purse. The genuine tone of concern in Cade’s voice was a necessary reassurance giving her pause to think and scrutinize her own intentions. Had she judged one man too harshly and another not enough?
She took a deep breath and exhaled. Clearly, this was a mature gentleman speaking only of his concern for the well-being and moral protection of impressionable young ladies, like his niece. That was an admirable quality and so seldom witnessed in any man she knew.
“So . . . Cade.” Gabrielle flashed a carefree smile and made a few small, swinging movements of her purse on its strap. “What scandalous tale of debauchery will polite Galveston society accuse Bret McGowan of this week?”
Cade stepped back behind his desk and sat down, placing his elbows on the desktop and raising his forearms up to make a triangular arch. “I know you’re not the kind of intelligent and understanding person who finds outrageous humor in human depravity and weakness.”
Gabrielle stopped swinging her purse and leaned forward.
Cade tapped his long fingers together. “In the short time we’ve known each other I have come to respect you as woman of high moral character and decency, and that is why loathing rather than laughter will fill that trusting heart of yours.”
He lowered his arms and folded them across the desktop in front of his chest. “Now, if you will allow me to close the door. I do not want my niece to enter upon our conversation. I love her too dearly to chance that she might hear the painful truth of what I have to say.”
Gabrielle’s pulse quickened and she placed her hands on the desk. “Then tell me the truth and trust that whatever we discuss will go no further than this room.”
Cade reached across the desk and clasped her hands in his. “It has come to my attention, thanks in large part to discrete inquiries made by my personal assistant, Mr. Wallace . . . ”
He spoke in hushed, unhurried tones that spread through Gabrielle’s heart in a dense, deadening pain that exposed the last pathetic depths of her love for Bret. With each cutting word, her passion for the only man she had ever loved flowed out of her heart like blood spilling over the edge of a wound.
CHAPTER 15
Tuesday, September 4
Rebecca began one of her weekly tasks of tending the Society hall’s garden at the side courtyard bordering 33rd Street.
The day had started with scheduled predictability, yet as the early morning haze gave way to the brilliance of afternoon she felt the torrid sun making her blood race faster with each passing minute.
Uncle Cade and Edward were visiting Society members on the outskirts of Galveston today and were not expected home until after dinner at the earliest. Before leaving, her uncle had instructed her to go about her morning duties and remain at work until she received her guest.
Rebecca clipped a worm-eaten rose into her basket. She stared at the spoiled and ravaged petals. Was she allowing her life to be torn from her in small pieces by a place and a vocation that didn’t represent her true desires or gifts?
She had agreed to everything her uncle said and was less surprised at the absence of any compulsion to either oppose or indulge his vengeful intentions than by the fact that since meeting Bret McGowan everything in her life was now colored by risk and exhilaration like an undercurrent of a perceptible fever.
Rebecca continued pruning the rosebushes. Pausing to remove her straw sun hat, she wiped the sweat from her brow and stared at the spoiled, wasted rose in her basket. She picked up the flower and ground the petals in her glove.
The sound of someone lifting the latch on the wrought-iron garden gate made her turn in that direction.
Bret strode under the overhanging palms, pushing aside an overgrown lilac as he made his way toward her. He removed his hat, exposing his perspiring head to the sun. His beige linen suit was excessively crumpled and visibly damp under the collar as though he had spent the night in it.
Drawing closer to her, his eyes—hard and dark in his unshaven face—confirmed that this was likely true.
She stopped pruning and smiled at him.
He paused, disheveled and anxious, about ten feet away and patted his forehead with a red handkerchief. “Lord, feels like another scorcher. I’m surprised you’re not down at the beach enjoying the waves.”
Rebecca put the gardening shears down on the wicker chair beside her. “In such a short