by Linda Broday
“That’s why Ollie and I settled here. Redemption fit.”
Something about the word seemed to offer hope and belief that a man could save himself. It fit snug around him also.
“Ollie helped you escape St. Louis, I take it.”
“She worked in the kitchen. We became close and I finally confided in her. She got me out in the wee hours after everyone slept.”
“Remind me to thank her. She’s a good woman.”
“We’re family now. We adopted each other.”
Laurel’s lips enticed. He’d gladly risk life, limb, and certain death to sample them again.
The sun faded below the horizon. Dusk was made for lovers. Her willowy curves snuggled into his arms. She belonged here. He slipped the pins from her hair, breathing into the silk. The moment spoke of everything—and nothing.
Her moist pink lips drew him like a parched man to water. He couldn’t resist any longer.
His mouth met hers in a blaze of sinful passion. White dahlias and vanilla, the past and the present, dreams and reality, merged in a single instant.
“You smell of moonmist and gentle rain.” He breathed against her ear, reluctant to let her go.
“Moonmist? I’m not certain that’s a good thing.”
“My lady, a lover’s breath beneath the silvery rays creates moonmist. Some claim it carries the aroma of an aroused woman.”
“But we’re not…and I’m not…” A becoming blush stained her cheeks.
The pulse in the hollow of her throat beat frantically. This among other things he could mention, like the wisps of hair hugging her earlobes, the catch in her whiskey voice, the way she fussed over the Cole boys, made her the only woman he wanted.
“You lie so well.”
Laurel’s mouth flew open. “I must go.”
“Wait.”
She dodged the outstretched hand. “This isn’t proper.”
The lady spoke the truth. He owed his brother a sight more than stolen kisses with his woman. Although nothing that made Brodie feel he’d died and gone to heaven could surely be a sin.
Loving Laurel should never be wrong, he decided.
Ollie chose that moment to open the garden door. “Girl, the healer’s come. Thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks, Ollie.” She smoothed back her hair, scrambling for pins with which to secure it. She made do with just two.
The crusty woman’s disapproving stare kept Brodie from trying to help. He felt as if she’d caught him stealing from the cookie jar. Maybe that’s just what he’d done.
“I hope you’re right about this Nora woman,” he managed.
“One thing’s for sure, it won’t hurt. We’re groping in the dark.”
He clutched her hand when she started toward the open door and Ollie. He could’ve sworn she returned the light squeeze.
“One more thing and I’ll let you be.” He struggled to keep a betraying tremble from sneaking into his voice. “Since I won’t be around the next week or so, will you stay nearby…so Murphy won’t be alone when he dies?”
“It goes without saying.”
“And one more thing. Should he by some miracle make it, I’ll not stand in your way of marrying him. I give you both my blessing.”
Twelve
At daybreak Laurel stood on the veranda long after the gray-eyed rebel disappeared down the road. One last check on Murphy had found him alive, but no sign of improvement. Then, Brodie had silently gathered a few essentials, saddled, and ridden out.
Strangely enough, though she’d prayed for his leaving, she could scarcely breathe from the empty space he left behind.
Through her pounding pulse she heard the rattles dangling from his hat. Those didn’t fade despite that he’d passed from view.
Spit and thunder. Didn’t Brodie know she’d risk most anything to sleep in his arms again? Surely he felt the earth-shattering desire in her touch. Denying their feelings seemed to have melded the fabric of life that had woven the two of them together into one fate.
Dearly as she hoped Murphy lived, she couldn’t marry him. Not now. Not even to obtain status. Not for any reason.
The rumble of thunder interrupted her thoughts. Dark rain clouds that escaped notice in the wrenching agony of Brodie’s departure appeared. She hoped his overstuffed saddlebags included an oilskin slicker, although a serious drenching probably mattered least to him. She’d forced him into this dangerous mission. The outcome could end all wrong.
“Please, keep my darling safe,” she murmured into the wind. “Let him bring back those girls unharmed…and soon.”
Among the lot of Redemption’s citizens, only she held insight into the minds of Darcy and Willa. The brand of fear they knew at this very moment blocked her air passage, souring the contents of her stomach. Years had passed since her abduction and yet one incident sent her hurtling back to the moment when the nightmare began.
Hindsight let her see the bad mistake in speaking of it.
For pity’s sake, Brodie had already accepted the task when she opened that door.
Clear as day he misunderstood why she had. Giving his blessing to the betrothal confirmed guilt he felt for not saving her. She’d have been far wiser to leave it buried. Bringing those demons into the light of day smashed the odds of reclaiming a lost love into a million pieces.
Damn the familiar chord he struck in baring his own dark corner of his soul.
Only yesterday she’d harbored belief of betrayal, or at the very least that he’d misled her. But their moonlit talk, scented with hibiscus and lavender, vanquished those notions.
Yes, she must’ve taken leave of her mind.
And for what reason had he shared his secret? Absolution? Acceptance? Or a cry to silence voices from the past? Each pain-filled word had sprung from his gut. The agony that had fractured his deep voice had revealed how deeply rooted in honor those events had grown. The same peace that eluded her eluded him also.
They were truly two of a kind.
The door creaked. Nora Whitebird stood at the white railing running the porch length. “Rain good. Wash away evil.”
“I wish it could.” She met the ageless woman’s piercing gaze. Nora appeared to know things meant for sages. Her smooth, tanned skin gave no hint of age. “How is Murphy?”
“He sleeps. You go. Get rest.”
Nora’s stare halted on the hem of Laurel’s dress where blood had soaked, turning the yellow fabric dull, rusty brown. Laurel realized she wore the same clothes she’d donned yesterday.
“Perhaps I will.”
“You do your man no good here.”
She felt obliged to correct Nora and explain that she was merely following the promise she made to Murphy, but she didn’t.
“I couldn’t leave when he could die any second.”
Last evening she’d shivered when Nora attached bloodsucking leeches. Though the woman explained their usefulness in keeping the wound clean, Laurel would not soon forget the horrifying sight of the burrowing parasites.
Laurel stopped the sob that tried to rise. “Do you think…?”
“Time tell if he stay or cross river into next life. We wait for Great Spirit.”
She touched Nora’s arm. “Thank you for coming.”
“I am healer. Grandmother passed gift.” Nora covered Laurel’s hand with her own brown one.
“You must be exhausted after spending most of the night mixing herbs and roots.”
“I go long time no sleep.”
Large raindrops pelted the ground just then. So much for praying Brodie would stay dry.
Ollie threw open the door. “Come quick, it’s Murphy!”
* * *
Why did he persist in pushing away the one thing that would fulfill his every longing? He must be daft.
Miles away Brodie
uttered a string of curses as big drops fell from the sky. It promised to be a miserable day. He sighed and tugged his hat down low.
“For two cents I’d turn around and go back.” He patted the Appaloosa’s neck, knowing he wouldn’t.
He set his jaw and turned due north toward Stephenson’s Ferry on the Sulphur River. He’d follow Trammel’s Trace to Pecan Point, then head east to Fulton.
Worsening weather almost had him wishing for one of the yellow slickers most men wore, even though he didn’t have much use for them. Bright colors created a wide target for someone like him. Killing Shenandoah would bring instant fame to some unlucky soul with a fast six-shooter. Such name-seekers dogged his shadow, sometimes so close their breath tickled his neck. If they realized sending him to the beyond was tantamount to digging their own grave, they might plot a different course.
But not likely. Most sought glory and fame, thinking it made them more of a man. But all it made them was stupid.
A lot of problems accompanied notoriety, the biggest of which was staying alive.
Brodie had accepted long ago to appreciate every sunrise.
The sudden urge to ride back overcame him again. He’d tempted fate far too often.
He leaned to stroke his horse’s neck. “Damn, Smokey. I’ll run out of poker chips one day.”
Laurel’s face swam before him in the cold, gray morn and he remembered why he rode in a soaking rain. He was those little ladies’ only hope. And it didn’t matter their skin color.
The hate talk of George Adams suggesting he rescue the white one and leave the other made him bristle anew. North or South, black, white, or red, all should learn to coexist. Had those Yanks let him be, he’d have gone back for Lil years ago.
Bigotry, hate, and greed had ruined them all, he figured.
“Georgia clay. We’ve got our work cut out this time, boy.” The horse moved into a canter, perhaps sensing the urgency.
A cent for every mile Smokey had carried his hide would make him wealthy. Two years ago he plunked down twenty-five dollars and knew he’d found a bargain. The Appaloosa had proven the strength of his heart and would again if Brodie only asked.
“Yep, you’re a jewel all right.”
Smokey snorted and nodded his head as if to say he’d take the compliment and keep ’em coming.
“Don’t go getting a swelled head, now. You have plenty of shortcomings to compensate. Maybe I should tell you how often you came to finding yourself saddled by a new owner.”
Smokey snorted again.
All of a sudden a slow grin crossed Brodie’s face. “I do believe Lil meant to shoot me yesterday evening. She lit into my hide something fierce. Not much left of my hind-end after she got done chewing. Be glad you’re a horse.”
He didn’t recall Lil wearing that fighting streak. Of course, years had a way of dimming a man’s memory. But he most certainly remembered she hadn’t worn much of anything back then.
Good God a Friday. Such images only worsened his misery.
Not that Lil didn’t have good grounds for being mad enough to stomp a wild hog barefoot. She had a whole bunch of ’em.
“I would’ve broken her out of that place, daring anyone to step in the way…if she’d just confided in me.”
Thirty years of road behind him were filled with “if only” excuses. The latest was in a long string of regrets. Ignorance couldn’t buy forgiveness. Some things were no use justifying.
Guilt-eaten thoughts turned to her parents and brothers. Despite the passing months, days, and years, they probably still fretted over what had happened to her. He’d make a few inquiries once this distasteful business ended…should he continue to suck air, that is. The Jameses would likely welcome news of their long-lost daughter.
Thunder rumbled, quaking through his bones. Rain peppered his face as he urged Smokey into a gallop.
It was a far piece to Arkansas.
* * *
Laurel’s heart hammered. Brodie trusted her. He’d never understand if Murphy died alone. She raced past Ollie, almost knocking the woman down. Why hadn’t she kept vigil beside the bed instead of thinking of her own wants?
When she reached Murphy’s side, his body was shaking violently with chills. Perspiration poured off his forehead, mixing with bloody froth coming from his mouth.
“Dear God.”
Nora quickly rolled him on his side to prevent choking. Laurel wet cloths to bathe his face.
Laurel turned to Ollie. “We’re going to need more blankets.”
Minutes later Ollie returned. “Here you are, girl. There’s more if you need ’em.”
Between the three of them, they propped Murphy into a half-sitting position and wrapped him snugly.
“Don’t you die on me, Murphy Yates. I’m not going to let you get out of marrying me this easy.” Her tears blurred the figure until he blended into the patchwork colors of blankets and guilt.
Her arms ached from clutching them so tightly to her chest. Through the wet haze she saw Nora put her cheek to his mouth.
“Is he…?”
“He have breath.”
“Thank God.”
“Laurel girl, maybe it’s best to let him go. Not much else a soul can do,” Ollie said.
“I can’t do that.” She collapsed against the woman’s shoulder. “Not yet. I need to tell him something first.”
“Goldarned it. You’re a stubborn one,” Ollie said, stroking her back. “Some people have got more luck than a cat in a roomful of rockers. Were I of a betting nature, which I’m not, mind you, I’d place my money on Murphy.”
Laurel kissed the face that resembled a weathered old boot. Dark circles under Ollie’s eyes worried her. “Do me a favor.”
“Anything for my girl.”
“Get some men to board up the busted window of the café and stick a note on the door. Then, go upstairs and sleep.”
“Cain’t do that. Good idea about the sign though.”
“And the crawling into bed part?” Laurel insisted.
“I’ll get all the dadgum rest I need when I’m dead.” Ollie shifted the pipe that had long grown cold and gave her a one-eyed squint. “My grandpappy, God rest his soul, was fond of saying that a body born on a Wednesday and lookin’ six ways to Sunday is nothing but a no-account.”
A wan smile formed. The dear woman would always have the last word. She did, however, hitch up her skirt and make for the door.
Relieved, Laurel stooped to mop blood from the floor.
“I’ll do that.” Etta took the damp towels from her hand. “You shouldn’t worry your pretty head about such. I just took hot biscuits from the oven to go with my Creole omelet and grits. Get along there now and eat.”
“I surely applaud Murphy’s choice when he hired you.” Laurel wished Etta hadn’t gone to the trouble though. Now she’d have to force down a bite or two or deal with hurt feelings.
A horse whinny out front set her frazzled nerves on edge. The haste with which Etta hurried to beat the caller to the front door indicated that Laurel wasn’t the only one suffering from nerves, including Murphy who moaned. He became calm when Laurel touched his pale face and smoothed back his hair.
Etta returned. “Miss James, you better come.”
Dear heavens, what more could happen? Wrestling with dread, she whirled. “What is it now?”
“Out on the front porch… Maybe the doctor.”
“What are you waiting for? Show him inside.”
Etta wrung her hands. Dismay lined her features. “I cain’t. Oh me. Oh my.”
Laurel sighed, wondering what demanded her personal attention. She spied trouble immediately from the porch. A man sprawled on the ground beside a horse. Pouring rain had plastered his clothes to his skin. He clutched a familiar black bag in one hand. Besides the satchel, nothing else suggested t
his must be the physician. Laurel flew down the steps.
“Doctor, did you fall? Are you hurt?”
Snores erupted from his mouth. The stench of liquor brought instant recognition that an increase in the storm’s downpour could not wash away.
A quick gaze located the housekeeper, who remained beneath the sheltering veranda.
“Etta, come help get him inside.”
The portly man had to weigh a ton. They tugged and struggled, managing to drag him out of the cloudburst. With not a dry stitch on them, they collapsed on the porch to catch their breath.
“We ain’t gonna take him inside, is we?”
“I believe he can recover quite well enough out here.” Disgust rippled over Laurel that she couldn’t hide. “After the buffoon sufficiently recovers, I’ll send him packing. Now be a dear and have Jacob take the horse to the barn. We can’t begrudge his poor animal hay and shelter.”
“This man cain’t do Mr. Murphy any good no how,” Etta said.
“Nora has excellent skills and at least she’s sober.”
Etta bustled off to the stables while Laurel traipsed into the deluge to retrieve the precious medical bag and quiet the animal which became walleyed at a tremendous clap of thunder. The housekeeper’s son wasted no time.
“I got him, Miz Laurel.” The boy took the reins from her.
She lifted her limp skirts and followed in case Jacob had his hands full with the agitated mare. No telling how long the poor excuse for a doctor had left the mare exposed to the elements. Thank goodness the leather satchel protected its contents. Hopefully, it held something useful.
Inside a dry stall Jacob draped a blanket over the frightened horse and spread fresh hay on the floor.
“There now, isn’t that nice and warm,” Laurel said softly.
“What happened to the man laid out on the porch?”
“Liquored-up. He’ll be fine in a while.”
“My mama said she’ll knock me in the head and throw me to the gators if she catches me drinking rotgut.”
