Knowing Todd was embarrassed, Creede gathered the two curry brushes. “Why don’t you put these away? I think the horses have been spoiled enough for a day.”
Todd took them and hurried into the barn. Creede left the corral, closing the gate behind him.
Todd rejoined him as he started to the house. “You stayin’ on for a while?”
“We’ll probably head out tomorrow unless Laurel thinks we should stay longer.”
“I never knew me a woman doctor before.”
“She’s not a doctor. She nursed soldiers during the War.”
“I wonder if she knew my pa.”
Creede glanced down, unwilling to lie but knowing it wasn’t his place to tell the boy about the message Laurel carried. “You’ll have to ask her.”
At the door Todd dragged his feet. “What if Grandda’s gone?”
“Somebody would’ve come out to tell us.” Creede gave him a nudge. “Go on. Maybe he woke up.”
“He’s gonna be mad.”
“I think he’ll be more worried than mad.” If Austin had accidentally shot him, Creede would’ve been more concerned for his son’s feelings than his own injury. He hoped Henry felt the same way.
Laurel stepped out of the cabin, wiping her hands on a towel. Her bright expression told Creede the older man was faring better.
“I was just coming to look for you,” she said, gazing at Todd. “Your grandfather wants to see you.”
“Is he—” Todd began.
She smiled reassuringly. “He’s going to be fine, but don’t talk long. He needs his rest.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The relieved boy hurried inside.
“Glad to hear the old man will be all right,” Creede said.
“I wasn’t sure, but he’s a tough old coot.” A smile tempered her words, but faded away. “His son Hank was a fighter, too.”
“You remember him?”
Haunted eyes caught his. “I remember all of them.” She shook her head, as if she could physically remove the memories. “I told Elizabeth we’d spend the night.”
“When are you going to give her the message?”
“This evening, after dinner.”
After their earlier conversation, he was relieved she decided to do so.
“How many are left after this?”
“One.”
Startled, Creede hadn’t realized how close to the end they were. “The last one’s in Texas?”
She nodded.
Creede’s palms dampened. He was headed home, yet was that what he wanted? Or did the revolver at his hip hold his future? And what about Laurel? His vow to lead her safely to Texas would be fulfilled, but what would she do then?
“Creede?”
Her tone told him she’d been trying to get his attention. “What?”
“I asked if that was all right with you.”
“It’s your decision, Laurel.”
She frowned. “I thought you’d be excited to be going home.”
Funny how she could guess his thoughts, even if she couldn’t sense the accompanying mixed feelings. “I have fifty acres of cotton ready for harvest, but it just doesn’t seem worth it anymore.”
“But it’s your home.”
He didn’t have an explanation for her so he lapsed into silence.
“Have you seen the cat?” she asked after some minutes of quiet.
“Not since we ran into Todd and his grandfather.”
She crossed her arms, holding them snug against her waist. “Do you think he’ll find us?”
Creede noted the worry in her tone. “He hasn’t lost us yet.”
Laurel’s apprehension didn’t abate and there was forced nonchalance in her shrug. “Or he’s gone. It doesn’t matter.”
Her words said she didn’t care, but her actions told him otherwise. How many other times had her words and actions been at odds?
“I’d best show Elizabeth what she needs to do for Henry.”
Laurel returned to the cabin, leaving Creede alone with his thoughts.
At dinner, Elizabeth suggested that Laurel and Creede sleep in her bedroom. However, it gave Laurel the collywobbles to think of sleeping in the same bed where a soldier she’d watched die had lain with his wife. Perhaps she was being foolish, but her stomach wouldn’t let her accept Elizabeth’s offer.
The barn was out of the question with its sagging roof and leaning walls. So, since the night was so balmy, Laurel and Creede decided to sleep outside.
While Elizabeth fed her father-in-law, Laurel helped Jane wash the dishes and Creede took Todd outside to check on the horses and set up a campsite.
Jane was a painfully shy girl of twelve years old who gazed up at Laurel like she was some kind of heroine. It made Laurel uncomfortable but she didn’t know how to dissuade the girl from her awe.
Finally, the long silence ended when the last dish was put away. Jane immediately disappeared into the loft where Laurel assumed her bed was located.
Elizabeth came away from the bed in the corner and set Henry’s empty bowl in the basin. “I swear being shot didn’t hurt his appetite any.”
Laurel smiled. “That’s a good sign. If he eats, rests, and drinks what he’s supposed to, he’ll be up and around in no time.”
Elizabeth’s plain round face lit with gratitude. “We were blessed that you and your husband were close by when it happened.”
“It was fortuitous,” she said awkwardly. The reason Laurel had been in that location weighed heavily on her mind.
“Henry has been a godsend since Hank’s been gone. Without him, I don’t know what we would have done.”
“It helps that you own the place free and clear.”
Elizabeth froze in mid-nod and her gratitude was replaced by wariness. “How’d you know that?”
Laurel cursed her loose tongue. She brushed a wavy tendril back from her brow and swept it behind her ear. “I told you I was a Confederate nurse.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth’s suspicion didn’t lessen.
“I saw many soldiers die.” Laurel took a deep breath. “Including your husband.”
Elizabeth pressed a palm to her mouth. “You knew Hank?”
“Not well.” She worried her lower lip. “He asked me to give you a message before he died. I wrote it in my journal.”
“You’ve known all along?”
“Since we brought Henry back in the wagon,” Laurel admitted. “I didn’t think that was the time to tell you.”
“So you came here to find us?”
“Yes. Your husband was one of twenty-one soldiers who asked me to give their families final messages.” Laurel’s stomach cramped and she was glad she hadn’t eaten much for dinner. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Elizabeth clenched her hands together, but not before Laurel noticed they were shaking … almost as badly as her own. “Do you know what the hardest thing was for me when I learned he was gone?”
Laurel shook her head.
“Not knowin’ about his last minutes.” She stared out the window into the growing dusk. “I prayed he went fast but I couldn’t stop the nightmares. I’d wake in the middle of the night after dreamin’ of seein’ him die slow and painful-like.”
Laurel kept her expression blank. The last thing she wanted was for Elizabeth to know how close to the truth her nightmares were. “I’ll get my journal.”
She forced herself to walk, not run, out the door as the terrible memories assailed her once more. Her trembling increased and she frantically searched for a place where no one could see her.
Crossing the yard at a faster pace, she went around the corner of the old barn and sank down to the ground. She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, burying her face.
As with the others, she could clearly see Private Hank Hudson. He’d been one of the older soldiers and he’d been more pragmatic than those barely out of boyhood. He knew he was dying, but didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he’d talked about his family and how
proud he was of his Bethie and his two children. He’d even told her a story or two about his father.
Laurel wrinkled her nostrils at the stench of putrefied flesh and blood. Why did she smell it now? It was in the past—the past she tried so hard to forget but couldn’t. Yet it was so real that her belly lurched and she fought back the rise of vomit.
No, she couldn’t let the madness take her yet. Just two more messages … She pushed herself to her feet and forced herself to breathe deeply. After the first few breaths, the vile smell disappeared, replaced by the earthy scents of damp ground and green plants.
Stiffening her backbone, she went in search of her journal and found it a few minutes later with her things at the campsite. Also in the bag was a necklace, which Hank had asked Laurel to give to his wife. Creede and Todd were creating a sleeping area by clearing away rocks and sticks. Creede kept the boy’s attention away from her, which she appreciated.
With the journal and necklace clutched in her hand, she trudged back to the house. Although she wanted to get this done, she found anger and regret swirling through her in equal measures. What if she’d done something different—would Hank Hudson be alive today? Or would he have been like the embittered young man in Rounder who’d lost his leg?
She entered the house and smelled fresh coffee.
Elizabeth poured two cups and set them on the table. Holding herself stiffly, she sat down and motioned for Laurel to take the chair across from her. “I thought you might like some chicory. Lord knows I need it.” She attempted a smile but failed.
Laurel perched on the edge of her seat and set the journal on the table. She held out her hand with the necklace nestled in the center of her palm. “He asked me to return this to you.”
“That’s the locket I gave him,” Elizabeth whispered. She reached out, her hand trembling, and picked up the necklace. She opened the heart-shaped locket. “My parents gave this to me when I was sixteen. It has my picture and a lock of my hair in it. I-I thought it would… comfort Hank.”
“It did. He had it in his hand all the time. He didn’t give it to me—” Laurel cleared her full throat. “Until right before he died.”
Elizabeth closed her hand around the locket and pressed it to her breast. Her gaze shifted to the journal. “Is that it?”
“Yes.” Laurel laid her hand on the cover, gaining strength from the familiar leather binding.
“What did he say?”
Laurel took a deep breath and opened her journal to the blue ribbon. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears and she wondered if Elizabeth could hear it. She kept her voice low, so she wouldn’t awaken Henry or allow Jane in the loft to overhear. “ ‘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.’ ”
Elizabeth turned to gaze out a window, giving Laurel her profile. A tear slid down her cheek. “Tell me, what did he die for?”
Her unexpected question gave Laurel pause. She’d tried many times to answer the same question, had discussed it with Creede, yet she still didn’t have the answer. “For the South? For his beliefs? For you and the children?”
Elizabeth’s attention shot back to Laurel and wrath burned in her eyes. “Don’t you tell me that he died for me and the children.”
Laurel drew back, startled by her outburst and even more shocked by the vehemence behind it. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Then what did you mean? You were there. You saw hurt and dyin’ men. Why did you keep nursin’ them? What kept you from leavin’?” The woman’s southern drawl was exaggerated in her anger.
The images bombarded Laurel anew, pictures of the battlefield hospital conditions—the grime and blood-covered men, the pile of amputated limbs, the woeful cries of the wounded. Every day she’d prayed it would end, but when it did, there was nothing left. And the reasons she’d remained were no longer clear.
“I wish I had an answer for you, Elizabeth, but I don’t,” Laurel said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe I could’ve answered your question two years ago, but not now.”
Most of Elizabeth’s anger drained away. “Hank thought he knew, too, when he signed up. I tried to talk him out of it, told him it wasn’t our war. That it didn’t matter which politician was president—they all sat on their high and mighty thrones and declared a war they didn’t have to fight. But Hank wouldn’t listen.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t make your husband’s death meaningless.”
Elizabeth leaned across the table. “How can you say that? You know what the War did to men like my Hank.”
Because if their deaths were meaningless, then what I did was also without meaning.
“It doesn’t matter if it was right or wrong, you have to respect what he did,” Laurel said softly. “Maybe that’s all Hank wanted.”
Elizabeth pulled a handkerchief out of her apron pocket and blew her nose. “I loved my husband, Laurel, but I don’t know if I can respect what he did.”
Suddenly feeling exhausted, Laurel wondered anew if she’d done the right thing in giving Elizabeth the message. She’d obviously dredged up embittered feelings that hadn’t been laid to rest with Hank’s remains. She closed the journal and rose. “I did as your late husband asked and brought you his message. I’m sorry I caused you pain.”
Elizabeth blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry, too.”
Laurel retreated, leaving the woman with her renewed sorrow. Instead of helping, she’d hurt someone again. Did she have the strength for the final message? Or had she finally learned her lesson?
NINETEEN
Creede awakened instantly and lay motionless in the dark, trying to determine what had brought him out of a deep slumber. Familiar night sounds—an owl hooting, insects trilling, and leaves fluttering—filtered through the layered stillness. Everything seemed normal. He turned his head to check on Laurel, whose bedroll was a tempting four feet away. The bed was empty, with no sign of the woman. Her shoes lay by her blanket, as did her neatly folded skirt and blouse where the cat lay curled, so she couldn’t have gone far.
He sat up and searched for her among the shadows. Had she only gone off to relieve herself? He counted to one hundred slowly, but she didn’t reappear.
“Laurel,” he called, throwing back his blanket. “Where are you?”
No answer.
He tugged on his boots and put on his shirt, not bothering to button it, and stood. “Laurel,” he shouted.
Still no reply.
Both concerned and angry, he strapped on his gunbelt and went in search of her. He called out her name and listened intently. After fifteen endless minutes, he heard the rustle of brush and followed the sound.
Laurel stood in the middle of a moonlit clearing, wearing only the undergarments she’d slept in. Her hair was unpinned, trailing down her back to her waist in thick waves. Creede’s breath caught in his lungs at the silver glow that formed a nimbus around her figure.
“What are you doing, Laurel?” he asked, unable to hide the lust that thickened his tone.
She turned and surprise followed by confusion swept across her face. “Creede, what are you doing here?”
He frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here,” she replied.
Unease rippled through him. “What do you mean?”
She turned in a slow circle, gesturing outward. “All these men. So many hurt.” Her voice broke. “The stretcher bearers are bringing more in. There are so many casualties. Can you help me get those we can save into the tent?”
Creede’s heart hammered in his ears as he looked around, seeing nothing but the silhouettes of trees, grass, and bushes. “There isn’t anybody here but you and me.”
Laurel’s brow creased and she frowned impatiently. “How can you not see them? They’re all around us.”
Fear brought sweat to his palms. He’d seen this type of thing one other time, after a man had lost his wife and children in a fire. The man had spoken to his family as if they were beside him. He’d taken his own life the next day.
“The War is over. There are no more injured soldiers.” He inched closer to her.
“Can’t you smell the blood? Hear them crying?” A tear rolled down her cheek, leaving a glistening silver trail in its wake. “We have to help them.”
Creede reached for Laurel and his hands closed on cool flesh. She tugged, trying to escape, as her gaze skipped around them.
“Look at me, Laurel.” She continued to struggle and looked everywhere but at him.
Using one hand, he gripped her chin and forced her to face him. “Look at me, Laurel. The War is over. You’re delivering messages to families of dead soldiers. Do you remember?”
The blankness in her eyes frightened him. He wrapped both arms around her and hugged her stiff body close to his chest, hoping the contact would draw her out of the delusion. “The War is over. There’s no more killing.”
She struggled against him, hands and feet lashing out, and he tightened his hold on her. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he didn’t want a flailing limb to strike him in a sensitive place either.
Suddenly her body sagged. He scooped her into his arms and her head lolled against his chest, where his shirt gaped open. Her warm breath puckered his nipple and he stifled a moan. “Are you back with me now?” he asked softly.
He felt her nod and relief poured through him. He couldn’t see her expression, but at least she wasn’t ranting about wounded soldiers. After he carried her back to their camp, he eased her down on her bedroll. She remained sitting up, but her neck was bent, her face hidden by a cascade of thick hair.
“Want to tell me what that was about?” he asked, fear making him curt.
She didn’t speak and Creede tamped down his rising irritation. She obviously didn’t even realize what was happening. To give her time to gather her composure—and his own—he built a fire. The cat had disappeared, leaving a depression in Laurel’s folded clothing.
A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers) Page 22