Texas Redemption

by Linda Broday

  “Your mama’s a pretty smart woman.”

  “I figure long as she don’t catch me, I’ll be all right.” Jacob patted the mare’s jaw. “You don’t hafta stay out here. Mr. Murphy pays me to handle things. He’s a good man. I shore hope he keeps outrunning the angel of death. My mama and me—we got nowhere else to go. Taking care of Mr. Murphy is our life. Wouldn’t know how to do anything else, I don’t expect.”

  Laurel pondered the boy’s worries on the way to the house. She’d never considered the devastating effects of Murphy’s death to people like Etta and her son. The whole town depended on him. It appeared quite a few had a stake in him making it. The lump that lodged in her chest shifted. Her steps quickened.

  Hours later, Etta yelled that the doctor was trying to sit up. Laurel took him a cup of coffee, the Ollie-kind that required a fork.

  “Mister, drink this, for it’s all you’ll get here.”

  Bleary eyes stared up. “Whats’at you say, dearie?”

  “I’m not your dearie, you old goat. It’ll help ward off the chill to keep you from taking up permanent residence on this veranda. It’s coffee, very hot and very stout.”

  The man shook so badly she helped him get the cup to his lips for a careful sip. He wrinkled his face.

  “Ooh, that’s awful. Need a little sump’in in it. I gen’rally mix it with spirits.”

  “You won’t get any of that, I’m afraid.”

  “Got a spoon, then?”

  She and the doc shared the same opinion. She hid a smile and helped him down more. “Mind if I ask who you are?”

  “If you’ll tell me where in hell I’m at. Doc Gates, in case it matters.”

  “From Jefferson?”

  “Gotta gunshot to treat.” Unsteady movement sloshed coffee onto his shirt, though it was a pure mystery how the thick stuff managed to escape.

  Laurel hastily grabbed the cup when Gates tried to stand. He teetered on the edge of the top step, threatening to topple backward into the mud. She looked for a place to unload the coffee, wishing problems arrived by telegraph where a body could take them in doses they preferred instead of them coming right up to the door and knocking. That way they’d have a right to refuse if they didn’t want ’em.

  “Whoa there, sawbones.” Ollie arrived out of breath from the direction of the café. “Them legs are trying to ride a mighty rough sea. Might oughta sit a spell first.”

  Gates gave up the folly of balancing and dropped back onto the wooden slabs cut from giant cypress. “I’m sorry, Mildred.”

  Ollie gave Laurel a bemused glance and circled an ear with her finger to indicate the man had fallen out of his rocker and left it still rocking. “Mildred must be your wife. I’m Olivia Applejack b’Dam.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned, too. You sure favor my Mildred.”

  “I never found occasion to seek a husband,” Ollie sniffed.

  “Me neither. It’s the wives I can’t outrun. Do you know that marriage isn’t an occasion but an occupation, and a most hazardous one at that.”

  Laurel wearily tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She had a hundred more pressing things to deal with, each one requiring more courage and stamina than she possibly possessed.

  “Excuse me. Mister, I leave you in capable hands.”

  Doc appeared bewildered. “But I have a patient…”

  “Not anymore.” She made no attempt to hide the anger or brittle tone. “No one here requires your services.”

  “A banker fellow, something Yates, got hisself shot.”

  “You’re too late. He died.”

  Thirteen

  A friend named Hawkshaw once advised Brodie, “When danger comes calling, don’t hem haw around. Do what you hafta, boy. A half second often separates driving a hearse from riding in one.”

  The dead mountain lion at Brodie’s feet confirmed that he’d been a watch tick away from having to ride in that hearse Hawkshaw spoke of.

  Wafting smoke from the Sharps rifle barrel tinged the scene a familiar shade of lead gray—cannons, Johnny Rebs, storms, and the iron weight of a heart. He shook away fuzzy cobwebs to nudge the lion with a toe.

  It seemed irrelevant that Hawkshaw’s tutelage pertained to the finer points of killing men instead of animals. But then, making the impossible distinction between those kept Brodie awake many a night. He brushed rain from weary eyes and holstered the Sharps in a leather sling hanging from the saddle. Tendons quivered beneath Smokey’s drenched hide.

  “Appreciate the warning, boy,” he murmured into the horse’s neck. “I could’ve had a lot bigger problem.”

  Brodie led the Appaloosa toward the thick woodland cover where they’d be out of the rain. Squatting, he rolled up his sleeve where the cat had ripped a jagged gash. He’d bled worse on occasion, he reckoned. The knot in a faded red bandanna took a devil of a time to loosen one-handed. He pressed it tightly to the wound. An experienced eye confirmed darkness would fall quickly.

  “We’ll pass the night here, Smokey. Good a place as any.”

  His companion had plenty of horse sense. Soft nickering followed by three nods of his head confirmed that. Smokey earned the name from the white smattering his spotted charcoal flanks, giving his coat a hazy appearance. A trail-rider could ask for no finer piece of horseflesh. Brodie wound the neckerchief tight around his arm, cinching a knot with his teeth and fingers.

  At least the rain showed slight promise of letting up. He gathered drier firewood and buried leaves that would catch. With the warmth of a fire going, he addressed a rumbling belly.

  “Those steaks Lil cooks would beat coffee and beans all to hell.” The horse feasted on a patch of lush rye grass, ignoring his master’s chatter. “Appears you’ve already found your supper.”

  Cold biscuits Etta had pushed on Brodie and a heated can of beans silenced his growls. He leaned back on the bedroll with a steaming cup of brew. Though September and October days in east Texas heated up, a man had to cozy up to a fire come sundown.

  This night’s moist air carried an extra chill.

  The sting of his arm dredged up thoughts to sort out. The big cat went in the dull gray category—blood, pain, and raw fear. He considered Lady Luck and felt grateful for the sparing.

  That road led back to Hawkshaw, who he’d put in the one-of-a-rare-breed department.

  Never offering anything more than Hawkshaw, Brodie never knew whether that was his given, surname, actual, or made up name. Not that it mattered a smidgen. The friend took a ride in the hearse shortly after meeting up with the widow, Mrs. Sugarbaker. Brodie sure missed Hawkshaw. Come to think of it, that surely went in the gray section, too.

  Brodie next mulled over the Blanchards. The downpour had erased signs, but he knew they came this way and he hated all the reasons for knowing why.

  Lust for money numbered among Ike and Bert’s worst sins. Even so, Brodie couldn’t overlook the debt owed to Luther.

  But the other two gang members froze his blood.

  Reno Darnell and Nat Jude were natural born killers. Both cut their teeth on Quantrill’s terrorizing rampage through Missouri and Kansas years earlier, the experience sharply honing a thrill for torture and murder.

  His jaw tightened. They shouldn’t have taken those little ladies. And if they hadn’t treated them kindly? He jabbed a long twig into the fire and stared into the flame.

  One thing for certain, he’d not return empty-handed.

  Laurel’s revelations had walloped his sense of honor sideways and crooked. She placed a powerful burden on him. In his travels he’d learned of twisted men and their perversions, yet the depth sometimes jarred him. He clenched his jaw.

  Gloom threw each scenario into the blackest of corners.

  Smokey whinnied softly, the soulful eyes meeting his in the dim light. The animal struck the ground carpeted with pine needles, pe
rhaps conveying similar thoughts, yet Brodie hadn’t uttered a word.

  “You taking to reading minds now?”

  The Appaloosa nodded three times. Brodie set down his cup and rose to stroke Smokey’s powerful neck.

  “We’ll get ’em back. Might strew a few dead carcasses over Arkansas though. Way I see it, they deserve everything coming to them. The weather taking a turn for the better will make it easier.”

  With a grim stare up into the trees where an owl hooted, he rolled a smoke and lit it. The smoldering tobacco took the edge off most things.

  Except his dying brother.

  Bleak curiosity wondered if Murphy had made the crossing yet. He’d not seen many survive a hole that large. And yet? After a few minutes, with a final puff, he flicked the short remains into the embers. Dropping to the bedroll, Brodie lay back, forming a pillow with his hands.

  Why in the name of Jericho had he told Laurel he’d not stop her from marrying? Maybe he’d gotten hold of some baneberry. Only that tended to kill a man. On second thought—the sharp spasms piercing his heart suggested the possibility.

  “You’re mine, Laurel James.” He muttered it into the breeze, wishing to climb the highest mountain and shout it for all to hear. “Whoever lays claim to you can’t change the fact that we have a bond.”

  Conviction had glistened in Laurel’s violet gaze when she’d spoken of changing her life. Though it seemed farfetched, maybe one could go from scarlet lady to housewife and mother. That she believed it so sincerely made him believe it, too.

  She’d make a fine wife.

  Jagged pain enveloped him with that parcel of reality.

  Should he return to find Murphy mending, he’d stay not a day longer than necessary. He’d pack up and take himself far from the misery of watching her with someone else—for he’d not go back on his word.

  Even if it ripped his heart from its mooring.

  But should the pendulum swing the opposite and things didn’t turn out with the Blanchards like he planned…

  The half-formed thought settled in ice. He refused to dwell on that. While his brother might present the toughest obstacle, it wasn’t the sole one standing in the way.

  * * *

  Laurel crimped the edges of the soft dough topping the apple pie. Her mind wandered back to Jefferson’s sorry excuse for a doctor. Thank goodness the growing populace had many others from which to choose or they’d get her condolences.

  Telling Doc Gates the lie about Murphy yesterday brought no remorse. In her estimation he’d left her no choice. Gates’ shaking hands could barely help him climb into the saddle much less aid in the treatment of a critically wounded patient.

  She did color a mite at the memory of lifting a few items from his bag. Necessity justified her crime.

  The back door opened and Ollie blew in, blustering like a north wind. “I dropped in on Murphy, and Nora says his color’s a tad improved today.”

  “What wonderful news.” She slipped the pie into the oven. “I questioned whether we’re opening the café prematurely, but we… I need…to get a normal routine going again.”

  “My grandpappy, God bless him, always said, ‘Cowards never start and the weak ones die on the way.’” Ollie took an apron from a nail and slipped it on. “Murphy will be fit in no time. He’s got the constitution of a mule. We gotta git on with the business of living.”

  Bedecked in a frilly apron, the bandy woman appeared more like a hurdy-gurdy dancer. Laurel suppressed a giggle.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Laurel asked.

  “If it’s any of your never-mind, I’m gonna help get ready for the Sunday noon crowd. The Nancy Belle will dock in roughly two hours and we’d best have enough for Sherman’s army.”

  “I have a large pot of mulligan stew on, pies baking, and fresh bread cooling. Green beans and potatoes simmering on the back, and I’ve cut up six chickens for frying.” Laurel untied the apron and lifted the frills over Ollie’s head. “There is nothing left to do. I want you to rest.”

  “Goldarned upstart. You must’ve kissed the Blarney Stone. Since I’m not wanted or appreciated, you’ll find me over at the saloon, visiting someone who values my company,” she huffed.

  “Ha! Wait until Curley knows you better.”

  The door slammed back, interrupting the exchange. Edgar Lee and Andy Cole ran inside as if a pack of wolves chased them.

  “Miss Laurel, guess what? Maw says we git to wash your dishes.” The boys hopped around in circles. “Oh boy.”

  “Whoa.” Ollie caught each by an arm. “Were you born in a hurricane?”

  “Nope. What’s that?”

  Mrs. Cole followed, quite breathless, shifting the baby on her hip. “I apologize. They’re excited to help in the café.”

  “No reason in the world for children to be otherwise, Mrs. Cole.” Laurel wiped flour off her hands.

  “Just call me Betsy, please.”

  “Agreed. And I’m just plain old Laurel.”

  “Well, if this don’t beat all I’ll kiss your foot. Reckon you shore don’t need an old woman now,” Ollie grumbled.

  “Tell Curley I send my regards.” Laurel shooed the skinflint toward the sidewalk.

  Edgar Lee swiped his face on a sleeve. “Where you going, Miz Ollie?”

  The pipe-smoking woman turned three shades of red. Laurel wondered how she’d squirm out of explaining the saloon’s star attraction. “Uh, I’ve got some dadgum business to attend.”

  “Can we come, too?”

  Ollie jerked out the pipe only to stick it back in. For once she was at a loss for words. Laurel suppressed a laugh.

  “Edgar Lee, we’re here to work, not play,” Betsy scolded. “We have a debt to pay off.”

  Short, bandy legs could move awfully swift when they had a reason to, Laurel discovered. She pulled a chair from the work table and tweaked Sissie’s fat cheek. The baby giggled.

  “Sit down, Betsy. I’ll get the boys started and we’ll chat.”

  “Didn’t come to socialize. Where’s your broom?” The thin line of Betsy’s mouth promised an argument.

  Laurel pointed toward the implement in the corner. “This isn’t necessary.”

  “Let me be the judge.” She sat Sissie on the floor and handed her a rag doll and string of wooden beads. “I heard about the trouble and Mr. Brodie’s brother. It’s a pure shame. How’s he doing?”

  “Murphy is in a bad way.”

  Bored, Edgar Lee and Andy indulged in playful scuffle.

  “Stop it, boys. Remember where you’re at.” Betsy snatched the broom. “If the young Mr. Yates is anything like his brother, he’s some kind of man. And I keep thinking of those poor little girls. Those mothers must be sick to death with worry.”

  “Mrs. Carver and Mrs. Hatcher do indeed have heartbreak. It’ll turn out right as rain in the end, I do believe.”

  Bitter thoughts turned down a similar path. Laurel’s mother would not share such sentiment. Mary James still waited for a whisper of news. There had been no Brodie Yates back then to track Will Taft. Sissie’s toothy, silly grin got lost in Laurel’s blurred vision.

  “If someone took my children, I’d follow them to kingdom come and make them sorry they ever did,” Betsy declared.

  The threat didn’t seem idle or strange. It came from a woman who’d buried a husband beside a river and had the will to press on by herself. Laurel knew Brodie would catch up with the Blanchards, but what then? The odds were stacked against him. Her hand flew to her mouth. She should’ve insisted on going along. An extra pistol would help. He needed someone.

  Edgar Lee and Andy play-scuffled with each other, but their mother’s stern eye quickly brought them in line.

  “Mr. Brodie will make them rue the day, never fear,” Betsy said, patting Laurel’s shoulder. “The man’s got plenty of guts
.”

  Manhandling the broom, Betsy stalked into the dining room. Laurel stared, the truth echoing in her mind until it finally stuck.

  No one but a fool would accuse Brodie Yates of tucking tail and running or describe his nature as normal. Bold facts spoke of a man special in every way. Grit and determination wouldn’t let him quit. The set of his jaw and the steel in his stare made him continue when everyone else gave up. Because he couldn’t. Overwhelming numbers meant the job would take a little longer, that’s all. Despite great personal risk he’d find a way to win. That’s what separated the gray-eyed rebel from the rest.

  Edgar Lee tugged on her elbow. “Miss Laurel?”

  Impatience lined the boy’s face. She put aside her mulling. “Oh yes, the dishes. First, though, I want you to roll up your sleeves.”

  Andy struggled until she took pity and helped. Scrawny arms contrasted with tough, stubborn pride to carry his own weight.

  Shyness wouldn’t let him glance up, although he pressed close to crumple the lace on Laurel’s apron. A warm glow that had swept her the night she’d met them again settled inside. She cherished it, despite the reminder of how much Taft had stolen. She had a lot of ground to make up.

  “You’re a baby, Andy. I can do mine by myself,” Edgar Lee crowed.

  “N-n-no, I’m not a baby.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, Edgar Lee, but you didn’t do any better.” Laurel wouldn’t tolerate unkind talk in her kitchen. “We all do the best we can and don’t have to apologize for anything less than what we’re capable of. Now, let’s hear you apologize.”

  “I’m sorry, Andy.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  She adjusted his handiwork and grabbed a block of soap. Hot water from the stove mixed with cold from the pump assured their sensitive skin could tolerate it. Then, she pulled a bench up to the counter for her short helpers. Both wasted no time diving in elbow deep.

  Laurel found keeping an eye on Sissie exhausting work. The child not only located every vegetable peel, dirty knot hole, and tiniest insect imaginable, but tasted each treat.