by Linda Broday
Stay and fight or…fight to stay?
Either way he’d lose something—his life, redemption, or his sanity.
Damn Vallens’s sorry hide to hell and back.
Had that skunk not taken up residence in Redemption, Brodie could’ve delivered the two little ladies and handed Blanchard over to the town’s bravest—if he could’ve found one brave soul. He would’ve told his brother good-bye and ridden on.
The bayou held a million areas far better suited for hiding. Few white men had seen some of the dark, backwater places he knew existed.
Meanwhile, the bargain he made with himself, not to mention the man upstairs, to spare Murphy’s life hung by a thread.
Thank goodness for sturdy kitchen tables and his knack for angering pretty women. Otherwise it could’ve led to disaster.
Fighting the urge to take Laurel in his arms and kiss her until he stripped the ache from his soul had sapped every ounce of fortitude and then some.
Pure weakness almost destroyed them both.
“Sweet Georgia clay. Why did I have to give her the go ahead to marry Murph? I pushed her straight into his arms.” Brodie’s noisy grumbling disturbed the prisoner. Bert Blanchard grunted and rolled over before he resumed snoring.
This silver star trapped Brodie. Circumstance forced him to see her each day and not touch. The odds worked against him. Resistance to the current would wear him down to nothing.
Certain reality about tempting fate… Something would break sooner or later.
Mulling over the likelihood of being worthy of Laurel’s love and trust sent heat rushing to his middle. A perfect wish. And yet one that bore little hope of fruition.
A familiar need tightened and rose, drawing taut his buckskin trousers.
Damn her throaty voice and big violet eyes.
For argument’s sake he let his imagination run wild.
He fancied crawling inside her and hanging out a Do Not Disturb sign. And then, he’d show Laurel exactly how much he loved her.
Twenty
“Heard that goldarned music box.” Ollie shoved a cup in her hand when she came downstairs. “Slept nary a wink.”
“I tried to keep quiet. Sorry.”
“Truth of the matter, it weren’t that. Couldn’t shake Vallens’s ugly leer over at the saloon. The cunning devil’s so mean he’d suck eggs from a widow woman’s basket. Bet he’d even hide the shells on a neighbor’s porch.”
“Stay away from him. Far away.” Laurel sniffed the liquid before she took a sip.
“Cain’t very well do that when he slinks around, popping up here and there when a body least expects.”
“Maybe you should tell Curley. He could help.”
“Not ready to do that right yet. Don’t want to see the disappointment when he finds out I’m a thief. I ain’t ever had a man treat me as some sort of prize before. It’s sorta nice and I don’t want to hurry the ruination of it.”
“Do you think hearing it from Vallens will make it less hurtful?”
Ollie twisted the dishcloth. “Maybe just a mite longer.”
The sadness and agony in a voice that had always spat out exactly what was on her mind was disconcerting. Ollie had always been quick to speak whether a body wished to hear it or not. Laurel didn’t exactly take comfort either in the drawn whiteness around Ollie’s lips.
“I have an idea. We’re down to bare cupboards and it appears our long overdue shipment of meat went by way of China.”
“And overland by camel to Egypt,” Ollie added dryly.
“Let’s catch the steamer to Jefferson. The Lazy Jane docks in a couple of hours. A peaceful ride up Big Cypress Bayou and back might soothe our jangled nerves. We’ll forget the Grim Reaper for a day. The sound of water swishing over the paddle wheels and staring up at big, fluffy clouds might be nice.”
“You’ve lost your mind. Folks’ll expect open doors.”
“With low stores, we can’t offer much anyway.”
“Nope. I ain’t going anywhere near that carpetbagging, rabble-rousing mess. No sirree. You go and I’ll take care of these wheybellies. I can whip up a mean batch of corn pones and boil a big pot of beans. That’ll suffice, I reckon. And if it don’t, our customers can go jump in the swamp.”
“You’re the most stubborn, cantankerous woman I’ve ever met or I’ll eat your hat.”
“You saying I cain’t serve up a few vittles?” Smoke curled, blocking the one-eyed glare. “You saying I’m old and not up to such a measly task? I was cooking long before you ever seen a pot.”
“Well, I can see you’ve got your back bowed. That you can do whatever you set a mind to isn’t the issue.”
The state of a frail heart didn’t make it past her lips.
Or leaving her with God-knows-what up Vallens’s sleeve.
“I have no earthly desire to go mixing with blue bellies so thick you can’t put one foot in front of the other without kicking one in the shins. No thank ye. Ain’t anything I’d take joy in—except maybe the kicking part.”
“What about your angel of death and waiting for when he’ll pounce?”
“Curley’s here. That swill-pusher’s been dying to sling out something more’n whiskey. We’ll do just fine, thank you.” Ollie raised her skirt, tugged a crisp roll of bills from beneath a garter, and pressed them into Laurel’s palm. “Might as well use some of these new gen-u-wine railroad notes. I hear they’re liable to spend better than the rest. Leastwise folks tend to think they do.”
Laurel felt weak. And suspicious.
“Don’t tell me you’ve gone into counterfeiting.”
“A fool thing to say.” Ollie dipped down into her bosom and fished out a gold double eagle. “Buy a new dress or a hat, one of them frilly kind with flowers on it. Turning a man’s head could loosen up his tongue on intentions. Even Yates’.”
Laurel’s watery smile doubted that. She hesitated.
“Girl, unless you go, we might as well board up the joint. You’ve earned a break for working your fingers plumb to the bone. I only ask one favor.”
“That depends.”
Some things a girl couldn’t promise.
“I want you to get shed of that store-bought smile. Come home wearing a real one that grows from deep inside, the kind that lights up your face.”
Laurel’s throat caught at mention of home. Truly, Ollie was her family and the café was more than a place to sleep.
“And another thing—steer clear of them damn boot-licking soldiers and that stockade, you hear?”
* * *
The jailhouse door shielded Brodie from view. To say the gaze that followed Laurel up the gangplank of the Lazy Jane could be construed by some as ogling might be wrong. He simply preferred to admire. From a distance.
Soft bayou breeze ruffled the mass of raven ringlets piled atop her head, seeming to taunt his cowardice. She blew a kiss to Ollie and waved good-bye as the boat slowly gathered steam.
The razor-tongued monkey-woman had paid an early visit, informing him of Laurel’s outing.
“Just in case you’re interested.” She’d winked.
He wished in vain for the ability to turn a blind eye. Fact remained, everything the lady did caught his full attention.
With vanilla and pecan praline pie filling his head, he barely noticed the stage halting in front of the hotel. Jeb Prater hobbled on a cane toward the conveyance. With every step, the boy’s eyes flicked in constant motion. Word had it Jeb decided the climate had grown a mite on the warmish side.
Then movement at Gordon’s Livery drew his attention. How the town bustled on this Monday.
Vallens’s horse reared coming from the stables, its forelegs flailing. Brodie winced when the man dealt angry blows from a short crop. Apparently finding defiance futile, the horse let Vallens mount and they trotted west.
>
“Now where is he going?” Brodie didn’t enjoy the sensation of tarantula legs crawling up his back.
Wolf-dog sprang from the shadows, loping beside his master down the road that would take them to Jefferson.
In an instant, the solution over the problem with Blanchard whipped into mind. He yanked off the sheriff badge, tossing it aside, and snatched keys from his desk drawer.
“Get a move on, Bert, I’m taking you for a ride.”
The prisoner sat up. “Ain’t going to no hanging without a trial first. I have rights, you know.”
* * *
A stroll along the promenade deck melted Laurel’s tension. Fresh breeze hinted at nothing more than rain and coming fall.
No sign here of threats…or broken hearts.
A flock of hungry egrets eager for scraps of bread must’ve taken joy in pelting the boat with droppings to thus mar the tranquil day. She hastened from their line of fire to an overhang.
Darn Ollie’s dead-set ways. She shouldn’t have left her.
Preoccupied, Laurel almost dove over the railing when the steam engine flushed out in a loud blow-down. It shouldn’t have lifted her two feet in the air, considering how many times a day the sound echoed up and down the bayou. Her unfortunate decision to stand directly above the outlet was to blame, for she’d received the full blast. The tragedy of the Mittie Stephens and sixty poor souls a couple of months ago shook her nerves. And Vallens.
She closed her eyes and tried to recall every wrinkle in Ollie’s features, the sound of the little bell over the café door, and Murphy’s happy glow when she vowed to marry him.
Instead, the deeply lined face sculpted by the wind of a thousand battles flashed before her eyes.
And a sweat-stained hat that rattled.
By the time the gangplank lowered in Jefferson, her jitters had vanished until a sweeping glance lit upon the huge stockade called Sand Town erected above the bayou at Texas and Common Streets. She’d take pains to stay removed from there.
Considerable change had occurred since she’d last viewed the town through the eyes of an innocent young girl.
However, some sights remained true to recollection. Bales of cotton lined the wharf. Dock workers formed a steady stream, unloading crates and boxes that bore the king of spades playing card. With few able to read, she recalled her father telling how each city’s assigned card eliminated costly errors.
Pieces of her former self fell into place with the haunting tunes the deckhands sang while they worked.
She hurried down Walnut to Polk Street, taking care of business first and foremost. Thank her lucky stars for the office in town; otherwise she’d have to traipse all the way out to the smelly packing plant two miles south. This saved hiring a hack and paying the toll to cross the bridge.
A gentleman who might’ve passed for Jake’s twin twirled a mustache when she entered the J.P. Dunn Meat Cannery.
“Yes, madam?”
“I’m inquiring about an order for Ollie’s Café bound for Redemption three weeks ago. It never arrived.”
“Let me check our records.” The man opened a thick book and ran a bony finger down a list. “Hmm. It appears someone scratched through the name, thus we never shipped.”
The odd and costly misunderstanding raised her ire.
“Why would anyone do such a thing? I can assure you, my good man, no one canceled the shipment.”
“I wouldn’t know of matters that go on in the female mind.”
“Meaning?” She stiffened, glaring at the pompous oaf.
“To state it indelicately, women have somewhat, shall we say, notorious peculiarity for changing their minds on a whim. Give them this and they want that.”
“Well, I never.”
A graying man walked from behind a curtain. “Pennybacker, what the devil are you doing? Customers keep our doors open and pay your wage, which by the way I can terminate very quickly.”
Pennybacker’s face reddened. “Indeed, I beg your pardon. I deeply regret the error and my statement, madam.”
“As do I,” she mumbled.
Evidently not mollified, Pennybacker’s boss ordered, “If I were you, I’d get moving to the rear door. A farmer brought a load of hogs to take to the packing plant for slaughter. While you’re at it, stay there until I decide you’re fit to be around something other than dead carcasses.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Dunn. I’m already on my way, sir.”
Mr. Dunn swiveled back to her. “Now, tell me what I can do to fix the problem, young lady.”
Laurel emerged with a promise that the beef and pork would be on the Lazy Jane’s return trip.
Sedberry’s Apothecary on Dallas came next for a certain elixir touted for amazing cures. Perhaps it would fix Ollie’s heart. That would indeed be miraculous.
Newly cut lumber prevailed over burned hulks of businesses left gutted by a huge fire the previous year rumored to be the handiwork of a carpetbagger named G. W. Smith. Carpenters worked in a frenzy, some hammering while others carried long boards up ladders. She swiveled this way and that to dodge catastrophe. The hubbub grated. Redemption’s peaceful quiet had advantages. Eager to prevent a trampling and bypass an ogling group of soldiers, she crossed to the other side and didn’t slow for several blocks.
A cameo necklace in the window of Ney and Brothers drew her. The white silhouette overlaid on onyx spoke of purity that a respected, fashionable lady would wear. Mindful to turn away from her reflection, she fancied tying the black velvet ribbon and letting the cameo rest in the hollow of her throat.
The daydream burst.
Ladies of questionable nature would never own such beauty.
Meanwhile, Sedberry’s beckoned.
“Would you have some tincture of hawthorn berries?” she inquired of the gentleman inside.
“Yes indeed. However, I fervently hope someone other than yourself has need of it. What a dear shame to lose a pretty one in the flower of her youth.”
If he only knew she’d long lost the flower of her youth. She’d aged rapidly.
“It’s for another. How much do I owe?”
The man accepted the gold double eagle and bit down. “Can’t be too careful these days. Some feller’s coating silver coins and passing them.” A warning came along with the appropriate change: “Follow the directions carefully.”
Laurel slipped the precious bottle into her handbag. She closed the door behind her, praying she’d bought Ollie a few extra days.
Jars of candy and dry goods in J. M. Murphy and Company waylaid her. Redemption’s small mercantile devoted its limited space to things less frivolous. Busy tallying a woman’s bill, a male clerk gave her a fleeting glance.
“Make yourself at home. Someone will be with you shortly.”
She spied the ready-made dresses hanging from hooks on the wall, more rare in the bayou than candy. She moved toward the stylish cut of a pretty blue, fingering the taffeta and silk.
“You have the figure for that if I do say so.”
Laurel turned. A few gray streaks added matronly flair to the dark-haired woman. Twinkling eyes added humor.
“Oh, I can’t buy it. I’m only browsing.”
“Passionflower. That’s what they call the color. Isn’t that the most romantic name you ever heard tell of?”
The woman’s bold examination gave Laurel warning pricks.
“You’re not from here. I know every dog, coon, and hen house. I’m Mrs. Georgia Rutabaga of the Tyler Rutabagas. But say, you do resemble the James clan over at Turkey Creek.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “I just arrived on the Lazy Jane. I wouldn’t know them.”
Mrs. Rutabaga whipped out a shimmering lavender hidden behind the others. “This was made for you. With those violet eyes I guarantee it’d capture a young gentleman’s affections.”
“No!” The word burst harsh and brittle.
Alarm crossed the woman’s face. “Oh dear. I wouldn’t have upset you for the world and everything in it.”
Laurel fought nausea and spun for the door, leaving poor Mrs. Rutabaga, of the Tyler Rutabagas, with her mouth gaping.
Barbershop, millinery, and stables passed in a blur. When Laurel regained her senses, she stood in front of a sign stating Excelsior Hotel. Years ago it’d carried the Irvine House name. She dropped to a bench amid the jangle of the departing stage.
Contact with the lavender had shaken her to the core. Time should’ve lessened that pain. Ollie assured her it would. The agony shouldn’t persist fresh as the night she’d escaped.
Maybe she and being normal had forever parted company.
Streams of people entered and exited the hotel, each sending curious stares. Afraid they might approach, she moved on. Sidestepping blue bellies set her on an aimless path that led back to Dallas Street in front of the telegraph office.
A chance glance through the open door froze the blood in her veins. A black-frocked figure stood inside. The dog poised beside the man confirmed it.
That Vallens may have followed her made her head whirl. Did he telegraph Will Taft?
Laurel ducked into the nearest shop when he exited. Through the window she stared in horror when he gripped a young girl’s arm. There was something familiar in the sweet dimples.
Shock rippled through her. Features of a forgotten vision took shape.
Resemblance to her sister was more than wishful fancy.
In the back of her mind had lurked the possibility of running into some of her family with them so near, but it hadn’t seemed anything beyond a lost daydream. Until this moment.
The shiny cinnamon-colored hair, pert nose, and sparkling hazel eyes were unmistakable. Her sister had grown into a striking beauty. Quick calculation made Hannah, who’d been nine back then, fifteen years old. Laurel’s age when the world turned upside down.
