The Loyal Heart Read online

  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.

  She would now be left to only guess what he would find on the other side.

  13

  SOME MEMORIES OF THE WAR WERE SO PAINFUL THAT Robert would gladly trade the loss of one limb if the Lord would remove the images from his mind.

  However, since he was pretty sure God didn’t necessarily appreciate a man bargaining with him, Robert had long since resigned himself to cope with his flashbacks as best he could. Some methods worked better than others.

  After spending too many hours nearly paralyzed by his thoughts, Robert had begun to try to ease those dark thoughts in a variety of ways. So far, the best way he’d found to find relief had been to consciously attempt to never think about the war.

  Ever.

  After a bit of practice, that method worked rather nicely. Every time his mind would drift toward a particularly horrific event that had played out on the battlefield, Robert would stop himself and concentrate on something at hand. Like music, for example. Or the way a woman smiled at a shopkeeper. Puppies and kittens and babies he saw. Anything that was the complete opposite of the grim realities of war.

  But now, as he walked into Miranda Markham’s darkened bedroom, his mind drifted back to one of his most painful nights on Johnson’s Island . . . the night after they’d buried Phillip Markham. The burial ceremony itself had been a rather grand affair, given their circumstances. Over a hundred men had gathered together to pray before Robert, Captain Monroe, Thomas, and Major Kelly laid him to rest in the Confederate cemetery.

  Captain Monroe, a man always to be counted on for eloquence, spoke about Phillip’s love for Galveston Island, honor and chivalry, and of course, his beloved Miranda.

  Robert had committed much of Monroe’s speech to memory, it had been so beautiful. Their captain had spoken of living life to the fullest, even if it was a shortened one. He’d talked of finding joy in most every blessed event—even those events that didn’t seem blessed at all.

  And for a while, Captain Monroe’s words had given them all a measure of hope and solace. His speech had offered a small amount of understanding in a time when so very little of what had happened to them was understandable.

  But then the night had come.

  And with that night came silence and men’s cries. For Robert, it had also brought with it the realization that never again would he hear Phillip’s slow drawl. Never again would Phillip chat incessantly about love and marriage and his beloved Miranda.

  Late in the evening, long after midnight, Robert had felt a desolation so strong that it had hurt to breathe. He’d remembered all the men he’d known who had already died. He’d even forced himself to remember the day Rory had passed away.

  And then his state of mind had gotten even worse.

  For one long, interminable hour, he’d gazed at his sheet and contemplated making it into a rope.

  All that had stopped him was the thought of the other men having to bury his body. Digging graves was a grueling and daylong affair. It left one sore and dirty and feeling hopeless. Then, of course, was the pain that he would put his captain through. He’d have to stand up once again and fashion words to comfort the other men.

  He’d gone to sleep that night taking some comfort that he was sparing his fellow prisoners that, at least.

  Now, as Robert opened Miranda’s door, he was instantly inundated with the faint scent of roses that always clung to her skin and hair. Though his instant reaction was to breathe deeply, he pushed that thought away and forced himself to remember that long, painful night when he’d convinced himself to stay alive.

  At that moment, even though they were so very different, he realized he felt as one with Miranda. After all, he knew what it felt like to give up hope.

  But more important, he also knew the sharp relief that came from making the decision to not give in to despair.

  “Lord,” he whispered, “please help me out here. Please help me be of use to this woman . . . and not scare her half to death when she realizes I’ve entered her bedroom unannounced and uninvited.”

  After waiting a second for the Lord to process his request, Robert cleared his throat. Paused.

  His muscles were so tense, he was pretty sure he would be able to hear his heart beating.

  When he heard nothing, he cleared his throat. And into the silence, he called out, “Miranda?”

  He heard a gasp, then a rustle of taffeta.

  Then he could almost feel the tension reverberating from her. “Miranda, it’s me. I mean, it’s Robert. Truax.” He winced. Why was he sounding so tentative now? After all, he came into her boudoir without knocking.

  “Robert?”

  Her voice sounded confused, not frightened. And not angry. That was something, he supposed. “Yes, it is I.”

  Through the faint shadows, he saw her scramble from where she’d been resting on top of the bed covering.

  And that was when it hit him. She’d been resting, not attempting to kill
herself. She’d been asleep and he’d woken her up.

  A mere hour after she’d told him he could stay instead of leave. What had he been thinking?

  Robert stumbled backward until his shoulder blades were touching the door. In all of his thirty years, he doubted he’d ever been more embarrassed.

  “Why are you here?”

  There was only one answer he could give, and that was the truth. “I was afraid for you, ma’am.”

  She stepped into the light cast by the sheer fabric covering the narrow window next to him. Her dress was rumpled, her hair in disarray. It wasn’t loose, but it looked as if a faint breeze could loosen it from its confines.

  Her eyes were sleepy looking, her eyelids lower than usual. And her face . . .

  He inhaled sharply. There was a sheet mark on her cheek, giving evidence that she’d been sleeping hard.

  He had never seen a lady in such a state. Not languid, freshly awoken. Smelling of roses and slumber and still throwing off the faint vestiges of sleep.

  His embarrassment faded into longing.

  The polite thing to do would be to excuse himself. To turn away. To give her some privacy, or at the very least, the semblance of such. But he found he could no more do that than he could have kept his distance from her if he’d thought she was hurting.

  She was everything he’d ever dreamed a fine woman could be. Beautiful and feminine. Gentle. She encouraged every protective instinct he’d ever had and quite a few feelings of longing that he hadn’t known he possessed.

  Actually, Miranda was everything her husband, Phillip, had ever claimed her to be when he’d waxed poetic tales about her over the campfires. She was everything he’d said she was and far more than Robert had ever imagined.

  And, he realized, she’d taken his breath away.

  “Robert, why are you afraid?”

  He hated what he was about to say, but he couldn’t afford not to be blunt. Looking at her directly, he said, “One of your servants feared for your mental state, ma’am. I decided to make sure you were all right. Perhaps sit with you if you were doing, uh, poorly.”