A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers)

by McKade, Maureen

  “Mr. Forrester,” their host called up.

  After exchanging a glance with Laurel, Creede went down to join him. Laurel lay on her belly and looked over the edge.

  “The missus had me bring this out,” he said, giving Creede a kettle and something wrapped in cloth. “She made some stew and figgered y’all would like some hot food.”

  “Tell her thanks,” Creede said.

  He glanced around, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s hard on her. She don’t like not trustin’ folks.”

  “It’s hard on everyone. You’re luckier than most we’ve seen.”

  “I heard ’bout folks gettin’ burned out. It ain’t right.” He took a deep breath. “Name’s Daniel Overby.”

  Creede shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Overby shifted his weight from one worn shoe to the other. “I’d best get back inside. We ain’t usually so unneighborly, but times is bad. A person don’t know who’s friend and who’s gonna rob you blind.”

  “We understand,” Creede assured. “Thanks again for letting us sleep here.”

  Clearly embarrassed, Overby left the barn.

  Creede brought the food up to the loft and the smell of the stew made Laurel’s stomach growl.

  “Even as hungry as I am, I’d like to put on some dry clothes first,” she said.

  “Go ahead. I won’t look,” Creede said with a wink.

  Flustered, Laurel dug some clothes out of her bag and glanced at Creede. True to his word, his back was to her and it appeared he was doing the same thing. Turning away quickly, she changed out of her wet garments.

  By the time she was done, Creede had donned a dry shirt and pants. Laurel sat cross-legged on the straw, one knee almost touching Creede. The cat sat on her lap, his nose twitching as he stared at the kettle.

  Creede unrolled the cloth from Overby and in it were two spoons and some warm bread. Steam rolled from the stew when he removed the pot’s lid. Creede’s stomach took its turn to growl even louder than Laurel’s had. They laughed and dug into the tasty meal, both eating from the kettle and sharing with the cat.

  After Laurel finished, she leaned back against the wall. She was pleasantly full and comfortably tired. The rain was coming down harder and the patter had become a steady rhythm that soothed her. If she wasn’t so afraid of her nightmares, she’d lie down and go to sleep now.

  She looked at Creede and caught him studying her. “What?”

  “Your husband was a lucky man.”

  Discomfited, Laurel cast her gaze downward and picked up a piece of straw, which she twirled between two fingers. “I’m sure he didn’t think so.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant. I meant it as a compliment to you.”

  “Don’t.” She couldn’t afford to let anyone inside again.

  A warm, callused hand caught her chin and tipped her face upward. Creede gazed at her, and the lantern’s glow reflected in his dark eyes. “Why? You’re a beautiful woman.”

  “Who’s lost everyone she’s cared for. I won’t let that happen again. I can’t let that happen again.” Sickness welled up in her throat.

  “You can’t cut yourself off from ever feeling again, Laurel.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  His gaze moved across her cheeks and down to her lips. He leaned toward her, his mouth searching for hers. Laurel wanted to escape, but her muscles wouldn’t obey. His breath caressed her, then his lips brushed hers. She forgot how to breathe, forgot everything but the sweet touch of his mouth. She raised a hand and laid it behind his neck. His soft hair tickled her fingers and sent spasms of longing straight to her middle. She pulled his face close, this time initiating the kiss herself.

  Sometimes soft, sometimes hard, the press of his lips against hers stirred the long-denied heat of passion. It radiated to her limbs and into her belly, making her body sing with sensations almost forgotten.

  Creede drew away. His face was flushed, his eyes half-closed with desire. “We have to stop, Laurel,” he whispered hoarsely.

  His voice brought reality crashing down around her. The pain of losing someone she cared about could never be offset by a few stolen moments of pleasure.

  She dropped her arms to her sides. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  He brushed his thumb across her lower lip. “Don’t be. I was the one who wanted to prove something.”

  “What?”

  “That no matter how hard you try, you can’t cut yourself off from feeling.”

  He’d proved his point. And Laurel was more frightened than ever.

  FOURTEEN

  Creede awakened with a start. He lay still, trying to determine what had pulled him from a deep sleep. Laurel, who dozed about ten feet away, shifted restlessly. She moaned, and tossed and turned on her bed of straw.

  She was obviously having a nightmare and he debated whether to wake her. Maybe if he woke her, he could get her to tell him about it. However, knowing Laurel’s stubborn nature, she’d more than likely refuse.

  Although he couldn’t understand what she was murmuring, her tone was one of pain and suffering. She cried out and he closed his hands into fists as he forced himself to remain still. Finally, she grew silent and her breathing evened out.

  Creede loosened his tense muscles and rolled onto his side. It was still an hour before dawn, long enough to try to catch some more sleep.

  From below, one of the horses snorted and bumped into its stall. More hooves fidgeted on the floor, alerting Creede to the presence of something—or someone. He tugged on his boots and reached for his revolver, then soundlessly crept across the straw-covered loft. Keeping low, he peered over the edge and searched the darkness, but saw nothing except shadows.

  The animals snuffled and stirred restlessly, telling him whatever had disturbed them was still there. Frowning, Creede carefully swung a leg over the ladder and climbed down. He stood in the middle of the barn, his head tipped to the side as he listened.

  A scuffle to his right, away from the animals, made him spin around. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of movement—a dark shadow against lighter shadows.

  Creede considered calling out, but that would only give away his position. Walking on the balls of his feet, he moved in that direction. He spotted motion to his left and heard the unmistakable sound of running feet. He charged after the person. The horses neighed and one of the mules brayed, but he didn’t know which one.

  The barn door burst open and Creede saw a slight figure duck through the opening. He hurried after the person, his gun in his hand. In the predawn light, he could make out a short person running across the yard.

  “Hold it,” Creede shouted.

  The pig oinked and the chickens clucked and scattered. The thief didn’t stop. Creede pointed his gun in the air and fired once.

  The figure stumbled and fell. Creede quickly caught up and aimed his revolver at the intruder, who turned out to be a child. The whites of his eyes were set in a dark face surrounded by a mop of curly black hair. His tan shirt and trousers were streaked with dirt and his feet were bare.

  Self-consciously, Creede lowered his revolver and stared at the kid.

  “What’s goin’ on out there?” Overby shouted from the cabin’s porch. His overalls were hooked at one shoulder and in his hands was his trusty shotgun.

  “Come take a look,” Creede called back.

  Overby cautiously joined him, unsure of whom he should be aiming his shotgun at. “It’s a darkie.”

  Creede bit back a retort. “It’s a boy.”

  “He’s a damned thief.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “What’s that in his hand?”

  Creede looked down at the boy whose wide-eyed gaze darted back and forth between him and Overby. “What do you have, kid?”

  The boy narrowed his eyes. “Nuthin’.”

  “That doesn’t look like nothing,” Creede said, pointing at the bag in his hand.

  He clutched it close to his chest. “M
ine.”

  Overby leaned over and grabbed the sack, but the kid clung to it and he was jerked to his feet.

  “Let go,” Overby said.

  The boy shook his head. Overby raised his hand to strike him and Creede caught his arm.

  “There’s no need for that,” Creede growled.

  “He’s a damned thief.”

  Creede reined in his temper. “Let me talk to him.”

  Overby swore under his breath but released the boy, who tried to flee. Creede caught his shoulder.

  “Tell me what’s in the bag, son,” Creede said gently.

  The boy’s gaze flicked away.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I’d just like to see what you have.”

  The tension in the kid’s body leached away and he opened the bag but didn’t release it. Creede put his hand inside and came up with something wrapped in cloth. He unrolled it and a biscuit and two pieces of meat tumbled into his hand.

  “Creede?”

  Laurel’s voice startled him and he glanced up to see her coming toward them, a shawl around her shoulders.

  “I think I found the leftovers from the other night,” he said dryly.

  “Who is he?” she asked.

  “A thievin’ bastard,” Overby said.

  “He didn’t steal from you,” Creede growled.

  “How do ya know?”

  Creede restrained an impatient sigh. “Where would he hide it?”

  Overby grumbled but held his tongue.

  Laurel knelt in front of the boy, putting their heads at the same height. “What’s your name?”

  The kid shuffled his bare feet. “Seb.” He lifted his chin. “I ain’t no runaway. I’s free.”

  Laurel smiled. “Yes, you are. Where’s your family?”

  He looked at her like she’d asked him to move a mountain. “Ain’t got none.”

  “No mother or father?”

  Seb shook his head. “Didn’t never know ’em.”

  Creede felt a stab of sympathy.

  “How old are you?” Laurel asked.

  “They told me I was eight.”

  “They?”

  “The master and the others.”

  “Where do you live now?” Laurel asked.

  “Nowheres.”

  Laurel glanced up at Creede and he could plainly see her compassion. “We can’t just leave him out here on his own.”

  “What do you think we should do?”

  “Turn ’im in to the law,” Overby interjected.

  “And what will they do with him?” Laurel asked.

  “They’ll make sure he don’t steal from law-abidin’ folks again.”

  Seb’s eyes widened in fear.

  Creede suspected Seb would be better off on his own than handed over to a lawman. “Maybe we can find someone in Rounder willing to give him a job,” he said in a low voice to Laurel.

  She nodded and asked Seb softly, “Would you like to come with us?”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe we can find you a place to live.”

  “I ain’t no slave no more,” he said stubbornly.

  “No, you’re not. You’re free—free to decide if you want to come with us or not.”

  Seb stared at her, as if trying to determine if this was a trick. “Iffen I wanna leave, I can?”

  “Yes,” Laurel said solemnly. “I promise.”

  Finally, he nodded.

  “Crazy as a flea-bitten coonhound,” Overby muttered. He turned around and strode back to the house.

  Dawn cast an orange glow across the eastern sky.

  Creede took hold of Laurel’s arm and helped her to her feet. “I doubt anyone will sleep anymore. We might as well get organized and head out.”

  He didn’t get any argument from Laurel. Or Seb.

  Laurel glanced back at Dickens, amazed anew at how the mule had taken to Seb. The cat wasn’t too happy to share his perch with the boy, but he didn’t hop down either. Seb seemed more relaxed now than when they’d started traveling. Laurel could only imagine how ingrained distrust was in the boy.

  “Town should be just up ahead,” Creede announced.

  “Maybe we can find someone willing to take Seb in.” She kept her voice low so the boy wouldn’t hear.

  “It’s not going to be easy. I doubt any white folks will want him.”

  “We won’t know until we ask,” she said, unwilling to believe the War had turned everyone bitter.

  Creede merely grunted in reply.

  Entering Rounder, they noticed a handful of people moving about the town. Most glanced curiously at the newcomers, but even with Seb’s presence, they didn’t garner the same looks of deep suspicion that greeted them in Lefsburg.

  They reined in by the livery and dismounted. Creede swung Seb down from Dickens’s back. The cat leapt gracefully to the ground and dashed off to find a hiding place. Laurel didn’t doubt he’d find them when they left town.

  She spotted two men playing checkers on a barrel just inside the barn door. One was old and grizzled, and the other, who was half-hidden in the shadows, was younger, maybe twenty or so.

  The older man stood and straightened his coverall straps as he walked out to join them. He eyed Seb but didn’t make any comment. “Afternoon. Looks like ya’ll have ridden a ways.”

  “We have,” Creede said. “Got room for a couple of tired horses and a mule?”

  The whipcord-thin man’s laugh was surprisingly low-pitched. “All we got is room, mister. Two bits a day for each animal.”

  “Oats?”

  “Can’t help ya there. We ain’t had no oats for two years now. All they growed ’round here went to General Lee and his soldiers.” He spit to the side. “And now they done decided we ain’t sec-ceded no more.”

  The younger man, who was still sitting, glared at them but Laurel couldn’t figure out if it was aimed at her or Creede. Or perhaps Seb.

  “What do you mean?” Laurel asked the older man.

  He leveled a gimlet-eyed gaze on her. “Well, missy, it means that them politicians figured since we lost the war, we’d best get on the good side of them Yanks. Voted to get rid of slaves, too.” His glance slid to Seb again, but there wasn’t any overt hostility in his expression.

  “How long ago was that?” Creede asked.

  The liveryman scrubbed his whiskered jaw. “Over a month ago, middle of August, it was.”

  Laurel realized the former slaves they’d seen on the road had probably been traveling since the Mississippi congress voted to emancipate them.

  “Give them a good rubdown,” Creede said, flipping the man a dollar.

  The man caught the coin and examined it. Satisfied, he slipped it in his pocket. “Robbie, come take care of their stock.”

  The younger man swore and rose awkwardly as he reached for a crutch. As he hobbled over, Laurel saw one pants leg hung limp. Her belly clenched. She’d seen too many like him during the war, with arms or legs shattered by rifle balls and nothing to do but cut off the limb or let the patient die a slow painful death.

  “What you starin’ at, lady?” the boy growled.

  Laurel flinched as if struck and shook her head. “I-I’m sorry.” Flustered, she grabbed her two bags but then realized she didn’t know where to go.

  “He didn’t mean anything, Laurel,” Creede said quietly.

  She swallowed back a hysterical laugh. “No, I’m sure he didn’t.”

  Remembered images swarmed through her mind, triggered by the crippled boy’s appearance. Her head pounded and her skin was both hot and cold, clammy and dry. “Let’s find a room.”

  Keeping his concerned gaze on her, Creede asked the liveryman, “There a hotel in town?”

  He shook his head. “Only a roomin’ house. Don’t s’pect she’ll let the boy in, though.”

  Anger flared in Laurel, nearly obliterating the nausea. “Why?”

  He looked at her like she was lacking sense. “Look at him.”

  Seb stood close to Laurel, his gaz
e aimed at the ground. His subservient posture angered her further.

  “He’s a boy,” she said.

  The liveryman shrugged his bony shoulders. “Don’t make no never mind to me, but don’t be s’prised if she don’t give you a room.” He motioned with his chin to a building across the street. “There’s the roomin’ house.”

  Creede seized one of Laurel’s bags, and with her free hand, she clasped Seb’s hand. They walked across the street to a large house with a sign that read ROOMS.

  The proprietor, a stout woman with her hair pulled in a severe bun, met them on the porch. “Can I help you?” Her tone was cool.

  “We’d like a room for the night,” Creede said.

  She crossed her arms over her large bosom. “You and your missus can have one, but the darkie’s gotta sleep someplace else.”

  Laurel didn’t correct her assumption that they were married, but she couldn’t overlook her slur against Seb. “The boy’s name is Seb and he’s with us.”

  “He your slave?”

  “No. And even if he had been, he wouldn’t be anymore. Haven’t you heard—slavery is against the law now,” Laurel said.

  The woman’s round face reddened. “This is my place and I says who can stay here.”

  “Business has been that good that you can turn away folks with good money?” Creede asked.

  Flustered, she stared at him, and Laurel could tell she was weighing her greed with her aversion. Finally, the woman nodded curtly. “As long as the … the boy sleeps on the floor, you can have a room.”

  Creede paid her and she led them to a room on the main floor. Laurel pulled Seb along, knowing he was reluctant, but she refused to give in to the landlady’s prejudice.

  Once the woman left them, Laurel examined their room. A davenport and chair were positioned in front of a fireplace, and an armoire stood against the wall to the right. The bed itself was large enough for four people and the coverlet appeared clean.

  She glanced at Seb, who was standing in the same place she’d left him. His eyes were wide and he drew a finger along the sofa’s cushion then jerked his hand back as if he’d be punished for stroking it. She doubted he’d ever been allowed in a room like this, much less touched the furniture.