The Loyal Heart (27 page)

G
ALVESTON
'
S WAREHOUSE DISTRICT WAS A RUN
-
DOWN
hodgepodge of derelict buildings, thriving cotton warehouses, and empty storefronts. With every storm that had passed through the area, water and wind had caused a good bit of damage to some of it.

Never all.

For that reason, it was an area in constant change. It lay in between the port and the red-light district, and the businessmen who oversaw the area were generally thought to be unscrupulous. They were men just coming out of years of war with nothing to lose. Because of all that—as well as the well-known rat population—Miranda had stayed far away from this section of the city.

Until now.

She was currently sitting alone on the second floor of what surely was once a fishery. The building smelled abominable and creaked and groaned painfully with every burst of wind. Her hands were tied behind her back with rope, she was bruised, and she had a cut on her cheek that she feared would always leave a scar.

If she survived.

After shooting poor Major Kelly, Mr. Winter had jerked her forward, pulling her into the crowded alleys and passageways of
the warehouse district. She'd screamed and cried, but no one they passed had given her any mind.

Any attempts of rescue wouldn't have been fruitful anyway. Mr. Winter had been dragging her along like a man possessed, calling her foul names and accusing her of awful things. She doubted he would have been any kinder to any poor soul who would have attempted to rescue her.

After he dragged her into the fishery, he forced her to climb the rickety stairs into an abandoned loft. Then he talked and talked, hardly taking a breath.

As much as Miranda could ascertain from the madman's ramblings, Mr. Carrington's bowing to Ethan Kelly's wishes had pushed Kyle Winter over the edge, and he'd finally had enough of waiting for his schemes to work. He told her how he blamed Phillip for his brother's death, and how he had been courting Viola to claim the house and its prime location as his ultimate means of revenge. Then how while Viola imagined they were going to live happily as husband and wife, he planned to sell the house to one of the many ship captains who often came in, to one of the Yankee profiteers, or to one of the men making fortunes in cotton as both the North and South struggled to pull themselves together.

He was going to destroy everything Phillip Markham had ever known, and, he said, the only real obstacle was her. She was made of far stronger stuff than he'd ever imagined.

Then he pushed her into a small space about the size of a storage room. The action had caused her to trip and fall. She'd landed clumsily. Because of that, she'd cut both her arm and cheek as well as bruised most of her limbs.

The moment she struggled to stand upright, Mr. Winter yanked her to her feet, then proceeded to pull her to the back of the musty space.

While she was still disoriented, he tied her hands, secured her to a rusty pipe, and left.

That had been at least two hours ago. Maybe three. She had no idea where he had gone or if and when he would return.

Now it was dark, though some shadows played along the walls, making the already-scary situation worse. She kept imagining someone was attempting to break into the room to join her. Whether it was a rat or a vagrant, she would have no way to fight back.

Miranda had known her situation would get even more horrific when darkness fell. She wouldn't be able to see anything and the temperature would drop even more. She'd been right.

Already bitterly cold, she rested her head against the wall of the room and closed her eyes. Tried to calm her nerves.

It was ironic that she'd fought her depression for months, contemplating suicide in much the same way a cook considered a new recipe. She'd spent hours in a fog, wondering whether it would be better to die by slicing her wrists or jumping through a window.

Only her respect and love for her staff had prevented her from doing either.

Or so she'd thought.

Now she wondered if she actually ever had wanted to die at all. Maybe it hadn't been fear that had stopped her but a deep-seated need to survive.

It was certainly how she felt now. She was willing to do anything to fight that dreadful Kyle Winter and his schemes to destroy her husband's memory, his very home. She did not want to spend her last hours on earth in an abandoned fishery. She certainly didn't want his to be the last face she ever saw.

There was no way she could ever simply lie down and give in
to a man like him. If she died in his captivity, it would make his life so much easier. It would be like he won. And she would be doing the exact opposite of what Phillip had done.

She couldn't let that happen. She was not going to make anything easy for Mr. Winter, and she was not going to die without putting up at least half as much of a fight as Robert and Devin had told her Phillip did.

She didn't know how she was going to survive, but she would. To perish this way was unthinkable.

It took Belle asking for directions several times before she located Dr. Kronke's offices. Of German descent, the doctor hadn't been in Galveston long, but it seemed he had already developed a formidable reputation.

Injured soldiers and ailing sailors alike seemed to praise his efforts. By the time Belle located the man's door and knocked twice, she had decided that Major Kelly was receiving the best treatment possible.

To her surprise, the doctor opened the door himself. Peering at her closely, he tilted his head. “Yes?”

“Hello. I'm, uh, Belle. I'm looking for Major Kelly. He received a gunshot wound to his leg, I believe?”

The doctor beamed. Beamed! “He did, indeed.”

She thought his smile was strange, but it did give her a curious sense of hope. “Is he still here? May I see him?”

“Of course. Come in!” He stepped back.

She walked into a tiny receiving area, the whole space barely big enough for two rather uncomfortable wooden chairs and a small, very fine wooden table in between them.

The walls were covered in light blue wallpaper and framed prints of what she could only assume were scenes from Germany hung on his walls. It was a pretty, cozy little room, and a surprise when she'd expected to see a rather bare doctor's examining room.

He peeked at her a little more closely through his wire-rimmed glasses. “Are you the major's sweetheart?”

“Me? Oh, goodness, no. I'm, uh, well, I work for Mrs. Markham,” she sputtered, feeling her neck flush. As he continued to stare at her with interest, Belle continued, attempting to make some kind of coherent sense. “She runs a boardinghouse. She's currently, um, hosting three men who served in the army with her husband.”

He tilted his gray head. “So you are here for her?”

“No . . .” Why was she there, exactly? How could she explain her need to see Major Kelly? “Sir? I mean, Dr. Kronke, is he all right? We're all very worried.”

“Yes, I imagine you are. As for your Major Kelly, he is doing well so far. I was able to remove the bullet without any consequence. He lost some blood, of course, but overall he doesn't seem too worse for wear.” He shrugged. “We'll see what happens over the next twenty-four hours. Infection is any wound's worst enemy.”

Belle was fairly proud of herself for not turning weak or lightheaded at the mention of the officer's loss of blood. “May I sit with him?”

“He might not wake up for some time,” he warned. “It might even be hours.”

“That's okay. I don't want him to be alone.”

Dr. Kronke grinned. “Of course you don't. Well, my dear, if you are willing to keep this major company, I'll even give you a job. When he wakes up, you may give him sips of water.”

“Yes, I can do that.”

After beaming at her again, he tottered to another door and quietly opened it. She followed right behind and was immediately struck by the scent of antiseptic, clean cotton, and lavender, of all things. When she fingered the bowl of dried herbs, the doctor chuckled.

“You have seen my weakness, I see. I have found that I grew weary of the smell of blood and sickness. The lavender soothes me.”

“It soothes me too,” she said, meeting his gaze with a half-smile. Then all thoughts of dried herbs were forgotten as she spied Major Kelly lying motionless in a small, neatly made cot.

The doctor bustled over to the lone utilitarian chair resting against the wall and carried it to the major's bedside. “Here you are, dear. I'll have someone bring in a pitcher of water and two glasses to you shortly.”

“Two glasses?”

He bowed slightly. “Sitting bedside is hard work. You might need to take a sip every now and then too.”

He turned and walked out the door before Belle could thank him for his kindness. When the door shut, and she was completely alone with Major Kelly, Belle allowed herself to look her fill of him.

He was still in his shirt, but his trousers had been removed. A white sheet covered him up to his waist, with only his left bandaged leg exposed. A small moss-colored blanket was neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Fearing he might be cold, she shook it out and placed it on his body and around his wound. He shifted and groaned from her administrations.

She started from the noise, then sat back and smiled. “Groan all you want, Mr. Kelly. All that means to me is that you're sleeping hard.”

Minutes later, a serious-looking young man a few years younger than her entered with the promised pitcher and glasses
on a small tray. He set them down without a word, ignoring her thanks.

Belle poured herself a half glass, sipped carefully, then kicked her legs out a bit.

Then, because she had never been completely comfortable in silence, she began to talk. In choppy, halting sentences, she told him about growing up in northern Louisiana and then finding her way to New Orleans and eventually ending up in Galveston.

It was the first time she'd ever dared to speak out loud about her whole past.

But even though no one's ears heard but her own, the confession felt cleansing.

S
O
I
HATE TO ASK THE OBVIOUS
,” C
APTAIN
M
ONROE VENTURED
as they made their way down two side streets that lined the warehouse district. “But do you have any idea where in this maze of alleys she might be?”

“Nope,” Robert said.

“I see. Do you happen to have a plan that consists of something more than wandering around and peeking in doorways?”

“There's no reason to be sarcastic, Devin. We're not leading hundreds of troops into battle; we're searching for Miranda and a crazy bank clerk in a run-down warehouse district. Officer Candidate School didn't cover this scenario.”

“Point taken. So . . . what do you suggest we do?”

“I thought we'd first patrol the area and interview anyone we see. Someone here had to have seen Winter and Miranda.”

“And if no one did? What next?” Monroe didn't seem to be even trying to hide his skepticism.

Robert shrugged. “If no one did, then your guess is as good as mine. I guess we'll have to start searching through every structure until we find her.”

After a pause, Devin smiled. “Sounds good.”

Robert didn't respond. He could feel the same anticipation he
was sure was running through his former captain. Though he was afraid for Miranda and hated that she was scared, possibly hurt and alone, he couldn't deny the satisfaction that ran through him.

Frankly, it felt good to be of use. Ever since they were captured and sent to Johnson's Island, he'd felt at a loss for what to do with the rest of his life. From the time he was a child he'd been used to frequent activity combined with the quiet sense of desperation that told him he needed to do everything possible to survive.

Their long period of captivity, though it had been filled with pain and more than a little suffering, had also been filled with guilt, knowing they were likely to survive while so many of their friends and allies would not.

After his release, when he'd spent two long years working seventy and eighty hours a week for the train lines, making money hand over fist, it hadn't brought him all that much satisfaction.

But this? Walking by his captain's side, revolver in hand, with a noble purpose in his heart? He hadn't experienced this feeling in years.

When they saw a pair of men and one woman loitering outside a warehouse, they stopped. The trio looked at them curiously.

“We're looking for a woman,” Devin said. “Brown hair. Attractive blue eyes. She was taken into the area against her will earlier this afternoon.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “If it didn't just happen, we ain't seen her. We've been working inside all day.”

Robert had no doubt she spoke the truth. When he worked for the trains, he had the opportunity to step inside several warehouses and factories just like this. Workers were hardly given breaks, and they were supervised closely.

“I need to find her,” he pleaded, not caring in the slightest that he sounded suspiciously like he was begging. “Who in the
area might have seen her? It's imperative I find her as quickly as possible.”

“I don't know, and I don't care.”

Devin shot Robert a look that conveyed he'd told him so. “Let's go, Lieutenant. We'll ask someone over on the next block.”

“No. Wait a sec,” one of the men called out. “Who are you gents, anyway?”

Before Robert snapped that it didn't matter who they were, Devin spoke. “I'm Devin Monroe,” he said easily, his voice as smooth and calm as if they were being introduced at an officer's ball. “This is Robert Truax. We're staying at Miranda Markham's house. She is the one we seek.”

“Mrs. Markham has gone missing?” the woman asked.

“Yes. Kidnapped, in fact. Why, do you know her?” Robert asked.

The three exchanged glances. “Were you friends with her man?” the man asked suspiciously.

“We were. Her husband, Phillip Markham, served under me during the war.” Devin paused and looked at him more closely. “Why? What do you know?”

“I know him,” he replied. “I mean, I used to. We grew up near each other.”

“You lived on Market Street?”

The man shook his head. “Nah. He was on Market. I was with my ma at one of the cottages nearby. But we still saw each other a lot.”

“I'm sure you did,” Devin said laconically, just as if they were discussing the latest weather report. “Did you stay in touch?”

The man looked surprised to be asked, then a bit embarrassed. “Nah. He went off to some fancy boarding school in Virginia and then on to a high and mighty military academy of some sort.”

“He attended West Point. What did you do?”

“Me? I went to the shipyard. Good, honest work, it is. I worked there before the war. Then ended up here after.” His chin lifted. “But I saw him later too.”

“When?” Robert asked.

“After Gettysburg. I was getting sewn up from some shrapnel and he was walking through the hospital wards. When he saw me, he stopped and talked awhile.” His expression softened. “He acted like we were friends. He acted like he was happy to see me.”

“I'm sure he was glad to see you, as well as relieved you were surviving,” Devin said. “Friends from home were always a bonus to us.”

The man shrugged. “I don't know about that. All I do know is that we both served.” Looking adamant, he blurted, “I don't care what no one says. He didn't betray nobody.”

“No, he did not,” Captain Monroe said.

The man stared at him in wonder. “You're sure, aren't you?”

“I wouldn't be here if I weren't.”

The man seemed to weigh his words. He looked at his friends. Then, after an interminable amount of time, he pointed to a rundown, boarded-up warehouse. “Winter took Mrs. Markham over there.”

Robert stepped forward, his expression intent. “You sure about that?”

The man didn't back down. “Sure as I can be without stepping foot in that place. It's an old fishery and smells to high heaven.”

Monroe ignored the description and glared at the three of them. “How can you be sure it was them? We didn't tell you it was Winter who had her.”

“Well, I know who Winter is and the woman was fighting him like her life depended on it.”

“She was crying, sir,” the woman whispered. “Then she stilled and looked our way.”

“Yes?” Devin asked impatiently.

“That's when I saw her eyes. You see, I know who Mrs. Markham is too. She's got bright blue eyes, she does. Plus, she is a high-class lady. She stuck out like a sore thumb in these parts.”

“She does have blue eyes,” Robert said. “Beautiful eyes.”

“Almost violet, they are,” the woman said.

“Why didn't you go after them?” Devin asked.

For the first time, the man looked embarrassed. “Winter had a gun. And, well, you learn, living and working around here, to keep out of other people's business. Sticking your neck out don't count for much.”

Robert felt as if he was about to expire on the spot. Looking at the building across the way, he gave a quick prayer of thanks. He'd needed the Lord to give him a hand, and it seemed that he had in the form of this loquacious fellow.

Devin put his hand out and steadied him. “Chin up, Lieutenant. She was alive then. That is something.”

“Let's just hope she's still alive now. If she isn't, I don't know if I'll be able to bear it.”

“Let's hope you don't have to find out.”

“Do you need some help?” the vagrant asked. “If you want, I could go in and lend a hand.”

Though Robert was more than ready to dismiss the man's offer, he knew how important it was for everyone to feel valued. “Thank you,” he said finally. “If you and your friends could stand at the doorways and stop anyone who tries to escape, that would be a tremendous help.”

The man seemed to stand a full six inches taller. “Thank you, sir. I can do that.”

“Let's go,” Devin said. “We can't wait another moment.”

Robert couldn't have agreed more as he strode to his former captain's side and entered the building, his Colt cocked and ready.

Miranda heard the footsteps on the stairwell before her captor did.

Thirty minutes ago, Mr. Winter had returned and then had started pacing in the loft, stopping often to look out the dirty windows. For what, Miranda wasn't sure. She'd anticipated Mr. Winter yelling at her, or manhandling her, or doing much worse.

Instead, he seemed to be thoroughly confused about what to do with her next. Wherever he had gone before didn't seem to have helped him.

When Miranda heard the footsteps get closer and saw Winter turn toward them, she braced herself. She had no idea what was going to happen next, but she was prepared for it. She knew now that she was going to fight as much as she could. She was not going to give up. Not going to give in without a fight.

The footsteps were hard claps against the wooden floor. Only men in heavy boots made such a noise.

Trembling, Miranda kept her eyes focused on the door. Mentally preparing herself to call out for help. To scream. To do whatever it took to help herself and get free.

“Miranda!” A voice called out. “Miranda!”

“Don't say a word,” Mr. Winter said.

Heart pounding, she drew in her breath. Ignored the cocking of his Colt.

And did the one thing she knew she had to do. No matter the consequences. “I'm here!” she called. “In here.”