Texas Redemption Page 4

  “Only on occasion.” Murphy wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her against him. “This lady’s the best thing that’s happened to me. I’m forsaking bachelorhood for her.”

  Again an elevated eyebrow and quiet reply. “Indeed.”

  The one word said enough. She prayed he’d not add more.

  Murphy didn’t give him a chance. “About time I tied the knot. You, too, Brodie. When are you going to settle down?”

  “I’ve yet to meet the woman I wish to lend my name to.” A dangerous glint sparkled in his eyes. “Laurel? Is that what you prefer? Or is there another?”

  Her ire grew faster than the water hyacinths that strangled the life from Big Cypress Bayou. He toyed with her. Loss of control would simply egg him on more. She breathed deep, swallowing the biting remark on the tip of her tongue.

  “Laurel’s the name I was born with.” His cold stare raised her temperature another ten notches. “I have no other.”

  “If you insist, Miss Laurel James. Tell me…is it true you’re partial to lavender?”

  Blood drained, leaving limp remains of long-dead memories.

  A feeble reply finally crept past the double-cross. “I can’t imagine who would’ve spread such a preposterous tale.”

  “What brought this on?” Murphy blustered. “Makes no difference to you or anyone else what color my Laurel wears. If you have a burr under your saddle, just speak your piece.”

  Tucked within Murphy’s arm, tension suspended her heartbeat, freezing the moment in blocks of ice. Sure as the moon rose in the sky Brodie intended to blurt everything. She flinched, awaiting the doom.

  “Thought she resembled someone I once knew.” He removed his Stetson. The lethal rattles commenced their clatter, sending a war party of chills through her. He laid it on a polished mahogany credenza. “Now that I’ve taken a second look, I can see I’m mistaken. That woman wasn’t the marrying kind.”

  Her knees nearly buckled. With the night just beginning, she’d put nothing past this murdering desperado. More than likely, he wished her to sweat plenty before the ugly moment of truth.

  Murphy apparently bought the half-truth. “That’s better. Annie’s outdone herself for this special night of thanks. You’re home, and beautiful Laurel is about to become my wife.”

  “When’s the happy occasion, Murph?”

  “Four weeks—unless my powers of persuasion kick in.” Murphy’s warm squeeze released crashing waves of guilt.

  Laurel almost favored ending this charade now rather than go on pretending. Murphy would thank his lucky stars she refused to rush to the altar. The town would soon forget his disgrace. Memories fade. Sometimes. Well, nearly always.

  “We didn’t want to do anything rash. After all, we have the rest of our lives to spend together,” she hurried to add.

  The pressure at her waist brought mist to her eyes. No man more noble walked Redemption’s streets. The landslide election confirmed popular sentiment. Besides mayor, Murphy served as the town’s only banker. He enjoyed a stellar reputation as a fair-minded businessman. More than one farmer would’ve lost his land in foreclosure if not for genuine caring. She sensed unique compassion the first moment they met.

  Were her needs greater to justify bringing him down? Naked truth plunged like a dagger. She hadn’t willingly chosen to become what she had. It wasn’t Murphy’s but her debt to pay.

  William Taft alone bore responsibility and she hoped he roasted in a fiery pit for it.

  “Shall we?”

  Murphy escorted her into the dining room. Showing manners and good breeding, he pulled out her chair. His scoundrel brother seated himself across the table without waiting. Even while she reduced Brodie to beneath the rank of barbarian, the noontime incident had sprung from the blue. He’d forced Jeb’s apology for rudeness and made him call her miss. A strange code he’d adopted.

  Her mind wandered back. Shenandoah once wouldn’t have thought it so tragic to tie her name to his.

  She glanced up to find him staring as if he read her thoughts and dared her to deny them. Her mouth went dry. The tilted grin on his lips seemed more suited for foxes in hen houses than a civil dining room.

  “Some yams, my sweet?” Murphy passed a dish.

  Thankful Murphy had broken the spell, she scooped a small portion onto her plate.

  “I must say. This is something.” Brodie steepled his fingers over full, sensual lips.

  She didn’t care to explore the hidden meaning. The statement boded ill. She aimed for another path. “I get the impression you’ve not visited in a while. Have you been away on…business?”

  “At least the kind that keeps a Johnny Reb spy two steps ahead of a Union rope.”

  A hated spy. Yet, he’d risked death to return. Why now? What made the gamble so important? Hearing firsthand what she’d dismissed as disgruntled Southerners sent a jolt of surprise.

  “I assumed those who hunted Confederate soldiers long after the war’s end bore more fiction than truth.”

  “Andrew Johnson’s pardons were the fictitious part. I have stories to curl your hair. I assure you they are not mere babblings by toothless old men.”

  She crumpled the napkin in her lap. “Why did you take up arms in such a horrible war you had no hope of winning?”

  “Anyone ever warn you of what happens to little girls who ask too many questions?”

  “But now you’ve come back, knowing full well the thick army presence.” Her tongue stumbled over the words.

  “I did for a fact.”

  A wry smile formed. She fought the urge to rush from the table when he tilted forward. The younger Yates brother, having turned his attention to the meal, seemed unbothered by a charge in the air.

  “Brodie joined up with the South when the smoke cleared after the first Battle of Bull Run. Nothing I said kept him from leaving.” Murphy gestured with his fork. “He sent several letters letting me know he’d escaped Yankee bullets and prison camps, but only one since Lee’s surrender.”

  “It seemed better that way,” Brodie said.

  “That was four years ago,” Murphy reminded him.

  “Give or take a few lifetimes.” Brodie’s mood darkened.

  The answer spoke of deep remorse, like hers, that ate from the inside until it destroyed everything, leaving only an empty shell. Regardless the uproar his arrival brought, she sympathized with the man who’d evidently lost his way.

  Laurel swallowed hard. Going home appeared next to impossible. For them both.

  Four

  The cork from the wine bottle exploded into the chandelier, setting the sparkling crystal prisms atwitter. Brodie filled the goblets while considering the value of a piece of blue belly hot metal. He preferred a quick end to this torment that whipped his insides into a frothy mess. Murphy’s endearments, the tender touches, knowing Laurel would never be his Lil spiraled him into a dark pit. Of all times to listen to the cry of his soul.

  He should’ve stayed gone.

  “I believe if a man drinks wine, he should offer a toast,” he said.

  “That’s a fine notion.” Murphy rose. “A salute.”

  A frown marred Laurel’s beauty. Brodie had given her every right to mistrust him. Tilting her stubborn chin, she extended her glass, meeting his antagonism.

  Only a demented man would recall silky curves rippling beneath a light caress…and her unbridled response.

  Brodie disappeared down a forbidding slough, haunted by faces of the lost and damned. A mental shake returned him to the present. His glass clinked against theirs.

  “May the South rise again. And to beautiful ladies who made the fight worthwhile.”

  “Long live the South.”

  Their subdued rejoinder paled beside his boisterous one.

  “I’ve heard a louder show of patriotism from dying Rebs.” />
  Murphy flushed. “What damn good did that war do except leave a bunch of families with holes in them? Children will grow up without fathers. Wives have no husbands. Is that victory? Hate between North and South runs deeper than before. That’s why we have to watch what we say and how loud we speak. Federal troops will lock you up for looking cross-eyed.”

  “I saw the heavy military occupation in Jefferson. Carpetbaggers, scalawags, and Union Army overrun the place.” Brodie tossed the contents of the glass down his throat. “Hell and damnation!”

  “They’re trying to redeem us poor Southerners and save us from ruin,” Murphy said sourly.

  “The situation should improve with the upcoming election,” Laurel put in quietly.

  “Readmitting Texas to the Union won’t fix the sort of ills plaguing us.” Murphy set down the wine and resumed his seat.

  “But if we have a real governor, the military will pull out. We can make our own laws again. Isn’t that the best thing for us and the state?”

  Laurel always had a knack for getting to the bottom line.

  He remembered wetness spilling down her cheeks. I need you. We need each other because apart we’re nothing but an unfinished painting, bodies without heads. Promise you’ll return for me.

  That night was the last time he’d been a complete person. Yeah, she had expertise in pointing out the obvious.

  “Edmund Davis will hardly bring us back to the land of milk and honey.” Brodie let out a snort. “He’s nothing but a Union puppet, and a bastard to boot.”

  “A free election would be a start,” she argued. “Anything beats military appointees. Maybe A. J. Hamilton will beat him.”

  “Hamilton doesn’t stand a prayer. Davis will get in if President Grant has to stuff the polls to do it.” Murphy took a piece of bread and buttered it. “Politics gives me indigestion. Forget those fools and focus on this happy reunion.”

  Laurel quibbled over the happy occasion part. “It’s evident no amount of discussion amid china and cut crystal will change what’s happened.”

  Or was about to.

  The wayward brother tossed down the contents of another glass. Sheltered by lowered eyes, she saw him refill it.

  For a man who claimed a few hours ago to have gone without food for two days, he ignored the succulent roast hen, creamed peas, and yams. What had happened to the steak—the one that almost caused a man’s death? Had he eaten it or fed it to the strays?

  A raised gaze floundered in the brooding stare across from her. A strange light turned the gray soot of his eyes into sinful black.

  Dangerous and defiant, the rogue lounged easily as if waiting in a parlor house for his favorite lady, intent on taking pleasure for the night.

  She sucked air into her lungs, blocking hysteria. “This feast puts the café’s to shame. Better try it.”

  “Later. The steak I had earlier filled the hollow spot.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on either side of the imported porcelain. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a mighty fine cook, Lil… Miss James.”

  Simple slip of the tongue, or did he persist in some game? She feared what might emerge each time he opened his mouth.

  “Nothing special. Just plain cooking.”

  “Skill in the kitchen first attracted me to her,” Murphy said. “But then, how could I overlook an angel when I saw one?”

  “Indeed.” Swirling red liquid in Brodie’s goblet held her captive. Only when it sloshed out did he release her stare. “She certainly appears the innocent.”

  “Pure as the driven snow. My Laurel’s worth more than all the gold in California.”

  “Do tell.”

  Ice filled her veins. Brodie’s quirked eyebrows said he had nothing to lose. What gall to sit in judgment. He hadn’t wanted her. And unless things took a drastic turn, neither would the youngest Yates brother once he discovered who she was.

  “Spit and thunder. Stop talking about me as though I’m invisible.” Her fork clattered against the plate when she dropped it. “And get one thing straight, Murphy Yates. Don’t put me on a pedestal. I’m no saint. Don’t try to make me into one. I’ve committed my share of mistakes and I’ll make plenty more before they put me in the ground.”

  “I’d listen to her, Murph.” Glints sparkled in the dark scowl. “The lady knows what she’s talking about.”

  Heaven help the scoundrel. He’d need it if she could put to work the murderous plans spinning in her head.

  “I believe I smell pie.” She tried to steer the conversation from the storm-tossed waters of her character.

  “Your favorite. Pecan praline.” Murphy’s warm smile elicited undying gratitude. He rang the brass bell beside him, signaling Etta. “I do know the way to your heart, my love.”

  “Sweet Betsy. Had I only known, it might’ve made a difference in my marital status. Pecan praline pie. Smooth, sugary sweet, and ahh, so desirable.” Brodie stretched, raking back the errant lock. The strand stayed put for an entire half second before it sprang back in a disrespectable salute. The soft drawl didn’t hide belief he held a royal flush and he’d suffer no guilt when he plunked it down for all to see.

  Laurel’s stomach plunged.

  Etta took Laurel’s plate and slid the first slice of pie before her. The cook and housekeeper waited expectantly for her reaction. “It’s delicious. I have no secrets around you and Murphy.”

  Of all things to have said. She needed a good kicking to Main Street and back. Brodie grabbed the opening.

  “Speaking of secrets and sugary sweet things… I remember a certain young lady in St. Louis. At the Black Garter, to be exact. Ever been to St. Louis, Miss James?”

  Her heart froze and she choked on the flaky morsel. She downed a full glass of water before dislodging the bite.

  “You all right, sweetheart?” Murphy pressed her hand.

  “I’m such a ninny. I apologize for causing concern.”

  Murphy lit into him. “What a dumb fool question to ask. I doubt Laurel’s been out of Texas, and I damn sure know she wouldn’t go anywhere near a place called the Black Garter.”

  “Hold your horses, Murph. Can’t fault a man for reminiscing. I met a woman there I could’ve shared more than a few nights with had Lady Luck smiled my way.” The molten stare said Brodie remembered every detail of their encounter.

  And God forbid, so did she. With indelible clarity.

  But he hadn’t cared enough to find his way back.

  How proper to adorn his hat with snake rattles. The man had two deadly skills—his pistol and his tongue.

  She wondered how a girl went about trapping a cagey diamondback. And more important, how could she escape its kiss of death in the attempt?

  One thing she knew: it never paid to let a scoundrel know he’d drawn blood, something she’d learned about survival.

  She flashed her best smile and drawled sweetly, “I do declare, if I don’t detect the makings of a pitiful tale. You’ll never know whether it was a twist of fate or misfortune of your own choosing. Do you ever wonder what happened to the lady after you moved on?”

  “Quite often.”

  “For the record, I believe she landed on her feet.”

  Brodie’s flash of surprise turned into a half smile. “Touché.”

  Murphy glowered. “Are you right sure you’ve never met?”

  Laurel doubled efforts to keep things far removed from the state of Missouri and a certain gaming house. She gave Murphy her full attention. “Etta outdid herself tonight. Perhaps I could wheedle the recipe for the roasted hen. And the pie surely topped the meal. Ollie would dearly love a piece.”

  “Shoot, take the whole pie, sweetheart.” He lifted the back of her hand to his lips. “Your every wish is my command.”

  Her throat tightened. Devotion wrapped the declaration and tied it with a bow.


  “Speaking of Ollie, I noticed she looked a bit puny today.” Murphy smoothed the inside of her palm, but didn’t release it.

  “She had a spell with her heart after the run-in with Jeb.” Laurel shot Brodie a withering glare, for the dear lady wouldn’t have suffered it had he chosen another town to disgrace with his presence. Her voice broke. “I force myself not to think about losing her one day. She’s like a mother to me.”

  “We had one of those. Didn’t we, Murph?”

  Brodie’s bitter remark puzzled Laurel.

  Her betrothed explained, “Our mother died when we were youngsters. Without a father, that made us orphans. Aunt Lucy saw fit to step into those shoes.” Sadness seeped between Murphy’s words like the cold wind of a blue norther. “She took us under her wing. In fact, we were all the family each other had.”

  Brodie suddenly straightened. “A true genteel lady if I ever saw one. I assume she’s away right now?”

  “Died last winter. Pleurisy and pneumonia.”

  “You should’ve—”

  “Found you? I tried. Knew you’d want to know.” Murphy’s hand shook in an effort to keep control. “That’s what happens when you stay gone for a coon’s age.”

  “Double damn.”

  Torment deepened the crevices in Brodie’s face. Laurel turned away, unable to bear the pain that ripped open his soul. Her reflection stared back from the crater. Losing family left a wound that never healed. She knew about that.

  Replenishing his empty goblet, the man who lived by the quickness of his hand raised it high. “I salute you, Aunt Lucy, the finest woman God ever created. Rest in peace.”

  “Amen,” Murphy added softly.

  “Brother, you have anything stronger? This stuff makes lousy tonsil varnish. Not fit to drown a man’s sorrows.”

  Putting sympathy for the motherless brothers aside, that’s not all Laurel wished Brodie would drown.

  “I’ve a bottle of sipping whiskey in my study.” Murphy flashed her a wry smile. “Purely for medicinal purposes.”

  “That’ll do.” Brodie pulled himself from the chair.