visibly straightened. “Forgive me for being so blunt, but you really shouldn’t be there.”
“Why is that?”
She looked ready to blurt something, then glanced away. “It’s just that the Tremont is far nicer. You should consider relocating.”
“Relocating sounds like a lot of trouble. I’m sure Mrs. Markham’s boardinghouse will suit me fine.”
Her expression darkened. “You won’t find many here of the same mind. Trust me, sir. You should take heed to what I say.”
“You sound sure of yourself.”
“I am. And you should listen. It’s for your benefit, you see.”
Seeing as he had no one standing behind him, Robert took the bait. “Why would you say such a thing? Is it because of the rumors surrounding her husband?”
“You’ve heard of them?”
“It’s hard to be in Galveston five minutes and not hear them.”
“There is a reason for that. He was a traitor.” She lifted her chin. “As far as most good people are concerned, Miranda Markham should have done the decent thing and left Galveston Island. She could have sold her house and left the rest of us in peace. Not set up a boardinghouse.”
“You’d ask her to leave her home? That sounds exceedingly harsh.”
The girl looked as if she considered arguing that point, but instead simply stared steadily at him. “Sir, you have not paid me yet. Do you intend to?”
He dug in his pocket and pulled out the coins, slapping them on the counter with, perhaps, a bit more force than was actually needed.
She palmed them with alacrity. “Good day, sir.”
He tipped his hat before turning, realizing several men and women were now behind him.
Had his skills deteriorated so much that he hadn’t even been aware he was surrounded? The thought was disconcerting. If the captain had been around to see that, the man would have boxed his ears good. The childish punishment would have been no less than he deserved too.
With effort, Robert hid his chagrin and nodded at the four or five pairs of eyes watching him suspiciously.
It was time to exit the building, take a stroll back to Recognition Square—or whatever the Sam Hill that place was called—and make himself focus. He needed to get his head back on straight and become more alert. He needed to concentrate on the reason for being here. The multiple reasons for being here. Then, once he was firmly reminded of that, he needed to make a plan.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Robert looked to see a dapperly dressed man, perhaps five years younger than him, staring at him intently. He was standing a good two yards away, almost as if he didn’t trust Robert enough to venture closer. His denims were new, his chambray shirt worn. On his feet was a fine pair of brown leather boots, the likes of which Robert hadn’t seen in ages. Not since he’d witnessed a trio of cavalrymen taken to their barracks back on Johnson’s Island. A Yankee soldier had claimed one of the men’s boots in exchange for a freshly washed blanket. While Robert had burned at the indignity of it, the cavalry officer had merely shrugged, saying there wasn’t a great need for good riding boots at the moment.
Hating that the memories he’d held at bay for so long seemed to be creeping back into his head like forgotten relatives who refused to stay away, Robert cleared his throat. “Yes?” he finally muttered.
Looking pleased that Robert had acknowledged him at last, the man stepped forward. “My name is Jess Kern, Mr. Truax.”
The name meant nothing to him. But then, as the man’s intent dark eyes remained steady, a sudden memory returned. “You were there,” he said. “You were at Johnson’s Island too.”
Looking pleased to be remembered, Kern nodded. “I was. Though not too long. Only a few months.” He added, “I was captured in January of ’65.”
Robert remembered his long captivity in terms of how cold he’d been. “Just in time for the lake to freeze.”
“We marched on the ice from Sandusky to the
“Why is that?”
She looked ready to blurt something, then glanced away. “It’s just that the Tremont is far nicer. You should consider relocating.”
“Relocating sounds like a lot of trouble. I’m sure Mrs. Markham’s boardinghouse will suit me fine.”
Her expression darkened. “You won’t find many here of the same mind. Trust me, sir. You should take heed to what I say.”
“You sound sure of yourself.”
“I am. And you should listen. It’s for your benefit, you see.”
Seeing as he had no one standing behind him, Robert took the bait. “Why would you say such a thing? Is it because of the rumors surrounding her husband?”
“You’ve heard of them?”
“It’s hard to be in Galveston five minutes and not hear them.”
“There is a reason for that. He was a traitor.” She lifted her chin. “As far as most good people are concerned, Miranda Markham should have done the decent thing and left Galveston Island. She could have sold her house and left the rest of us in peace. Not set up a boardinghouse.”
“You’d ask her to leave her home? That sounds exceedingly harsh.”
The girl looked as if she considered arguing that point, but instead simply stared steadily at him. “Sir, you have not paid me yet. Do you intend to?”
He dug in his pocket and pulled out the coins, slapping them on the counter with, perhaps, a bit more force than was actually needed.
She palmed them with alacrity. “Good day, sir.”
He tipped his hat before turning, realizing several men and women were now behind him.
Had his skills deteriorated so much that he hadn’t even been aware he was surrounded? The thought was disconcerting. If the captain had been around to see that, the man would have boxed his ears good. The childish punishment would have been no less than he deserved too.
With effort, Robert hid his chagrin and nodded at the four or five pairs of eyes watching him suspiciously.
It was time to exit the building, take a stroll back to Recognition Square—or whatever the Sam Hill that place was called—and make himself focus. He needed to get his head back on straight and become more alert. He needed to concentrate on the reason for being here. The multiple reasons for being here. Then, once he was firmly reminded of that, he needed to make a plan.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Robert looked to see a dapperly dressed man, perhaps five years younger than him, staring at him intently. He was standing a good two yards away, almost as if he didn’t trust Robert enough to venture closer. His denims were new, his chambray shirt worn. On his feet was a fine pair of brown leather boots, the likes of which Robert hadn’t seen in ages. Not since he’d witnessed a trio of cavalrymen taken to their barracks back on Johnson’s Island. A Yankee soldier had claimed one of the men’s boots in exchange for a freshly washed blanket. While Robert had burned at the indignity of it, the cavalry officer had merely shrugged, saying there wasn’t a great need for good riding boots at the moment.
Hating that the memories he’d held at bay for so long seemed to be creeping back into his head like forgotten relatives who refused to stay away, Robert cleared his throat. “Yes?” he finally muttered.
Looking pleased that Robert had acknowledged him at last, the man stepped forward. “My name is Jess Kern, Mr. Truax.”
The name meant nothing to him. But then, as the man’s intent dark eyes remained steady, a sudden memory returned. “You were there,” he said. “You were at Johnson’s Island too.”
Looking pleased to be remembered, Kern nodded. “I was. Though not too long. Only a few months.” He added, “I was captured in January of ’65.”
Robert remembered his long captivity in terms of how cold he’d been. “Just in time for the lake to freeze.”
“We marched on the ice from Sandusky to the
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