by Linda Broday
The blunt statement confirmed what Laurel already suspected. Pride was all that remained for the widow. And Betsy would hog-tie a cougar in order to keep clinging to that.
“We respect your wishes.” Laurel spoke loud enough for a certain half-dressed gunslinger’s benefit, the gaze she sent flitting his direction.
A babe’s lusty cry rent the fragrant breeze.
Mrs. Cole turned. “Guess I’d better go tend to her.”
“Awful prideful, ain’t she?” Ollie grumbled after the woman left. “I’ll get the younguns to unload the buggy. And Yates might need help with that wheel. Come on, boys.”
Laurel debated whether to follow Betsy Cole, the troop heading for the horse and buggy, or talk to Brodie who, after the unwelcome stare upon their arrival, now completely ignored her. The need in his kiss that had stamped a permanent imprint on her brain aided greatly in Laurel’s decision. Betsy’s frigid response seemed far wiser and a thousand times more safe.
“You’ve raised some wonderful children. I’ve met few whose manners come close.”
“They’re a handful at times.” Betsy brushed eyes that told of too little sleep, were swollen from crying, or a combination of the two. The woman reached into the wagon, lifting the baby. “Would you hold her while I get dry bundling?”
Edgar Lee’s Sissie, she presumed.
Small, tear-filled eyes stared up at her in confusion at the transfer. Alarm plundered Laurel’s helpful intentions as well. Wiggling arms and legs hurtled her toward a place she resisted.
The tiny girl twisted and reached for her nose with one hand while the other grabbed a fistful of hair.
Sweet baby’s breath dredged up long forgotten portraits, the images chipped from chunks of ice around her heart. Curious, small fingers that clutched everything in sight…a mother’s lullabies…the creak of the rocker…the aroma of baking bread that permeated the house and clearing…
Visions of home.
Reminders of family.
Remembering the things she’d lost in the wink of an eye opened wounds the size of Big Cypress Bayou.
“What a waste. Those arms weren’t meant for babies, Lil.”
The lazy drawl over her shoulder sent memories scurrying to the far corners from whence they’d crept.
Laurel wheeled. The familiar hiss of the snake rattles had failed to warn of Brodie’s approach. The black Stetson likely kept his shirt company, she supposed.
Her gaze tripped, falling headlong into a tanned chest. Sparse, damp hairs narrowed into a line that ran down the center of his abdomen and disappeared into the waistband. A bouquet of shaving soap, tobacco, and perspiration aroused more fear than the Colt at his hip.
Blue blazes.
Brodie towered so near that his breath caressed her neck. Corded muscles banding his arms prevented escape, although his presence alone sufficed in holding her captive.
“Don’t call me that. It’s Miss James to you.”
Sissie attempted to stick her fingers into Laurel’s mouth, evidently attracted to her teeth. She shifted the babe to one side and shot Brodie a withering glare.
“So you insist.” It would be easy to mistake Brodie’s lazy reply as friendly and would give anything if a smile accompanied the words. “Your arms were made for other uses. I recall them once holding me close, my face nuzzled to your soft breast.”
Her anger flared as she searched for a reply that would put him in his place. She searched for equal weapons and lit upon one.
“Mr. Yates, it would hard press me to remember one face amongst the thousand others. Yours I appear to have far more trouble sorting from the legions of admirers.”
His gray eyes darkened. She took great pleasure in the small victory, for admiration peeked beyond the frost.
“Touché. Your sparring skills compare to your talents in bed.”
“Insufferable rebel, don’t you have someone to shoot?”
Not the most brilliant question considering she stood directly in the line of fire. She sucked in air when he brushed back the errant lock of hair curling onto his forehead.
“Not yet, but the day’s young.” He fingered the baby’s curls. “After seeing you with the children, I almost buy that story about wanting to change. But I can’t form the picture of you anywhere except a house of ill repute. That throaty voice of yours, those half-closed eyes that make a man sell his soul for one moment’s ride into paradise… It pitches motherhood clean out the window.”
Laurel flinched. “I can become anything I must to survive. Anything.”
“Even becoming wife to a man you don’t love?” The soft drawl flogged her conscience.
“I-I…”
Betsy Cole threw a leg over the back of the wagon. “Sorry it took so long. After Edgar Lee and Andy rise in the mornings, it looks like a hurricane passed through.”
“I didn’t mind.”
The mother relieved Laurel, frowning after Brodie who sauntered back to work. When she spoke all traces of coldness fled. “He’s a good man. The war left angry gashes inside men’s spirits whether you see ’em or not.”
“And every woman, don’t forget.” Laurel could attest to that.
“True, a person bearing no scars never fought for anything they believe in.”
A tender jab without a doubt. Shame branded on her soul would not disappear until she battled hard enough. Even then scars would remain. Those would never fade.
Ollie called, “Hate to break up the tea party, but we need extra hands.”
“Mr. Brodie done fixed the wheel,” Edgar Lee happily piped up. “We hafta put it back on.”
Betsy thrust the infant into Andy’s young arms. “Watch your sister.”
“Aw, do I hafta?”
Ollie’s ashen face and labored breathing caused Laurel concern. Lifting and straining would overtax a sickly heart. “Why don’t you hold the baby and let Andy help?” Laurel said to her.
“I’ll do no such thing.” Ollie jerked the pipe from her mouth. “I’ll have you know I’m strong as an ox.”
“You’re not well.”
“Squabbles can wait, ladies. This wheel won’t.” Brodie’s dark scowl ended the argument. He motioned to Laurel and ordered, “Stand beside me. Mrs. Cole, you get on the other side. When we lift, Edgar Lee will take the barrel from under the axle. Ollie, do you think you can set the wheel on?”
“I damn—darn sure can.” Ollie amended, flashing the children a guilty grin.
“I don’t wanna do a girl’s job.” Edgar Lee’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m strong like my paw. See?” He flexed a skinny arm.
Instead of losing patience, Brodie examined the small bulge. “That’s quite a muscle there, son. Trade places with your mother. When I give the word, let’s all lift.”
Against her better judgment, Laurel reluctantly got into position. A finger’s breadth separated her from the man who sought to ruin her life. A current leaped across them, sending gooseflesh up her arm. Heaven help her. If she made it through this day, she vowed to limit contact to no less than a country mile. Chewing her lip, she tried to avoid his intense gray scrutiny. She braced her knees for leverage.
“You ready?” His breath teased a strand of hair curling beside her ear. “Everyone lift.”
His heady nearness fueled Laurel’s need to get it over with. The wood frame cut into her palms, yet it wouldn’t yield. Peace would come only by completing the job. Brodie’s guttural grunt stole her intentions not to look. When she did, his rebel gaze held her prisoner even as sweat trickled down his face.
The wagon moved, but not high enough.
“I thought you had more in you than that,” Brodie challenged, his sinful half smile pulling her.
Laurel’s blood became a molten river. An extra surge of power raised it, and the wheel slid onto the greased axle, taking the we
ight off aching fingers. She relinquished her hold and hurried to escape. Before she realized where she headed, she sank to her ankles in the marshy bayou.
“This is just fine and dandy,” she muttered to herself.
The harder she pulled, the more firmly imbedded her feet became in the muck.
“If you weren’t too chicken to take my hand, I’d get you out,” Brodie drawled from solid ground.
“Go away. My own doing got me in and I’ll get myself out.”
“There’s something between us, Lil. I know it. You know it. You’ll come around after you tire of fighting it.”
“Get this straight. Were you the last man on the face of the earth, I’d happily die a spinster.”
“The hell you say.”
Laurel squirmed in the swamp’s grip, wishing the man didn’t ogle her like some expensive French pastry.
Suddenly she flailed, landing on her behind in the squishy quagmire. His hearty laugh did things to a lady’s wounded pride. The miserable glare she shot him failed to squash his mirth.
“My offer stands. All you have to do is take hold.” Brodie edged closer and reached.
Resigned, Laurel grasped his palm. The contact sizzled, branding her flesh. A tightened grip and brisk tug did the trick. She flew from the mucky prison into his naked arms.
Thoughts of the indecent kind raced against the beating of her heart. Before she could react, his lips smothered her surprised yelp. Brodie boldly groped her backside, holding her tightly against him. His tongue explored her parted mouth as a strangled moan rose from a powerful need.
Behind lowered lids, Murphy’s face floated. She instantly broke away.
“Damn you, Brodie Yates.”
Damn them both. Part of her wanted to curl up and stay forever in the circle of his embrace. Painful remembrance had a way of bursting a rosy dream.
He’d left her behind.
Besides that, she was still promised to another.
A quiet sob escaped as she pummeled the tall muscular figure.
His arms trembled but he let her go. Ragged breath ruffled the top of her hair in a faint caress that did little toward helping regain her sanity.
Laurel moved a few feet away and worked to get the roar in her ears down to a low rumble.
“I’m beholden to you.” Her stiff murmur competed with a sudden gust of air. She straightened the mud-soaked dress and fastened her gaze on the distant flight of a loon.
“Don’t speak of it. Pleasure’s all mine.” He took several strides and turned. “You once welcomed my attention.”
“Well, I grew up and got a whole lot smarter.”
And discovered that words of love flowed freely when men had no intention of ever returning. A body learned from dumb mistakes. Or at least they should, she told herself.
A brittle snort conveyed his thoughts. “I assume you shared with Murph your sudden aversion to marriage?”
Fury ricocheted off every good intention known to man.
“Do us both a favor, Brodie Yates. Go ahead and tell him yourself. The sooner the better. I’m fed up with your veiled threats.”
Ten
Laurel’s taunt stayed with Brodie through the night and into the next day. The lady changed the rules in the middle of the skirmish.
She didn’t fight the least bit fair. What to do now?
He wouldn’t reveal her secret, that much he knew. And despite stubborn denial of the attraction, she made him feel more alive than he had in a very long time.
Those lips, the taste of her… Ahh.
Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
The fact his brother had in all likelihood sampled her sweet delights gnawed at his very fiber.
Brodie contemplated the mess in the walk up the grassy knoll behind Murphy’s house to the family plot. A white stone marked Elizabeth Yates’ place next to her mother and father.
Heaviness draped his shoulders as he stooped to lay a bouquet of yellow and white blooms. The woman who brought him into the world had asked for pitiful little—a faithful husband and children to love. A lump blocked his windpipe. Pray to God she found peace in death that eluded her in life.
The deerskin bag caught on the leather of his vest. He blinked hard, removing the gold band that once graced her hand.
Memories washed upon the beach of his mind. Elizabeth had gotten a rotten philanderer and a son who’d been better off to have died in the womb. Thickness coated his tongue.
Gossips had plenty of fodder after Samuel Yates abandoned them for another woman, a saloon girl no less. Elizabeth, Murphy, and he bore the brunt of that humiliating nightmare.
Even now Brodie’s efforts to turn a blind eye to the pain were futile. No amount of wishing would banish the truth.
The sight on that early September morn remained clear.
A rope rubbing against the edge of the loft permanently creaked in his ears.
His mother’s slight form swinging to and fro in the gentle breeze had made him retch, ashamed for not seeing her despair.
Barely ten, he’d learned to be a man. Rope shredded his tender flesh, for after cutting her loose, he lowered her gently to the ground. Then he removed all traces of the suicide so his brother would never know.
“Why did she have to die?” Murphy had asked. “Tell me why.”
Brodie had no answers then and none now.
He kicked a clod of turf. They’d thrust a job on him he hadn’t wanted. What did a kid know? He needed reassurance and guidance himself… Things parents should provide.
Besides, a body couldn’t teach values and self-worth when a mother and father didn’t think enough of them to stick around.
Rotten substitute parent Brodie made.
Damn you, Samuel Yates.
Till the day he died, he’d curse the man who passed his bad seed on to him. Surely, sorry blood flowed in his veins.
Every good deed in the world wouldn’t atone for that. Fixing the wheel for the Cole family gave him much satisfaction. Still, it changed little when he canceled one right with a wrong by reminding Laurel of things she wished to forget.
But hell and damnation, he hungered for the hot-blooded woman.
Movement below captured his attention. Etta’s frantic charge up the incline stood hair at the nape of his neck on end. The ring fell from trembling fingers. He scooped it into the bag and met her halfway.
“Mr. Brodie, come quick. It’s your brother!”
* * *
Laurel finished serving the last customer and tackled the cleanup. Morning’s encounter with Brodie twisted her inside out. The taste of his lips, his searing touch, branded themselves upon her skin.
Odd how fast she’d noted a distinction between Shenandoah and scores of men who’d entered her life back then. The special, inner quiet set him apart. Among a hundred other things, of course.
She plunged elbow-deep into soapy water, surrendering to her wandering mind.
The handsome stranger had given back more than the pleasure which he bought. He led her down a path inside a war-torn soul and the pain there had equaled her own. Her spirits at rock bottom, she despaired of escaping William Taft. Each time she requested help and received the biting end of the lash for her trouble had silenced the asking. She believed she’d die alone far from Texas.
Shenandoah had provided hope of feeling like a woman—a real woman. Someone of worth rather than a commodity.
Nights of sharing precious tidbits of home renewed freedom she could taste. Curled in his arms, strength seeped into her bones. With their bodies entangled in the bedding, she dreamed of pure honeyed passion and everlasting love. Grand ideas of babies and a husband to cherish had taken her on the fanciful journey.
Laurel jerked, returning to the kitchen of Ollie’s Café.
“Keep rubbing that plate and there wo
n’t be enough left to hold spit.” Uncanny the way Ollie read her moods. Laurel tossed her a peeved glance. Lost in reverie, she’d forgotten the dear lady stood waiting with drying towel in hand.
“No law keeping a body from reflecting, is there?”
Warmth in the airless room stuck the clothes to her body, she reasoned. Nothing else accounted for the sheen on her skin.
Besides, recalling certain times in life helped slam doors.
Or open them wider, guilt whispered.
“Never said there was, girl. But your attention’s a mite on the scattered side since running into Yates.”
Laurel squirmed under the one-eyed squint that pricked. “Lack of dishes wouldn’t matter to hungry menfolk. We could serve their food on a piece of tree bark for all they notice.”
“What happened at the Coles’ campsite?” Ollie asked.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing. You were there.”
Silky caresses and kisses wouldn’t have an opportunity to occur again. She’d handle Brodie with a firm hand. He couldn’t waltz into her life as though he’d never left. She’d show him.
Do us both a favor. Go ahead and tell.
What a dangerous, foolish dare.
“You might oughta consider a few fibbing lessons,” Ollie spouted. “I got eyes enough to see.”
The porcelain snapped in her hands. Laurel muttered an oath, staring at the jagged cut from which blood pooled. “I can’t very well put that man from my mind when you’re quite happy to fill in when he’s not around.”
Ollie huffed, stepping back quicker than if she’d sworn allegiance with the grim reaper and he’d come to escort her to hell.
“No call to get sideways. Grandpappy always said, ‘Solving problems is like clearing pasture land. First, pull out the piddly little saplings, the ones that don’t make a hill of beans, then set to work on the big ol’ stumps. If’n you cain’t pull ’em out whole, then chop ’em into small pieces and cart ’em off a chunk at a time.’”
“I’m sick of listening to your dear, departed grandfather. For once speak for yourself, Ollie.”
“Quit your bellering. Brodie Yates ain’t the logjam blocking your way. I’m saying get rid of the guilt and shame eating you alive.” Ollie punched Laurel’s chest. “That’s the stump you gotta work on. Everything else is pissant little saplings.”
