by Sierra Rose
Despite being distracted by all the drama taking place here and now, Letty couldn’t help feeling a smidgen of pride that she looked her best, and she could but wish that Reese had found time to take heed of her appearance. Bountiful hair tied back with a pretty beige silk bow; three-piece dress of warm burgundy and ecru, bodice built with lace and covered buttons; striped underskirt and slightly poufy cream-colored short overskirt only adding to her allure (she hoped).
Reese was the last to be served. Her hand did not tremble, as she passed the cup and saucer to him; her grasp did not allow the porcelain to rattle; her fingers did not touch his in anticipation and anguish. No. After all, she had coldly ordered him, just three days previously, to stay away until he was ready to share. That might be in the works, but it hadn’t happened yet.
“Is everyone at ease?” Camellia, looking around the room, asked brightly.
Not long ago, Camellia, foreseeing an ever expanding circle of family gatherings, based upon her experience of the last six months, had decided to order a second divan from her husband’s store. Unless she did, she had reasonably argued, there would be no place for guests to sit. Accepting her logic without much fuss, he had sighed and acquiesced.
Now Molly, as usual no slave to decorum, was curled up next to her betrothed, with his arm happily encircling her waist and her head resting against his shoulder. In the corner of this newest addition to the parlor furnishings, Hannah, feeling plainly discomfited by such a public display but reluctant to make any fuss during important proceedings, was installed.
Ben and Camellia had more circumspectly taken the settee opposite, with Letitia squeezed stiffly in beside them. Then there were Gabriel and Reese, settled into their single upholstered chairs—one of carved mahogany and tufted red velvet, the other an oak rocker padded in rose needlepoint.
All sat quietly, sipping tea. Waiting.
Camellia beamed. “Very well, Reese. Or—Cole, if you prefer. Please begin, because we’d very much like to hear your story.”
A muscle flickered along the line of his jaw as he stared down at his half-empty cup. “I thank you, ma’am, but I ain’t rightly sure where to start.”
Carefully Ben cleared his throat. Clearly the sudden reappearance of this prodigal brother was not only stunning, but also very welcome. Witness to that was the smile that simply would not, could not, leave his face, and brightened the softly lit surroundings like a shaft of sunshine. “We saw each other, partway through the war, that last time I left the farm forever. Start there.”
If the younger Forrester felt some sense of intimidation by laying his soul bare (so to speak) in front of strangers he’d met such a short time ago, he was encouraged by Ben’s immediate acceptance. “Fair enough.”
Reese began with the bit of family history with which Camellia was already familiar: their parents’ home in Memphis, and the strife there almost as contentious as the War itself.
“Our oldest brother, Jackson, got involved at the very beginnin’,” he reminisced quietly. “Joined up with the Confederate army, right after the surrender at Ft. Sumter, and eventually fell at Gettysburg in ’63. Meanwhile Ben, here, took the Union side and fought at the Battle of Shiloh, and somehow found himself mixed up in Antietam, both in ’62. And then,” the register of his voice lowered, “we know what happened after that.”
Molly, still snuggled close to her swain, looked up with widened eyes. “What happened?” she whispered.
The clear green gaze lifted to meet hers. “Ben came home on leave, just for a couplea days, and the folks turned him in. They called the local authorities, who hauled him away in chains.”
Those who had not been aware of this fact—the ladies—gasped in horror. “Their own son?”
“Reckon you were too young, or too far away, to realize what all went on b’tween family members at that time,” Reese reflected. His attention swiveled to Ben, and for just a moment a flash of understanding deepened their bond. “Ma and Pop—well, they were rabid believers in the Cause. The idea that one of their own might put on a blue uniform like to drove ’em crazy, and they couldn’t wait to get this traitor locked away.”
“And hanged,” was Ben’s almost inaudible comment.
Shivering, Camellia took his big hand between both of her own to hold fast.
“He escaped?” This was Hannah, entirely caught up in the harrowing recital.
“He did. By the grace of God he got away, and he never went back. I, myself,” mused their storyteller for his audience, gently swirling what little tea was left in his cup, “joined up the next day. Union, just like my big brother.” He managed a thin smile. “My parents had called me a coward, made me feel lower‘n a snake’s belly b’cause they figured I didn’t wanna bleed and die in a wrongful war. I decided to show ’em.”
“You never told the old man what you were doin’?” Ben showed his surprise.
“Naw. Didn’t see any reason to. Got this—” One finger brushed lightly against the scar on his face, “—at The Wilderness, in ’64. Nasty bayonet, and a nasty man b’hind it.”
“Saw a few of those myself,” said Ben. “So did Doc, here—from the other side of the surgical table. He had to stitch up what was left of them brave boys on the field.”
Gabriel drained his cup, wishing the contents had been some of that fine bourbon he had sampled earlier. Mayhap he might be able to persuade his host to part with the bottle. “Memories I try never to hearken on. Best to not haul ’em up outa the dark past, y’ know.”
“Huh,” Paul, absorbing all this, said pensively. “And I was here in Turnabout the whole time, livin’ a quiet life, just fendin’ off cattle rustlers and chicken thieves.”
Ben snorted. “Tryin’ to keep both factions in town separated, more like. Seems there wasn’t a single place anywhere left untouched by the War.”
“Don’t be so goldarned modest, my friend,” the doctor protested. “There was that outlaw ring you broke up about six years ago, chased the gang clear into Oklahoma and Arkansas. Oh, sure,” his soft chuckle lightened the gravity of this moment, “you may be tryin’ to hide your light under a bushel, Sheriff Winslow. But folks round here were bustin’ their buttons with pride.”
With a self-deprecating shrug, Paul gave his bride-to-be a tender half-smile, patted her hand, and settled back once more.
The women had remained, for the most part, silent during the exchange which centered mainly on male experiences and male flashbacks. Other than an occasional murmur of sympathy, or a little muffled whimper of distress, or a sigh, they simply concentrated on what was being said. These were the men in their lives, who deserved this time of sharing, without interruption.
“So you mustered out okay, once the surrender was signed?” Ben, intent upon every word, was leaning forward, forearms draped across his muscular thighs.
“Had to recover for a while, first. Some other wounds to contend with.” His expression, as he glanced up, wore a distant look, as if he had had to be recalled from somewhere far away. The smoky hills of Virginia, perhaps, or the wooded mountains of Tennessee. “Might I trouble you for another cup of tea, ma’am?”
“Of course you may!” Rising, Camellia checked. “Oh, but the pot is empty. Letty, come with me, please, and help; we’ll brew more. And surely we must have some cookies or fruit bread around, if Gabe hasn’t cleaned out the cupboards.”
He watched her with amusement as she swished away. “I am so relieved that you can use me as a target for your questionable sense of humor,” he called. “At least then you’re not naggin’ after poor Ben, here.”
The ten minutes or so spent rounding up refills and extras gave the group a needed respite from the recital’s emotional gravity. The parlor’s occupants were subdued, other than a casual remark now and then from the doctor, or the clink of a cup against its saucer.
Somewhere outside, a hunting owl had decided to voice a long hoot-hoot, as its great white wings unfurled against the night sky. Various sounds intruded,
to some extent: a few late-blooming crickets had decided to sing their songs, and some little frogs out near their pond added to the chorus. It could not have been a more pleasant early October evening, sending soft errant breezes scented by ripened apples and cut grass into a room filled, not by pleasure, but by uncertainty and suspense.
“There. A fresh pot of tea,” said Camellia, returning to tend to her family. “And I did actually find a container of oatmeal cookies that Gabe apparently overlooked.”
“I think I need somethin’ stronger than tea, this time around,” muttered Ben. He rose, retrieved the bottle still lying upon the rug which had broken its fall, and handed out glasses. “Pour,” he directed Paul. His attention swung back to Reese, with concern. “Were you hurt bad?”
The young man, looking unutterably weary, had been leaning back with eyes closed. “Arm. Leg. Nothin’ that wouldn’t heal, after a while. Left some scars.” With this statement, he did not glance Letitia’s way. Perhaps he did not dare.
Silence for just a moment, then Ben asked, “You told me, when we parted, that you were goin’ to California, wanted to leave all this b’hind.”
“I did. I traveled across the country, stayed in San Francisco a while, worked at a general store there. Not long. Tried the telegraph office. Not long there, either. Couldn’t get settled, seemed like, so I moved on.”
“Ahuh. I came here. Looked around a bit, and approved of what I saw, so I stayed.”
“You built up a good business with the mercantile,” put in Paul, as support.
“And this house,” was Gabe’s contribution. “Got to be a model citizen, in fact,” he added, with a twinkle. “Took over the town as mayor.”
Ben, shifting position to sling one ankle across the other thigh, drew a small smile. “So speaks my fan club.”
“Good to have,” said Reese. “Funny, how we ended up so different: you, all staid and steady and respectable; me, driftin’ from place to place like a gypsy.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Camellia firmly told him. “Here, with all of us.”
The sweep of her free hand included those in the room, closely attending with eyes and ears. Few inquiries or remarks were being made; this was a matter between the brothers, separated by circumstances for nearly six years and doing their best to reunite.
After a sip or two from his bourbon, Ben wondered about Reese’s next landing place.
“Landin’ place? Oh. Well, I couldn’t go much further west without catchin’ a boat somewheres, so I wandered back east again. Stopped in a little place called Birdsong, down in New Mexico Territory, and managed a stage station. Trouble is, some factions were still fightin’ the War, so I lit out after a while.”
“Where to next?”
The sheriff and the doctor could have informed their friend of all this past history, since they had already collected and discussed the particulars in some detail. Wisely, both held their tongues.
For the past year, Reese explained, he’d been residing in Denver. He’d had a good job at a lumber mill, as a sawyer—did such a good job he hadn’t even lost any fingers. After that, he’d taken a position at the Assayer’s Office.
“I dunno.” He held his glass up to the light, squinting at the mellow amber depths as if he hadn’t noticed just how low the level had fallen. “Somethin’ just didn’t—click. I’d been wanderin’ all this time, couldn’t seem to connect to anything or anybody. And then I saw this ad in the newspaper.”
Even tucked away, motionless and soundless, in her corner of the settee, Letty flushed. The color didn’t just rise in her shadowed face; it flamed. Hoping that no one would pay attention, she drew in on herself and tried to be inconspicuous.
“See, Ma sent me one final letter, on my way off to find the holy grail, that caught up with me somewhere around the Mississip’. Oh, I never answered it,” Reese responded to the unanswered question. “You know what things were like in that house. But she did mention she’d heard you were livin’ down here in Turnabout. And, I thought, dang my hide, I’d oughta go visit brother Ben. And then,” he said softly, repeating his earlier words, “I saw this ad in the newspaper.”
This time he looked across at her, in the mellow lamp light, meeting her gaze with such a moving, wistful expression that Letty could actually feel her heart clenching in some indescribable emotion, and a great lump hitting hard in her throat.
“I knew—I knew, then and there, this was what I wanted. What I’d been lookin’ for. So I wrote back.”
A few grains of sand slipped down from top to bottom of Camellia’s prized hour glass on the whatnot shelf, and then a few more. Illumination from a nearby candle flame glinted upon the passage of time.
Reese wasn’t finished yet.
“And I had to come here.”
He swallowed. That the motion might be painful was evidenced by a taut flex of muscles in his bare brown throat.
“And a good job it is that you did, boy,” burst out Ben, in great relief. “Enough coincidences worked together to get you here, with me. With us. With this young lady you’ve promised to marry.”
“Ben—”
“I must say, I was almighty upset when Letty first told us what she’d been up to,” he admitted, with a short, uncomfortable bark of laughter. A pull at one ear lobe, and a shake of the head with its shaggy mane of hair so similar in color and texture to Reese’s own. “Couldn’t imagine how she could just accept a proposal made by some feller she knew only from letters, ’specially with what Molly had gone through just a couple months b’fore.”
“Ben—”
“But, then, shoot, she wore me down, logical reasons and all that. And my own wife convinced me to give the idea a chance, since we’d both of us managed to get past any problems and make a go of it, the same way.”
“Ben—”
“And here you are,” he ran on, beaming, “my own brother, set to tie the knot with Cam’s sister. Seems like the world might be makin’ things right for all of us again.”
“It ain’t just—”
“But, Cole, what I can’t quite understand,” and a perplexed Ben leaned forward, hands clasped together between his knees, “is why you come here under false pretenses. An alias, boy. Were you ashamed of the family name?”
The breast of Reese’s neat cotton shirt lifted, and fell. “That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you, Ben. There’s more. I’m not—I’m not who you think.” And here he flung an anguished look in Letitia’s direction. “My past ain’t all in the past. Because—because I’ve got a price on my head. I am a wanted man.”
Chapter Thirteen
WHO COULD POSSIBLY settle down and even faintly hope for a decent night’s sleep after all the stunning—and shocking—revelations at the Forresters’ impromptu gathering this evening? Too many emotions had criss-crossed that parlor like strands of twine from a child’s game, so that everyone there felt bound and constricted into an uneasy mesh. After hours of talk, most wanted to do nothing more than escape for a brief time of peace, to absorb and digest the facts that had been handed out.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Reese’s adverse report, given at the last, had transcended all the wonderful, heartwarming announcements made earlier. Those final words, “I am a wanted man,” were what remained, hard and cold, in each person’s recollection.
“What are you going to do next?” Letitia wondered, scuffing dejectedly along.
The town clock had just struck midnight, an absurdly, shockingly late time to be out and about, no matter how safe the streets might appear. Ben, Gabriel, and Paul had volunteered to walk the boarding house sisters back to their room, with the probably futile desire to sidestep whatever complaints an outraged Mrs. McKnight might voice.
As for Cole Reese Barclay Forrester, he had offered to join the group setting out in the misty chill of darkness, but Letitia, not yet ready to concede any point in his behalf, had waved him away. And a hovering, concerned Camellia had supported her in the decision.
> “Take a little time apart,” she had wisely urged. “We’ve all been overwhelmed with information, and we need to let matters resolve. Besides—”
Besides, the young man had looked so white and exhausted, his mouth a mere slash against the recalling of old memories, his face—and the scar from temple to cheek—damp with perspiration. Camellia’s tender heart ached for both of this pair, caught up in circumstances beyond their control.
She had sent Reese off to his room at the Drinkwater, exhorting him to rest, if he could.
Then Ben had immediately ordered Camellia to retire to their room, as well. Much earlier, she had admitted to feeling just a little bit more tired than usual, and he realized she had already overexerted herself today and must be exhausted. The long buggy ride back from Manifest, the emotional announcements, the maternal care for her family and almost-family—it would be enough to wear anyone out, let alone a woman burdened by child.
She had promised to obey him. Then, sending him off on his nocturnal errand with a kiss and a smile, she had immediately disobeyed him, by turning back to finish cleaning up the kitchen. Her kitchen. The girls had already helped, to be sure, but things were not exactly to her satisfaction. This must go here, and that must go there, and so on.
“Cole is meetin’ with Paul and me at the jail t’morrow,” Ben now answered the anxiety in Letty’s question, as well as the words. “We’re gonna palaver some more, see what this is all about, and try to find a solution.” The moonlight turned his rough hair and his beard stubble to silver, and highlighted the clefts and lines caused by his smile. “Don’t worry, honey, we’ll get things settled. Ain’t nothin’ so bad it can’t ever be worked out. We’ll all pull together.”
It had been such a long time since some strong, supportive male figure had headed the Burton clan that Letitia was taken aback, and almost overwhelmed by the sense of goodness radiating out, like beneficial sunshine after freezing rain.
