A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers) Read online

  But what else was left for Laurel besides delivering deathbed messages? Her own parents had disowned her. They’d made it perfectly clear that the Massachusetts Monteilles were not traitors to their country, unlike Virginia-born Richard Covey who’d died at Gettysburg. Laurel had chosen her husband over her family and continued to pay the price for her loyalty.

  The sudden cessation of bird trills brought Laurel out of her dark musings. Dickens’s large ears pointed upward and he kept swinging his knobby head to the right, toward the heavy woods that lined the road.

  Icy tendrils of alarm spread down Laurel’s spine, but it was still a shock when two men on horseback abruptly charged out onto the middle of the road in front of Dickens. She instinctively drew back on the reins, halting the skittery mule.

  Stiff with tension, she gazed at the men, dressed in familiar ragged gray pants and shirts. They’d obviously been soldiers in the Confederate army but that observation brought no comfort. Desperate times bred desperate men.

  “Afternoon, ma’am.” The older of the two drawled a polite greeting.

  Laurel nodded, her pounding heart lodged in her throat. “Good afternoon.”

  They continued to stare at her, their hungry gazes resting on her breasts. Dread slithered down her spine. With their horses blocking the road, she didn’t have a chance of escape. “Can I help you?” she asked, keeping her voice even.

  “Reckon you can,” the younger ruffian said. “After you give us your money and fancy jewelry.”

  His meaning was obvious and Laurel shuddered with revulsion and more than a trace of fear. “Please, don’t do this.” She hated the pleading in her voice.

  As the men shifted to opposite sides and moved toward her, she struck the mule’s rumps with the reins. Dickens jumped and brayed, then surged forward. The younger outlaw reached down to grab his traces, halting the animal. Metal jangled and hooves hammered the ground, but there was no getting away from the brigands.

  Laurel’s heart plummeted.

  The older one approached her and leered, revealing brown teeth. “Now that weren’t very friendly of you. We ain’t even got to know each other yet.”

  The stench of his unwashed body wafted across her as her breath quickened in terror. Had she survived the conditions of the hospital camps only to be robbed and assaulted by two men she might have nursed during the war? If the situation weren’t so dire, she would’ve laughed at life’s irony. Still, maybe it was a fitting recompense for someone who’d lived when so many others had died.

  Creede Forrester drew back on Red’s reins, stopping the chestnut mare. He removed his broad-brimmed hat and dragged his forearm across his sweat-soaked brow. The light breeze ruffled his shaggy hair, cooling his scalp and the back of his neck.

  Squinting up at the sun’s position, he reckoned it was mid-afternoon sometime in early September although he’d be hard-pressed to come up with the exact day. What did it matter if he didn’t know if it was a Tuesday or a Saturday? The last day he had more than a scant recollection of had been the day he received the letter. It had been the eighth of March, and gray clouds holding the elusive promise of rain had scudded across the sky. He could even recall how one of those clouds had been shaped like a smithy’s anvil. Funny how he could picture that easier than he could remember his son’s face.

  He slapped his hat back on his head and urged his mare into motion once more. He idly wondered if he was on a fool’s errand, yet what difference did it make if he was? What did he care if his cotton farm languished under the scorching Texas sun? There was no son to leave it to, no wife to give him another child. At thirty-eight years old, Creede was back to where he’d started twenty years ago.

  “Leave me alone!”

  The woman’s cry straightened Creede’s spine and, before he made a conscious decision, he dug his heels into Red’s sides. Coming around a tree-lined bend, he immediately sighted a mule-drawn wagon flanked by two men. One of them was attempting to drag a woman out of the wagon.

  Creede reached back and pulled his rifle out of its casing. Even before his horse stopped, he fired two rounds into the air. For a second, the frozen scene was almost comical with the men’s mouths gaping and the woman’s eyes wide. Then the man shoved the woman back and she flailed as she fought to keep from tumbling out of the wagon. Regaining her balance, she dropped heavily onto the plank seat.

  Before Creede could draw a bead on the outlaws, the scraggly men fled in the opposite direction. He considered chasing after them, but suspected the woman might need some assurance. Kneeing his horse forward, he neared her slowly, careful to keep his arms open and his expression nonthreatening.

  The woman regarded him warily as she readjusted her bonnet, tucking long wheat-colored hair beneath it. Even though her face was the color of ripe cotton, her brown eyes were steady and her chin raised.

  “Thank you,” she said with an amazingly strong voice.

  Creede slid his rifle back in its scabbard and inclined his head. “You’re welcome. Did they hurt you, ma’am?”

  Her gaze darted away but returned to him almost immediately. “No. Your arrival was most timely.”

  He replayed her words and the cadence of her speech in his mind, and it struck him that there was an absence of the genteel southern drawl. “You’re not from around here.”

  She appeared, for the first time, uncertain. “That’s right.”

  The way this woman spoke her words brought to mind a long-ago acquaintance named Boston Bill, who’d been as handy with a gun as he was with fancy words. “You from Massachusetts?”

  Surprise was followed closely by a skittishness that he’d seen in an orphaned fawn he’d found over ten years ago. His son had persuaded him to bring the young deer back to the house, and they’d bottle-fed the fawn until it just up and left one morning. Austin had been heartbroken. Creede shook aside the bittersweet memory.

  “Where I come from is of no concern of yours, Mr.—”

  “Forrester, Creede Forrester.” He tipped his hat using his thumb and forefinger.

  She narrowed her eyes. “If I were a gambling woman, I’d say you were from Texas.”

  Creede almost smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re a long way from home, Mr. Forrester.”

  “You and me, both, ma’am.”

  Her lips tilted upward but her eyes remained somber. “Mrs. Laurel Covey originally from, as you ascertained, Massachusetts.”

  Lightheadedness assailed Creede as he stared at the woman for whom he’d been searching for over two months. Mrs. Covey was the nurse who’d been working in the hospital tent where his son had died.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Forrester?”

  He blinked her concerned face into focus and the dizziness receded. Part of him wanted answers to his questions immediately, but another part of him lacked the courage. Clinging to the foolish hope that it was all a mistake and his son was still alive, he chose to hold his questions for the time being. He didn’t even attempt a smile to reassure her. “Just a touch of heat. So what brings you to Tennessee, Mrs. Covey?”

  She stared over his right shoulder. “Promises, Mr. Forrester.”

  Her vague reply brought more questions, but Creede suspected those were questions she had no intention of answering. He hoped she’d be more forthcoming when he found the courage to ask about his son. “Where are you headed?”

  She smoothed her dress over her lap. “Back to town.”

  “Is your husband waiting for you?”

  Sorrow darkened her features momentarily, then she shook her head. “No.”

  Was she a war widow? If so, had her husband been in the Confederate Army? That would explain why a woman from Massachusetts had been a nurse for the South. Creede crossed his wrists on the saddle horn, keeping his questions unasked. “If you don’t mind, I’ll ride along.”

  She turned to glance in the direction the outlaws had bolted. “Do you think they’ll return?”

  He shrugged, hiding the fla
re of protectiveness she engendered. He assured himself it was only because he wanted to keep her safe until he could talk to her about his son. “They skedaddled pretty fast, but it’s hard to tell. Besides, I’m going in the same direction as you, so it’s not out of my way.” He paused, his gaze probing to see past her cool composure. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

  Indecision chased across her flushed features, but when she met his eyes, there was no hint of hesitancy. “Thank you, Mr. Forrester, I accept your offer.”

  Relief eased the coil in his belly. “Would you like me to handle the mule?”

  “I’m fine.” She smoothed a gloved palm across a bag sitting on the seat beside her, as if whatever was inside was something precious.

  Without another word, Mrs. Covey stirred the mule into motion. Creede rode beside the wagon, close enough to engage the woman in conversation. However, by the set of her jaw, she didn’t seem inclined to talk. That suited him fine since he wasn’t certain how long he could stall his questions.

  Thirty minutes later the settlement, a haphazard collection of sun-faded wooden buildings, came into view. It wasn’t much different than a hundred other towns Creede had come through since leaving Texas.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked.

  “The Brand Hotel. It’s the only hotel in town.”

  He didn’t say anything more but merely continued to ride along until she stopped the mule in front of a livery. Creede dismounted and moved to the wagon. Lifting a hand to her, he waited while Mrs. Covey made her decision. Finally, she laid her hand in his hand and he held her slim fingers in his palm, grasping them snugly.

  Once down on the ground, she quickly pulled her hand back to her side. Creede didn’t blame her for being jumpy. From what he’d gathered, the two outlaws had wanted more than her money.

  She reached up to grasp the cloth bag sitting on the seat. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Forrester.”

  “Are you staying in town long?” he asked.

  “Not long. Why?” Suspicion colored her tone.

  “Would you be interested in having dinner with me?” Creede preferred to speak with her someplace more private than the livery.

  Laurel stared at him and opened her mouth as if to decline his invitation. But she seemed to reconsider and smiled slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Forrester. I’d like that.”

  Although he’d hoped she’d agree, he was surprised by her acceptance. “Does the hotel have a restaurant?”

  “Yes. Perhaps we can meet in the lobby at six?”

  “That would be fine, Mrs. Covey.”

  The woman took a step back. “Thank you again, Mr. Forrester. Until six.”

  Creede watched her walk to the hotel but his dark thoughts didn’t allow him to appreciate her womanly shape. In a few hours, he’d get the answers he’d ridden over a thousand miles to acquire.

  But would they be the answers he hoped to find?

  TWO

  As Laurel crossed the street, she could feel Mr. Forrester’s gaze upon her. However, she sensed no hint of malice in his scrutiny and her tense shoulders slumped with fatigue.

  She greeted the hotel desk clerk with a nod and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Once inside her room at the end of the hall, she placed her journal on the crude chest of drawers. Keeping her mind blank, she removed her bonnet and gloves and set them beside the book.

  The trembling started then, and she lowered herself to the narrow bed. Recognizing the delayed reaction as an aftereffect of the danger she’d faced didn’t help her gain control of her body’s response any quicker. The only thing she could do—as she’d told countless soldiers during the War—was ride out the tremors.

  She lifted her legs onto the bed and curled her knees into her chest. Sweat coated her brow and dampened her palms. She expected her mind to replay her brush with the outlaws, but instead she saw bloodstained wagons filled with wounded soldiers. During the War, it had been a rare day when no ambulance came to the hospital tent. And those days were usually spent nursing the soldiers and cleaning the tents, including the ones where the amputations were done.

  Laurel opened her eyes to stop the memories from gaining a firm foothold. She’d already experienced the reality once; she had no wish to relive those days. Thinking about the two ruffians was infinitely safer than letting her mind take flight on its own.

  Finally her shakes lessened and she straightened her stiff legs and rolled onto her back to stare at the water-stained ceiling. She took a deep breath to chase away the lingering pictures. She was alive and unharmed, and that should be all that mattered.

  Now able to think more clearly, she considered Mr. Creede Forrester. He’d saved her from being robbed and worse, yet she suspected there was more to his well-timed arrival than mere coincidence. Yet if he had his own nefarious reasons for chasing the thieves away, why did he escort her safely into town?

  She wiped her perspiration-coated brow. Perhaps she should simply be grateful that Mr. Forrester had crossed her path. She’d almost declined his invitation to dinner, but since she owed him a debt of gratitude she’d gone against her better judgment and agreed to meet him. Besides, it might be nice to eat a meal in the company of another human being. Ever since she’d begun her quest to deliver the soldiers’ last messages, she’d spent much of her time alone… or in the company of ghosts.

  The start of a headache throbbed through her temples. It wasn’t unexpected. After relaying a final message to a family, a headache would usually strike. She stood and dampened a cloth with some water from the pitcher, then lay back down and set the cool cloth on her forehead. She hoped the headache would be gone or severely lessened by dinnertime, or she would have to cancel her dinner engagement.

  Regretting her acceptance, Laurel hoped that would be the case, but a part of her—the young girl she had been—yearned to spend time with her handsome rescuer.

  * * *

  Creede nervously plucked at the string tie around his collar, not so much worried about how he looked but fearful of the answers only Mrs. Covey could give him. He sat in one of the worn overstuffed chairs in the hotel’s lobby. At one time the Brand Hotel probably outshone anything else in the small town, but now its finery was faded and moth-riddled. Its shabbiness was either a result of the War or time, or both.

  “Mr. Forrester?”

  Creede jumped to his feet, surprised he’d missed Mrs. Covey’s approach. “Ma’am.”

  She’d changed out of her simple skirt and blouse, and now wore a rust-colored dress with tiny green and yellow flowers sprinkled across it. No hat covered her head, and her golden-brown hair was gathered in a loose bun at the nape of her slender neck. Stray ringlets framed her face, softening her plain features.

  He offered her his arm and she slid her hand through the crook, allowing him to lead her to the dining area. Less than half the tables were occupied, and Creede escorted Mrs. Covey to one at the back of the room where he could observe the comings and goings of the patrons. It was a habit he thought he’d laid to rest years ago.

  After the waitress brought them coffee and took their orders, awkward silence fell between Creede and his dining companion.

  “So what brings you to Tennessee?” Mrs. Covey asked, obviously more concerned with breaking the uncomfortable impasse than the answer to her question.

  Creede stared down at his hand resting on the table. The time for answers had arrived. He raised his head and met Mrs. Covey’s steady gaze. “You.”

  Her lips formed an O but no words emerged. She closed her mouth and tried again. “Do I know you?”

  He shook his head and tried to find some moisture for his sand-dry mouth. “No, but you may have known my son.”

  Confusion vied with wariness in her expression. “Where did I meet him?”

  Creede’s gut knotted so tightly he had trouble drawing air into his lungs. “During the War, in your hospital.”

  Her brow furrowed and Creede could almost see her mind spinning. He knew the
moment she recognized the name by the way sympathy replaced her confusion.

  “Was your son’s name Austin?” she asked softly.

  Creede nodded as shivers swept through him. He fought the impulse to run, to hold onto hope for another minute, another hour.

  “I’m sorry. He was dead when they brought him in,” she said, her eyes filled with compassion.

  Denial rose in Creede, black and desperate. “Are you certain it was him?”

  “The ration card in his pocket had his name on it.” She leaned forward and laid her hand on his fisted one. “There was nothing anybody could’ve done for him.”

  Moisture burned in Creede’s eyes and the room swam in blurriness. The last fragile thread of hope was cut. Austin was dead. Gone to his mother, who’d been killed ten years ago. Now there was no one left—no wife or son—and the last seventeen years of Creede’s life were erased, as if they had never happened. Everything he’d built—a home, a prospering cotton farm, a new life—was for nothing.

  “Mr. Forrester, our food is here,” Mrs. Covey said.

  He blinked and absently watched the waitress set their plates on the table. Although his stomach protested even the smell of food, he forced himself to pick up his fork and put some potatoes in his mouth. They tasted like wood.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Covey asked, her own meal untouched.

  No. Nothing will ever be right again.

  “I’m fine,” he replied curtly. “You should eat before it gets cold.”

  She frowned but picked at her food. “Do you have other children?”

  “No.”

  “What about your wife?”

  Creede set his fork down and took a drink of coffee to cover the fresh anguish, the knowledge that his family was no more. “She died ten years ago.”

  “My husband is gone, too, so I know a little of what you’re feeling.”

  Anger slid like red-hot fire through his veins. “Is your only child dead, too?”

  Her face blanched but her gaze didn’t waver as she shook her head.

  “Then don’t tell me you know how I’m feeling,” he said in a low, raspy voice.