The Scoundrel's Bride (7 page)

The lady with the basket clicked her tongue. “My heart bled for her last night. You know, Joshua never acknowledged the boy as his son, so a few folks in town never believed it. As the betrayed wife, I think Louise took heart in that.”

Morality’s eyes widened. Her host—Joshua Marston, himself—was Mr. Burkett’s father? And he would not claim him? No wonder he’d strayed from the path!

“There’s no denying it now,” the widow replied with a definite nod. “Zachary Burkett has Marston stamped all over him, right down to those dimples.” She pulled her shawl up on her shoulders, adding, “Louise took it well, though. She is a lady through to the bone. I didn’t hear a single catch in her voice as she sang the next hymn.”

The women all nodded, agreeing with the widow’s assessment. “What about Joshua, was he there?” the fourth lady, a tall, gangly woman, inquired.

Morality forgot to be inconspicuous, whirling to look when a male voice responded from behind the counter. “Now, Mrs. Hart, ol’ Joshua gave up churchin’ years ago. I reckon that’s what keeps Louise at it so much. She must spend most of her time a-prayin’ for her husband.”

“He needs praying for, Mr. Nichols,” the widow grumbled. “One of his sins strolled right down Main Street last night.”

Scowling, Morality used her sleeve to wipe a thin layer of dust from a saddle cantle as the women nodded their agreement with the widow’s assertion. She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from entering the fray. Really, Mr. Burkett was not a sin. These ladies were the sinners, gossiping in such a way.

Good thing too or she wouldn’t learn a thing.

The woman named Permelia observed, “It casts a shadow over Cottonwood Creek’s most influential family, doesn’t it? Why, the congressman can’t be happy about this, with the election right around the corner.”

“Zach Burkett is Joshua’s scandal, not E.J.’s,” Mr. Nichols protested. “Congressman Marston shouldn’t be affected by his brother’s folly.”

The widow snorted. “Scandal bleeds over anyone nearby, Walter Nichols. You know that as well as your own name.” The women all nodded in agreement, viewing the mercantile owner with disdain.

“It doesn’t reflect well on the family business,” the gangly Mrs. Hart observed, her frown plowing furrows in her brow. “It’s amazing he got Marston Shipping off the ground, much less built it into the business it is today, with such a scandal hanging over him. We are religious folk here in East Texas; we don’t take kindly to those who flaunt their sins in a vine-covered cottage just outside of town.”

“Well, if you remember,” the widow commented, “Marston Shipping didn’t take off until after Joshua sent Sarah Burkett away.”

“That’s right, Eulalie.” Permelia’s poke bonnet bobbed. “The business almost failed before E.J. moved here from Virginia and helped his brother run it. Remember how it was said that Joshua couldn’t keep his mind on business with that hussy around?”

The women all nodded solemnly, then glanced up as a newcomer rushed into the store, her voice tingling with excitement as she patted the back of the infant held against her shoulder. “Ladies, do I have news! Guess who knocked on my door first thing this morning!”

The women spoke as one. “The Burkett Bastard.”

The young mother’s face drooped like a poorly pinned diaper. The widow patted her arm and said, “He showed up at the revival meeting last night, Emily. That’s how we all knew. Now, tell us. Why did Zachary Burkett stop by your house?”

Recovering from her disappointment, Emily’s eyes glittered as she said, “He plunked money down on George’s breakfast table, right beside his ham and eggs. He wanted…”—she paused, making certain she had everyone’s attention before continuing—”to rent
office space
. On Main Street!”

The mercantile grew as quiet as the buttons on a cotton dress.

Morality barely noticed. The newcomer’s baby had opened his eyes and the round blue eyes stared at her, blinking once, then twice. They called to mind another pair of blue eyes that had twinkled with a devilish light. Absently, she wondered if a child of Mr. Burkett s would inherit his father’s roguish nature.

A child of Mr. Burkett’s
. Morality’s own eyes rounded and her heart began to pound. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. But it surely would happen. Married people shared a bed.

And lying with a man made a baby.

Morality licked her suddenly dry lips. A baby. Perhaps one of her dreams might come true after all.

“Zachary Burkett renting office space?” the widow asked. “Are you certain, Emily? Couldn’t you have misunderstood?”

Emily nodded her head. “I heard him plain as day, Mrs. Peabody.”

Morality stared at Emily’s child.
A baby
. It was something her uncle had been warning her about for years, ever since her body had grown curves. Time and again she’d heard the dire consequences she would suffer were she to repeat
Her Mother’s Sin
.

Of course, once she married, the getting of a baby would not be a sin. It was a woman’s duty to give her husband children, which brought to mind a point that had long given Morality trouble. With the taking of a vow, something that had been wicked and evil automatically became good and proper. Why? Were words that powerful? If so, how did a woman manage? What made her adjust her thinking?

A picture of Zach Burkett flashed through her mind. Yes, she could see where a man such as he might exert quite an influence.

The infants mouth opened and his tiny tongue poked out. Morality felt an overwhelming need to respond to him by sticking out her own tongue. She resisted, only out of fear that the others might misunderstand.

A baby. An infant. A little angel from God. Whether married to a man selected by her uncle or to one she chose herself, this might well be her future. Motherhood.

Morality drew a deep breath. Responsibility settled on her shoulders like a wet wool blanket, but the joy that sang in her soul made the burden as light as Valenciennes lace. She’d be the kind of mother she’d always wished she’d had. She’d stand beside her child at each step through this painful life. She’d dedicate herself to the health and happiness of the tiny soul she’d carry, and the baby would love her.

“Can I hold her?” The words just popped out of her mouth. The young mother turned, surprise on her face. Morality blushed as the rest of the company turned to look at her. So much for eavesdropping, now.

She cleared her throat. “You have a beautiful child, ma’am, and holding babies is my favorite thing to do. I’m sorry, you don’t even know me, so of course you wouldn’t—”

“Hand over little Patricia, Emily,” the widow said, waving a hand. “This is the preacher’s niece. The Miracle Girl. Can’t ask for a better pair of hands to hold the child. Some of the miracle just might rub off on Baby Patricia. I’m Eulalie Peabody. Welcome to Cottonwood Creek.”

Morality exchanged greetings with the women and accepted the weight of the child with a sense of bittersweet. Her miracle again. Just sometimes, she wished it would cease. Then she smelled that sweet, unique infant scent and peace stole over her soul.

As she and little Patricia gazed at one another, conversation continued around her. Mrs. Hart’s lips dipped in a frown and she risked her tongue. “Zach Burkett setting up shop in Cottonwood Creek. Why, I wonder? The way feelings run in this town, what makes him think he could be successful at anything?”

“It’s a curiosity. It surely is,” the widow replied, straightening the folds of her shawl.

Mr. Nichols then voiced the question for all of them. “What in God’s green earth is the Burkett Bastard up to?”

Having lived with her uncle long enough to recognize a cue when provided one, Morality looked up from the infant’s captivating eyes and said in a clear, pleasant voice, “Come to Reverend Harrison’s meeting tonight and find out. Mr. Burkett requested the opportunity to witness.”

A DISMAL sky hung above bleached grasses, swallowing the tips of faded cedar trees planted in windbreak rows behind a cabin that was dingy from weather and neglect. A limestone chimney rose from one end like a monument, buffeted by the gray blow of a gray wind.

The air of ruin blanketed the meadow as Zach knelt on one knee beside the chimney, heedless of the damp chill that seeped through his trousers. He stretched a finger toward the heart-shaped leaves cradling the lone splash of color in the monotony of the day.

A morning glory. “Fancy that,” Zach murmured. He was surprised to see the bloom this time of year. Late February was more than a month too early for morning glories, even in Texas. Sarah Burkett would have viewed the flower and deemed it a miracle. She had set great store in miracles— miracles and morning glories.

She had sometimes called the flowers heavenly blues, and she’d laughed when others named morning glories weeds to be obliterated from cultivated fields. She’d nurtured the vines, feeding and watering, training the creepers to twine toward the sky using the cabin’s walls for support. Then, when the funnel-form flowers burst forth in a profusion of blue, she’d smiled as warm as summer sunshine.

“Well, you were right, Mama,” Zach observed, his tone soft like the morning glory’s blossom. “They’re still here, long after you and I have headed elsewhere.”

Hardiness in the face of neglect—those were the words she’d used. One corner of Zach’s mouth lifted in a rueful smile. He’d never forget the humiliation he’d suffered the day she’d called him her morning glory in front of one of his schoolmates.

He stood and brushed the damp red dirt from his knee. “But I’m back now. Just like I always said I’d be.”

So where was that rush of satisfaction he’d expected to feel?

Backing away from the vines that hugged the cabin wall, Zach braced his hands on his hips and stared at the house. He’d dreamed of returning here for more than twenty years. It never mattered that he owned a place four times its size in New Orleans and another just as big in San Francisco. This was the place he’d ached to return to. This little cabin was his home.

And yet it wasn’t. Sarah Burkett wasn’t here; the color was missing. The reds and oranges and yellows—the greens and purples and pinks—all had vanished from this land. The vibrant palette of life had faded to a bleak, monotonous landscape.

Except for the heavenly blues.

He muttered a curse and said, “I’m sure as hell no morning glory, but since I’m here, I might as well stay.” At least until he’d finished his business with Marston and the godly folk of Cottonwood Creek.

The first order of business was to make the place livable again. To that end, Zach unloaded from the bed of his brand-new buckboard the supplies he’d rounded up earlier that morning and toted them inside the house. Scowling, he grumbled, “Haven’t seen such a mess since the Baptists and the Methodists got to arguing at a San Jacinto Day pie supper.”

Shucking off his coat, he started with the rafters and worked his way down, ruthlessly destroying every web and nest in his way. He swept out the sleeping loft and cleared out the chimney, chasing away one black crow, a pair of squirrels, and enough spiders to keep a family of lizards fed until spring.

Climbing and cleaning warmed him despite the chill, and a fine sheen of perspiration covered his body. Muscles stretched and strained, working away the tension that had tugged at his gut all morning. Coming home had proved more difficult than he’d ever imagined.

With the critters and dust chased from within the cabin’s confines, Zach paused and extended his arms above his head. Stretching long and hard, he twisted his torso and flexed his muscles while gazing around the room. Mentally, he added a rocking chair, a wardrobe, cast-iron skillets hung from pegs on the fireplace, and lace. Sarah Burkett had loved lace doilies. He imagined he’d find a stack of them in the trunk out in the wagon.

The trunk. Zach moved toward the window where a fitful breeze rapped the wooden shutters against the cabin’s log walls. Gazing outside, he stared at the buckboard and the wooden chest with weather-rusted hardware and worn leather straps sitting on its bed. The trunk and the items it contained were all he had left of that early portion of his life.

He’d carted it with him all around the country. He’d left it stored in different towns for years on end. To Zach, the trunk had been both symbol and promise. A childhood locked away the day his mama died, both inside that trunk and within himself.

Now that the time had arrived to face the memories, to open the trunk and return the items inside to their rightful place, he found himself surprisingly reluctant to act.

“Well, hell,” he cursed, disgusted with himself. With a scowl set firmly on his face, he marched out to the wagon and heaved the trunk into his arms. Carrying it back inside, he set it in its old spot against the wall near the fireplace and took a couple of steps away. “Well, hell,” he repeated.

Maybe he should take a break and eat some lunch before finishing up. He’d had a busy morning, after all. He’d worked up a powerful hunger.

For the next half hour Zach used every excuse he could think of to delay the opening of the wooden chest. He walked to the nearby creek to wash up before eating the sandwiches he’d brought with him from town. He laid a fire in the hearth and put on a pot of coffee. He checked the horses and climbed onto the roof to repair a small section of cedar shakes loosened by weather and time.

Eventually, he found himself standing before the trunk, hands braced on his hips, an emotion he dared not name swelling in his chest.

He hadn’t looked inside since the day his mama died.

“Well, hell!” He flipped up the latch and lifted the lid. The first thing he saw was a layer of lace doilies. “Ah, Mama,” he muttered.

As he pulled each item from the depths, Zach felt more lonely, and yet at the same time, less alone, than he had felt since that bloody afternoon years before.

A glass vase, a mantel clock, a small drawing of the Shenandoah River done in charcoal and framed in oak, the quilt that had graced Sarah Burkett’s bed—each item evoked a memory both bitter and sweet. He took his time, allowing his mind free rein, savoring the images he’d denied himself for decades. By the time he’d emptied the trunk, Zach’s emotions were raw and ripe for the sentiments that now took control.