A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers) Read online

  Constance had kept in contact with her until the start of the War. With the country split in two, lines of communication between the North and the South were eliminated and few posts made it to their recipients. So even if Constance had sent her a letter, it would have become lost somewhere along the way.

  Laurel had considered sending a missive to her sister when the war ended, but so much had changed, including Laurel herself. Besides, their father might get angry with Constance for ignoring his edict. No, it was better to cut the family ties completely than be rebuffed again. The rejection wouldn’t hurt any less a second time.

  Dickens snorted, which was Laurel’s only warning before nearly being dragged out of the saddle by the mule’s abrupt stop. Jeanie halted and blew noisily.

  Laurel turned in her saddle to scold the mule and her mouth dropped open. Creede Forrester, unshaven and frayed around the edges, sat astride his horse with his hands braced against the saddle horn. For a split second, she didn’t recognize him and feared another incident like the one he’d interrupted yesterday.

  He dipped his head slightly. “Mrs. Covey.”

  Laurel snapped her mouth shut and glared at him. “Are you following me?”

  He removed his hat and raked a hand through his sweat-flattened dark hair. “My mama taught me to take care of womenfolk.”

  Anger surged through her. “As I told you already, Mr. Forrester, you don’t have to take care of me.”

  His gaze swept down her, lingering at her neck and legs, then returned to her face. Suddenly realizing her state of undress, Laurel blushed but indignation followed closely on the heels of her embarrassment. She had no intention of being even more miserable in the heat because Mr. Forrester intruded upon her. She’d treat him just as she treated Dickens—if he didn’t like what he saw, he needn’t look.

  He replaced his hat, throwing his grizzled features into shadow. “That may be so, Mrs. Covey, but seeing as how we’re both headed in the same direction, it makes sense to travel together.”

  “I thought you were going back to Texas.”

  “I am.”

  “Then your sense of direction leaves something to be desired.”

  His shoulders lifted in an indolent shrug. “I’ll get there sooner or later.”

  Frustration made Laurel tighten her grip on the reins. “Why do you insist on accompanying me?”

  “The hell if I know, ma’am.” There was a sardonic tilt to his lips. “Maybe I’m not as bright as I look.”

  Laurel bit her tongue. At the moment, he didn’t appear very bright at all. First drinking himself into a stupor, then following someone who clearly didn’t want company pointed to a man of little intelligence. However, the set of his jaw revealed a stubbornness that would do Dickens proud. “Fine. Suit yourself, Mr. Forrester, but don’t expect any stimulating conversation.”

  “That’s the last thing I want, Mrs. Covey.”

  She frowned, wondering if she’d been insulted. However, his wan complexion and bloodshot eyes explained his disinclination to converse. For a moment, she considered chatting only to irritate him, but realized she, too, had no desire to talk. She could only discuss the weather for so long, and anything beyond that was more than she cared to reveal to a virtual stranger. So, she’d say nothing at all, and after a few days, he’d grow bored in her silent company and leave her to travel alone once more.

  With her plan set, Laurel gave him a curt nod and turned forward. She tapped her heels to Jeanie’s sides and spoke over her shoulder to the mule. “Come on, Dickens.”

  She heard a rusty chuckle from her unwelcome companion and ignored him. What did she care what Creede Forrester thought of her mule’s name?

  What did she care about anything Creede Forrester might be thinking?

  Creede couldn’t help thinking he was a damned fool. Following a woman who didn’t want his protection, under a blazing sun that made his throbbing head want to explode, wasn’t exactly the smartest thing he’d ever done.

  Texas was hot, hotter than Tennessee, but the air seemed thicker up here, like he was breathing through heavy fog. His sweat didn’t go away, but soaked into his shirt and trousers, making the cloth stick to him like a second clammy skin.

  His only consolation was that Mrs. Covey seemed almost as miserable as he was. That was the only explanation he could come up with for her raised skirt hem and unbuttoned blouse. It’d been a long time since he’d seen a lady’s calves or the shadowy cleft between her breasts. Not that he thought of Mrs. Covey “that” way. Not with her stiff back and pursed schoolmarm mouth. But there were some things a man just couldn’t control—things that a finely curved leg or the pale slope of a breast did to him. Especially a man who’d not been in the company of a woman for too damned long.

  The setting sun brought only a small margin of relief from the heat. Shadows lengthened and birds started their evening chorus.

  Mrs. Covey veered her horse off the path and the mule followed without raising a ruckus. Creede stayed behind them, far enough back that the ornery mule couldn’t kick him. Dickens had already gotten his hooves too close for comfort more than once during the day. As far as he was concerned, the mule should be called Lucifer instead of being named after some writer.

  Minutes later Mrs. Covey stopped and slid out of her saddle. Creede eyed the clearing, impressed by her choice of a campsite. Maybe she acted and sounded like a city woman, but she appeared to have the common sense needed in the wilderness. But then, she’d been a Confederate nurse, too, and he suspected those living conditions had been much worse than out here.

  Creede dismounted and turned to the silent woman. “I can take care of your horse and mule, Mrs. Covey.” She didn’t appear to have heard him and he repeated, “I’ll take care of the horses and mule, ma’am.”

  She leaned close to the mule’s twitching ears. “Did you hear an irritating buzz, Dickens?”

  Creede listened closely, but couldn’t hear any insects, then cursed under his breath. She was obviously referring to him. If his mother had known Mrs. Covey, he doubted she would’ve been so determined to teach her sons to be protective of a woman. But his mother had, and even if he didn’t like Mrs. Covey, he couldn’t ignore a lifetime habit.

  “Fine,” Creede said. “It doesn’t change a thing.”

  He caught a glimpse of her down-turned lips and felt a measure of satisfaction. At least he’d gained a reaction from her.

  The evening passed uneventfully in thick silence. Mrs. Covey didn’t offer him any of her meal, so Creede ate a dry biscuit and some jerked meat. It was better than nothing, but not by much. After drinking some water from his canteen, Creede laid out his bedroll between the fire and the animals and settled in for the night. He closed his eyes and listened to the quiet rustle of Mrs. Covey’s clothing as she, too, retired for the evening. It wasn’t long before he heard her steady breathing from the other side of the dwindling campfire.

  Creede scowled at the stars. If he had any brains, he’d leave right now. Mrs. Covey obviously didn’t want his protection and her silent treatment told him she also didn’t want his company.

  Then the memory of his wife’s lifeless body and his son’s laughing face struck him. His gut clenched in anguish and he savagely wiped away the single tear that rolled down the side of his face. He’d killed them as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger himself. Leaving behind his life as a hired gun eighteen years ago hadn’t changed a damned thing.

  Mrs. Covey shifted restlessly and Creede turned on his side to gaze at her lumpy figure beneath the blanket. She had no one but her horse, her mule, and her damnable pride. If he had the sense God gave a jackass, he’d leave her to them.

  Suddenly his blanket was jerked away and he sat up, only to see Dickens toss it aside then grin with his big ugly teeth. Hell, even the mule wanted him to leave.

  But the memories of his mother, his wife, and his son demanded that he protect Mrs. Covey better than he’d protected them. And the only way he could
do that was to become the man he’d once been.

  Swearing under his breath, he stood and retrieved his bedroll. With the blanket in one hand, he stopped in front of the mule. “I’m not leaving.” Dickens laid back his ears and Creede glared at him. “I can out-stubborn you so don’t even try.”

  Creede lay back down, feeling a sense of satisfaction.

  “Do you feel better now, Mr. Forrester?”

  Mrs. Covey’s quiet voice startled him and he glanced at her, catching the flash of white teeth in the dim oval of her face.

  His face warmed. “I was just telling him how it is.”

  “Ah, I see.” But the humor in her voice said otherwise.

  With a grumble, Creede rolled over and closed his eyes. One thing was for certain—traveling to Texas with Mrs. Covey would prove he was more mule-headed than even a… a damned mule.

  Laurel awakened, feeling more tired than when she’d lain down last night. Her eyes gritty and her muscles stiff, she threw off her single blanket and rose. Pressing her palms to her lower back, she stretched.

  She dropped her arms to her sides and gazed at her unwanted traveling companion who continued to slumber. Resentment crested and waned in a matter of seconds. Although he was the reason for her lack of rest, she couldn’t blame him for his behavior. Grief made a man do strange things and Mr. Forrester had come face to face with the cold fact that his son was dead. A horrible burden for anyone to bear, especially when he bore it alone. Perhaps acting as her guardian gave him something to cling to, a reason to return to Texas.

  However, it didn’t make his presence any easier to tolerate. There were things about her she didn’t want him—or anyone else—to know. And it was the nights she feared the most. Nightmares were becoming as real as the earth beneath her feet, forcing her to consider that she might be afflicted with the same darkness that stole soldiers’ minds and hearts during the War.

  Shying away from that thought, she focused on her crude morning toilette then prepared breakfast. As coffee brewed, she checked on Jeanie and Dickens. Recalling how the mule had stolen Mr. Forrester’s blanket, she smiled and gave the animal’s rough coat an extra pat.

  “Were you planning on waking me or just riding out?”

  Startled, Laurel turned toward the man. She opened her mouth to reply then closed it, remembering her silent tactic. A tactic she’d forgotten last night, but seeing Mr. Forrester talk to Dickens had been too difficult to resist.

  He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his mussed hair. “I figured as much.”

  Laurel returned to the fire and poured herself a cup of coffee. Manners dictated that she ask Mr. Forrester if he wanted some, but she clamped her lips together. Manners be hanged. She wanted to be rid of him, not encourage him to stay.

  Glancing up, she spotted him shaving with a straight edge and using a small rectangular mirror hung crookedly from a tree branch. Four years disappeared and Laurel was once again a new bride to the dashing Robert Covey. Shaving a man in the hospital was simply another duty, but watching Robert shave was an intimacy from which she’d taken guilty pleasure. She’d longed to take the razor from his hand and perform the intimate act herself. The one time she’d suggested it had been her last.

  Depressed by the memory, Laurel returned to the present just as Mr. Forrester wiped his face with a rough-looking cloth. She had to admit he appeared almost civilized this morning. He’d even used a comb after sluicing water over his head.

  As he put away his shaving items, Laurel set her gaze on the steaming coffee in her hand. She listened to him approach and was surprised when he reached for the pot.

  “I’d ask for some, but I suspect you wouldn’t answer me so I’ll just help myself,” he said, pouring coffee into a tin cup.

  Laurel scowled at his presumption but didn’t offer an argument. She’d have to speak in order to do so.

  After she ate a handful of crackers, she readied Jeanie and Dickens. By the time she was prepared to leave, Mr. Forrester was sitting atop his own horse, his wrists crossed on his saddle horn as if he had all the time in the world. He hadn’t even offered to help her. Not that she would’ve taken him up on the offer, but it was the fact that he didn’t that galled her.

  Don’t be foolish, Laurel. You’re the one who doesn’t want him around.

  Angry with herself as much as him, Laurel adjusted her wide-brimmed hat and mounted Jeanie. After taking Dickens’s lead rope in hand, she returned to the road to continue her journey, all the while conscious of her so-called protector following in her wake.

  Throughout the day Mr. Forrester remained mute. Laurel should have been pleased, but found herself irritated by his continued silence. If he spoke she could ignore him. But as long as he was quiet, she couldn’t. However, his presence gave her mind a diversion from the messages she carried in her journal—both journals—and the pictures she carried in her memory. It was the only positive thing that came out of Mr. Forrester’s company.

  That evening after choosing a campsite, Laurel dug out her journal and the map, which had every destination circled. Those places she’d already left her messages had a black “X” through the circle. Sitting close to the fire for light, she counted each mark on the map. Sixteen circles with X’s in them, and five without—only a fourth left. It gave her a disconcerted, unsettled feeling.

  “What’s the next stop?” Mr. Forrester asked.

  “Fordingham,” she replied without thinking, then realized she’d acknowledged him. Lifting her head, she glared at him sitting cross-legged across the flickering fire. “Are you happy now?”

  A smug grin captured his lips. “Yep.”

  She shook her head but froze when she noticed the revolver in his hands. “What’s that?”

  He turned the gleaming weapon over in his hand. “I reckon you know.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “My saddlebag.”

  Irritated, she flicked her gaze to his gear, including the rifle propped against a nearby tree. “What of your rifle?”

  “It’s good for game, but poor for close fighting.”

  “Surely you don’t expect to shoot anyone.”

  Mr. Forrester continued to wipe the gun with an oiled rag. “I don’t expect anything, ma’am. But I do believe in being prepared.” He motioned to her journal with his chin. “What’s that?”

  Laurel pressed her palm to the cover. “Nothing that concerns you.”

  He shrugged. “Just curious is all.”

  She suddenly bit her tongue. What in the world was wrong with her? Why was she conversing with him?

  As if reading her mind, Mr. Forrester smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep that mouth of yours shut forever, ma’am. It’s just not natural for a woman to be so closemouthed.”

  Laurel wanted to scream her frustration, but choked it back. “Why do you insist on accompanying me when you’re clearly not wanted?”

  He sobered and studied her for a long moment. “What kind of man would I be if I didn’t stay with you?”

  Laurel didn’t know how to counter his quiet, straightforward reply. She wanted to argue, but there was a simple truth in his words that she couldn’t dispute.

  Mr. Forrester stood and slid his shiny revolver into a gunbelt he hadn’t been wearing when they met. The fire’s light gave him an ominous appearance, especially with the low-slung belt around his narrow hips. She shivered. She knew relatively nothing about him, save the fact that he was from Texas and his son Austin had died in the war.

  What kind of man would I be if I didn’t stay with you?

  But then, perhaps that was all she needed to know about him.

  A rustle in the brush caught her attention and Mr. Forrester became a blur of motion. Shocked by how quickly he’d drawn his revolver, Laurel didn’t know what she should be more afraid of—him or whoever was hiding in the brush.

  FOUR

  A pitiful meow broke the tense tableau and Creede released the air in his lungs with a gust. He s
lid the revolver back into its holster. Eighteen years of disuse had lessened his speed only slightly, and the gun butt still felt natural in his palm, like the return of an old friend. In fact, the gun felt too damned good in his hand.

  “Is this what you need your revolver for—to protect yourself from helpless cats?” Mrs. Covey asked, her voice a mixture of teasing and mockery.

  Creede swallowed back his embarrassment and kept his mouth shut. His vision adjusted to the dark and he could make out a gray blur with glowing eyes.

  “It could be hurt,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Cats had their place in keeping a home free of mice, but out here they were nothing but another feral animal. Creede placed his hand on his revolver. “I’ll put it down.”

  “Wait.”

  He frowned. “He’ll just as likely claw you as let you near him.”

  She looked up at him from where she knelt on the ground. “We won’t know until we try, will we?”

  Even in the evening’s dim light, he could see the spark in her eyes. He cursed under his breath, but she ignored him and stretched her hand out to the animal.

  “Come here, kitty. It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”

  Creede stifled an impatient sigh. It was Mrs. Covey who should worry about the cat hurting her. However, the woman seemed unafraid, or maybe unaware of the damage a feral cat could exact with its claws.

  The cat backed away with a low hiss, but Mrs. Covey kept coaxing it as she eased nearer.

  “Be careful. Don’t get too close,” he warned.

  The cat dashed back into the brush and Creede sighed in relief to have the animal gone. He expected Mrs. Covey to move back to the fire, but she remained still and silent.

  “Mrs. Covey.”

  No reaction.

  Creede leaned over and touched her shoulder. Mrs. Covey exploded into motion, crabbing backwards, away from him. Her eyes held a wild look, not unlike the cat’s.

  “Mrs. Covey. Laurel,” Creede said, holding up his hands.