Beloved Counterfeit (5 page)

“He’s likely to change his mind when he hears my story,” Micah said.

Josiah stepped into Micah’s line of sight. “If you believe that, you don’t know Hezekiah Carter very well. He’d likely just tell you that to whom much is forgiven, much is expected.”

The truth, and Micah knew it. Trouble was, he hadn’t quite decided what it was like to be forgiven.

Caleb continued to write. When he finished, he set the pen aside. “I’ve written a letter of inquiry regarding one Micah Tate—that
is
your proper name, is it not?”

“It is.”

Nodding, Caleb continued. “I’ve written to ask of any charges against you, Micah, and to inquire as to whether I should send you back to the Austin Colony to face them. As for me and my jurisdiction, I’ve got no reason to hold you lest you’ve committed more crimes to which you’d like to confess.”

Micah’s attention went to the page where the ink had all but dried on his future—and his past. “That’s fair, Caleb. More than fair, actually. And no, other than coveting Miss Ruby’s cooking, I’ve done a decent job of behaving myself since I landed here.”

“This militia,” Caleb continued. “Did you join up formally, or did Mr. Austin take volunteers?”

Micah swiped at his brow with the back of his sleeve. “We were volunteers, all of us who lived in the colony. Those who could fell in with Mr. Austin and the Mexicans when called. Those who couldn’t were free to stay behind.”

“Free to stay behind?” Caleb looked as if he might be thinking hard on the topic; then he shook his head. “If only those went who could, then what of those who found their situations had changed? Would they not, then, be free to go and attend to whatever called them back?”

A slight glimmer of something close to hope began to dawn on him. Micah looked over at Josiah then back at Caleb. “I suppose.”

“What makes you so bent on punishing yourself for desertion when you just told me what you did, if it were done by anyone else, would be permissible?”

“I, well. . .” His gut tightened even as something in his heart loosened. “I guess I didn’t think of it that way.”

Again the judge seemed to be contemplating something. “Then here’s what I figure,” he said. “A man takes a commission—then he’s obligated. If he’s volunteering and it’s not wartime, that’s another matter altogether.”

Slowly Micah managed a nod. “But the militia. I was obligated and I left.”

“Let it go, Tate.” The judge shook his head. “You were called home by bereavement. That’s a different matter altogether.”

Josiah clasped his hand onto Micah’s shoulder and gave him a firm shake. “You did what any of us would have done, Micah. You went home. There’s nothing dishonorable in that.”

“You did not walk away from the battle,” Caleb added. “Though I warrant you must have felt you walked into one.”

Micah recalled opening the door to his—their—home and feeling as if he’d been hit in the gut by grapeshot. Caleb Spencer spoke the truth. He lowered his gaze.

Soon as he could manage it, Micah would find his escape. He had plenty to think about.

“I appreciate your candor, Tate,” Caleb said. “Now if there’s nothing further you’d like to discuss, I would prefer to talk about that boat out at the dock and the job you’ll be doing for me.”

Micah lifted his head and found Caleb staring, his expression almost daring him to disagree.

Caleb reached over to offer his hand while Josiah tightened his grip on Micah’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Micah Tate, and the only one I want watching my island while I’m away. What say you? Will you accept my offer?”

It took only a moment to manage a nod, but in that moment, Micah wondered whether he would ever see himself as Caleb and Josiah did.

As God did.

“Can I pray about it?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Caleb said.

“Just don’t let my father talk you out of it,” Josiah added. “I figure you can patrol weekdays and preach Sundays.”

Micah almost laughed as the glimmer of hope brightened. “Hey, now,” he said. “Keep in mind I’ve agreed to neither.”

Yet as he said his good-byes and stumbled into the afternoon sun, Micah felt as wrung out as a morning’s wash. He also realized he’d like nothing better than a heaping plate of the redhead’s lunchtime fare.

That is, unless he was too late for that, too.

Chapter 5

Viola watched the doctor’s straight back as he marched down the steps and made his way to the gate. While the distraction of the kiss had done its job and postponed whatever news Dan intended to deliver, he’d nonetheless left her with the feeling the delay was only temporary.

But then, what sort of permanence had he ever offered her? Viola frowned at the thought. His admissions of love came more frequently now, yet somehow the doctor seemed to feel these required no further commitment from him.

Wandering through the empty rooms of her little home, Viola halted at the wardrobe, its carved surface glowing in a slender shaft of sunlight. The door opened on silent hinges, revealing a half dozen dresses suitable for a woman of modest means and one fit for a princess.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the gown she’d not touched in more than a year. A moment later, it was in her arms, soft silk against her cheek.

Only the scent of soap remained, the acrid odor of dried blood and too many days of traveling aboard ship long banished. “Oh, Andre.”

She let the dress crumple to the floor. Something in the gesture felt wrong, so Viola snagged it by the sleeve and draped it over the end of the narrow cot that served as her bed.

Her hand lingered over silk brought to New Orleans all the way from the Far East. The pearls she’d worn at her neck had long since been lost, having scattered across the steps of the cathedral back in New Orleans, but those that decorated the bodice and sleeves remained.

So many fittings, standing for what seemed to be hours on end in front of Mama’s gilt-edged mirror until the very shape of the dress seemed to stay long after Viola had stepped out of it. She didn’t dare complain or, for that matter, even consider uttering such words.

And the cost. . . What she wouldn’t give to have half the price of this dress in her account over at the grocer’s or the mercantile.

She allowed her mind to tiptoe backward to the cathedral steps but refused to let her thoughts remain there. Remembering how she came to the island served only to offer up the opportunity to forget all the things God had done with her and through her since her unexpected arrival. Had she remained behind in New Orleans, she’d likely be wed and in need of a midwife rather than having become one.

No, she decided, she’d be dead. “Andre would have seen to it.”

Yet even now, some two years after her fiancé’s death, Andre Gayarre reached from the grave to control her life and stand between her and the man with whom she’d fallen in love. By default, so did her father.

From her window, she saw Emilie Gayarre approach. Viola put on her best smile. Were it not for Emilie, she’d never have found Fairweather Key. Neither would she have managed to become what she was: a midwife who often worked alongside the doctor she loved.

Somehow the fact that she helped to bring new lives into the world seemed to atone in some measure for the life that had been lost at her hands.

Again the scene unfolded in her mind. The angry man she’d left waiting at the altar on their wedding day stood before her.

A gun in the hand that more than once had bruised her body. Words from the mouth that more often bruised her soul.

A shot. Andre Gayarre lay dead.

Viola shrugged off the image and reached to grasp the blue gown, her only possession when she boarded Josiah Carter’s ship for freedom. Placing it back in the wardrobe, she swiped at the tears she hated and turned toward the door.

Before Emilie could knock, Viola opened the door with a smile firmly in place. As pleasantries were exchanged, she invited her old friend in.

“I’ve come bearing news.” Emilie grinned. “And a letter.”

She glanced at the handwriting and found it vaguely familiar. “How did you get this?” Turning it over, Viola could find no evidence that the document had been mailed.

“It was handed to me,” Emilie explained, “by a mutual friend who arrived on my doorstep some moments ago.”

“Have you time for tea and conversation before I return to school for the afternoon?” Viola gestured toward the parlor, good manners trumping her curiosity at who might resort to this kind of silliness. Then an idea formed.

Dan.

Of course.

Likely Micah Tate had talked some sense into the hopeless bachelor.

* * *

Micah let the courthouse door close behind him then took a deep breath of salt air. He felt ten years younger, his shoulders a measure lighter now that the weight they’d carried no longer rested upon them.

The door opened, and Josiah stepped outside. “Want some company?”

He looked back at his friend, weariness suddenly threatening. “Not if you’re going to ask me why I didn’t tell you this before now.”

Josiah shrugged. “No.”

“Well, good.” Micah set out walking, unsure as to his destination. The stretch of his legs and the pace of his stride served to quickly restore his mood. As he contemplated the conversation with Caleb Spencer, his thoughts turned to prayers.

“This is where I leave you.”

Micah jerked his attention toward the friend he’d forgotten walked beside him. “What? Oh yes, of course.”

Somehow they’d arrived at the cottage Josiah shared with Isabelle and little Joey. The lad must have been watching, for he burst through the door calling for his papa, Isabelle on his heels. Micah thought of Caroline and the babe she surely chased around heaven, and for a moment, all Micah could do was stare.

“Come back here, young man,” Isabelle called. When she caught sight of Josiah and Micah, she stopped and offered a grin. “So this is why he’s ignoring me. Go ahead,” she said to the boy, who’d now turned to regard his mama with an innocent stare. “Go to your papa.”

“Your papa.”
Another stab to his heart, and Micah turned away. With a wave, he left the happy couple and their son and resumed his walk toward the boardinghouse and the meal he hoped would still be available.

“Hello there, Micah Tate.”

Doc Hill. Not an unpleasant man, but certainly not anyone he’d be willing to pass the time of day with in this condition. Micah ducked his head and pressed forward, ignoring the call, unwilling to let go of the grief that seized him.

Unfortunately, the doctor caught him at the corner while Micah waited for the funeral director’s horse and wagon to pass. Rather than offer his true opinion of the man’s company, Micah met his gaze and nodded, then followed the gesture with the required pleasantries.

“Have a moment?” the doc asked as his gaze followed the wagon until it disappeared around the corner. “I could use some help. Some wisdom, actually.”

Micah’s chuckle held no humor. “If it’s wisdom you seek, I’d head toward the church.”

Daniel Hill seemed no less enthusiastic. “No, I doubt the reverend would understand. Now if you’d spare me just a few minutes, I’d be grateful.” He gestured toward the clinic. “I figure you’re heading in that direction anyway, so allow me this, please.”

His tone carried a desperation Micah not only recognized but had felt more than once. Still, he’d already had one companion on a walk he’d intended to be one of solitary prayer. He thought to explain that Hezekiah Carter would likely be much more helpful than himself at anything.

But the doctor appeared to have his mind set on talking to Micah and not waiting for the better man to assist him.

“All right,” Micah said, “but I’m in a hurry, so you might have a bit of trouble keeping up.”

“I’ll risk it.” With a nod, they set off across the street. The doctor waited until they’d cleared the corner before he looked ready to speak. “I’ve a problem. Of the female variety.”

Despite his irritation, Micah grinned. “Might the problem be named Viola Dumont?”

“It is.” Doc paused. “Rather, she is. No,” he corrected. “I must admit I’m the real problem.”

“Why tell me?” Micah said. “Go tell Miss Dumont.”

“I tried.” He tugged at his collar. “I thought maybe you could help me with that.”

“Talk to her for you? Oh no.” Micah stopped short then shook his head and took off walking again. “Look,” he said when Doc Hill caught up to him, “I’m not a man who gets himself involved in this kind of foolishness.”

“It’s not foolishness, Micah.”

He slid the doctor a sideways look. “When there’s a woman involved, it’s almost always foolishness.”

“She wants me to marry her.”

Micah had to laugh. “Is this news to you? Anyone with decent eyesight would know that. What none of us can understand—likely her as well—is what’s taking you so long. Seems to me a man with the opportunity to land a fine catch like Miss Dumont ought to go ahead and do it.”

A pair of ladies from the choir emerged from the mercantile to greet them, and the doctor tipped his hat, as did Micah. “I can’t,” Daniel said when the women were out of earshot. “I’d only be a disappointment to her.”

“Is that all?” Micah shrugged. “I reckon if a man’s not being a disappointment in some way to a woman, then he’s likely about to be. It’s the nature of the arrangement, I’m afraid, though women don’t seem to mind it so much.”

“Be serious, Micah.” The doc paused and seemed to be considering his next statement carefully. “The truth is, I did intend to marry her. I knew it from the minute I saw her. Then when Andre Gayarre walked into my clinic with a gun in his hand, everything changed.”

“I see.”

This conversation had gone far past comfortable and was reaching the point of needing to be over. The growl in Micah’s gut reminded him that every minute he tarried was a minute he was not eating Ruby O’Shea’s fine cooking.

Dr. Hill seemed to be waiting for more. Irritation and impatience converged to remove any intention on Micah’s part to offer up understanding or even humor. Doc needed to handle his business like a man: in private and without consulting anyone or taking a poll to figure out what to do.