The Loyal Heart (18 page)

Even though she'd told him she wouldn't take long, Miranda still tarried. For some reason, she decided her chignon wasn't pinned right. And then she had to try on two different hats.

Finally, she had to collect her latest monies to deposit. She had had even less business than normal, which meant that she had an even smaller amount than usual. If not for Robert's payment, her financial situation would have fallen into even further precarious territory.

Therefore, it was a full forty minutes later when she returned downstairs. “I do beg your pardon. Here I promised I would be quick and I took an even longer time than I usually do.”

“I still didn't mind.” Walking to the wardrobe, he pulled out her cloak. “Now, let's get you as warm as possible. I do believe there was frost on the ground this morning.”

She doubted that, but she allowed him to assist her with her cloak. Moments later, they were walking together toward town. She wasn't clutching his arm, but she might as well have been.

The last time they'd walked together, she had been nervous and tense. Worried about not only everyone around them but also Robert himself. People like Kyle Winter and Mercy had tainted
her trust. She'd been afraid of him and couldn't bear to believe anything he said.

Now, however, she felt as if he was her one true ally.

Whether from Robert's appearance or if her time of purgatory had finally ended, several men and women acknowledged her. Oh, they didn't actually greet her and stop to pass the time, but they didn't ignore her completely like they usually did.

The idea that she no longer was going to be despised made her feel like laughing. She settled for a bright smile.

Robert noticed. “What's that smile for? Did I do something to earn it?”

“Maybe.” Looking up at him, she said, “Today is the first day in memory that no one on the streets has been treating me like an outcast. I am very happy about that. And I suspect it is because of you standing up for me.”

“It's about time that nonsense ended, ma'am. You never were a pariah in the first place.”

“Perhaps, but for some reason, people seem nicer. I am glad of that.”

His lips curved up. “You, Mrs. Markham, are too easy to please.”

“Don't get your hopes up,” she teased. “I am only feeling that way this afternoon. Tonight, I feel certain everything and everyone will cause me to complain.”

“I'll do my best to stay far away from you this evening then,” he said as they stopped at a corner.

She was just about to tell him she wouldn't dare be mean to her social savior when her former best friend walked to her side.

Though it was tempting to say nothing—after all, that was what Mercy had done to her time and again—Miranda didn't want to create an awkward situation. “Hello, Mercy,” she said at last. “I trust you are doing well?”

Mercy barely inclined her head. “Mrs. Markham.”

When her gaze flickered over to Robert and stilled, he bowed ever so slightly.

“Ma'am.”

“Sir, I'm afraid I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

Though she had a feeling she was about to regret it, Miranda performed the introductions. “Mercy, may I present Mr. Robert Truax? He served with my husband in the war. Robert, this is Mrs. Jackson.”

“Sir.”

He bowed slightly. “Mrs. Jackson.”

Mercy tilted her head to one side. “I haven't seen much of you of late, Miranda. Have you become even more a recluse?”

“I suppose I have.”

“Perhaps we shall see more of you, now that you have decided to walk the streets with your boarders.” She paused. “Or shall I say, too much of you?”

Before Miranda could give that the dignity of a reply, Robert took her elbow. “We should be on our way, Miranda. Let's go while there's a break in the traffic.”

“Yes, of course.” She allowed him to guide her forward, then started to look back to see if Mercy followed or what expression she was wearing.

“Don't look back.”

“I'm only looking to see—”

“Don't. Forget about her.”

“I cannot. You see—”

He cut her off again, his voice firm. “You can forget her, Miranda. It's possible. You owe her nothing.”

She wondered what kind of man he was. Did he go through life firmly forgetting past friendships? Was that how a man
survived without parents to guide him or protect him? “Robert, it isn't quite that easy. You see, she was my best friend for years. We were once quite close.”

“If that is truly the case, then that is even more of a reason for you not to be kind to her now. She should have stayed loyal to you.” He leaned down closer. “Miranda, she had a choice to make when your troubles started. She could have put you first or put you last. We both know what she did.”

It was hard to hear about Mercy's actions in such stark terms. “I wish she had chosen my friendship over the gossip she heard.”

“You do?” He looked down at her and smiled softly. Then, to her surprise, he ran two fingers along the slope of her jaw. Right there on the street! “Well, that makes two of us.”

Before she could comment on that, he sighed dramatically. “Now that we've taken care of your former best friend, let us tackle the bank and the weasel otherwise known as Mr. Winter before we post my letter at the mercantile.”

She dared to smile. Truly, he was being outrageous. “Goodness. He's a weasel now?”

“More or less. Other names are more fitting, but alas, they are not for your ears.”

“I've noticed that you are not afraid to put everyone in their place today.”

“Yes, it is true. Unlike you, it seems everyone has gotten on my nerves today. I have lost patience with Galveston Island's general population.”

“I had better watch myself, then.”

“No, my dear.” Taking her elbow to carefully guide her up the steps, he said, “Be assured that you have nothing to worry about. There isn't a thing you could do to lower my estimation of you.”

His words were so direct, so assured, that they made her a bit wary. He knew her, but he didn't know the things she'd done or contemplated. “Those are sweet words, but we both know they cannot be true. Everyone does something that another finds fault with.”

“With you? No, I don't think so,” he said without a trace of hesitancy.

Because she knew such words didn't always last and some feelings eventually faded, she didn't protest his effusive praise.

After all, even if he had no regrets, she knew another day things would go dark again.

If time had taught her anything, it was that nothing wonderful lasted.

Johnson's Island, Ohio
Confederate States of America Officers' POW Camp
March 1865

E
VER SINCE
P
HILLIP HAD BEEN MOVED TO THE BOTTOM
floor of their barracks, which was their makeshift infirmary, Thomas Baker had been Robert's new bunkmate. Baker, being only a sergeant, had been originally slated for the POW prison in Columbus, but through the wonders of red tape, and, no doubt, a certain captain's influence, he'd been shipped up to their island prison with the rest of them.

Robert had always liked Thomas well enough. They'd been sent on a few scouting missions together when they were stationed in Tennessee. After only a few hours in each other's company, it was evident they made a good team. Neither of them had much to lose. Because of that, they had little fear. They'd also had a lot of experience using force when necessary. Robert wasn't exactly proud of it, but he could use his fists with the best of them. Thomas was just as scrappy.

Thomas was street-smart, too, and the enlisted men had held
him in high esteem. Robert would fight by his side any day, and consider it an honor to do so.

All that said, Robert wasn't especially thrilled to have him as his bunkmate. The man was bigger than Phillip and, as far as Robert could tell, he'd never slept without shifting positions two dozen times. He was also a talker.

Robert was soon learning that the man required at least an hour's worth of conversation before he closed his eyes for the night. For two men stuck on an island with little to do but write letters to loved ones, pace, and whittle, Robert was amazed that the man had anything to say at all.

But each night Thomas came up with something, usually when Robert's eyes were drifting shut.

“Hey, Rob?”

Not bothering to move from his position on his side, he mumbled, “What?”

“Did you see the new men arrive this afternoon?”

Even though he'd almost been asleep, Robert found himself smiling. “Hard to miss them. They were walking across Lake Erie like their soles were going to slip through at any minute.”

“I talked to one. They're from the Tennessee Army.”

“Didn't know that. Do you know any of them?” Thomas, like Captain Monroe, had originally joined the Tennessee regiment before getting transferred.

“No. But they seem a well enough sort. Decent.”

“Bet they're tired as all get-out.” It was a long journey to be taken prisoner, shipped up to Ohio on a train, then eventually forced to march across Lake Erie's frozen bay to their camp.

“Yeah. Maybe.” He paused. “One of the officers almost smiled when he saw our barracks. Said it looked like a college dormitory.”

“I've heard that too.” Phillip had once compared their lodging
to his dorm at West Point. Thomas sounded more than a little wistful. Robert wondered where this conversation was going.

“You ever been to college, Lieutenant?”

Robert scoffed. “I never had any schooling.”

“Not any?” Thomas sounded incredulous, and Robert couldn't blame him. Most people were lucky enough to have some kind of formal education, he reckoned. He just had never been one of those.

“Nope.”

When a couple of men around them grunted, Thomas lowered his voice. “I thought you could read, though. Can't you?”

“I can read. But until I enlisted, only a couple of old men had taught me how to cipher, and a pair of sisters taught me to read a little.” He frowned, thinking back to that summer when those girls had befriended him as their charity case. They'd let him use their barn's spigot, given him a cot to sleep on, and had even given him supper every evening.

But when one of them started acting like she liked him, he'd gotten smart and moved on. No amount of learning or stew was worth being some girl's kept boyfriend. Especially when her daddy would've likely shot him for getting close to her.

“What about you?” Robert asked, curious now. “I thought your childhood wasn't much different from mine.”

“I was born north of Dallas, in Wichita Falls. I had a house and everything.” His voice turned wistful. Almost sweet. “For my first eight years, I had a mom and dad and a big brother too.”

Robert was shocked. Thomas was rougher around the edges than he was, and that said a lot. “Were they good people?”

“Yeah. They were real good. My ma liked to sing. She sang most every morning when she hung clothes out on the line. And my brother, Jeremy, was the best. You know how some older
brothers act like their reason for living is to beat the tar out of their siblings?”

Of course he didn't; he had no siblings. But he answered anyway. “Yeah.”

“Jeremy wasn't like that. He always let me follow him around. And when he was with his friends after church, he made everyone include me. He walked me to school every day too.”

Putting off the inevitable question, which was what happened to them all, Robert said, “What about your dad?”

“He was stocky like me. He was a blacksmith. Funny, some blacksmiths are all about the iron, but my dad, he was all about the horses. He loved those horses.”

“Now I see why you ride so well.”

“Yep, he taught me how to ride. He rode like the wind. He taught me how to trust your horse too. Said a horse won't ever let you down. He was right.” His voice drifted off, true sadness lacing every word.

Which prompted Robert to ask the inevitable. “What happened when you were eight?”

“Indian raid.”

“What?”

“Shut up, Truax!” a major called out. “It's going on one in the morning!”

“Sorry,” Robert mumbled. Flipping over on his back, he whispered, “What happened?”

“Some renegade Indians were out looking for food, I guess. Or maybe they were just sick of being forced from their homes and land and decided to make a point. Anyway, they killed 'em all but me.”

“It's good you survived.”

“I don't know,” Thomas said in his halting way. “My ma made me hide, you see.” He lowered his voice. “They all did. Jeremy said he'd beat me good if I showed my face, no matter what I heard. So I stayed hid, 'cause Jeremy didn't lie.”

“I'm, uh, real sorry, Baker. That's a real shame about your family.” It was more than that, of course. But what else could he say?

“Yeah. But what do you do? Everybody's got something. Now here you and I are, sitting in some Yankee barracks getting yelled at by guards who never saw action.”

“This is true.”

“And Phillip is downstairs dying inch by inch with that gangrene.” Whispering now, he said, “Gangrene's a heck of a way to die.”

It was.

The reminder of Phillip downstairs writhing in pain made him get up. “I better go relieve Cap.”

“How come it's just you and Cap watching him now?”

“Don't know,” he lied. “We might be in prison, but I still do what I'm told.”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, but it was apparent that he didn't believe Robert.

Not wanting to converse about it further, Robert slipped out of the cot, threw his boots back on, and walked downstairs, then through the middle aisle where most of the men there were sleeping.

No one asked him where he was going. Probably because they'd seen him walk through here dozens of other times.

When he got to Phillip's room, he saw Captain Monroe sitting next to him. Phillip's blanket was clenched in Cap's hands. The expression on their captain's face could only be described as devastated.

“Robert,” he said.

“Captain, you okay?”

“Me? No. Phillip is dead.”

The words, though expected, hit him with such force that Robert knew he was swaying on his feet.

Unable to completely grasp it, Robert walked to the side of Phillip's bed and sat on the edge of his cot. Phillip's eyes were closed, but his body didn't look like Robert would have expected it to. He looked tense, almost as if he'd been fighting something.

“What happened?”

“You know what happened, Lieutenant.” He hesitated. “The man had gangrene and infection. This was inevitable.”

“I know. It's just that when I was with him earlier, he seemed to be breathing easy. He even talked for a while.”

Captain Monroe looked up. “Was he making any sense?”

“At first he was talking about Miranda and home, but then about squirrels and rabbits. And weasels, if you can believe that. He must have thought he was a kid out hunting with his pa or something.”

Captain Monroe looked like he was about to nod, then, after looking over his shoulder, he shook his head. “He wasn't talking about hunting with his pa.”

“You know what all that meant?”

Monroe nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

“Was it . . . was it from one of his missions?” he whispered.

“It was.”

“Did he say more while you were with him, sir?”

“Let's not talk anymore about this, Robert.” After taking a fortifying breath, Captain Monroe stood. “If it's all the same to you, I think we might as well tell everyone about Phillip's passing in the morning. Let everyone who can sleep do so.”

“Yes, sir.”

He walked out then, head down. Robert was fairly sure he'd never seen Devin Monroe stand so dejectedly.

The door closed behind him. Leaving Robert alone with Phillip Markham's dead body.

Closing his eyes, he prayed for the man's soul. Prayed he'd find some comfort. And at last prayed for his beloved Miranda, whom he'd seemed to have loved more than anything else in the world.

Then, satisfied that he'd done his best for the man, he moved over to the chair their captain had just vacated and sat vigil by Phillip's side.

He told himself it was because Phillip Markham needed that kind of respect.

But what he really did was look at the door and think about the last time he'd sat with Phillip.

Phillip had been feverish and vocal. He'd cried. He'd talked about Miranda and Galveston Island. And he did talk about squirrels and rabbits and weasels. He hadn't lied about that.

But then he seemed to be talking to a phantom officer about the success of his latest foray behind enemy lines. Where he'd donned a Union uniform, adopted the East Coast accent he'd learned at West Point, and walked the halls at one of the hospitals.

Through it all, Robert had been stunned and terrified. Terrified to leave him to go get Monroe.

And more terrified to do what Monroe had insisted had to be done.

Soon, however, Phillip had stopped talking and fallen into a deep sleep. Robert dropped the jacket in his hands and sank back against the wall in relief. When Monroe arrived shortly after, Robert never said a word to him, too ashamed that he'd betrayed his captain's orders.

As he left Phillip's room, he noticed the two sick men in cots on the other side of the door staring hard at him. And the guard who was leaning against the wall seeming to stare at nothing.

Those three men had heard. But he walked out without a word.

What had he done?

Certainly not what his captain had been brave enough to do.