A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers)

by McKade, Maureen

  “I haven’t seen it either.”

  Laurel stiffened and met Creede’s gaze. “What are you talking about?”

  “The cat. That’s what you’ve been looking for, right?”

  Laurel straightened her backbone and stared ahead. “Why would I be worried about a stray cat?”

  “Didn’t say you were worried, only that you were looking.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice and defensiveness made her reply, “Well, I’m not looking and I’m not worried.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Laurel bit back a retort, knowing she’d just be giving Creede more ammunition against her. Maybe she was a tad bit worried about the cat, but then she’d been the one to give the animal some food, so it was her fault if it followed them.

  She was relieved when they topped a hill and spotted Fordingham only a couple of miles away. Suddenly exhausted, Laurel urged Jeanie down the road’s gentle slope.

  As they entered the small but bustling town, Laurel wasn’t surprised when they garnered the attention of those on the boardwalks. She doubted they had many visitors, and by the unfriendly looks on the faces, those they’d had since the War’s end were probably unwelcome ones.

  “Looks to be a boardinghouse down there,” Creede said.

  Laurel followed his line of sight and spotted the peeling sign that simply read ROOMS FOR RENT. She looked around, hoping there might be a hotel or something more reputable looking, but was disappointed.

  “Let’s see if they have any rooms available,” she said without enthusiasm.

  They dismounted by the hitching post that stood in front of the large, wood-frame house. The building, like the sign, needed fresh paint but otherwise it appeared tidy and well kept.

  Creede knocked on the door, which was opened almost immediately. A middle-aged man with a soft, doughy face, who wore shabby but clean trousers and a neatly pressed shirt, gazed at them. “Can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for a place to spend a night or two,” Laurel said.

  “Please, come in.” He swept open the door and motioned them inside.

  Laurel stepped in and was surprised by the spotless, homey interior. Creede removed his hat and stood behind her.

  The boardinghouse owner’s eyes displayed his delight at the possibility of guests and his hands fluttered about as he spoke. “I have just the room for you. It’s my largest with a comfortable bed and I recently put up new curtains, very bright and cheery.”

  Although Laurel’s face heated, she couldn’t help but smile at his pleasant disposition. “It sounds lovely, but we’d each like our own room.”

  The man glanced down at the ring on her left hand and Laurel reflexively touched her wedding band. “I’m a widow.”

  His expression fell. “I’m sorry for your loss. Too many have lost loved ones. Perhaps you’d like that room anyhow, and your, uh, friend can have the one across the hall?”

  “Does it cost more?”

  “Not for you,” he said gallantly.

  Laurel fought a smile. “Thank you, Mr.—”

  “Floyd Preston, but you must call me Floyd. Rooms are fifty cents a night. If you’d like meals, it’ll be an extra fifty cents a day.”

  “Does your wife do the cooking?” Creede asked.

  Floyd waved a pudgy hand. “I’m not married but I assure you I can cook a decent meal.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Laurel said before Creede could utter a rude remark. “I’m Laurel Covey and this is Creede Forrester.”

  She shook his hand, which was soft like a woman’s. Then Creede shook his hand. Hiding a smile with a cough, she tried not to notice that Floyd held Creede’s hand a few moments longer than necessary.

  “We’ll be staying one night, maybe two,” Laurel said, pulling Floyd’s attention from Creede. “And I’d like to take my meals here, too.”

  “Same,” Creede said with a touch of reluctance.

  “That’ll be a dollar each—coin, not paper. If you decide to stay another day, you can pay then,” Floyd said.

  Laurel and Creede each gave him a silver dollar.

  “Let me show you to your rooms,” he said.

  Laurel followed him up the steep staircase and down a narrow hall.

  Floyd opened a door on the right. “This will be yours, Mrs. Covey.”

  Laurel peeked inside and nearly gasped. Vibrantly colored curtains covered the windows and the four-poster bed gleamed, as did the matching dresser. A rug covered most of the shiny wood floor. “It’s beautiful.”

  Floyd shrugged, but she could tell he was pleased. “Like I said, I just finished fixing it up. I made the curtains myself.” He looked up at Creede. “I’m afraid yours isn’t quite as nice.” He opened the door across the hallway.

  “It’ll be fine,” Creede murmured.

  Laurel peeked over Floyd’s shoulder at the simple but orderly room that would be Creede’s. Even though it was smaller, it also displayed a bright, homey touch. It was obvious Floyd took pride in the house’s interior.

  “I’ll check on the horses,” Creede said.

  “There’s a livery around the corner,” Floyd called after him.

  “Thanks.” Creede headed downstairs.

  “I hope I didn’t insult him with his room,” Floyd said in a low undertone.

  Laurel patted his arm. “You didn’t. He’s naturally ill-mannered.”

  Floyd sighed. “I suppose that’s a relief.” He shook his head. “Do you need some assistance in getting your things in?”

  “No, thank you. I can get them.”

  “Then I’ll get dinner started. It will be ready about six.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  Laurel followed him down and went outside to get her bags, while Floyd veered into the kitchen.

  “You sure you want to stay here?” Creede asked gruffly from the other side of his horse.

  “Why wouldn’t I? It’s the cleanest place I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “Yeah, and he’s pretty handy with a needle and thread.”

  Laurel laughed at his disgusted tone. “So? He’s a very nice man.”

  Creede ducked under his horse’s neck to stand next to her. “He’s a sissy.”

  She had recognized Floyd’s nature almost immediately, but didn’t harbor any aversion. She shrugged. “I’ve known other men like him. The last one was a soldier who’d been beaten within an inch of his life by his own comrades.” Anger made her shake her head. “He fought the enemy beside those men for weeks, then they found out his secret and nearly beat him to death. It’s one thing to be hurt or killed by your enemy, but when it’s your fellow soldiers, men you thought were your friends…” Her stomach twisted. “That’s madness.”

  Creede sighed. “When you put it like that, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, does it?”

  Melancholy caught Laurel unaware. “A lot of things don’t make much sense, Creede.”

  He patted her shoulder, startling her. “I’ve got a spare hand to help carry in your things,” he offered.

  Grateful, she handed him her bag from Dickens’s back. “Thank you.”

  “When I come back down, I’ll take the horses and your mule to the livery.”

  She watched him walk back to the house with a long-legged stride. Perhaps having Creede Forrester for the long journey wouldn’t be as bad as she imagined. On the other hand, she’d have to ensure she didn’t become too comfortable in his company either. That could lead to far more intimacy than she could afford.

  Creede had to admit Floyd definitely knew how to cook. Although it was nothing fancy—venison, potatoes, fried okra, bread, and apple butter—it tasted mighty good and filled his belly.

  Floyd had joined them, making Creede uncomfortable for a few moments until Laurel filled the awkward silence. Soon she and Floyd were conversing like old friends.

  As they talked, Creede found his gaze straying to Laurel more often than not. She’d taken time to wash and change into c
lean clothes before their meal. Her hair, usually pinned back and hidden beneath her floppy hat, was loose and flowing down her back, like waves of wheat in a summer field. It softened her face and made Creede uncomfortably aware of her as a handsome woman.

  Floyd stood and refilled their coffee cups then rejoined them.

  “How has the War affected Fordingham?” Creede asked curiously.

  Their host’s perpetual smile faded. “How hasn’t it? We lost many men, leaving widows and orphans penniless. Then the Yankee tax collectors came and demanded their share. But last I heard you can only get nothing from nothing. Still they insisted.” He motioned to their surroundings. “It broke my heart to sell some of my mother’s heirlooms, but I managed to pay their taxes. There was just enough left to fix up a room or two.”

  “How’s business been?” Laurel asked.

  “Not so good. As much as I hate the collectors, I do get some income from them since I’m the only place in town to stay.” He shrugged. “I get by.”

  Creede traced the rim of his coffee cup. “Have you ever thought of moving on?”

  “Where would I go, Mr. Forrester? I hear a lot of folks are pulling up stakes and heading for Texas, but as you can tell, I’m not of pioneer stock.” He shook his head. “No, this is my home, for better or for worse. So what brings you two through Fordingham?”

  Creede glanced at Laurel, letting her answer.

  “I’m actually here to speak with Luther Donovan’s mother,” Laurel said, her voice returning to cool courtesy.

  Floyd’s face immediately reddened and he took a long drink of water. “Why do you want to talk to her?”

  “I was with her son when he died in a Confederate hospital.”

  “But your voice—aren’t you from the North?”

  “My husband was from Virginia.”

  “He died in the War?”

  Laurel nodded, her expression steady. “As did many other men. Can you tell me where I can find Mrs. Donovan?”

  Floyd’s round face flushed as he squirmed uncomfortably. “Actually, it’s Miss Donovan, Miss Fancy Donovan.”

  Creede straightened in his chair. He had a feeling the boy’s mother wasn’t what Laurel expected.

  “She has a house about three blocks from here. Go up a block then east for two. You can’t miss it—it’s the biggest house around,” Floyd said.

  “Thank you,” Laurel replied.

  “I didn’t realize her boy was killed. I knew Luther. He was a bit of a bully—broke one of my windows one time. But I suppose I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

  Creede noticed Floyd’s gaze didn’t meet theirs. He figured Luther might have done more than merely break Floyd’s window.

  “Death doesn’t care if a person is a bully or a saint,” Laurel said softly. “And what a person did while alive is remembered, whether it’s good or bad.”

  Floyd patted the back of Laurel’s hand. “I’d say you’ve seen your share of both kinds, yet I have a feeling you didn’t care one way or another while they were under your care.”

  Laurel gave Floyd a sweet smile that made Creede’s breath catch in his throat. “Thank you, Floyd, but I just did what I had to.”

  “I’ve heard heroes say the same.”

  For a moment, Creede thought Laurel might cry, but she surprised him with a laugh.

  “I’m no hero.” She dabbed her lips with a napkin and set it by her empty plate. “I’ll help you with the dishes then pay a visit to Miss Donovan.”

  Floyd stood and said sternly, “You’re a guest, Mrs. Covey, and guests don’t help with the menial labor.”

  Laurel smiled. “Thank you.”

  Floyd paused with his hands filled with stacked plates. Worry lines etched his brow. “I think you should have Mr. Forrester escort you to Miss Donovan’s place.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Creede said before Laurel could argue.

  He’d already decided to do so, since he had a suspicion he knew why Miss Fancy Donovan had the most impressive house in town. In fact, he would’ve preferred to have Laurel forget about delivering her message altogether, but figured he didn’t have a prayer of convincing her.

  Laurel frowned at him. “I’m sure I can find the place on my own.”

  “I’m sure you can, but I still think it’s a good idea to take a man with you,” Floyd said firmly.

  “Fine.”

  But Creede could tell it wasn’t fine. Laurel was merely being courteous by not arguing with Floyd, who’d disappeared into the kitchen.

  She looked at Creede. “Shall we go in half an hour?”

  “Sure.”

  “Meet me in the foyer then.”

  Laurel rose and gracefully exited, but Creede wasn’t fooled by her easy capitulation.

  “She’s an admirable woman,” Floyd said as he returned.

  Creede couldn’t hide his surprise.

  Floyd chuckled. “Just because I wouldn’t marry a woman doesn’t mean I can’t admire one.”

  Despite his lingering discomfort, Creede grinned. “Guess I never thought of it that way.” He stood. “Thanks for dinner. It was good.”

  “Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

  Shaking his head in wry amusement, Creede left the dining room and went out onto the porch to sit on a warped chair. He slid a cigar out of his breast pocket, lit it with a flaring match and sat down to wait.

  Laurel reread the journal entry of Luther Donovan’s last words.

  “Tell Ma I tried my hardest. Tell her I loved her even though I hated what she was.”

  She tried to reconcile the boy’s words with Floyd’s description of Luther as a bully, but all she could see was a boy’s pain-wracked face as infection had spread throughout his body.

  She placed the ribbon bookmark between the pages and closed the journal with sweat-dampened hands. Although she’d done this numerous times already, it didn’t make it any easier. Each time she expected to see accusation in the family’s eyes for letting their son or husband die, but each time she’d only been met with renewed grief. Maybe Creede was right. Maybe she shouldn’t reopen barely healed wounds. Maybe the family was better off not hearing their loved one’s final message.

  No. Despite Creede’s objection, she knew he wished his son had left him some last words. But he’d been robbed of that, just as his son had been robbed of life at such a young age.

  She gathered her long hair and twisted it into a bun at the back of her neck and pinned it up. The bonnet she’d unpacked earlier lay on the bed and she donned it, tying the ribbon beneath her chin.

  She stared at the pale woman in the mirror and a sense of unfamiliarity swam through her. Who was this stranger she’d become? How much of Laurel Monteille Covey remained? It seemed so little of late that she could’ve been another person, a stranger even to herself.

  She blinked and took a deep breath. Only ten minutes had passed since she’d left the dining room, saying she’d meet Creede in thirty minutes. However, she didn’t want his company. This was her mission, not his.

  Squaring her shoulders, she picked up her journal and left her room on tiptoe. She moved as quietly as she could, straining to hear Creede in his room. At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped and glanced up but his door remained closed. Sighing in relief, she walked to the front door and opened it.

  “Going somewhere, Laurel?”

  She jumped at the sound of Creede’s voice.

  “What are you doing out here?” she demanded.

  “Enjoying a cigar.” He turned to look at her. “And waiting for you to sneak off without me.”

  Laurel glared at him. Although he was right, she didn’t want to give him any satisfaction. “I was merely going to wait for you on the porch.”

  Creede snorted. “I never took you for a liar before.”

  Her face grew hot with the truth of his words, but her pride wouldn’t let her apologize. “You don’t have to go with me. I’m perfectly capable of finding Miss Donovan by myself.”r />
  “I’m certain you are.” Creede stood and ground his cigar out on the porch’s sagging railing. “Are you ready?”

  Laurel wanted to stamp her foot in frustration but the gravity of her task stopped her. “Suit yourself.”

  “I always do.”

  She squelched her aggravation and lifted her head to stride past him. With his long legs, Creede had no trouble catching up to her. At first, she ignored him, but after they turned east, the town’s character changed. Where there’d been stores and offices with sedate men and women, now there were saloons, gaming halls, and raucous laughter.

  Laurel could hear curses and drunken laughter from smoke-filled bars and she shifted closer to Creede. And she was strangely comforted when he put his arm around her shoulders so she was tucked into his side. His solid warmth and clean masculine scent was a welcome sanctuary.

  They found the house easily. It was a three-story white-frame house with two red lanterns lit on either side of the door. Laurel’s mouth grew cottony as she recognized what the red lights meant. Her steps faltered then halted altogether.

  “You don’t have to do this.” Creede’s hat brim brushed her bonnet and his warm, moist breath cascaded across her cheek.

  As she studied the imposing house with lights shining in almost every window, the door opened and a man stumbled out onto the expansive porch. He was singing a bawdy song about a woman’s attributes. Laurel’s feet urged her to turn around and return to the boardinghouse, but her heart insisted on completing her task.

  “No, I don’t have to do this, but I will.” Laurel drew out of Creede’s sheltering arm. “You don’t have to go inside with me.”

  “The hell I don’t,” he muttered.

  She breathed a sigh of relief but didn’t admit her gratitude. With reluctant footsteps, Laurel climbed the steps onto the porch.

  The man who’d stumbled out moments before stared at her with a gimlet-eyed gaze. “You must be the new girl,” he said in a drunken slur. He sidled close and cupped her bottom.