The Scoundrel's Bride (16 page)

Robert Drake nodded once. “I want the stock. Look, Zach, I may not be a Cottonwood Creek native, but I’ve lived here for five years now. This town means a lot to me. It’s where I plan to raise my family, and I want what’s best for it. I may be married to a Marston, but I want you to know I don’t let anyone do my thinking for me—especially not my wife’s daddy.”

He pushed the bag toward Zach, saying, “Now, your motives for bringing the Texas Southern to town might not be the purest, but—”

“Wait a minute,” Zach interrupted.

“No,” Robert held up a hand. “Let me finish. I’m not judging you or Joshua Marston for that matter. Truth be told, I like the man—hell of a lot more than I do Ginnie’s father, anyway. I’m putting my money in Texas Southern stock because I think a railroad is good for Cottonwood Creek. The Marstons have made a mistake by standing in the way these past few years. It’s a changing world, and they need to adapt. A railroad doesn’t have to ruin them. They’ll see it eventually. That you’re the man who’s had the guts to fight them—well, that’s between you and them. I’m buying this stock for my son, for his future.”

The longer Robert talked, the sicker Zach felt. Clearing his throat, he opened his mouth and said words that were as much of a surprise to him as they were to Robert Drake. “I have a better idea. Put your money back in your pocket, Drake.”

Reaching into his desk drawer, he counted out stock certificates equal to the amount Robert had offered him. “Your Ginnie took a mighty stand paying me a visit yesterday. I figure she’s the closest thing to family I’ve got, and I’ve been considering giving her a present for the baby. Why don’t you let the stock be my gift? It’s perfect timing, with little Will’s christening tomorrow night.”

Robert’s fair skin turned a sickly shade of green. He slapped his hand on top of the certificates, halting the movement of Zach’s pen. “Dammit, Burkett. This was difficult to begin with, but now…well, hell.”

Taking a deep breath, he continued. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t allow it. I do want to give Ginnie this stock as a gift in honor of Will’s big day, but that’s not the only reason I’m here.” He paused, then added softly, “I know Ginnie invited you to the baptism, but I’m asking you not to come.”

It was a stab at the heart and it caught Zach by surprise. Years of practice enabled him to meet Robert’s gaze with an inscrutable look. He waited silently for the man to go on.

“No one else can tell, but Ginnie has a powerful case of the woes.” Robert winced. “She’s been weeping like a willow these days. Anything can set her off.”

“I’ve heard that happens sometimes with new mothers.”

Robert’s eyes pleaded for understanding as he said, “I think she’s fretting about the family. She has known her parents were due in from Washington. Ever since we married, she and her folks have been estranged. They wanted better for her than a carpenter. Anyway, her mama sent a note when the baby was born. Ginnie hasn’t heard a word from her pa.”

He tiredly rubbed his palm across his jaw. “I believe having the baby has made her miss being close with her family. I think having them at the church and then to the supper afterward might make for a lessening of her melancholy.” He paused, sighed heavily, and said, “She’s breaking my heart, Zach. I feel lower than a snake’s belly withdrawing the invitation. I wouldn’t do it for anybody but my wife.”

Anger churned low in Zach s gut—not at Robert, but at himself. It wasn’t like him to care about such nonsense. “You’ve talked to Ginnie’s folks about this?”

“Yeah, I spoke with Ginnie’s father a little bit ago. He went on and on about Will being his grandson and the Marston heritage. I’d have liked to tell him to heave it into the bayou, but he is Ginnie’s father. He said they’d come to the christening as long as—”

“The Burkett Bastard wasn’t around.”

The silence said it all. Zach leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
The Marston heritage
. Robert had inadvertently used the words he’d needed to hear.

His lips tilted in a generous smile. “Don’t you worry yourself for a minute over it, Robert. I’ll find somewhere else to spend my Saturday night.”

Lifting his pen, he signed over thirty-three shares of Texas Southern stock to Master William Drake. He carefully counted the coins totaling one hundred sixty-five dollars and placed them into his strongbox.

Robert Drake’s expression reflected profound relief when Zach handed him both the empty money pouch and the certificates. As he shook his cousin’s husband’s hand, Zach noted absently that the sick sensation in his gut had completely disappeared.

It returned in a flash less than an hour later when Morality burst into his office, her breath coming in gasps, her eyes wild. “Zach, I need your help,” she cried.

“Patrick is missing.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

MORALITY FOUGHT TO KEEP the panic from her voice as she repeated, “Patrick is missing. He’s hurt—he’s bleeding—and I can’t find him anywhere. You must help me, Zach. You must!”

He moved away from his desk and took her by the shoulders. “Whoa, there, angel. Slow down and take a deep breath. I need you to tell me exactly what’s going on.”

She was shaking her head before he finished speaking. “There’s no time! We have to find him right away.”

“Well, I don’t know where to look until you tell me, now do I?” He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “Talk to me, Morality.”

She nodded, wetting her lips. “A boy—one of those hooligans—asked for me at the Marstons’. He said Patrick had been in a fight with three other boys.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “One of them pulled a knife and cut Patrick. Oh, Zach, he said there was blood all over Patrick’s shirt!”

Zach spat an ugly profanity.

Fear spiraled inside her with the telling of the story and the words tumbled from her mouth. “They all ran off, but this boy got scared and returned to help. Patrick was gone. He came for me and I checked the livery, but it’s all locked up. I thought for sure he’d be there.” She pulled on his hand, tugging him toward the door, but he held his ground. “Please, Zach,” she begged, “help me find him!”

“I will, I promise. First, I want you to tell me why you thought he’d be at the livery?”

“Because of the animals. He always goes to animals when he’s sad or sick, and this morning he wanted to go see your puppies. I wouldn’t let him and we argued. That’s why he didn’t come to me when he was hurt. He’s angry at me! I think he may have gone to your place and it would be faster on a horse. You have a horse, don’t you? Will you take me? I didn’t want to ask you, of all people, for help, but it is your barn and your puppies. Besides, if he’s hurt bad, I’ll need help moving him.” Her voice cracked as she added, “He’s growing so big.”

Zach pressed a kiss to her brow. “It’ll be all right, angel. Don’t you fret.” He grabbed his coat from the rack and shrugged into it, saying, “Look, Morality, if Patrick were hurt bad he couldn’t go anywhere, much less out to my cabin. This boy said he was bleeding. Did you check for a trail?”

She nodded. “There’s blood where he fell, but I couldn’t find any leading away.”

“Then he’s most likely all right. Show me the spot, angel. I don’t doubt my eyes have a bit more training at searching out items that are difficult to see.”

A front had blown in within the past hour and traffic on Main had thinned to but a few hardy souls. The wind blew a raw spit from the north, whipping winter-dead leaves and debris from the streets and piling them in drifts against anything that dared to stand in its way. Morality tucked her hands in the pockets of her woolen cloak, shivering from both cold and despair, as she led Zach to the scene of the fight.

He flipped up the collar on his fleece-lined coat and ducked his head to study the ground. Morality caught her lip between her teeth when he knelt on one knee and stubbed a finger into a patch of dark, wet dirt, tested its stickiness, then brought it to his nose and sniffed.

“Hasn’t been too long, Morality. He can’t have gone far.” Standing, Zach studied the ground around him, then suddenly started walking. Morality hurried to keep up.

“It’s gotten so cold,” she murmured worriedly. “He’ll freeze out here.”

Zach kept his head down as he walked. “He’ll be all right. He’s probably holed up somewhere where it’s warm.”

Twice he stopped, searching the ground then lifting his gaze to the surroundings. The third time he stopped behind the mercantile, next to a buckboard loaded with flour sacks and sugar barrels. “Well,” he said, “what do we have here?”

“Patrick!” Morality cried.

Lying huddled in the wagon’s bed, Patrick Callahan lifted pain-glazed eyes toward Morality and mumbled, “I messed up, Morality.”

Zach bounded up beside him. “Where are you hurt, son?

“My hand.” He held it cradled to his chest.

Morality’s mouth went dry at the sight of the red stain on the boy’s light blue shirt.

“Let’s give it a look, all right?” Gently, Zach lowered Patrick’s arm.

Morality gasped at the sight of the angry gash across Patrick’s left palm. The wound oozed blood, and she could see something yellow and rippled beneath the layer of skin. She closed her eyes as nausea rolled in her stomach.

Zach gave a long, low whistle. “Dammit, boy, don’t you know better than to try and catch the business end of a knife?”

“Please don’t curse in front of the child,” she responded automatically with little fire. She brushed the hair away from Patrick’s forehead and asked in a gentle voice, “Is your hand all that’s hurt?”

“Yes.”

Zach looked at her. “It needs to be sewn. The doc’s office is in the next street over.” Jumping to the ground, he slipped his hands beneath the boy and lifted, saying, “Hang on, now, squirt. I’ll try not to jostle you too bad.”

Zach’s long strides ate up the ground, and Morality had to race to keep up with him. Within minutes, he carried Patrick into the doctor’s office, the cold wind and Morality blowing in behind him.

A pair of rocking chairs were pulled next to a glowing coal stove. An older gentleman with bushy gray brows and pale green eyes sat in one, sipping a cup of steaming liquid. Eulalie Peabody sat in the second chair. She held a crystal tumbler half filled with an amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey.

Doc Trilby set down his cup and eased to his feet. “Hello, Burkett. Figured I’d see you in my office eventually.” He gestured toward a back room and the examination table visible through an open door. Morality followed the doctor and Zach, who gently laid his burden on the table.

Trilby’s mouth thinned as he gave Patrick a quick, but thorough examination. Studying the boy’s hand, he asked, “You the one who hurt this boy, Burkett?”

Morality opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Peabody beat her to it. “Don’t be ridiculous, Seth. Zach Burkett wouldn’t injure this child.”

The doctor scowled, whether at the wound or the words, Morality couldn’t tell. Patrick hovered on the edge of awareness, and Doc Trilby was able to get answers to a few diagnostic questions. He opened the door of a glass-paned chest and withdrew a bottle and a spool of heavy thread. When he opened a black leather case and removed a needle, Morality groaned softly.

“Eulalie,” the doctor said, “would you please take Miss Brown into the other room and offer her a drink?”

“Oh, no. Thank you. I don’t drink whiskey.”

“Tea, I think he means.” The widow smiled kindly. She put her hands on Morality’s shoulders and pushed her toward the door. “Come along, dear.”

Morality turned, then hesitated, looking back at Zach. “What about…?”

His gaze on the doctor, Zach dipped his head toward Patrick. “You gonna need some help?”

“It’s a deep slash.”

Zach gave Morality’s hand a squeeze. “Go on with Mrs. Peabody, angel. He’ll be fine. I’ll help.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Zach grinned as Eulalie ushered her from the examination room. She huddled next to the stove for warmth, but refused the tea the Widow Peabody offered. Her stomach hurt and her nerves were stretched tight as a pea vine through a picket fence. When she heard Patrick’s scream, she took a long look at the whiskey in the widow’s glass.

Abruptly, she pushed from her chair and walked to the window. “It looks like snow,” she said loudly, hoping to drown out any more noise from the back room.

Eulalie Peabody must have sensed her unease, because she launched into a long-winded story about the Blizzard of ‘44. She rattled on until Zach emerged from the examining room.

At the sight of his reassuring grin, relief coursed through Morality, warming her like hot spiced cider. Doc Trilby followed, wiping his hands on a cloth. “He’ll be fine, Miss Brown. Bring him back week after next, and I’ll remove the sutures. He’ll be sore for a bit, and I don’t want him getting that hand wet.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Morality looked anxiously toward the examination room. “What is keeping him?”

“Well, he’s passed—” A sharp look from the widow cut off his sentence. “That is, I…um…gave him a palliative.

Unfamiliar with the word, she looked to Zach for assistance. “He’s drunk, Morality,” he said. “Doc gave him whiskey to deaden the pain.”

“Oh. Well.” She bit her lower lip nervously, then shrugged. “All right. I’m afraid I have no experience in matters like this. When will Patrick be able to go home?”

Dr. Trilby sipped his tea then grimaced.

“Louise Marston is putting y’all up, isn’t she?”

Morality nodded and replied, “Reverend Uncle brought the Church of the Word to town on her invitation.”

“That’s good. Why don’t you take him on over there? That hand is going to throb when he wakes up, and he’ll be more comfortable over at Joshua’s. Besides, I have a patient in labor I need to see to and I might not be back today.”

Morality looked at Zach. “The Marston home is four blocks away. I can’t carry him. Would you mind?”

He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “You’ll need to take the boy, Doctor. I don’t think I should-”

“Nonsense,” Eulalie said, sniffing huffily. “Doc has somewhere to go, and you won’t rest yourself until you’re certain that Patrick is all tucked in safe and sound. Leave the Marstons to me, Zachary.” She handed him a blanket. “My buggy is around back. Wrap him well, now. It’s cold enough to freeze ducks to a pond out there.”