t rightly see how you can betray a man who’s not around to know it.”

A frown of concern wrinkled the boy’s brow. “But what about Mr. Zach? If there’s a chance he’s telling the truth…well, I wouldn’t like Mr. Zach feeling betrayed. Dad gum. Morality, it’s my telling on him that’s landed him in jail.” The boy’s shoulders slumped. “If I’d kept my mouth shut, they wouldn’t have arrested him.”

“You told the truth about what you saw, Patrick, as well you should have. I’ll not listen to any laments along those lines, do you hear? Zach brought his troubles on himself by going to the riverboat in the first place.”

“I don’t know. I think maybe Mr. Zach did what he had to do. I don’t care what you say, the reverend was wrong to hit you like he did. My pa used to take us to the woodshed on a right regular basis, but he never hurt us bad like that. We might have had trouble sittin’ down for a few days, but he never near to blinded us.”

Tears stung Morality’s eyes. “How can violence of any sort ever be the proper course of action, be it from Reverend Uncle’s cane or Zach Burkett’s gun?”

“You’re too gentle for frontier living, Morality. Maybe you should live in the East. I hear it’s more civilized back there.” Patrick rolled his ball toward the kitten, who jumped and pawed at the toy. “Fightin’ is fact in this part of the world. I know.”

Morality nodded. What Patrick said was true. And maybe that was one of the reasons she tended to believe Zach. He never hesitated to admit to killing those men who had murdered his mother. He believed in eye-for-an-eye justice. Reverend Uncle had beaten her brutally; it was easy to see why Zach would choose to repay in kind. But her uncle had not taken her life, so why would her husband have taken his?

“It’s all so muddled,” she said with a sigh, wincing when an ill-considered movement hurt her rib.

Patrick eyed her closely. “I think you really
do
believe he’s innocent, don’t you, Morality?”

Slowly, she nodded her head. “Yes, in my heart of hearts, I do. And trusting him scares me half to death. He could be lying again. He’s such an accomplished liar. You wouldn’t believe some of the lies he’s told, Patrick.”

“Morality, I wasn’t sure I should tell you this, but I think under the circumstances you oughta know. While you were gone, I did some asking around. I found out Mr. Zach wasn’t lying about something when you thought he was.”

Morality plucked the kitten’s sharp claws from her skirt and wished she could deal as easily with the dread his words had triggered. “What?”

“Mr. Zach told the truth about the morning-glory seeds. Reverend Harrison had me move some things from his wagon to the
Miracle
, and I found some morning-glory seeds steeping in water. Later I saw him add the liquid to the elixir bottles. I asked Doc Trilby, and he said the seeds act sort of like peyote.”

Morality shut her eyes.
Reverend Uncle had drugged his congregation
.

Patrick continued. “I’m pretty sure I got hold of some that day right after we came to Cottonwood Creek. Remember when I got so sick? I guess folks gettin’ a smaller dose of the stuff might feel better for a while.”

“Until the effects wore off.” Despair filled Morality’s soul. “How could Reverend Uncle have tricked all of those poor people!”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe some of the miracles were real. After all, we know for a fact that your miracle was genuine. Maybe he used the morning-glory miracles to help encourage the real ones. All that faith pouring out of folks may have upped the number. You’re always talking about faith moving mountains, Morality. That could be what we’re talking about here.”

Morality’s mind was in a whirl. Reverend Uncle had lied. Zach had told the truth. Had the world gone mad? “When I caught Zach in the middle of a monstrous lie, I lost all faith in him. Then, upon reflection, I came to the conclusion that I had been sent to Zach. I believed my purpose on earth was to open his eyes to the healing power of love.” She lifted the kitten into her lap and scratched behind its ears. “What it conceit? Did I hear the Lord when He wasn’t speaking? Or did I fall in love with a fallen angel and cast about for ways to make the unacceptable permissible?”

“Confound it, Morality, you’re thinking too hard for me to follow. I don’t understand half of what you’re saying, but it looks to me like you’re asking questions that don’t have answers. At least until we find out if Mr. Zach did the killing or not.”

She set down the kitten and rose carefully to her feet. She crossed the room to the window where she stared out into the night. “I’m being a fool. All of the evidence points to Zach. He’s lied to me and everyone else in this town time and time again. He’s likely lying now.”

“But Morality—”

“I’m tired, Patrick. My ribs hurt. I think I’ll go to bed now. Thank you for bringing the kitten. Perhaps in the morning we can play with her some more.”

Patrick snorted as he gathered up the kitten to leave. Morality realized he wanted to argue with her, but he knew her well enough to be sensitive to her moods. That wouldn’t, however, stop him from picking up the discussion tomorrow.

“I hope you sleep tonight,” he said, pausing at the doorway.

She looked over her shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Good night, Patrick.”

“ ‘Night.” He hesitated, worry knitting his brow. “Morality, there’s something I think we should think about.”

“Yes?”

“If Mr. Zach didn’t shoot Reverend Harrison, who did?”

“Zach asked the same question.” She shrugged her shoulders and sighed heavily. “It’s hard to imagine. Reverend Uncle didn’t have a single enemy.”

ACCORDING TO the gossips, the graveside service for Reverend J. P. Harrison, founder and spiritual leader of the Church of the Word’s Healing Faith, drew almost as many mourners as his revivals had attracted faithful. A fitful spring breeze redolent with the scent of fresh-turned earth blew over the crowd, sending bonnet-ties flapping and hymnal pages fluttering.

Rosalee Carstairs shared a look with her husband when they overheard one gentleman say, “With a crowd like this, I wouldn’t be surprised if Harrison finagled a way to come back long enough to send the collection plate around one last time.” At least one resident of this bustling Texas riverport had seen past Harris’s religious patter to his avarice.

At the hearse’s squeaky-wheeled approach, the gathering quieted. Pallbearers took position and the crowd parted like Moses’s Red Sea for the procession of the casket and family members following behind. Rosalee’s heart thumped. She felt light-headed as she grabbed for her husband’s hand and clasped it tightly.

“Lilah!” she breathed.

A hat and black veil covered her daughter’s face, obscuring her features, and it was all Rosalee could do not to reach out and pull it off as she passed by. At least she could see her daughter’s hair—the same beautiful, fiery red that she remembered.

An elderly woman wrapped a comforting arm around the stricken young woman and scowled at anyone who attempted to intrude upon her grief. A young boy walked behind them, shuffling his feet while he tugged at his necktie, and looking more worried than mournful.

Stephen leaned toward his wife. “The boy must be Patrick Callahan.” The Carstairs, along with almost everyone in town, had heard the entire story of how the preacher had hurt Morality, and how young Callahan had discovered the preacher’s body, then offered evidence that led to the arrest of Mrs. Burkett’s husband.

Rosalee nodded and studied the youngster, noting his protective attitude toward Lilah. She was glad her daughter had a friend to lean on during this trying time. Of course, a mother would be better. Much better. Tears flooded her eyes, and the selfish part of her wished she’d not won the argument she’d had with Stephen the day before. He had wanted to come forward with his information as soon as they’d learned of the killing, but Rosalee wouldn’t hear of it.

In the privacy of their well-appointed suite at the Creekside Inn, she had folded her arms, lifted her chin, and said, “I have firsthand experience with small-town Texas justice. I had the motive to murder Harris. The argument could be made that your feelings for me gave you motive. The authorities are bound to question you about your meeting with the ‘reverend,’ and it doesn’t stretch the imagination to think they might view you as a suspect in his death.”

A peculiar look had crossed her husband’s face at that point, and she’d wondered what he was thinking as she’d crossed the room and adopted her battle stance—directly in front of him, close enough for him to breathe her spicy perfume and feel her body’s heat.

Rosalee didn’t believe in fighting fair.

“I won’t risk losing you too, Stephen,” she’d announced. “Besides, what good would it do? The information we have is about Harris’s past—not his murder. I can wait a little longer to approach Lilah with the truth of my identity. I refuse to risk having you implicated in this crime.”

Stephen had given in to her demand, explaining his surrender was due partially to her extremely effective strategy, but also because he recognized that if he could be suspect, so too could she.

Now, as she watched her daughter grieve here beside her enemy’s grave, she deeply regretted the turn of events. Lilah could use her mother’s support right now, and heaven knows, she needed Lilah in her arms desperately.

A gust of wind blew across the hill and the veil over Lilah’s face flew up, exposing her features. Rosalee gasped. Fury cut through her like a knife. Glancing up at Stephen, she beckoned for him to lean close. “If the man wasn’t dead already, I’d kill him myself,” she whispered. “Look at how he hurt her!”

“If Burkett killed him, I can see why.”

Lilah’s face was a rainbow of bruises, and Rosalee cringed anew at the thought of the pain her daughter must have endured, now and in the past. Her hand lifted to clutch the locket around her neck.

As the service continued, the ministers of the local Baptist, Presbyterian, and Methodist churches all took aim at potential new converts, displaying their expertise with drawn-out prayers for the dearly departed. The man who had mumbled about the collection plate observed to no one in particular, “If they don’t get him planted soon, we’re liable to lose somebody else to old age and have to start all over again.”

Finally, the rite came to a close. As Lilah dropped a fistful of flowers into the grave and turned to leave, Rosalee set her mouth in a grim line. Surely there existed a special chamber in hell for men who abused women, physically or emotionally.
I hope you’re miserable down there, Jack
.

She allowed her own tears to fall freely as she watched her daughter walk away, followed by the gawkers and the mourners. Stephen put his arms around her, offering his comfort, and she buried her face against his chest and wept.

“Rosie, let me go to the sheriff,” he murmured. “You need to tell her who you are. She needs you and you need her.”

“No.” Rosalee lifted her head and accepted the handkerchief he offered to wipe her tears. “That can wait. I’ve thought of another way. We’ll need an excuse to remain in Cottonwood Creek. Perhaps you could investigate a business opportunity? Anyway, I’ll attempt to befriend her. It might be best that way, in fact. I can get to know her before she learns the truth, and then, it might be less of a shock for her. Would you do that for me, Stephen? Would you find a way for us to stay in this town for a while?”

“Oh, Rosie, you know I’ll do anything for you.” He gazed after the crowd, now scattering toward different destinations. He smiled at her, coaxing one in return as he said, “I might even make some money while I’m about it.”

“That goes without saying.”

Stephen pressed a kiss against her brow. “How long, Rosie? How much time does this plan of yours entail?”

She thought a moment, her stare instinctively searching for her daughter. “Well, at least until the trial. We’ll see how the trial goes, and then we’ll know better how to proceed.”

Stephen Carstairs nodded solemnly and said, “All right, Rosie. Until the trial.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JESS TANNER POUNDED HIS fist on the defense table and surged to his feet. “Your honor, I object!”