hadn’t as he stopped walking to glare down at her with dark, scathing eyes. Mustering courage to go on, she gave a helpless shrug and pointed out, “You being rude, Gator, not talking to me. All I do is ask about my friend and how come I have not seen her. It been weeks since she was here.”
He bit off the reminder, “She doesn’t belong here.”
“That’s not for you to say.” Simona was starting to get mad despite the way he was looking at her. “She been my friend all my life, and who is you to come here and tell us what we can and cannot do? Jus’ because your poppa is overseer in the cotton fields don’ give you no right to tell me and my friends how to do.”
He started walking again.
Simona was indignant at the brusque dismissal and yelled after him, “Hey! How come you not go back where you come from? And yo’ poppa, too. I hear from my people in the fields he is one mean man, and he beats the slaves and would beat them, too, if he could, but he knows they stick a knife in his ribs if he do. And you just like him, ain’t you?”
He shut out the sound of her shouts and quickened his pace, disappearing into the brush. Furious, he plodded onward, not glancing about as he usually did, ever alert for alligators or water moccasins.
But any creature about would, no doubt, have thought twice before venturing to disturb Brett Cody that evening, for his was the face of a man with fury stirred to near menace. He trembled with rage to be likened to his father, because he knew Leo Cody for the cruel, insensitive man he was. Now he was fueled more than ever to return to the sea but sadly knew it wasn’t possible till grinding season ended in January, months away. Elton Sinclair had taken one look at his brawn and promptly pulled him to one side and promised top wages, even a bonus, in return for assurance he’d stay the season. Brett agreed, but only because he felt honor bound to pay off the debts from his mother’s sickness and burial. He knew his father damn sure wouldn’t bother. Leo spent everything he made on gambling, whiskey, and women. Always had and always would.
He reached his isolated pirogue, a dugout he called home. Uncorking a jug of wine, he took a deep swallow, attempting to wash away the bile. But the memories had been ignited, and there was nothing to do but let them play on his mind.
Raggedly, he allowed himself to drift back to the time when he’d left Black Bayou, after Margette Laubache, an older woman of nearly eighteen, had made him the laughingstock of Mississippi. He’d been a fool to ever let himself get involved with her in the first place, but Lord, what a beauty. There wasn’t a man alive who wasn’t stirred by the sight of her. Yet he’d admired from afar, well aware he was only a poor Cajun field hand, and she was born into a life of privilege. It was only when word spread of his famed battle with the largest alligator ever seen in Mississippi that Margette took notice of him. She sent by a slave that she wanted to meet the young man who’d bested such a savage creature.
Brett had laughed when he heard that. Everyone was making him out to be some kind of gladiator who’d challenged a wild beast in a fight to the death. The actuality was that the damn thing had crept up on him, and he hadn’t had time to think about courage or bravery. He was scared to death and fighting to stay alive in the black, cold water. Never would he forget his burning lungs, screaming for air, as he fought to hold off the snapping jaws of death as the gator rolled him over and over, trying to drown him.
He did not, however, share such private thoughts with Margette when he defied all the rules and met her that night in the wisteria-draped gazebo near the river. He hadn’t been able to think of anything except how beautiful she was. He remembered what she was wearing—a white lace gown that dipped low to accentuate large and luscious breasts. She smelled of lilacs, and her flaxen hair
He bit off the reminder, “She doesn’t belong here.”
“That’s not for you to say.” Simona was starting to get mad despite the way he was looking at her. “She been my friend all my life, and who is you to come here and tell us what we can and cannot do? Jus’ because your poppa is overseer in the cotton fields don’ give you no right to tell me and my friends how to do.”
He started walking again.
Simona was indignant at the brusque dismissal and yelled after him, “Hey! How come you not go back where you come from? And yo’ poppa, too. I hear from my people in the fields he is one mean man, and he beats the slaves and would beat them, too, if he could, but he knows they stick a knife in his ribs if he do. And you just like him, ain’t you?”
He shut out the sound of her shouts and quickened his pace, disappearing into the brush. Furious, he plodded onward, not glancing about as he usually did, ever alert for alligators or water moccasins.
But any creature about would, no doubt, have thought twice before venturing to disturb Brett Cody that evening, for his was the face of a man with fury stirred to near menace. He trembled with rage to be likened to his father, because he knew Leo Cody for the cruel, insensitive man he was. Now he was fueled more than ever to return to the sea but sadly knew it wasn’t possible till grinding season ended in January, months away. Elton Sinclair had taken one look at his brawn and promptly pulled him to one side and promised top wages, even a bonus, in return for assurance he’d stay the season. Brett agreed, but only because he felt honor bound to pay off the debts from his mother’s sickness and burial. He knew his father damn sure wouldn’t bother. Leo spent everything he made on gambling, whiskey, and women. Always had and always would.
He reached his isolated pirogue, a dugout he called home. Uncorking a jug of wine, he took a deep swallow, attempting to wash away the bile. But the memories had been ignited, and there was nothing to do but let them play on his mind.
Raggedly, he allowed himself to drift back to the time when he’d left Black Bayou, after Margette Laubache, an older woman of nearly eighteen, had made him the laughingstock of Mississippi. He’d been a fool to ever let himself get involved with her in the first place, but Lord, what a beauty. There wasn’t a man alive who wasn’t stirred by the sight of her. Yet he’d admired from afar, well aware he was only a poor Cajun field hand, and she was born into a life of privilege. It was only when word spread of his famed battle with the largest alligator ever seen in Mississippi that Margette took notice of him. She sent by a slave that she wanted to meet the young man who’d bested such a savage creature.
Brett had laughed when he heard that. Everyone was making him out to be some kind of gladiator who’d challenged a wild beast in a fight to the death. The actuality was that the damn thing had crept up on him, and he hadn’t had time to think about courage or bravery. He was scared to death and fighting to stay alive in the black, cold water. Never would he forget his burning lungs, screaming for air, as he fought to hold off the snapping jaws of death as the gator rolled him over and over, trying to drown him.
He did not, however, share such private thoughts with Margette when he defied all the rules and met her that night in the wisteria-draped gazebo near the river. He hadn’t been able to think of anything except how beautiful she was. He remembered what she was wearing—a white lace gown that dipped low to accentuate large and luscious breasts. She smelled of lilacs, and her flaxen hair
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