The Loyal Heart (23 page)

“We all did.”

“But I loved him.”

“We all loved him too. He was a good man. The best.”

“Captain, I think one of those three men must have either ended up back here or told someone here that Phillip was a traitor. That's the only way I can figure out how that rumor started. Someone either truly thinks Phillip betrayed the South or wants everyone to think that. Either way, he is bent on destroying Phillip's name and Miranda's life.”

“I don't know if we'll ever find who killed Phillip. I'm not even sure if it matters. What's done is done.” Looking grim, Devin said, “But whoever did kill him saved you and me from doing it. It might not be right, but I'm grateful for that. Ending Phillip's life would have been a heavy burden to bear.”

“How is it that even after all this time, we're still uncovering the pain and secrets of war?”

“How can we not? We are men with hearts and souls, after all. We're scarred by our experiences. We also promised each other that we'd never forget.”

As Robert stared at his former captain, he realized that was one promise that had been almost too easy to keep.

A
NY IDEA WHAT YOU INTEND TO SAY OR ASK THESE LADIES
?” Captain Monroe said under his breath as they rode their rented horses up a windy dirt road on the outskirts of Houston.

From the livery's directions, Robert deducted that the Markham women lived in the modest ranch at the end of the lane.

“Not a one,” Robert replied. From the time they'd left that morning for their trip on the ferry to the quiet ride to Viola and Ruth's home, he'd been playing over different scenarios. Sometimes he imagined appealing to their love for Phillip.

Other times, he thought it was a better idea to go in strong and assured, using Captain Monroe's rank to an advantage. They'd seemed like women who valued Phillip's military career. Therefore, it stood to reason that they'd value his captain's reputation as well.

Robert even imagined using a bit of force. Flatly refusing to leave or doing his best to keep the women from their scheduled activities until he got some answers.

But that didn't seem like the right method either.

“I've considered a lot of avenues,” he replied at last. “Unfortunately, none of my ideas feel like the right course of action.”

Instead of looking aggravated, Captain Monroe grinned. “Guess we'll figure it out when we get inside.”

“If you have any bright ideas, feel free to take the lead. I'll be happy to follow your directives again. Sir,” he added belatedly.

“Will do, but I don't imagine I'll know what to do any more than you will.” He paused to move his horse around a parked buggy and a patch of debris on the ground. “To be honest, a part of me would like to simply yell at the women until they've told us what we need to know.”

Robert was shocked. “I thought I was the only man who thought that way.”

“I don't think you are,” Monroe said as he dismounted and tied up the leads. Eyeing him in a bemused way, he continued. “Moreover, I spent far too much of my life on the battlefield. All men lose control at times, I believe.”

“You think so?”

Monroe shrugged. “There's only so much one man can take before he gives in to emotions he usually tries to keep in better control.” He paused. “That's when prayer comes in handy, I think.”

After Robert tethered his mount, he steeled his shoulders and walked to the front door. Winifred had been extremely agitated when she discovered he and Devin planned to visit Mrs. Markham's in-laws that morning.

Though the housekeeper didn't say it, he had a sneaking suspicion that she feared those women would hurt his feelings. He didn't know whether he should be touched that she thought he possessed delicate feelings or simply be amused that she was hoping to protect him.

Now, though, it was time to get some answers and get back to her. He rapped his knuckles on the door twice.

“It will be fine, Truax,” Captain said as they heard a quiet rustling on the other side of the door.

“I know. I just want to help her.”

“You will. Once more, don't forget—no matter what happens, the future is already in God's hands. He knows what was meant to be.”

Robert replayed that sentiment over and over again as Viola herself opened the door and stared at him and the captain as if they were thieving carpetbaggers intending to fleece them out of their life savings.

“You,” she bit out. “What are you doing here?”

Ironically, her foul greeting made his mission easier. “Good morning to you, too, ma'am. I came to speak to you about Miranda.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“I beg to differ,” Captain Monroe blurted as he walked right in, ignoring the small push on the door as he strode forward. “I have traveled a fair distance to speak to you and your mother. I intend to do just that.”

Viola blanched. “Excuse me, but you may not barge into my home like you own it.”

Her words rankled Robert to no end. “Tell me now what you said when Miranda told you that same thing.”

“She never dared to say anything of the sort,” Ruth Markham announced as she appeared from one of the back rooms. “She knew better than to speak to me with such disrespect.”

Captain Monroe looked at her coolly. “Where may we sit?”

“We will not be leaving until we've gotten the answers we've come for,” Robert advised. “How long we stay is up to you.”

While her mother looked as if she was actually tempted to argue, Viola sighed. “Come into the drawing room. We'll conduct our business there.” Then she turned and started down the short and narrow hallway.

After a brief second, her mother followed, her uneven gait looking painful even to Robert's untrained eye.

When they were alone in the entryway, Devin looked his way and smiled. “It seems the manner to deal with these women has been solved. We simply need to be direct, blunt, and if all else fails, rude.”

“Agreed.” He realized there had been a grain of hope that the women would be cordial enough to speak to him in an easy and open manner. It was obvious now that he hadn't been more wrong.

It made him sick to think that Miranda had been dealing with them all by herself for years now. They were thoroughly unpleasant.

Once all four of them took their seats in the small room that was filled with doilies, knickknacks, area rugs, heavy drapes, and an excessive amount of cat hair, Devin looked directly at the women.

“Even though you have not asked, I would like to introduce myself. I am Devin Monroe. I was Phillip's captain during his last two years of service in the army.”

Ruth's expression softened. “He spoke of you often, Captain. He idolized you.”

“I hope not. I was only his commanding officer,” he said modestly. “However, I will tell you I thought very highly of your son. He was a good man, a good lieutenant, and above all, a true gentleman of the South. It was an honor to have known him.”

“But he still died while in your care,” Viola blurted.

“Phillip was not a child, ma'am,” Robert replied. “Furthermore, he was suffering the effects of a gunshot wound. It festered while in captivity. There was nothing we could do.”

“Perhaps.”

“There was nothing anyone could have done. Like too many others to count, the Lord had decided it was his time to die.”

Ruth's face pinched. “Sir—”

“We did not come all this way to discuss old injuries or Phillip's death,” Devin smoothly intervened. “We want to know who is behind the letters to Miranda.”

“What letters?” Ruth said.

“The threatening ones,” Robert said. “The letters that disparage her marriage, her character, and her very self. The letters that come frequently. The letters that tell her to move.”

Ruth frowned. “I have no knowledge of such things.”

Captain Monroe eyed Viola carefully. “And you, ma'am? Do you have any knowledge of them?”

“I am not sure.”

“I did not ask a difficult question,” Robert said, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees.

Viola shook her head. “Perhaps, but still . . .”

“I saw the last one,” Robert pushed. “It was not only vicious in content, but poorly written. Were you not able to have access to a good education, Miss Markham?”

Viola's face flushed. “I had a proper education. Just as Phillip did. I did not write letters such as the ones Miranda received.”

Captain grinned. “So you actually do know about them, yes?”

Viola looked from her mother to Robert to Captain Monroe. Then, finally, she nodded. “I know about them,” she whispered.

“You know more than that,” Captain Monroe pressed. “If you did not write the letters, did you feed the information to the person who did?”

“I fail to see why any of this matters to you.”

“A good woman has been tormented by them.”

“You are painting a picture of Miranda that simply isn't true. She is far from being helpless, sir.”

“Then let us make no mistake about this. I am not a helpless
woman.” He hardened his voice. “I expect you to answer me. Immediately.”

“Mother, are you going to let him make such accusations against me?”

Ruth took a moment, then said, “I, too, would like to hear the truth about these letters, Viola. Speak.”

A hand flew up to her chest. After several shaky breaths, Viola whispered, “I . . . I may have told him some things.”

Robert leapt on that pronoun. “Him?”

Viola closed her eyes. From the position of her body, it was obvious that she was hoping the men would feel sorry for her circumstances and desist.

But Robert had no intention of backing down. “Who is he?”

“I shouldn't say.”

Captain Monroe eyed her with a dark expression. “Oh, you should, ma'am.”

Viola looked toward her mother. “Mother, say something.”

Ruth, in contrast to her daughter, looked deflated. It was as if she was coming to terms with how their efforts to drive Miranda away sounded in the light of day and she wasn't proud of it. At all. “Viola, what have you done?”

“Nothing!” She leapt to her feet. “I only did what had to be done.” She waved a hand. “Look at
where
we are living, Mother. At
how
we are living. We shouldn't be here. We should be in our home. In the home I was born in. In the house you raised me in!”

“I know that. But I didn't think you would have resorted to such tactics. It is most unbecoming.”

“I need the name of the man,” Devin said, his voice as hard and as unflinching as steel. “Now.”

“Tell him, Viola,” Ruth said. “You will not get any sympathy from me. Writing threatening letters is beneath us.”

“Mamma—”

“Now, if you please,” Captain Monroe said.

Viola glared at him, then exhaled, looking like her mother's twin. “Kyle Winter.”

Robert surged to his feet. “So that worm of a bank clerk wrote these letters? The sheriff and I have suspected him. But why? Why do this?”

“Because his brother was killed at the Battle of the Wilderness.”

Captain Monroe shrugged. “So were thousands of brave men. How was that Miranda Markham's fault?”

“Mr. Winter said Phillip told secrets about the South, maybe about the North too. Someone who was at Johnson's Island with Phillip told him so. He caused the fight to go so badly against the Confederacy.”

Captain Monroe shook his head. “Winter was either misinformed or made that up. Phillip was . . . no traitor. He did not betray the C.S.A. You have my word on that.”

Viola shook her head. “No, that isn't right. Kyle said the Union troops were too overwhelming in that battle. He was sure they knew too much about our soldiers' plans and strategies.” Her voice rose. “He said there was no way they would have so soundly trounced our boys if not for Phillip's betrayal.”

Robert shook his head. “Phillip did not betray us. We were out-funded, out-manned, and out-gunned. The Union army had almost twice as many men.” He sighed, hating what he was about to say but unwilling to lie. “By the time that battle was fought, the South's loss was all but a certainty. The fact is that we were losing the war even then.”

Mrs. Markham raised her voice. “The South had not fallen.”

“No, ma'am, but many factors were against us. And even if
not, please believe me when I tell you that Phillip did not cause the rout.”

Viola stared at him mulishly. “His brother still died.”

“So did my brother!” Captain Monroe snapped. “So did half of America's brothers. It was war. It was terrible. It was bloody. But it was not Phillip Markham's fault.”

Viola's eyes widened. She looked to be completely at a loss for words. “You sound so sure.”

“I am sure,” Monroe retorted. “But what I don't understand is your reasoning.”

“Mine?”

“Yes, Miss Markham. What I want to know is why you didn't stand up for him.”

She froze. “I tried.”

“I don't think so.” Staring at her intently, he asked, “Why didn't you stand up for your brother's memory? Even if you weren't close, he was your own flesh and blood.”

Instead of answering, Viola colored and put her head down.

And it was Ruth who replied. “I believe I have the answer, gentlemen,” she said, her voice flat. All trace of fire had disappeared.

“I did not know about the letters, nor that the hurtful rumors about my son”—she turned to stare at Viola—“came from Mr. Winter with Viola's knowledge. And while I do not care about that woman still living in the home my late husband built for me, I am dismayed that my own daughter betrayed Phillip's memory by helping Mr. Winter with these tactics.”

Ruth straightened her shoulders before going on. “I am, however, certain I know the reason for her actions. Kyle Winter promised Viola if and when Miranda returned the house to us, she would be living there as his wife.”