It was almost dark when he found a decent campsite. Since it was so late, he suggested Laurel prepare supper while he took care of the animals. She didn’t argue, which told him how tired she was.
The cat hopped down from Dickens’s back and followed Laurel. Smiling at the cat’s devotion to the woman, Creede removed Jeanie’s tack then rubbed her down with the saddle blanket. By the time he took care of Red and removed Dickens’s pack frame, night had fallen.
A bright fire led him to Laurel, who was mixing together a batch of biscuits. Side pork already sizzled in the frying pan.
Creede lowered himself to the ground, sitting with his back against a tree and an arm resting on a bent knee. “I managed to get away without a bruise from Dickens.”
She glanced up. “I think he’s starting to like you.”
Creede snorted. “I think he’s starting to learn I’m meaner than he is.”
“You’re both too much alike,” she teased.
He grinned, enjoying her banter. However, his amusement faded as he thought about all the ex-slaves they’d seen. He’d grown up in the Colorado Territory where slavery wasn’t practiced, but after moving to Texas he’d come to see firsthand how debasing it was for one person to own another. It was the main reason he hadn’t supported the Confederacy, despite Texas’s secession from the Union.
“Did it ever bother you knowing you were helping the side that bought and sold people?” he asked.
Laurel’s movements faltered. “Yes. I never believed one person had the right to own another, even though my husband’s family owned slaves.”
“So why did you help the Confederacy?”
“I was a nurse and it was my duty.”
“But you didn’t believe in their cause.”
“Those soldiers weren’t rich landowners. Most were poor farmers who believed they’d be subjugated by the rich merchants in the North if they lost the War.” Her tone was rife with cynicism.
“Confederate claptrap.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “The North had their share of claptrap, too.”
He’d known few people, man or woman, who had Laurel’s intelligence and perceptiveness. She also possessed generosity and compassion, which were scarce these days, and he wondered how Laurel, who’d lost so much, could still cling to those values.
“This is the last of the meat,” Laurel said. “We’ll have to restock our supplies in Rounder.”
“If they have any to buy. It might be better to keep an eye out for a rabbit or possum.”
She wrinkled her nose. “If you get a possum, it’s all yours.”
Creede chuckled, pleased to see a glint of humor in her usually somber eyes. “All right, maybe not a possum. You eat squirrel?”
“I’ve eaten it.”
Her guarded tone made him pause. “I swear we ate squirrel every day when I was a kid,” he said. “We didn’t have much so we made do. What about you?”
She brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead, leaving a streak of flour on her brow. It was a picture Creede took pleasure in, knowing she didn’t often allow herself to appear less than self-possessed.
“We had a cook named Maurice who made these meals I couldn’t pronounce,” she replied with a wry smile. “I doubt a squirrel ever passed through his kitchen. I do remember having rabbit, though. Maurice said it was a delicacy in Europe.”
Creede barked a laugh. “You mean we were eating like the high and mighty in Europe?”
“He made it with a special sauce that tasted like raspberry jam.”
“Jam on rabbit? Now that’s something we never had.”
He watched her form the biscuits and place them in the sizzling grease. “How did you learn to cook when you never had to do it yourself?”
“The hard way.” She smirked. “When I trained to be a nurse, I rented a room in a house close to the hospital. My landlady taught me how to cook, beginning with how to boil water. She had the patience of a saint. I can’t tell you how many times I nearly set her kitchen on fire.”
Creede chuckled as he gazed at Laurel’s face, which reflected the orange flames. “If you picked up nursing as well as you picked up cooking, you must’ve been one helluva nurse.”
She glanced up, but didn’t seem shocked by his cuss word. Instead, she appeared embarrassed. “All I ever wanted to do was help people.”
“I would’ve thought a girl growing up with money would be too busy going to dances and buying new dresses.”
“Oh, I did my share of that, too,” she admitted. “It just wasn’t enough for me.” She flipped the biscuits and pork. “I got my share of trying to help people during the War, although sometimes I wonder if I did more harm than good.”
Startled, Creede shook his head. “I don’t see how you could’ve. You were there to put the pieces back together.”
“For all the good that did. They were just thrown back into the War to return in more pieces, if they came back at all.”
Creede shivered at the self-recrimination in her voice and was grateful for the stray cat’s reappearance. Laurel automatically petted the animal even as she kept watch on their sizzling meal.
“Did you have a pet when you were a child?” he asked, changing the subject to something less somber.
His tactic worked and her face lit up. “My parents gave us a spaniel when I was five. We taught it how to dance.”
“Don’t tell me you put a dress on it, too.”
“Bright red.”
Creede groaned, although he was enjoying her childhood stories. “At least it wasn’t a dancing pony.”
“We had one of those, too.”
“With a dress?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It was a skirt.” Her eyes glowed with laughter. She leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, “The rest of that pony was buck naked.”
Creede laughed aloud. “You must’ve been a terror for your parents.”
Laurel used a cloth to wrap around the frying pan handle and removed their meal from the fire. After she filled two plates, she handed one to Creede then tossed the cat a piece of meat.
“We had a nanny. Actually we had more than one. We used to scare them off,” she said.
Creede didn’t have any trouble imagining this Laurel as an impish child. “We?”
“My sister and brother.” She placed a piece of pork between a split biscuit and took a bite. When she was done chewing, she continued. “The first thing we tried with a new nanny was putting a frog in her bed. That night we’d wait for her scream. If she stayed on after that, the next night we tried a snake. If that didn’t do it, we hid her corsets.”
“You didn’t.”
Laurel’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Oh, yes. Usually one of those worked, but we finally got a nanny who I swear wasn’t afraid of anything. When she found the frog, she carried it to our room as calm as could be and asked us if we’d lost something. Same with the snake. After we hid her corsets, she wouldn’t let us outside to play until we returned them. We lasted less than a day.” Laurel shook her head, the memories obviously fond ones. “She ended up being the best nanny. We couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes, but she was fair and she cared for us in her own way. She was the one I talked to about becoming a nurse.”
“What about your parents?”
Her expression shifted to reticence. “Father and Mother believed that children should be seen and not heard. I think the first time they actually heard me was when I told them I was going to become a nurse, whether they approved or not.”
Creede wiped his plate clean with a biscuit and popped it in his mouth. It was difficult to imagine that kind of childhood, with parents who weren’t around. “I suppose they didn’t think too highly of your decision.”
“That’s being kind. Father forbade it, but I didn’t let that stop me. It took me a year to get him to change his mind. He still didn’t like the idea but he decided it would be easier to let me do it and come to realize on my own that it had b
een a foolish notion.”
“Only you liked it.”
She glanced at him, an eyebrow angled upward. “Yes. Then I met Robert and the War started. Because I was loyal to my husband, my father disowned me.” Her eyes glimmered, and she blinked and turned away.
“Have you tried to contact him since the War ended?”
She shook her head, keeping her face averted. “It wouldn’t do any good. Jonathan Monteille is a very stubborn man and his word is law.”
Creede wondered, however, if her father might have had a change of heart. After losing Austin, Creede couldn’t imagine a father washing his hands of his child.
A twig snapped in the darkness and Creede froze. The cat was calmly washing its face beside Laurel and the horses grazed unperturbed.
“It was probably a rabbit or squirrel,” Laurel said, but her voice wasn’t convinced.
Creede rose. “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”
Laurel’s eyes widened and panic flicked through them. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded.
Creede palmed his revolver and crept into the brush.
Laurel gathered the cat in her arms and tried to slow her galloping heartbeat. A month ago she wouldn’t have been afraid, but that was before she’d run into men like Jasper Thomas and the odd duo of Delbert and Rufus.
The cat squirmed, wanting to be set free, and she reluctantly let it jump down. It disappeared, leaving her alone. Refusing to allow her fear to dictate to her, Laurel wrapped the leftover food in a cloth, then added an inch of water to the frying pan and set it over the fire. The water heated quickly and she washed the two dishes and the frying pan.
Creede hadn’t returned yet and Laurel tried to rein in her wild imagination. She hadn’t heard any shooting or the sounds of a scuffle. He was only being thorough in his search. She hoped.
“It’s just me,” Creede called out as he entered the fire’s circle of light minutes later.
Relief eddied through Laurel, making her dizzy. “Did you find anything?”
Creede slid his hat back off his forehead and his dark hair fell across his brow. “Nope. And I didn’t hear anything either, but it wasn’t a normal silence. No crickets, no birds, no nothing.”
His worried expression did nothing to assuage Laurel’s own apprehension. “So, what do you think it was?”
He shrugged. “If it was a larger animal, the horses would’ve been spooked and I think Dickens would kick up a fuss if anything got near them. Could’ve been a person, but if it was, he’s long gone.”
“Probably, but it doesn’t hurt to bring the animals in closer.” Laurel finished tidying their camp and glanced nervously at the darkness. She needed to make her nightly ablutions before turning in.
“Don’t go far,” Creede said, guessing her thoughts.
With her heart in her throat, Laurel moved only far enough away to maintain propriety. She quickly took care of her business and returned to the fire.
“Go to sleep. I’m going to sit up for a while longer,” Creede said.
Laurel held his gaze for a moment then gave in and spread her bedroll. She removed her shoes and lay down. The familiar night sounds, which had returned, should’ve calmed her, but a tingle along her spine unnerved her. She turned on her side and pillowed her head on her forearms to watch Creede. The firelight flickered across his rugged features as he cleaned his revolver with practiced ease.
“You’ve done that before,” she commented.
He glanced up and a wry grin touched his lips. “A time or two.”
“Is that the gun that you used—” She broke off, unable to articulate the rest of her question.
His motions slowed and he nodded reluctantly. She searched his face, trying to interpret his expression.
“I promised Anna, my wife, that I’d never touch it again,” he said in a barely audible voice.
Laurel frowned. “Why?”
“She didn’t believe in violence and I’d had more than my share.” He picked up an oiled rag and wiped the barrel. “Those two men who hurt Ma weren’t the only people I killed with this gun.”
Laurel’s heart stumbled and her mouth grew dry.
“I sold my gun hand to the highest bidder.” Bitterness twisted his features. “Anna loved me enough to forgive me as long as I promised to hang up my gun. And I loved her enough to leave that part of my life behind and become a cotton farmer.”
“But not enough to keep your promise after she died,” Laurel said.
He stabbed her with a sharp look. “I kept my word until I came east looking for my son. When I found out he was dead, I figured there was no reason anymore.”
“No reason to keep your promise?”
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. Whether that was his answer or he was merely unwilling to talk about it, Laurel didn’t know. She continued to study him, trying to figure out what kind of man Creede Forrester was. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see him as a cold-blooded killer. Yet hadn’t he insinuated that?
“Anna was right,” Creede said a few minutes later. “Guns and violence never solved anything. I tried to teach that to Austin, but he never understood.” He gave his gun one more wipe then slid it into his holster. His gaze was steady but his voice trembled ever so slightly. “The night before he ran away to join the army, he called me a coward.”
Laurel closed her eyes, unable to bear the anguish in Creede’s expression.
* * *
The following morning, Laurel reached into her saddlebag to dig out the leftover biscuits and pork for breakfast. The cloth holding the food wasn’t there. Frowning, she opened the other side but didn’t find it there, either.
“Creede, have you seen the food left over from last night?” she called.
He turned, wiping his fresh-shaven face. “Didn’t we eat it all?”
She shook her head impatiently. “I know there was some left.”
He shrugged. “Maybe the cat ate it.”
The cat couldn’t have gotten into her saddlebag and she was certain she’d wrapped three biscuits and four pieces of pork to save for the morning.
“It’ll turn up,” Creede assured. “We’ll just have some coffee and jerky then get on the road.”
Frustrated, Laurel wanted to tear everything apart to find the food, but Creede was right. They had to continue on to Rounder if they wanted to reach the town tomorrow. She poured fresh coffee into two tin cups and they ate their meager breakfast in silence.
Fifteen minutes later, they rode away, heading south. They kept their pace slow so they wouldn’t exhaust the horses. Dickens plodded along without throwing a single temper tantrum.
Laurel considered asking Creede more questions about his past, but each time she opened her mouth, she closed it again. Creede hadn’t pushed her for the details of her life. The least she could do was treat him with the same courtesy.
Clouds drifted in by mid-afternoon and spit rain, enough to make riding uncomfortable, but not enough to seek shelter. They continued to travel down the road that was little more than two nearly invisible ruts. By late afternoon, Laurel and Creede were soaked to the skin. Fortunately, the day’s heat remained.
Creede reined in and squinted through the mist. “There’s a farm up ahead. We might be able to sleep in their barn.”
Laurel nodded. A mattress of straw with a roof would definitely be more agreeable than the wet ground.
They rode up to the tiny but well-kept house, scattering a half dozen chickens. A pig wallowed in a muddy pen, looking fat and contented.
“Don’t come any closer.” A double-barrel shotgun poked out of the home’s cracked-open door.
“We’re looking for a dry place to spend the night,” Creede said, keeping his hands in plain sight.
“We ain’t got room,” the man yelled.
“Could we stay in your barn?” Laurel asked, remembering to inject a drawl into her voice.
There was a long pause but the shotgun didn’t wave
r. “Where you headed?”
“Rounder,” Creede replied.
“What kinda business you got there?”
“Personal. My name’s Creede Forrester and this is my wife Laurel. All we want is a dry place to spend the night.”
She heard murmured voices in the house then the door opened fully. A man about Creede’s age stepped onto the porch, the shotgun cradled in his arms. “Afore the War we’d invite you in for a meal, but times ain’t been good.”
“We understand,” Creede said soberly. “We can only give you our word we don’t mean you or your family any harm.”
The man shifted his gaze to Laurel, who nodded, rain dripping from her nose and chin.
“All right. You can stay in the barn,” he said.
Laurel sagged in her saddle. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be sleepin’ with my shotgun close,” the man warned.
Creede nodded.
Laurel and Creede dismounted and led their animals to the barn. As soon as they were inside, the cat leaped down from Dickens’s back and began to explore. Like the house, the barn wasn’t large, but it was dry and didn’t appear to have any leaks. It smelled of dust, animal, and straw. There were four stalls but only one was occupied—by a mule.
Creede handed Laurel his horse’s reins. “I’m going to check out the hayloft.”
She watched him climb the ladder, trying not to notice his backside as he ascended the steps. Although wet and uncomfortable, she couldn’t deny her body’s response to him. Part of it was three years of abstinence, but it wasn’t merely physical. Although handsome, Creede was someone she wouldn’t have looked at twice five years ago, but after everything she’d gone through, she’d learned to see beyond a man’s appearance. And she’d come to respect and appreciate Creede’s kindness and integrity.
“It looks dry and comfortable,” he reported.
They took care of the animals and put them in the empty stalls. Creede carried a bag up to the loft and Laurel handed him the rest of their things, then climbed the ladder. At the top, Creede took hold of her arm and helped her into the spacious area.
It was growing dark, so they quickly mounded up straw in two separate piles and lay their respective bedrolls on them.
A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers) Page 16