The Scoundrel's Bride

by Geralyn Dawson

  Rosalee and Stephen shared a look, then Rosalee stepped forward and took her hand, saying, “But if we can survive the storm, we get to find the rainbow, don’t we?”

  Inviting her visitors inside, Morality offered them seats and a cup of coffee. “It’s safe to drink, I promise,” she said with a self-deprecating smile as she joined her guests at the table. “Zach made it before he left.”

  “Zach isn’t here?” Rosalee asked, a frown appearing on her face.

  Morality gave the older woman a curious look. “Did you want to speak with him? If that’s why you came, I’m sorry to disappoint you. He took Patrick into town first thing. It seems the boy needs a little extra persuasion to attend school.”

  It was an understatement, to say the least. Upon learning that the boy had never made his way into a classroom, Zach immediately set about correcting the situation, much to Patrick’s dismay. By all appearances, Zach intended to take his new role as surrogate father seriously, and he’d accompanied the youngster to town just to make certain he ended up at the schoolhouse. “He plans to stop by his office for a while this morning. You can probably catch him there now.”

  “We came to speak to you, Morality,” Stephen assured her. “It’s just that…well, considering what we have to say, we hoped your husband would be here in case, uh…” He took a sip of his coffee. “This is good.”

  Morality was beginning to feel a bit concerned. After a moment, she spoke simply to fill the nervous silence. “Be glad Zach made it. My cooking has improved, but coffee and cornbread are still two of my problem items. Zach’s trying to teach me, but in all honesty, he’s not much better than I am. I didn’t have a mother to teach me, you see.”

  “Oh, my.” Rosalee groaned and turned away.

  Morality couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. “What is it, Rosalee?”

  The older woman took a deep breath, looked at her husband, then said, “I want to tell you why we are here.”

  “All right.” She waited as Rosalee set down her coffee cup, then stood and began to wander around the room.

  “I don’t know quite where to start,” she said, trailing a finger across Sarah Burkett’s music box.

  Morality waited, her gaze fixed on her friend.

  Stephen spoke to his wife. “Maybe it’d be easier to explain about the trial, Rosie. If you tell her first about that, why you waited to speak, then the other might come easier.”

  Rosalee nodded, and Morality set down her own coffee cup. “Please, you’re frightening me.”

  The woman turned and said in a pleading tone, “Oh, I don’t want to do that. I’m worried enough for both of us, and the last thing I want is to make this any more difficult for you than it has to be.”

  “Make what more difficult?” Morality s voice rose as she spoke.

  Stephen stood and went to his wife. Tucking her hand around his arm, he said, “When I was aboard the Miracle that night, I learned more than what I testified to in court. I have some things to tell you about your uncle, Morality, and they are not pleasant.”

  Her stomach sank as she realized she wasn’t totally surprised by his remark. She stared down into her coffee cup. “I don’t think I want to hear this.”

  Stephen Carstairs said, “Your uncle was blackmailing the Marston family. That is how he came to own a riverboat.” After giving Rosalee’s hand a squeeze, he crossed the room to Morality. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “That night when I returned to the Miracle, Harrison was well into a bottle of whiskey. He waved this around, ranting and raving about paying Zach Burkett back. I took it with me when I left.” Stephen handed the paper to Morality.

  She didn’t want to read it. “At the trial, the sheriff said the riverboat had been searched,” she said, staring at the sheet in her hand. “They didn’t take the money in Reverend Uncle’s desk.”

  “They likely searched for this,” Stephen observed. “Knowing the contents I can see where a number of people would consider this particular missive valuable.”

  Morality opened the tri-folded page. The letter was written in a lady’s hand and began, “My dearest Zachary.” Fear clutched her stomach. A letter to Zach from a woman? What did this mean? Immediately, her gaze dropped to the end of the page, and she breathed a sigh of relief to read the words, “Your loving mother, Sarah.”

  “Zach was looking for a diary,” she mused aloud. “Louise had it. She promised to give it to him.”

  “From what I could make of Harrison’s ravings, she gave it to her ‘confessor’ for safekeeping. He used it to extort the riverboat from them. This letter was inside the diary, and he kept it, thinking to use it later.”

  “But why…” Her sentence trailed off as she began to read the letter. A housemaid in Virginia…fell in love…surrendered to passion…

  “Oh, dear heaven.”

  Promised support for the child…sent to Texas away from prying eyes…political career.

  Morality shut her eyes. She didn’t have to read the name to know the truth.

  Zach Burkett was not Joshua Marston’s bastard son.

  His father was none other than the congressman himself. She opened her eyes and read the name on the page. Edwin James Marston. The well-connected Virginia politician, who at the time was widely expected to be a future candidate for President of the United States.

  They’d sent the pregnant and dependent Sarah Burkett to E.J.’s brother in Texas, with the promise of support and the chance for a new life. What hadn’t been planned was for the townspeople of Cottonwood Creek to learn that Sarah had Marston financial support. Such knowledge led to the erroneous assumption that she and Joshua were lovers. But to protect the reputation of the politician, the rumors were not denied.

  “Poor Louise,” Morality murmured, as one of the ramifications of the act occurred to her. Joshua’s wife had borne the stigma of wronged wife all these years and never once defended her husband or herself.

  Until she’d made the mistake of telling Reverend Uncle.

  Morality’s thoughts were in turmoil and she ached with a hurt that simply wouldn’t go away. How could she have been so wrong about her uncle? How would Zach react to this news?

  She lifted her head and fired her next question at her visitors. “Why did you wait until now to say anything about this? If my uncle was blackmailing the Marstons, that was a motive for murder! Why didn’t you speak about this at the trial?”

  Rosalee glanced at her husband, then said, “I guess it is my turn to speak. Stephen wanted to go to the sheriff as soon as he heard about the murder and about your husband’s arrest. I wouldn’t let him. I made him promise to wait.”

  Morality thought of the pain they’d needlessly suffered. Rosalee had pretended to be her friend. “Why?”

  “That’s what I’ve come here today to tell you.” She walked back to the table and resumed her seat. “I couldn’t allow him to say anything because he might have become a suspect himself. Stephen had the opportunity to kill your uncle, and because of his love for me, he also had the motive.”

  Morality closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t understand. Did Reverend Harrison hurt you in some way?

  “Oh, yes.” Rosalee’s cup rattled against the saucer.

  A tendril of unease crawled up Morality’s spine. What other evil had her uncle done?

  “Yes, Morality. Your uncle caused me great pain. What he did to me was as cruel a thing as can be done a woman.” Rosalee paused and took a sip of her coffee. “You see, it happened a long time ago. My wedding to Stephen was actually my second marriage. My first husband had been killed in the Mexican Invasion of forty-two. At least, that’s what I was told at the time. A few years later, after the Mexican War, I learned that he hadn’t been killed, but taken prisoner and held in a prison in Mexico.”

  Morality wrapped her arms around her middle, and began to rock back and forth as Rosalee continued. “In an attempt to learn more about my husband’s fate and hoping to ob
tain his release, I left my daughter with my sister and traveled to Vera Cruz. It took time to arrange, much longer than I had anticipated, but I eventually met with prison officials and learned that my husband had died from a fever the previous year.”

  “That must have been difficult for you.” Morality forced the words past the lump in her throat.

  “Not as difficult as what yet lay before me.”

  She couldn’t take anymore. She couldn’t stand the wait. “What did my uncle do?” she demanded. “How did he hurt you?”

  Rosalee licked her lips, gave Stephen a beseeching glance, then met Morality’s gaze and said, “When I returned I discovered that my sister and brother-in-law had disappeared. He was wanted for murder. My sister was even more naïve than I, and while I’ll never know for certain, I know in my heart he told her some lie that compelled her to go with him.”

  The words were a lit match to a lengthy, slow-burning fuse. “Wh-what about your daughter?”

  Rosalee steepled her hands over her lips and took a deep, fortifying breath. Then she said, “They took her, too. He stole her from me.”

  The fuse burned. Tension crawled through Morality.

  Rosalee continued. “I searched for them. Day after day. Week after week. For months, and then years. I went back East intending to track down family members in the hope that they had been contacted by my sister. I met Stephen and he helped me pursue a lead that proved false. He was there for me in my despair. Over time, we fell in love and were married.” She dropped her chin to her chest, and for a moment, the room was silent.

  But the fuse was approaching the powder, and Morality couldn’t stop it. “Then what?” Morality said, a sharp note in her voice.

  Rosalee lifted her head. Tears were running down her cheeks. “I quit looking. I thought she must be dead. I decided to put my search behind me and try to get on with my life. I thought it was something I must do, for Stephen and for myself. But I always felt guilty, so very guilty. I’d given up on my little girl.”

  Stephen had moved from his chair and now stood behind Rosalee, his hand on her shoulder. She grasped it as she said, “But Stephen never gave up. He hired investigators. It took them years to trace her because, you see, my sister had died and my brother-in-law changed his name. He changed my daughter’s name.”

  Morality shut her eyes. The burning fuse disappeared into the powder keg. “My parents were not married. My name is Morality.”

  “We were married, darling. Your father and I named you Lilah.”

  Lilah. Morality’s world exploded, and she was left in the vacuum, empty of all feeling. Then, a gamut of emotions rushed in to fill the void. Blazing anger unlike any she’d ever experienced. Wrenching pain of betrayal. Anguish for her losses—home and family and years. And love. Oh, God, the love she had lost.

  She pushed to her feet, an invisible band squeezing the air from her lungs. She looked blindly around the cabin, swaying dizzily as if in the midst of a vertigo attack here at her dining table.

  Rosalee drew a ragged breath, and her eyes glistened with tears and with hope. Morality knew she should say something—anything—but her tongue wouldn’t form words. She stared at this woman who claimed to be her mother, searching for a familiar trait, probing for a memory. Nothing.

  Perhaps it was a lie. One huge, monstrous lie. How could she tell? What sort of judgment did she have? She’d believed Reverend Uncle all of her life.

  Until Zach Burkett—lying, scheming, loving man that he was—had shown her the truth. In a shuddery whisper, she said, “Zach.” She needed him. She could believe Zach Burkett. She did believe him. He loved her. True love. Love that wouldn’t lie.

  She didn’t say another word. She stared at Rosalee Carstairs with wide, panicked eyes. Then, like a wounded animal running for his den, Morality fled the cabin, searching instinctively for her haven, for Zach.

  Stephen moved to go after her, but Rosalee held him back. Her voice was small and brokenhearted. “Let her go. She needs time to herself right now. She’ll find her Zach, and he’ll bring her back when she’s ready.”

  Stephen’s brow furrowed with worry. “Are you sure?”

  Her trembling smile made him hurt. “I’m not sure of anything. Except that we shouldn’t have told her, not without him here. Oh, Stephen, she was so hurt. Did you see the pain in her eyes? Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”

  Stephen took his wife in his arms and kissed away her tears. “There is nothing to forgive. You did the best you could, and she’ll realize that once the shock has worn off.”

  “I pray you are right,” she said, her voice catching. “What would I do without you? Your strength, your comfort.” Rosalee laid her head against her husband’s chest. “I’m so glad she has Zach. It’s good for her to have someone. We all need someone to hug us when we’re hurt.”

  Stephen Carstairs tightened his hold on his loving, hurting wife and gazed through the open door toward the muddying sky. At the sight, he second-guessed their decision to allow the girl to leave.

  The promised storm was bearing down upon them.

  MORALITY RAN the half mile into town. Perspiration poured down her face, the result of hot, steamy weather, physical exertion, and emotional upheaval. She ran blindly, not responding to hellos or warnings about the impending weather.

  Turning down the alley, she took the most direct route to the Texas Southern office. Finally, she halted and stood breathing in broken gasps as she turned the back door’s knob. Locked. Frustration filled her soul.

  Automatically, she searched for the key Zach kept hidden beneath a loose board on the step. With trembling fingers she fit the key into the lock and opened the door. “Zach,” she called, rushing toward the back office where she expected to find her husband.

  It wasn’t Zach Burkett she discovered standing before an open file drawer. “Mrs. Marston!” she exclaimed, shocked to find the congressman’s wife rifling Zach’s files. “What are you doing? Where’s Zach?”

  Henrietta Marston froze with papers in hand. A look of fury flashed across a face that was quickly schooled into an expression of studied calm. “Well, Mrs. Burkett, it appears that I have been caught.”

  Morality’s mind was a mass of confusion. Still reeling from the information she’d received that morning, she was ill-prepared to figure out what mischief was taking place here in Zach’s office. “What are you looking for?”

  Henrietta Marston rolled the drawer shut, saying, “I’m protecting my family, Mrs. Burkett. Surely you can understand that. Your husband is out to destroy my family’s shipping business. I’d hoped to find some information that would interfere with his plans.”

  “No,” Morality answered, slowly shaking her head, trying to think through the fog in her mind. Foolishly, she reasoned aloud, blurting out, “You were looking for the letter, weren’t you? My uncle was blackmailing your husband, and you’re looking for the letter.”

  Henrietta’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about the letter?”

  “I’ve read it. You searched the boat, didn’t you? If not you personally, then someone in your family. You didn’t find it in Reverend Uncle’s things, so you thought Zach might have it.”

  “Does he have it? Is Burkett aware of what is in that letter?”

  “No. I just read it this morning. I haven’t had the chance to tell—” Morality broke off abruptly. Something in Henrietta’s stance, a subtle loosening in her expression, served to haul Morality back to her senses. For a long moment, Henrietta Marston stood staring at Morality. Then, suddenly, she burst into tears.

  Morality didn’t know whether to comfort or confront. “Mrs. Marston?”

  “I’m so afraid, dear,” the older woman cried, fumbling in her pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. “I overheard my husband mention this letter. Something he said … it’s made me wonder. I never suspected before, you see, and I was looking for a clue. I need the truth, Morality. About Zach Burkett’s father! I must have the truth!”


  She doesn’t know. Morality felt a pang of sympathy for the poor woman. Henrietta Marston was looking for proof of her husband’s betrayal over thirty years ago. And possibly— this thought struck Morality with the force of a blow—proof of a more recent crime.

  E.J. Marston might well be Reverend Uncle’s murderer.

  Henrietta cried copious tears into her handkerchief as Morality stood frozen in shock. It should have occurred to her as soon as she’d read the letter. How could she have been so obtuse?

  Because the Carstairs delivered their bombshell before she’d had time to think, obviously.

  The immediacy of Zach’s situation brushed her own concerns from her mind. He needed to know what was going on. “Where is Zach? You must have known he’d not be in the office for you to risk going through his files.”

  “Yes,” Henrietta said tearfully. “He’s with my husband at our home. E.J. sent me away, he said he didn’t want me to hear their conversation.”

  Morality’s heart clenched in fear. Zach. Oh, dear Lord!

  Zach was in terrible danger.

  “Mrs. Marston, you must take me to your house. Immediately!”

  The older woman dabbed at her eyes. “But I don’t know—”

  Morality grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the door. “You must. We’ve no time to waste, Mrs. Marston. Hurry, please!”

  As Morality rushed her outside, a crack of thunder deafened her ears. Thunder sounding entirely too much like a gunshot.

  The women rushed through town. Henrietta led the way through back alleys, claiming that was the quickest way home. Fat raindrops splattered the walk as they climbed the front steps to the big white house built atop the highest hill in Cottonwood Creek.

  Morality’s heart pounded as Henrietta opened the front door. Taking a deep breath, she followed the older woman inside. Their heels clicked against the hardwood floor and the sound echoed through the wide, high-ceilinged entry hall. Morality listened intently for voices, praying to hear Zach’s. Silence hung as heavy and as ominous as the sky outside.