“Not on your life,” he snapped back.
Then Morality moved out from behind her husband’s back, avoided his grasp when he reached for her, and approached Joshua Marston. “What is it you are trying to say?”
Joshua’s face turned red, and as he opened his mouth to speak, the sheriff interrupted. “I am sorry, Miss Brown, uh…Mrs. Burkett, but I bring you troublesome news.” He rubbed his hand across his mouth then said flatly, “Your uncle was killed last night aboard the Miracle. We’re here to arrest your husband for the murder.”
The world stood still. The sky went dark and Morality’s heart stopped beating. Your uncle was killed last night …here to arrest your husband. “No. Dear God, no.” She clutched the sheriff’s lapels. “Say it isn’t true!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Morality weaved on her feet. The light, the joy, the miracle of living in which she had rejoiced scant moments before slowly faded, tunneling to a pinpoint. And then it disappeared.
Zach caught his wife as she collapsed in a faint.
THE CELL measured six feet by six feet and smelled worse than a wet buffalo. Zach sat on a splintered wooden bench, absently counting the water roaches as they darted into the crack where wall met floor. The good folk of Cottonwood Creek sure as hell hadn’t wasted any jail space, but he wasn’t about to complain. He felt damn lucky he’d made it to the lockup alive. Talk of a lynching had taken a serious turn a time or two along the way back to town.
The sheriff brought Zach dinner and the news that his wife would stop by the jail as soon as she finished up business at the funeral home. Zach wasn’t certain if it were the bland beans and stale cornbread muffin that made him lose his appetite, or the fact that Morality was finally on her way.
She thought he might have done it. He’d seen it in her eyes when she recovered from her faint, and he never had the opportunity to deny it. The posse had spirited him away faster than a prairie fire with a tail wind, and he hadn’t had time to give her a proper good-bye—or to get rid of the bloody shirt he’d kicked under the bed before lying down with Morality last night.
The barred window in the sturdy wooden door allowed him only a narrow view of the jail beyond his cell. Hearing her voice, he stood and wiped his hands on his trousers, waiting for Morality to move into his range of sight. When she did, he almost groaned aloud. She wore one of her old black dresses, and her purple and blue bruises added the only touch of color to her pasty complexion.
Poor angel. His arms ached to comfort her. If she’d allow it, that is.
He grasped the iron bars between them and waited for her to meet his gaze. She did, briefly, and he saw such misery of spirit that it took his breath away. He could also see an underlying strength that reassured him. “Hello, Morality.”
She didn’t reply. Instead, she turned toward the sheriff and said, “May we have a bit of privacy?”
The lawman shifted his tobacco chaw from one cheek to the other. “I reckon it won’t hurt nothin’. I’ll be right outside, though, if you need me.”
Zach waited until he heard the sheriff’s footsteps thump their way outside. Intensifying his gaze, he silently demanded that Morality look at him. When she did, he said, “I didn’t do it, angel.”
Her mouth lifted in a brief, sad smile. “Oh, Zach, have you ever heard the story about the boy who cried wolf?”
“I didn’t kill the man.”
“They have witnesses. You met with my uncle aboard the Miracle, and you left covered in blood. Patrick told me he saw you. And I found the shirt.”
Zach’s hands clenched. “I’m not saying I didn’t batter him a bit, but he was alive and breathing when I left. He asked for what he got from me when he laid that cane to you.”
“So it was revenge, hmm? We’re back to that again? ‘Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ ” She shook her head. “You have brought all of your troubles on yourself, Zach Burkett.”
He felt cold inside, even as heated words flew from his tongue. “Dammit, Morality, the man beat you black and blue. What kind of a man—what kind of a husband—would I be if I let him get away with that?”
“One who spent his time at home rather than a jail-house,” she snapped.
Zach drew a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. “Look, the thing we must keep in mind, here, is that somebody killed your uncle. That somebody wasn’t me, so that means the real killer is still out there. Any ideas about who it might be? If everyone in town thinks like you do, I’m liable to get my neck stretched.”
Morality tore her gaze from his, turning her head away. “I heard you threaten to kill him, Zach. So did Dr. Trilby, Mrs. Peabody, and Patrick. You’ve previously admitted to taking a life.”
“Two people, remember? The men who shot and killed my mother.” Frustration pumped through his veins. Her and her so-called love—damn her for not believing in him. “You’re right. I did want to kill Harrison for what he did to you. I can’t and won’t deny that. But do you really think I’d be stupid enough to do it like this?” Lowering his voice, he added, “Hell, Morality, you know of my plan for the Marstons. That in itself ought to prove I wouldn’t do in your uncle in a way that offered my neck to a noose.”
She shook her head, holding her mouth slightly open in wonder. “You use your other crimes as defense? You amaze me, Burkett.”
“Yeah, well, you surprise me, too.” He gave the iron bars an ineffective shake. “You claimed to love me. Is this how you show it? You won’t even give me the benefit of the doubt?”
She wrapped her arms around herself and appeared to blanch even whiter. “I’m trying. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. But under the circumstances, it’s difficult. I’m not certain where my duty lies.”
Her teeth tugged at her lower lip, then she repeated softly, “Lies. That’s the problem with them. I’ve told Patrick time and again. This should teach him a valuable lesson.”
She closed her eyes and straightened her shoulders. “What about an attorney? Ginnie and Robert Drake have suggested a Mr. Warren.”
Bitterness soured his mouth. Duty. That four-letter word sounded worse than any that fell from his tongue. Dropping his hands away from the bars, he said without inflection, “No, I’ve sent for Jess. He’s the crookedest lawyer I know, so I figure he can do the best job.”
She nodded. “I’ll be going, then. There’s much to do before the service tomorrow.”
“Is Mrs. Peabody or someone staying with you? I don’t like the idea of your being at the cabin alone.”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “I won’t be at the cabin. I’m staying with Patrick at the Marstons’.”
Zach took it like a blow. His wife had moved her blanket to the enemy’s camp. For a long minute he remained silent, but then his mouth lifted in a mocking smile. “Well,” he drawled. “I can sleep relieved tonight.”
He turned his back on her before she could do it to him. Again.
THE NIGHT looked so peaceful from the window of her room in Joshua Marston’s mansion. Peaceful and deadly. Morality slipped the latch and pushed open the windows, lifting her face to catch the sweet-scented night breeze.
How quickly life had changed. Two nights ago she and Zach were loving on a bed of wildflowers. Now, he slept in jail, she would sleep at his adversary’s home, and Reverend Uncle…
Morality sighed. Reverend Uncle slept forever in a casket made of oak.
She turned at the sound of a knock at her door. “Yes?”
“It’s me, Morality,” Patrick called. “Can I come in?”
“Please do.” She was lonely and would welcome the company.
The door swung open and Morality saw immediately that he didn’t come alone. “Patrick Callahan, what have you brought?” she asked, smiling at the picture he made with a white ball of fur cradled in his arms.
“A kitten. The mama is a mouser over at the livery, and she had these babie
s while you were gone. I thought maybe you’d…sometimes it helps me to…here.” He held the kitten out to Morality.
Smiling, she brought the downy fur up to her cheek. “So soft. And warm. I can feel her tiny heart beating away.” She lifted a tear-filled gaze to Patrick. “You were right, she will help. Thank you.”
He shrugged his shoulders and scuffed the toe of one boot against the floor. Morality gave him a hug then sank a bit stiffly to the floor. Fishing a small ball of yarn from his pocket, Patrick joined her, and they played with the kitten for some time, laughing at its antics. Then, suddenly, the boy looked up and asked, “Did you go see Mr. Zach?”
He’d caught her off guard, and her heart clutched painfully. Keeping her gaze focused on the kitten, who swatted at the yarn she dangled from her fingertips, Morality nodded.
“Come on, Morality. What did he say?”
“He claims he is innocent.” She tossed the entire string to the cat. “At least, he says he didn’t do it.”
Patrick dug around in his pocket and pulled out a ball. He rolled it from hand to hand, and she tangibly felt his gaze. “What do you think?”
She stroked the kitten, smiling sadly as she tried to frame her answer. “I’m so mixed up inside. Part of me believes him, believes in him.” Looking up, she added in a broken tone, “Another part of me feels like I betrayed Reverend Uncle by even visiting Zach.”
“Aw, Morality.” Patrick awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Don’t think like that. I know you’re caught smack-dab in the middle here, but let’s face it, your uncle is dead. I don’t rightly see how you can betray a man who’s not around to know it.”
A frown of concern wrinkled the boy’s brow. “But what about Mr. Zach? If there’s a chance he’s telling the truth…well, I wouldn’t like Mr. Zach feeling betrayed. Dad gum. Morality, it’s my telling on him that’s landed him in jail.” The boy’s shoulders slumped. “If I’d kept my mouth shut, they wouldn’t have arrested him.”
“You told the truth about what you saw, Patrick, as well you should have. I’ll not listen to any laments along those lines, do you hear? Zach brought his troubles on himself by going to the riverboat in the first place.”
“I don’t know. I think maybe Mr. Zach did what he had to do. I don’t care what you say, the reverend was wrong to hit you like he did. My pa used to take us to the woodshed on a right regular basis, but he never hurt us bad like that. We might have had trouble sittin’ down for a few days, but he never near to blinded us.”
Tears stung Morality’s eyes. “How can violence of any sort ever be the proper course of action, be it from Reverend Uncle’s cane or Zach Burkett’s gun?”
“You’re too gentle for frontier living, Morality. Maybe you should live in the East. I hear it’s more civilized back there.” Patrick rolled his ball toward the kitten, who jumped and pawed at the toy. “Fightin’ is fact in this part of the world. I know.”
Morality nodded. What Patrick said was true. And maybe that was one of the reasons she tended to believe Zach. He never hesitated to admit to killing those men who had murdered his mother. He believed in eye-for-an-eye justice. Reverend Uncle had beaten her brutally; it was easy to see why Zach would choose to repay in kind. But her uncle had not taken her life, so why would her husband have taken his?
“It’s all so muddled,” she said with a sigh, wincing when an ill-considered movement hurt her rib.
Patrick eyed her closely. “I think you really do believe he’s innocent, don’t you, Morality?”
Slowly, she nodded her head. “Yes, in my heart of hearts, I do. And trusting him scares me half to death. He could be lying again. He’s such an accomplished liar. You wouldn’t believe some of the lies he’s told, Patrick.”
“Morality, I wasn’t sure I should tell you this, but I think under the circumstances you oughta know. While you were gone, I did some asking around. I found out Mr. Zach wasn’t lying about something when you thought he was.”
Morality plucked the kitten’s sharp claws from her skirt and wished she could deal as easily with the dread his words had triggered. “What?”
“Mr. Zach told the truth about the morning-glory seeds. Reverend Harrison had me move some things from his wagon to the Miracle, and I found some morning-glory seeds steeping in water. Later I saw him add the liquid to the elixir bottles. I asked Doc Trilby, and he said the seeds act sort of like peyote.”
Morality shut her eyes. Reverend Uncle had drugged his congregation.
Patrick continued. “I’m pretty sure I got hold of some that day right after we came to Cottonwood Creek. Remember when I got so sick? I guess folks gettin’ a smaller dose of the stuff might feel better for a while.”
“Until the effects wore off.” Despair filled Morality’s soul. “How could Reverend Uncle have tricked all of those poor people!”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe some of the miracles were real. After all, we know for a fact that your miracle was genuine. Maybe he used the morning-glory miracles to help encourage the real ones. All that faith pouring out of folks may have upped the number. You’re always talking about faith moving mountains, Morality. That could be what we’re talking about here.”
Morality’s mind was in a whirl. Reverend Uncle had lied. Zach had told the truth. Had the world gone mad? “When I caught Zach in the middle of a monstrous lie, I lost all faith in him. Then, upon reflection, I came to the conclusion that I had been sent to Zach. I believed my purpose on earth was to open his eyes to the healing power of love.” She lifted the kitten into her lap and scratched behind its ears. “What it conceit? Did I hear the Lord when He wasn’t speaking? Or did I fall in love with a fallen angel and cast about for ways to make the unacceptable permissible?”
“Confound it, Morality, you’re thinking too hard for me to follow. I don’t understand half of what you’re saying, but it looks to me like you’re asking questions that don’t have answers. At least until we find out if Mr. Zach did the killing or not.”
She set down the kitten and rose carefully to her feet. She crossed the room to the window where she stared out into the night. “I’m being a fool. All of the evidence points to Zach. He’s lied to me and everyone else in this town time and time again. He’s likely lying now.”
“But Morality—”
“I’m tired, Patrick. My ribs hurt. I think I’ll go to bed now. Thank you for bringing the kitten. Perhaps in the morning we can play with her some more.”
Patrick snorted as he gathered up the kitten to leave. Morality realized he wanted to argue with her, but he knew her well enough to be sensitive to her moods. That wouldn’t, however, stop him from picking up the discussion tomorrow.
“I hope you sleep tonight,” he said, pausing at the doorway.
She looked over her shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Good night, Patrick.”
“ ‘Night.” He hesitated, worry knitting his brow. “Morality, there’s something I think we should think about.”
“Yes?”
“If Mr. Zach didn’t shoot Reverend Harrison, who did?”
“Zach asked the same question.” She shrugged her shoulders and sighed heavily. “It’s hard to imagine. Reverend Uncle didn’t have a single enemy.”
ACCORDING TO the gossips, the graveside service for Reverend J. P. Harrison, founder and spiritual leader of the Church of the Word’s Healing Faith, drew almost as many mourners as his revivals had attracted faithful. A fitful spring breeze redolent with the scent of fresh-turned earth blew over the crowd, sending bonnet-ties flapping and hymnal pages fluttering.
Rosalee Carstairs shared a look with her husband when they overheard one gentleman say, “With a crowd like this, I wouldn’t be surprised if Harrison finagled a way to come back long enough to send the collection plate around one last time.” At least one resident of this bustling Texas riverport had seen past Harris’s religious patter to his avarice.
At the hearse’s squeaky-wheeled approach, the gathering quieted. Pallbearers took posi
tion and the crowd parted like Moses’s Red Sea for the procession of the casket and family members following behind. Rosalee’s heart thumped. She felt light-headed as she grabbed for her husband’s hand and clasped it tightly.
“Lilah!” she breathed.
A hat and black veil covered her daughter’s face, obscuring her features, and it was all Rosalee could do not to reach out and pull it off as she passed by. At least she could see her daughter’s hair—the same beautiful, fiery red that she remembered.
An elderly woman wrapped a comforting arm around the stricken young woman and scowled at anyone who attempted to intrude upon her grief. A young boy walked behind them, shuffling his feet while he tugged at his necktie, and looking more worried than mournful.
Stephen leaned toward his wife. “The boy must be Patrick Callahan.” The Carstairs, along with almost everyone in town, had heard the entire story of how the preacher had hurt Morality, and how young Callahan had discovered the preacher’s body, then offered evidence that led to the arrest of Mrs. Burkett’s husband.
Rosalee nodded and studied the youngster, noting his protective attitude toward Lilah. She was glad her daughter had a friend to lean on during this trying time. Of course, a mother would be better. Much better. Tears flooded her eyes, and the selfish part of her wished she’d not won the argument she’d had with Stephen the day before. He had wanted to come forward with his information as soon as they’d learned of the killing, but Rosalee wouldn’t hear of it.
In the privacy of their well-appointed suite at the Creekside Inn, she had folded her arms, lifted her chin, and said, “I have firsthand experience with small-town Texas justice. I had the motive to murder Harris. The argument could be made that your feelings for me gave you motive. The authorities are bound to question you about your meeting with the ‘reverend,’ and it doesn’t stretch the imagination to think they might view you as a suspect in his death.”
A peculiar look had crossed her husband’s face at that point, and she’d wondered what he was thinking as she’d crossed the room and adopted her battle stance—directly in front of him, close enough for him to breathe her spicy perfume and feel her body’s heat.
The Scoundrel's Bride Page 29
