by Linda Broday
* * *
Brodie sat on the side of the bed, pondering the sorry state of affairs.
Too early to go to bed.
Besides, he had yet to remove clothing or boots. And he may not. He reckoned he’d slept fully dressed more often than not, particularly after a snoot full of Mexican tequila.
Damn, he should’ve brought up some of Murph’s private whiskey stash. For a moment he considered slipping back out.
He propped himself against the sturdy oak bedstead that had belonged to dozens of Yateses before him. He bit the end off one of the three precious cheroots left. The smooth, mellow tobacco of these was preferable to the hand-rolled Bull Durham, but he couldn’t justify the extra price too often. Only on special occasions when he most needed comfort did he indulge.
He considered tonight one that met those requirements.
Striking a match, he stared at the toes of his worn boots. They’d traveled many a mile, a lot of that through hostile territory.
Having spent the better part of the evening across the street from Ollie’s Café, he wasn’t certain if that classified as hostile, but then again, the atmosphere hadn’t been all that accommodating either. Laurel’s strange mood spooked him.
His feet had numbed up on him, watching for hours through the window, groaning aloud with each bend, twist, and sway of those alluring hips.
Herman Green and his wife, Mabel, had passed by with their wagonload of thirteen kids. From their bold stares, they must’ve heard the rumble in his throat. He returned the look, waiting to see if a kid fell out and call an alert because they’d never miss one. When all bumped, jostled, and stayed put, his thoughts had quickly returned to Laurel and her intriguing hour-glass figure.
How snug her rounded bottom had fit into his lap yesterday. The rubbing friction had severely tested his control. He never again wished to come that close to tasting what he wanted and the devil take anyone who tried to stop him.
Then he wouldn’t be content until he buried himself inside her up to his eyeballs.
Georgia clay. He’d break the news to Murph himself if it’d get her into his bed faster.
The bed squeaked as Brodie adjusted his pants, hoping to relieve a bit of pressure off the bulge that suddenly made them too tight.
Removing them would solve the problem. After all, he had the privacy of the bedroom. Yet, in some strange way he welcomed the uncomfortable sensation, for it reminded him of that damn painting of two bodies with heads.
One of these days, he promised.
He punched a pillow and stuffed it behind his head. His hand brushed the memory bag hidden beneath the dark shirt.
Three women whose lives intertwined with his…three women who had never received true justice, not Elizabeth Yates, not Aunt Lucy, and certainly not Laurel.
The men who’d kidnapped and forced her into that lurid world walked free and unencumbered while Laurel remained locked in a prison, perhaps unable to ever regain what she’d lost. Proof of that lay in the fact that her family lived only miles away, yet she couldn’t bring herself to seek the solace they could give.
Justice? Hardly.
Losing one’s family could yank a person’s soul right from the mooring and leave a rotting plank. He knew from experience how bare it left the shore.
It scared the piss out of him to think what it might do to a sensitive lady like Laurel.
“Zeke Vallens, you’d better hope to God you’re dead because you and Will Taft have a mess of answering to do.”
Twenty-four
“Git upstairs and grab your bonnet, girl. We’re taking a buggy ride,” Ollie announced a full five days later after tense questions and speculation surrounding Vallens’s vanishing act.
“A buggy ride? Wherever to?”
“Never you mind.” The woman hustled Laurel toward the narrow stairs. “Do as you’re told and you’ll be a lot better off. Cain’t go nowhere if you stand there dragging your behind.”
“And what about the café that everyone expects us to open regardless on a Sunday? Last week the mere mention of closing for a boat trip up to Jefferson curled your hair. Not that it couldn’t stand a curl or two. Beats me what Curley sees in those spikes. But then, I’m no expert on affairs of the heart.”
“Exactly. And my hair is my business.” Ollie twisted a wiry lock around her finger to make it reach for the ceiling.
“You didn’t answer about the café.”
“Folks ain’t supposed to work on Sunday. It’s the Lord’s day. Reason why we have until now was because we had to. Now we don’t, so we ain’t.”
Laurel shook her head. The woman would have the last word or die. Somehow, she had trouble believing Olivia Applejack d’Dam had suddenly gotten filled with the holy spirit. A half hour later, they loaded a wicker picnic basket into a rented rig.
“You could’ve said we’re having a picnic.”
“Could’ve but didn’t. Wanted to surprise you.”
“You invited Curley to join us, I suppose?”
“Nope.”
Ollie jiggled the reins, urging the horse into a trot.
“Am I allowed to ask where we’re going in such a rush?”
“Dadblasted. I’m done answering questions. Sit back and put your mind on pleasant things.”
Judging the attempt useless, Laurel moved slightly to keep the torn leather from poking her. Escape would be nice after the grinding their nerves had taken.
But, one gratifying thing…she’d gotten a little of the elixir down Ollie, which she considered a pure miracle.
The chestnut mare wound through the noble land full of cottonwood and pines. Clusters of white Indian tobacco blossoms blended with pink smartweed, painting a wondrous mural of the bayou. Big Cypress existed nowhere else on earth. No wonder the Caddo Indians, of which Nora belonged, called this home. How sad only a handful remained of the once huge tribe.
“Ollie, what do you suppose happened to the Indians who lived here in the swamp?”
“Heard tell most of ’em died, and them what didn’t got run off by money-hungry land-grubbers.”
“That’s such a shame.”
Potter’s Point loomed ahead, a place of mystery. She prayed they’d steer clear of Rob Potter’s grave. The sight made her skin crawl.
“Shame belongs to men like Potter, who lied, cheated, and stole whatever he took a notion.” Ollie squinted at her through one eye. “You remind me of his poor wife, Harriet, in a kindly sort of way. The strength of that lady is still legendary.”
“I grew up hearing the stories, but I’d not dare utter her name and mine in the same breath.”
“Don’t be so quick. Harriet had more reason than most to quit living. Instead, she fought with everything she had and defeated the odds. I’d say you might share part of that.”
Love and happiness for her? Both seemed as far removed as the stars in the sky. She’d only glimpsed Brodie from a distance since that morning in Murphy’s garden. Still, she counted a glimpse now and then a blessing, half expecting him to move on since quitting the sheriff job. It simply hurt to know he’d give someone with the plague less snubbing than he did her and the café. She cleared the lump blocking her windpipe.
“Horsefeathers. I’m an outcast. Six months hasn’t changed anyone’s opinion,” Laurel said.” Least of all those who mattered most.
Ollie pulled back on the reins to stop the rig and turned. “Reminds me of something my grandpappy said a long time ago, God rest his poor old soul. He said, ‘If’n you go around calling a gold nugget a rock, ain’t never gonna be nothing but a measly rock. But you shine it up and call it what it is, and you’ll have a regular stampede on your hands.’”
Laurel blew out an exasperated breath. “Your grandsire talked in riddles, most likely just to flap his tired old gums.”
The woman shook her hea
d. “I call ’em pearls of wisdom.”
“Well, I’m no gold nugget. You can spit and shine until there’s no tomorrow, be my guest.”
“Son of a bluejacket. Call yourself a rock and that’s all folks’ll see.” Ollie clicked her tongue to move the horse onward. “There’s a whole mess of jewels buried inside you—diamonds and rubies and those green sparkly ones, whatever they’re called.”
“Emeralds,” Laurel provided.
“Yep, and them, too. Mostly you have a heart of pure gold, the finest grade a man ever could find.”
The mare turned south away from the river and Ollie stopped beneath a loblolly pine.
“I reckon this’ll do for a picnic. About halfway there.”
“Tell me where we’re going, you crabby kidnapper.”
“Nope.”
The wind gusted abruptly. She shivered, but not from cold. “Is it someplace I wish to go?”
“Yep, you do. Now shush and help me.”
Laurel tried to ignore the quiet voice that warned the woman had some dirty trick up her sleeve and spread the blanket. They dined on cold fried chicken, a loaf of Laurel’s homemade bread, and fresh pickles.
When they resumed the mysterious journey, the landscape became painfully familiar. She’d romped here as a child.
She clutched Ollie’s arm. “Turn around right now.”
“Sorry, girl. We’ve come too far.”
“I can’t. I truly can’t.” Icy cold crept over her. “Please.”
“I’m taking you home, girl. Goldarn it, face your demons.”
“Not today.” A harsh roar in her head made her voice unrecognizable. Ollie, of all people, would force this on her?
“Nothing wrong with now. You can let go of my arm any time. That is if you can pry your fingernails loose from the skin.”
“I never thought you’d misuse my trust.”
“Hide and watch from the trees is all I ask. I ain’t gonna make you go up to the house. You have to decide that yourself.”
A dried soup bone gnawed on by a pack of wolves would’ve had more moisture than Laurel’s mouth. Just before reaching the James farmhouse, Ollie found a thicket to pull the rig into.
“Skirt though the woods over there.” The woman’s face turned ashen. She clutched her chest. “I’m feeling a mite poorly.”
“How gullible do you take me? This ruse is an all-time low, even for you.”
A gasping moan and wide-eyed stare assured her that Ollie wasn’t faking. Laurel fumbled to loosen the high-necked collar.
“Up and die on me and I’ll never forgive you.”
Ollie panted, “Ain’t planning to…unless the good Lord…says otherwise.”
The lid flew off the picnic basket. Laurel grabbed the crock of water, holding it to Ollie’s pale lips. The woman took several sips and didn’t protest when Laurel laid her over in the seat of the buggy.
“Give me a minute. My old ticker’s getting awfully tired.”
“I think I should light a fire under this mare and get to Jefferson.” Laurel smoothed the lovable forehead. She’d have to prop Ollie’s head in her lap to sit, but at least they’d reach help. She slid onto the seat and reached for the reins.
“Maybe I should tell you something.”
“Not now, Ollie. It’ll wait.”
“I think I killed Vallens.”
Laurel froze. “You think?”
“Yep. I’m pretty sure, all right.”
Oh Lord, the woman had not only thieved, but murdered too.
That tied her hands. She couldn’t take her to Jefferson and risk having the soldiers arrest Ollie. Better her dear friend die peacefully in the woods than strung up for murder. Or cross over to the other side while in the midst of those scalawags and carpetbaggers—Ollie’s worst nightmare. The woman would haunt her forever.
Slowly color eked back into the white face and Ollie could breathe without grimacing.
“You killed the angel of death? You went out and shot him, just like that?”
“I know my time grows short. Someone had to protect you.”
“Now’s a fine time to confess, I must say.”
“Better now than carry the baggage across.”
“What am I supposed to do? I can’t get you to a doctor and have you blab the news and wind up in the stockade.”
“I expect you to follow my wishes, and your heart. Go see your poor old mama and papa. I brung you this far, girl. From here it’s up to you. You don’t need me holding your hand.”
“And leave you alone in the middle of the woods?”
“I’ll be fine and dandy resting here. And after you get done with what you need to do, we’ll go home. Now, quit dilly-dallying. Move them legs of yours and git, dadblast it.”
Steel in Ollie’s bark made her wonder anew. Ollie had never recovered this fast before. Heaven help the trickster if she was pulling Laurel’s leg.
One little peek at her home wouldn’t hurt, she supposed. They’d never know of her visit.
Strange excitement stirred when she found a path toward the wooden farmhouse. Her heart pounded faster with each step. Security in the trees and overgrowth gave her confidence. Each bird, blade of grass, the very wind seemed to whisper a welcome home. The hushed, silent land held arms open wide.
At last the house glimmered through silvery branches. Jagged pieces of her soul came together to form a whole.
From the leafy screen of her hiding place, Laurel watched. The familiar creak of the rocking chair on the wide porch encouraged a better look. The skirted figure leaned to pluck a kitten rubbing against her legs. Laurel crept closer.
White streaked her mother’s dark hair. Common sense had prepared her for that. It was the heavy wrinkles that brought shock and dismay.
“Millie, come and get Boots,” Mary James called. “Give the little thing a dish of milk.”
“All right, Mama.” A girl ran from the side of the house.
Millie? Laurel never imagined the baby, who hadn’t even reached the walking stage when she’d been taken, had grown into a gangly six-year-old.
An elderly man stepped through the open door. Laurel’s breath caught. She pushed the brush aside for a clear view.
“The darn kitten’s supposed to catch mice. You keep feeding him milk and he won’t have an appetite for the pests.”
“Oh, Papa. He’s a baby. When he gets big, he’ll catch your smelly, old mice. Besides, Mama agrees.”
“Jeremiah and Virgil’s idea of drowning the litter in the bayou might have merit,” Ben James teased.
“They better not.” Millie snatched the kitten and ran as her father bent his lanky form to sit on the top step.
Misty-eyed, Laurel watched him take an object from the bibbed overalls. Blurred vision didn’t prevent her from making out the mouth harp he’d carried probably since before her birth.
“Nice time of day, ain’t it?” He cupped the harp in his palms and blew lightly across the reeds.
“Same as any other. Just sitting here waiting for the miracle I won’t ever live to see,” Mary James answered sadly.
“Don’t get maudlin. Can’t dwell on the past. Not good.”
Crouched low, Laurel heard the catch in her mother’s wishful thinking. Gut-wrenching pain lurched inside.
“I know, Ben. But a mother still can’t turn loose.”
“I curse that war. Me and the boys would’ve found Laurel if not for The Cause sending the country into uproar and chaos. I know that in my bones.”
Despair flew straight across the clearing and punctured her heart. She shouldn’t have come. What did she think to gain?
“Not your fault, Ben. You did all that was humanly possible.”
Her father lifted the harmonica again to his lips. The first strains of “Home, Sweet Home” drif
ted in the air. Laurel shut her eyes, blocking the tears. Allowing herself to feel, to savor the taste of home was her biggest mistake. Now want and need suffocated her in slow death.
A barking dog drowned the music. Panic forced open her eyes. Ol’ Blue Boy bounded straight for her lush, green shield.
“Wonder what he treed?” her father remarked.
“Probably a coon. Play some more, Ben. It soothes my frazzled nerves.”
Laurel scurried, but not quickly enough. The bloodhound crashed through, knocking her over. Blue Boy had smelled her scent. The hound joyfully licked every exposed bit of skin. She buried her face in his fur, then took his muzzle that had turned gray between her hands.
“I’ve missed you. Oh God, I’ve missed you so much.”
The dog couldn’t contain his exuberance. He jumped on top of her, his floppy ears slapping her cheeks.
She jerked at a sudden, shrill whistle.
“Here, Blue. Where’d you go, you flea-bitten hound?” The yell came from a much younger male.
Heavy feet crunched the tangle of brush and fallen limbs.
“Hannah, are you up here? Here, Blue. I mean it, now.”
Seconds separated her brother, Quaid, and her. She had to go. Yet, part of her wanted Quaid to find her. It would end the agonizing years of longing for her family.
They’d ask questions. Lots of them.
Condemnation and judgment would follow. They’d find out.
“I can’t,” she whispered into the beloved fur.
Sad brown eyes stared back in confusion of things he didn’t comprehend.
“Go, Blue Boy, go home.” She swallowed the rising sob.
The dog’s low whimper seemed to say he didn’t want her to leave again. She blocked the noise, lifting her skirts for flight. After a few leaps, she turned for one last look at the home she’d have to learn to forget, the animal that had remembered and loved her no matter what she’d done, and then at Quaid who scrambled up the small incline.
In her moment’s hesitation, she found herself overcome by the glistening trickle running down Blue’s face. Dogs couldn’t cry. Could they?
