A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers) Read online

  She drew back, as if slapped. “I apologize. You’re right. I’ll never know what losing a child feels like.”

  Her words, spoken with stiff civility, dissolved his fury. He rubbed his brow and sighed. “No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Covey. I had no call saying what I did.”

  “You had every right. Losing a child …” She cleared her throat. “I’ve seen other parents, felt their grief and anger at their loss. I wish I could’ve saved them—all those sons who died—but I couldn’t.”

  Creede roused himself from his own sorrow to recognize the regret and self-reproach in the former nurse. “I don’t know what it must’ve been like for you, Mrs. Covey, but I have fought battles, and in battles men die.” He cleared his throat. “Boys, too. It’s not your fault. You didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “No, I didn’t, but I also didn’t do anything to try to stop the bloodshed. Once the soldiers’ wounds were treated and they were able to walk, we sent them out into the carnage again.”

  Was that what had happened to Austin? The letter Creede received stated that his son had been injured. But by the time Creede arrived in Virginia, the War was over and Austin was dead. Had the doctors declared him fit for duty, then sent him back to the fighting, only to have him mortally wounded the next time?

  Mrs. Covey dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Now that you have the information you sought, Mr. Forrester, I will take my leave.”

  Creede glanced at her barely touched plate of food. “But you aren’t finished eating.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “Won’t you stay for a few more minutes?”

  “Why? It’s obvious you wanted more than I could give you regarding your son’s demise.” A hint of bitterness wove through her tone.

  Creede didn’t have an answer for her, only a wish not to be alone for a little while longer. “I like having someone to eat with.”

  She glanced down as pink tinted her cheeks. When she lifted her head, she nodded. “I’ll stay and finish my coffee.”

  Unexplained relief flowed through Creede. Even though Austin had been dead when he arrived at the hospital, Mrs. Covey had been one of the last persons to see him. That reason alone was enough to want to spend more time in the woman’s company.

  He picked up his fork, but set it down when he realized he, too, was no longer hungry. “How did your husband die?”

  Mrs. Covey rested both elbows on the table as she held her coffee cup between her slender hands—hands that had touched his son’s lifeless body. Creede forced his gaze back to her face.

  “Gettysburg. He was pierced with a saber,” she replied.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said, throwing his words back at him. Her gaze became unfocused. “He was an officer. It was his decision to fight.” She cleared her throat, but her expression remained collected. “And die.”

  “Nobody chooses to die.”

  Mrs. Covey’s attention returned to him and infinite sadness reflected in her eyes. “You’re wrong, Mr. Forrester. I knew men who chose death rather than live without an arm or a leg. They simply gave up and willed themselves to pass.”

  “It seems to me a man ought not to give up, that he should fight until the end.”

  “Those are easy words to say when you haven’t been in their position, Mr. Forrester.”

  Creede clenched his jaw, not certain if she was mocking him or merely stating a fact.

  “How did you find me?” Mrs. Covey suddenly asked.

  He leaned back in his chair, shrugging off his irritation. “I spoke with a doctor you worked with—James Lampley. Dr. Lampley told me you were visiting the families of some of the soldiers. He gave me some of the names of the towns you were traveling to.”

  “I wanted one person to know.” Then she added quietly, “One person who cared.”

  Mrs. Covey’s tone was lacking self-pity, which made Creede all the more sympathetic. He leaned forward. “What of your family? Didn’t they try to stop you?”

  “I have no family, Mr. Forrester.”

  She rose and Creede scrambled to his feet.

  “Thank you for your timely intervention this afternoon, Mr. Forrester,” she said. “I don’t want to think about what might have happened if you hadn’t arrived when you did.” Her voice was as steady as her gaze.

  “What about the next time?”

  She blinked, losing her composure for a moment. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a woman traveling alone. You’re inviting trouble.”

  Anger sparked her eyes. “I’ll be prepared next time. Goodnight, Mr. Forrester.” She spun around, but paused and said over her shoulder, “Thank you for dinner.”

  Creede scowled at her retreat. A strange combination of irritation, protectiveness, and admiration wound through him. However, underlying it all was bone-deep grief for his son and a vast emptiness where he could easily lose himself.

  Suddenly craving the oblivion only liquor could give him, he dropped some coins on the table for the meal. As he strode out of the hotel lobby, he ripped off his tie and stuffed it in his pocket. Where he was headed, he wouldn’t need it.

  Lanterns swayed in the breeze, casting obscene shadows across the stretchers bearing wounded soldiers. Laurel ignored the battle of dark against light and focused on her gruesome task. She knelt beside the first man and immediately recognized the damage from a saber. His right arm remained connected to the rest of his body by little more than a flap of skin.

  She called for someone to carry the wounded soldier to the amputation tent, which was far enough away to keep his screams muted from the rest of the crude hospital.

  “No, please don’t take my arm.” A tear rolled down the man’s cheek.

  Laurel leaned over him and beneath the blood and dirt, she recognized her husband. She fell back as a scream crawled up her throat…

  Suddenly Laurel awakened and stared wide-eyed into the darkness. Confusion clouded her mind as she tried to figure out why she wasn’t at the field hospital. Her husband … No, Robert was dead.

  She glanced around. Why am I standing in the hotel hallway? Heavy footsteps coming up the stairs roused her out of her bewilderment. She frantically cast her gaze about to find the door to her room, and fled to it as her thin nightgown flapped around her bare legs. Fortunately the door wasn’t locked and she scrambled inside, clicking it softly behind her.

  Leaning against the door, she panted in the thick, humid air. Sweat rolled down her face and chest, dampening the front of her gown.

  She awakened from nightmares often with a scream caught on her lips, but always before she’d been in her bed. Tonight, she had no memory of rising and walking out her door. What if someone had found her sleepwalking in the hall? They would think she was crazy.

  Of course, that wasn’t far from the truth.

  She slid to the floor and wrapped her arms around her drawn-up legs. Why had she dreamed of Robert’s death? She hadn’t even been at his side when he died. She’d been at the Richmond hospital because Robert hadn’t wanted her near the front lines. So while he lay dying, she’d been wearing her spotless, pressed nursing smock, tending men who would end up back in their units to fight—and maybe die—another day.

  Laying her cheek on her knees, she lost the strength to fight the memories. The familiar ghosts paraded through her mind. Some were missing an arm or a leg, a few were short two limbs, another’s eyes were gone, and still another had half his face burned away. She knew them all. She’d helped save their lives, only to have the gift of life spurned.

  Minutes passed until Laurel roused herself. She lifted her head, surprised to see her gown where she’d laid her face was damp with tears. She pushed herself to her feet and splashed some water on her hot face, then crawled back into her rumpled bed. If she were lucky she’d fall back asleep for a few more hours and not dream.

  Laurel was never that lucky.

  Standing in the livery’s open door, Creede squinted ag
ainst the low-hanging morning sun and tried to close his ears to the birds’ shrill songs. The problem with the morning—besides the fact it came too damned early—was he felt emptier now than he had last night.

  His stomach rolled and pitched and he pressed a hand to his belly to stave off another bout of vomiting. He didn’t know how there could be anything left in his gut. It was a good thing he’d decided to sleep in the livery instead of getting a room at the hotel—it would’ve been a waste of money. He couldn’t have staggered that far after polishing off the bottle of rotgut last night.

  Rubbing a hand over his grizzled cheeks and jaw, he decided to forego a shave. As much as he was shaking he’d probably slit his throat, which wouldn’t bother anyone except the livery owner who’d have to clean up the mess.

  Fresh grief welled up in him. Although he kept reminding himself that Austin was dead, his heart refused to accept it. He’d accepted his wife’s death because he’d seen her shot and held her in his arms while she’d died. But the last time Creede had seen his son was the night before he’d run away to join the Confederate Army. Sixteen-year-old Austin had been alive and whole … and intent on doing his share to preserve the South despite his father’s objections.

  Creede shook his head to clear his mind then wished he hadn’t. His head spun and his stomach followed. He managed to stave off the nausea by panting through his mouth.

  “Mr. Forrester?”

  The feminine voice startled him into opening his eyes. In front of him stood Mrs. Covey, dressed in a brown skirt and loose white blouse. A wide-brimmed hat covered her head and shaded her face, and her slender hands were encased in black gloves.

  Creede reached for the brim of his hat and realized he wasn’t wearing it. Glancing down at himself, he was relieved to see he was wearing trousers and a shirt. “Mornin’, Mrs. Covey. You’re up early.”

  She raised her head to study the slant of the sun. “It’s nearly nine o’clock. I would hardly call that early.” Bringing her gaze back to him, she frowned. “Are you all right?”

  Heat flushed Creede’s cheeks. It was one thing to get stinking drunk and nurse a hangover the next morning, but it was another to have someone notice his less-than-respectable condition. “I’m fine.” It was then he noticed she was carrying two bags and the same cloth sack she’d had yesterday. “You going somewhere?”

  Irritation flickered across her face. “Yes.” She brushed past him into the barn, calling, “Mr. Miller.”

  Creede followed, curiosity getting the better of him. She stopped in the center of the barn and the livery owner—Miller—joined her.

  “I’ll be leaving this morning,” Mrs. Covey told the big-bellied man wearing a pair of faded overalls.

  Miller mopped his round face with a yellowed handkerchief. “I’ll get your horse and mule ready, ma’am.” He trudged away to carry out his task.

  “I thought you had a wagon,” Creede said, leaning against a post to keep upright.

  “I rented it. I travel by horseback.”

  For some reason, that made Creede angrier. “For being such a smart woman, you sure don’t have any sense when it comes to traveling alone.”

  Mrs. Covey’s eyes flashed with indignation. “And I suppose it was sensible of you to drown yourself in cheap whiskey last night.”

  Creede’s face heated beneath her rebuke, knowing she was right, but damned if he’d admit it. “A woman riding alone is inviting trouble.”

  “I didn’t have any trouble getting from Virginia to Tennessee by myself.”

  Creede’s head pounded from his hangover, increasing his impatience. “You were damned lucky. Do you think those two men planned on only robbing you yesterday?”

  Her cheeks flamed but her stubborn chin didn’t waver. “No. They also said they were going to have some fun.” Her nostrils flared. “Which meant they planned to violate me, too.”

  Creede’s mouth gaped. He hadn’t expected such a blunt reply. “You’re willing to chance that happening again?”

  Shadows flitted in her eyes. “I have no choice.”

  “Yes, you do. You can go back home.”

  She straightened her backbone and her icy gaze nearly froze him. “My parents disowned me for marrying a Southerner. My husband’s parents despise me because I’m a Northerner. Pray tell, where is my home, Mr. Forrester?”

  At the best of times, Creede would’ve been hard-pressed to give her an answer. Having a hangover gave him no chance at all. “Go back to that doctor friend in Virginia.”

  “Dr. Lampley has no room for a widow in his home with a wife and four children. Or are you suggesting I insinuate myself as his mistress so he’d give me a place to live?”

  Creede flinched at her caustic tone. Damn it, he needed a drink.

  Miller, the liveryman, led a dun mare and a bony mule toward them and held the reins while Mrs. Covey strapped her bags to the mule’s frame pack. The cloth sack she slipped into one side of her saddlebag.

  Mrs. Covey took the horse’s reins and the mule’s rope from Miller. “Thank you.”

  “Have a safe trip, ma’am.” Miller turned to Creede. “Are you wantin’ your horse saddled, too?”

  “I can saddle my own damned horse,” Creede grumbled.

  Miller shrugged and wandered off.

  “There’s nothing you can do for your son, Mr. Forrester. Go back home to Texas,” Mrs. Covey said. Then she turned to mount her horse.

  Creede grabbed her arm. She spun around, her nostrils flaring.

  “I’m riding with you,” he stated.

  She jerked her arm out of his grasp. “In your condition, you’d be more of a hindrance than a help.”

  He couldn’t argue that, but the same protective instincts that had tried to safeguard his wife and son now rallied to protect Mrs. Covey. He didn’t understand, but he couldn’t ignore it either. “Dr. Lampley told me your last stop was somewhere in Texas, so since I’m going there anyway, we’ll ride together.”

  Mrs. Covey pressed her lips together then climbed up onto her horse’s saddle before Creede could protest. She adjusted the reins in her right hand and held the mule’s rope in the other. “I ride alone, Mr. Forrester. Good-bye.”

  She heeled her mare’s flanks and was out of the livery barn before Creede could stop her. But he’d noticed a flicker of something in her eyes, something that reminded him of that orphaned fawn.

  Angry at the memory and even angrier at himself for caring, Creede stomped over to Red’s stall and saddled his mare. Whether she wanted his company or not, Mrs. Covey was stuck with him.

  THREE

  Laurel was grateful Dickens didn’t balk as they left Chapel Crest—and Creede Forrester—behind.

  After six weeks together, Laurel and her two traveling companions had fallen into a familiar routine. Laurel settled into a comfortable slouch in the saddle and slackened the reins, allowing Jeanie, her dun-colored Kentucky Saddler, to travel at her own speed. Dickens plodded along behind, occasionally voicing his displeasure at something or other. The mule could be contrary when he wanted to be, which was more often than not, but he’d behaved like a gentleman this time.

  Unlike Mr. Forrester who appeared to have spent the previous night immersed in a bottle of cheap whiskey. It was also obvious he’d been sick this morning as his body tried to rid itself of the poison he’d ingested. Laurel’s husband had imbibed on occasion, but she’d never seen him drunk. The closest he’d come was when he’d been promoted to captain and even then he had stayed in control of his faculties. He’d slept in the spare bedroom rather than subject Laurel to his “baser nature.”

  A humorless smile tugged at Laurel’s lips. Oftentimes she thought it funny that Robert was so concerned about offending her sensibilities. She’d been trained as a nurse and was inured to those same bodily functions of which Robert had been so sensitive.

  However, Mr. Forrester appeared to have no compulsion about exposing his “baser nature” to women. Or maybe it was only she he felt no c
ompulsion to treat as a lady. She frowned. Although she held no fondness for him, that assumption bothered her.

  Laurel reminded herself it was doubtful she’d see Mr. Forrester again. He’d probably found a pile of straw to sleep off the rest of his drunk.

  Disappointment twinged her. For a few moments last evening Laurel had felt like a woman again. The last time she’d dined in a restaurant with a man was when Robert had taken her out to eat for their first anniversary, which had been a month before shots had been fired on Fort Sumter. Mr. Forrester’s attention had made her feel young and pretty again. But it had only been wishful thinking. The only reason he’d invited her to dinner was to learn of his son, another casualty of the conflict.

  Which was why he’d found comfort in a bottle of whiskey last night.

  Shaking aside her melancholy thoughts, Laurel patted the saddlebag that held her precious journal, assuring herself it was still there, then firmly directed her mind to her next destination. The town was situated at the far southwest corner of Tennessee. There Laurel would deliver another message.

  Although it was only midmorning, the sun already heralded another hot, sticky day. Now that she was some distance from town, Laurel unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse and rolled her long sleeves above her elbows. She debated ridding herself of the gloves but didn’t relish gaining a palm full of blisters from the reins and Dickens’s lead rope. After glancing around at her deserted surroundings, she defiantly tugged her skirt hems above her knees.

  Dickens brayed and Laurel stuck her tongue out at the mule. “If the sight of my legs bothers you, don’t look.”

  Dickens bared his teeth and shook his head.

  Laurel didn’t bother to retort. Dickens always got in the last word.

  In the lulling warmth of the sun Laurel thought back to her innocent years, when death was only a word and war a noble battle of good versus evil. She’d shared secrets with her older sister and spied on her younger brother. Constance had been her matron of honor when Laurel had married Robert. Lester had been attending his second year at Harvard but played hooky to be one of the groomsmen.