A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers)

by McKade, Maureen

  “Do you know where the family lives?” Creede broke their long silence.

  She shook her head. “I’ll have to ask around.”

  Creede adjusted the brim of his wide-brimmed hat. “You’ll have to do it careful-like. I get the feeling these folks don’t take too kindly to strangers.”

  Recognizing the truth of his words, she didn’t bother to reply, but glanced back to check on Dickens and the curious cat that peered out from his perch atop the mule’s pack. By the covetous attention the horses, mule, and cat garnered, she suspected there might be some who wouldn’t see anything wrong in stealing from a stranger.

  “We’ll have to pay extra for the livery to keep an eye on our stock,” she said in a low voice.

  “Yep. Already figured on it.”

  She should’ve realized he’d be thinking ahead, weighing and measuring the possible risks. He and Robert would’ve gotten along brilliantly with their similar strategy skills.

  The hotel was located close to the bank and a decent restaurant, while the boardinghouse had saloons on either side of it. They reined in their horses at the hotel’s hitching post.

  “You go in and get a room,” Creede said in a low voice. “I’ll stay out here with the horses.”

  “Where will you sleep?”

  Creede’s lips thinned. “With you.” His hooded eyes surveyed the town and the people who went about their business in eerie silence. “I got a bad feeling about this place.”

  Laurel glanced around and a shiver skittered down her spine. She didn’t want Creede sleeping in the same room, but she, too, felt the desperate pall that hung over the town.

  She was aware of Creede’s gaze on her back until the hotel door closed between them. After the sun’s warmth, she took a moment to savor the cooler air inside the building. Then, keeping her back straight, she marched to the front desk where the clerk ogled her.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” His drawled tone was just as slick as his hair.

  Laurel affected a Virginia accent, suspecting a Massachusetts inflection would create even more mistrust. “I’d like a room.” She paused. “For my husband and myself.”

  The clerk’s gaze lost some of its ardor. “That’ll be a dollar—and we don’t take any worthless paper.”

  Fortunately Laurel had exchanged her Confederate money for coin before leaving Virginia, but not without a significant loss. She dropped a silver dollar on the counter and, glad for her wedding band, signed the register as Mr. and Mrs. Creede Forrester.

  “Your room is up the stairs and down the hall to the left. Number 112.” The clerk handed her a key, his fingers lingering in her palm.

  She closed her hand around the key and stepped back, repressing a shudder. “Thank you.”

  He didn’t seem to notice her frosty tone. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Forrester.”

  Laurel hurried back outside to Creede.

  “Any problems?” he asked.

  “No. I registered as Mr. and Mrs. Creede Forrester.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “I thought you’d use your husband’s name.”

  Laurel hadn’t even thought of it and she shifted her feet restlessly. “I figured it would be less complicated using yours.”

  He inclined his head. “There’s a livery down the block.”

  She took Jeanie’s reins and Dickens’s lead rope and followed Creede down the street. Stares followed them and the skin between her shoulder blades crawled. Once in the barn, Laurel stayed back while Creede dealt with the shrewd-eyed owner. After the liveryman promised to keep a close eye on the stock for an added fee, Laurel and Creede removed their bags from the animals. The cat darted off, but Laurel suspected he’d be back when they were ready to leave town.

  Dickens made his displeasure at being left there known with laid-back ears and loud brays. Laurel set down her belongings and grasped his ears, one in each hand. “Behave yourself, Dickens, or I may not come back for you.”

  As if he understood, the mule quieted and meekly followed the liveryman into an open stall.

  “How did you do that?” Creede asked, reaching for Laurel’s bag.

  She let him take it and said with a smile, “We have an understanding.”

  Creede grinned and walked out of the barn with Laurel beside him. They returned to the hotel, where a large-bellied man wearing a suit and vest sat in a chair beside the door. A gold chain stretched across his vest, revealing a prosperity nobody else in Lefsburg possessed.

  “New in town?” he asked, scratching his thick neck.

  Creede stepped in front of Laurel. “Just passing through.”

  “We don’t get many folks just passing through.” His oily gaze slid across Laurel. “Most men around here died fighting the Yanks. Left a lot of womenfolk behind.”

  Laurel looked around, seeing only very young and old men, but none in their prime. The women kept their gaze lowered as they hurried to carry out their errands. She turned her attention back to the suited man, who looked to be slightly older than Creede.

  “Yep. Left a lot of widows behind, they did,” the man said. He stood and hitched up his trousers.

  “So why didn’t you join up?” Creede asked.

  “Bad back.” He eyed Laurel one more time then nodded and sauntered away.

  Laurel stared after him, her heart pounding, although she wasn’t certain why, since the man hadn’t made any threats.

  “Let’s get inside,” Creede urged, his head close to hers.

  He ushered her into the hotel with a steady hand on her waist and she relaxed into his touch. Even the clerk’s prurient look didn’t bother her with Creede beside her. Upstairs, he took the key and unlocked their door.

  A double bed dominated the small room, with a straight-backed chair in one corner and a battered pitcher and basin stand in another.

  “Cozy,” Creede said dryly.

  Laurel lifted the yellowed coverlet and wrinkled her nose at the crumpled sheets. She doubted they’d been changed since the last occupant. Fortunately, they had their own bedrolls to lie on the mattress. God willing, there weren’t any nits or other pests lying in wait on the bedclothes.

  “We could stay with the horses,” Creede suggested, reading her thoughts.

  Despite being tempted, Laurel shook her head. “I’ve already paid for the room and we do have water and privacy to wash up.”

  After they piled their meager belongings in the room, Laurel had to make a trip to the privy. Much to her chagrin Creede insisted on accompanying her. He waited outside the smelly outhouse while she quickly used the necessary. Her face burning, she hurried back to their room without meeting Creede’s eyes. Yet she couldn’t deny the spark of gratitude for his comforting presence. There was an ominous feeling about the town.

  They took turns cleaning up in the room with lukewarm water from the pitcher. Laurel had Creede wait outside as she changed into a clean but wrinkled skirt and shirtwaist to wear to the restaurant. Creede escorted her as if they were man and wife, and Laurel leaned into him, enjoying the deception far more than she should have.

  As they waited for their lunch, she studied the five other diners. All were men and four were gray-haired.

  “I wonder how many towns are like this one,” Laurel commented.

  “Like this how?” Creede asked.

  “Inhabited by old men and young widows with children.”

  Creede raked a hand through his thick dark hair. “I reckon there’s a lot of them. Damned near a whole generation of men lost for no good reason.”

  Laurel speared him with a sharp glare. “Each of those men who died had a reason. We may not have agreed with it, but it’s not our place to say their reason wasn’t good enough.”

  He leaned back in his chair, affecting a nonchalant pose, but she knew she’d touched a raw nerve.

  Laurel leaned forward to clasp his fisted hand. “I didn’t know him, but I do know his father, and I’m sure Austin believed in his heart that he was doing the right thing.”

/>   “When I was Austin’s age, I’d already killed two men. I thought it was the right thing to do, too.”

  “And now?”

  He shrugged and sat up, forcing Laurel to draw away. “And now I don’t know a damned thing.”

  She didn’t know what to say so gave him the dignity of looking away from his naked anguish.

  The homely waitress, appearing harried despite the few customers, brought their plates and set them on the table. She swooped back seconds later with the coffeepot to refill their cups. “Is there anything else you wanted?”

  Creede shook his head, but Laurel spoke up. “I’m looking for someone. Katy Gaddsen. Her husband’s name was William.”

  “What’re you wanting Katy for?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I have a message for her.” When the waitress began to shake her head, Laurel added, “From her husband.”

  The woman’s plain face paled until only two red splotches stained her cheeks. “He’s dead.”

  “That’s right. I was a nurse. I was with him at the last.”

  The waitress leaned close enough that Laurel could see the nervous twitch at the corner of her left eye. “Katy loved William.”

  “And William loved her, which is why his last words were for her.”

  “I can give Katy the message.”

  Laurel shook her head. “No. I’ll deliver the words personally.”

  “You can’t.” She glanced around as if fearful someone might overhear her. “She don’t like strangers coming to call.”

  “Where does she live?” Creede asked in a steely voice.

  One look at Creede and the waitress gave them directions to a place three miles out of town. “Go during the day, not in the evening.”

  “Why?” Laurel asked.

  “Jest do like I said.”

  The woman scurried away.

  “What do you think that was about?” Creede asked.

  “She’s scared, like most of the women around here.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d like to find out.”

  Creede’s jaw muscle clenched.

  “We should eat before the food gets any colder,” Laurel said.

  It looked unappetizing but she forced herself to eat the watery potatoes and tough meat. She refused to ponder if it was beef or mule. Creede, too, ate with decidedly less enthusiasm but cleaned his plate.

  The waitress steered clear of their table, increasing Laurel’s frustration. She wanted to ask her more questions about the town, and especially how many of the women were widowed and how they got by.

  “You done?” Creede asked, motioning to her plate.

  She nodded.

  “Let’s go then.” He dropped some coins on the table and ushered Laurel out of the restaurant.

  She glanced back into the restaurant to try to discover a reason for their abrupt departure, and her gaze collided with the suited man who’d been sitting outside the hotel earlier. Was he the reason Creede wanted to leave so quickly?

  “You don’t like him,” she said.

  For a moment, Creede looked puzzled then he narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen men like him before.”

  Their footsteps echoed on the wood as they walked back to the hotel under the early afternoon sun.

  “He’s a bully. All bark and no bite,” Laurel said, although not believing her own words.

  “Only when he’s sure he can win.” His gaze drilled into hers. “Women, children, old men.”

  The very same makeup of Lefsburg. But could one man control an entire town? Remembering the man’s cunning eyes, Laurel reluctantly answered her own question. The sooner she could conduct her business, the sooner they could move on.

  “I want to see Mrs. Gaddsen now,” Laurel said.

  “The horses need to rest for a day,” Creede said.

  “I’ll have Dickens hitched to a wagon.”

  Creede grunted. “He won’t be happy about that.”

  “I know, but I don’t want to spend any more time in this town than necessary.”

  “Gotta agree with you there,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll take you back to our room, then get the wagon and bring it over to the hotel.”

  Laurel opened her mouth to tell him she could find the way herself, but abruptly changed her mind. The town gave her the creeps. “All right.”

  “No argument?” Creede’s expression was filled with deigned surprise.

  She rolled her eyes and smiled.

  Like a proper husband, he clasped her hand, which rested on his arm. She curved her fingers around his forearm, enjoying the play of his muscles against her skin. With guilty delight, she breathed in the scent she’d come to associate with him—shaving soap, leather, and a hint of male muskiness. It gave her a sense of being harbored, protected, and in her deepest recesses, cherished. Yet she knew it was an illusion. Even if she’d been an old hag, Creede would protect her all the way to Texas.

  She was startled out of her reverie to find herself in their room.

  “Come down in fifteen minutes. I’ll be out front.” Creede closed the door behind him.

  Laurel retrieved the bag with her journal and dashed some cool water on her face then patted it dry with the thin towel. After twisting her hair tightly into a bun at the back of her neck and donning her good bonnet, she left the room with her journal tucked under her arm.

  Dickens brayed when she came out of the hotel. No, he was definitely not happy to be out of his straw-lined stall and hitched to a wagon. Laurel patted his neck and the mule’s flattened ears perked up.

  Creede hopped down from the seat and limped over to Laurel.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Creede glared at Dickens. “Your damned mule kicked me.”

  Laurel grimaced. “I’m sorry. At least he didn’t break your leg.”

  “He got me in the shin. I’ll be lucky if I can get my boot off.”

  Creede assisted her into the wagon and she settled on the seat, which had little spring left. He pulled himself up to sit beside her, huffing a groan.

  “I can examine your leg for you,” she offered.

  “Not much you can do for a bruise.”

  He managed to get Dickens to move and the town disappeared behind them. Laurel curled her fingers around the journal and her thoughts shifted to delivering the next message. She usually reread the note before meeting with the family, but she hadn’t had any time alone to do so this time.

  Her stomach churned and sourness rose in her throat. She hated doing this, but she had no choice. She’d made a promise to each of the soldiers who’d entrusted her with messages.

  After delivering seventeen of the twenty-one messages, it wasn’t any easier to deliver the eighteenth. In fact, it had grown more difficult with every delivery.

  “I’ll go in with you, if you’d like,” Creede suddenly said.

  “No. This is something I have to do alone.”

  “Why?”

  She frowned. “Because I was the one with them when they died.”

  “It wasn’t your fault they died.”

  Tears burned her eyes and she turned her gaze so he couldn’t see the moisture. “Minie balls and sabers and grapeshot killed them. So did diphtheria and a dozen other illnesses,” she said, her throat raw and full.

  “Other soldiers—men—killed them.”

  Creede might try to ease her guilt, but she knew the truth. Many of those wounded soldiers would have lived if she’d been able to help them. Because she was the most experienced nurse, oftentimes her job was to determine who the doctor would tend first. Men who might have lived had been left to die because other lives were more readily saved and it was up to Laurel to separate them.

  She’d played God … and she’d hated every moment of it.

  The wagon slowed and she spotted a fairly well-to-do cabin. Two horses pranced in the corral and colorful flowers bloomed along the front of the house. It wasn’t what Laurel had expected after witnessing the po
verty in town. Had William Gaddsen come from a well-to-do family?

  “Are you certain this is the right place?” she asked.

  Creede shrugged. “It’s what the waitress told us.”

  The cabin door opened and a boy about four years old scampered out.

  “Willie, you get in here right now,” a woman called after him.

  Creede jumped down from the wagon and caught the boy, swinging him high in the air before holding him against his side. “What’s your hurry, son?”

  Laurel smiled at Creede’s easy way with the boy. He must’ve been a wonderful father.

  “Thank you for catchin’ him.”

  Laurel turned to see a beautiful blonde woman with a shy smile approach them. However, it was her rounded belly that caught Laurel’s attention.

  “No problem, ma’am. He must be quite a handful for you,” Creede said easily.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without him,” she said softly.

  “He’s William’s son, isn’t he?” Laurel asked.

  Alarm swept across Mrs. Gaddsen’s face and she reached for her son, who wound his arms around her neck and his thin legs around her thick waist. “Who are you?”

  Creede assisted Laurel down from the wagon and stepped back.

  “My name is Laurel Covey and I was a Confederate nurse. Your husband died in the hospital where I worked.”

  The woman’s face went milk white and Creede reached out to steady her.

  “Mama, what’s wrong?” the boy asked fearfully.

  “She’s fine,” Creede assured. “She just needs to sit down out of the sun.” He gave Laurel a quick nod toward the house.

  “May we go inside?” Laurel asked her. “My friend, Creede Forrester, will look after Willie out here if that’s all right with you.”

  “Why are you here?” she asked, her wary gaze moving between Laurel and Creede.

  “Your husband gave me a message to give you.”

  Joy coupled with apprehension lit Katy Gaddsen’s face. “Would you like to play with Mr. Forrester, Willie?” she asked her son.