The Loyal Heart (14 page)

This wasn't right in any shape or form. In fact, it was nothing like what he should be doing and everything that was detrimental to both his honor and the honor of his brothers-in-arms.

If Devin Monroe ever discovered just how much he was in danger of losing his heart, he would no doubt demand an apology and expect Robert to bow out of any future missions. Deservedly so.

But until that happened, something had to be done.

He needed to distance himself from her. But more important, she needed distance from him, because if he stayed this close, he was going to find multiple opportunities to seek her out. If he was able to accomplish that goal, he knew he'd use every wile and trick he'd learned on the streets to cajole her to trust him. Eventually, she would grow to trust him. He would take that trust and hold it close.

But he knew himself well. He recognized what he was good at and what he would always be a dismal failure at. Because of that, he knew it was very likely that, sooner or later, he would make an even greater mistake than the ones he was contemplating. He was going to hurt her. Or ruin her reputation.

Or, even worse, she might be so desperate for a kind word, for
protection, that she'd grow to depend on him. Maybe even develop feelings.

With him!

If that happened, just like in the thick of battle, he wouldn't hesitate. He'd ask her to marry him. With haste. Because she was, without a doubt, the most enchanting woman he'd ever met.

And if she said yes and they did marry . . . it would be such a mistake. Oh, he'd try his best to be everything she wanted him to be. He'd show her how much he cared for her. He'd profess his love as well.

It would only be later, when the pleasure of waking by his side faded, that she'd at last look at him with clear eyes. See him for exactly what and who he was and everything he wasn't.

He was a former Confederate officer whose best friends in the world were men he'd met during a long and difficult war.

A man who had learned social niceties from a variety of people, none who would ever be fit company for a lady like her.

She'd see he was a man who was quick to temper and slow to feel remorse. She'd see him for who he was.

And when that happened, he'd see some of the glory fade from her expression. She'd realize that she'd become tainted. And when it was too late, after she'd given him her heart and trust, she was going to wake up one morning and dare to compare him with Phillip Markham.

And the moment she did that, she would realize just what a sorry comparison that was.

He doubted she would ever utter such a thing aloud. Instead, Miranda Markham Truax would most likely keep her regrets and dismay and worries to herself. She'd simply continue to care for him with her head high and her spine straight.

But they both would know.

And then she'd live the rest of their days together pretending she hadn't made a terrible mistake, and he'd spend every moment of it watching her swim in an ocean of regret. It would be tortuous and painful. As painful as getting captured by the enemy and being forced into a Yankee prison camp.

As painful as spending countless days passing time, watching his fellow prisoners write and receive letters home . . . and realizing that he had no one to write to.

It would no doubt be just as painful as watching Phillip slowly die.

That was unbearable.

Therefore, as Robert slowly walked up the stairs, his hand on the gleaming wood banister leading to his room, he came to a decision. He would do everything in his power to uncover the blackmailer, improve Miranda's reputation, and then get out of Galveston.

As soon as possible.

H
OW WAS IT THAT SHE COULD EXPERIENCE BOTH DEVASTATING
heartbreak and exhilarating euphoria in the span of one hour?

Miranda reviewed everything she'd just learned as she paced across the width of her room, paused for the briefest of moments, then turned and paced again.

Never would she have imagined to hear that Robert had actually known Phillip and that he came to see her out of some misplaced vow on her husband's deathbed.

Never would she have imagined that Sheriff Kern, who had practically brushed off her worries a year before, was now offering to be her friend and practically turn the city upside down to find the author of the letters. Both revelations had been such a shock, she felt like crying and laughing at the same time.

However, all that would do was cause her staff to worry about her even more. What she actually needed to do was compose herself and think.

With that in mind, she stopped her relentless pacing and breathed deep. Trying to find comfort in the cool shades of chocolate brown, mint green, and eggshell white that she'd painstakingly decorated with when she and Phillip had first married.

In her naiveté about marriage, she'd attempted to create an
oasis of sorts for her husband. She'd had visions of him entering their bedroom, seeing how comforting and beautiful she'd made the room, and somehow feeling refreshed.

In those first days of war, when everyone had reassured each other that their men would be coming home in a matter of days, that there was truly nothing the Yankees could do that their men couldn't do better, she'd sat by the window and waited for Phillip to return.

But as the days turned into weeks and eventually months, she'd known their circumstances were never going to be as easy as she'd hoped and believed.

Later, when Phillip had gotten leave, the man she'd brought to their bedroom was far different from the one she'd first said good-bye to. This Phillip was harder, moody. More sullen and physical. There was a new struggle behind his smooth words and quiet stares that had never been there before, and she hadn't known how to react to it. Small things set him off, sudden movements did too. And when she'd teasingly wrapped her arms around him from behind, he'd turned to her with a curse and almost hit her.

She'd cried out. The look that had appeared on his face was one she'd never forget. Complete devastation and remorse. That hadn't been hard to accept. Though he'd refused to talk about his life in the cavalry, she'd had a very good idea that war was a terrible, bloody experience. After all, everyone read about the accounts in the papers, heard stories from other men who were far more forthcoming, and, most heart-wrenchingly of all, saw the names of the injured and dead on the lists that appeared in the papers.

So she'd been understanding of his need to keep his secrets. She'd come to realize that he wasn't going to be the same. That war had changed him.

But what had been much harder to come to terms with was
the way he'd turned away from her. His smiles had vanished. He'd become silent. And he insisted on sleeping in a separate room, stating that his restless sleeping habits would keep her awake.

No protests from her had made a difference. Neither had her smiles, her understanding, or even her one failed night of seduction. He'd been distant.

The only time she'd found an inkling of the man she'd fallen in love with had been their last moments together. He'd held her almost painfully close, run his hands over her face, over her hair, over her body as if he needed to remember her by touch alone.

She'd been so grateful for his attention she'd clung to him and allowed him to grip her just a little too hard. Allowed him to mess up her hair, wrinkle her dress. She hadn't cared about anything other than she'd gotten him back for a few precious seconds.

It seemed that she, too, had needed to keep hold of their memories. She'd needed to remember what he felt like against her body. She'd needed to remember everything about him.

And then, of course, all too soon, he was gone.

His loss had been devastating. What had followed had been even harder to live with. Though she'd always been a solitary person, she'd learned that living as a shunned one had been almost unbearable.

And now she learned that, despite his distance, Phillip had loved her very much, so much that he told others about her until his dying days. That was worthy of the euphoria she had felt.

But worse, the cause of the devastation she felt was discovering how many lies she had been told. And the one man in Galveston whom she'd trusted had known they were lies. And now claimed he had to keep more.

She pressed her cheek against the cold windowpane, remembered how cold the windowpane on the landing had felt the
morning of Robert Truax's arrival. Back then, the frosty pane had served to wake her up.

Now, however, it merely served as a reminder of just how much she'd lost and how, for some unknown reason, she was still alone.

“Jesus, why?” she whispered. “I thought you suffered so much so I wouldn't have to. Why do I have to keep being reminded of how hard life is and how fleeting the feeling of security is?”

Closing her eyes, she thought of the verses she'd read time and again. Of how all Jesus' disciples had moved away from him when he was whipped and nailed to the cross. Though she'd never compare her relationships to Sheriff Kern and Robert Truax to Jesus' to his disciples, she couldn't help but feel she had been receiving a hint of what her Savior had been going through. Trusted friends had betrayed him. Trusted friends had chosen other causes instead of Jesus' teachings.

Jesus, of course, had forgiven them.

But now, as she came to terms with the fact that everything she'd believed to be true was once again turned on its side, Miranda realized the unavoidable, ugly truth.

She was not Jesus.

Moreover, it seemed that her suffering was not about to end, either.

Moving from the window, she unfastened her kid boots, pulled down her window shade so darkness penetrated her world, and lay down on the bed. If she couldn't summon up the nerve to end her life, she was simply going to have to escape it for a while.

At least the Lord was still letting her sleep. She took refuge in that and fell into an exhausted slumber.

After Mr. Truax went into his room and Mrs. Markham's room fell silent, Belle wandered about on the upstairs hallway as she contemplated what to do next.

Should she report what she'd heard to the rest of the staff? Surely Winnie and Emerson and Cook would know what to do. However, if she did that, she would be betraying Mrs. Markham's privacy and trust. And though the lady of the house was the primary topic of conversation, it still seemed a betrayal to share something that was most definitely the woman's private business.

But what if she didn't share her news?

Mrs. Markham had looked decidedly depressed and hopeless. Winnie had whispered to her that they all had to be on the lookout for times when their employer got a case of the blues. Because she actually didn't just fight a case of the blues, but battled serious depression.

Winnie had even confessed that once she had seen Mrs. Markham open an upstairs window and lean so far out that she was sure she'd been contemplating a fall.

Was the devastated expression Belle had seen a sign of something horrible about to come?

And what if it was? Miranda Markham's mental state was not any of Belle's business. A grown woman should be able to do harm to herself if she wanted to.

Shouldn't she?

Belle bit her lip. She simply wasn't sure.

As she stared at Mrs. Markham's closed door yet again, she felt her stomach roll into tight knots. How could she live with herself if she didn't do anything?

But . . . what if Mrs. Markham was just fine? The lady would no doubt not thank her for disturbing her rest! And if she had an
inkling about what Belle was suspecting of her, there was a very good chance she would get fired. Winnie, Cook, and Emerson wouldn't come to her defense, either. No, they'd let her accept the consequences of her foolish thoughts completely on her own.

But what was the right thing?

She knew. She knew what Jesus would do. She knew what she should do. After all, the Lord never promised an easy life, only that he wouldn't forsake her.

Resolve straightened her shoulders. She was going to have to do this. She was going to have to knock on Mrs. Markham's door and check on her. And if the lady needed her, she was going to have to counsel her. Somehow or some way, Belle was going to need to be the person she'd always hoped to be.

Her mind made up, she turned on her heel and started toward Mrs. Markham's door.

Just as her fist raised, the door behind her opened.

“Belle, what has you in such a dither?” Mr. Truax called out.

“Did I disturb you? I'm sorry, sir,” she sputtered.

He ran a hand along his brow, smoothing back a chunk of hair from his face. Revealing his startling dark gray eyes. “You didn't disturb me, but I did hear you mumbling to yourself. It sounded like you were having quite the conversation too.”

This was just getting worse. “I'm very sorry.”

He paused in mid-nod, then looked at her more closely. “Care to tell me why you are so distraught?”

“Not especially.”

“Now I'm afraid you actually are going to have to tell me. I'm intrigued.”

“I was just, um, trying to decide whether or not I should knock on Mrs. Markham's door.”

“Why would you worry about that?”

“Because . . . I am afraid she is resting?” She couldn't help but pose her statement as a question. Because it was a ridiculous statement, after all. If Belle thought she was resting, then she should leave her in peace.

“You know you are making no sense, right?” He walked toward her. All traces of humor gone from his eyes.

“Yes.” She opened her mouth, then shut it just as quickly. Mr. Truax was simply a boarder. She knew she shouldn't bother him with her worries.

But he also seemed to have formed a bond with Mrs. Markham. Did that mean she should trust him?

Folding his arms over his chest, he stared at her intently. “Perhaps you should tell me what you are concerned about.”

She bit her lip. Belle knew confiding her worries to a guest was even more of a bad idea than telling Winnie or Cook. However, she also knew Mr. Truax was part of the reason Mrs. Markham was in the state she was in.

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Let's make this easy, miss. You will tell me what has you concerned. Immediately. And the truth, if you please.”

His words might have been cloaked in niceties, but he'd just given her an order. One she didn't dare refuse. “I am worried about Mrs. Markham's emotional state, sir.”

He paled. “Say again?”

“I saw her expression when she walked up the stairs,” she whispered. “She . . . well, she wasn't in a good way. Sir.”

“You mean she was upset.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “I mean she looked hopeless.” She licked her lips. “As if she didn't want to live anymore.” There. She said it. “We—I mean Winnie, Cook, Emerson, and I—have seen this look before, you see.”

Mr. Truax's stunned expression turned hard. “I see. And you . . . ?”

“I was debating whether I should check on her.”

His expression became an impassive mask. “Thank you for confiding in me. I'll take care of this now.”

“Sir?”

“Go on downstairs, Belle. And please send word to the others that we are not to be disturbed.”

Feeling as if she'd just not only lost her job but part of herself, she clumsily curtsied. “Yes, sir.”

The moment she started walking down the stairs, she heard Mr. Truax open Mrs. Markham's door. Without knocking.

And then, to her shock, he walked in and shut it behind him.