The Loyal Heart (2 page)

Galveston, Texas
January 1867

A
T TIMES
,
THE PAIN WAS SO INTENSE
,
SHE WANTED TO DIE.

With a new sense of resolve, Miranda Markham skimmed a finger along the second-floor windowpane just outside her bedroom door. As she did, frigid drops of condensation slid across her fingers, moistening them, transmitting tiny bursts of pain along her skin. The glass wasn't thick, surely no more than a quarter inch. It seemed, to her eyes at least, that the frame was rather rickety as well.

It would be so easy to break.

Miranda wondered what it would feel like to perch on the edge of the windowsill like one of the gulls that rested on the weathered wood from time to time. She wondered what it would feel like to open her arms. To finally let herself go, to lean forward into nothingness.

To be free.

Perhaps she would feel nothing beyond a cold numbness, accompanied by an exhilarating rush of fear . . . followed by the blessed relief from pain.

Did pain even matter anymore?

The iron latch was icy cold as she worked it open. Condensation sprayed her cheeks as the pane slowly edged upward. Tendrils of hair whipped against her neck as the winter wind seemed to beckon.

She breathed deep.

If she could just garner what was left of her courage, why, it could all be over. Within minutes, in seconds, even, she'd no longer be awake. No longer be reminded. No longer be sad.

She'd no longer be afraid to rise each morning.

And wasn't the absence of fear, that intangible notion of confidence that children enjoyed and the elderly remembered, worth everything?

Reaching out, she clasped the metal lining of the frame. Felt the iron bite into her palm as she edged closer. At last, it was time.

“Mrs. Markham? Mrs. Markham, ma'am? Where should I put the new boarder until you are ready to talk with him?” Winifred called up from the base of the stairs.

Slowly . . . too slowly perhaps . . . one corner of Miranda's dark cloak of depression lifted. She realized she was still standing on the landing at the top of the stairs, the window open.

Winifred's voice turned shrill. “Mrs. Markham, do ye hear me?”

Miranda dropped her hands. Turned. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Peering through the maze of mahogany spindles, she looked down. Blinked as her home's long-time housekeeper came into focus. “A new boarder, did you say?”

Winifred stared back. “Yes, ma'am. ‘E's here a wee bit early. A Mr. Truax, his name is. Mr. Robert Truax.”

Though the name sounded familiar, Miranda couldn't place it. Why couldn't she?

“Madam,” Winifred began again, her voice holding the slightest tinge of impatience now. She was a reluctant transplant from England and seemed to always stare at her surroundings with varying degrees of shock and dismay. “Madam, don't you remember?” Winifred added, raising her voice just a little bit higher, as if she were talking to a child. “We got the telegram yesterday that said he was arriving today.”

She didn't remember much after receiving another threatening letter in yesterday's post. “Yes, of course.”

“I been working on his room all morning, I have.” Looking pleased, Winifred added, “It sparkles and shines, it does.”

“I'm glad,” she said absently.

Until and unless Phillip's family found a legal way to run her off—or made her miserable enough to leave on her own—she was in charge of the Iron Rail. It was her house, and with that came the responsibility of at least pretending she cared about the running of it. With a vague sense of resignation, she turned back to the window. Set about cranking it shut before locking it securely.

“Mrs. Markham, he's cooling his heels in Lt. Markham's study. What shall I do with him?” The housekeeper's voice now held a healthy thread of impatience. “Do you want to do your usual interview for new guests, or would you rather I take 'im straight to his room?”

Miranda truly didn't care where the man went. Any room would do—the farther away from her, the better. But she had a responsibility to the staff to at least meet the man she would be allowing to lodge in the house for a time.

Phillip would have expected her to do that. Summoning her courage, she said, “Please escort him to the parlor. I'll be down momentarily.” Stepping forward, she smoothed the thick wool of her charcoal gray skirt.

She avoided glancing at her reflection as she passed a mirror.

Though she was out of mourning and no longer wore black, no color appealed. Hence, gray. Though they'd never said so to her face, she'd overheard her four employees talk about her appearance more than once. The general consensus was that the hue didn't suit her any better than unrelieved black. Actually, Cook had remarked more than once that she resembled a skinny sparrow.

Continuing her descent, she said, “Please serve Mr. Truax tea. I believe we have one or two muffins left from breakfast as well?”

“We do. Since you didn't eat.”

Miranda almost smiled. “Today it is most fortunate I did not.”

Grumbling, the housekeeper turned away.

When she was alone again, Miranda took a fortifying breath. Realized that a fresh scent wafting from the open window had permeated the air. Salt and sea and, well, something tangy and bright.

It jarred her senses, gave her a small sense of hope.

Perhaps today was not the day to die after all.

By the time Miranda went downstairs, she'd made the poor man wait for almost fifteen minutes.

Yet instead of looking irritated, he stood and smiled when she entered the room, bowed slightly, as if she were wearing cerulean instead of gray. Just as if the war hadn't come and gone.

As she studied him, all traces of oxygen seemed to leave her. Robert Truax was terribly handsome. And for some reason, she thought perhaps she should recognize this man whose name had also seemed familiar. Tall, finely muscled, and—dare she admit—exuberant? So different from most of the men living on Galveston
Island. Most of the men looked hard, either from their years fighting the Yankees or from a lifetime sailing the open seas. Rarely did any of them smile at her. She was not only Phillip Markham's widow, but she now had the dubious reputation of housing strange men under his family's roof. Neither attribute endeared her to the general public.

As she crossed the room, Mr. Truax stood quietly. As if he had all the time in the world to stand at attention.

His good manners embarrassed her. She shouldn't have been so negligent. “Mr. Truax, I am terribly sorry to have kept you waiting.” Since she had no excuse, she offered none.

“I didn't mind. I've been looking at your books. And your housekeeper brought me some tea.” He flashed a smile. “With cream.”

Cream was a rare treat for most people. These days, with so many having so little, she'd almost forgotten their blessing. “Yes. We, um, have a cow.”

His grin widened. “Seems she did a real fine job of it today.”

The artless comment was unsettling. His accent was also unfamiliar. It lacked the usual soft
r
's and smooth cadence of south Texas. “You are not from around here.”

“You are correct, ma'am. I am not. And this is my first time in Galveston. However, I don't hail from too far away. I was raised in Ft. Worth.” He paused. “Then, of course, serving during the war took me all over the country. I spent a portion of it in the North. I think my accent might have altered after being around all those Yankees for so long.”

She winced. Remembering how much Phillip had hated to talk to her about the war, she quickly said, “Please forgive me . . . I shouldn't have pried.”

“You didn't pry, ma'am. You may ask me anything you'd like. I'm not a man of secrets.”

He was disconcerting, that was what he was. Attempting to regain control of their conversation, she gestured to the crimson-colored velvet settee. “Please, do sit down.”

He waited until she sat on the brocaded chair before he took his own seat at the end of the settee closest to her. But instead of leaning back against the cushion, he turned to face her. Leaned slightly forward. So close, she noticed he smelled of mint and leather. So close that their knees almost touched. It was unseemly and rather too forward.

However, she couldn't think of a polite way to withdraw.

“Mrs. Markham, where did you imagine I was from?”

She noticed his gaze had turned a bit more piercing. She also noticed she was finding it increasingly hard to look away. “It doesn't matter.”

“But still, I'm intrigued.”

She couldn't tell the truth. She would never tell a man that he sounded like a Northerner. To say something like that would be close to unforgiveable.

Almost as unforgiveable as what people said her husband did.

She cleared her throat. What she needed to do was complete their interview, put him in Winifred's capable hands, and retreat to her bedroom. “Mr. Truax, I like to know a little bit about the people staying in my home. Could you tell me about yourself?”

“Not much to tell, ma'am. I grew up in Ft. Worth, spent a good four years in the army. Now I am in Galveston to see to some business.”

His answers seemed purposely vague. “Perhaps you could share the nature of your business?”

“It is of a personal nature.”

“And for that you will need to stay here . . .” She tried to recall his telegram. “For one whole month?”

“I believe so. It might be longer. We'll see.”

“How did you hear of my boardinghouse?”

His dark gray eyes somehow became even more unfathomable. “People talk, Mrs. Markham. What I heard brought me here.” He paused. “That isn't a problem, is it? I mean, you do have a room open, don't you?”

His piercing gaze was more disconcerting than her in-laws' frequent unannounced visits. “Of course we do. It is simply that there are other, better establishments on Galveston Island that I feel would be far better suited for your kind.” She smiled. He stilled.

“Did you say ‘kind'?”

Her cheeks heated. “Most men of worth stay at the Tremont, for example. You look as if you have money to spend. Most of my boarders don't.”

He crossed one leg over the opposite knee. Infiltrating more precious space. “Actually, a friend told me about your boardinghouse. He said it was clean and reasonably priced. The perfect place for a weary soul to find solace.” He brazenly met her gaze, then let it drop. “I could use some solace, I think,” he added, his voice sounding troubled.

His tone caused goose bumps to form on her arms. What could he mean? More important, why did she care? She averted her eyes, not liking her body's response. How could she be this aware of a man who wasn't Phillip?

“This house has a good reputation, ma'am.”

“I see,” she said. Because she felt some response was necessary. However, his words were disconcerting. They'd all recently survived a war. Barely. No one's personal reasons for anything meant much these days.

Furthermore, she doubted her house would have garnered
any type of good reputation. Most people felt that her husband's sins stained her own reputation. And, of course, the old, drafty house she'd lived in since her marriage to Phillip.

Before she could comment, he shifted and spoke again. “I really do need a room. And I would like to get settled, if you would have me.”

If you would have me.

His words reverberated in her mind, causing her hands to shake. Phillip had said those exact words when he'd asked her to marry him.

I'd like to be yours, Miranda . . . if you would have me.

She clasped her fingers together.

“Tea?” he murmured.

“What? I mean . . . beg pardon?”

He gestured to the china pot and pair of cups. His almost empty. Hers hadn't yet been filled. “May I pour you a cup of tea, Mrs. Markham?” A dimple appeared. “It's cold as Hades in here, if you don't mind me saying.”