A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers)

by McKade, Maureen

  She gasped and stiffened, then slumped.

  Creede hunkered down beside her. “Are you all right, Laurel?”

  She blinked and stared at him a moment as if trying to remember his name. Then the familiar stubbornness crept back into her features. “I’m fine.”

  Her obvious lie made Creede’s own voice curt. “You didn’t look fine.”

  She glared at him and pushed herself to her feet, forcing Creede to stand and retreat. “I’m going to sleep.”

  His mouth twisted in a scowl, Creede watched her ready her bedroll then lie down without once glancing at him.

  What happened? What had caused her to lose her usual control? Had she seen something? If so, why wouldn’t she tell him?

  He recalled the look in her eyes and a shiver swept through him. For a moment, she wasn’t there. It reminded him of the vacant look in a dead person’s eyes, something he’d seen more often than he cared to confess.

  He glanced at her, knowing she wasn’t asleep by the stiff way she lay in her bedroll. He could protect her from outlaws on the trail, but what bothered her now was beyond his control. But then, he hadn’t volunteered to be her friend. He had his own problems to contend with and that was more than enough to handle.

  Sighing, he slid into his bedroll and turned his back on the woman.

  Laurel heard Mr. Forrester retire and relaxed minutely. She closed her eyes and saw the same image that haunted her minutes ago.

  “Keep away from me, you damned Yank. You come any closer and I’ll slit yore throat!”

  Laurel pressed her hands to her ears, but the apparition refused to leave her. She clearly remembered the Confederate soldier, waving a big knife as his insides were spilling from a saber slice across his belly. She’d wanted to help him, but her Northern accent had confused the fevered man. In his delirium he was convinced he was surrounded by Yanks, and had been near death’s door by the time anyone could get close to him.

  Another failure. Perhaps if she’d kept her mouth shut or allowed someone else to help him, he would have survived.

  And then what? He would’ve healed and been sent back to fight … to die another day?

  Laurel commanded the ghost to leave and the memory faded away. But she knew he would return to haunt her again, and she hoped the next time she’d be alone.

  Her cheeks burned with humiliation. Mr. Forrester had seen her weakness, but at least he didn’t see her accompanying shame. Why wasn’t she strong enough to fight the ghosts? Why did she keep remembering the past so vividly? She hadn’t fought on the bloody battlefields or killed others with her bare hands. She’d only been a nurse.

  Laurel’s head pounded, but she didn’t mind. It meant she’d sleep little tonight, which would keep the nightmares at bay.

  She turned onto her back and pillowed her head on her arms to stare at the night sky. Diverting her thoughts to the stray cat, she couldn’t help but wonder where it came from. Was it as wild as Mr. Forrester thought it was? Or was he only using that excuse to employ his revolver?

  She shook her head, ashamed of herself for thinking him that kind of man. Despite his own sorrow and grief, he seemed truly concerned for her welfare. If he wasn’t a decent man, he would have shown his true colors earlier. Instead, he’d endured her childish pout and kept her safe even though he had nothing to gain. She vowed to behave in a more civilized manner tomorrow.

  A plaintive meow sounded from the brush, telling Laurel the cat hadn’t gone far. She already had more than enough traveling companions, but it wasn’t in her to ignore the animal’s plight, either. After glancing at Creede, who appeared to be deep in slumber, she eased up to a sitting position. She quietly dug into her saddlebags and found a piece of dried meat, which she tossed in the direction of the meow.

  “Only this one time, cat, then you’re on your own,” she whispered.

  Tomorrow the cat would be gone and no longer her concern. The last thing Laurel wanted was the responsibility of another life, even if it was some stray, bedraggled cat.

  The morning dawned with coral-tinted clouds illuminating the horizon. Flies and mosquitoes swarmed around Creede like honeybees around clover, making it miserable for man, woman, and beasts. Although he didn’t like the insects, he was accustomed to them. The way Laurel—Mrs. Covey—ignored them told him she, too, was no stranger to the buzzing pests.

  “Coffee, Mr. Forrester?” Mrs. Covey asked.

  Wiping his face after shaving, Creede turned around to see if she was taunting him. Instead, he found her holding up a cup. He slung the damp cloth around his neck and accepted the peace offering. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Breakfast will be ready shortly. I hope you like bacon and flapjacks.”

  Too startled to speak, Creede nodded. He gazed at Mrs. Covey, noting the red flush in her cheeks and wondered if it was the fire’s heat or something else that caused it. Grease crackled in the pan, followed by the pleasant tang of bacon. How had she managed to get the meat? Foodstuffs were in short supply because of the loss of men working the fields, which inflated the cost of supplies. Severe taxes were levied against folks whose only crime was that they’d thrown in with the losing side of a war, making money needed for overpriced food even scarcer. Maybe her Massachusetts accent had helped her procure food from Northern traders.

  What did it matter where she got it? The War was over. At least for sane people. But there were still Confederate soldiers who refused to acknowledge the loss and formed guerrilla groups who acted more like outlaw bands. That was one of the reasons he insisted on riding with her.

  “Here you are, Mr. Forrester.”

  Creede blinked, surprised to see Mrs. Covey holding out a plate. He accepted it and set down his now-empty coffee cup. “Thanks.”

  With a plate of food less than half of what Creede had, Mrs. Covey settled cross-legged on the ground. It seemed odd to see this correct woman sitting in such an unladylike way. Times like this, he could see her working under the primitive conditions of a field hospital. The straight backbone and ability to make do would’ve done her well during the War.

  “How did he look?” Creede suddenly asked.

  Mrs. Covey froze with a piece of bacon halfway to her mouth then set the meat back down on her plate. She lifted her cup to her lips, but he could tell it was more to gain time than actually drink coffee. Surprisingly, she understood his question.

  “To be honest, I don’t remember much about your son,” she replied. “His face was thin, but most were. Toward the end of the War supplies were almost nonexistent, and I’d often see men arguing over a dead rabbit or squirrel.” Her cheeks lost their pink flush. “I’m sorry. Your son was one of so many.”

  For a moment, it looked like she would cry but her chin lifted and she continued eating. Creede finished his breakfast, but the pleasure of the meal had disappeared with Laurel’s account.

  There was a slight rustle of grass to the side and a scraggly cat peeked out of the long stalks. Although he wasn’t certain, Creede figured it was the same one who’d visited last night.

  There was nothing pretty or distinguishing about the animal. It was dingy gray, black, and white, and had part of an ear missing, as well as tufts of hair—probably a result of a fight with another cat, or maybe some other wild animal.

  Before he could say anything, Laurel approached the creature, crooning in a low voice. Creede didn’t waste his breath cautioning her, but made sure his hand was on his revolver.

  The cat took a dainty step forward and stretched out his nose to smell Laurel’s fingertips. After familiarizing himself with her, the cat pressed his head against Laurel’s palm and started purring.

  “I’ll be damned,” Creede muttered.

  Laurel curled her fingers around the animal’s middle and picked it up to examine it more closely. “No recent wounds, but he’s skinny as a rail.”

  “Just hungry.”

  She nodded and placed the animal back on the ground. She picked up the pan she’d used to
fry the bacon and scraped the drippings onto her plate, then set the dish in front of the cat. The stray didn’t waste any time, but immediately lapped at the grease.

  “You realize it’ll probably follow us now,” Creede said.

  Laurel jerked her head up, her eyes flashing with something akin to panic, but it disappeared so quickly he couldn’t be certain. She shook her head. “It won’t be able to keep up with us.”

  Creede shrugged. “I’ve seen stranger things.”

  She merely rolled her eyes. “Really, Mr. Forrester, it might try but it’s not foolish enough to continue.”

  He didn’t bother to argue.

  “I’ll wash the dishes,” he volunteered after the cat sat back on its haunches and began to clean its face with a front paw.

  She handed him the frying pan along with the other utensils. As he walked away from the camp, he recalled their brief conversation about his son. He paused and said over his shoulder, “I’m sure you did the best you could for Austin and all the others.”

  She lifted her head, startled, but looked away without a word.

  Creede carried out his task and when he returned to the camp, Mrs. Covey had her horse and mule ready to go. Her usual hat covered her head and most of her wheat-colored hair. “Where’s the cat?”

  “It disappeared.” She took the things from Creede’s hands and tucked them into her pack. “I told you it wouldn’t follow us.”

  Creede expected a smug expression on her face, but instead a genuine, albeit small, smile tugged at her lips. “That you did, Mrs. Covey.”

  He readied Red for traveling with quick efficiency and climbed into the saddle. He glanced around the camp, looking for anything they had missed, but spotted nothing.

  Laurel sat atop her horse, her relaxed seat telling him how comfortable she was on the dun-colored mare. As they rode side by side, with Dickens behind them, Creede asked, “What kind of horse is that?”

  She patted the animal’s arched neck with a gloved hand. “A Kentucky Saddler. My husband’s family raised them on their Virginia plantation. Jeanie was given to me as a wedding gift.”

  “Jeanie?”

  Her gaze drifted away, as if embarrassed. “I named her after Mr. Foster’s song, ‘Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.’ It seems silly now, but back then …” She shrugged. “I was a young, romantic fool.”

  Creede cleared his throat. “We all were young romantic fools at one time.”

  “I find it hard to imagine you as one.”

  He remembered how he’d promised to give up his gun and stay with Anna forever. Only forever came sooner than he had expected and his revolver was back on his hip. Even hired guns could do foolish things in the name of love. “Appearances can be deceiving, Mrs. Covey.”

  “You called me Laurel last night.”

  So she’d heard him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. If we’re to be traveling together, we don’t have to hold to ceremony. Call me Laurel.”

  “Creede.”

  Another smile tugged at her lips. “Creede.”

  Although they didn’t speak again, the silence wasn’t awkward as in the previous two days. Instead, it was a comfortable quiet that rode with them except for Dickens’s outbursts every ten or fifteen minutes. Creede figured it was the mule’s contrary nature and tried to ignore the obnoxious braying.

  Around midmorning they took a break alongside a small clear stream. While the animals drank, Creede and Laurel filled their canteens a few yards upstream.

  “How much farther to this Fordingham?” he asked.

  “We should be there this evening.”

  “So what do you have to do there?”

  Laurel dipped a handkerchief in the stream and wrung it out, then wiped the back of her neck. “I have to meet with someone.”

  “Who?”

  “The mother of a young soldier.”

  Creede flinched and glanced away. “He dead?”

  “Yes. His last words were for his mother.”

  Envy clawed Creede’s gut. At least the boy’s mother would have something. But Creede had nothing—no son and no last words. His stomach churned and his vision grayed. Anguish cut through him like a dull scythe. Although it wasn’t Laurel’s fault there’d been no final message from his son, Creede couldn’t stop the flood of irrational anger.

  “Are you ready?” he asked gruffly.

  She glanced at him in puzzlement but only nodded and tied the damp scarf at her throat.

  As they straightened, the stray cat trotted out of the grass toward them.

  Laurel’s eyes widened and Creede might have laughed at her comical expression if his lungs weren’t so tight.

  “Stop following us,” she said to the skinny animal.

  The cat merely stared up at her.

  Laurel shook her finger. “I mean it. Go back home.”

  The green eyes remained unblinking.

  Laurel stepped over to it, picked it up and tossed it a few feet away, in the direction from which it came. The cat turned around and walked back to her then rubbed against her ankles.

  Creede watched the proceedings from atop his horse, his somber mood lightening. “You made a friend, Laurel.”

  She glared up at him. “I don’t want a friend.” Her attention turned back to the stray. “I won’t carry you, so go back where you came from.”

  She turned away and climbed into her saddle. Without giving the cat another look, she heeled her horse and the dun mare headed back down the road.

  The cat followed.

  Puzzled by Laurel’s sudden indifference toward the stray creature, Creede urged Red after her. It wasn’t long before the cat fell behind and Creede forced himself to ignore the pitiful meows that grew fainter and fainter. Once or twice he thought he caught Laurel sneaking peeks behind them, but figured it had to be his imagination.

  When the sun was high in the sky, Creede and Laurel took a break to rest the animals and eat lunch. While they sat on rocks and gnawed on jerky, the two horses and the mule grazed on the lush green grass.

  Laurel finished her repast and pulled her legs up onto the rock, wrapping her arms around them. She peered around at the kaleidoscope of different shades of green that surrounded them. “When I look around here, it’s hard to believe there was a war.”

  “Texas is a lot the same way. Texans left in droves to join the Confederates, but no battles were ever fought on its ground.” Creede picked up a pebble and tossed it into the woods. “The Yanks tried to blockade us, but they didn’t succeed.”

  “Did you ever feel it was your duty to join the army?”

  “No,” he replied without hesitation. “I wasn’t keen on the Northern states dictating to us, but I never believed one man had the right to own another, either.” He shrugged. “It was a stupid war fought for stupid reasons.”

  “Many folks didn’t believe the reasons were stupid ones.”

  Creede eyed her closely. “Were you one of them?”

  Laurel brushed some dust from her skirt. “My husband was. Robert didn’t like the businessmen in the North setting the prices for tobacco and cotton. He thought the South was doing all the work and the North was reaping all the rewards.”

  Creede had heard that argument among his fellow Texans, too. But she hadn’t answered his question. “That was your husband. What about you?”

  She shrugged. “I believed in Robert.”

  “So you became a nurse to follow him?”

  “I’d already been trained as a nurse, much to my parents’ eternal mortification.” A wry smile played across her lips. “Then I merely used my talents, much to my husband’s disapproval.”

  Creede frowned. “Why didn’t he forbid you from working as a nurse?”

  She laughed, startling him since he’d never heard her laugh before. It was a nice sound, musical and feminine with a touch of mischief in it. He couldn’t help but smile in return.

  “I’m sorry for laughing, Mr.—Creede. If you knew me better, you
’d know that if I was forbidden something, I would try that much harder to do it.”

  Creede could easily see this woman—the one with sparkling eyes and bright expression—defy her parents and husband. And anyone else who dared tell her she couldn’t do something. “You’re right. I don’t know you that well, but I have a feeling we’ll know each other a whole lot better by the time we get to Texas.”

  In a matter of moments, her features lost their animation and somberness returned.

  “Be careful, Creede. You may not like what you find.” She jumped off the rock. “We’ve been here long enough.”

  Baffled by her comment, Creede gathered his horse’s reins and pulled himself into the saddle. Laurel did the same but when she grabbed Dickens’s lead rope, the mule refused to budge. She jerked the rope, but the jackass dug his hooves into the earth.

  “Come on, Dickens. We don’t have time for your stubborn antics,” Laurel said with more than a shred of impatience.

  Creede shook his head in exasperation and steered his mare around the mule’s hindquarters. He slapped the mule’s rump and only the reflexes of Red saved him from being struck by flailing hooves.

  “Stay back,” Laurel said belatedly. “I can usually get him to move.”

  After five minutes of cajoling and threatening, Laurel succeeded in getting Dickens to follow. Sweat sheened her red face and her lips puckered like a sour lemon had passed them. Creede opened his mouth to speak, but after another glance at her set features, he closed it. Laurel obviously didn’t want to talk about Dickens or anything else.

  Adjusting his hat brim, Creede sighed in exasperation and kept his thoughts on their surroundings rather than the perplexing Laurel Covey.

  FIVE

  May 14, 1864. Private Luther Donovan of Fordingham, Tennessee. Red hair, green eyes, freckles across nose and cheeks, seventeen years old. Wounded at the Battle of the Wilderness on May 6th. Cause of death: putrefaction of back wound. “Tell Ma I tried my hardest. Tell her I loved her even though I hated what she was.” (Picture of boy and mother.)

  Laurel tried to be unobtrusive as she glanced behind them, checking the trail. She didn’t want the cat following them, but she couldn’t help worrying that he might try. In its near-starved condition, it wouldn’t last long. It would probably become so weak a fox or owl would find it easy prey. Stupid cat.