A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers) Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF

  MAUREEN MCKADE

  “A story that will tear at your heart … terrific.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Watch out when sparks start to fly!”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “A Maureen McKade novel is going to provide plenty of excitement and enjoyment … Another triumph.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Well-done, uplifting, and enjoyable.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “With a clever story line and sparkling dialogue she’s created a town that will live in her readers’ minds and keeper shelves forever … Untamed Heart is one of the must-read romances of the year!”

  —The Literary Times

  “One of the most original romances I’ve read in a long time. I look forward to reading more from this talented author.”

  —All About Romance

  “Hard to put down … A great story.”

  —The Best Reviews

  A Reason To Live

  Maureen McKade

  Copyright © 2006, 2013 by Maureen Webster

  For Alan, my very own hero, for serving his country faithfully for twenty-one-plus years. All my love.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  Virginia, March 1865

  Laurel Monteille Covey ducked out of the tent and stretched, pressing her palms against her aching lower back. The filthy, worn canvas couldn’t mute the low moans and cries from the wounded soldiers in the makeshift hospital but she’d learned to shut them out. She’d had to.

  She wiped at her eyes, tearing from kerosene fumes and the stench of gangrene, blood, and unwashed bodies. However, being outside gave her little respite. A half mile away, the battle raged against the Yankees, and black smoke from cannons and rifles blotted the sky and drifted through the camp. The sight had once inspired fear, but now she felt only resignation.

  A man’s scream from the amputation tent sliced through the groans of misery but Laurel felt … nothing.

  When was the last time she’d smelled fresh air—air free of death and dying? Or listened to birdsong without human sounds of anguish and pain as accompaniment? Or looked at a field untrammeled by war?

  Exhausted in both mind and body, Laurel wanted nothing more than to sleep in her childhood bedroom and dream of dancing horses and rings of posies. But that life was gone forever.

  She shook her head, refusing to dwell on the past. There was nothing left back there for her. There was only the present.

  An ambulance wagon pulled by two bony mules halted less than ten feet from Laurel. Half a dozen blood-covered soldiers were unloaded from the back by stretcher-bearers and set on the ground around her. Snapped out of her bleak musings by the battle’s casualties, she scanned the wounded men with an experienced gaze, noting one young man was already dead.

  Determining which soldier was the most seriously injured, Laurel dropped to her knees by his side.

  “Grapeshot,” one of the stretcher-bearers mumbled as he shook his head and shuffled past her.

  Two years ago Laurel would’ve flinched at the grim announcement and grimmer picture. No blanket covered the young soldier, so the wounds to his belly were obvious. It was also evident he had only minutes left on earth.

  Black powder couldn’t hide the bone-white pallor of his face. Unspeakable pain and anguish filled his striking blue eyes. His jaw was clenched, as were his fists at his sides. He was no more than sixteen or seventeen, like so many other boys who’d died for the Confederate States of America.

  Surprisingly, Laurel fought tears. She thought she’d forgotten how to cry. She swallowed the odd block in her throat and managed a smile. There was nothing she could do but ease the boy’s life into death. “You’re a brave man,” she said, her voice shaky.

  “I’m d-dying,” the boy said. Blood bubbled across his lips and coated his chin.

  Laurel considered lying, telling him that he’d be as good as new in a week or two, but something in the young man’s expression stopped her. She stroked his furrowed brow and swept back a hank of greasy hair from his forehead. “Yes, you are,” she said gently.

  Panicked fear flashed through his dirt and smoke-blackened features, but there was also gratitude for her honesty. “N-never thought … it would… end l-like this.”

  Ignoring the gory sight of his gaping belly wound, Laurel clasped one of the boy’s hands between hers. Empty words of comfort lodged in her throat.

  “M-my pa was right.” The boy closed his eyes and his breath rasped loudly.

  “About what?”

  “Killing… the War.”

  She nodded even though she wasn’t certain what he meant.

  The young soldier stared at her with eyes far too old for his age. “Tell my p-pa… t-tell him that he’s the b-bravest man I know.”

  His expression relaxed and for a moment, Laurel could see the carefree child he’d been. “I will.” She leaned closer and whispered, “I promise.”

  The boy seemed to sigh, then his eyes became unfocused as he stared unseeingly into the desolate sky.

  A single tear rolled down Laurel’s cheek and dripped onto his lifeless body. She hastily brushed the moisture from the tattered uniform and drew back her shoulders. She didn’t have time for sorrow.

  She methodically went through his pockets and found his ration card with his name, Lyman Eaton, and where he was from in his jacket, and a pocket watch in his trousers. She’d record his final words in her journal and add his name to the one hundred and thirty-three other soldiers who’d died in her care. She glanced at the other boy who was already dead and found his card, also in his jacket pocket—Austin Forrester, who was from the same town in Texas.

  Her gaze moved from the one dead boy to the other and she wondered if they’d been friends—children playing a game of war together, except this time the weapons were real and they’d paid the ultimate price. Together.

  Ignoring her soul-deep weariness, Laurel tucked the watch and the two ration cards in her smock pocket. There were wounded boys who needed her assistance.

  ONE

  Six months later

  February 7, 1865. Private Jeremiah Hoskins from Chapel Crest, Tennessee. Wounded at the Battle of Hatcher’s Run on February 6. Brown curly hair, hazel eyes, scar on his chin, eighteen years old. Cause of death: minié ball to the upper right chest. “Tell my Jenny I love her and tell Ma and Pa I made them proud.”

  Laurel Covey’s thin bonnet was little protection against the hot Tennessee sun and she felt the tickling sensation of sweat rolling down her back. She ignored the irritation. It wasn’t difficult. She’d had over two years to learn how to overlook annoyances.

  The memory of the hospital tent filled with wretched moans invaded her thoughts. Her nose wrinkled at the remembered odors of blood, sweat, urine, and rotting tissue. Laurel held her breath and when she fin
ally gulped in air, there was nothing but the scent of damp soil. With a shaking hand, she wiped the beaded perspiration from her brow. Funny how the stench hadn’t bothered her during the War, but now her stomach roiled simply from the memory.

  She shifted her backside on the wagon’s unforgiving oak seat, glad for the discomfort to keep her thoughts from straying again. She glanced down at the cloth bag that held her precious journal and the remaining possessions to return to families. Soon, she’d be passing on his final words to his loved ones—to Jenny and to his parents. Instead of merely names scrawled in her book, they would become real people. There would be tears and anger, just as there had been at the last fifteen places where she’d taken messages from dead sons, husbands, or brothers.

  For a moment, desolation swept through her, bringing bleak emptiness. Despite the heat of the day, she shivered. She reminded herself that the War was over and had been for four months. There would be no more soldiers dying, and no more words to record and pass on to loved ones. There were only those remaining messages in her journal.

  Promises to keep.

  The pockmarked road ran through a thick copse of trees, which opened as Laurel rounded a curve. A small shack, made of warped wood, weathered gray by the sun and rain, stood amidst three rooting pigs and a dozen scrawny, scratching chickens. She halted her mule, Dickens, and remained seated in the wagon. Although there was an air of poverty surrounding the home, it didn’t look like it had been touched by the ravages of war like so many others.

  A lean, stooped man wearing faded overalls and carrying an ancient rifle came out of the house. A stained floppy hat with more than one hole covered his head and shaded his face. The way he held the gun told Laurel he was the distrustful type. Not that she blamed him. It was difficult to tell the difference between friend and foe nowadays.

  “Whaddya want?” he called to her in a gruff voice, keeping his weapon aimed in her direction.

  “Is this the Hoskins home?”

  He spat a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the bare ground. “Who wants to know?”

  “My name’s Laurel Covey and if you’re Mr. Hoskins, I have a message from your son, Jeremiah.”

  His grip tightened on the rifle as pain flashed through his gaunt face. “My son’s dead. Got me a letter that said so.”

  Laurel glanced down at her gloved hands and blinked away the moisture filming her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head. “I know and I’m sorry for your loss. I was with him when he died. He asked me to pass on a message.”

  Hoskins remained as still as a statue and Laurel could feel his measuring gaze. Despite the urge to look away, she kept her own eyes steady. One of the pigs wandered closer to the wagon, and his snuffling snorts distracted her and gave her something on which to focus.

  The rifle barrel wavered and finally lowered. “I’m Jeremiah’s pa.” His voice echoed with weariness. “C’mon in. The missus just put on some coffee.”

  He turned back toward the house, leaving Laurel to clamber down from the wagon alone. She set the brake and tied the reins, grabbed her journal, and followed Hoskins’s hunched figure into the shack.

  Laurel stepped across the door’s threshold and blinked in the abrupt darkness. Greasy smoke hazed the room, blurring the corners and the simple, hand-hewn furniture that occupied it. A movement caught her attention and she spotted a thin woman moving about the kitchen. Another woman, younger and with a rounded belly, kneaded bread dough.

  “Says she got words from Jeremiah,” Hoskins announced to the two women.

  The younger one ceased punching the dough and stared at Laurel. The older woman, probably Jeremiah’s mother, froze for only a moment, then said, “Sit. Would you like some coffee?”

  Laurel nodded. “Yes, please.” Three small steps carried her to the table and she lowered herself to a rough chair gingerly. She removed her gloves and laid them aside.

  Mrs. Hoskins brought two cups of coffee and set one on the table in front of Laurel. The other she gave to her husband, then she stepped back and eyed Laurel.

  To allow herself a moment to gather her composure, Laurel sipped the coffee that tasted like hot dishwater. But she couldn’t begrudge their hospitality. Food was in short supply and the price reflected its scarcity.

  Keeping her expression blank, she laid her hand on the journal that she’d set on the table. “I was a nurse during the War,” she began in the suffocating silence. “Jeremiah was wounded during the battle at Hatcher’s Run and brought to the tent hospital where I worked.”

  The young woman, obviously in a family way, wiped her hands on a threadbare towel and joined them. “So you seen him afore—” she glanced away. “Afore he passed?”

  Seeing her close up, Laurel was shocked to find the young woman was actually a girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. She stifled her surprise and nodded. “Yes, I did. Are you Jenny?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She lifted her dainty chin. “Jeremiah was my husband.”

  For a moment, Laurel felt much older than her twenty-seven years. She managed a smile. “I didn’t know him well, but I could tell he was a good man.” Even if he was only a boy himself.

  Jenny’s lower lip trembled and her eyes glittered with tears before she blinked them back. “He died a hero.”

  Laurel’s stomach churned. There was nothing heroic about fighting a losing battle. But she forced herself to nod. “His last words were for you and his parents.”

  Mrs. Hoskins gasped and moved closer to her husband. “Wh-what did he say?”

  Laurel opened the journal to where she’d left a blue ribbon to mark Jeremiah Hoskins’s entry. She licked her lips and read his words. “Tell my Jenny I love her, and tell Ma and Pa I made them proud.”

  Jenny covered her mouth with her hand as her expression paled and two tears trickled down her cheeks. Mrs. Hoskins tried to stifle a sob but Laurel heard and felt it, like a knife twisting in her heart. Jeremiah’s father looked away, his lips curling into a grimace of anguish.

  Laurel stared down at the words in her journal but all she could see was a vivid picture of Jeremiah’s final moments. The futile desperation and horrible realization that death was close at hand had brought tears to the boy’s eyes. He’d sobbed his last words to her and died with panic etched in his face.

  Mr. Hoskins cleared his throat, bringing Laurel back to the present. She lifted her head and met his watery gaze.

  “He was a good boy,” the man said with an emotion-roughened voice.

  Although Laurel hadn’t known him, she nodded.

  “He was so damned scared the war was gonna end afore he could sign up.” Hoskins drew a gnarled hand across his eyes. “Didn’t wanna be left outta the glory.”

  Glory. There was no glory in drowning in your own blood.

  “Me and him married a week afore he left,” Jenny said, a hand curved protectively over her round belly. “Said he’d come back a hero.”

  Bitterness rose in Laurel’s throat but she choked it back. “He died doing what he believed was right,” she said.

  Mrs. Hoskins threw her arms out and resentment spilled through her voice. “He was a damned fool. I told him he ought to stay home with his wife and not go gallivantin’ off to war.”

  Jenny clasped her mother-in-law’s hand. “Don’t, Mama Hoskins. He’s gone. Ain’t nothing going to bring him back. And it don’t do no good to be blamin’ him.”

  The older woman snapped her mouth shut and her fury fled, replaced with grief.

  Laurel eyed the girl, taken aback by her mature words. She swallowed her own anger and tried to ease some of the sorrow that filled the tiny cabin. “Jenny’s right. Jeremiah’s last thoughts were of his family, so I know he loved you all very much.”

  “Did he suffer?” Hoskins suddenly asked, pinning her with a penetrating gaze.

  Laurel glanced down and ran her hand over the smooth surface of her journal. “No,” she lied.

  Hoskins stared at her for a long moment then nodd
ed. He straightened his spine. “Would you like to stay for supper?”

  Laurel’s belly protested at the thought of food and she shook her head. “No, thank you.” She stood. “I should return to town.” She faced Mrs. Hoskins, who was being held by her petite daughter-in-law. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  Jenny managed a slight smile. “Thank you, Miz Covey. It comforts me to know my Jeremiah had someone by his side when he died.”

  He shouldn’t have died. The angry words leapt to Laurel’s tongue but she pressed her lips together to keep them from springing forth. Instead, she merely nodded.

  Hoskins walked her out, his damning silence preying on Laurel’s conscience. He awkwardly helped her climb up into the wagon then he shoved his hands into the sides of his overalls. “I ‘preciate you lyin’ ’bout how my boy died. His ma and wife don’t need to know he suffered in the end.”

  Laurel licked her dry lips, surprised by his astuteness. She looked over his shoulder, to the peaceful setting of green trees and the colorful flicker of flitting birds. It was a scene she’d despaired of ever witnessing again. “If it’s any comfort, Jeremiah faced his death like a man.”

  Hoskins’s chest puffed out. “I didn’t raise no crybaby. Taught him to be tough, like a man.”

  Afraid to say anything more, Laurel released the brake and slapped the leather reins across the mule’s rump. As she drove away, she wondered if she’d done the right thing. But then, what was another white lie or two if it gave a grieving family some solace? Speaking the truth would only bring more pain. No, she had no reason to taint their memories with the harsh realities of war.

  Her thoughts roamed as Dickens plodded along the road back to town. Sixteen families contacted, with only five more remaining. Not that there were only twenty-one soldiers she’d seen die, but those were the ones who left final words to pass on to their families. Most relatives lived in Virginia where she’d been at the end of the War so it hadn’t been difficult to find them. However, those left ranged from Tennessee to Texas.