Texas Redemption

by Linda Broday

  “Go tell that to your soldier friends over in Jefferson. They favor darkies. Don’t give a damn about any white folk though.” Hate spat from George Adams’ mouth.

  “Yeah, scoot on over there, Miz Carver, and let us take care of our white girls. Anyhow, they probably killed yours right off.” A tobacco-chewing, surly man entered the debate.

  The mother gasped and tried to muffled her sobs.

  Brodie slung the man, pinning him against a wall. Beneath his forearm, the bastard’s Adam’s apple bobbled in a frantic attempt to stop the brown wad’s migration, but the lump edged down the man’s gullet anyway.

  “What the hell?” Jake’s scrawny frame tried to intervene.

  Maybe Brodie was hasty in ruling out the “sort” he could be if provoked. He could certainly wring hate from this lickspittle’s neck without a bit of remorse.

  “Any of you show disrespect of any kind for womenfolk again, I won’t stop here.” Brodie shoved the man into Jake.

  “Hey, you got some nerve threatening Martin and the rest of us,” George whined.

  “It’s fair warning. I don’t think you’d care to see what my threats look like.” Brodie smoothed his vest and almost smiled at the sudden ashen faces of the self-righteous bunch of bigots. Except for the two mothers and the b’Dam woman. Hell of a name.

  “You addlebrained, limp-wristed ignorants. You’d best listen to him.” The petite café owner shifted her pipe to the other corner. “And fighting amongst ourselves ain’t solving our problem. Remember you asked for his help. Ain’t the lot of you with gumption enough to toss a stray cat out the back door.”

  “But we ain’t gonna stand for this,” Jake spluttered.

  Brodie’s train of thought veered south as a slight figure pushed through the small gathering.

  Laurel had fire in her eyes and murder in her step as she stalked into the room.

  Why did she have to get in the middle of this mess?

  “Yates, you’re all air and bluff. It’s all well and good to overpower a room of slackers.” Shocked gasps didn’t slow Laurel down. “At one time you might’ve had reason to call yourself a man. I can’t say it holds true now.”

  “Tell him, girl,” Ollie urged.

  He caught the finger poking his chest. “Miss James, you’re meddling in someone else’s bubbling pot.”

  “Someone has to.”

  His narrowed gaze should’ve warned her that she’d overstepped her bounds. Yet, she appeared unfazed by his stony scowl.

  “Ollie, pass me your shooting iron.”

  “You sure of what you’re doing, girl?”

  “Never more sure. I think this overstuffed goose would fit nicely in a boiling pot once I make a hole to let out a bit of the quackery. Then we’re going after those girls.”

  An icy glare accompanied the bold statement. She couldn’t know every slur brought more pain than he could bear.

  “And our money, don’t forget,” George Adams said.

  “I could give a rat’s hindquarter about that. Frankly, I shame you people for your narrow, selfish minds.”

  George huffed. “You forget your place, Miss James.”

  “It must throw you into shock to find a female who won’t knuckle under to your stupid rules. Guess I’ve never been a bootlicker and won’t start now. It sickens my gut that green is the only skin color you can see. Except…I wonder how quickly you’d have propped your gluttonous hide into a saddle had they stolen your children. If time permitted, I’d argue the point. Now step out of the way.” She pushed past George and lurched for Ollie’s pistol.

  Brodie’s quick reflexes stopped her. She cast a disdainful glance at the grip clamped around her wrist.

  “Can’t let you do that.” He ignored the look that could boil snow off a mountaintop, renewing his hold when she yanked.

  “Let me do what? Shoot you or go after those bandits?”

  “Take your pick.”

  Smoke curled about Ollie’s head. The porky-spined woman must’ve tamped the tobacco down good judging from the fog that screened those owl-eyes trying to leap from their sockets. “Looks like you’ll have to dicker your way out of this one, Yates. She means business.”

  “What’ll it be?” Laurel’s breasts heaved much too near.

  He uttered an oath beneath his breath before releasing her. “I’ll go. Satisfied? But I absolutely refuse the sheriff job. And, by God, you’re not coming with me. Those are my terms.”

  He brushed her and her victorious attitude aside and stalked back to his brother’s side. She hadn’t won. No one had.

  Truth of it, he could already feel the rip of another piece from his soul. He wouldn’t lay odds on those two little girls making their next birthday.

  Maybe he wouldn’t either.

  Nor did Murphy have a fighting chance of seeing sunrise.

  A short time later, Brodie sought the serenity of the garden. Air not laden with the stench of blood filled his lungs but it did nothing to help the churning in his belly.

  Time appeared to be measured in the ticks of a feeble heartbeat while they waited for a doctor who had yet to show. Helplessness wasn’t a role he knew well. Death lurked in the room where the only kin he had left in the world lay and nothing he did could stave off the grim reaper.

  Light footsteps on the rock path came from behind. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Laurel’s approach.

  “I’ve sent Etta for a healer who lives deep in the swamp off Caddo Lake. Nora Whitebird may be Murphy’s last hope.” The warmth of her shoulder settled next to his.

  “For all the difference anything makes now.”

  “A horrid thing to say. What happened to your pretty speech about not giving up?”

  “I’ve seen more death in the last five years than you’ll see in a whole lifetime. No one can change its course. Same goes for altering the direction of anyone’s path once it’s set. Wise men call it predestiny.”

  “Hogwash. Life isn’t carved in a piece of stone. If you want something badly enough, you can have it. That’s faith.”

  “Can’t buy it at any price.” Were that true, he’d gladly pay, even if it cost a king’s ransom. Home and family represented impossible dreams he couldn’t attain.

  “True, a person can’t buy their way through trouble. But they can alter destiny with enough blood, sweat, and tears.”

  “The voice of authority.” Sarcasm dripped from his tone.

  Why did she have to be so beautiful? And why couldn’t he stay away from her? Or she from him? For God’s sake, she belonged to Murphy. That throaty voice—the vanilla and spice swirling around his head would drive a sane man crazy. And Lord knows he’d gone there the second he stepped into Ollie’s Café.

  She studied him for a long minute and shrugged. “Stick to your beliefs, such as they are, and quit belittling mine.”

  He’d earned a good and proper scolding, but the mildness surprised him after the recent tongue-lashing. Her intense scrutiny made up for it though. He squirmed and tried to look away. A soft touch on his arm sent a sizzle clear to his toenails.

  “I appreciate the sacrifice you’re making and I thank you for it. Had we anyone else, you’d get your rathers.”

  “Murphy’s the last of the Yates. I want to be here in case he needs me, not off chasing more elusive shadows.”

  “If fate reversed our roles, I’m not certain I could leave him.”

  Brodie did a double take. “Still, you made it impossible to say no. You, Lil, no one else.”

  Laurel hid her violet scrutiny beneath lowered lids. The wrinkle on her forehead deepened from heavy thought. That nice shade of pink flooding her cheeks only made her more desirable.

  “There’s nothing else you can do for Murphy, except make the Blanchards pay for what they did.”

  “Peculiar thing about re
venge. Once it gets inside, it changes you into an outlander. I wanted to fit someplace, to finally belong. I’m tired of running.”

  “I’m sorry.” She reached for his hand. “That explains why you hesitated. I watched you defend Mrs. Carver. You have a noble heart that will never let you stand by quietly.”

  Somehow the realization that she regarded him a darn sight better than he deserved increased his longing to hold her close and never let her go.

  “That’s been my downfall. It baffles me why skin color should lower or raise a person’s status. Where do you fit?”

  “Alongside you. I’m surprised you had to ask.”

  “Making sure. You’ve given me a few starts of late.” Especially when she’d arm-wrestled him for the pistol.

  “Aren’t you wasting precious seconds? The trail only grows colder.”

  “I’ll saddle up come daybreak.” He gauged the magnitude of shock by the way her head jerked around.

  “You wouldn’t drag your heels unless…”

  Brodie squirmed under her scrutiny. “I admit I’ve seen their hideout a time or two.”

  Laurel gasped. “You knew all along, didn’t you? You know the Blanchards.”

  What he hadn’t thought to hear hiding behind the accusation bore a strange resemblance to disappointment. That thorn pricked.

  “Sort of.”

  “Either you do or you don’t.”

  He sighed. “I didn’t want to get involved with them unless I had to.”

  “They shot Murphy!”

  “Sweet Jezzie. Folks keep saying that as though it’d slipped my mind, like I was either some senile old man or a simpleton.” He kicked a loose pebble into a clipped holly bush. Leaves scattered onto the walk. “You may as well hear this now—me and Luther Blanchard go back a ways. I owe him an almighty debt.”

  Laurel sucked in her bottom lip. “Whatever it is, your brother and those poor little girls shouldn’t have to pay.”

  Brodie nudged back his Stetson with a forefinger. The rattles added a buffer against the unceasing roar in his head. Without them to ground him, the pain and disillusion riddling every waking moment would hasten his demise. He pulled a cheroot from inside his vest, bit off the end, and lit it before answering.

  “Luther saved my life in the Battle of Shiloh. I took a mini-ball in the leg and lay bleeding. A blue belly drew his bayonet, taunting my screams. I clutched the spent rifle to my chest, unable to prevent that soldier from adding me to the list of three thousand other casualties.”

  Smoke curled up into the breeze, the wisps vanishing.

  He wondered at this ebony-haired lady who’d invaded his mind—and his heart. Would she fade into similar nothingness? He’d never spoken of these things to another living soul. The telling didn’t come easy.

  Strange how tobacco calmed twisted nerves. A filthy addiction. Nonetheless, smoking untangled some of the mess.

  “Anyway, I waited, dreading, praying for the moment that would end the nightmare. Luther threw himself over me, taking the brunt of the bayonet. The blow shattered his left leg before he managed to shoot the damned Yank.”

  “That’s how you knew. Bystanders mentioned one of them dragged his left leg.” Laurel’s whiskey voice became raspy.

  “Luther and I recovered in a makeshift Confederate hospital. Had we wound up in Union hands they’d have amputated his leg. It turned out the wound left him a cripple. And me? I’m a—”

  “Man with grit and honor,” she supplied. “The hellish things you suffered. Yet, you survived. That’s what counts.”

  “Tell that to Luther. He might beg to differ.”

  “I understand your predicament. Truly I do. But those men rode into this town, kidnapped, stole, and murdered. Don’t you care about that? Surely, they deserve what’s coming to them.”

  Not at his expense. Hunger to save the tiny pieces left of his soul beckoned from afar. Killing again would seal his fate.

  “Just don’t want it to be me who has to mete out the punishment.”

  But he would…for her. He’d do most anything for Lil.

  Even if it damned him for eternity.

  Laurel stroked the length of his arm. She paused, her lingering fingertips exerting soft pressure, massaging the hurt.

  “You’re our last hope. Few stand a ghost of a chance. I still have to ask how you know where they’ll hole up.” Laden with disappointment, the strangle in her voice unnerved him.

  A man couldn’t talk about things he knew and still profess ambition to be more than the callous gun-hand she thought him.

  A man didn’t just blurt out that inside beat the heart of an idealist. The situation made this neither the time nor the place.

  Besides, a man could expect complications in explaining exactly what put certain notions beyond reach. The lady had obligations elsewhere and seemed in no mood for what-ifs.

  “I stumbled across their hideout once. Luther asked me to join up.”

  “But you didn’t?” He didn’t miss the hope in her voice.

  “No.”

  Silence stretched. He focused on the cigar’s red glow. To hope for more than belief asked too much. His lungs expanded to accommodate the rush of air. Unfamiliar peace followed the brief glimpse he’d given her into his brand of hell, a place he’d never allowed anyone before.

  No matter what he or Laurel had been or done, they were kindred spirits with secrets to hide.

  Brodie’s bold gaze slid the length of her and drank in the sight of the exceptional woman. Her dark hair pulled back into a severe knot might’ve brought the word sedate to mind had not escaping, wispy tendrils ruined it. They curled about her face with such alluring beauty he had trouble trying to draw air into his lungs. He should’ve stepped away from the intoxicating fragrance that surrounded her. But he couldn’t.

  Torturous, insatiable yearning nailed his boots to the spot.

  For two cents he’d yank her to him, hold her tightly, and ignore the protest of decency his conscience would cry.

  Damn the fool that made a home inside him.

  His brother lay dying and all he could think about was the elegant long column of her neck. His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts, rising and falling rapidly.

  Laurel fidgeted, twisting the folds of her skirt. He had experience with those slender hands. They possessed uncanny abilities in caressing away a man’s troubles.

  Passion wound through his memory like vines encircling the cypress in the bayou, possessing, becoming as one.

  Their sultry morning encounter teased. She could rebuke him until she exhausted her vocabulary, but her body couldn’t deny this thing between them. He cursed his weakness for her.

  “I’ve a story to tell you,” she blurted.

  He wrestled his thoughts and his gaze from her lush, rounded curves. He’d seen many a condemned horse thief with less desperation than he found glistening in Laurel’s eyes.

  “That is, should you wish to hear it,” she hastened to add.

  “Seems the day for getting things off our chest. Shoot.”

  Color drained from her face, leaving it two shades of pale. Maybe he should’ve left off the joking.

  “It happened one day six years, three months, and fourteen days ago.”

  Brodie had a feeling she knew the exact hour as well. He didn’t ask though. Only about something real serious could a person pinpoint the time with such accuracy.

  “A young girl picked blackberries along the creek bank. Two brothers went with her, but their favorite fishing hole held more promise than berry picking. They left her all alone.” Laurel stopped and moistened her lips.

  Ashes fell from his cigar. He paid them no heed.

  “A music box her parents had given her for her birthday tinkled merrily at her feet. She could almost smell the pie her mother would bake.”r />
  Again she paused, this time to wipe a hand across her eyes as if erasing some horrible scene.

  “You don’t have to do this, Laurel.”

  “Three men appeared from nowhere and grabbed her,” Laurel continued as if he’d not uttered a peep. “She fought, scratching and kicking as hard as she could. When she tried to scream to alert her brothers, they crammed a dirty cloth into her mouth. These stealers of children took her far away. They gave her a new name, made her do unspeakable things, and kept her under lock and key until they presumed she had no will left for escape.”

  The rasp dropped to a mere whisper. “I was that girl, barely fifteen.”

  The cheroot burned his fingers. He tossed it down, grinding it with a heel. Thickness grew in his throat.

  Propriety be damned. He pulled her into his arms. She buried her face in his chest.

  “I didn’t know. I thought—”

  “They forced me into what I became.” The words tripped over a sob. “I prayed to die.”

  “I’m sorry, so sorry.” He’d been so eager to prove her wrong. The bitter pill that he’d judged, convicted, and sentenced left a bite. He held her, caressing her back.

  “I became a cheap piece of merchandise at the Black Garter. Even now I scrub daily, but filth is embedded in my skin.”

  His gut twisted. He’d helped degrade her. Worse, he’d threatened to tell the entire town and heap further disgrace. “I didn’t know.”

  “They laughed, proud they’d ruined me for any decent man.”

  “I’ll kill every one of the bastards.”

  She pushed back and leveled an accusing stare. “I kept hoping for a miracle. I thought… I clung to your promise.”

  Her hands curled into fists. He wished she’d lay into him. A good whaling might take the edge off the disgust and loathing.

  “Laurel, I—”

  “You made me believe you truly cared.”

  If she knew of the many nights he’d awakened bathed in a cold sweat. The days she filled his thoughts and gave him reason to keep trying.

  “Darlin’, I did. I ran into another Yankee bullet on my return. Once I regained my health, I wasn’t sure you’d like the man I became, not sure that what happened had merely been a figment of my imagination.” He coaxed her against him, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I drifted to California and back, dodging everyone sent to kill the famous Confederate spy.”