by Linda Broday
“Now, sugar, I wasn’t aiming to rile you,” Ollie wheedled.
“I took it the way you offered—straight up and down the gullet.” Curley’s smile bypassed his lips to settle in the sparkling gaze. He turned to Laurel. “After finally meeting you, I’m certain I’m in the presence of an angel. Flip that coin over, and my Ollie’s more ornery than a buffalo gnat.”
The petite woman threw back her head and cackled. “Orneriness is my calling, you big whiskey-pusher. Without some backbone, I’d be dead and buried.” A sudden kiss planted on the man’s cheek sent a new wave of redness upward.
“Why, darlin’, if you don’t say the prettiest things. Reminds me of a bald-faced heifer I once had on the farm.”
Laurel gave the man whose height must equal the width of his round frame a vote of approval. Whoever named him must’ve needed spectacles because not one sprig of hair dotted the landscape. A fly would break his neck landing up there. She’d learned not to judge a body by the meat on their bones or the amount of hair they did or didn’t possess though. Ollie deserved happiness.
“Goldarned old coot. My grandpappy warned how a body gets plain mean when most of the sand in their hourglass settles to the afternoon side. And by daisy, if he wasn’t right.”
“Bear that in mind when I turn you six ways to Sunday.”
“Now, Curley, no call to get ugly.” Ollie patted his arm. “And just think, I was becoming real partial to you.”
“If you lovebirds need some privacy, Murphy and I can scoot.” Truth of the matter was Laurel welcomed the interruption, although delaying the talk attacked her nerves from every angle.
“We hate to interfere with your courting,” Murphy seconded.
“Shoot, boy, just speak up if we’re boring you. Thought you might take a gander at someone you’ll see a lot of, Laurel girl. Besides, we’re gonna help clean up the café.”
“We have all night for the pleasurable stuff.” Curley began gathering plates off a table. “I know how much elbow grease it takes to run a saloon. This café takes twice that, ma’am.”
“Ma’am belongs to a prim schoolmarm. I’m plain Laurel.”
“Don’t know about you, Curley, but there’s nothing plain about Laurel.” Murphy draped an arm around her shoulders. “After the last hour I’ll never look at her in quite the same way again.”
“What’s this?” Ollie’s ears perked up.
Laurel took the opportunity to slide from Murphy’s arm. “Not much, really. Just a couple of starved boys.”
While Ollie and Curley cleaned and tidied the café, she told them about Edgar Lee and Andy Cole.
“You would’ve burst with pride. I glimpsed a side of Laurel I never knew.” Wonder lightened Murphy’s stare.
“Our girl is quite a lady,” Ollie agreed. “But I always saw the compassionate, loving side of her.”
“She’ll make a wonderful mother for our children.”
“All right now, you’re doing it again. Quit talking like I’m a million miles away. I didn’t do a bit more than any other decent human being would’ve done,” Laurel protested.
Darn Murphy. She couldn’t take much more of the adoration and talk of mothering his children.
And damn this attraction for his brother.
* * *
Brodie approached the dying campfire with caution. A weary female, probably far younger than her stooped shoulders suggested, stole from around a tilting wagon. She pointed an old musket at him.
“State your business, mister.”
“I mean no harm.”
The boys slid from Brodie’s horse to the ground.
“Maw, wait’ll you see what we brung.” Edgar Lee’s excitement drowned the whispering gentle breeze off the bayou.
Though still leery, she propped the weapon within reach against the shadowy side of a tree.
“Child, I oughta switch you good for running off like that. You too, Andy, for tagging after your brother. Where you been?”
“But Maw…”
Brodie threw his leg over Smokey’s back and dismounted. “Sorry, ma’am. I appreciate how they must’ve worried you, but the boys did what they thought right. Don’t punish them for needing to take care of you.”
When their mother neared, moonlight etched deep ruts in the hollow cheeks, the sort a man might find in a dry river bed. He’d seen the same hopelessness in countless others who suffered in the war. Long on problems, short on means to solve them.
“I’m beholden for you seeing to ’em. But they know better than to go against me. These two require a tight rein.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, they also need something to eat.” His soft rebuke failed to dent her thick armor. Women sure did mystify him.
He unpacked the fare from his bulging saddlebags. The thin set of her mouth told of a prideful woman who even in desperate times wouldn’t accept handouts. He had to convince her. If not for any other reason but the starvelings.
The woman spurned the grub he held out. “You got the boys back safe enough. Now, hop back up on that horse and take your meddling intentions with you, mister.”
“Name’s Brodie Yates. This isn’t much, I assure you. But I’ll not ride back with it.” He tacked on some force to the statement.
A baby’s squalls drew the mother’s attention, the noise breaking the standoff. “Edgar Lee, take care of your sister.”
The youngster looked from the woman to Brodie, then trudged toward the cries. Andy tripped over a log when he ran to catch up. He sniffled but shed no tears. The ache in Brodie doubled.
“Please, ma’am. Pride doesn’t fill hungry bellies.”
“Got a watered down cup of coffee. All I can offer.”
A glance around the neat camp located a blackened pot beside the fire. It sat alone. Although the family had nothing to spare, Mrs. Cole would take it unkindly if he declined her offer.
“That would be mighty good, ma’am.”
The baby’s crying ceased abruptly. The little boy who had become a man way before his time continued to spark memories.
Rattles on Brodie’s hat accompanied the clink of his spurs. He arranged the crocks and bread on an upended crate and squatted beside glowing embers.
He accepted a battered tin cup. “Much obliged.”
“I’m Betsy Cole.” With a sigh, she dropped the stiff pretense. “Wheel broke. We’re trying to get to my brother’s place near Fort Richardson.”
“How long since your husband passed?”
Shoulders which bore the weight of the world drooped lower. “A week yesterday. My Daniel had the fever. Me and the boys buried him after we crossed the Red River.”
“Please accept my condolences.” Brodie sipped on the barely lukewarm brew and fished a small bag of Bull Durham and papers from his pocket. “You mind?”
“Haven’t seen a man yet what didn’t have the tobacco craving. Reckon I’m used to it.”
After he rolled and lit it, he silently blew smoke into the night. Bad luck that had followed the Coles from their former home wrapped him in a cocoon. Or perhaps it was his own luck catching up. Lord knew plenty of that rode his trail.
“Something tells me you fought for the Cause.”
From the darkness in his mind, cannons roared. Red flames shot from rifles. Men screamed in agony. He shivered. That special hell remained as vivid as the moment he lived it. Images first born amid the chaos would never fade. Cause? Nothing on earth lent credence to that carnage.
Long minutes passed before he could answer, and when he did his voice cracked. “For a fact, ma’am.”
“Daniel, too. A shell of my husband came home. I suppose war does that to a man.” She wiped a tear with the hem of her dress. “He was a hero at Chickamauga.”
“We buried a bunch of heroes. Not many left anymore.” Brodie tossed the cigarette into the smoldering
ashes. It took barely a second to vanish. Just like his life.
“You’re a decent man. I reckon you can leave the food.”
“A wise choice. You won’t be sorry come dawn.”
Betsy Cole sniffed. “Don’t want some stranger to sit here all night. That’s the only reason. A woman likes her privacy.”
He rose and dumped black sediment from the bottom of the metal cup before handing it to her.
“I’ll be back come daybreak to fix your wheel.”
“Reckon you’d be welcome…long as you don’t bring a passel of nosy do-gooders.”
“You have some special boys. Remember that, Mrs. Cole.” His hand brushed the memory bag before he stepped into the stirrup.
* * *
“What did you want to tell me, sweetheart? Bet you want to move up the wedding,” Murphy teased.
Exactly how did one go about killing a man’s future?
The wait, coupled with his tender regard, drove spikes in Laurel’s composure.
She took a deep breath and leaped. “I’m not the person you think.”
“I know all I need to for now. The rest I’ll learn later once we’re married. Most married folks don’t know everything right off. Shoot, we wouldn’t have anything to talk about.” He ran a palm up her arm and under her hair to caress her neck.
She gently pushed him away. This was hard enough without him making it any tougher. “Please, wait until I’m finished.”
“My love, whatever it is, I frankly don’t care.” He nudged her chin upward. She stared miserably into the liquid brown trusting gaze. “You mean more than anything else in this world. Accepting my proposal made me extremely happy. The only thing that can change that is to tell me you don’t wish to marry me.”
Dry desert sand suddenly caked her mouth. How could she live with the consequences that came with clear obligation?
Laurel licked her dry lips, trying desperately to moisten them. “I have a past, Murphy.”
Nine
There, she’d said it. The results she’d tack to Brodie’s hide. Laurel peeked from beneath shadowed lids. Murphy had never mistreated or spoken ill of a living soul. He shouldn’t have to bear the price of her dark history.
Murphy’s wide-toothed smile didn’t make sense.
Anyone in their right mind should be aghast at the bold disclosure. How could he be happy to discover the blight on his almost-wife’s character?
“Of course you have a past, sweetheart. Everyone does. None of us got here except through more years than we care to count. That’s called living.”
Oh Lord, he mistook her words and the delicate situation.
“I’m trying to tell you—”
“You can say nothing that will destroy this love in my heart. Nothing.”
Except she’d done damnable things no decent woman would?
Except the truth that she’d never feel clean, no matter how often she bathed?
And except the knowledge his brother heated her blood with a single look and she’d never get him out of her head?
Besides those, nothing stood to break Murphy’s heart.
She didn’t have the courage to poke holes in his bubble. Not tonight.
Perhaps in the light of day…tomorrow perhaps.
“Sweetheart, what dire secret lingers on the tip of your tongue that you can’t find words to say?” His chuckle added to her unwillingness to hurt him.
The longer she stood silent, the more guilt burned.
“I…I don’t have any parents,” she blurted at last. “I just wanted you to know.”
“So what? Neither do I. Makes for a smaller wedding.”
“And I’m almost certain I snore in my sleep.”
Laughter burst from Murphy’s throat. “Love, you harbor the most farfetched notions. While we’re engaged in soul-baring, I believe you should know that I don’t have a nail on my big toe and I’m notorious for cracking my knuckles. In public, no less.”
No one could accuse her of not trying. She must carry the burden a day or two longer. Perhaps she’d find the right words when opportunity presented another chance.
After all, she still had five more days.
* * *
Laurel and Ollie rose early and stashed staples into the rented buggy. A flick of the reins set the horses in motion. Locating the youngsters’ encampment shouldn’t pose a problem.
“Giddyup there, you lazy bag of bones.” Satisfied, Ollie swiveled on the seat. “Did you remember some hen fruit and salt pork?”
“Of course. I packed the eggs carefully so not one shell would break, and I brought plenty of meat.”
“Did you also get the sugar and flour I told you?”
Laurel sighed. General Santa Anna attacking the Alamo would have scribbled a much shorter list than Ollie’s. The second Ollie learned about the Coles’ plight, she became obsessed. Looking at her now, it appeared the dear woman hadn’t caught a wink of sleep.
Neither a salty tongue nor unending questions could hide Ollie’s Texas-sized soft spot.
Circles rimming the woman’s eyes might hint at lack of sleep upon first glance. Yet, Laurel had reason to know Ollie’s weariness was caused by declining health.
Laurel’s chest constricted. She couldn’t lose the only family she had. Not yet. Fate wouldn’t be that cruel.
“You gonna perch there and bore a hole clean through me? If you’re itching to say something, speak up, girl.” Ollie puffed away on the pipe stuck in the corner of her mouth.
“I’m worried about you. Can’t I persuade you to go to Jefferson and let a doc see what’s wrong?”
“No sawbones can fix what’s ailing me.” Ollie covered the back of Laurel’s hand. “Don’t you lose any sleep over me. I got a whole lot of living yet to do before making the crossing.”
Frustrated, Laurel wanted to rattle the stubborn, unreasonable cuss’s teeth. But that would merely set her mind in granite, the hardest stone in the state.
Her blood froze.
They carved tombstones from granite.
She banished the thought as quickly as it formed. Someone else might hold more sway over Ollie. Curley Madison?
“I like your man-friend. He obviously cares for you a great deal, although I can’t for the life of me see why, what with your rough edges and all.”
“That’s the living part I just mentioned. That man makes my old bones think they’re twenty again. He’s taken a notion he can file those crusty patches smooth. Now quit your yappin.’ Keep a lookout for those poor little younguns.”
The dressing down warned Laurel in no uncertain terms to mind her own business. She buttoned her lip and drank in the beautiful scenery she’d missed for so long.
She’d almost forgotten the mysticism here on the bayou, home to long-legged cranes, loons, and bullfrogs. During summer months, lily pads and purple water hyacinth carpeted the water that gave sustenance to the bearded cypress. The tall trees, stood for decades, silent sentinels against encroachers. Could they sense dishonesty in those who passed by?
“Are you cold, girl?”
“A chill swept over me.”
“I told you to bring a shawl, but you scoffed at me.”
Tingling premonition crept from the dark shadows of her soul. Building a life on deceit had definite obstacles. A square peg would never fit into a round hole. Not ever.
Heavy thick gloom descended around her. One little chance didn’t seem too large a favor to ask. “The day is warm enough.”
“Well, make up your mind.” Ollie flicked the reins to urge the horse to a trot.
A clearing upstream produced the camp and broken wagon. A tall figure was hunched over, hammering. He rose when the buggy coasted to a stop. The Navy Colt strapped to his leg caught the sun’s rays.
Bare-chested, Brodie Yates gave h
er a dismissive glance that brushed her face before he resumed his task. A sweep of the site revealed his shirt hanging from the covered wagon’s seat.
Her maddening pulse refused to slow in the humid calm.
She adopted nonchalance, finding the buggy’s metal step. Who could’ve predicted her heel would catch when she alighted? A hasty grip of the cracked leather seat prevented sprawling head first. Call her grace and serenity. Heat flooded her cheeks. The oaf probably enjoyed the spectacle. Determined to ignore him, she riveted her attention on the two boys racing to meet them.
“Miss Laurel, Miss Laurel!” Edgar Lee and Andy skidded to a halt, spying Ollie.
Laurel hugged them. “Someone wants to meet you. Ollie’s the most special lady this side of heaven.”
“You look like a couple of green-broke yearlings to me.” Ollie winked and ruffled their hair. “Bet you’re worth your salt though.”
Each boy scuffed his toe in the dirt and pinkened.
“How about helping unload a few vittles?”
They nodded in unison, turning to the scowling woman who walked up behind. “Can we, Maw?”
The tall thin woman wore disapproval as thick and black as a bucket of hot tar. “We don’t need whatever it is you come for.”
The cold reception raised prickles on Laurel’s neck. “I apologize for intruding. I fed Edgar Lee and Andy last evening. Fine lads they are. You’ve reason to be mighty proud of them.”
“So you’re the one responsible.” Shards of ice layered her reply.
Laurel didn’t take offense. She understood what it was like to have someone run roughshod over her pride. And like it or not that’s what they’d done. “I take full blame, ma’am. I’m Laurel James.”
“Olivia Applejack b’Dam,” Ollie offered stiffly.
“I don’t cotton none to charity. We can take care of ourselves.” The woman pushed back a strand of hair.
“I agree, ma’am.” Ollie nodded. “But ain’t no charity, just trading. The boys can wash dishes at the café until you get your wagon fixed. Sounds like good horse swapping to me.”
The woman relaxed a bit. “Put that way, I suppose I can make an exception. I’m Betsy Cole. I mind my own business and expect others to do the same.”
