Texas Redemption

by Linda Broday

  Laurel wrapped the cut, muttering beneath her breath. How much patience would it take to wipe away layers of tarnish that had collected on her soul? She sighed. “I’m sorry I took my frustration out on you.”

  “Denying your feelings can cause nothing but grief and heartache. It’s plain you’re sweet on the man.”

  “Horsefeathers. Sweet on a lousy womanizer? He probably tallies the women he’s charmed the same way he carves notches in the handle of his Colt for each man he kills.” And with as much conscience, she added silently.

  She cursed the fact she had only to close her eyes to fetch from hiding every crease, indentation, and pore of his face.

  In addition, lest she came close to forgetting those, rippling muscles encased in old leather refreshed her memory.

  And the barest of contact melted her firm resolve.

  “A body never knows what lies around the next bend until they go down that road. Ain’t nothing good comes from denying the truth, Laurel girl.”

  Commotion beyond the café overshadowed the dire warning. Curiosity took them to the front with aprons flapping. Laurel reached the window shaken by the clamor of hooves filling the street. Gunshots added to the melee.

  “Stop them!” a man shouted, running past. Others followed, their boots pounding the wooden sidewalk.

  The town’s citizens scurried into hiding places. More shots rang out, peppering the glass. Tiny fragments showered them.

  “Git down.” Ollie shoved her to the floor amid the shards.

  “What’s happening?” Icy panic raced through her.

  “Outlaws would be my guess.” Ollie crawled behind the counter where she stashed a revolver in case of an emergency.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Ain’t about to let no sidewinder take what’s mine. You wait here and keep your head down.”

  “But you can’t do a blooming thing. Let the men…” Her voice trailed off, for Ollie no longer heard. She’d disappeared, likely charging out the back door, anxious to get into the fray.

  A rapid blast of shots, yells, and fleeing horses assaulted her ears. Laurel crouched, waiting for it all to end…or the rest of the world to come crashing down. God only knows what happened to Ollie out in the midst of that chaos. The woman never learned to leave well enough alone. She stood no chance against overwhelming odds, but she’d never listen.

  Long minutes passed. When blessed silence came, Laurel almost failed to recognize it. She raised her head.

  Ollie burst through the door a second later. “Come quick.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Murphy’s in a bad way. They shot him.”

  “How? Why?” Trembling legs made her moves unsteady.

  “Bank robbers. The Blanchard gang, someone said. Murphy tried to stop ’em. Wounded one before taking a bullet.”

  Laurel broke into a run. “The sheriff, why didn’t he—?”

  “Murdering thieves killed Sheriff Tucker.” Ollie panted, trying to keep up. “Snatched little Darcy Hatcher and Willa Carver on the way out of town. Took the girls with ’em.”

  The news paralyzed Laurel in her tracks. She gagged, tasting the dirty rag her abductors had stuffed into her mouth so many years ago. Sweat and cheap liquor blocked the sun’s warmth. A shudder swept her into the swirling, black foreboding of a wild Texas wind. She breathed danger and despair.

  “Dear God, no. Someone has to go after them.”

  “They will. I understand how you feel, but—”

  “No one knows unless they’ve lived the horror.”

  “Of course, girl. I only meant to point out Murphy needs you at the moment. You gotta be strong for his sake.”

  A growing crowd jostled them, returning her senses. Laurel and Ollie pushed through to the bank’s open door.

  Nothing prepared her for the sight. Murphy’s pale features contrasted with blood puddling in a circle. Laurel swallowed a sob and knelt, paying no heed that the hem of her dress soaked up the sticky fluid.

  “I’m here, Murphy.” Shaking, she smoothed back the sandy hair. Eyes closed, he more resembled a corpse. A sudden gasp gave the sole indication of life. “Please don’t die.”

  The pressing sea of faces flushed when she looked up. Each flinched, avoiding eye contact.

  All except one. Brodie Yates, who knelt opposite.

  “I’ll take care of my brother. Nothing short of a miracle can help him.” Pain in his eyes did a thorough job of riddling what calm she’d managed.

  “A doctor? I assume you sent someone to Jefferson.”

  “The moment the smoke cleared, for all the good it’ll do. By the time one gets here…” The break in his voice said love for Murphy ran deeper than merely shielding him from her.

  A man squeezing past intent on leaving the bank caught her attention. “Jake, can’t you do something?”

  The barber flushed. “Digging a grave comes to mind. Beyond that, nothing much left.” He shoved through the gawkers.

  “Laurel,” Murphy muttered weakly, his eyelids fluttering.

  “I’m right here.”

  “Laurel, I… Don’t leave me.” His lids drifted shut.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” She firmly held the limp hand, her glance challenging Brodie to dispute the vow.

  The rebel glared, speaking to no one in particular. “Some of you help me carry him home.”

  Each clearly understood the difference between an order and a request. The teller produced a sturdy board and slid it under Murphy. Half a dozen lifted.

  A tortured groan rolled from his colorless lips, ripping open Laurel’s heart. The squared set of Brodie’s jaw told of a similar effect on him. She ran ahead to make arrangements, praying for a doctor even though Murphy’s chances weren’t enough to dare mention.

  Etta wrung her hands, the whites of her eyes glistening from a mahogany canvas. “Mr. Murphy? Is he passed?”

  “He’s hurt awful bad. Get water, clean towels, scissors, and…” Her mind whirled, trying to think of what they’d need. “And something to make bandages. A bunch of them.”

  “My feet’s already a-movin’.” Etta sped into the house, leaving Laurel holding the door for the men’s precious cargo.

  “Put him on the sofa in the sitting room.” No need to worsen Murphy’s suffering by taking him up the stairs.

  They gently moved him onto the soft leather.

  “Hurry with those towels and water, Etta,” Laurel hollered. Time had rendered Murphy’s motionless body the color of chalk.

  Brodie cut away a shirt no longer crisply white and starched.

  “Is he…?”

  “Dead? Not yet.”

  Her tender touch grazed Murphy’s forehead. She became queasy when Brodie exposed the wound. A bullet had torn through the right side of the chest wall, from which a trickle of oozing stickiness seeped. Relief swept over her when Etta arrived with a basin of water and a load of towels tucked under her arm. The woman’s gasp filled the room.

  “Lawsy me. Mr. Murphy’s shore in a bad way, ain’t he?”

  Engrossed in stanching the flow, no one answered.

  “I’ll fetch them scissors and bandages,” Etta said.

  Brodie’s presence bolstered Laurel to do what she must. “Hold pressure on the wound. Press hard,” he ordered.

  Without question she followed his instruction, but cringed at the faint pulse of Murphy’s heart through the towel. Small signs of life should’ve brought hope, but didn’t. Lack of medical knowledge didn’t prevent realizing the obvious.

  In tandem they worked, their hands touching frequently in a fight to save the man whose death would bring great loss.

  Each fleeting brush prolonged the inevitable. Despite their bumbling efforts, he’d probably not survive. That they simply grasped at air became apparent.


  “I…I can’t do this. It’s no use, I’m afraid.”

  “Remember your promise to stay with him?” Brodie’s bloodstained hands clung to hers. His piercing gaze seemed to recognize the coward in her, but strangely he appeared to sympathize. “We’re all he has. Don’t buckle on him now.”

  His intense caring washed over Laurel. Brodie did love his brother, no one could dispute that. His gentle admonition hinted maybe he held a bit of regard for her as well. The brittle edge had vanished, the harsh lines softening around his mouth. She erased the fact that each hope and dream hung in the balance. Everything had changed with the day’s events. They no longer played a game. Matching wits had no place here.

  Laurel’s palm curled inside Brodie’s and found new strength. His touch conveyed hope and courage—and home?

  “I’m not going anywhere. Long as there’s the barest prospect of change, I won’t quit,” Laurel vowed.

  “That’s my Lil.”

  An empty rush of cold air came when he reached for a clean cloth. The broken link left her again bereft and scared.

  “Here, take this and give me the soaked one,” he said.

  The soft squish of the wet cloth landing in her palm brought chills. She didn’t recognize her own red-stained hands.

  Quite odd the things to notice at very inappropriate times, like the way blood colored underneath and around, perfectly outlining her fingernails, but leaving the center like unfinished porcelain to paint later.

  Perhaps the unblemished portion represented a section of life she’d forgotten to live.

  Or maybe it reminded of damaged parts that rejected color?

  “Where is that doctor?”

  “He’ll come. Raise Murphy slightly. Help me get this binding around him.”

  “This god-awful waiting tries my patience to no end.” Thankful for something to do besides reflect on stupid mistakes, she gently tilted Murphy in order to get the binding situated.

  Brodie pulled it tight across his brother’s chest and went under again. His arm jostled her breast each time, spreading a heat throughout. The innocent, unintentional brushes barricaded the glacial landscape that lurked inside, waiting for the moment to freeze her forever.

  Laurel met his blank expression. He pretended well. Yet she knew the carefully orchestrated nimble caresses had affected him. The clumsy tying of the cloth betrayed.

  Ollie spoke from the doorway. “Yates, can you spare a minute? Some folks would like a word.”

  “Not now.” He waved her away. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Goldarned. It’ll only take a minute. Wouldn’t ask just to hear myself talking.”

  “Reckon we’re finished for the moment.” Brodie sighed and turned to the wash basin. “Make it quick.”

  Drying his hands, he followed Ollie down the hall.

  Bellowing grumbles drifting from the study aroused Laurel’s interest. Jake Whitaker and George Adams were hard to miss.

  She edged closer.

  “We’ve called a town meeting. The voting was unanimous.”

  “What the devil are you babbling about?” came Brodie’s sharp question.

  “We’ve elected to pin Sheriff Tucker’s tin star on you.”

  “You’re not pinning anything on me, you crazy fools.”

  George became agitated. “Understand something, Yates. There’s no one else. It’s you or nothing.”

  “Then I suppose you won’t have a lawman.”

  Brodie’s eerie detachment puzzled Laurel. It wasn’t some stranger who had leaked red all over the leather sofa. Blood ran thicker than water. Didn’t it? It didn’t make sense.

  But then, not much in this hellish day had.

  “Furthermore, you’re wasting my time,” Brodie snapped.

  “That money those thieving varmints took was all these folks had,” Ollie spat back. “And there’s the matter of those two little girls, don’t forget.”

  “What in Sam Hill are you talking about?”

  “The hostages. They took Miz Hatcher’s and Miz Carver’s daughters with ’em.”

  “None of us would stand a snowball’s chance in hell of going after them and coming back alive. My God, man.” Jake’s volume raised a notch. Laurel envisioned his long, twitching mustache. “Bert Blanchard uses men for target practice and laughs about it.”

  “On top of that, Murphy managed to wound one before they drew a bead on him,” came George Adams’ nasal twang.

  “Gentlemen, I’m sorry. I’d help if I could, but—”

  “Son of a bluejacket, Yates!” Ollie exploded. “The savages shot your own brother and left him for dead. An’ them poor innocent babes—you want to tell them no one gives a damn? What does it take to thaw the ice around your heart?”

  Laurel held her breath. He couldn’t turn them down. He represented Darcy and Willa’s last hope. His deadly aim and nerves of steel made Brodie more than a match for Bert and his henchmen. He couldn’t refuse.

  “I’m no lawman, just a two-bit gunslinger.”

  She peeked through a crack in the door. His wide stance portrayed defiance. Damn his rotten hide.

  Brodie continued, “Hell, I’ve skirted the law most my life, jumping over the line more often than not to suit my fancy.”

  “Our point exactly. You can get the job done.”

  “Get it through your thick skulls. No.”

  Once more he’d betrayed her. Lack of courage or skill didn’t hold him back, and he scoffed at fear. His refusal pelted harder than any hailstones she’d seen, making far greater dents.

  What halted the air in her lungs didn’t come from plunging ice, but bitter truth.

  He’d protect his brother from her, but not seek retribution against the men who’d hurled Murphy to death’s door and stolen two little darlings.

  Living by split second reflexes had changed him into someone she’d sooner not know.

  Laurel sagged against the door frame. Slim doubts of the lawless bunch letting the girls live challenged hope they would. Her heart lurched when she touched the broken tooth. Might be a pure blessing should death take them quickly.

  “Seems to me it didn’t disturb you overmuch when you tried to fit Jeb Prater with a marble hat,” Ollie reminded him.

  “I answer to no one. This is your town, your money, your problem. Pardon a bit of frankness, but you men need to earn the right to grow hair on your chest.”

  “It’s also your brother who lies still and white.” If Jake meant to prick him with the snide comment, he succeeded.

  From her listening post, Laurel felt the sting of Brodie’s anger. “That’s right. And I’m trying to keep him alive. Getting your money back sure won’t. Finding a doctor might.”

  She couldn’t put her finger on the cause of Brodie’s obstinacy. She’d witnessed his strong, capable hands at work. Mrs. Cole and her children provided ample proof of compassion.

  And when she’d found herself mired in the bayou’s clutches? Even now she could taste the raw passion of his need.

  A cold, heartless man hadn’t kissed her.

  Eleven

  Brodie’s thoughts staggered to areas too agonizing for however brief a sojourn. He rubbed his eyes, but the images stayed, each one splintering off another piece of his soul. His chest ached from a cold that wouldn’t leave.

  God have mercy.

  Wanting to help wasn’t the issue. He couldn’t.

  Not even for Murph. Some things came with a price beyond reach. That knowledge ripped the hole inside even bigger.

  “I think I get the gist. You’re telling us we might as well toss our hard-earned money to the wind,” the barber spat.

  Brodie jammed both fists into his pockets to avert disarranging Whitaker’s ugly features. “I’ve had a gut-full of killing.”

  That they t
hought him callous and hard rattled the pledge he’d made to himself. Turmoil that had burrowed into his core and taken up squatter’s rights had finally begun to ease of late. Making this group understand would use up valuable time.

  Besides, they’d mock at a hardened gunfighter’s desire to call it quits, to make a stand once and for all here in Redemption, and to find out if his search for a bit of home had not been in vain.

  The fight to stay breathing until he found a smidgen of self-respect had taken more perseverance than anyone knew.

  “I don’t see that ridding the earth of one or two more bad seed should make any difference to your sort.” Jake twirled his mustache, shifting from one hip to the other.

  “My sort? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know—someone who kills for the pleasure of it.”

  Brodie clenched his fists until the bones hurt. He’d never taken a life for sport. Nor would that day ever arrive.

  “Find someone else or do it yourself.” Let them see how easily they could forget the gurgle of a final breath or the smell of blood after hot lead ripped apart flesh from bone.

  “No one says you have to kill ’em, just bring back what they stole,” George Adams muttered.

  Brodie glared, a derisive snort exploding. “You think to accomplish one without the other? I propose you try it.”

  Suddenly, a heavyset woman entered the fray. “Mr. Yates, my husband, God rest his soul, gave his life for a cause he believed in. Most of you in this room lost loved ones. I’m tired of losing. How much do we have to sacrifice? My baby is out there with those murderin’ robbers. If you have one shred of decency and goodness, I beg of you, please help.”

  “I respect your grief, Mrs. Hatcher—”

  “Mr. Brodie, slavery is all my family has known for generations,” a woman of color who he presumed to be Mrs. Carver added softly. “I thought my Willa would finally have a chance to grow up free and enjoy the kinds of things denied black folk. I got nowhere else to turn except you, sir.”