A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers)

by McKade, Maureen

  “She died about a week later. Doc said it was a fever that took her. I always figured she just gave up.” He clenched his hands into fists. “But I’d broken my promise to my pa.”

  “You were only fifteen,” Laurel said, her expressive eyes filled with sympathy and compassion.

  “I was a man,” he said sharply, then waved an apologetic hand. “Not long after Ma died we lost the place and my brothers—Slater and Rye—were taken away to the orphan home.”

  “I’m sorry, Creede.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Not to you.”

  Startled, he realized she was right. Like yesterday…

  “So what did you do?” Laurel asked.

  Creede held his chilled hands over the fire, but even the flame’s heat couldn’t dispel the cold. “I tracked down the men who murdered Ma and killed them.”

  Laurel’s sharp gasp didn’t surprise him. She was a woman who saved lives and wouldn’t condone a man who’d taken them without remorse. Her opinion mattered more to him than he’d expected, and he wished he hadn’t been so free with his words. “I told you that you probably wouldn’t like what you heard.”

  “Did you kill them in cold blood?” she asked, her gaze flicking to his gunbelt.

  The two arrogant rapists had been so certain they could take a kid, but Creede had shown them otherwise. He’d started practicing with the Colt revolver the day after his father died, and the two men had paid for their cockiness with their lives, which was a fair price after what they’d done.

  “I gave them more of a chance than they gave Ma,” he said unapologetically.

  “Then I’m glad.”

  Her unexpected comment brought a brittle smile to Creede’s lips. “Me, too.”

  She didn’t ask him to continue with his story and for that, he was grateful. Those years between gunning down the outlaws and meeting Anna were filled with regrets.

  The seconds between lightning and thunder increased, until the thunder was only a faint percussive roll. The rain, too, lessened and left only a damp mist as the dark clouds drifted away. Sunset had come and gone during the storm and only a hint of orange on the western horizon remained.

  Laurel stood, keeping the blanket clutched tight about her. In the firelight, her face was cast in light and shadows, and her damp unbound hair gleamed, giving her an ethereal appearance.

  The knowledge that she wore nothing beneath the blanket caused an instinctive stir in his groin. But there was more to his attraction than simple physical need—he admired her understanding and ability to listen and not judge. When he’d first met Laurel, he thought she was simply a do-gooder, but there were layers to her that he hadn’t anticipated.

  “Where are my bags?” she asked.

  Creede cleared his throat. “In front of Dickens’s stall.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to put on some dry clothing.”

  I do mind.

  Instead Creede only nodded. “Go ahead. I won’t peek.”

  Husky laughter spilled from her lips. “If you wanted to peek, I doubt I could stop you.”

  His blood heated rapidly. “Is that an invitation?”

  Her eyes darkened with passion and she licked her lips, leaving a glossy trail. Expectancy crackled between them.

  Never taking his gaze off her, Creede rose and stepped in front of her. He framed her face in his hands. Laurel’s eyelids fluttered shut and she sighed wistfully.

  She was a widow. She knew what she was asking for and Creede knew what he wanted. He yearned to bury himself in Laurel’s heat—lose himself in their shared passion. But his head and heart fought his body’s response. There was a fragility about Laurel that invoked his protective instincts. Hell, he even wanted to protect her from himself.

  Creede pressed a chaste kiss to Laurel’s forehead.

  She opened her eyes, which reflected sultry passion. “I want more, Creede. I want you.”

  “You do now, but tomorrow you’d regret it,” he said, sweeping his thumbs across her velvety cheeks.

  She lowered her gaze but not before Creede caught her recognition of the truth. But there was also hunger and disappointment to match his own.

  Unable to stay close without craving what she offered so freely, he forced himself to step back and his hands fell to his sides. “Put on some dry clothes while I fix something to eat.”

  He could see the effort it cost her to smile.

  “I’ve eaten your meals, so you just sit down and relax,” she said with forced lightness. “I’ll fix something after I’m decent.”

  She turned but Creede caught her arm and the blanket slipped off a creamy, smooth shoulder. He stifled a groan and focused on her startled features. “Even wearing only a blanket, you’re decent, Laurel, and because you are, I can’t do something we’ll both be sorry for later.”

  Laurel slipped a hand out of her blanket and pressed her palm to the shirt covering his chest. “Thank you.” A hint of mischief entered her eyes. “Your clothes are still damp. Maybe you should change.” She winked. “Don’t worry, if I peek, I won’t be seeing anything I haven’t seen before.”

  She spun away with the jauntiness of a young girl and Creede laughed. One moment solemn and thoughtful, and the next playful and teasing. He hoped her husband had appreciated her for everything she was, and not simply for her beauty.

  He kept his gaze averted but could hear cloth pulled over skin and his mind conjured images which he dispelled with difficulty. The swish of air warned him a moment before the blanket fell across his shoulder.

  “Your turn,” Laurel said.

  Grinning, he went to an empty stall, stripped and wrapped the blanket around him. He inhaled deeply of her sweet scent held within the folds before digging out dry clothes from his saddlebags. He drew on his pants and shirt and hung his damp clothing over a stall rail. After giving the horses and mule some water, he rejoined Laurel by the fire. Side pork crackled in the frying pan and he barely suppressed a groan. “Tomorrow I’ll see if I can get a rabbit.”

  “You don’t like pork?” she asked sharply.

  Puzzled by her abrupt tone, he held up his hands. “I didn’t say that. But it would be nice to have some fresh meat.”

  Impatience tightened her mouth.

  “I didn’t mean to make you mad,” Creede tried again.

  Her eyes sparked with annoyance. “I’m not mad.”

  Creede frowned, recognizing “mad” when he saw it. Why was she so upset about something so slight? “Did I say something wrong?”

  She blinked and the irritation trickled away, replaced by sheepishness. “You didn’t say or do anything, Creede. I’m just tired.”

  He nodded, accepting her excuse, but there was a ring of untruth to it. What was she hiding? Or was he only imagining things?

  The stray cat joined them and sat down on his haunches. The feline had dried from his dash into the storm. He licked his front paw to clean his face and whiskers.

  Creede studied the damned fur ball that had nearly gotten Laurel killed. His heart had nearly stopped when the lightning had struck less than twenty feet from her. When he could see again after the bright flash and she was still alive, his heart started beating again.

  He shouldn’t have been shocked when Laurel had followed the stray into the storm. That was simply part of who she was, yet she denied she held any affection for the cat.

  He recalled Laurel’s blank face when he’d called to her. It was the same look she’d had when the cat had showed up at their camp. She’d scrambled away from Creede then, too, like she hadn’t even recognized him. She had insisted she was fine, but even then he suspected something was wrong.

  What made her change like that? Was something amiss with her mind? He shied away from that thought, not wanting to imagine the intelligent woman with vacant eyes and a slack expression. He’d seen a man like that once, a long time ago. A bullet to the head should’ve killed him, but instead it had turned him into something less
than a human being.

  Creede vowed to keep a closer watch on Laurel. If she had another one of those bouts, he wouldn’t let her lie about it. Traveling with her, he had a right to know what was wrong.

  “The food’s ready, if you can stomach more side pork and biscuits,” Laurel said coolly.

  Creede didn’t bother to argue, but accepted the plate with a murmured “thanks.”

  Gazing at the silent, almost belligerent woman, Creede couldn’t help but wonder where the other Laurel had gone—the Laurel who teased and smiled, the Laurel who attracted him like no other woman, even his late wife Anna.

  He ate the food without tasting it and noticed Laurel wasn’t too keen on it either, but she cleaned off her plate. Creede took their dishes outside to the barrel he’d noticed when they’d arrived and cleaned them in the fresh rainwater.

  The mist had stopped, but the air was damp and heavy. It was hard to fill his lungs, worse even than the air back home.

  Homesickness caught him unaware as he thought of his cotton farm in Texas. Since learning Austin was dead, Creede wasn’t certain he wanted to return to the farm that held so many memories. Yet those cotton fields and the warm summer days drew him.

  But the revolver he wore on his hip called to the man he had once been. Powerful people had hired him to take care of their problems and they’d paid him well for his skill with the revolver. That Creede Forrester had been proud of his abilities, but four years later Anna convinced him it wasn’t something to take pride in.

  Now his father’s Colt was cleaned and oiled and back in the holster he’d worn nearly two decades ago. Maybe it wasn’t as fancy as the new revolvers, but Creede had no doubt it was just as deadly, especially in his hand. Age and disuse hadn’t dulled him or the revolver.

  His skill with the Colt revolver might keep Laurel alive long enough to deliver her messages. Then he would move on and find out who needed someone with his specific skills. He could lose himself in the company of men like himself, who had nobody to mourn their passing.

  And what of Laurel? Where would she go after she completed the obligation she felt she owed the dead soldiers? Would she find another husband and settle down to a life she should’ve had five years earlier? Or would she go back to nursing and live alone the rest of her life? It seemed odd that she never spoke of the future, of what she might do after she’d fulfilled her promises.

  Shaking himself free of his somber musings, Creede returned to the barn. The fire had burned down and Laurel was stretched out on her bedroll.

  Creede placed the clean dishes back in their place and crept into his blanket. As the cicadas’ chorus grew, he stared out into the darkness until sleep finally overtook him.

  Laurel gasped and bolted upright. With wide eyes, she searched her dim surroundings and listened to the eerie silence. Where were the sounds of men moaning and muttering in feverish delirium? Why hadn’t anyone awakened her for her shift?

  However, she wasn’t on a cot in a hospital tent. Soft fur brushed her cheek and everything fell into place. Careful of the stray cat, she dropped back onto her bedroll and drew a hand across her damp brow.

  “Laurel?”

  She jerked slightly. “Yes?”

  “You’re awake,” Creede said.

  It wasn’t a question, but she replied, “Now I am.”

  “Another nightmare?”

  “Yes.” Laurel sat up, bracing herself on her bent arms. “How did you know?”

  He shifted. “I didn’t, until you told me.”

  Her muscles stiffened. He’d taken advantage of her half-awake state.

  “You want to talk about it?” Creede asked.

  “No.” Merely thinking about the nightmares is difficult enough.

  They lay in silence and Laurel suspected Creede was waiting for her to speak. He’d wait until Hades froze over.

  “You must have seen a lot of horrible things during the War,” Creede finally said, his gentle tone inviting her confidence.

  Laurel pressed her lips together and tried to shut out his voice.

  “I can’t even imagine what it must’ve been like for you,” he continued. “To watch them die and knowing you couldn’t do anything to help.”

  Her stomach twisted and sourness rose in her throat. She placed a hand on the cat’s warm, vibrating body and concentrated on the tickling against her palm.

  Creede’s voice cut through the cat’s purring. “I’ve seen a few men die of bullet wounds and it’s not something I can stomach. But you must’ve seen a lot worse, what with bullets and bayonets and cannons.”

  Red visions swam through Laurel’s mind. She saw blood covering her hands and vile green oozing from putrefied wounds. They were men and boys but all of them screamed when the pain became too intense. Before the war, Laurel had never heard a man scream. Now all she could hear in her nightmares were those horrific cries.

  “It’s done and in the past. No reason to talk about it,” Laurel said, barely able to speak in her normal voice.

  “My wife Anna liked to talk. Said it helped her think things through better.”

  Annoyance threaded through her. “Maybe it helped her. It doesn’t help me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Talking about something doesn’t change it. You’re escorting me to Texas against my wishes. I’ve accepted that, but that doesn’t mean I have to confide in you.”

  “You asked me about my past and I told you.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to demand the same of me.” Laurel turned on to her side, giving her back to Creede.

  If he spoke again, she didn’t hear him over the furious pounding of her heart. She wanted to curl up into a ball and hide from Creede, from the surviving families for whom she carried messages, and from all the ghosts of dead and crippled soldiers. She wished she could take Jeanie and Dickens and simply disappear, but that option was past. Creede would hound her until she made it to Texas safely, even if she tried to escape him. And the damned cat would probably follow her, too. Not to mention the ghosts who didn’t need a trail to follow—they’d just wait until she slept to find her.

  Tears burned her eyes but she blinked them back. She had no reason to feel sorry for herself. She was alive and whole. So why couldn’t she be grateful she wasn’t lying in a cold grave?

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. You don’t have to tell me anything. I guess, I just want you to know, well, that I’m not a bad listener,” Creede said. “At least that’s what Anna used to say.”

  The awkward contrition in his voice doused Laurel’s anger, but her tight throat made it impossible to speak. Robert had been a good husband, but his formal upbringing had left him stiff and courteous, even with his own wife. She’d started to make slight inroads into his tightly reined personality, but the War had taken him before she’d been able to unearth his true character. Would she have heard the same endearing self-consciousness in Robert’s voice one day?

  She doubted it. The two men were worlds apart, yet she found herself drawn to Creede just as she’d been attracted to Robert. However, she’d married Robert before learning the cruel realties of life. Now she was too familiar with death. A possible future would forever be clouded by its specter.

  Laurel managed to clear her throat. “I appreciate the offer, Creede. Truly I do. But we aren’t going to be together for more than a month or so. Once we get to Texas, we’ll go our separate ways.”

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

  “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  Laurel’s hair-trigger temper soared again. “It just isn’t.”

  When had she become so easily riled? She prided herself on her ability to remain calm even in the worst conditions, so why couldn’t she control herself with Creede?

  “If that’s the way you want it.” His curt tone bespoke his frustration.

  Laurel’s emotions seesawed again and her eyes filled with moisture. She hadn’t
meant to vex him. At times like this, she recognized how closely insanity lurked.

  No, it wasn’t the way she wanted it, but it was the way things had to be.

  NINE

  December 23, 1864. Private William Gaddsen from Lefsburg, Mississippi. Fatally wounded during the battle at Petersburg on December 21. Light brown hair, eye color unknown, twenty-two years old. Cause of death: head wound. “Don’t let my son forget me. And tell Katy I’ll always remember how pretty the sun shone on her gold hair the day we got hitched.”

  Laurel was relieved when they rode away from the barn the next morning. She’d spent too much time in close quarters with Creede and had become too much at ease. Her cheeks burned as she recalled how she’d offered her body to him in shameless abandon. More dangerous, however, was allowing herself to learn more about him, his life, and the kind of man he was. That tempted a different—deeper—kind of intimacy and she didn’t dare surrender to it. She couldn’t afford to grow close to anyone ever again.

  Creede remained pensive as they rode abreast, their stirrups occasionally brushing. Perhaps he was finally regretting his hasty decision to accompany her to Texas. That should’ve relieved her, but Laurel found her throat constricting with the painful realization that she didn’t want him to leave.

  Being a nurse, she’d learned to set her feelings aside and remain detached from her patients. Surely she could do the same with Creede Forrester.

  She focused on the land and noticed people working in a meager field, perhaps a quarter mile away. Squinting, she could tell most of the workers were dark skinned. With the end of the conflict, slavery was abolished, yet Laurel wondered how many farms continued to use ex-slaves.

  She swallowed her revulsion, just as she’d done for the past four years. Although Robert hadn’t fought for the Confederacy because of the slavery issue, it had been difficult for Laurel to remain on the side that condoned it. Yet most of the Confederate soldiers who’d died had never owned a slave in their short lives, which was how Laurel was able to live with her conscience.

  It was shortly before noon when they entered Lefsburg. There was little activity, but the people who were on the boardwalks stopped to watch them. Their expressions ranged from weary to suspicious, and sometimes belligerent. Clothes were patched and threadbare, and very few wore shoes. The war had obviously struck close to this town and its people had suffered worse than others.