The Scoundrel's Bride

by Geralyn Dawson

  No. Morality heaved a silent sigh. If so, he’d have made an appearance at dinner sometime this past week or at the very least his name would have been mentioned.

  He has her intended all picked out. She’d be getting married. She should be thrilled.

  She was distraught. She’d wanted to choose her own husband. Her ideas about what makes a good mate would not necessarily correspond to her guardian’s. Reverend Uncle wouldn’t think of kindness, generosity, or gentleness in selecting a husband for her. He would pick the man who would most benefit the ministry, because to Reverend J. P. Harrison, the church always came first.

  Reverend Uncle might well sell her to the highest bidder.

  “No!” she said aloud, appalled at the sinful thought. Where in the world had that come from? She didn’t believe that. She wouldn’t believe it. It was nonsense. Wicked nonsense.

  Reverend Uncle loved her. He did. He only wanted the best for her. Isn’t that what he’d told her when he’d refused the marriage offers she’d previously received? Maybe…

  Morality’s eyes rounded as a new thought pushed all other niggling questions from her mind. Maybe her uncle had changed his mind about her latest beau. Maybe she’d chosen her husband, after all.

  Morality inched up on her tiptoes and glanced around the tent. Reverend Simpkins might have come after her!

  Scanning the faces of the crowd gathered in bunches and rows around her uncle, she looked for the Methodist minister from Nacogdoches. She’d had such hopes when he’d approached Reverend Uncle for her hand. After all, she hadn’t believed her uncle would discover anything to disapprove of in such a kind, thoughtful, modest man of God. How disappointed she’d been when Reverend Simpkins had been refused.

  She still didn’t believe the size of one’s ears made a valid argument against marriage.

  Her gaze trailed over the crowd. Ladies, some dressed in homespun, others in silk, listened with rapt attention to Reverend Uncle’s preaching. As a whole, the gentlemen appeared a little less attentive. One man played with the watch fob attached to his red brocade vest. Another pulled at his whiskers and gazed absently toward the top of the tent, while a third gentleman impatiently tapped his boot as he twirled the fringe on his buckskin sleeve. Reverend Simpkins was not in attendance. Disappointment overwhelmed her as she took her seat along with the rest of the congregation.

  He has your intended all picked out.

  Morality shut her eyes and tried to turn her thoughts in a positive direction. After all, there was no need to panic yet. Reverend Uncle hadn’t said a word to her about marriage. And who knows, perhaps he would choose a man who would be just perfect for her. He might be a young Presbyterian gentleman. Morality liked the Presbyterians; they added a little spice to the stew between the Baptists and the Methodists here in Texas.

  She leaned her head toward Patrick. “Maybe he’s—”

  “Morality! Patrick!” The sound of her uncle’s voice caused her to start and nearly fall from her seat. “Please stand and pass the plates.”

  Embarrassed at her inattention, Morality did as she’d been asked. Reverend Uncle Harrison had reached the section of the service dedicated to the condemnation of penurious donations. “Be generous with the Lord’s gifts,” his voice boomed as Morality handed the collection plate to a gentleman at the end of a row.

  Coins clinked as the faithful contributed and passed the offering on. Keeping a watchful eye on the plate as she had been taught, she sensed a curious tension in the atmosphere that prompted her to straighten her spine and smooth the folds of her gray woolen cloak. The feeling persisted, and she glanced over her shoulder just as the lady to her right handed her the heavy brass plate.

  Clunk. It spilled from her hands onto the ground, and everything happened at once. Coins, few that there were, rolled across the dirt and under women’s skirts. Youngsters squealed and scurried from their seats, rushing to rescue the money. The good reverend roared, “Morality, what devil’s work is this?”

  Morality ignored it all. She was held prisoner by the bluest pair of eyes she had ever seen.

  He was tall—tall with broad shoulders that strained at the elegant cut of his coat. He slowly walked forward, thumbs hooked through the armholes of his green satin vest. The wavy lock of raven hair that fell across his forehead gave rakish relief to a face set in angles, void of all expression.

  Morality swallowed hard as he paused. His gaze swept her cloak-wrapped body then lingered on her hair. Regret engulfed her. Devil color. Hellfire red. The oft-repeated words rang through her mind. Good men do not approve, she’d been taught. Oh, why hadn’t Reverend Uncle allowed her to wear a bonnet! Why hadn’t she been born blond!

  Then, amazingly, a twinkle kindled in those wonderful eyes. A smile softened the stranger’s face, displaying two breath-stealing dimples. He slowly, deliberately, winked at her.

  Morality hardly noticed as the crowd began to buzz.

  “It can’t be him.”

  “It must be him.”

  “I remember that smile, those dimples,” one woman said.

  “I’ve never forgotten those eyes,” another lady allowed.

  “He’s the spittin’ image of his father,” a widow draped in black declared.

  Then a man seated at the front of the congregation pushed to his feet and cried, “Good Lord. It is him.”

  “The Burkett Bastard is back!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  OVER THE YEARS ZACH had imagined his return to Cottonwood Creek in thousands of different ways. He’d dreamed of arriving by steamer a rich and famous man, stepping off the gangway to a chorus of cheers. He’d considered returning as a thief, sneaking into town to burgle the homes and businesses of those who’d treated his mother so meanly. He’d even toyed with the thought of setting black powder charges and blowing the town to perdition. Never once had he thought he’d make his grand appearance at a scripture screecher’s circus.

  Somehow, when he’d spied the broadside advertising tonight’s event, it’d seemed appropriate. A Heaven-sent opportunity, a fellow might say. He broke into a grin as he sauntered up the aisle and took a seat in the front row. The blast of air from the whispers behind him could have blown out the lanterns placed on either side of the pulpit.

  God love it, ain’t it great to be home?

  The circus master, having assured the safety of the collection plate, returned to his spot in the center ring and gifted Zach with a brief, burning glare. “Calm down, folks. Everyone is welcome at the Lord’s door.” Then he gestured for the plate to be passed to the newcomer.

  Zach tossed in a coin, and the reverend smiled at the crowd, showing so many teeth that Zach marveled at the flexibility of the fellow’s cheek muscles.

  “Brothers and sisters in the Lord!” boomed J. P. Harrison. “I have traveled God’s great southland long enough to learn that wherever a few of His children are gathered together, devil doubts and disbelief walk among us.” Thick salt-and- pepper eyebrows lowered ominously when he stared into faces as if searching for signs of the devil.

  His voice dropped. “Doubting Thomases lurk here even now, maybe sitting next to you.” Silence descended on the crowd as individuals shot nervous glances to those seated at their sides.

  “But the gospel truth…” The reverend’s cry rang out. “The gospel truth is that God’s work needs the support of Doubting Thomases, too! In a few moments, I’ll tell you how each and every one of you assembled here tonight can lend a hand to the Lord’s work. Right now, I want you to rejoice with me in God’s Miracles.”

  Reverend Harrison raised his hands above his head, palms toward the audience, fingers spread wide. “These hands you see before you were blessed by God, chosen to perform His great work of healing!” He let the last word soak in for a beat or two.

  “I don’t ask you to believe because I say it is so. I’m not even asking you to believe because the foremost newspapers of our fair country have seen fit to publish God’s wondrous Miracle, worked thr
ough me, His humble servant.”

  With an actor’s sense of timing, he waited, hands uplifted, for the swell of voices from the crowd to subside. Then he reached into the pulpit and pulled out a stack of newsprint. “The Petersburg Republican, The Greenville Mountaineer, The Charleston Daily Courier, all carry word of God’s work on their front pages.” Waving one of the papers, he roared, “I don’t ask you to take my word for God’s glory. Trust your own eyes, your own ears. Open your hearts to His greatness working among us.”

  The reverend pulled a pair of wire spectacles from his vest pocket and hooked them over his ears. Brandishing a news sheet, he read with reverence, “MIRACLE MISS CURED.” Holding up a second paper, he intoned, “MIRACLE WORKED BEFORE HUNDREDS.” Tone rising to full bellow, he cried, “REVEREND HARRISON HEALS BLIND NIECE BEFORE CHARLESTON’S ELITE!” He held the newspapers aloft while murmurs rippled through the assembly.

  Dropping the sheets back onto the pulpit, the reverend spoke in a voice as soft as the night breeze. “But you, my brothers and sisters, you don’t have to believe these fine newspapers. God’s Miracle waits among us here in Cottonwood Creek, Texas, tonight. Open your hearts to proof of God’s greatness, straight from one who personally knows His healing. Brothers and sisters, I give you my niece, Miss Morality Brown.”

  A fiddler opened up a rendition of “Amazing Grace” as the pretty woman who’d scolded the young tree climber that afternoon rose and approached the pulpit. Zach was taken aback. What was a gal who claimed to hate lies doing here of all places? Giving a speech, for God’s sake! Brimming with curiosity, he settled back in his chair, folded his arms, and stretched out his legs. This show might just be worth watching after all.

  Harrison whispered in Morality Brown’s ear, and Zach was close enough to see a brief flash of annoyance cross her face. She removed her cloak, handed it to the boy, Patrick, who stood off to one side, and stepped up to the podium.

  Zach sat up. He blinked his eyes, then looked again. My Lord, the gal could make a cowboy forget his horse.

  The gray dress fit her like paper on the wall, displaying the kind of curves that made a man’s mouth water. Yet, as bountiful as were her woman’s gifts, the young lady who stood before the crowd was the very picture of wide-eyed innocence.

  It was a nearly irresistible combination.

  “Good evening.” She folded her hands demurely and spoke in a strong, sincere voice. “I stand here before you to offer testimony of the miracle the Lord worked through the hands of my uncle, Reverend Harrison.”

  Zach’s mouth lifted in a sardonic grin. Well, who’d have thought it? The gal was a hell of an actress. Lies and miracles, huh? Everything was a scam.

  “I was a young girl when an accident caused me to go blind,” she declared. “For years I lived in a world of darkness, able to do little for myself, dependent upon others for the most simple things. I didn’t even know my loved ones’ faces. It was a sad and lonely existence, despite the efforts of my uncle and his wife, God rest her soul.”

  Keep tugging those heartstrings, sweet one, and their fingers will reach deeper into their pockets.

  Miss Brown glanced at him, and Zach lifted a brow at the nervousness she betrayed in that fleeting moment. She continued. “My uncle’s work sent us from city to city, and in every one, my aunt would seek out the best doctors to examine my eyes. Time and again we were told to accept my condition as permanent. After my aunt’s untimely death, reality forced me to abandon hope of a cure.”

  She was good. Zach casually shifted in his seat to get a look at the folks sitting beside him. Got ’em hooked, honey. Reel ‘em in.

  Almost as if she’d heard him, she said, “Then, eight years ago in Charleston, West Virginia, a miracle happened. The day began as any other. My uncle set up his booth at a fair where he demonstrated the revolutionary new cleaning compound he had invented. I assisted as best I could, working mainly with a cotton cloth he used in the demonstrations. While I wasn’t aware of it at the time, my uncle made it a practice to pray every day for my deliverance from affliction.”

  Pausing, she gifted the crowd with an angelic smile. “That spring morning, the Lord chose to answer his prayers.”

  Miss Brown reached for a cup atop a table behind the pulpit, sipped at its contents, then returned it to its place. Zach nodded. Timing was right on the mark.

  Her voice rang out on the cool night air. “I was sitting at a table, testing the texture of different squares of cloth and dividing them into stacks for my uncle’s use. He visited with the city fathers a short distance away. I heard them conclude their conversation, and my uncle approached our booth.” She shrugged her shoulders in an endearing, embarrassed manner and added, “He later told me he observed the mess I’d made of my task and silently asked the Lord to heal me.”

  Again Zach glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder. Quite a few good folk were perched on the edge of their seats. By the looks of it, this hoax might work as well as any he’d seen during his days on the swindle circuit. He was impressed.

  “The moments that followed are burned into my memory,” Morality Brown declared with conviction. “I heard my uncle shout ‘God bless Morality.’ He touched me, and from his hands, I felt a colossal force. It rocked me, an energy beyond description. Then, I saw a flash of brilliant, overpowering light, and I fainted.”

  She stopped and surveyed her audience, sincerity shining in round, moss-colored eyes. In a quiet voice filled with wonder and ringing with truth, she said, “And when I awoke, my sight had returned. I could see again.”

  A collective shiver swept the spellbound crowd. The young woman took a step back as the reverend bounded before the pulpit, collection plate raised on high in both hands. “Praise the Lord! Praise Him who works in wondrous ways!” Fervent amens rang out.

  “And now it’s your turn to take part in God’s marvelous works,” Harrison declared. “Your hands, like mine, can be instruments of the Lord. I want every one of you to put a hand in his pocket or her purse. I want you to pull out the largest bill, the largest coin you have on you. I want your hands joined with mine in God’s, to support the healing work the Lord himself has empowered me to do.”

  Nodding to the fiddler, he said, “Let’s all sing together while we consecrate ourselves to the Lord’s work through our offerings.” He handed the plate to the boy, who stepped to the end of the first row and started it around a second time. As the musician sawed out the bridge notes, the reverend roared, “Show your love for God’s work! Don’t sit there with empty sinner’s hands. Don’t show yourself a Doubting Thomas before Gods Miracle. Give your best to Jesus!”

  The good people of Cottonwood Creek all but fell over themselves in their rush to add their contributions to the plate. Zach Burkett didn’t bother to check the denomination of the coin he tossed in. He sat with his head cocked to one side, his gaze considering Morality Brown and the spectacle hosted by her uncle.

  This gal was great, her uncle’s show convincing.

  How the hell could he use them?

  Zach pondered the problem, standing with the others as they lifted their voices in “Just As I Am.” Halfway through the first verse, a speculative smile spread across his face like honey on a hot roll. His bass voice boomed, joining the multitude in song.

  Zach Burkett had seen the light.

  J. P. HARRISON sipped French brandy from a Baccarat tumbler and drew on a Havana in the privacy of the well- appointed wagon he used as his personal office. Parked at the revival site, it provided privacy both before and after meetings. On the rare occasions when he was unable to talk his way into a guest bed in one of the local homes, he used the wagon as sleeping quarters. Morality and Patrick slept on the ground.

  Harrison sat at a small table, lantern at his side, and counted his take from the evening’s performance. Sixty- three, sixty-four, sixty-five… He scowled. The provinces. He was getting damn tired of being stuck in backwater towns.

  “Not much longer,” he muttered aro
und his cigar. Soon he’d leave the Cottonwood Creeks of the world behind for fame and fortune in the cities—Galveston, New Orleans, and eventually New York.

  The potential he’d recognized in his niece years ago had finally matured. The girl oozed sensuality. Porcelain skin painted with a dusting of freckles; hair that seemed to sizzle in the sunlight. He’d watched with undiluted interest as her bosom developed, his hopes far surpassed by the result. Why, the girl even walked like a come-hither whore.

  And she didn’t have a clue that she did it. That’s what made Morality Brown so special. Innocence—what man could resist it? Cloak all that sin in a wrapper of salvation, and a fool will tell himself he’s lusting for the Lord.

  The trick had been for dear old uncle to keep Morality pure. A difficult task considering the steady trail of men who came panting after her skirts, not to mention the fact that he desperately wished to tarnish her himself. But money was always more important than sex, so he’d protected his niece’s virtue and used her to line his pockets— something she’d managed exceedingly well.

  His talents as an orator attracted the crowds to his meetings, but he knew it was Morality Brown who got a man to feeling around in his pockets. Pulling out a coin made the sinning seem less wicked.

  Happily, Morality’s magic worked just as well with the wives. The same innocence that attracted the men reassured the women, so both pious wife and profane husband attended the performances night after night. Donating their coins, night after night.

  Harrison realized her worth would diminish with her loss of innocence, but recent developments had shown him he’d milked that purity for about as long as possible. He could delay the moment no longer.

  The time had come for the girl to marry.

  Seventy-five…seventy-six…Yes, it would alter the act, but he had total confidence he could make it a change for the better. Soon they’d head for the cities, where he’d count his take in hundreds rather than in tens. Maybe even the thousands. He rolled a gold eagle across his knuckles and grinned until he heard a knock at his door.