by Donna Cooner
There were many reasons for America to want to wrest the land from Spain, but in the end the most important reason was simply that American settlers wanted the land. They wanted to settle, to farm, to raise cattle, to open salt mines, even to make their fortunes from the sea, with the vast expanses of coastline. Spain ceded the Floridas in exchange for U.S. payment of Spanish debts to citizens and for a more solid grasp upon Texas. Now, over ten years an American holding and solidified into one territory by an act of Congress, Florida still retained much of her reputation for being a haven for alligators, snakes, and fiercely proud Indians. Perhaps the peninsula was just that, a haven for wild creatures and renegades. But it was much more as well. It was that land of gently swaying oaks with moss that drifted from their branches. It was shadowed hammocks where pine needles lay like bedcovers upon the ground. It was crystal-clear lakes, exotic birds with elegant, colorful plumage. It was wildflowers, crimson sunsets, blue skies, balmy rains.
Jacksonville wasn’t so far over the border from Georgia and was a fairly civilized place. Some of the north Florida ports were fairly safe, but to most people anything south of St. Augustine on the east coast and the bustling town of Pensacola on the west was too simply and completely raw and savage.
All that those people saw was the wildness of Florida, the danger. But they hadn’t seen the things that had become so spectacular and seductive to Jarrett. They’d never seen the sunsets that he watched so often, the amazing palette of colors that stretched out over a lonely horizon, vivid golds and searing blood-reds. Colors that reached out like rippling flames, so vital, then fading to gentle pinks and yellows and incredibly soft oranges, and fading again completely into a blackness that gave a deep velvet backdrop to the stars. They hadn’t seen the wildflowers that often grew in profusion, wild orchids in stunning shades of mauve, and they hadn’t felt the kiss of the sun to warm their faces in the dead of winter.
The snakes and alligators were there too. And the Indians. It was a wild, savage land with a rare and exotic beauty. But coming now into its own. St. Augustine remained America’s oldest European continuing settlement, with the magnificent Castillo de San Marcos to guard its shore and handsome and detailed old Spanish homes and architecture with Moorish influence to add character and charm to its streets. Pensacola was busy, a thriving port, offering goods from everywhere imaginable. A fine naval base had long been established in Key West, and Tallahassee, the territorial capital, was slowly growing into a quiet and dignified center of politics.
The territory had been a gold mine to Jarrett. He’d cleared his lands and built his home, and set to work. His cattle had thrived on the rich grasses in his fields. He’d grown sugar cane in abundance. He’d dabbled in cotton and in grain, and it had seemed that everything he had tried had thrived. His lands were exceptionally fertile, and he’d built right along the river, so he’d had the opportunity to move his goods with exceptional speed. Many settlers now saw what he had seen—some of the land was swamp, but some of it was exceedingly fine farmland. The length of the peninsula stretched out before America now. And much of it was a gold mine of natural resources and fertile fields.
Once it had all been a paradise for him, and he had loved his peninsular Eden deeply. He’d seen a great deal of it, learning about it from his father, from the white military, and from the Indians as well. It had been a place where he had found his own—perhaps peculiar—peace. He’d been in love, and he’d shared his dreams and his small part of the strange Eden with the woman he had loved, who had loved his land and him just as deeply. But Lisa was gone now, and his heart had hardened to the romanticism of his love for the land.
But still, his land remained. Wild, strange, and savage as the pain that sometimes seized him. Caught in tumult. The very challenge and danger of it had become his obsession.
“McKenzie!” Smiling Jack murmured, smiling. “Are you listening to me?”
Listening? He didn’t need to listen. Jarrett leaned back. His cards were good, and he was no longer interested in the conversation. His attention was caught by the woman again. He watched her while he replied confidently to both Jack and Furstenburg, “I’d gamble much more than the stakes on the table that my place is still standing,” he said. “And will remain standing.”
Furstenburg wasn’t interested in conversation either. “Are we playing cards here, gentlemen?” he demanded bluntly. He lifted a hand, summoning one of the little dark-haired Creole girls working in the place. “Whiskey!” he ordered crisply. “Do we play, or do we argue swampland?”
Jarrett shrugged. “I see your raise also, sir.” He took a moment to offer Jack a dry smile. “I see your raise, and I raise it again.” He pushed out a second stack of coins. Another hundred dollars.
Furstenburg swore something guttural, staring at his hand. Apparently his cards weren’t good enough to afford another raise. He was a careful player. He threw his hand down. It was between Jarrett and Jack.
Smiling Jack’s smile faded just a bit. Where Furstenburg was careful, Smiling Jack was a reckless player. He could bluff most of the men he played with frequently, and he made half his income off the game. Not tonight, Jarrett thought wryly.
In some things Jarrett was lucky. And tonight he was getting damned good cards.
Jack fingered his coins. Then he swore in a colorful manner and pushed out a stack of them.
Smiling Jack wasn’t smiling at all now. The glistening pile of gold that had once sat before him was dwindling.
“You don’t care to fold on this one, eh?” Jarrett asked politely.
The Frenchman extracted a thin silver case from the inside pocket of his elegant beige frock coat and plucked a cheroot from it. He leaned against the table, lighting it from the candle that burned there. He sat back, his eyes level on Jarrett’s.
“The gold is on the table, monsieur.”
Jarrett shrugged. “As you wish, monsieur!”
“You’re bluffing, McKenzie! And we will see!”
But at that moment Jarrett didn’t really see anything. Just the figure in the cape.
She turned around, facing him.
When the hood fell back, he saw her hair. It was fascinating hair, a rich, deep, golden blond touched here and there with highlights of flame. Even in the muted candlelit gleam of the gaming parlor, that hair was something like the sun on the most glorious day, and something like the glow of flame against the deepest darkness of the night.
It was just a headful of blond hair, he tried to tell himself, annoyed for the first time that she had so compelled his attention.
But he was wrong.
It was more than just a beautiful head of hair. He’d never seen hair like it. The skeins of it were rich in color and texture. It was luxurious. He wanted to come closer to it. He wanted to touch it.
Someone ought to warn her that she needed to cover it up. This wasn’t the seediest part of town, but it wasn’t any church hall here either.
He closed his eyes suddenly, tightly, nearly groaning aloud with the pain that stirred in his heart and the anger he felt against himself. It was one thing to walk the streets here in the heart of town, closed in by the old buildings in their wrought-iron decay and splendor. One thing to lose himself in the tawdry districts of New Orleans. It was something to do, like breathing, like walking along the river, staring at the dark water of the Mississippi as it slugged along. It was one thing to meet a cat in the dark with no real emotion, exchanging words that meant nothing, never seeing, bodies meeting, yet never really, really touching.
He could see this woman. And ever since the hood had fallen away from her face, maybe before it had done so, he had wanted her. Wanted to touch her. Wanted to have her. Not a cat in the dark. Her.
It might have been the way she moved, and it might have been that hair with its extraordinary color. Something both strong and intangible had slipped into his soul from the second he had seen her, even wrapped in the cloak, even in shadow, even before he had really laid eyes on
her.…
Now, beneath the lantern light in the entryway, he could study her face.
Her eyes were so vivid and dark a blue, he could clearly see their color from across the room. Where her hair was golden, her lashes were rich and dark, sweeping over her eyes. Her brows, too, were a darker shade than her hair, high and delicately arched. Her eyes were wonderful, wide set and shimmering within the frame of an exquisite face. Her coloring was beautiful. The perfect oval structure of her face was enhanced by the clean marble beauty of her skin. Her nose was straight, her mouth was generous, her lips drawn against the porcelain of her flesh as if by some great artist. More than ever he wanted to touch her. Run his thumb over her mouth and explore the pattern and texture of it. Stroke her cheek, discover its softness. Dive into that hair, and become entwined in the silk of it.
Robert cleared his throat. “Jarrett? Poker? You’ve called the man, Jarrett. Put your cards on the table.”
Jarrett did so, barely glancing at the others. Smiling Jack had been sitting on a decent hand, a straight. Not bad. Not enough.
Robert stared at Jarrett, then swept the money into a pile before him.
Jarrett cast a level eye on Jack. He really didn’t give a damn about the game anymore. He couldn’t even truly appreciate the irritation he was causing the Frenchman. “Do we continue?” he asked Jack. “Are you dealing, mon ami?”
“Oui, mon ami,” the Frenchman agreed. He started dealing out the cards with a swift expertise. Jarrett sat back, his eyes half closed. He observed everything.
The cards, the Frenchman.
The girl.
That was one good thing about living in the “swamps” with the “savages.”
He had learned to watch.
For Tara Brent the evening was already a nightmare. Short, pudgy little Eastwood was going on and on about how late she was, about how he needed her on the floor.
She had made a mistake. Oh, God, she had made a mistake coming here!
But she was desperate for money. Money was her only escape. Money was passage aboard a steamer, somewhere north, anywhere north, far away where she could hide for a lifetime.
Where they could never find her.
New Orleans, she had heard, was the city to come to first. It was a place to find work without questions being asked. There were all manner of folk in the city, Creoles, Spanish, English, southerners, and northerners.
It was the gateway to oblivion.
And so she had come, and an old hag-woman in the street had directed her here, and Eastwood had given her work immediately, a job running whiskey and food around to his card-sharking customers. He’d told her that she could make good money taking the gentlemen up to the tiny room he’d given her in the attic, and she’d firmly told him that she didn’t take gentlemen anywhere. He laughed and told her that she’d get to it eventually, but he didn’t really care, he’d take her on just because she had a classy look about her. Maybe he’d even convince her that he’d make a good “gentleman” for her to take up the stairs eventually himself.
She’d be drawn and quartered first. But she didn’t have to say so, because he had hired her, and so far, the few nights she’d been here, he’d left her alone. She shouldn’t have spent so long wandering the flower markets and gazing at the Mississippi. She wouldn’t have been late coming in for the night, and he’d probably not be yelling at her now. If she wasn’t careful, he’d be pressing the issue of her usefulness.
But a number of people had assured her that it was a reputable place. If she had just been either a little less naive—or desperate—she might have realized that these reassuring people weren’t all that reputable themselves!
And if this was an establishment of any respectability whatsoever, she shuddered to think of what was not so reputable down by the docks.
She gasped as Eastwood suddenly clutched her by the arms. “Are you listening to me! I run this place, you don’t! You’ve already told me in your high-handed way that you won’t have men up the stairs. And I went ahead and figured you were so good looking that it didn’t matter. But—”
“Get your hands off of me!” she said icily, her words low, but still a dead-set demand.
Eastwood obeyed her. His hands fell from her arms. “Get out there!” he roared. “Get to work if you want wages from me!”
Wages! Slaves probably received more for their efforts!
But she was going to work for those wages. She had to get away. Working for Eastwood was better than going back. Anything was better than going back.
Death might be better than going back.
And going back might well mean death, she reminded herself.
She slipped off her cloak and hurried into the kitchen. Eastwood was a tyrant, but his two Creole cooks were wonderfully nice men, and Emma, the plump Irishwoman who ran the kitchen, had a way with her that somehow made working tolerable.
It didn’t matter, did it? As soon as she had earned her passage, she was gone!
And all that she had to do was pray that they didn’t find her first!
“There you are, ma belle chérie!” Gaston told her, pulling bread from the oven. Like Emma he was as plump as a pillow. He liked his own cooking. But he was exceedingly kind, and she offered him a shy smile. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
He waved a hand in the air with Gallic philosophy. “We are fine on the food. However, there is a table of card players shouting for whiskey. Four men. You will find them.”
She nodded, turning about to obey. She crashed into Marie, one of the pretty little Creole girls who worked the downstairs—and the upstairs.
“I’ve men shouting from every direction!” she cried, shaking her head. “Mon Dieu alors! You are here, chérie. S’il te plaît, before that German bites my head off! Whiskey for the card players.”
There were always dozens of card players. “I’m going right now,” Tara promised. “Which table?”
“You cannot miss it!” Marie promised her. She took the time to pause for a minute, looking Tara over from head to toe. “The German is tall, lean, and very good looking, like a Viking! Then there is Smiling Jack, as sharp—and dangerous—a Frenchman as you may hope to see.” She had been rushing. Cute, dark, petite—and very kind—she stopped suddenly to give Tara a word of advice. “Either one of them, chérie, would surely pay you your passage in a single night!”
Tara shook her head, blushing slightly, amazed that she could still do so. Pretty little Marie couldn’t begin to understand why she didn’t want to sleep with one man one night and make more than she could in two weeks slaving away for Eastwood. To Marie tending to the tables was nothing more than a way to acquire a good clientele.
“Well, if you could miss the German or the Frenchman, chérie, I promise you will not miss the Americans. One is very young, handsome, and light. And the other”—she paused, smiling—“the other is McKenzie.” She said it almost reverently, with no other description, as if nothing more were needed once the hallowed name was mentioned. It didn’t matter. Tara could surely find the right table from the descriptions Marie had given her already.
“Well, I’ll try not to miss your McKenzie,” Tara told her, amused.
“Oh, you won’t miss him!” Marie called, hurrying onward for a tray filled with steaming crawfish. But she paused, looking back. “He’s black Irish, they say, just so you know.”
Tara paused. “Pardon?”
Marie sighed with a wistful little sound. “Black Irish, so they tell me. Sometime, years ago, when the English defeated the Spanish Armada, the Spaniards landed upon Ireland before trying to sail home. So now there are these Irishmen with jet-dark hair and coal-dark eyes! As hot blooded as the Spanish plains and as fierce as those ever-fighting Irish. You’ll notice McKenzie, I swear it.”
Tara smiled, turning away. Marie noticed any man. All he needed was his hair—well, some of his hair—two legs, decent teeth—and plenty of gold.
She hurried through the bar and found a bottle of whiskey and
a number of Eastwood’s short, heavy glasses. When she came back into the main room, the smoke from the fire caused her to pause for a moment and look around. A few sailors sat with their doxies, all laughing the night away in a far corner. Another set of river rowdies leaned against the far wall, taunting Lisette, Marie’s cousin. Lisette seemed to be doing just fine with the lot of them. There were at least three tables of card players, but Marie had been right.
She could not miss the table of men that had been described to her. There was the German, just as Marie had described. The Frenchmen, and the Americans. One man seemed just a little bit younger. He had an easy smile. He leaned on an elbow, watching the game.
Then there was the fourth man. McKenzie. Black Irish, Marie had said. It fit him perfectly. She didn’t think that she had ever seen hair so rich or jet in color. In fact, she didn’t think that she’d ever seen any man quite like him. From the moment she discovered the table, she discovered that he had been watching her. His eyes were large, sharp, and so dark that they seemed as ebony as his hair. His features were hard, rugged; a stubborn, determined chin, high, broad cheekbones, ebony, high-arched brows, a long, straight nose, deeply bronzed skin. Yet despite the ruggedness of his face it was a strikingly handsome one. The bone structure was excellent. His mouth was full, wide, sensual.
And his eyes were intense. As dark as night. And fixed upon her. He caught her stare. A slow smile curved his lips. She felt a peculiar sensation, as if flames suddenly lapped their way from an intangible place within her soul to roar right through her limbs, searing her from head to toe.