The Scoundrel's Bride (8 page)

Hatred, anger, and rage. The passions that had burned inside him for more than twenty years flamed to new heights, fanned by the force of feelings long nursed and now literally brought home.

Carefully, he placed the rosewood music box that had been his mother’s most prized possession beside the clock on the mantel, then abruptly, he turned, grabbed his rifle, and left the cabin.

He’d heard the whistle of a steamer. The bayou marked the eastern boundary of his land, and he knew a prime spot for viewing the sternwheelers that plied the waters between Cottonwood Creek and Shreveport on down to New Orleans.

Zach had a sudden hankering to take a few potshots at the name painted across the riverboat’s bow—Marston Shipping.

By the time he reached the bayou’s edge, he’d calmed enough to recognize the foolishness of such an act. Shooting at a riverboat was a boy’s retaliation and had no place in the grand scheme of vengeance invented by the man. Nor was it the true reason Zach had fled the cabin. Emptying that trunk had whipped him like a woodshed lecture. He’d needed a bit of time away.

He sat beneath a pecan tree and absently gathered a handful of fallen nuts. Cracking them one against the other in his fist, he watched the riverboat belch black smoke into the sky, the paddles on its sternwheel slicing the water, pushing the boat forward until it disappeared from sight. From somewhere in the brush to his left a bird sang a low-pitched, melancholy song. Try as he might, Zach couldn’t place the name of the bird, but he was glad it was there. The tune fit the moment, and the company was nice.

He popped the shelled pecans one by one into his mouth, enjoying the subtle flavor of the meat. When the songbird ended his serenade with a rustle of brush and a flash of wing, Zach figured it was time to head back to town. The cabin was livable now, and he’d a few supplies to gather up before tonight’s performance. He’d best be about it.

Brittle leaves crunched beneath his heels as he made his way back toward the cabin. All in all, he felt good about coming home. He’d faced his ghosts, and in doing so, reaffirmed his resolve. The time had come to bring Cottonwood Creek to its knees.

As he approached the cabin, the familiar song of his mother’s music box played through his mind. Over the years he’d heard the music performed dozens of times, in both concert halls and brothels. Yet, no orchestra had ever played the waltz as lovely as did the echo in Zach’s memory.

Yards from the house, his steps slowed as he realized the music he heard was real and not a haunting recollection. Either he had a ghost to deal with, or someone had invaded his home.

Zach mouthed a vicious curse. Whoever was inside had picked the wrong damn time to trespass. And if stealing was their intent, well…

Nobody was getting his mama’s things.

The tinkling notes of the music box sounded loud as a brass band as he lifted his gun and stepped inside the cabin. His finger tickled the rifle’s trigger even as he identified the intruder and thundered, “What the hell are you doing here!”

Standing near the fireplace, Morality Brown shrieked in surprise and whirled around. The music box sailed from her hands.

The rosewood box tumbled end over end through the air. They both made a dive for it, Zach stretching with his free hand, Morality with both of hers. Zach had a longer reach and his fingers brushed smooth wood.

Morality’s found cold, hard metal.

Falling to the floor, Zach reacted just an instant too slowly.

He watched in horror as the rifle exploded.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE DEAFENING SOUND OF the shot reverberated through the small cabin. Zach’s voice, when he managed to force it past the lump in his throat, boomed even louder. "Dammit, woman. I could have killed you!”

Morality lay sprawled atop him. For a long moment, she didn’t move, then she slowly lifted her head and stared down at him, a dazed expression on her face. In a quavering voice, she asked, “Mr. Burkett, do you like fried chicken?”

Zach’s ears rang and his heart pounded like a ballpeen hammer at a barn raising. “Fried chicken?” he repeated, glaring up at her. “You’re a whisker’s width away from having your head blown off, and you ask me if I like fried chicken?”

She nodded slowly. “I could stew it if you’d prefer.”

Zach rolled from beneath her and sat up. He put a thumb to her brow and lifted her eyelid, studying her pupil. “Did you hit your head, Miss Brown?” he inquired, checking the other eye.

“No.” She trembled as he helped her climb awkwardly to her feet.

“You’re all right, then? Not hurt in any way?”

“N-n-no.”

He braced his hands on his hips and shouted, “Then what the hell do you think you were doing? What business did you have in my house?”

She cringed, looking guilty as a cookie thief, and spoke in a rush. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Burkett. You see, mainly it was supper, but then there’s the morning-glory seeds, and the door wasn’t shut tight, and I thought I heard you call.”

“Drag your tongue down a notch, woman,” Zach interrupted, laying a finger on her lips. “I can’t make sense of what you’re saying.”

She nodded, took a deep breath, then lifted her gaze overhead as if asking for heavenly guidance. She froze. Emerald eyes grew wide, and she blinked. Color washed from her face, and Zach followed the path of her stare.

The sky was clearly visible through the gaping hole in his roof.

He looked down to where they had fallen, then upward once more, tracing the trajectory of the bullet. “You’ve got lady luck camped on your petticoat, don’t you, gal? Bullet didn’t miss by much.”

At that, Morality sank like a sheet pulled free of the clothesline. Zach caught her inches away from banging her head against the sharp, rocky edge of the fireplace. “Damn fool woman,” he grumbled, as the fear that clenched his stomach slowly eased. Carrying her over to the bed, he lowered her gently onto the new mattress he’d brought with him from town. He covered her with his mother’s quilt, then took a deep, calming breath and said, “Doesn’t have the sense God gave a goat.”

It was hard not to stare at her—a porcelain doll with long, curling eyelashes and a Cupid’s-bow mouth shaped for kissing. Recalling the curves now hidden beneath the quilt took his musings a step further. If she were someone other than the preacher’s niece, he might consider breaking in that new mattress.

He fingered a soft red curl. Sex was a natural thing to think of after an accident, the celebration of being alive and all of that. At least,
he
was inclined to think so right then. He smiled a mocking grin. Somehow he doubted the preacher’s niece would view it quite the same way.

Morality Brown. What was she doing here? Had she been searching his cabin? If so, what was she hoping to find? Having little experience with swooning women, Zach had no idea how long she might be out. He wanted answers to his questions.

Spying a basket on the table beside the door—a basket that hadn’t been there when he’d left to shoot at the boat—he crossed the room to investigate, pausing first to lift the music box from the floor.

He flipped up the lid and smiled upon hearing the song. The damage appeared limited to a pair of scratches, and as he returned the box to the mantel he realized he’d had a little luck of his own.

Morality’s basket proved to be a puzzle. Pine needles, a clump of Spanish moss, and fragrant twigs of cedar were pushed to one side, while the rest of the space was filled with literally hundreds of seed pods. Zach recognized the seeds; he’d noticed similar ones earlier that morning.

The woman had enough morning-glory seeds in her basket to ruin a nice cornfield.

The dried pods crumbled in his fingers, crackling open to display small, dark seeds nestled inside. “Got a bone to pick with a farmer, preacher’s niece?” he mused.

“I don’t understand.”

Zach glanced over his shoulder. Sitting up in his bed, she looked pale and confused and so lovely it made him ache. His voice was gruff as he replied, “Mature morning-glory vines can snap the blade off a plow easy as sin.”

Morality slowly shook her head. “Easy as sin,” she repeated. “Isn’t that the truth?” She followed the observation with a sigh so filled with woe that it made him smile.

“I owe you an apology, Mr. Burkett. It was wrong of me to enter your home uninvited.” Hands clasped in her lap, she glanced toward the hole in the roof, then flashed him a sheepish smile. “I guess I deserved to be shot for doing so.”

Zach arched a brow. “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as that,” he drawled, toting the basket back to the bed. “Stabbed, maybe. I figure shooting goes a tad too far. You feeling better now?”

She blushed a rosy shade of pink and nodded.

Zach sat beside her, and her color deepened. “So, Morality, what brings you to my bed?”

She bolted off the mattress like a wild mustang through a corral gate. Zach couldn’t stop the chuckle that rumbled through his chest as she took a position within darting distance of the door. He reckoned he might just enjoy this little encounter with Miracle Morality.

Folding his arms, he stated, “I would like an answer. That music box happens to mean quite a lot to me, and I have to wonder why you were fiddling with it. Were you looking for something in particular? Money, perhaps?”

She inhaled sharply. “I am not a thief!”

He waited, skepticism flattening his smile.

“It’s true.” Her chin came up. “I’ll own up to a few vices, but stealing is not among them. It was wrong of me to enter your home and handle your belongings—I’ve admitted that. But I was not thieving, I was listening.”

Temper restored the color to her cheeks, and as he wondered what those vices might be, Zach revised his opinion from lovely to downright beautiful. “It was the music,” she continued, moderating her tone. “I thoroughly enjoy music, and my opportunities to hear anything other than hymns are rare. Not that I dislike hymns, mind you, but it’s a pleasure to hear something different upon occasion.”

“ ‘Für Elise.’ ” Zach spoke without thinking as his thoughts hurled back in time. “My mother loved music, everything from Beethoven to whatever the local fiddler sawed out at a barn dance. At least once a week she’d wind up that music box and make me dance with her.”

His gaze trailed around the room as in his mind’s eye he envisioned Sarah Burkett, whirling and laughing and coaxing a young boy into a dance. “I always complained,” he said softly, “but that was part of the game. We both knew it.”

“Dancing?” Morality’s eyes widened. “Your mother allowed it?”

He nodded, intrigued by the wondering, wistful smile on her face.

“Oh, Mr. Burkett, I’ve always wanted to dance. That’s one of my vices, you see, desiring things I shouldn’t.”

His gaze trailed over her, pausing at her breasts. He gave a rueful laugh and said, “I know just what you mean.”

He stood and crossed the room, noting Morality’s slight movement toward the door. He removed the music box from the mantel and gently turned the key. “You never answered my question, Miss Brown. What brings you to my home?”

“Oh, I forgot.” Wincing, she clasped her hands in front of her and said, “I have two reasons for coming, actually. The ladies in the mercantile told me morning glories grow in abandon around this cabin. I wanted to ask if I might harvest some of your seed.”

Zach almost swallowed his tongue. Gawking at his guest, he recognized the innocence glowing in her eyes, so he bit back the lewd remark that naturally came to mind. “Are those my seed pods in your basket?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t take them without asking.”

“You have hundreds. Why do you want more?”

“They’re for my uncle. I gather them throughout the fall and winter. He always requests as many as I am able to find.”

Zach traced a finger over the inlaid floral design on the music box, then returned it to the mantel. “What’s he do, travel around the country playing Johnny Appleseed with weeds?”

“Morning glories are not weeds, Mr. Burkett,” Morality insisted. “They are hardy plants with strong roots, like those roots you referred to last night. With little tending, morning-glory vines produce a beautiful flower, and beauty in the world around us is not something you should mock. Ugliness surrounds us in our everyday lives. When we chance upon a little beauty, we should enjoy it. We should thank God for the opportunity.”

Zach grinned. “I’m an awful small congregation for that big a sermon. But you know, you’re right. Beauty isn’t something to waste.” He flipped up the music box’s lid, and the tinkling melody filled the air. He held out his hand. “Come here, Morality.”

“Wh-wh-what?”

“Dance with me.”

She took a step backward and shook her head. “Oh, no. That’s not why I’m here. I couldn’t.”

“Yes you can. You should.” In a low voice, he added, “It’s a beautiful opportunity. Don’t waste it.”

A yearning clouded her eyes as she quoted, “ ‘Dancing is the devil’s method of leading good men and women into sin’.”

Zach stepped toward her. “I’m well familiar with the devil’s methods, but dancing isn’t one of ‘em. That’s nonsense, Morality. Pure nonsense.”

“But Mr. Burkett—”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to hear any more of Harrison’s prattle. It was out of place, here in this cabin where the past overlapped the present and gripped Zach with an emotion he could not name. “It won’t hurt you.” He took her hand in his. “
I
won’t hurt you. You remind me of my mother.”

She went stiff. “Your mother? How flattering.”

Chuckling softly, Zach explained, “Morning glories and dances, Morality. Please, help me remember for a bit?”

“Oh, Mr. Burkett, I’d like to help, I truly would.” Morality stared down at their joined hands. “My uncle says wicked things happen to young women who pursue the devil’s pleasures.”

“One innocent dance, Morality Brown.”

“I should never have come here. I wanted to learn… I thought maybe you’d be the one…something wicked would happen, I know it.” Still, she made no move toward the door.

“No, nothing wicked will happen.” He rested his hand at her waist, the span of his fingers drifting toward the lush curve of her hip. “I promise, Morality.”