A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers)

by McKade, Maureen

  Creede wrapped an arm around her waist and helped her into their room and to the bed. She lay down and closed her eyes, but reopened them immediately when colors spun behind her eyelids.

  She hated her malady, and she saw with terror that her mind, which had once been so sharp, was slowly being destroyed. And she hated that Creede was witnessing her decline.

  Creede laid a cool, damp cloth on her brow. “I can’t understand how a mother could feel that way about her son.”

  “She blames him for her being alone. No one likes having nobody to care for them.”

  “Who cares for you, Laurel?”

  His husky voice caressed her, sending a shiver down her spine. She gazed into his eyes and floundered in their compassionate depths. Her pain made her reply less guarded than usual. “You do.”

  A slow smile curled his lips. “Is there anyone else?”

  Unable to lie, even by omission, she shook her head. “No.”

  He rested his palm against the side of her face and brushed her cheek with his thumb. There was sadness in his expression. “You cared for so many during the War.”

  His gentle touch soothed her headache, bringing it down to a tolerable thudding. “But they all died anyway.”

  His thumb stilled for a moment, then he continued stroking her face. “Not all of them. What about those you saved?”

  “Too few. More died.”

  “That wasn’t your fault.”

  They were back to that. He couldn’t understand why she took responsibility for those who died just as he would never know what it was like to determine who lived and who didn’t.

  “Is Seb still asleep?” she asked, changing the subject.

  He glanced at the boy. “Yes. He was tuckered out. You should sleep, too. I’ll wake you when it’s time to eat.”

  Although the thought of food made her queasy, she nodded and closed her eyes. A moment later, the mattress shifted and Creede settled beside her. He gathered her in his arms and she didn’t possess the will to fight him. Besides, lying in his embrace was the only place she truly felt like the woman she had been before the War.

  He kissed her crown and laid his chin on the top of her head. “I’ll be right here.”

  Laurel curled into him, her forehead pressed against his chest. She savored his masculine scent and the security of his arms. For the first time in months, she might sleep without ghosts visiting her.

  The following morning Creede and Seb walked down to the livery to gather the horses and Dickens. Seb wore the new trousers and shirt they’d bought for him earlier, but he refused to wear shoes. After having been barefoot most of his life, forcing him to wear shoes would seem like a punishment.

  Bill sat outside the livery, his chair tipped back on two legs and leaning against the barn. He sipped coffee from a tin cup as he observed the town’s lackluster activity. When he spotted Creede, he let the chair legs thump to the ground and stood. “Reckon you’re headin’ out.”

  “That’s right,” Creede said. “Robbie around?”

  Bill shrugged. “Ain’t seen him this mornin’.”

  Creede had wanted to apologize to the younger man, although he still believed Robbie should’ve been grateful to be alive. But if the young man was determined to be bitter, Creede couldn’t do anything to change his mind. Shrugging to himself, he followed the liveryman into the barn.

  Seb tagged along and while Creede and Bill saddled the two horses, the boy brushed Dickens’s mangy coat.

  “Get what ya needed done?” Bill asked Creede.

  “Laurel did.” He leaned against his mare’s broad side. “Mrs. Smith’s a bitter woman.”

  “She ain’t the only one. Hard on the womenfolk left behind.”

  Creede thought of Laurel and how she, too, was a widow because of the War. Yet she wasn’t bitter. Instead, she seemed driven—driven to deliver the words uttered by dying soldiers. What would drive her when all the messages were delivered?

  Troubled, Creede placed the packframe on Dickens. He was conscious of Seb talking softly to the mule and was surprised to see Dickens appeared to be listening. It seemed the stubborn jackass actually liked someone.

  Creede attached the lead rope to the mule’s halter and handed it to Seb. “You mind walking Dickens to the rooming house?”

  “No, sir,” Seb said, smiling widely.

  Creede exchanged a firm handshake with Bill. “When you see Robbie, tell him I’m sorry about what happened.”

  “I’ll tell ’im, but it won’t make no never mind. Boy makes himself miserable.”

  “Guess nobody can change how he feels but it’s a damned shame.”

  Bill shrugged. “I’ll keep workin’ on him.”

  Creede managed a smile.

  Just as he and Seb were leaving the livery with the animals in tow, the cat bounced out after them. Delighted, Seb bent down to pet the stray.

  “Is he gonna come with us?” Seb asked.

  “I don’t think we can stop him,” Creede replied with a rueful grin. He lifted the cat onto its customary place on Dickens’s back and the stray curled up into a ball.

  They left the animals at the rooming house hitching post and went inside to get Laurel. Creede’s heart quickened as he remembered what she’d looked like that morning. With her hair tousled and her face flushed, she’d given him a smile that had gone straight south of his belt buckle. He’d slept on the floor overnight, although sleep had been scarce. Her soft breathing and the memory of holding her yesterday while she’d napped had kept him hard and aching. The temptation to join her on the bed under the cover of darkness had nearly overwhelmed him, but having Seb in the room helped curtail his passion.

  Shaking the enticing thoughts away, Creede led Seb down the hall to their room. Laurel opened the door just as they were approaching. She glanced up, startled, and quickly looked away.

  “This is everything,” she said.

  Creede took her two bags and Seb carried one of the saddlebags, leaving Laurel with the other.

  “Did you tell Mrs. Smith we were leaving?” Creede asked.

  Laurel shook her head. “I’m sure she knows.” She smiled at Seb. “We’ll find a home for you. Don’t you worry.”

  “I ain’t worried, Miz Laurel,” he said with all the bravado of a young boy. “I knows how to take care of myself.”

  She sighed and ruffled his tight curls. “It won’t come to that, Seb. I promise.”

  The boy didn’t appear convinced. It would take a lot longer than two days and Laurel’s word to get him to believe.

  They left Rounder and traveled throughout the day, speaking little and giving the animals a rest every few hours. Laurel had told Creede their next destination—a town in Arkansas—and had an approximate location on the map she carried. As they drew closer, they would get better directions from folks in the area.

  That night when they made camp, Laurel cooked supper from the supplies they’d bought in Rounder. Seb ate quickly, as if afraid the food would be stolen before he could finish. Laurel offered him more, and he eagerly accepted, wolfing it down as fast as he had the first helping. Her heart went out to the waif and she couldn’t help but wonder what his life had been like. He’d never volunteered any information and she hadn’t asked. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t wanted to face any more harsh truths—a coward’s way of seeing the world.

  “What did you do when you were a slave?” she asked the boy.

  Startled, he set his empty plate down and shrugged. “What they tol’ me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Cleanin’ the barn, hoein’ the garden, gatherin’ nuts, and pickin’ apples.” Another shrug. “Done whatever needed doin’.”

  “Did you have to do things you didn’t like?”

  Seb squirmed. “Didn’t matter. Had to do what they tol’ me.”

  She glanced at Creede, who frowned at her, obviously disliking her interrogation of the boy. Laurel herself wasn’t certain why she needed to know.

&nb
sp; “Why don’t you get some sleep, Seb?” Creede suggested.

  Seb eagerly moved to the blanket they’d bought for him along with the clothes.

  “Do you think we’ll find him a home?” Laurel asked, troubled by her growing affection for the boy.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “I doubt you’ll find a white family who’ll take him in, and those who used to be slaves have enough trouble finding food without adding another mouth.”

  “I’m afraid you’re probably right.” Although her goal was to find him a home, a part of her wanted to care for him herself. But if she’d learned one thing during the War, it was that she couldn’t let herself care, or she wouldn’t survive.

  “He could stay with you,” Creede said.

  “No!” Her explosive answer shocked her as much as Creede. “No,” she repeated more calmly. “I don’t have a place to live and I won’t do that to a young boy. He needs some place stable, a home with other children.”

  “Someone who’ll care for him,” Creede interjected.

  She hated that he could read her so easily, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how close his comments struck. “That’s right.” She gave her attention to the task of washing their dishes.

  Thankfully, Creede allowed the subject to drop. How could she explain what she was feeling when she was so confused about everything herself?

  SIXTEEN

  The following day, with the sun high, Creede led them off the road to a burbling creek. It was so clear they could see the rocks below. Laurel and Seb dismounted and allowed Dickens and Jeanie to drink their fill. Once they seemed satisfied, she had Seb ground-tie them next to Creede’s horse so the animals could forage in the knee-high green grass. Taking her canteens, she refilled them from the shallow brook. She gave one to the boy and urged him to drink, and kept the other one with her, its strap looped over her shoulder.

  She and Seb joined Creede, who gave them each a piece of dried meat. With only a slight wrinkle of her nose, she accepted it and leaned against a nearby tree. She noticed Seb seemed more than happy for the food, and guilt assailed her. She should be grateful for what they had instead of irritated about what they did not.

  She waved her free hand in front of her face, dispersing a cloud of gnats. She froze for a moment, remembering the episode at the Gaddsen’s cabin when she’d been so certain her hand was covered with blood. If Creede hadn’t stopped her, who knew how badly she would’ve hurt herself trying to remove a stain that wasn’t there. That incident was just another reminder that she had little time to spare in delivering the last two messages.

  She bit off a piece of the tough, salty meat and chewed until it was soft enough to chase down with a long draw from her canteen. The sun’s heat and the steady drone of insects made her eyelids grow heavy. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to fall asleep and not wake up. No more nightmares and no more too-real memories. But then she thought of Creede and all he’d lost. She couldn’t imagine him giving up without a fight. Yet how long should a person have to fight?

  Creede suddenly tensed. “We’ve got company.”

  She followed his line of sight and spotted a group of a half dozen former slaves by the looks of their ragged clothing and bare, dusty feet. There was a man and a woman, and four children ranging in age from perhaps six to twelve. Each of them carried a rope slung across his or her chest that was tied to a rolled-up blanket.

  Laurel looked over at Seb, who watched them with suspicion glinting in his coal black eyes.

  “What should we do?” she asked Creede in a low voice.

  “With children, I doubt they’re looking for trouble. They probably just want some water.”

  Laurel stepped away from the tree and went to stand beside Seb, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Howdy,” Creede greeted the family.

  The tall black man nodded suspiciously. He had an expansive chest and large, work-roughened hands. A black beard covered the lower half of his face except for where a puckered scar cut from the left corner of his mouth to his jaw. The woman was about Laurel’s height but thinner, almost to the point of emaciation, but her gaze was direct and her chin raised. The children huddled together, but their gazes kept shifting to Seb.

  “We just come to get some water,” the man said, his voice a deep rumble.

  “Help yourselves,” Creede said, motioning to the creek. “We were just getting ready to leave.”

  “Go on, now.” The woman waved her arms, urging the children to the water. “Drink up.”

  Laurel watched them do as they were told. One of the middle ones, a girl, limped and her teeth were clenched together.

  “What happened to her?” Laurel asked the woman as she motioned to the girl.

  “Cut herself on a rock a coupla days ago,” she replied curtly. “She be fine.”

  “Would you mind if I looked at her foot?”

  Both the man and woman stared at her, their gazes shifting to Seb and growing more wary. Laurel didn’t blame them for being distrustful. She had a feeling folks didn’t look too kindly on former slaves in this part of the country. They were a reminder of all the South had lost.

  “This is Seb,” she introduced. “He’s been traveling with us for a few days now. He said he doesn’t have any family.”

  “That true?” the big man asked Seb.

  The boy nodded. “They been good to me. Said I didn’t have to stay iffen I don’ want to.”

  The man and woman studied him for a moment, then they relaxed slightly.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to look at your daughter’s foot. I’m a nurse,” Laurel said.

  “Ada,” the woman called. The girl turned toward them, water dripping from her face and cupped hands. “Let the lady look at yer foot.”

  Ada’s enormous brown eyes telegraphed her mistrust, but she sat back on the bank, pulling her simple flour-sack shift down over her knobby knees. Numerous scratches covered her thin legs, telling Laurel they’d traveled a fair number of miles.

  “My name’s Laurel and I just want to examine that cut to make sure it’s healing. Is that all right?”

  The girl, who was probably the same age as Seb, nodded slowly. “Yes, Miz Laurel.”

  Laurel checked her foot, cleaning it first in the cool running water. The cut wasn’t long but it was deep, and the skin around it was reddish and warm.

  “Seb, could you get my saddlebag?” she asked.

  The boy bounded over to Jeanie and stood on his tiptoes to retrieve it. He brought it back to Laurel.

  “Thank you, Seb.” She dug some things out and held up a bottle and a roll of bandages for Ada and her parents to see. “I’m going to clean the cut then wrap your foot so it doesn’t get dirty. All right?”

  Ada glanced at her mother, who nodded, and said to Laurel, “Yes, ma’am.”

  As Laurel worked, she listened to Creede speak with the girl’s father.

  “Name’s Creede Forrester,” he said.

  “I’m Ezekial Wollings, and this is Sarie Wollings.” He motioned to the woman.

  “Where you from?”

  Ezekial motioned to the southeast. “Thataways. We was slaves for Mr. Wollings.” He pressed back his shoulders. “Now we’s free.”

  Laurel was startled to hear that they’d taken the last name of their previous owner. Of course, it made sense since most slaves didn’t have one of their own.

  “Where you headed?” Creede asked.

  The ex-slave’s expression fell. “Lookin’ for work. Mr. Wollings couldn’t keep us all on as hired help.”

  “You would’ve stayed working for him?”

  Ezekial shrugged. “He never beat us and we always had enough to eat, until the last, that is. But that weren’t his fault. I ain’t sorry we’re free but we don’t got no place to go. Thought we’d head north and hope we find somethin’.”

  “Don’t you fret about us, Mr. Forrester. We get by,” the woman said proudly.

  Just ba
rely, Laurel thought with more than a twinge of sympathy. These were only six ex-slaves, plus Seb. How many more were there who didn’t have a roof over their heads or food to eat? After the South’s battering, it was going to take a long time for the former slaves to find paying jobs.

  She finished bandaging Ada’s foot. “I’m all done.”

  The girl scrambled up and after testing the injured foot, she smiled shyly. “Thank you, Miz Laurel.”

  “You’re welcome, Ada. Now you be careful and make sure to wash it every day, you hear?”

  “Yes’m.” She joined her siblings who had gathered around Dickens.

  Laurel opened her mouth to warn the children to be careful, but she abruptly closed it. Seb was in the middle of the group, watching them closely even as he told them about “his” mule. She smiled, enjoying the pride in the boy’s voice.

  Creede extended her a hand and, after a moment of surprised hesitation, Laurel took it and he pulled her to her feet. The warmth and strength of his grasp stirred Laurel’s suppressed desire and she reluctantly released him.

  Ezekial and Sarie had moved some distance away to slake their thirsts from the stream.

  “How’s her foot?” Creede asked.

  “There was some swelling and heat around the cut. It might’ve taken care of itself or it might’ve gone septic.” She shrugged. “But I think it’ll be fine. I have to tell her mother to make sure it’s cleaned every day.”

  “She already knows,” Creede said. “She was listening to every word you said.”

  Laurel wasn’t surprised. Sarie Wollings had been watching her like a hawk, making Laurel wonder if they’d already had some bad encounters with white folks.

  Dickens brayed and Laurel turned to see the mule being petted by five pairs of young hands. His ears were up and he stood calmly, with more tolerance than Laurel had seen since he’d pulled the ambulance wagons. His back quarters swayed back and forth under the children’s rubbing, eliciting laughter from the youngsters.

  Ezekial returned to stand by Creede and Laurel. “Thank you for takin’ care of Ada’s foot.” He shuffled his feet. “We ain’t got nothin’ to pay ya—”