The Loyal Heart (3 page)

Before she thought better of it, she wrinkled her nose. “I've never heard that expression before.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I mean, I thought it was hot in Hades.” Feeling awkward, she bit her lip. Why had she even uttered such a thing?

Instead of replying, he lifted the teapot. The fragile china, marked with a profusion of poorly painted pale pink roses, looked absurd in his masculine hand.

“I'll pour, Mr. Truax.”

“It's already in my grip, though. So may I pour you some tea now? I don't dare drink another drop without you.”

Oh, those words. That direct, heated look. It was nerve-racking. Whoever spoke so freely? So openly?

“Mrs. Markham?” He set the fragile teapot back down on the small table in front of them.

It was all Miranda could do not to grimace. She needed to focus. To be the lady he assumed she was. “Yes. I mean, sir, I'll pour. That's a lady's job.” She blinked in frustration. “That is, I'm sorry you are chilled.” She didn't dare offer further apology. The reason for the cool rooms was obvious. All of them had so little now. And living as they did in Galveston?

Timber for fireplaces wasn't an easy commodity.

Miranda picked up the teapot. But from the moment she held it aloft, it was obvious her tremors hadn't abated.

He noticed.

“Let me help,” he murmured. Gently, he curved his fingers around her own and supported the bottom of the pot with his opposite hand. Easily, he guided her, pouring hot tea into one cup, then the other.

His hands were comforting. His rough, calloused palms reminded her that he was so very different from her. Those hands were wide enough to completely cover her own. And warm enough to tease her insides—like heated caramel syrup. For a moment, she was tempted to close her eyes, to imagine a man's arms holding her once again. Warming her. It had been so long.

She trembled.

After setting the pot back on the table, he leaned closer. “Ma'am? Are you all right?”

“I'm sorry.” She forced a weak smile. “I guess a ghost crossed my path.”

Instead of grinning, he merely stared at her, his manner filled with concern. “Are you feeling better now?”

She nodded. “Yes.” Oh, but she felt so strange!

She watched as he poured a liberal dose of cream into his cup
and sipped appreciatively. “I do love hot tea. It's been ages since I've had any.”

“Why is that? I thought you folks in Ft. Worth had most everything you needed.”

“Not everything, ma'am.”

His presence still confused her. “Mr. Truax, when, exactly, did you arrive in Galveston? Did you arrive on the ferry from Houston this morning?” She couldn't recall if the boats ran this early.

The secret amusement that had played around his eyes faded as his expression clouded. “Yes.”

“And what business have you had before coming here?”

“Work that has taken me all over the state.”

Work? He sounded as if he'd been on a mission.

What kind could that be? Was he a soldier still? Yet he wore no uniform. He said he needed rest, but he didn't look weary.

“I hate to point out the obvious, but you haven't yet actually told me my fate.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did I pass the test? May I stay here with you, Mrs. Markham?”

She blinked. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she kept getting the feeling that he was talking in riddles. Almost as if he knew something she didn't.

The idea was disturbing. She should probably ask more questions. It wasn't safe for a woman to be living with people she didn't know. Especially not a strange man who smiled too much and evaded questions like they were intricate steps in a quadrille.

However, it didn't really matter, did it? Her reputation was in shreds and it wasn't like she didn't have rooms to spare. She had far too many empty rooms.

But most of all, overriding everything was the fact that she was too tired and too numb inside to really care. Numbness, she had
learned, was the key to survival. And if she were going to decide to live, she needed to survive in this house as long as she could.

Eager to end their conversation, she at last answered. “Yes, Mr. Truax. You may stay.”

A dimple appeared. “I'm so glad. Thank you.”

They stood up. “Winifred, my housekeeper, will give you a key and show you to your room when you finish your tea.”

“I have already finished,” he said lightly, illustrating that she'd very likely been staring at him, lost in thought for longer than she realized.

She really should be doing better with him. After taking a fortifying breath, she got to her feet. “Mr. Truax, I just realized I haven't yet given you a tour of the house. Or told you about mealtimes. Or explained our fees.”

“I'm sure we'll take care of everything in time, ma'am,” he replied, his voice gentle. “And don't you worry none. Fact is, I don't need very much at all. Why, I'd bet a three-cent piece you'll hardly know I'm here.”

When he left the room to find her housekeeper on his own, she sat back down.

As she sipped the rapidly cooling tea, Miranda knew one thing for certain. It was extremely unlikely that she would forget Robert Truax was there.

R
OBERT WAS NEVER COMFORTABLE IN A TAILORED SUIT
. Growing up the way he had on the streets of Ft. Worth, he'd been lucky to have a shirt on his back, never mind anything that actually fit him. After he entered the service, his uniform had been cut for the active life of a soldier. The fabric had been thick and hardy, turning soft after many washings. The cut had been generous through his chest and shoulders too. A man needed room to point and shoot.

A lot had happened in the last seven years, however. When the war broke out, he'd been one of the first to enlist. Given the circumstances of his youth, he was tough. He was good at street fighting and had little to no fear for his person or his life.

Those qualities, while not serving him all that well in the businesses of Ft. Worth, were highly valued in the military. He worked hard to gain acceptance and be valued. It became apparent that, whereas he had no reason to return home, he had every reason to excel in his unit.

It seemed his soul had been aching for a life filled with purpose.

Perhaps because he was so eager—or maybe it was because he was so obviously lacking—he'd gotten a good education from
both his fellow enlisted men and his officers. Bored men greatly improved his literacy and taught him to write. Lazy supply officers taught him rudimentary math skills.

Eventually he'd garnered the attention of Captain Devin Monroe and the officers in his unit. Over time, they more or less adopted him, teaching him manners and correct grammar.

After Gettysburg, he fought hard enough and displayed sufficient skills to become an officer. A second lieutenant. Later, when they were captured and moved up North, Robert concentrated on making the best of the experience.

Consequently, he was probably the only man to feel he came out of the prisoner-of-war camp in better shape than when he entered. Those men had not only continued his education in history, science, and literature, but they'd managed to teach him how to waltz one very long stretch of days when the temperatures loomed around zero and the snow and ice covered the ground in thick blankets.

He'd also made some close connections. Soon after their release, he'd gone to work for a locomotive company. The owner had been looking for someone with Texas ties to help encourage new business.

Just as he had in the military, he'd quickly risen through the ranks and reaped the financial rewards. And though most men might not consider him wealthy, he now was blessed with far more in his pockets than he'd ever dreamed of—and he looked the part as well.

When his former captain had asked a favor, it had never occurred to Robert to refuse. He owed that man and his former unit both his life and his peace of mind, so he left the locomotive company's employ and came here.

Most days he didn't think much about how his clothes fit.
That moment, however, as he followed the curmudgeonly housekeeper up a flight of stairs into a surprisingly well-kept and spacious room at the far end of a long hall, he was sure the collar of his close-fitting shirt was in danger of choking him.

That was what he deserved, he suspected, for lying through his teeth to a beautiful widow who looked so fragile that a strong wind would likely toss her off her feet. When he quickly realized Miranda Markham had no idea who he was—perhaps Phillip had never mentioned him in his letters?—he followed through with his intent to keep his connection to her husband to himself. His plan might be more successful that way. Mrs. Markham seemed like she was barely hanging on.

However, though he had the best of intentions at the moment, he felt lower than he could ever recall. Well, not since he'd followed his captain out of the prison he'd shared with his four best friends in the world, leaving Phillip and so many others in unmarked graves in the small cemetery just outside their barracks.

The housekeeper fingered the coverlet on the bed. “I trust everything is to your satisfaction, sir?”

He didn't bother to look around. In truth, his surroundings didn't interest him as much as the woman downstairs did. It was true, as well, that rooms and amenities meant little to him now. If he was warm and dry, he would be a far sight better than he'd been on Johnson's Island. “It is. Thank you.”

Her expression flattened. “I'll be seeing you, then. Let me know if you'll be needin' anything.” She took a breath. “That ain't to say that I can find it, but I can try,” she said as she started toward the door.

“Times still hard here?”

She drew to a stop. “War ain't been over that long.”

“I meant in this house.” Of course, the moment he said the
words he wished he could take them back. The woman had had to open her house to strangers. Things were obviously not good at all.

She turned, umbrage in her posture. “Mrs. Markham runs a respectable establishment, sir. I don't expect you'll be finding anything remiss.”

“Of course not. I suspected nothing less.”

She nodded. “Good. I'll expect you ta remember that.”

“Shame she lost her husband,” he interjected quickly. He needed information and so far she was his best and easiest option to get it. “I mean, I assume she is a widow.”

“She is.” After eyeing him for a long moment, she said, “Lt. Markham died near the end of the war.” Her voice lowered. “He perished less than a month before Lee surrendered at Appomattox.”

“Shame, that,” he said lightly.

“It was worse than a shame, sir. It was a tragedy.”

“Indeed.”

He considered his ability to even say two words to be something of an accomplishment.

Because the fact was, he remembered Phillip's death well. Too well. Phillip had lingered, fighting the inevitable with each breath. Robert had painfully watched him fight that losing battle, helpless to do anything but watch him waste away for days. On his last day, Robert had held his hand for hours, attempting to give him some degree of warmth in a very cold existence. Then, after he'd left his side and Devin Monroe had gone to take a turn, Phillip had passed on.

“He died in a Yankees' prison barracks, he did,” the housekeeper blurted. “He would write Mrs. Markham letters from there, trying to sound positive, but we all knew he weren't doing well.”

Robert had watched Phillip write those letters. They all had.
But because he didn't want anyone in Galveston to know that yet, he kept his expression impassive. “Oh?”

“Oh, yes. He died up in Ohio, he did.” She grimaced. “Poor man, forced to live and die on an island in the middle of Lake Erie. Don't seem natural, if you ask me.”

He agreed. “I would imagine any prison would be a hard place to live. Or die.”

After eyeing him carefully, she said, “I should probably let you know that if you stay on Galveston Island for any length of time, you're going to hear a lot of talk about Lt. Markham and even more talk about Mrs. Markham herself. Some of it is ugly.” She closed her eyes. “Actually, the majority of it is ugly.”

He knew she was warning him for his own good. He was more than willing to heed it. “I've never given much credence to idle chatter.”

“If you are living here, that would be good to bear in mind,” she advised. “Sometimes life interferes with all our best intentions.”

Robert felt as if the walls surrounding him were closing in. Remembering the drafty barracks, how cold it had been in the winter, how endless the days had lasted, he felt a thin line of perspiration form along the middle of his back. “Some might believe there's more glory from dying on the battlefield, but I imagine there's just as much honor dying in prison.”

She lifted a graying eyebrow. “You really think that, don't you?”

“I do.” It took everything he had not to embellish his statement. He wasn't ready to discuss his own imprisonment. Still less ready to remember his comrades' pain, suffering, and eventual death. The memories were too crystal clear—the damp smell of their cells, the faraway look in his commander's eyes, the long hours spent in boredom.

Those memories, it seemed, were reserved only for the middle of the night.

With a new awareness in her eyes, Winifred looked him over. She seemed to hesitate, then blurted, “Since you're going to be hearing things anyway, you might as well know that folks not only say he died a coward's death in that Northern prison, but he also died while being interrogated and gave secrets to the enemy.”

Only by digging his fingers into the palms of his hands was he able to remain impassive. “I don't understand.”

“I know. It don't make no sense at all. If he died while being questioned, it would mean he kept his secrets, don'tcha think?” Before Robert could comment on that, she continued on in her loquacious way. “Sir, anyone who knew the lieutenant knew he would no more share precious secrets with the enemy than he would have harmed a hair on Mrs. Markham's head. He was a good man.”

Phillip had been better than that. He'd loved his wife, yes. But he'd also loved the men he'd served with. He'd been loyal to the cause. Even more than that, he'd been loyal to the men he served with and led into battle.

As far as he was concerned, Phillip Markham had been the best the South had to offer. Anyone who said different was surely a liar and a scoundrel.

“So you don't believe he did share military secrets?”

She shook her head. “No, sir, I do not, and neither does Mrs. Markham. Even if one didn't call into account the fact that he'd been injured, captured, then hauled up to the middle of Lake Erie, therefore not able to share anything of use, he weren't that kind of man,” she murmured, her English accent sounding more pronounced. “That said, if he did say anything he shouldn't, I'm of the mind that he should be forgiven, don'tcha think?” She stared at him, her pale gray eyes practically daring him to refute her.

Or, perhaps, she was looking for hope instead?

Robert stayed silent.

He wasn't sure who should be forgiven. They'd all committed atrocities in battle. They'd all done things in captivity they'd never imagined they would do before they'd donned a uniform.

Visibly uncomfortable with his silence, the housekeeper spoke a little faster. “I mean, six months before General Lee signed that treaty, well, things were already a foregone conclusion. No Yankee cared about what a Confederate lieutenant had to say. And especially not one locked up on an island.” She looked at him worriedly. Practically begging him to reassure her. “Don'tcha think?”

She was wrong, of course. Their enemy had cared about everything they knew. Then there were guards who cared about nothing other than recriminations.

Though they were treated with a light hand compared to the atrocities of Andersonville or even in some of the other Union prisons, their guards hadn't been especially kind to them. Why, once word got out about the horrors of the treatment in the Confederate prisons, their rations had been cut in half. Hunger and cold had been constant companions.

Robert now knew any confinement was debilitating. “I couldn't begin to guess.”

She waved an impatient hand. “Whatever the reason, it would help Mrs. Markham if you kept the gossip you hear to yourself. I promise, nothing you could say will sway the gossipmongers, and it ain't anything she hasn't heard before.”

“Understood.”

Her face cleared then, seeming to come to a decision. “We're pleased you're here, whatever the reason, Mr. Truax. We serve supper at six and breakfast at seven. Don't be late.”

“No, ma'am.”

“Charmer,” Robert heard her say under her breath as she walked out of the room.

The moment the door closed behind her, he strode to the desk, found a letterhead, envelope, ink, and quill, and sat down to collect his thoughts. Though he would have preferred to simply telegraph his progress, he couldn't risk anyone discovering his real mission. His job was to get to know Phillip Markham's widow, ascertain how she was truly doing after her husband's death, and make whatever changes he could to ease her life. Then he was to leave and go on about his life—unless Monroe summoned him for another assignment.

This duty had seemed so easy when he learned its details from their former captain. His mission had felt cut-and-dried. He'd been certain he would have been able to remain carefully distant, even if she had known from the beginning that he served with Phillip. He'd imagined he would feel nothing more than pity for her. After all, she was merely one of hundreds—if not thousands—of women struggling to reconfigure their lives without husbands by their sides.

But from the moment she'd entered the room and he'd caught sight of her beauty and heard her slow drawl, he'd been mesmerized. Then he'd noticed that her eyes were a curious shade of blue—almost lavender in color. And that they were framed by dark circles, illustrating her lack of sleep and an abundance of worry and stress. His heart had been lost.