by Linda Broday
“I think Mr. Brodie must be awful brave.” Edgar Lee’s startling statement appeared from the blue.
Determined to dislodge a small pebble from Sissie’s mouth that Lord only knows how it got into the kitchen, Laurel glanced at the freckled face. Edgar Lee toted far too much concern for a mere lad. She regretted him overhearing her and Betsy’s conversation. The little man already took on more than any child should.
Small teeth suddenly clamped onto her finger. She struggled to keep from crying out.
“Mr. Brodie is indeed very courageous, Edgar Lee.” Laurel grimaced as she extracted the throbbing digit, leaving the pebble inside. Babies’ teeth were razor sharp.
“Those mean ol’ bandits might kill him though.”
Chills scurried from Laurel’s hiding place. “He would never allow that. Let’s find something a bit more cheery to discuss.”
“M-M-Mr. Brodie’ll shoot ’em d-d-dead,” Andy stammered, his cheeks turning an angry, ruddy hue. “H-he’s f-f-fast.”
“When I get big I’m gonna be jus’ like Mr. Brodie. I’m gonna own me a shooting iron and get rid of all the bad people.” The older brother stuck out a finger covered with soap suds and formed the barrel of a weapon. “Pow, pow, pow.”
Betsy stepped through the door. “Stop that this instant, you hear? Your paw gave his life so you kids can grow up in a better world than he did. Over my dead body will I see you turn into a no-account, good for nothing gun hand.”
“Sorry, Maw.” Edgar Lee ducked his head.
“Heed what I say. I don’t want to hear that kind of foolishness.” Betsy lifted Sissie from the floor.
To Laurel’s utter amazement, Betsy stuck a finger into the child’s mouth and plucked out the pebble. The motion was quick, smooth, and accomplished with no effort. Laurel had so much to learn. She would have little need of the information though. Her kind of life didn’t include normal things that some women took for granted.
“You boys get busy with those dishes, and while you’re at it, scrub your minds of shootin’ and killin’ outlaws and such.”
“Yes, Maw.”
Downcast eyes stifled her spirit. Laurel hated to see children who had no time for playing or believing.
“They meant no harm, Betsy,” she murmured low, hoping curious ears couldn’t pick it up. “It appears Brodie Yates found a couple of young champions.”
“Those two worship the ground that man walks on. I try to explain he’s only human.” Betsy sighed, pushing back a strand of streaked hair. “But they won’t hear it.”
“Children need a hero, plain and simple. Adults, too. It’s nothing to shame out of them.”
“But Mr. Brodie won’t fly up to heaven like Paw did, will he?” Edgar Lee’s voice held thick tears. “He won’t, will he, Miss Laurel?”
She fought back her tears. How could one expert marksman survive the barrage of gunfire of five desperate bushwhackers? “No, sweet boy, of course not. He’ll be back with nary a scratch. We must hold that dearly in our hearts.”
The murdering Blanchards wouldn’t dare snuff out Brodie’s life. Besides…Brodie hadn’t survived these eight years without learning a trick or two. Hopefully, this bunch should prove no match for him..
The scoundrel who made her pulse pound with excitement was most definitely larger than life.
Even if he didn’t want to fight for her.
Even if he gave her up to his brother.
And even if he never again enclosed her in the circle of his arms and whispered fanciful words of moonmist and passion.
A part of him would always and forever remain hers.
Fourteen
“Are you running short of staples, Betsy?” Laurel wiped her hands on the apron and stepped quickly to the pie safe.
Pausing in the doorway with her brood, Betsy Cole’s stark features stiffened. Her head snapped around. “We got aplenty.”
Betsy’s brusque tone stung. And yet Laurel sympathized with the woman’s desperation to owe no one anything.
Tired lines etched fear too deeply imbedded to disguise. Something put there by hard times, uncertainty, and doubts that one more trial or setback would do her in. Betsy couldn’t see that Laurel shared the same worries.
Some things a body never admitted to a living soul.
Today, Betsy had scrubbed the entire café from stem to stern. In addition, she made Edgar Lee and Andy wash every dish in sight and inspected them afterward.
“Words of gratitude come cheap for the hours of toil. You must at least accept a custard pie for your services,” Laurel insisted.
The boys’ eyes lit up. “Can we, Maw? Please?”
“No, I’m going to make you a nice dessert. We’ll return tomorrow to complete our bargain, then me and the children head for Fort Richardson.”
Edgar Lee’s and Andy’s crestfallen glances reflected Laurel’s.
The steely-spined woman and her loving children would leave Laurel bereft. They’d distracted her from the rigors of waiting for Murphy to regain consciousness and for Brodie’s return.
Each Cole brother hugged her in turn.
“See ya tomorrow. Don’t wash any dishes till we get here ’cause that’s our job, ain’t it, Andy?”
The smaller version nodded. “I-i-it’s fun. W-we like it.”
“But I ’spect we won’t be mad if you wash just a few.”
Laurel smiled. Despite pretending to be little men, they couldn’t hide the children inside. She shut the door behind them.
“We’re gonna miss them younguns.” Ollie was seated at the table sharpening kitchen knives on a long razor strop. “Though they can ask more questions than a body has answers for.”
“Made you hobble-tongued, did they?” Laurel hung her apron on the nail, thankful lunchtime had come and gone. She dropped into a chair, propping her feet. A record number had passed through the café’s doors this day. Their reputation grew by leaps and bounds. Thank heavens Betsy had pitched in.
“I reckon that about says it all right there.” Ollie filled the bowl of the pipe, tampered it down, and lit it. “Didn’t exactly know how to explain the business a lady has with a gentleman.”
“Guess you could’ve called it monkey business.”
Ollie grumbled in her throat. “Making light of an old woman’s pleasures, are you?”
A giggle slipped out before Laurel could stop it.
“Does my heart good to hear you laugh, Laurel girl. You faced mighty hard times of late, what with Yates threatening to spill the beans and Murphy getting shot. It’s enough to drive you daffy.”
“I haven’t been altogether truthful about something.”
The knife Ollie honed to a sharp edge halted in midair. “Spit it out. Let the hide go with the tallow.”
“Remember when you found Brodie and me in Murphy’s garden?”
“I wanted to smash his face in for making you cry.” Ollie’s gaze narrowed. “I also recall how your hair was all undone.”
Laurel had wondered when Ollie would mention that. She passed over the mussed hair remark, struggling to keep the trembles inside from spilling into her words.
“Brodie no longer fights Murphy and my wedding plans.” Taking deep breaths, she added, “He even gave his blessing.”
Ollie resumed the slapping motion of the knife on the strop. “Why the long face then, pray tell?”
Had Laurel not blinked several times, hovering tears would’ve spilled. “I can’t marry Murphy. I don’t love him—not proper, the way a wife should a husband.”
“I wouldn’t have much call to know about them things, me being a spinster and all, but I reckon tender feelings grow on a body if you give ’em half a chance.”
A lump that refused to budge reduced Laurel’s declaration to a raspy whisper. “And what if I love someone else?”
; “Son of a bluejacket, I figured something like that. You gotta get up mighty early in the morn to fool one of us b’Dams.”
“Horsefeathers. You made up that name after a half-deaf Missourian mistook Burrdan as b’Dam.”
“Shore, but who’s to dispute it ain’t real?” Ollie gave her a one-eyed squint. “So does Brodie’s change of heart mean he’s not reading from the same hymn book you are?”
The harsh reality of offering her to another after kissing her silly opened the gaping wound wider. “Moonmist my eye.”
“What in God’s name is that crazy babbling about?” Ollie demanded. “And what the devil is moonmist?”
The flowery words meant nothing to the man. They’d only suited Brodie’s purpose in getting what he wanted. She’d been foolish enough to think he cared for her.
“Nothing. Getting back to the change of heart. I don’t think Brodie knows what he wants. Thank goodness I haven’t told him how I feel about him.” Laurel crossed her fingers and hoped so, at least. That finely cocked eyebrow of his was something she cared not to witness.
“I swear, everyone’d be better off if I blast that man with my forty-four the minute he steps back into town.”
Except her…and the rebel gentleman, of course.
* * *
Not one to waste words in idle chatter, Nora’s quiet presence comforted. Questions cluttering Laurel’s head required concentration. Yet, logic skittered worse than rambunctious children the harder she looked for answers.
This yanking back and forth kept her reeling. She was much too old for such games.
Stellar didn’t begin to describe Brodie’s record. Lord knows she’d invested a lifetime of emotion since they met. The latest round only heaped fresh pain atop the old. Although to his credit, he had gone after those little girls. No matter what else, she had reason to owe him for that.
When he returned she’d badger him regarding his intentions.
Or none? The possibility left a bitter taste on her tongue.
A stone Nora used to crush dried plants scraped against a hollowed out piece of granite. The woman ground them into fine powder exactly the way her forebears had.
Laurel recognized golden seal, sagebrush, wild ginger, and sassafras leaves. Other roots and bark neatly piled to the side escaped her, yet she knew Nora could tell each and their usage.
Seated beside Murphy’s bed, Laurel met the Indian woman’s mysterious, dark eyes, wondering what thoughts filled Nora’s head. Did the woman share her tepee with a man? Or have babies?
Murphy’s hand twitched inside hers. Laurel’s returned slight pressure was meant to assure the unconscious man of her presence.
Strange how, now that she knew which path not to take, she had to sit silently and wait for Murphy to wake up. His reaction crossed her mind. For certain he’d be disappointed and perhaps angry. But crushed? Heaven forbid, she prayed not.
“Nora, how long do you think he’ll sleep like this?”
“Only the Great One knows. Many moons maybe.” Nora shrugged. “I do not guess. Why ask a foolish thing?”
“I have something of great importance to tell Murphy.”
Irritation crossed her high cheekbones. “This thing—is it important to the man or you?”
Laurel’s face heated. Poor Murphy fought for every breath, yet her need to correct a bad mistake became selfishly paramount. She’d jilt a gentle, kind man to justify ill-fated love for a gray-eyed rebel who seemed more inclined to think her a bothersome fly and would move on when the urge struck.
“It’s vital only to me.” Shame kept her reply low. “I’ve deeply wronged Murphy and desire to fix it.”
“Then find forgiveness in your heart, not in the eyes of a sick man. It will wait. All things come in time.”
Truth of the ages. And even should he regain his senses this second, she’d have to continue with a pretense. No telling when he’d grow strong enough to hear what she must say.
She was stuck in a lie.
* * *
Brodie slid from horseback to view a blood-stained boulder where someone had rested. Once bright red, the tacky secretion had begun to brown. With the rain stopping, the horse trail yielded other drops and smudges, none more fresh than this.
Pray to God it hadn’t come from one of those girls.
“The bleeding’s worsening, Smokey.” Whoever it belonged to could die soon, particularly if they’d been gutshot.
The Appaloosa snorted and pawed the ground.
“I swear, if I didn’t have so much time and effort invested, I’d turn you out to pasture for being smart-assed.” He kept his voice low, grabbed the saddle horn and swung up.
“Take that strawberry roan I had. Pearly Gates was one hell of a horse. Unlike you, he knew his place.” Smokey bent his neck to shoot a baleful look. “Asked or otherwise, Pearly Gates never voiced an opinion.”
That roan did have one fault, Brodie reckoned. He fancied himself a lady-killer. Tried to mount every mare he came near.
The Appaloosa broke into a canter.
“No need to go getting jealous. Pearly Gates met his end when a posse ran us into the Black Hills of Dakota territory.”
Brodie draped the reins over an arm while he rolled a smoke. He recalled the day he’d never forget and the horse that had never known his bottom. Pearly Gates thought he could do anything, even jump a canyon to escape blue bellies. They didn’t make it. Gravity carried them into a river below. The force broke the animal’s legs and he’d had to shoot the roan that’d seen him through the war. The memory sliced through his chest as if it’d happened days ago. How fortunate to own two horses whose hearts were bigger than the great outdoors.
He smoothed Smokey’s withers. “I’ve been mighty blessed and that’s a fact. Couldn’t ask for more.”
Except for Lil’s love.
And Murphy had that. She’d never be his.
Brodie wondered if his brother still drew breath. The bond tying them nothing could sever, not even Laurel, not anything. He wouldn’t fight his brother. He brought Smokey to a standstill and looked up through the pine trees at a patch of blue sky.
“It’s been a long while,” he prayed reverently. “And you may have your ears closed to the likes of my kind, but I’m asking a favor. That is, if you’ve a mind to listen.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m willing to strike a bargain. You let my brother live…and I’ll forget all about Laurel.”
Something rustled the scrub brush. He jerked around, his palm automatically sliding to the revolver.
* * *
“Morning, Ollie.” Jake finished winding the barber pole in front of the shop. “Care to come sit a spell?”
Ollie skirted mud puddles left by the morning shower and took one of several chairs where she could take in the goings-on. Despite loathing the barber, she took advantage of every opportunity to needle him. It provided untold entertainment.
“Jake, how’s the world treatin’ you?”
“Cain’t complain.”
Thumbs stuck inside his galluses, Jake leaned back. From all appearances, his hair, slicked and parted down the middle, might’ve gotten a dousing in the lard bucket. The mustache hadn’t escaped a dipping either. Something had stiffened it into a bow. The twirled-up ends resembled hairy buggy springs. Ollie disguised her laughter behind a cough.
“I’ve got some tonic sure to cure that,” he offered.
“Stuff your remedies into your mustache, you old coot, ’cause I ain’t taking none of your god-awful skunk tonic.”
“Just being helpful. Why do you insist on smoking that nasty pipe anyway? It’s likely what’s making you cough.”
She puffed away and watched the smoke curl from her mouth. “I could ask why you hafta use lard for pomade, but I reckon you’re an expert on those things, you being in the barbering pr
ofession and all.”
“Do you figure Yates caught up with the Blanchard gang?”
“Can’t speculate. But those murdering bushwhackers will wish to God he hadn’t when he gets done with ’em.” She spied Jeb Prater hobbling from the stage depot on crutches. “Bet Jeb’s regretting his smart mouth.”
“Wonder if the boy’s leaving soon? You know, I still can’t figure why Yates gets so riled. Take my friend, Martin. Black is black and white is white. No changing it.”
“I ain’t gonna waste breath explaining to an ignoramus who’s too goldarned stupid. Girls are girls and boys are boys—different but the same. That’s all I’m saying on the subject.”
Ollie grinned when Florence Kempshaw strolled hell-bent for them. Everyone in town knew the vinegar-tongued busybody had set her cap for Jake, although personally Ollie had no idea what Florence would want with the greasy-haired bag of bones.
“Thank goodness, she left me alone.” Jake relaxed his grip on the chair when Florence veered into the office of Thomas Hutson, Attorney at Law. He swatted a fly from his mustache. “Appears the old biddy found someone else to gripe at.”
“I swear, you’re as charitable as a preacher in a hurdy-gurdy house. If you’d loosen up a mite and sweet-talk her, she might not be plumb soured on life.”
“No one has that many words in their vocabulary. Besides, I’d rather spend ’em on you, Ollie b’Dam.”
She wished to tell Jake he could kiss her rear end, but only if he washed his face first. Instead she planted a seed to watch what grew. “Reckon you haven’t heard. I’m spoken for.”
“You don’t say. And who would that be?”
“Curley Madison.”
“Of the Dry Gulch Saloon?”
She nodded with delight. “The one and only.”
“What would a prosperous gent want with an old sourdough biscuit-eater?”
“Why, you!” Ollie kicked the nearest bony shin.
“Ow! I won’t be able to stand up now to cut hair.”
“I hope you cain’t. Teach you to mend your nasty ways.”
“Don’t know why you get the cream of the crop and I’m left with old biddies.”
