by Linda Broday
A sob broke the quiet, earning the smaller one a punch to the arm. The forlorn, wan eyes gave her heart a jolt.
“Where’s your mother?” she asked gently.
Again the same boy replied. “Back at the wagon. Maw’d skin us for sure if she knew we was here.”
“You must have an awfully good reason to disobey.”
“We’s hungry. Thought you might give us some scraps if you had a mind to feed the cats in the alley.”
Her stomach lurched. She caressed the tops of the tow heads. “I just happen to have some stew that someone must eat tonight or it’ll spoil. Think you might help me out?”
The light in exchanged glances flared in communication of a silent language. The boy spoke, “If’n it’s no bother, ma’am.”
Laurel’s chest swelled at the way their small palms fit naturally in hers. They pressed against her skirts when they neared Florence’s table.
“Don’t know what this world’s coming to,” Florence said an octave shy of a foghorn. “Can’t eat without sniveling brats.”
“I certainly believe feeding starved children will help make this a better place, Mrs. Kempshaw.” She led her charges and marched past with her head high. “Murphy, we have guests.”
“I see.” He caught on instantly and pulled out chairs. “Will you gentlemen honor me with your company?”
“You mean us? No one ever said that to us before.”
“They are now.” Murphy smiled brightly.
The smallest brother bit his lip to stop the tremble.
Florence huffed loudly. The spinster had evidently developed a nosebleed, judging from how high her nose stuck in the air. Bumping her shins on a table leg, she hobbled from the café.
Smothering a laugh, Laurel smoothed the apron to keep her hand from wandering to places that would worsen the ache.
“I’m Miss Laurel. Do you have names?”
“Edgar Lee Cole,” the more talkative one said, “and he’s Andy.”
“Glad to meet you, Andy and Edgar Lee Cole.” Murphy extended a hand.
Swiping his hand on a pant leg, Edgar Lee accepted it. Andy mimicked his brother before sliding his palm forward.
“I’ll get that stew we talked about. Don’t go anywhere.” Laurel flew to the kitchen and hurried back with steaming bowls and a loaf of bread. It must’ve appeared to them like manna from heaven. Andy rewarded her with the barest hint of a grin.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Edgar Lee punched his brother, who shoveled a bite into his mouth. “What’dya say?”
The small forehead wrinkled. Andy stared as though fearing she’d snatch the food from his mouth. “S-s-sorry. T-t-thanks, l-lady,” he stuttered.
Edgar dipped his spoon into the stew. “We ain’t got no money, but Maw says we’re rich if we mind our manners.”
Sudden mist clouded Laurel’s vision. A loving mother had taught these children important things—lessons that would remain for a lifetime despite meager subsistence.
“My goodness, I completely forgot your milk. And, Murphy, you haven’t ordered.”
* * *
Brodie rested against a hitching post in front of Jake’s barber shop. The vantage point provided a clear view. What he saw through the café window softened his war-toughened hide.
Two hungry, ragged boys.
The warm kindness of a special woman.
And a man who’d give most anything for a wife and children of his own.
Forty lashes with a bullwhip would’ve stung far less than did the memories. He blinked hard and finally lit the cheroot he’d toyed with for the last ten minutes.
The group inside could almost pose as a family of sorts.
He shifted the cheroot to the other side of his mouth.
Only two things wrong with the picture…the man was his brother and the charitable woman was spoken for.
All of a sudden he wanted to get closer, wanted to hear the conversation…
Wanted to be included.
Solitude weighed heavy on a man sometimes. Telling himself for the hundredth time that an outsider could never belong didn’t make the stars any brighter or the night less dark.
Brodie had vowed to stay clear of Laurel until the deadline with perfectly honorable intentions. But he just couldn’t.
Adjusting the angle of his hat, he sauntered toward the eating establishment. The hiss of rattles seemed in agreement with the decision. Smoke from the cheroot drifted in the breeze. He tossed the remains, grinding it with a worn boot heel.
Honorable intentions be damned.
Making a fool of himself twice in one day had to break a personal record. Still, the small building sorely in need of whitewash drew him.
He opened the door and stepped inside. A quick hush enveloped the room, reminding him his place was with creatures of the night. Not here.
Sudden panic clouded Laurel’s glance. He tried to ignore the twinges of guilt, tried to blame the loud clink of his spurs or the ghostly apparition that shadowed him for the tension-charged air.
“Brodie, join us.” Murphy scooted an empty chair.
Laurel’s gaze labeled him a bastard of the most dastardly sort, evidently assuming he came for no reason except to torment her.
Little did the lady know such affliction belonged solely to him. Some might say he owned prime acreage in the land of torment.
Agony knifed through him with the ease of a well-honed bayonet. A grievous error he’d made today. Strange to have forgotten how one drop of water to a dying man called for more until a thousand drinks couldn’t quench the parched tongue.
“I’m not sure there’s room. Don’t mean to intrude.”
“You’re not. I insist.”
Only a coward would back out now. Besides, he wanted to be there worse than any place else on earth. He dropped into the seat. “Did you pick up a pair of strays?”
Both ragamuffins stopped chewing, a bite freezing midway down the small one’s windpipe. Close up he could tell they’d not eaten in a month of Sundays. A striking resemblance to Murphy and him as boys drained his ability to make enough moisture to form spit.
“These are the Cole boys, Edgar Lee and Andy.” Murphy’s grin spread. “Don’t let my grouch of a brother scare you. Brodie is truly harmless.”
“You have a brother, too?”
Edgar Lee began the ritual, first brushing away the milk mustache on his sleeve, then wiping a hand on his pants before reaching. Brodie’s large grip might easily have crushed the small fingers were it not for the special care he took. An aching hole in his chest made words impossible.
Edgar Lee nudged Andy, silently insisting his brother follow his example. Watching them, the years turned like yellowed, dust-covered pages.
“Where are your folks?” A gruff tone had sneaked into Brodie’s voice.
Tears swam in Edgar Lee’s brown eyes. “Paw took real bad sick. Maw said the angels came an’ flew him to heaven. We buried him under a pine tree. Reckon I’m head o’ the family now. Leastways that’s what Maw says.”
“A bit young to be saddled with that, aren’t you, son?”
Edgar Lee pulled up straight, sucking in his breath. “Almost eight. Plenty big to see about things.”
“Where’s your maw now?” It became imperative that Brodie know.
“We’s camped down by the water. Ain’t bothering no one.”
Silent up to now, Andy found his voice. “W-w-wagon broke.”
“Shh. Maw says we gotta be careful. Folks don’t wanna hear about our troubles.”
“That might apply to some, I suppose, but not us.” Laurel’s soft reply interrupted Brodie’s concentration.
“What happened to your wagon?” Murphy asked.
“Busted wheel. Maw says the Lord’ll provide though.”
With a little eart
hly help, Brodie decided.
“Did you come to eat, Mr. Yates?” Laurel’s throaty voice broke his train of thought all to hell. And worse, it fanned a tiny sputtering flame…one last flicker he had a devil of a time stomping out.
“I’ve already partaken, thanks anyway.”
Riveting his attention on her middle section seemed safest while he fought the overwhelming desire that left deep ruts all the way down to the holes in his socks.
“I swear, you and Murphy come to a café and don’t eat a blessed thing.” She threw up her hands. “Think of our reputation.”
Murphy looked sheepish. “I’ll take some coffee and pie.”
“A fine example you set for these children, asking for nothing more substantial than dessert.”
“When Ollie spent a good hour this morning raving about your cherry cobbler? It’d make any grown man’s mouth water.”
His brother’s tender gaze didn’t escape Brodie. Or the fingers brushing Laurel at the slightest opportunity.
She’s just what he needs.
Remembrance of her lips, the pliable curves that perfectly fit, sent crushing pain into his heart.
“I could squeeze in some as well, if you don’t mind,” he said quietly after the noise in his head dulled.
Quick annoyance didn’t surprise him. Brodie rewarded the flash with a ghost of a smile and a tilt of an eyebrow.
Georgia clay, she was a sight when riled.
Laurel returned with a round of cobbler for them all. He could’ve imagined the little extra shove she gave his plate, but he didn’t believe so. His coffee cup shielded a wayward grin.
She fluttered over the children like a mother hen with baby chicks. She had a certain knack, he had to admit. But before she had children of her own, she’d have to become a wife.
It was his duty to make sure it wasn’t to the wrong man.
“Ollie should be here.” The brilliant beam caught his breath. “She has a soft spot for ones down on their luck.”
“I realized I missed something. Where is the feisty watchdog?” Murphy sipped on the hot liquid. “Generally she hovers over you, growling whenever I come within a mile.”
Laurel whispered, “Over at the saloon.”
“Never thought she’d wear out her heels on a brass rail.”
“Although Ollie imbibes more than she wishes me to know, I’m quite positive her interest runs in a different direction these days.”
“You don’t say.” Murphy’s fork paused in mid-air. “Curley Madison, the owner?”
Amethyst eyes twinkled, releasing tiny ripples across his heartstrings. Brodie paid no heed to the conversation. The vibrant beauty absorbed him completely. Although, being near would have to suffice. And unless providence took a sharp right at the next bend in the road, it’d stay that way.
“Curley, that old scamp.”
“Don’t let her get wind I told you.” Lilting humor colored Laurel’s admonition.
Brodie thanked the good Lord he’d had sense enough to bust into the party. He soaked up her nearness. Laurel captivated his attention so thoroughly he almost missed Edgar Lee’s furtive movement.
The small fingers slid a button through the hole of his shirt to allow the barest of openings before pushing something inside.
Eight
Brodie grasped Edgar Lee’s wrist. “Not trying to steal anything, are you, boy?”
“N-no, sir.” The child’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His big eyes resembled a snagged catfish. “It’s only a little bit. Didn’t think anyone would miss it.”
Edgar Lee drew out his hand. In his clenched fist he held a piece of bread.
“For Maw and Sissie. I’m the man o’ the family now. That means I gotta feed ’em. I just gotta, mister.”
The plea doused Brodie like a bucket of ice water. He and the boy were kindred spirits, each doing what they must to provide for and protect the ones they loved. Before Aunt Lucy took them in, he’d done whatever it took for his abandoned mother and Murphy. Only it had never been enough. Not ever. His puny efforts hadn’t stopped his mother from taking her life, and it darn sure hadn’t protected his kid brother when he most needed it.
“You can have all of it you need,” Laurel said.
Murphy cleared his throat. “We’ll see that your mother and anyone else back at the wagon doesn’t starve. That’s a fact.”
“Maw says we cain’t take no charity. Ain’t right.” The quivering chin dropped to his chest. Shame over stealing waged war against necessity. Brodie kicked himself for even saying anything.
“Call it a gift—an early Christmas present.” Laurel stroked the small proud back. “I’ll dish up the rest of that stew and cobbler to take with you. Also, I’ve another loaf of bread that’ll mold if someone doesn’t take pity. It sure would do me a favor. I told Ollie this morning we shouldn’t make so many loaves of bread.”
Her whispery breath mingled the past and present, blurring the lines between. Everything Brodie had previously known had changed. This Lil was a stranger, and the prospect of discovery excited him. He knew he’d savor every inch of the journey.
Even if it remained limited in duration.
The dress swished around trim ankles. She moved like a quiet storm. No thunder or lightning, just efficient steady strength toward completing the task. He rubbed his jaw. Her quiet calm deceived a man at first, leading some to take her for some weak, rainwater woman. Brother, were they ever wrong. The depth of passion he’d sampled earlier had shaken him in ways he still tried to sort out. No storm gauge on earth could measure such wanton abandon or warm generosity.
The small brothers’ mouths flew open when she returned with loaded arms. “For us?” Edgar Lee asked in amazement.
“I don’t see any other little men in here.”
“T-t-thanks, lady.” Andy ducked his head.
Scooting from the chair, Edgar Lee hugged her waist. Laurel dabbed at tears trickling down his face.
Brodie was struck to discover a rush of wetness swimming in Laurel’s beautiful violet gaze when she looked up. This was genuine caring. A person couldn’t fake that. Maybe she had turned over a new leaf.
Except she was determined to marry the wrong man.
After the kiss that seared his brain, he had to prevent a tragic mistake. The lady couldn’t possibly love another man. Not when Brodie loved her with every inch of his being.
He halted Murphy, who had pushed back his chair. “I’ll take them back to camp. You stay.”
“Appreciate it. Seems Laurel and I never get enough time alone. Besides, she has something of importance to discuss.”
Laurel flashed Brodie a glittering stare that seemed to promise that tonight she’d do the deed and end the suspense.
And once she did?
A possibility chilled his bones. It occurred to him he could fail to convince her to spend the rest of her days with him.
Lord help him, for he would never get her out of his blood.
Brodie intentionally brushed her in transferring the load, relishing the feel of satiny skin. The contact sent a charged pulse that left a strange heat careening through him.
* * *
Spit and thunder.
Laurel jammed both fists into her apron, surprised they didn’t poke out the bottom of the pockets.
The devil take those rebel grays that infuriated, bewildered, and enticed. She’d never been so relieved to see anyone go.
He’d be back though to give her another dose of Brodie charm.
Waves of weakness fluttered. Endurance had limits.
Murphy enfolded her in the circle of his arms. She leaned into him, wishing someone else nibbled along her neck. She wearied of fighting the love she wished to claim.
Your body betrays you. It remembers a lover’s touch.
The taunt clanged like a
death knell in her head. Although despising herself for owning the truth, she couldn’t deny it.
Her fiancé brought pleasant, peaceful moments, whereas Brodie charged each fiber with heightened awareness the instant he entered a room. And while Murphy was a bite of fresh-baked bread, Brodie offered the entire meal—plus dessert thrown in.
Marrying Murphy would be a disservice. Not because she wished to spare him ruin, or out of shame for who she was, but because she must have all or nothing. No half measures.
Not even to satisfy the craving for respect.
Laurel faced her future squarely. “You’re going to hate what I have to tell you. I can’t—”
Halfway through the chore, the door flew open. “Girl, I brought someone to meet you. Good, I see Murphy’s here.”
Ollie propelled a large man forward. The light of a woman in love graced her face. Since arriving in Redemption, Laurel never had occasion to cross paths with the owner of the Dry Gulch Saloon until now.
“Don’t tell me. Curley Madison?”
A warm blush colored not only the man’s face, but painted the bald head as well. He took her hand.
“It’s truly a pleasure, Miss Laurel.”
“Yep, shore as shootin’ is. I told him all about you.”
Laurel gulped in sudden panic. “You did?”
“Don’t worry, only the good parts,” Ollie said. “You already know our fine mayor, who is set to wed Laurel any day now.”
The saloon owner grinned. “We’ve debated the finer points of the subject a time or two.”
“Indeed we have, Curley my man.” Murphy clapped him on his back.
“Most likely sold you that panther piss he calls beer.”
Laurel envied Ollie’s twinkling, mischievous eyes.
“Panther piss, huh? Just wait until next time,” Curley warned.
The swap of insults with Ollie brought to mind Frenchie Devereaux, cardsharp extraordinaire of the Mississippi. The gambler frequented the Black Garter and became adept at diverting Will Taft’s anger. Laurel figured she owed Frenchie her life. More than once the woman’s interference had spared her. Curley Madison would do the same for those he doted on.
