The Scoundrel's Bride

by Geralyn Dawson

  “Yeah, I spoke with Ginnie’s father a little bit ago. He went on and on about Will being his grandson and the Marston heritage. I’d have liked to tell him to heave it into the bayou, but he is Ginnie’s father. He said they’d come to the christening as long as—”

  “The Burkett Bastard wasn’t around.”

  The silence said it all. Zach leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. The Marston heritage. Robert had inadvertently used the words he’d needed to hear.

  His lips tilted in a generous smile. “Don’t you worry yourself for a minute over it, Robert. I’ll find somewhere else to spend my Saturday night.”

  Lifting his pen, he signed over thirty-three shares of Texas Southern stock to Master William Drake. He carefully counted the coins totaling one hundred sixty-five dollars and placed them into his strongbox.

  Robert Drake’s expression reflected profound relief when Zach handed him both the empty money pouch and the certificates. As he shook his cousin’s husband’s hand, Zach noted absently that the sick sensation in his gut had completely disappeared.

  It returned in a flash less than an hour later when Morality burst into his office, her breath coming in gasps, her eyes wild. “Zach, I need your help,” she cried.

  “Patrick is missing.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MORALITY FOUGHT TO KEEP the panic from her voice as she repeated, “Patrick is missing. He’s hurt—he’s bleeding—and I can’t find him anywhere. You must help me, Zach. You must!”

  He moved away from his desk and took her by the shoulders. “Whoa, there, angel. Slow down and take a deep breath. I need you to tell me exactly what’s going on.”

  She was shaking her head before he finished speaking. “There’s no time! We have to find him right away.”

  “Well, I don’t know where to look until you tell me, now do I?” He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “Talk to me, Morality.”

  She nodded, wetting her lips. “A boy—one of those hooligans—asked for me at the Marstons’. He said Patrick had been in a fight with three other boys.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “One of them pulled a knife and cut Patrick. Oh, Zach, he said there was blood all over Patrick’s shirt!”

  Zach spat an ugly profanity.

  Fear spiraled inside her with the telling of the story and the words tumbled from her mouth. “They all ran off, but this boy got scared and returned to help. Patrick was gone. He came for me and I checked the livery, but it’s all locked up. I thought for sure he’d be there.” She pulled on his hand, tugging him toward the door, but he held his ground. “Please, Zach,” she begged, “help me find him!”

  “I will, I promise. First, I want you to tell me why you thought he’d be at the livery?”

  “Because of the animals. He always goes to animals when he’s sad or sick, and this morning he wanted to go see your puppies. I wouldn’t let him and we argued. That’s why he didn’t come to me when he was hurt. He’s angry at me! I think he may have gone to your place and it would be faster on a horse. You have a horse, don’t you? Will you take me? I didn’t want to ask you, of all people, for help, but it is your barn and your puppies. Besides, if he’s hurt bad, I’ll need help moving him.” Her voice cracked as she added, “He’s growing so big.”

  Zach pressed a kiss to her brow. “It’ll be all right, angel. Don’t you fret.” He grabbed his coat from the rack and shrugged into it, saying, “Look, Morality, if Patrick were hurt bad he couldn’t go anywhere, much less out to my cabin. This boy said he was bleeding. Did you check for a trail?”

  She nodded. “There’s blood where he fell, but I couldn’t find any leading away.”

  “Then he’s most likely all right. Show me the spot, angel. I don’t doubt my eyes have a bit more training at searching out items that are difficult to see.”

  A front had blown in within the past hour and traffic on Main had thinned to but a few hardy souls. The wind blew a raw spit from the north, whipping winter-dead leaves and debris from the streets and piling them in drifts against anything that dared to stand in its way. Morality tucked her hands in the pockets of her woolen cloak, shivering from both cold and despair, as she led Zach to the scene of the fight.

  He flipped up the collar on his fleece-lined coat and ducked his head to study the ground. Morality caught her lip between her teeth when he knelt on one knee and stubbed a finger into a patch of dark, wet dirt, tested its stickiness, then brought it to his nose and sniffed.

  “Hasn’t been too long, Morality. He can’t have gone far.” Standing, Zach studied the ground around him, then suddenly started walking. Morality hurried to keep up.

  “It’s gotten so cold,” she murmured worriedly. “He’ll freeze out here.”

  Zach kept his head down as he walked. “He’ll be all right. He’s probably holed up somewhere where it’s warm.”

  Twice he stopped, searching the ground then lifting his gaze to the surroundings. The third time he stopped behind the mercantile, next to a buckboard loaded with flour sacks and sugar barrels. “Well,” he said, “what do we have here?”

  “Patrick!” Morality cried.

  Lying huddled in the wagon’s bed, Patrick Callahan lifted pain-glazed eyes toward Morality and mumbled, “I messed up, Morality.”

  Zach bounded up beside him. “Where are you hurt, son?

  “My hand.” He held it cradled to his chest.

  Morality’s mouth went dry at the sight of the red stain on the boy’s light blue shirt.

  “Let’s give it a look, all right?” Gently, Zach lowered Patrick’s arm.

  Morality gasped at the sight of the angry gash across Patrick’s left palm. The wound oozed blood, and she could see something yellow and rippled beneath the layer of skin. She closed her eyes as nausea rolled in her stomach.

  Zach gave a long, low whistle. “Dammit, boy, don’t you know better than to try and catch the business end of a knife?”

  “Please don’t curse in front of the child,” she responded automatically with little fire. She brushed the hair away from Patrick’s forehead and asked in a gentle voice, “Is your hand all that’s hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  Zach looked at her. “It needs to be sewn. The doc’s office is in the next street over.” Jumping to the ground, he slipped his hands beneath the boy and lifted, saying, “Hang on, now, squirt. I’ll try not to jostle you too bad.”

  Zach’s long strides ate up the ground, and Morality had to race to keep up with him. Within minutes, he carried Patrick into the doctor’s office, the cold wind and Morality blowing in behind him.

  A pair of rocking chairs were pulled next to a glowing coal stove. An older gentleman with bushy gray brows and pale green eyes sat in one, sipping a cup of steaming liquid. Eulalie Peabody sat in the second chair. She held a crystal tumbler half filled with an amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey.

  Doc Trilby set down his cup and eased to his feet. “Hello, Burkett. Figured I’d see you in my office eventually.” He gestured toward a back room and the examination table visible through an open door. Morality followed the doctor and Zach, who gently laid his burden on the table.

  Trilby’s mouth thinned as he gave Patrick a quick, but thorough examination. Studying the boy’s hand, he asked, “You the one who hurt this boy, Burkett?”

  Morality opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Peabody beat her to it. “Don’t be ridiculous, Seth. Zach Burkett wouldn’t injure this child.”

  The doctor scowled, whether at the wound or the words, Morality couldn’t tell. Patrick hovered on the edge of awareness, and Doc Trilby was able to get answers to a few diagnostic questions. He opened the door of a glass-paned chest and withdrew a bottle and a spool of heavy thread. When he opened a black leather case and removed a needle, Morality groaned softly.

  “Eulalie,” the doctor said, “would you please take Miss Brown into the other room and offer her a drink?”

  “Oh, no. Thank you. I don’t drink whiskey.”

  “T
ea, I think he means.” The widow smiled kindly. She put her hands on Morality’s shoulders and pushed her toward the door. “Come along, dear.”

  Morality turned, then hesitated, looking back at Zach. “What about…?”

  His gaze on the doctor, Zach dipped his head toward Patrick. “You gonna need some help?”

  “It’s a deep slash.”

  Zach gave Morality’s hand a squeeze. “Go on with Mrs. Peabody, angel. He’ll be fine. I’ll help.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  Zach grinned as Eulalie ushered her from the examination room. She huddled next to the stove for warmth, but refused the tea the Widow Peabody offered. Her stomach hurt and her nerves were stretched tight as a pea vine through a picket fence. When she heard Patrick’s scream, she took a long look at the whiskey in the widow’s glass.

  Abruptly, she pushed from her chair and walked to the window. “It looks like snow,” she said loudly, hoping to drown out any more noise from the back room.

  Eulalie Peabody must have sensed her unease, because she launched into a long-winded story about the Blizzard of ‘44. She rattled on until Zach emerged from the examining room.

  At the sight of his reassuring grin, relief coursed through Morality, warming her like hot spiced cider. Doc Trilby followed, wiping his hands on a cloth. “He’ll be fine, Miss Brown. Bring him back week after next, and I’ll remove the sutures. He’ll be sore for a bit, and I don’t want him getting that hand wet.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Morality looked anxiously toward the examination room. “What is keeping him?”

  “Well, he’s passed—” A sharp look from the widow cut off his sentence. “That is, I…um…gave him a palliative.

  Unfamiliar with the word, she looked to Zach for assistance. “He’s drunk, Morality,” he said. “Doc gave him whiskey to deaden the pain.”

  “Oh. Well.” She bit her lower lip nervously, then shrugged. “All right. I’m afraid I have no experience in matters like this. When will Patrick be able to go home?”

  Dr. Trilby sipped his tea then grimaced.

  “Louise Marston is putting y’all up, isn’t she?”

  Morality nodded and replied, “Reverend Uncle brought the Church of the Word to town on her invitation.”

  “That’s good. Why don’t you take him on over there? That hand is going to throb when he wakes up, and he’ll be more comfortable over at Joshua’s. Besides, I have a patient in labor I need to see to and I might not be back today.”

  Morality looked at Zach. “The Marston home is four blocks away. I can’t carry him. Would you mind?”

  He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “You’ll need to take the boy, Doctor. I don’t think I should-”

  “Nonsense,” Eulalie said, sniffing huffily. “Doc has somewhere to go, and you won’t rest yourself until you’re certain that Patrick is all tucked in safe and sound. Leave the Marstons to me, Zachary.” She handed him a blanket. “My buggy is around back. Wrap him well, now. It’s cold enough to freeze ducks to a pond out there.”

  Zach shook his head and spoke in a voice as cold as the norther’s wind. “No, Mrs. Peabody, that is not a good idea.”

  She ignored him, reaching for her coat on the rack. “I’ll do the driving because you’ll need to hold him. Miss Morality and I are too delicate.”

  A slight softening around his eyes accompanied his words. “Ma’am, I’ve the notion you’re about as delicate as an anvil, and I am not going to that house.”

  “Very well, Zachary.” She sniffed with disdain. “I wouldn’t have taken you for one who frightens easily. You’ve come to town and declared war on that family; I’d think you’d welcome a chance to spy on the enemy camp.”

  Morality could tell Zach fought the smile that lifted the corners of his mouth. “You know, Mrs. Peabody, I think I’ll offer you a job. Are you always this good at manipulating people?”

  “Yes, I do believe I am.”

  EULALIE PEABODY raced her buggy like a Roman chariot. She tore through Cottonwood Creek’s deserted streets, slapping Zach’s hand away when he attempted to take the reins. When she finally pulled to a halt in front of the Marston mansion, Zach was grateful to be alive.

  The thought slowly faded as he gazed toward the Marston house. Red brick formed the walls of the three-story mansion built in Greek Revival style. Stucco and white paint gave the towering columns a smooth, pristine finish, while the lamplight flickering through tall arched windows cast an illusion of hospitality and warmth. God, how many times had he hidden on this street staring into those very windows?

  The Widow Peabody and Morality climbed from the buggy, but Zach remained in his seat, seized by a sense of destiny and by remembered pain of a nightmare that never went away.

  A burst of red on a bright white blouse. His mother’s pain-glazed eyes. Whispered words. Promises made and not yet kept. “Soon, Mama,” Zach murmured softly, his voice cold and hard as hailstones. “It won’t be long now.”

  He’d come to Cottonwood Creek to destroy Joshua Marston, the entire Marston family, and the entire Marston town. His scheme was proceeding nicely.

  Maybe it was time to properly greet his father.

  Careful not to jostle Patrick, he climbed out of the buggy and followed the widow, who marched up the porch steps and yanked on the bell rope. Zach was halfway up the redbrick walk when the massive oak door swung open.

  Joshua Marston wore dark gray trousers, a green vest over a white shirt, and a perplexed expression. “Why, Eulalie, what are you doing out in weather like this? Hurry on inside. Miss Brown, I thought you were up in your—” He broke off abruptly as he noticed Zach’s deliberate stride toward his front door. “Burkett!”

  Zach kept coming, falling on old talents to school his expression to an unreadable mask. Deliberately, he climbed the steps, his boots scuffing on the sand spread over slippery brick. Inches away from Joshua Marston, who stood slack-jawed and eyes round with shock, Zach stopped.

  For the first time in his entire life, Zach spoke directly to his father. “Hello, Daddy.” He didn’t wait for an invitation as he pushed his way inside saying, “Where’s the boy’s room?”

  Identical pairs of blue eyes locked gazes, one stunned, the other razor-sharp. Marston’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, and his complexion developed a sickly pallor. “What has happened? Why are you here? Is something wrong with Patrick?”

  Zach’s lip curled in an ugly smile, and his drawl became pronounced. “Don’t tell me you’re concerned about a young boy’s health? Well, fancy that.”

  With puppet-like movements, Joshua turned and shut the door. For a long moment, the tick of a grandfather clock was the loudest sound in the marble-floored entry hall as Mrs. Peabody and Morality seemed to hold their breaths in anticipation of the explosion slowly building in Marston’s eyes.

  The blast never came, squelched instead by a horrified gasp from the staircase.

  Zach tore his gaze from his father and looked up. Dressed in plum brocade and black satin, Louise Marston stood poised at the top of the steps, her hand pressed against her heart. Zach felt a brief and surprising flare of sympathy.

  Eulalie pushed ahead, saying, “Louise, don’t just stand there. Show Zachary where to lay young Patrick. Doc Trilby says to keep him comfortable and let him sleep.” She paraded up the stairs, her ample skirts swaying. Without another word to his father, Zach shifted Patrick’s weight to gain a more comfortable hold and followed.

  “What is going on?” Joshua bellowed after him.

  Morality answered, giving a swift, succinct explanation. She had started up the stairs when her uncle’s voice called out to her to stop.

  Zach’s lips slid into a grin. Good Lord, Harrison and Marston living in the same house. Pity the poor hired help.

  Louise Marston didn’t speak as she led them up a second flight of stairs to the third floor. The boy in his arms let out a groan as Zach carried him down a long hall toward the guest room
where he’d been sleeping. “It’s all right, son,” he said, waiting as Louise turned down the bedclothes and Eulalie fluffed the feather pillow. “You’ll be snug as a bug in a minute, and the worst part’s done. All that’s left is the healing.”

  “Healing is not entirely painless, is it, Mr. Burkett?” Louise asked, her stare troubled and watery.

  He shrugged. “I reckon it depends on the type of person—and the type of pain.” He used a second pillow to elevate Patrick’s injured hand as Doc Trilby had instructed, then pulled the covers up over the boy’s shoulders and tucked him in. Zach felt the touch of Louise Marstons troubled gaze the entire time.

  As he turned to leave the room, she said, “May I ask you a question?”

  “It’s your house, Mrs. Marston. I reckon you can ask anything you want.”

  She looked at the widow and said, “Eulalie, would you find Dora and send her up here to light the fire? It’s too cold for a sick child in this room.”

  Eulalie Peabody gave her a knowing look. “Like the boy says, it’s your house.” On her way out, she touched Zach’s arm and said, “Louise is a good woman. Mind your manners, now.”

  Zach never intended to pick a fight with Mrs. Marston. After all, Sarah Burkett hadn’t been the only woman Joshua betrayed. Reaching down to push a lock of Patrick’s hair away from his eyes, he said, “I wouldn’t have come here but for the boy. You needn’t worry about my causing trouble in your home.”

  “No, I wasn’t worried about that. Actually, I have been hoping for the opportunity to speak with you. There are a few things I think you have the right to know.”

  Zach arched a brow.

  “It’s about your father—”

  “Louise!” Joshua Marston walked through the doorway, his face flushed with anger. “I forbid you to speak with this…this—”

  Stepping away from Patrick’s bed, Zach folded his arms with studied nonchalance. “‘Bastard’ is the word most often used.”

  Marston took his wife’s elbow and propelled her toward the hall. “Go downstairs and see to Eulalie. It’s not like you to ignore a guest.”