She glanced over her shoulder. The alley remained deserted but for the drunkard, who now sat turned in their direction, the whiskey bottle dangling from one finger. As Morality watched, he brought the jug up to his mouth and tipped his head for a drink.
She could almost feel his gaze upon her.
Well, so what if she had an audience? He obviously wasn’t the type of man likely to search out her uncle and tell the reverend he’d caught his niece climbing trees.
She eyed the limb once again and grimaced. Her tendency to suffer vertigo made tree-climbing no mean feat. Lifting her mouth in a rueful smile, she decided it might be best to have a witness after all. If she fell and broke her neck, Patrick could ask the man’s assistance in moving her body.
Morality slid her foot between two iron rails and hoisted herself onto the fence.
Patrick’s voice betrayed a spark of concern as he asked, “Morality, what are you doing?”
“If you won’t come talk to me, I’ll come talk to you. This isn’t something we can hide from or ignore, son.”
“I’m not your son!” He snapped a twig from the tree and threw it to the ground.
Morality winced and wanted to kick herself. That had been a thoughtless, insensitive remark, something she would never have said under normal circumstances. Patrick still grieved for his parents, and he would resent the idea of anyone trying to take his mother’s place. “No, you’re not. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t presume a relationship where none exists.”
Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip as she searched her mind for just the right words. “You are not my son, Patrick, but you are like family. Like a brother. And family shouldn’t fight.”
In a sullen voice, he accused, “That’s right. They shouldn’t holler and shout at a fella in front of his friends, either.”
“And family shouldn’t lie to one another,” she shot back. Halfway up the fence, determined to ignore the spinning in her head, she reached for the limb.
“Tarnation, Morality! You can’t climb a tree with a cloak on. Can’t climb a fence that way, either. Get down. Your dizziness will act up and you’ll fall and hurt yourself.” In a smooth, expert movement, he slid from his perch and jumped to the ground. Keeping his back toward Morality, he took a marble from his pocket and tossed it from hand to hand.
Thank goodness. Morality very carefully stepped down to safe, solid ground and drew a relieved breath as the reeling in her head subsided. For a moment there, she’d feared she’d be forced to go through with it.
Turning to the problem at hand, she smoothed her skirts and searched for the proper words to make her point. “Patrick, how long have you been traveling with Reverend Uncle and me?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Year and a half, I guess.”
“Closer to two years. And in that time I think it’s safe to say we’ve come to care for one another. To trust one another.” She walked around in front of him and folded her arms. “Do you have any idea how much it breaks my heart to know that you lied to me?”
He pressed his lips together, his brow dipping over eyes that flashed rebellion.
“Lying is sinful, destructive behavior that can hurt other people in ways you never imagine,” she explained. “Oh, Patrick, don’t you see? If you lie to me often enough, I won’t be able to trust anything you say, and that’s a terrible way to live. How can we be friends without trust?”
Returning his marble to his pocket, he kicked at the dirt with the toe of his boot. “It was just a little lie.”
“Little lies become big lies.”
“It didn’t hurt anyone.”
“It hurt me.”
He rolled his eyes and Morality folded her arms. He made her so angry when he did that. Hidden beneath her skirt, her toe began to tap. Obviously, Patrick wasn’t hearing what she was trying to say. Stubborn boy. Sometimes he could be downright pigheaded.
Of course, he might still be in shock, considering he’d never before seen the side of her temper she’d displayed to those ruffians.
She hadn’t meant to punch that young man. She’d been just as surprised as everyone when her fist connected with his jaw. Surprised and more than a little ashamed. A godly woman didn’t stoop to violence.
Why, in recent days, had anger so often become her first response? Why was it becoming increasingly difficult to live up to her uncle’s—and her own—expectations? She’d been on edge for weeks—ever since her uncle’s traveling ministry had left Nacogdoches and the man she had hoped to marry. All sorts of new emotions had been bubbling up inside her, and no amount of prayer or self-flagellation had smoothed the waters.
Truth be told, she’d been spoiling for a fight. Catching Patrick in the middle of a lie had been just the catalyst to send her anger soaring.
And look at the trouble it had caused. Patrick had closed his mind to her just when she needed him to listen. This matter was too important, too basic to her beliefs, for him not to understand. For the two of them to share the kind of family relationship she hoped for, they’d have to reach an agreement on the subject of lies.
Perhaps it would help if she told him why she felt the way she did.
Morality closed her eyes, pain washing through her fresh and sharp. She was a child again. Her name was Lilah. She wore a white dress and clutched her mama’s lavender-scented handkerchief in her hand.
She stood in front of a window waiting for someone who never arrived.
Oh, my. Morality took a deep, strengthening breath and repaired the breach in her defenses. She glanced over her shoulder toward the drunkard, only to see the man slouched to one side, apparently passed out. Good. Witnesses to this confession were neither required or welcome.
She ignored the twinge of guilt created by her satisfaction at the man’s inebriated state. She’d repent that sin another time. “Listen to me, Patrick. I have something to tell you, something important. It’s something I’ve never told another person.”
That grabbed his interest as she had known it would. “When I was a few years younger than you are now, my mother told me a lie. It too was just a ‘little lie.’ She took me to her sister, my aunt Mattie.”
“Reverend Harrison’s wife?” Patrick asked, stooping to lift a twig from the ground. “I guess she wasn’t dead, then, huh?”
Morality nodded, her gaze on the stick he rattled across the fence’s iron rails. “My mother kissed me good-bye and promised she’d be back soon. I believed her. I trusted her. Day after day I sat by the window, watching for her. She never came.”
“Where did she go?”
She shrugged. “For many years they wouldn’t say. Then, mainly to quiet my questions, I believe, my aunt confessed the truth.”
Morality swallowed hard. “My mother abandoned me. She’d never intended to return. The ‘little lie’ was to prevent my tears when she left.”
“Confound, Morality, that’s awful!” Patrick’s stricken expression reflected her own emotions. He took a step toward her and laid a hand on her arm. “She must’ve died, like my mama.”
“No.” Morality couldn’t stop the bitter smile. “No. I heard rumors she’d run off with a man. A gambling man.”
He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “That’s why you got so mad about me rollin’ dice with Pete and Tom and Billy.”
“Not the dice, Patrick,” she said, shaking her head. “Although it’s true they are the devil’s tools and Reverend Uncle would certainly be appalled by your behavior.” She stared earnestly at the boy and prayed he’d understand. “It was the lie that made me so angry. That you lied to me about what you were doing. True, I shouldn’t have yelled, and I certainly should never have struck that young man—”
“I’ll say,” Patrick interrupted. “He’s twice as big as you. Three times, even. Jeez, Morality, you popped Mean Billy Steene!”
“I’m ashamed of myself, and I’ll apologize at the first opportunity.”
“You’d best stay away from him. The only reason he didn’t do not
hin’ was ‘cause he was so surprised. And maybe ‘cause you’re so pretty. Mean Billy’s old enough to notice that.”
“Well.” Morality looked down and brushed dirt from her cloak. A warm feeling spread through her. It was nice to think someone might think her pretty.
Vanity is a sin too, Morality. Don’t you think you should concentrate on the matter at hand?
“Never mind all of that,” she said, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is important to me. I may not be your mother or even your sister, but I care about you, Patrick, and I’m asking you to respect me on this. I want there to be trust between us.”
“Dadgummit, Morality.” He fell silent as he kicked at the dirt. A small cloud of red dust puffed up over her skirts. Finally, he looked at her and said, “I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I played the dice, and I’m sorry I lied about it.” Tossing the stick to the ground, he shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Guess if you want to pretend you’re my sister, that’d be all right with me.”
He grimaced slightly and added, “I’ll try real hard about the lyin’. I gotta tell you, though, it won’t come natural for me on account of my brother. Curtis taught me how to tell good stories, and we had lots of practice before he died.”
“Lying is a difficult habit to break, I’m sure.” She nodded solemnly. “I’d appreciate your best effort, Patrick. I truly can’t abide the lies.” Bending over, she kissed him on the cheek, causing another roll of his eyes.
This time she laughed. “We’d best be going. Mrs. Marston held a supper plate for you, and I know you’ll want to eat before the revival meeting.”
Patrick nodded. “I’m sure glad she invited the reverend to Cottonwood Creek, aren’t you? This is the nicest home we’ve stayed in since I signed on to drive the church wagon. Mrs. Marston’s cook makes the best pecan pie I’ve ever tasted.”
“Why, Patrick Callahan!” Morality exclaimed, leading the boy to the Marstons’ back gate. “What about that pecan pie I made when we were meeting in Nacogdoches?”
Patrick looked up at her and snorted. “What do you want me to say? Didn’t we just have a set-to about lyin’?”
Morality’s laughter followed them across the yard.
A few moments after the back door banged shut, the drunkard unfolded himself and stood, brushing the dirt off his poncho as he stared after the pair. A moment later, he walked over to the cottonwood limb, reached up, and swung himself smoothly onto the branch.
He took the card deck from the bird’s nest where the boy had hidden it. Pocketing the pack, he chuckled and mumbled something about sin.
Then Zach Burkett went back to work—spying on the Marston household.
FLICKERING TORCHES cast shadows across the faces of the faithful gathered to hear Reverend J. P. Harrison, founder of the Church of the Word’s Healing Faith, preach his message. Anticipation gripped the listeners as the reverend stepped up to the lectern, and the low-pitched murmur of voices died as he sounded out a greeting.
Morality sat on her sugar barrel seat and observed the man whose passionate sermonizing brought beads of sweat to his ruddy complexion no matter the temperature. Reverend Uncle’s brown eyes glowed with zeal; his tall, brawny frame trembled with the power of his message. His fist clenched in emphasis of a point, and a number of souls in the mesmerized crowd mimicked his action unknowingly. Morality shook her head in wonder. The man truly had a gift.
She wished she had her uncle’s talent with language. Had she made her point this afternoon? Had Patrick truly understood how strongly she felt about people who lie?
Reverend Uncle would have found the proper words to convey his message. He would have articulated his thoughts in such a way as to convince his listeners without baring his soul. Morality muffled a groan. She couldn’t believe she’d actually told Patrick about her mother, never mind that she’d grown accustomed to sharing both her hopes and her fears with the boy.
Despite the difference in their ages, they’d become the best of friends. In many ways he seemed older than eleven, while she often felt decidedly younger than nineteen. She figured the answer lay in their pasts. A person who’d been sheltered by overprotective, devoutly religious guardians had a different view of life than a child raised on the frontier— especially one who’d witnessed the deaths of his entire family during an Indian raid. In some ways, he was older than she.
It worried Morality. Sometimes Patrick needed more than just a friend. She never knew from one day to the next which Patrick would say good morning on a particular day—the mischievous boy or the anguished young man. As a friend, she knew how to deal with the boy, but the young man so full of pain and heartache needed a parent’s shoulders to lean on. Her uncle didn’t try to play father, and every time she attempted to do a little mothering—like this afternoon—she failed miserably.
Morality stared unseeing at a beetle making his way up the chair leg in front of her. Maybe that was why God gave children to women as babies. That way, they had time to learn how to mother with relatively easy problems—like scraped knees—before working their way up to burdensome issues—like dealing with grief.
Thankfully, it was the boy who leaned from the seat at her side and hissed, “Morality, I need to talk to you.”
Frowning, she dipped her head and whispered back, “Not here, Patrick.”
He waited until the preacher had turned to sermonize in the opposite direction. “This can’t wait. I heard something you’re gonna want to know about.”
She tried to ignore him, but short of clapping her hand across his mouth, there wasn’t much she could do to keep him quiet.
Patrick spoke out of one side of his mouth. “Reverend Uncle said you’re getting hitched.”
“What!” she exclaimed too loudly, certain she’d misheard.
Reverend Harrison looked their way, delaying the boy’s reply. Morality waited anxiously until the congregation rose for a hymn, thus making conversation possible. Patrick stood tall, pretending to sing, as he softly relayed his information. “I was studying the Marstons’ globe when I heard Mr. Peterson from the shaving saloon stop by and ask for your uncle. They headed for the library, and I ducked quick as a minute underneath the desk.”
He paused and loudly joined in the chorus of the hymn. At the start of the second verse, he added, “Mr. Peterson asked if he could escort you to the Founder’s Day Ball.”
Morality’s heart leapt. Dancing at a ball was one of her secret dreams.
Patrick continued. “Your uncle told him you don’t dance, and then, when Mr. Peterson asked permission to court you, Reverend Harrison told him you were a catfish whisker from being betrothed.”
“He said what!” Morality squealed, totally out of tune with the song. At the curious looks from those around her, she offered an embarrassed smile and patted her throat.
Patrick whispered, “Not in those exact words, but he did say he has your intended all picked out and that you’ll be getting married soon.”
“Who?” Her voice wobbled off-key.
“He didn’t say. Mr. Peterson seemed real disappointed, too. I think he likes you, Morality.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Shock was strangling her throat. Mr. Peterson from the shaving saloon? She didn’t even know the man.
When the song ended and the congregation took their seats, Morality slumped onto her barrel, knees as weak as dandelion tea.
Reverend Uncle said she’d soon be married? No. It couldn’t be. Patrick must have misunderstood. Why, just weeks ago in Nacogdoches her uncle had turned down another marriage proposal on her behalf—the third such refusal the past six months. She’d begun to doubt he’d ever approve of any suitor for her hand.
The longer she thought about it, the more Morality fretted. The more she fretted, the less she guarded her thoughts. As her uncle’s sermon droned on, the side of her spirit she’d been taught to suppress took over, and Morality indulged in a little honest contemplation.
She wanted to get marri
ed. Husband, home, and family—it was the normal desire of almost all young women. Choosing a husband was one of the few decisions a woman was allowed to make; almost the only way a decent woman had to change the path of her life.
Morality wanted to travel a different road so badly.
It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate her gift. She knew she was blessed; she wanted to witness to her deep religious faith. But in her heart of hearts, she believed it could be accomplished by methods other than traveling from town to town, standing before strangers and repeating her story time and time again.
She wanted to teach by example. To demonstrate the healing power of God’s love by living it. She wanted to be a good wife, a wonderful mother, a contributing member of a community. As grateful as she was for all her uncle had done for her, her wish for a permanent home—one filled with children—grew stronger with each passing month and every town and city they visited. The yearning for a man to hold her, to love her, plagued her more and more each day.
And sometimes during the night.
But would she ever get the courage to tell Reverend Uncle of her wishes? Had she waited too long?
He has your intended all picked out. As her uncle called for the congregation to rise for yet another hymn, she pondered Patrick’s claim. What if he had heard correctly? Who could this mystery man be? Someone from Cottonwood Creek? No, that made no sense. They had arrived in town only last week.
Unless…Morality tapped her foot against the dirt. Could Reverend Uncle have made some sort of arrangement with Mrs. Marston when they’d met in Austin last summer? That was when the socially prominent, deeply religious woman had invited the Church of the Word’s Healing Faith to her hometown. She’d offered them rooms in her very own house and promised to see to their every need. Could Louise Marston have had a reason other than religious devotion for issuing the invitation?
She didn’t have a son, did she?
The Scoundrel's Bride Page 2
