by Martha Hix
Emma leaned forward, pushing her face close to Spivey’s. “You tell him this. If he doesn’t see me, I’ll inform every newspaper in Texas, Louisiana, New York, London—you name it!—that President Sam Houston is too much of a coward to speak with Captain Paul Rousseau’s wife.”
“Uhh, have a seat. I’ll, uh, be right back.”
Spivey almost toppled his chair in his eagerness to quell another scandal. Within two minutes, he returned from the President’s office. “Go right in.”
“Thank you . . . sir.”
Sam Houston rose from his seat and side-stepped the huge desk that suited his large frame while smiling as if he were greeting a friend. “Mrs. Rousseau, how nice to see you again.
“And you.” She lied, too.
“Do sit down.” He took her arm, and led her to a leather chair. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
“Let’s don’t beat around the bush, sir. I’m here on my husband’s behalf.”
“I’m surprised Mr. Rousseau sent you. He strikes me as a person who slays his own dragons.”
“Don’t be facetious, Mr. President. Captain Rousseau didn’t send me. I’m here because of the public’s belief in what is right and what isn’t.” Emma’s pulse was racing. If she wasn’t successful. . . “The Navy stopped an invasion of Galveston, and the people of Texas appreciate the sacrifices your naval men made.”
“They’re pirates who went against my orders.”
“With the approval of Commissioner Naylor, they did what their consciences told them to do.”
Houston waved a hand in dismissal. “Moore and his scalawags misappropriated money.”
“That’s not so. Private funds, plus the financial help of the Yucatecans, kept the fleet afloat.”
“By sailing for Campeche instead of Galveston, they embezzled public property, neglected their duty, and they disobeyed and defied not only my orders but the edicts of congress,” Houston retorted. “And they murdered those mutineers.”
The first part of his statement wasn’t even debatable. That was for a court to decide. “Your correspondence with the Secretary of War and Marine will attest that you sanctioned punishing James Throckmorton’s murderers. Commodore Moore merely carried out your request. Though he put himself and my husband in jeopardy by doing so, both of those men make decisions and stand by them!”
“They’re traitors.”
Emma fought the urge to slap the smug smile from Houston’s mouth. “Then the cause of freedom needs ‘traitors’ like the commodore and Captain Rousseau.”
“Mrs. Rousseau—”
“I know you work for our annexation by the United States. But the glory of our flag is in question. We are a proud people, sir. The United States laughs at your handling of this situation. Do you enjoy having the Republic of Texas shamed before the nations of the world? Our people have suffered to create this Republic. Many gave their lives for it. Remember Goliad? Remember the Alamo?”
“I, last of all, need a reminder of those battles!” He purpled with anger. “And you shouldn’t mention those sacrifices in the same breath with those scalawags Moore and Rousseau.”
She ignored the dig. “Will we join the United States of America with our President branded as unfair and dictatorial?”
“That is not the case.”
“I think it is. Let’s face it, Mr. President, your popularity is at an all-time low. If you grant the court-martial, you’ll show our citizens that you are a reasonable man who believes that a man is innocent until proven guilty.”
Sam Houston furrowed his brows in thought. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
“Do that.” Emma squared her shoulders. “And while you’re thinking about it, remember something else. If Commodore Moore and my husband aren’t given their legal rights, I will use every means at my disposal to further discredit you.”
“Are you threatening me, Mrs. Rousseau?”
“No, sir. I’m stating a fact.”
Emotionally drained, Emma departed the modest clapboard building that served as Texas’s capitol. She had done her best. Now she would wait and see what would happen.
Paul couldn’t wait to see Emma. A man possessed, he had sailed the Virgin Vixen up the Brazos to the new capital. The town, no more than an outpost thrown together in haste, had but a few businesses and homes. His first stop was the stagecoach inn, and luckily he learned that Emma was registered there.
“She’s not here, though,” the innkeeper said, then spat a wad of tobacco in the general vicinity of a spittoon. “Been gone a couple of hours.”
Paul passed him a twenty-dollar gold piece. “How about a key to her room?”
The man scratched his thatch of unruly hair and smiled, displaying a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “Seein’s how ya put it that way . . . here ya go.”
Fighting the urge to grab the unscrupulous hosteler by the lapels for taking no precautions on behalf of a lone woman, Paul ordered a bath and a tray of food and drink sent up.
Hell, Emma didn’t need protection, he thought as he ambled toward her room. She was capable of protecting herself. But he’d protect her from now on. . . if she’d let him.
After the bath and food arrived, Paul closed the curtains, took several candles from his traveling bag, lit them, and turned back the bedclothes. Stripping out of his travel-soiled clothes, he then settled himself in the tub. If nothing else, he was going to seem confident when she arrived.
As he lathered himself he took a look around. Emma’s clothes were neatly hung on wall pegs. A bottle of perfume, her hairbrush, and two gold hairpins rested on the bedside stand. Beside them was one of the ribbons that had been pinned to his chest on the day they had arrived in Galveston. He felt a tug at his heartstrings. Though he had hurt her she still carried a reminder of him.
A key rattled in the lock, and he grinned before beginning to whistle a lively tune.
“Paul!” Emma’s face lightened into a wreath of sunshine, but she glanced away to compose herself. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“Slipped a gold piece to the . . . well, I hate to say concierge, but it’ll do. It’s a trick I learned from a beautiful blonde.” He rested his elbows on the tub’s edge. “And as for why I’m here, I’m waiting for you.”
She looked away, but not before he caught her grin. “Well,” she said, “if you’ve traveled all this way just to get your back scrubbed, you’re in for a disappointment.”
“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, though the idea does have merit.” The familiar tightening in his groin wreaked havoc with his determination to settle their differences before settling between her legs. “Aren’t you curious about why I’m here?”
“No.”
“You’ve always been the curious type, ma bien-aimée. You know it, I know it, and—”
“All right. Tell me why you’re in my hotel room.”
“Anthaline says you’ve given up medicine.”
She crossed the room and sat down on the bed. “That’s right.”
“why?”
“Because I betrayed a patient’s confidence. A doctor without ethics has no business practicing medicine.”
“This has to do with Simon Dyer, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“He’s dead. Was when you told me about his involvement with your uncle.”
“How do you know that? Oh never mind! What difference does it make? I didn’t know he was dead when I spoke of it.” Emma rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “His death doesn’t absolve me from blame.”
“Medice, cura te ipsum.”
“Paul Rousseau, that’s Latin! I didn’t know you understood the language.”
The water was growing cold, and Paul was turning into a wrinkled mass of flesh, but he remained in the bath. Had to. Sex was not going to cure what ailed them. If it could, they would have been living in harmony a long time ago.
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about
me, my sweet and precious wife, but that won’t be so for long. However, the point right now is—physician heal thyself.”
Dropping her chin, she shook her head. “I can’t.”
“You can and will. I didn’t fall in love with, and marry, a quitter.”
“Don’t you have the sequence of that all wrong? You married me for Feuille de Chêne. As for love, that happened later. And you’ve never loved me enough to put it before your desire for revenge against Uncle Rankin.”
“You’re wrong. All the way around. I loved you the moment I laid eyes on you—I just couldn’t accept it at the time. And yes, the plantation was at stake when we married, but I wanted to be with you because I love you. I couldn’t admit that either. For fourteen years the pain of losing my father has been clouding my reasoning, and I . . . well, I guess I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.” He held out his hand to her. “I’ve been a scoundrel, a blackguard, a snake—all the names you’ve called me. But—”
“You forgot blackmailer.”
“All right. Add blackmailer to the list.” His heart went into the next words. “But I’ve learned a lesson. If we’re to be man and wife—and to raise our child in the loving home he or she deserves—I’ve got to close the door on the past.”
“Then no matter what Uncle Rankin has done, you’re willing to forget it—once and for all?”
He locked his gaze with hers. Total honesty went into his answer. “Yes.”
“I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“I said it. And I mean it. I want you back in my arms . . . for always.”
“And I want you back in mine.”
“That’s easy enough to accomplish. But unless we work through our differences, it wouldn’t be for long, and I want it to be forever. Please forgive me, Emma.”
She blinked. Then a tear rolled down her cheek, the first one he had ever seen her shed. “I forgive you, Paul.”
“Together we can face whatever life has to offer,” he said as she wiped that tear away. “We’re a team, you know.”
“I agree.” She got to her feet, put her hands on her hips and smiled playfully. “I’m all for teamwork. As long as that deal doesn’t include scrubbing your back!”
“You rub mine, partner, and I’ll rub yours.”
“Where’s the cloth?”
Epilogue
Washington-on-the-Brazos, August 21, 1844
The sweltering-hot courtroom was packed with people. A panel of military judges sat solemnly behind a raised table, while attorneys and defendants, as well as onlookers, waited with bated breaths for the verdict.
The cry of a baby broke into the hush. The infant was comforted into silence by its mother.
The jurist at the center of the table spoke. “Will the defendants Edwin Moore and Paul Rousseau please rise.”
Howard O’Reilly smiled confidently at Paul, who winked in return and rose to his feet. Commodore Moore was already standing.
Holding a piece of parchment in his hand, the judge said, “To the charge of misapplication of money, the defendants are not guilty.”
The spectators cheered.
“Order in the court!” The judge pounded a gavel. His demand for silence granted, he continued. “To the charge of embezzlement of public property, not guilty. To the charge of neglect of duty, not guilty. To the charge of contempt and defiance of the law, not guilty. To the charge of treason, not guilty. To the charge of murder, not guilty.”
Someone at the back of the room applauded.
The judge pounded his gavel again. “To the charge of disobedience of orders . . . guilty as charged.” He smiled. “As punishment this court orders . . . no punishment.”
Paul closed his eyes, thanking the saints above for clemency.
“This court is dismissed.”
Joyful pandemonium reigned. Paul clasped his attorney’s hand, and Howard O’Reilly muttered, “I knew it would go this way.” Ed Moore then shook Howard’s hand.
Rankin Oliver, his wife at his side, leaned across the rail to extend his congratulations. Paul took his hand. He’d never be overjoyed at seeing his former archenemy; but in the months since Rankin had first made conciliatory overtures, Paul had grown to appreciate the steps taken by this very proud man.
Tillie Oliver patted Paul’s hand before smiling up at her husband. “Rankin and I are so pleased this went well.”
“Thank you,” Paul replied, knowing those words were spoken in truth.
Emma, smiling in relief and joy, and holding their son, broke through the throng around her husband. “This is wonderful,” she said as he held her and the child close. “I’m so happy.”
“I second that.” Paul kissed the top of her blond head. “Let’s go home.”
Home to Galveston. That seaside town where they had lived in peace and contentment. Where the Rousseau shipyard thrived. Where the Rousseaus thrived.
Emma linked her free arm with his. “Lead the way, darling.”
All of a sudden, a frantic woman burst through the courthouse door. “Dr. Rousseau, Dr. Rousseau, come quick! There’s been an accident. A horse threw a boy, and he’s hurt bad!”
Emma passed young Étienne to his father. “Take care of him, partner. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.” Her hand on the doorframe, she stopped and turned back to her men. “And, Paul, from the looks of your son he’s going to need a diaper change. Soon.”
Paul raised the boy to eye level. Étienne’s face was red and screwed up. Suddenly his father’s nose wrinkled at the powerful stench.
“Well, Son,” Paul said, “there’s something you’ve got to learn about partnering with women. It does have drawbacks.”
ZEBRA BOOKS
are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
475 Park Avenue South
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 1988 by Martha Hicks
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-0-8217-2467-5
