A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers)

by McKade, Maureen

  “And you think I don’t know what that’s like?”

  Irritated and chagrined, Laurel could deal easier with the irritation. “I didn’t say you didn’t. But you and I are different. I can’t forget.”

  “I can’t either, but that doesn’t mean I can’t move forward. I don’t want to grow old alone.”

  Annoyance flared to anger. “Then get a dog, or find another woman. I can’t marry you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Laurel’s anger drained away. “I’m tired. Where should I sleep? I think it’s better if we discontinue our traveling sleeping arrangements.” Embarrassment made her stiffly formal.

  He stared at her and she had to look away from his too-perceptive eyes. She heard him sigh and he rose.

  “You can have my room. I’ll sleep in Austin’s.”

  “Thank you.”

  As they each made up their beds with fresh linens, the only sound in the cabin was the falling rain.

  Creede rocked gently in the chair he’d made for Anna over seventeen years ago when she’d been expecting Austin. He recalled watching her nurse their son at her breast and the awe he’d felt at the tiny child they’d created. It seemed that was another life he’d lived, when he’d been a different man. Just as he’d been a different man before he’d married Anna. And just as he was a different man now.

  He’d been unable to sleep in Austin’s bed, surrounded by the boy’s things—his slingshot, a rabbit’s foot, carved animals in various stages. Everything but Austin himself. So he’d come out to sit only to have memories ambush him here, too. Laurel had been right—it was difficult to return.

  Knowing she was in his bed made it hard in other ways, too. He imagined her hair fanned out across his pillow and the moonlight shining upon her face. There was no doubt he loved her. His love was no more and no less than what he’d had for Anna, but it was different.

  A muffled groan from his bedroom caught his attention and he was moving to the door before he’d even made the decision to do so. Laurel hadn’t closed it and he pushed it farther open to check on her. Just as he’d imagined, her hair was spread out around her and the moonlight gilded her skin, but her wretched expression was one he never wanted to see again.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Wake up, Laurel. It’s only a dream.” She thrashed back and forth and he spoke louder to break the nightmare’s hold. “Laurel! You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

  Her eyes widened and it took a few moments for comprehension to seep back into her features. She wiped her damp brow with a shaking hand. “Another nightmare.” It wasn’t a question, merely a statement of fact, delivered with impatience.

  “I heard you,” Creede said.

  “Were you even sleeping?”

  He frowned at the brusque question. “No. I was sitting in the front room.”

  “Waiting for me to have a nightmare again?” Her sarcastic tone cut deep.

  Creede shook his head, his own temper flaring. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re not the only person I think about.” He reined in his anger. “I was thinking about Austin and Anna.”

  Laurel’s expression crumpled. “I’m sorry. I-I just wish these nightmares would go away.”

  Creede brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “You said they weren’t as bad when you slept with me.”

  “I can’t sleep with you the rest of my life.”

  Yes, you can. Creede bit the words back. “While you’re here, you can.”

  Her gaze fell to his chest and he suddenly remembered he was bare from the waist up. “I’ll put a shirt on.”

  He stood, but she clasped his wrist. “Don’t.” She drew her tongue along her lower lip, leaving it glistening in the silvery light.

  He groaned and joined her on the bed.

  Creede awakened before Laurel. In the early dawn light, he studied her swollen lips and lax features, so different than the terror during her nightmares. They’d made love long into the early morning hours and had fallen asleep as the rain tapered to a gentle patter. The light along the eastern horizon told him the clouds were gone, taking the rain with them.

  Reluctantly he rose to take care of nature’s call. After tugging on his pants and boots, he hurried out to the privy and returned, hoping to lie with Laurel for another hour or two. As he took off his boots, he spotted a pocket watch spilling out of her saddlebag on the dresser. Curious, he picked it up, and an odd sense of familiarity filled him. With a shaking hand, he popped open the spring to reveal the watch face and a small photograph. It was too dark to make out the image, so he carried it to the window and held it up to the weak light.

  His heart skipped a beat then pounded in his chest. He recognized himself and Anna. She’d gifted him with the watch on their wedding day and had put their picture in it later. Creede had given the pocket watch to Austin on his sixteenth birthday and he had taken it with him when he’d joined the army.

  His gaze jumped to Laurel. She must’ve taken it from Austin after his body had been brought to the hospital. Why had she hidden it from him?

  Her journal. Maybe the answer was in there. Keeping quiet, he opened her saddlebag and found the cloth sack he’d seen her carry the journal. He paused, his conscience prodding him. He had no right delving into her private thoughts. However, she had no right withholding Austin’s watch from him.

  His resentment overcame his conscience and he carried the journal outside to the porch. Wearing only his trousers, he sat down on the top step and with the pocket watch in one hand, he opened Laurel’s journal with the other.

  TWENTY-TWO

  March 25, 1865. Private Lyman Eaton from Robles, Texas. Mortally wounded at Fort Stedman. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, sixteen years old. Cause of death: grapeshot in the abdominal area. “My pa was right about killing … the War. Tell him that he’s the bravest man I know.” (Pocket watch with picture in it.)

  Creede reread his son’s—not Lyman Eaton’s—words over and over until Laurel’s writing blurred. He raised his head, oblivious to the tears that trailed down his cheeks. He stared at the horizon, at the orange and pink and gold behind the trees that heralded a new day.

  What was the last thing Austin had seen? Had it been Laurel? Or maybe a blue sky with white fluffy clouds? When Austin was young, he and Creede used to lie on the ground and find shapes in the clouds. Austin’s imagination had been vivid and his excitement contagious. Some of Creede’s most treasured memories were those stolen moments during a busy day.

  Austin understood. In the end, he’d finally seen what Anna had taught Creede, who in turn had tried to pass it on to their son. There was no glory in war and killing, no matter how noble the cause.

  Yet Creede owed it to Austin to honor his life and his death. If he didn’t, his son would have died for nothing and he could never do that to his memory.

  A mourning dove cooed, its plaintive call echoing Creede’s pain, the pain that came with the first strains of healing.

  Light footsteps alerted him to Laurel’s presence but he couldn’t look at her. Her mistake had nearly stolen these precious last words from his son.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Creede cleared his tight throat. “I’m reading my son’s deathbed message.”

  She moved into his side vision. “Your son was dead when he was brought in.”

  “Lyman had light-colored hair, not dark.” He opened the hand that held the pocket watch, the hand closest to Laurel. “And the picture in here is of Anna and me on our wedding day.”

  Laurel gasped. “But the ration card …”

  Creede wiped his damp cheeks with a shaking hand and turned to look up at her. He recognized the blanket wrapped around her as one from the bed. “What ration card?”

  Her face was the color of a sun-bleached bone. “I used the soldiers’ ration cards to determine their names. It was always in their jacket or pants pocket.”

  “You mixed the
m up,” he said flatly.

  “I-I don’t understand.”

  He stood and stared down at her. “If I hadn’t seen the watch, you would’ve taken my son’s message to Eaton. You would’ve read the words to the wrong man.”

  A frantic note crept into her voice. “But I remember. The ration card was in his jacket and the watch in his trouser pocket.”

  “Then the boys must have been wearing each other’s coat,” Creede stated flatly. Although he was upset with Laurel, he couldn’t imagine she would purposely switch the boys’ names.

  “How many others did I get wrong?” she asked, her voice filled with self-loathing and her eyes glistening.

  He wanted to reassure her, but the wound in his heart was too raw. He closed Laurel’s journal and held it out to her. She took it with a hand that trembled as much as his and enfolded it close to her chest.

  “I’ll put on some coffee,” Creede said and walked into the house.

  Laurel couldn’t face him, not after she’d nearly given away the one thing he wanted most, even if her mistake had been an honest one. She heard him using the hand pump in the kitchen and sank down onto the step he’d vacated. Staring unseeingly into the distance, Laurel invited the ghosts to visit.

  She recalled the boys’ deaths with sharp clarity, how the sky was dark with smoke from cannons and guns like so many other mornings. The mule-drawn wagons started coming in early with injured soldiers. Austin and Lyman had been brought in with the second group of casualties. Austin—no, Lyman—had been dead, but Creede’s son had lived long enough to give her his message.

  She saw the gaping belly wound and smelled the nauseating stench of Austin’s perforated stomach and intestines. Could he have been saved if she’d gotten him to the doctor right away? Her mind told her no, but her heart wasn’t so certain. Even if her mind was right, there were others she’d condemned to death because she’d had to choose. The doctors only wanted those whom they had the best chance of saving. If they spent too much time on the badly wounded soldiers who would probably die anyhow, less severely injured men would also die. Laurel understood the reasons, but it hadn’t hurt any less.

  How could she even consider a future with Creede when Austin might have been saved if she’d picked him? Striking blue eyes stared accusingly at her…

  She blinked and returned to the Texas morning. Father and son had the same crystal blue eyes. She’d thought Creede’s looked familiar when she’d met him, but she’d ignored the feeling. But there’d been other clues, too, as Creede had told her more and more about himself and his son. Why hadn’t she put them together?

  Opening the journal to Austin’s entry, she read aloud the final words to his father. “My pa was right about killing … the War. Tell him that he’s the bravest man I know.”

  She bowed her head and closed her eyes. Creede’s wish had been granted and she was more than grateful that he could find peace. But now there was nothing left for her to do. All twenty-one promises had been carried out.

  Feeling heavy as lead, Laurel pushed herself upright and went into the bedroom. As she dressed, she wondered how she could even face Creede. She’d made a horrible mistake. Perhaps she’d mixed up more names. How many families had been given messages not from a loved one, but from a stranger?

  What if she hadn’t fulfilled her promises after all?

  Methodically, she made up the bed then stuffed her things into her bags, including the journal Creede had read. Although she was upset he’d done so, she couldn’t muster any real anger. He’d righted her wrong. However, she was grateful he hadn’t read the other journal—the one where she’d recorded her own personal thoughts and confessions. That one she kept buried under her extra clothing, hidden from all but herself.

  Unable to find anything else to delay her facing Creede, she straightened her spine and walked out to the kitchen. He sat by the table, a cup in one hand, the pocket watch in the other. She found the cup he left her and filled it from the pot.

  Remaining by the stove, she sipped the steaming coffee. She glanced over to see Creede’s gaze locked on her, but there was no expression in his eyes, eyes the identical shade of blue as his son’s. Struggling with her guilt, she looked away.

  “He finally understood,” Creede said softly.

  Laurel nodded. “Your son had courage.”

  “How—” He cleared his throat. “Was he in a lot of pain?”

  She raised her head. “There’s no reason for you—”

  Creede struck the table with his fist and coffee sloshed over the cup rim. “Damn it, Laurel. I have a right to know what his last minutes were like.”

  She didn’t want to add to his sorrow, but she couldn’t deny his request either. “Abdominal wounds are painful and your son was conscious right up to the end. I held his hand. His grip was so tight, like if he hung on hard enough, the pain would go away.” Laurel paused, feeling phantom fingers like vises around hers. “He asked me if he was going to die. I wanted to lie, but I couldn’t. That’s when he gave me his last words to pass on to his father—to you.”

  She expected to see tears on Creede’s sun-darkened face, but there was only poignant sadness.

  “Are you going to visit the Eatons?” he asked.

  The unanticipated question threw her for a moment. “Why would I do that? The message was for you.”

  He shrugged. “I thought I might go over there today.”

  The last thing she wanted to do was deal with more parents who lost a child in the War. “Fine. They’re your neighbors. I’ll be leaving as soon as I finish my coffee.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What’s your hurry?”

  “There’s no reason for me to stay.”

  “Jeanie could use a rest and I’d be willing to bet the cat wouldn’t mind getting rid of the mice in the barn.”

  “I’ll leave the cat with you so he can have all the mice he wants.” Even if she didn’t end up in an asylum, she had no reason to keep the stupid cat.

  Creede laid the pocket watch on the table and stood. “He’ll follow you.”

  “Lock him in the barn so he can’t.”

  He studied her, making her uncomfortable with his scrutiny. “Come with me to the Eatons. You won’t have to say a thing. After that you can leave. I won’t try to stop you.”

  “Why is it so important that I go with you?”

  He tilted his head back and gazed up at the ceiling. “The last time I saw them was right after Austin ran away with their son. I said some things I regret. I’m not even sure if they’ll talk to me.”

  “But if I’m with you, they might be more agreeable?”

  He chuckled. “Agreeable isn’t a word I’d use for Eaton, but it’s close enough.” He sobered. “You owe me, Laurel.”

  He used the one argument her conscience couldn’t counter. “I’ll go, but you do the talking,” she said firmly.

  “Promise?”

  Promises had brought her to this point and given her a reason to live. Did Creede know that or was he merely ensuring she would accompany him? “I promise.” Her voice shook with the vow.

  He studied her as if judging her sincerity and finally nodded. “We’ll go after we eat.”

  Since there were no supplies left in the house, Laurel used the food from their bags to make breakfast. Although they’d spent numerous mornings together on the trail, there was an intimacy to being alone in the cabin. That they’d made love less than twelve hours ago added to the awareness simmering just beneath the surface. She tried to ignore it, but Creede’s deliberate touches and gentle looks kept her on edge. She would’ve preferred him being angry with her—anger was easier to deal with than kindness.

  After they’d eaten, Laurel volunteered to wash the dishes while Creede saddled their horses. She placed a bonnet on her head and joined him outside. Without the journal, Laurel felt adrift and empty. If this was what her future held, she didn’t want it.

  Creede gave her a leg up onto her mare and she nodded her thank
s, unable to trust her voice. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she’d scream until only an empty husk remained. Just like all those dead soldiers who left behind nothing but their broken shells.

  Laurel clung to the reins as Jeanie followed Creede’s horse. Her heart beat like the hooves of a charging cavalry, and the urge to turn around and ride away was almost overwhelming. But she’d promised him, and Laurel Monteille Covey took her promises seriously.

  It took them nearly an hour to ride to the Eaton homestead. It was similar to Creede’s, although it was obvious no one had left this place alone for months. The buildings and corral were in good repair and it appeared the house had been whitewashed not too long ago.

  A man carrying a rifle came out onto the porch. He was shorter and stockier than Creede, and his face deeply creased from the wind and sun.

  Creede halted his mare and Laurel stopped beside him.

  “What do you want, Forrester?” the man Laurel assumed was Lyman Eaton’s father called out.

  “To talk.”

  “’Bout what?”

  Creede glanced down then met Eaton’s angry gaze. “Our sons.”

  Pain flashed across the older man’s face. “Seems to me we done talked ’nough about them last time you was here.”

  “I want to apologize.”

  Startled silence met Creede’s words.

  “We’re neighbors and our sons were best friends. I thought—” Creede took a deep, shaky breath. “I think we owe them to try’n get along.”

  Eaton continued to scrutinize him with narrowed eyes and his gaze darted to Laurel. She held her breath, wondering what his decision would be.

  Finally, Eaton lowered his rifle and leaned it up against the cabin. His shoulders slumped and he seemed to age before their eyes. “C’mon in. Betsy’s got coffee on.”

  Creede glanced at Laurel and motioned ahead. She followed him and dismounted by the hitching rail.

  “Who’s she?” Eaton asked, nodding at Laurel.