The Vacant Chair (17 page)

Something about the distress on Laurel’s face and her concern for him was comforting. He imagined it was Brianna’s hand holding his instead while he listened to the priest’s words, bending down at the appropriate time to make a cross of earth on the casket.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
His mother laid a rosary on Mitch’s coffin and turned away. The rest of the mourners followed her back to the house.

He barely noticed the others leaving. The only thing he felt was the awful tightness in his chest. As the rain beat down on him, he stared down at the rough casket. How was he supposed to walk away and let them bury his brother under six feet of dirt, leaving him trapped in the cold ground? How could he abandon him there all alone when he had held that broken body in his arms and promised not to? Agony built in his chest until he thought he would scream.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, recruiting his courage. 

That’s not really Mitch in there. Just his shell.

Yeah, and maybe if he kept telling himself that, he’d believe it someday.

At the tug on his hand, he glanced down, having almost forgotten Laurel stood there with him. He closed his eyes.

I’m sorry, Mitch. I miss you like hell. If you’re up there, say a prayer for us.

With a final look at the casket, he said his silent goodbyes to his brother and allowed Laurel to lead him away. Back at the house, the guests spoke in low tones, casting curious, sympathetic glances at him and his mother. Justin never let her out of his sight, standing close by in case she needed him. His presence seemed to comfort her, though she wouldn’t look at or acknowledge him. When she rolled her head from one side to the other, he automatically reached out to rub the knotted muscles in her neck and shoulders. She froze at his touch then jerked away with a sob and fled the room. She might as well have kicked him in the gut.

Needing to escape for a while, he retreated to the den, but it was even worse seeing his father’s empty wing chair while he stared down at him from that damned canvas with acute disappointment. Justin wandered through the ground floor like a caged animal, the guests mostly giving him a wide berth. Their sympathetic stares made him want to throw something.

Aggie served pots of hot tea and cake along with other things she had prepared the night before. He didn’t touch any of it. After the food was gone, the guests offered their individual condolences before taking their leave. Mr. Stevens and Laurel remained behind to help clean up.

Seated near the fire, Justin knew Laurel was somewhere nearby but didn’t much care. He planned to get roaring drunk—he was already halfway there—and sleep the night and day away. Sleep was the only time he could escape the torture of reliving his brother’s agonizing death.

Unless he dreamed about it again and woke up screaming like he had last night.

But when he woke tomorrow, he was leaving.

“Justin?”

Laurel’s quiet voice scraped over his nerves and he didn’t acknowledge her. Maybe if he ignored her she would go away.

The rustling of skirts told him he was wrong and a second later she kneeled in front of him on the rug. “Justin, I want to apologize for being so cold to you when you were last here.”

His brows swooped upward. An apology from Laurel was a momentous occasion.

She chewed her lip. “I wasn’t myself.”

He didn’t believe that for a second and told her so by turning back to the fire. Why was she still here? She had to smell the whiskey on him, and he’d made it abundantly clear he wanted to be alone.

She laid a hand on his forearm. “I’m so very sorry about your brother.”

He nodded tightly.  At least she was sincere about that.

“Will you be all right?”

No
. “Yes.”

She sighed and sat back on her heels. “You look so tired.”

He faced her with tortured eyes.
Tired
? Tired could not begin to describe the bone-deep weariness, as heavy and drugging as the fever that had claimed him in the hospital after he’d been wounded. “I’m exhausted, yet I can’t get his face out of my mind long enough to fall asleep.” His words sounded so bitter. “But you wouldn’t understand, because you’ve never seen a man die right before your eyes while you watch without being able to do anything.”

Laurel was like a priceless antique, a beautiful ornament to adorn someone’s parlor. She could never begin to imagine what horrors he’d seen. His eyes narrowed before he continued. “You wouldn’t know what it’s like to watch your brother’s face turn white with pain and hear him scream and gasp for air. He clawed at me for help, he—” His voice caught and he turned his head away.

She was quiet for a time before she offered, “I’m sure you eased it for him by being there.”

Cold comfort, he thought, clenching his jaw. He reached for his glass of whiskey, but she stopped him with a surprisingly firm grip on his arm.

“Getting yourself soused is not going to help. You need to rest. Come on, up you go. I’ll help you to bed.”

She must be crazy to think he would let her anywhere near his bedroom. “Where’s your father?”

Laurel sighed impatiently. “He went home already. I meant to settle you on the sofa there.” She indicated the one he’d slept on the night before. “Come on,” she coaxed, tugging on his arm to urge him to stand, steadying him when he wobbled.

Once he was on the sofa, she bustled around, closing drapes and gathering pillows and quilts. He was staring at nothing when she returned to fluff the pillows and remove his coat. Already under the effects of the whiskey, he didn’t help her undress him and she had to tug hard to remove the sleeves from his arms. She nearly fell when it came off with her last yank.

Justin closed his eyes, resenting her for making him yearn for Brianna even more. “You shouldn’t be here, Laurel. I’m drunk.”

She ignored the warning. “Yes, I can see that you are.”

God, he needed Brianna so badly right now. His heart screamed for her. But he didn’t know where she was. Might never find her again.

Jesus, don’t let him cry in front of Laurel.

She stopped what she was doing and gave him a hard stare. “I’m not going to leave you alone like this, Justin, so you’d best get used to the notion. Now lie still and let me help you.”

He wished she’d leave. But the thought of being alone suddenly filled him with panic. What if he couldn’t stand it? What if he was tempted to go out into the stable, take his service revolver and blow the back of his out head just to stop the pain?

Christ, he could see it happening. Could almost feel the cold grip in his palm, almost hear the metallic click of the hammer as he cocked it.

Fear made him grab for her like a lifeline.

She jumped when he pulled her down beside him. Because she didn’t say anything, he moved his head into her lap and closed his eyes. She ran a tentative hand over his hair.

Eyes closed tight, he concentrated on the feel of that hand and the memory it evoked, of another time and another woman. Then he thought of Mitch, lying trapped underground out there alone in the pitch-blackness, and the howling storm of grief came back. He turned his face into the warm body that held him. The pain would stop once he fell asleep, and with all the alcohol he had consumed it shouldn’t be long now. He lay there, lulled by the fingers stroking his hair and the liquor warming his veins. Laurel was silent, he wasn’t alone, and for the moment, that was all he cared about.

As she rose from the couch he woke and caught her arm. The liquor was doing its job, but he didn’t want to be alone yet. He relaxed when she kneeled before him, her face level with his. In a wordless plea, he locked his arms around her. “Don’t.” He didn’t know if he was begging her not to go, or warning her to keep her distance.

Through the haze of exhaustion and whiskey, he watched as she bent close. He twisted his face away to avoid the kiss. The pain inside him was agonizing enough without adding to it by betraying Brianna that way. Being held like this felt too good to push her away though. She was soft and warm. Her hands stroked his cheeks, his hair. Brianna had touched him like that. So gently. He moved closer, letting his hands find and grip her hips.

Oh, God, Brianna…
He pulled her closer, lost in the feel of her. Her hands moved over his face and throat, his chest, lower. He groaned and arched under her touch, shifting so she could reach more of him.

The hands left him. He mumbled her name and reached for her, desperate.

Oh, God, touch me. Love me. Don’t let me go.

He was dimly aware of a door shutting somewhere in the distance. The pounding desire inside him was too strong to ignore. He rolled to his back and clumsily ripped the front of his trousers open, freeing his aching cock. When he couldn’t stand the throb any longer, he fisted himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, lost in the raging fantasy. In his mind it was Brianna’s hand stroking him, her touch a sweet agony on his aching flesh. Desperate for more, Justin envisioned burying his hands in her thick hair to keep her mouth on his, his body bursting, desperate.
Love me, angel
. He throbbed in her grip, each stroke taking him higher.

The fantasy raged on until he was poised on the brink of release. He covered her hand with his to hold her there, locked his fingers around hers. With a needful moan, he writhed beneath her touch and let go, his other hand fisting in her hair as he let oblivion claim him.

****

Justin stood at the Stevens’s picket fence the next morning. He stared at the white house with the green shutters and drew a deep breath. He dreaded what was to come, and though he’d rather be shot again than face Laurel, he had to do this. 

He’d awoken groggy and confused, a kink in his neck from his awkward position on the couch. His mouth was dry as cotton and his head pounded with every beat of his heart. As soon as he opened his gritty eyes, he remembered his brother lying in his lonely grave, and then bits and pieces of the previous evening came back to him. When at last he’d gathered the nerve to look down at himself, he found the evidence he’d been afraid of all over his belly.  He’d been all but naked with his pants shoved past his hips, though he couldn’t remember what had happened. He had a vague memory of Laurel stripping off his shirt and maybe kissing him, but that was all.

God, he was a perfect bastard. 

He’d cleaned up and composed a short letter to Brianna before leaving the house. Even if her feelings for him had changed, she would want to know about Mitch.

He still didn’t know why she’d stopped writing to him. Had she found someone else and forgotten him so soon?

He shook away the thought and stared at Laurel’s bright red front door. No matter how awkward the situation, he had to deliver his weak and completely inadequate apology in person.

Truth was, he had no idea how far things had gone between them last night. Or how much she’d seen and heard. A surge of guilt and shame washed over him. He knew she thought herself in love with him, and last night would certainly have persuaded her he felt the same, even if she actually
hadn’t
been with him at the end. Whatever she’d seen, she didn’t realize that in his mind he’d been with Brianna the whole time. 

Gathering his courage, Justin knocked on the front door. Mr. Stevens answered it with a warm smile, making him reasonably sure that Laurel hadn’t said anything to her father. She appeared on the upstairs landing with a timid smile, a telltale blush highlighting her cheeks. 

Mr. Stevens excused himself and retreated to his study, leaving them alone.

“Hello, Justin,” Laurel said as she came down the stairs. “How are you feeling?” Something about the set of her shoulders made him think she was nervous. Her smile seemed forced.

“I’m fine,” he replied, wishing he knew what the hell to say. Neither of them moved for a time, and he finally blurted, “I wanted to apol—”

“Let’s go into the kitchen and have some tea,” she suggested with forced cheeriness, rushing down the stairs and past him. He let her fuss over the teapot and bring a tray of baking to the table, proving how on edge she was. He’d done that to her.

“Do you take sugar?” she asked a little too brightly, her hand trembling as she offered him a teacup. He closed his fingers around hers, forcing her to look up at him.

“Laurel, I’m so sorry about last night.” His guts twisted at the spasm of pain on her face. “My behavior was inexcusable.”

She snatched her hand back and fiddled with the sugar bowl. “You did warn me you were drunk.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse, Justin. You tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen. You didn’t want to be alone, I didn’t want to go, and I don’t blame you for what happened.” Spots of hectic color rode high on her cheekbones, and the gleam of tears in her eyes hit him like a blow.

“I never meant to hurt you.” He wished he could take away the pain he’d caused. Jesus, everywhere he went he hurt people.

“I know.” She lowered her eyes. “I don’t suppose we can just forget it happened at all?”

“Can you?” 

“Yes.” Laurel looked back up at him. “This is all very simple. You needed someone last night, and she wasn’t there. I was. You were thinking of your nurse.”