“All right.” He removed his hat and gnashed his teeth. He wasn’t a stranger to gunshot wounds, but he’d never helped anyone dig out a bullet.
The first cut Laurel made with the knife sent Creede’s stomach into a slow roll and he swallowed back the rise of bile. He forced himself to observe her steady hands and sure movements, and to ignore the oozing blood and stringy tissue beneath the skin.
“Dab the blood away,” she said.
Startled, Creede reached for a large cloth, but Laurel motioned to the smaller squares. “Use those.”
Stifling his queasiness, he cleaned the blood from around the wound. It didn’t take him long to become engrossed in the surgery and he soon recognized when the wound needed the blood cleared away so Laurel could see what she was doing.
Sweat rolled down Creede’s face. He noticed Laurel, too, was perspiring, and without being asked, he patted her forehead and chin with a clean dry cloth. Her startled look and quick nod thanked him, but she didn’t spare him any more attention. Her entire absorption was on her patient, as if by will alone she could save him.
In what felt like days later, Laurel finally fished out a misshapen piece of metal. She held it up with her forceps then set it on the makeshift tray.
Creede retrieved the needle and thread from the pot of hot water and passed it to Laurel. Fifteen minutes later she tied a knot in the thread, effectively closing the wound. Creede helped her place a clean bandage on it then tied it on with another cloth around the old man’s chest and back.
“We’ll have to check the bandage every hour or so,” Laurel said.
“Is he gonna be all right?” Todd asked with a raspy voice.
“I’ve done all I can. Now it’s up to your grandfather.”
Creede pushed himself to his feet, barely stifling a groan. He was getting too damned old to be kneeling on the ground for two hours. Noticing Laurel’s less-than-graceful motions, he hooked a hand beneath her elbow and helped her up. She planted her hands on her lower back and stretched, producing more than one pop.
“I’m getting old,” she said wryly.
“Not from where I stand,” Creede said with a smile that left no doubt as to his meaning.
She blushed, which he found endearing after her self-assurance during the surgery.
“If you’d like to take Todd back home and bring back the wagon, I think it’s safe to move his grandfather, as long as we use a lot of blankets to cushion him,” she said.
“I don’t like the idea of you staying out here by yourself. Why don’t you go with the boy? I’ll keep an eye on the old man.”
She propped her hands on her waist. “Will you know what to do if he starts bleeding again? Or has trouble breathing?”
Creede shook his head reluctantly. “But you don’t know something will happen.”
“And you don’t know something won’t. No, I’ll stay here and you take Todd back to get their wagon. Take Jeanie, too. She can help pull the wagon.”
“If you stay, your horse stays,” he stated with no room for argument.
Stubbornness glinted in Laurel’s eyes but Creede knew his own expression matched hers. He didn’t like leaving her out here alone with a wounded man, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to leave her without a means to escape if someone happened upon them.
She looked away first and surrendered gracelessly. “All right, but I won’t leave him.”
It was all Creede could do to restrain the urge to shake some sense into her. “Damn it, Laurel. Don’t risk your life for someone who might not even survive.”
“It’s my life to risk.”
Frustration made Creede spin on his heel and stalk back to his horse. He leaned against Red’s back, resting his forehead on his saddle seat. Why did he bother? What was Laurel to him besides someone to escort to Texas? Yes, she’d seen his son at the last but she had nothing to give him—none of those precious words she gifted other families. If he had an ounce of brains, he’d ride off and leave her to her fate.
So why didn’t he? Because she would attract every ruffian in a fifty-mile radius. Because Laurel Covey was too damned compassionate for her own good. Because against all common sense, he was falling in love with the frustrating, exasperating, beautiful woman.
Sighing in resignation, he straightened and walked back to the boy, who remained by his grandfather’s side. Laurel was cleaning up the things she’d used to retrieve the bullet, but he kept his gaze away from her.
“Let’s go and get your wagon, Todd,” Creede said.
“But—”
“You’ll ride double with me, then we’ll hitch my horse to the wagon and bring it back.”
Todd’s face lit up and he said a few more quiet words to his grandfather then joined Creede.
“We’ll be back in an hour, two at the most,” Creede said to Laurel.
“Remember to bring blankets so we can make him as comfortable as possible,” she said, not looking at him.
Creede nodded and strode back to Red with Todd on his heels.
* * *
Laurel stretched and rubbed eyes that felt like someone had poured a pail of sand in them. Heavens, she was tired. Too many nights of disturbed sleep and too many days filled with long hours of travel.
Restless, she checked the old man’s wound for the third time in less than two hours. There was only a small spot of blood that had already dried on the bandage. He’d remained unconscious the entire time and she was starting to worry that perhaps he had a head injury she couldn’t detect. However, he was older and his body was probably having a difficult time dealing with the strain.
Annoyed by how long it was taking Creede to return with the wagon, she paced the small area, but never going so far that she couldn’t see her patient. With nothing to do but wait, Laurel found her thoughts spinning with memories she’d worked hard to bury. The faint call of a bugle’s retreat floated through her and she found herself looking around to assure herself it was only in her mind.
But a few moments later, the woods disappeared, to be replaced by a tent surrounded by stretchers, each one bearing a wounded soldier. She shook her head to rid it of the too-real pictures and fought down the panic that accompanied her loss of control.
“Laurel!”
Creede’s call was a welcome diversion and she turned toward it. He walked through the brush, leading Todd, a woman who looked to be his mother, and a girl younger than Todd by a year or two.
“Where’s the wagon?” Laurel demanded, unable to curb her irritation.
“On the road. The trail was too narrow to bring it through.”
Laurel should’ve realized that. Jeanie had barely made it through the brush and trees when she’d followed Todd.
“We’ll have to carry the old man out to it,” Creede said in a low voice. He pointed to the strangers who’d returned with him. “That’s Todd’s mother Elizabeth and his sister Jane. The old man is Henry, Elizabeth’s husband’s father. Her husband died in the War.”
She nodded absently, watching the family gather around the patriarch. After checking her father-in-law, Elizabeth joined them. Although she was probably younger than Creede, the lines in her face added ten years.
“Thank you for savin’ his life,” she said in a surprisingly genteel voice. “I don’t know what we’d a done if we lost him, too.”
“He’s not out of danger yet,” Laurel warned. “The wound will have to be watched closely until it’s healing properly.”
“If you can help us get him home and show me what I need to do, I’ll make sure he gets the care he needs.”
Laurel was impressed by the woman’s mettle. “I’d be more than happy to show you.”
Between the five of them, they carried Henry the hundred feet to the wagon and got him settled on the blanket-covered floor. Creede drove the wagon while everybody else walked beside it, including Laurel, who led Jeanie. Elizabeth fell back beside her to speak.
“You’re not from the South,” Elizabeth said,
but there was no condemnation in her tone.
“That’s right,” Laurel admitted. She’d forgotten to use a drawl. “I’m originally from Massachusetts. My husband was from Virginia.”
Elizabeth’s gaze traveled to Creede. “He doesn’t sound like a Virginian.”
“Oh, no, my first husband,” Laurel corrected then realized she was insinuating she and Creede were married. She mentally shrugged. “He was an officer in the Confederate army.”
“He’s dead?”
“That’s right. Three years now.”
“I lost my husband two years ago at Chancellorsville. I wasn’t certain I’d be able to go on without him, but his father and the children gave me strength.” Elizabeth glanced at her father-in-law in the wagon. “Henry was devastated by his only son’s death, but he’s raisin’ Todd like he was his own.” Her expression crumpled. “Then this happens. I know it was an accident, but sometimes it seems like God has cursed us.”
Laurel grasped Elizabeth’s hand with her free one. “God doesn’t curse folks. I think things happen for a reason, even if we don’t know what it is at the time.”
“You sound like a good God-fearin’ woman.”
Laurel tried to remember the last time she’d prayed, and failed. She managed a smile. “We each do what we have to.”
They walked behind the wagon in companionable silence, although it was made tense by Henry’s uncertain condition. For all those she hadn’t been able to save during the War, she hoped she could give this family, who’d already lost a husband and father, the life of their loved one.
Thirty minutes of walking brought them to a respectable farm, complete with a milk cow and some chickens. After Laurel checked Henry to ensure his wound hadn’t broken open during the trip home, they carried the old man into the house. Elizabeth directed them to a bed in a corner of the main room and they laid him there.
As soon as he was settled, Henry groaned and his eyelids flickered open. Elizabeth leaned over him and spoke in a quiet, soothing voice.
Suddenly the interior seemed too close, too dark, and too much like the inside of a hospital tent. Laurel’s heart tripped into her throat and she fought to keep the panic from surging forth. She hurried out of the house. The late afternoon sun slanted down and she breathed deeply of the fresh air.
She heard footsteps behind her and knew Creede had followed her outside.
“Mrs. Hudson asked us to supper,” Creede said.
Laurel froze. “What’s her name?”
“Elizabeth Hudson.”
Bethie.
“Do you know her?” Creede asked.
She shook her head. “No. But I knew her husband.”
EIGHTEEN
May 7, 1863. Corporal Hank Hudson from Pine Hill, Arkansas. Wounded by a rifle ball at Chancellorsville on May 3. Thirty-four years old, brown hair, hazel eyes, missing middle finger on left hand. Cause of death: hemorrhaging after right leg was amputated. “I wished to God I hadn’t signed up and I’m damned sorry I ain’t gonna make it home. Don’t you take any guff, Bethie, but then you never did, not even from old man McConnell. The place is yours free and clear so our boy can have it once he’s old enough. Take care of yourself and the young’uns.” (Necklace with locket.)
Creede leaned against a porch post, facing Laurel. How did she know? The answer came in a flash. “His is the next message.”
“We must not be far from Pine Hill,” she said by way of a reply and her entire body sagged. “I should’ve suspected it was her when she said her husband was killed at Chancellorsville.”
“How could you have known? Besides, does it matter? The important thing is you’ve found her.”
She straightened but he could see the effort it took for her to do so, and he admired her all the more for it.
“Remember what you said about maybe it was better not to reopen old wounds?” she asked. “That what I’m doing might be hurting rather than helping the families?”
Creede stirred restlessly. “I remember. I was wrong.”
Puzzled, she tipped her head. “How can you say that? You saw Mrs. Smith’s reaction.”
“What about the other folks?”
She recalled each visit, remembering the tears more than anything. “Some were grateful, others weren’t. But I brought grief to all of them.”
“So you think they might’ve been better off not knowing their husbands and sons were thinking of them at the last?”
She flinched. “I don’t know.”
Creede took a deep breath and laid his hands on Laurel’s taut shoulders. “I know that if Austin had left me a message, I’d want to hear it.” His chest felt battered and torn. “Yeah, it’d hurt, but it’d be worth it to know Austin’s last thoughts before he passed.”
She studied him with anguished eyes. “I wish I could give you that.”
His throat grew tight and he glanced away, not wanting her to witness his despair. She carried enough burdens on her slim shoulders. “You can’t stop, Laurel.” He brought his gaze back to her. “In a way you’re like my wife, Anna. She had more faith than ten men.”
Laurel looked past him. “I’m not anything like her. I lost my faith a long time ago.”
“No. If you had, you wouldn’t be risking your life to deliver those messages you carry in that book of yours.”
She laughed, but it was a bitter, painful sound. “That’s not faith. That’s having nothing left to live for.”
Creede’s heart missed a beat. “You’re still a young woman, Laurel. You can remarry and have children.” Although it hurt him to think of her with another man, her unexpected comment triggered protective instincts that ran deeper than jealousy.
She pressed her palm to the center of her chest and whispered, “There’s nothing left in here.” Then she returned to the house.
Stunned, Creede remained rooted to the porch. How could she think she had nothing to give a man? How many times had he barely restrained himself from taking her in his arms? It was only the cold hard fact that she deserved someone who had more to offer that kept him from loving her.
Todd came out of the small house, swiping his arm across his face. Suddenly he noticed Creede and his cheeks turned beet red.
“How’s your grandfather?” Creede asked.
“Right enough, considerin’ I shot him.”
“It was an accident.”
“It was stupid,” he said, his voice filled with self-reproach. “Didn’t listen to Grandda.”
Creede managed a smile. “Seems to me I did a lot of stupid things, too, when I was your age. You learn and move on.”
“Bet you never shot your grandda.”
He hadn’t, but then he’d killed two men intentionally. He’d shot other men, too, simply because he’d been paid to do so. That was before he’d realized that life wasn’t cheap and nobody had the right to take another person’s.
“No, but I did other things I’m not proud of.” He paused. “What would your pa say if he was here?”
Todd thrust his fists into his overall pockets. “Don’t matter since he ain’t.” Anger vibrated in the kid’s voice and body.
“Let’s get the horses rubbed down,” Creede said, diverting Todd’s attention.
The boy didn’t reply but plodded after Creede, who led Red, still hitched to the wagon, down to the run-down bam.
“Why don’t you take care of Miss Laurel’s horse?” Creede suggested.
They worked on their individual animals in companionable silence. Creede removed the traces from Red, who tossed her head indignantly when he led her into the corral. He joined Todd, who had unsaddled Jeanie and was now brushing her. The boy pointed to another brush on a post and Creede nodded his thanks then began to curry his own sorrel mare.
“You know your way around horses,” Creede commented, keeping his tone light.
Todd grunted and Creede waited. His patience was rewarded a few minutes later.
“Pa used to train horses for folks. He was teachin’ me
how to do it afore—” Todd’s voice broke. “Afore he went off to fight.”
“Did he grow any crop?”
“Some corn and cotton. Grandda helps in the fields, but he’s gettin’ old. And now he’s gonna be laid up.” Todd sniffed but Creede couldn’t see his face. “Guess that leaves me to take care of it.”
Creede flashed back to the time when he was a year or two older than Todd and had taken on a man’s responsibility. It hadn’t been easy and, like he’d told the boy, he’d made mistakes. “You just do what your pa would’ve done and you’ll be fine.”
He wondered what message Todd’s father had left for his family. If Creede had been given a chance to leave a message for his son, what would he have said? How did someone put a lifetime of words into a final note?
“I used to get mad at Pa, always talkin’ about treatin’ other folks right even when they treated us like we was no good,” Todd said. “I don’t think he wanted to go off to fight, but he figgered it was his duty. I only seen Ma cry twice—first time was when Pa left.”
“When was the second time?”
Todd stroked Jeanie’s neck. “When she got word Pa was dead.” Vulnerable bravado filled the boy’s eyes. “I never cried.”
A lump filled Creede’s throat and he swallowed it back. “There isn’t any shame in crying. Fact is, when I heard my son was killed, I cried.” He didn’t tell him he needed to get drunk to do so.
Todd stared at Creede in disbelief. “Men don’t cry.”
“Who told you that?”
He shrugged. “Other boys.”
Creede went around his horse to face the boy. “They’re wrong, Todd. Crying doesn’t make you less of a man. It makes you more of a human being.”
Todd drew his arm across his overly bright eyes. “I miss him, Mr. Forrester.”
“I know,” he said softly.
Todd’s shoulders shook and he leaned against him. Creede closed his eyes against his own renewed pain and put his arms around the boy, letting him grieve.
Once the boy’s sorrow was spent, he pulled away from Creede. He kept his gaze downcast as he wiped his face with his hands.
A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers) Page 21