“Laurel Covey. I met her when I went looking for Austin. He’s dead.”
“Lyman’s dead, too,” Eaton said, his voice weary.
“They died the same day,” Creede said quietly.
Eaton didn’t look surprised and led them into the cabin where an older woman bustled around getting coffee cups filled. The couple didn’t strike Laurel as being as fanatical about the Confederacy as Creede had described them. Or maybe the loss of their son had dulled their fervor.
Creede and Laurel sat down with Eaton, and his wife joined them after she set a plate of molasses cookies on the table.
“So you been back East?” Eaton asked.
Creede nodded. “Virginia. That’s where I got word Austin was dead. Mrs. Covey here was a Confederate nurse.”
Betsy laid a hand on Laurel’s, startling her. “God bless you.”
Embarrassed, Laurel shook her head. “I didn’t do that much.”
“She’s being modest,” Creede said to the Eatons, although his piercing gaze remained on Laurel. “She just spent the last four months delivering soldiers’ last words to their families. I don’t know of any other person—man or woman—who would do something as selfless.”
Laurel glared at Creede, willing him to stop talking about her. He didn’t know the truth. Nobody knew the truth.
“What of your husband?” Betsy asked.
“He’s dead,” she replied curtly.
“What was it like back there?” Eaton asked.
Laurel concentrated on sipping her coffee as Creede described the depressing conditions of the postwar areas. When her cup was empty, she fisted her hands and pressed them into her lap. She stared at the scarred wooden table-top and imagined their son Lyman sitting in the very same chair she was in.
A familiar hand settled on hers and Lyman’s specter disappeared. Creede continued to speak to the Eatons without interruption, but his comforting touch remained. Even after her horrible mistake, Creede protected her. In fact, his manner seemed more solicitous and understanding. It made no sense.
Betsy refilled the coffee cups and the cookies were passed around. Laurel relaxed slightly as the talk turned to the cotton crop, and when Eaton offered to help Creede with his harvest, it seemed the two men finally buried their antagonism.
The door opened and a young man entered, his cheeks flushed from the warm autumn sun. There was a friendly smile on his face. “Didn’t know we got company. Good to see you, Mr. Forrester.”
Creede stood and when the younger man extended his left hand, Laurel noticed his right arm was missing from above the elbow. Her stomach caved.
“I didn’t know you were back home, Augustus,” Creede greeted him with hardly a pause of surprise.
Augustus smiled wryly. “Lost my arm ’bout a year ago. Took some time to heal, then the army mustered me out.” His grin became genuine. “I’m grateful to be alive, Mr. Forrester.”
“And he’s been a big help ’round here, too,” old man Eaton said proudly. “Don’t know what I woulda done without him.”
Augustus’s fair face flushed and Laurel could tell he was pleased by his father’s words.
The young man approached Laurel, studying her face. “Mrs. Covey?”
Shocked, Laurel nodded. “Do I know you?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. You probably don’t remember me with me bein’ only one of the soldiers you helped. After my arm was cut off, you talked with me, held my hand.” His face reddened like a ripe tomato. “I used to watch you walk around talkin’ to the other men. You never treated us like cripples. You talked to everyone like we was, well, normal.”
A lump filled Laurel’s throat, making it hard to breathe.
“I meant to thank you but you wasn’t in the day they came and took me to the big hospital. I never figgered I’d see you again and have a chance to thank you for savin’ my life.” Augustus shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Thank you, Mrs. Covey, and ’tweren’t just me that owes you thanks. I know a lot of soldiers who would say the same iffen they was standin’ here.”
Laurel blinked against stinging moisture. She couldn’t remember Augustus, but that hadn’t made his gratitude any less heartfelt. It was strange how she could remember few of those who lived yet recall every one who’d died.
“I’m glad you’re doing well,” she said with a husky voice. “If you’ll excuse me.”
She hurried out of the stifling cabin and climbed up onto Jeanie’s saddle. Wheeling her mare around, she urged the horse into a gallop. Her tears spilled over and the wind stole them away.
It didn’t take long to return to Creede’s cabin and retrieve her bags from inside. She tied them to the saddle, hoping to escape before he returned. However, luck wasn’t on her side and Creede rode into the yard, his expression furious.
He dismounted before his horse even came to a full stop. “What’re you doing?”
She kept her attention on her hands, on the leather saddle string she knotted. “I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
She faltered, but came up with a name. “Houston.”
He grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him. “Why are you leaving?”
She struggled to come up with a reason he’d accept but her mind went blank.
“I’ll tell you why you’re leaving,” Creede said, his face close to hers. “You’re afraid. I never thought I’d see the day when Laurel Monteille Covey was a coward.”
She slapped him and was shocked by her reaction.
Creede smiled thinly. “Prove to me you’re not a coward. Stay here and marry me.”
Panic raced through her and she tried to pull out of his grasp, but he was too strong, too determined. “You don’t love me.”
“I love you.”
“You don’t know me,” she shouted.
“Then let me know you. Let me decide if I can love you.”
Frustration and fear bubbled up within her. She had to prove to him that nobody could love her. She sagged. “Let me go and I’ll introduce you to the real Laurel Monteille Covey.” Her tone dripped with acid.
Frowning, Creede released her and Laurel opened a bag and reached deep into it. Her fingers scraped smooth leather and she pulled out her second journal. Such a plain looking object, yet the truths inside were ugly. She handed it to Creede and noticed her fingers left damp spots on the cover. “Read this and you’ll understand.”
Creede didn’t even glance at the book, but peered at her. “Promise you won’t leave until after I’ve read it and we’ve talked?”
One last promise.
She nodded and walked into the cabin without looking back.
I am not God, yet that is what is asked of me—to choose who lives and who dies. My soul cries for everyone I cannot save. But outwardly I must do my duty and not let anyone know how much I am troubled by this responsibility. I can only pray that some part of my soul will be left when this horrible War is over.
Creede closed his eyes, but Laurel’s words echoed in his mind. He was sickened not by her actions, but by what she’d been forced to do. To have a woman as compassionate as Laurel separate the badly wounded from the less badly wounded soldiers was one more tragedy of the War. The reason for her nightmares and need to keep her promises to those dying soldiers were no doubt rooted in the guilt she carried. Yet the doctors simply considered her reaction part of a woman’s “sensitive nature.” Creede would like to see a man go through what Laurel had and come out of it unscathed.
He rubbed his burning eyes. How could she believe he couldn’t love her after reading her journal, which was stained with teardrops and blood? If anything, he loved her more for her strength and will.
“Are you done?”
Laurel’s soft question startled him and he turned to see her standing behind him on the porch.
He nodded.
“So now you understand why?” she asked with a catch in her voice.
“More than you know.” He rose
from his seat on the step and handed her the journal. “You did the best you could, Laurel, and there are men like Augustus alive because of you.”
“And boys like your son dead because of me.”
“No, because of you he can rest in peace.” Creede’s throat grew tight. “Thank you, Laurel, for delivering my son’s message and comforting him as he joined his mother.”
Laurel’s breath caught and stammered. He’d read what she’d done and still he thanked her? No, he must not have understood. She fought back the hope she thought was extinguished. “I killed them, Creede.”
He grabbed her shoulders, but his grip wasn’t punishing. “You did everything you could to save them. The doctors trusted you to make the best decision and you did that. Think of how many lives you saved.” He paused and his intense blue gaze drilled into her. “Only God could’ve saved everyone.”
Laurel’s head pounded and she jerked out of his grasp. She held up her hands to ward him off. “I have to think.”
She ran across the yard and into the barn. With tear-blurred eyes, she entered an empty stall and sank onto the straw. She pressed her hands to her temples to force Creede’s words out of her head, but they wouldn’t go away.
Think of how many lives you saved.
Only God could’ve saved everyone.
Creede was right. How many times had she heard overworked, exhausted doctors utter those same words? Those same doctors had confidence in her to choose the soldiers who had the best chance of surviving. She’d done what she could in the most horrible of conditions. Maybe the guilt wasn’t hers to bear. Maybe the guilt lay in the manner of war itself.
The cat meowed and joined her on the straw. He rubbed against her and purred so loud it vibrated Laurel’s arm. She cradled the cat in her arms and buried her face in his soft fur.
For the first time she allowed hope into her heart. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks as she finally grieved for those who’d died. And gave thanks for those who lived.
Just as she’d brought peace to the families to whom she’d delivered the messages, so too had Creede gifted peace to her with his words.
She raised her head and peered at the stubborn cat who had never given up on her. He reminded her that ignoring love didn’t make it go away. Her love for Creede welled within her. She hadn’t wanted to love him—or this stupid stray cat—but she did.
“Laurel,” Creede called out.
She glanced up to see him enter the barn. A lump filled her throat and she rose, keeping the cat tucked in an arm. “Creede.”
His troubled expression eased when he spotted her and he crossed over to her. “I was worried about you.”
“I’m fine.” She smiled without fear of ghosts and held out her cat. “I’d like you to meet Hope. And the answer to your question is yes.”
EPILOGUE
Laurel heard a rider coming and looked out the window to see Creede returning from town. She smiled and wiped her doughy hands on a towel, then walked outside to greet him.
He dismounted and tied the reins to a post. With one stride taking the three steps, Creede joined her on the porch, and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her soundly.
“Did you miss me?” he asked, his blue eyes as mischievous as a boy’s.
She laughed. “You were only gone two hours.”
He stepped back to scrutinize her. “You didn’t do too much, did you?”
Instinctively, she rested her hand on her growing belly. “No. I know what I can and can’t do.”
He shrugged and his face reddened. “Sorry. I just…”
Laurel found herself reassuring him just as she’d done numerous times since she found out she was expecting a child. She didn’t mind. He’d lost his first wife and son so he was bound to be more nervous. But then, oftentimes at night, it was his turn to reassure her.
In the six months since they’d married, the number of nightmares had decreased, but she still hadn’t gone a full week without one. There were also times when she grew irritated and short-tempered for no reason. Creede had learned to recognize those instances and give her time alone to deal with them.
However, each day Laurel loved Creede more, and never regretted becoming his wife. And with his love and support, she had faith that someday she’d remember more soldiers who lived rather than died.
“I, uh, have a letter for you,” Creede said.
There was only one person from her past who knew where she lived and that was the doctor who’d told Creede how to find Laurel all those months ago. “I just got one from him three weeks ago.”
“It’s not Dr. Lampley. It’s from Massachusetts.”
Lightheadedness assailed Laurel and only Creede’s strength kept her upright.
“How did they find me?” she asked faintly.
Creede met her gaze. “I sent them a note.”
Anger replaced her shock and she drew away from him. “Behind my back?”
“They’re your family, Laurel. They have a right to know you’re all right.”
She wanted to argue, but she’d learned that hope could never be completely lost. “Wh-what did they say?”
Relieved, Creede reached into his back pocket and withdrew an envelope. “Read it for yourself.” Although his tone was neutral, expectancy gleamed in his eyes.
With a shaking hand, she took it from him and studied the familiar handwriting. Her father himself had addressed the letter. She stared at it, mesmerized by what she thought she’d never see.
“Go ahead, Laurel, read it,” Creede prodded gently.
Startled from her reverie, she pulled out the letter from the opened envelope and unfolded it carefully, as if it would disappear. It took her a moment to focus on the words instead of her father’s cursive.
Dear Laurel,
I cannot describe my feelings when I received the letter from Mr. Creede Forrester informing me of your welfare. Suffice it to say I have many things to tell you but I cannot do so in such an impersonal manner as a letter. We will be arriving to visit you and your husband as soon as I can procure passage. I am sorry for the pain I caused you and we look forward to seeing you, my daughter. Mother says to tell you we all love you and miss you.
With greatest regards,
Father
A tear slid down Laurel’s cheek and she wiped it away. Between her condition and the letter, she had a gamut of emotions jumbling through her, the main one being gratitude.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Family is important,” he said softly.
And if anyone knew how important family was, it was Creede Forrester, the man who’d given her a reason to live … and love.
About the Author
Maureen McKade has been making up stories since the moment she learned to read, write and string sentences together. Her first book, “Winter Hearts“, published in 1997 was a finalist in the Romance Writers of America’s (RWA) Golden Heart contest, then a finalist in RWA’s RITA for best first book. Since then, she’s written thirteen more books and a short story for an anthology.
She taught middle school science for three years then held a variety of jobs--bookstore clerk, administrative assistant, customer service manager, department manager, and pharmacy technician--until she settling on writing. (Or, more aptly, until writing settled on her.)
Maureen and her husband, a retired Air Force officer, now live on 40 nature-filled acres in southwestern North Dakota with their two French Brittany Spaniels and three cats. Her eclectic list of leisure pursuits include long walks with hubby and their two dogs, reading, wildlife watching, golfing, bird hunting, and dallying in the kitchen.
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A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers) Page 27