Sunrise Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Three

by Vivian Vaughan

  “Before we view M’sieur Audubon’s studio,” Miss Strahan was saying, “perhaps we should take tea here on the veranda.”

  Delta felt like a princess surrounded by so much luxury. At the ring of Miss Strahan’s bell, servants scurried in with a silver tea service and a platter of sandwiches and crackers. Their hostess had just indicated which chairs each of her guests should take, however, when Nat surprised Delta by saying,

  “I won’t have time for tea, ma’am. I’m needed back at the boat to help prepare for tonight’s performance.” He produced two tickets from his jacket pocket. “Thank you for the tour of your magnificent home. Please accept my invitation to attend our little melodrama tonight.”

  Delta watched Nat’s performance with a slack jaw. “I didn’t realize you intended to leave so early. We haven’t viewed the Audubons and—”

  “You must stay, Delta,” he encouraged in his most polished stage voice. “No article on St. Francisville would be complete without an account of that great artist and his works.”

  “But—?”

  He smiled. “I shouldn’t worry about finding your way back. It’s a simple matter of staying on one road, no turns to confuse you.”

  Confuse me? she thought. What did he think he was doing? And she really needed—wanted—to see the Audubons.

  “Of course I can find my way back.” Although she was unable to keep the testiness out of her voice, she wasn’t sorry to see him leave. She would have a much better chance of speaking to Brett when she returned to the boat without Nat by her side.

  “I won’t hear of you traveling unescorted, my dear,” Miss Strahan said. “When we finish, my coachman will drive you.”

  “Thank you, but that isn’t necessary.”

  “Indeed it is,” Miss Strahan insisted, sending a maid scurrying to alert the coachman. “We’ll hitch your horse on the back.”

  After tea Miss Strahan led the way to John James Audubon’s studio on the premises. Once inside all Delta’s thoughts faded beneath the magnitude of his talent.

  In addition to numerous full-sized paintings of the area’s birds and plant life, several stuffed specimens of birds and small animals were set in displays that looked as natural as the wild. Delta took notes, writing hastily, while Miss Strahan explained her famous relative’s methods, going so far as to claim that the artist acted as his own taxidermist.

  Without warning Delta’s eyes arrested on the scarlet crest of a large ivory-billed woodpecker. A wave of heat raced up her spine. Instantly she knew something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. No baby cried this time. There was only the heat, and the fire. Red and hot. Withdrawing a handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed her suddenly damp face.

  Miss Strahan was so entranced with her discourse on M’sieur Audubon’s techniques that she failed to notice, and by the time Delta was able to break in, the calliope could be heard calling people to the boat. She grabbed that as an excuse to leave.

  Riding on the seat behind the liveried coachmen, Delta fought down the fear that the boat had exploded. Many paddlewheelers exploded in the old days, something to do with the furnaces becoming so hot that steam was forced at pressures beyond the boilers’ capacity. Wasn’t that what Cameron told her?

  That was when the boats used wood for fuel, he had assured her. Nowadays they used coal, and the temperature could more easily be controlled. Hadn’t Captain Kaney explained as much the first day out?

  But Brett could well have returned to the Mississippi Princess by now. And Zanna was on board and … and everyone she had grown to love. Especially Brett.

  She hadn’t had a chance to mend things between them. What if—?

  Brett Reall listened patiently to Pierre’s arguments as to why he should remain on board the Mississippi Princess.

  “This is Louisiana,” Pierre cautioned. “You’re known here, sure. Wanted here. It is foolish—”

  “Let me decide what’s foolish,” Brett snapped. He’d been short with Pierre for days now. Hell, he’d been short with everyone since Delta’s visit. The tension was getting to him. Cabin fever, Gabriel called it. Perhaps. But he had an idea it depended on whose cabin he was in. Or, more precisely, who was in the cabin with him. For truth, he could ride the length of the Mississippi without ever stepping foot outside a stateroom—if Delta were there beside him.

  But she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. He’d done the right thing. “It’s more important for me to see our man here in St. Francisville than anywhere up or down the river. Tell me when Gabriel returns.”

  “Someone will recognize you, certainement.”

  “Not in a gambler’s garb. Hell, they’ve never even seen me wear a necktie.” He chuckled. “This brocaded vest is so loud it’ll blind them to my face, oui?”

  Pierre grunted.

  Brett slapped him on the back. “Besides, we agreed something had to be done about that bounty hunter.”

  “Gabriel and I—”

  “Nat wouldn’t follow you. It’s me, he’s after. Did you work out a diversion for that Pinkerton agent?”

  Pierre nodded.

  “Not Delta.”

  “Non, but you’re supposed to forget her, sure.”

  “Give me time.”

  Riding out of St. Francisville on the horses Gabriel hired earlier, Brett inhaled the magnolia-scented air. “God’s bones, it’s good to be home!” But even as he spoke, he knew a good measure of his exhilaration came from having seen Delta at the wharves. Her smile warmed him yet. And her presence—as though she had been standing there waiting for him. As though they had planned to meet.

  “We aren’t home,” Pierre objected.

  “We’re close enough. You can you smell it, oui? You can hear it, the hum of the bayou—”

  “Me, I hear the sound of gunfire,” Pierre responded. “The sound of a rope stretchin’ across a liveoak branch. The sound of a blade slicin’ bayou air. Oui, a blade that drips with your blood, mon nèfyou.”

  “I’ll hand you this, Pierre, you’re one hell of a traveling partner. Next time I’ll find someone with more joie de vivre.”

  “Oui, an’ get your head blown off for loving life too much.”

  Brett chuckled. “Don’t mind me. I’m just not used to having both of you and my conscience keeping tabs on me.”

  “Your conscience, mon nèfyou?”

  Brett thought of Delta. He could have had her every night for the entire trip. He would have been as safe in her cabin as in his. Hell, she’d have come to his cabin, no questions asked, no strings attached.

  Except the strings they were both pulling against. She was right. Something kept drawing them together. He’d felt it again this morning on the wharf. And deep inside him, that force had spawned a great mass of need that fought like a bayou gater to free itself, to enjoy her while he could.

  But it could only be for the duration of the trip, and that made it impossible. She professed not to need commitment. He professed not to want it. But the truth was, both of them did. Both of them needed it, both of them wanted it.

  And that was the hell of it.

  Set amidst a forest of willows and live oaks on the edge of a small creek, the little shack reminded him of shacks on the chênières further south—chinked cypress planks with palmetto-thatched roofs.

  “Trade’s been slow,” André Bontura, his man in charge of operations allowed, after they had judged the place to be free of strangers.

  “Have anything to do with the comin’ elections?” Pierre questioned.

  “Non. Only thing the gov’nor’s interested in is runnin’ the Voodoos out o’ the state.” Bontura wiped his brow with a filthy handkerchief and apologized to Brett. “Forgot about your maman.”

  “She isn’t a Voodoo.”

  “Same as,” Bontura responded. “In the eyes of tha’ brother-in-law of yours.”

  “Trainor’s no kin of mine.”

  “I thought—?”

  “I never claimed him. Not even when I was married to h
is sister.” Brett shrugged. “No love lost. He never claimed me either.”

  “Except now he wants your hide strung tighter’n a muskrat’s pelt,” Pierre reminded him.

  “My question is,” Brett addressed Bontura, “could we make a living out of this business if I decide against returning to Canada?”

  Pierre exploded. “What did you say?”

  “Could we?” Brett repeated, ignoring his uncle.

  “For truth, you cannot stay in Louisiana,” Pierre objected. “Except six feet under.”

  Brett shrugged. “Never hurts to investigate the options.”

  Suddenly a footstep sounded at the threshold, and the three men glanced up from where they stood.

  Nat stood in the doorway, his forty-five aimed at Brett. “Dupré? That is your name? Anatole Dupré?”

  Brett straightened his shoulders. “You think you’ve figured everything out, oui?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Close doesn’t count, Nat. If you haul my carcass to Trainor and I’m who I claim to be, Brett Reall, not some suspected murderer, you’ll be in a peck of trouble. Trainor might be bloodthirsty, but, as I understand it, his hunger is for only one man. He wouldn’t let you get off short of the gallows for murdering an innocent man.”

  “I’m not stupid, Dupré,” Nat said. “I’ll take you in alive.”

  Brett’s eyes narrowed on the bounty hunter, defiant, intense. “You and who else?”

  From behind Nat fiddle music began to fill the air. The sound startled Nat—only for an instant, but an instant was enough for Brett, Pierre, and Bontura to rush the door, take the bounty hunter’s weapon, and haul him into the room.

  “Come in, Gabriel,” Brett called out the door. “Good work.”

  “What d’you aim to do with this feller?” Bontura questioned.

  “Me, I say we anchor him, and throw him in the bayou,” Pierre suggested.

  Brett studied the now mute Nat. “No need for that. All I want is to keep him off my tail until I get out of this country.” He watched Pierre truss and tie their prisoner to a ladder-back chair. Bending low, Brett brought his face to eye level with Nat’s.

  “You see, Nat, I’m not guilty. I may not be able to prove it, but I’m not. I’ve never killed anyone in my life, and I don’t aim to start now.” His voice hardened. “So don’t make me.”

  “Him, he’s guilty of somethin’, sure,” Gabriel offered. “If we knew wha’, we could have him arrested and thrown in jail. That’d keep him off your back.”

  “Leave ’em to me,” Bontura told them. “Sheriff over in St. Francisville’s a friend of mine. We’ll find somethin’ this heathen’s done that’s offensive to society.”

  Delta fairly raced from the coach when the coachman drew up at the docks at St. Francisville. The coachman had offered to see her nag returned to the livery and she agreed with scant attention to manners. Images of Miss Strahan’s lovely home and of John James Audubon’s magnificent talent dimmed before the fear growing steadily inside her—fear that something had happened aboard the Mississippi Princess. The welcome strains of the calliope had reassured her that the boat hadn’t exploded. But her premonition remained, strong and sickening. Something had happened to Brett. She was sure of it.

  Zanna and Stuart waited impatiently for her to climb the gangplank.

  “Where’s Nat?” Zanna questioned.

  “What’d you mean running off with that bounty hunter?” Stuart charged. “You should have told me Captain Kaney had been detained. I would have gone with you. Cameron’ll have my … uh, my hide for this.”

  “Where’s Nat?” Zanna questioned again. “The show’s scheduled to start in five minutes.”

  “Hold it, both of you.” Delta addressed each of their concerns by stating hers. “Nat said you suggested he ride with me, Stuart. I didn’t believe him, but I had a good reason for letting him escort me to the plantation.”

  She turned to Zanna. “Right in the middle of my interview with Miss Strahan, Nat excused himself, saying you needed him to help prepare for tonight’s performance.”

  She stared from one dumbfounded friend to the other. “Where’s Brett?”

  “Brett?” Zanna questioned. “It’s Nat I need to find.”

  “Brett’s in his cabin,” Stuart responded.

  “When did he return?” Delta asked.

  Stuart’s eyes widened.

  “He left this morning about the same time Nat and I did. Didn’t you see him leave the boat?”

  “Son of a— Excuse me, ladies. I’ve been duped, but good.” Stuart recovered his composure. “You think Nat’s after him?”

  “Why would Nat be after Brett?” Zanna questioned.

  “Yes,” Delta told Stuart.

  While Delta and Stuart studied each other’s expressions, sharing their common concern, Zanna took Stuart’s arm.

  “They’re both grown men. Let them take care of themselves.” She tugged on Stuart’s arm. “What I need right now is another grown man.”

  Stuart glanced at Zanna vacantly, then apparently realizing what she meant, tried to draw away. “No, you don’t. Not this grown man.”

  Zanna smiled sweeter than Delta had ever seen her. “Yes, I do. You’ll make a perfect hero.”

  Stuart’s face flushed. “No.”

  “But I need you,” Zanna pleaded.

  “I couldn’t. I don’t know the lines.”

  “You’ve seen the play. That’s all that’s necessary,” Zanna told him, readjusting her grip on his arm.

  Delta studied the pair. The rapport growing between them brought a poignant lump to her throat.

  “There isn’t a written script,” Zanna was saying. “Ad lib. Say whatever comes to mind.”

  Stuart frowned. “The words that are apt to come to my mind at the moment aren’t fit for the ears of women and children.”

  Suddenly bells started clanging and someone nearby cried, “Fire on board! Fire on board!”

  With catlike reactions, Stuart grabbed Zanna and Delta by the arms and hurried them toward the gangplank.

  People began racing past them, trying to get ashore. Delta dug her heels into the wooden deck. The captain’s voice came through his horn.

  “Calm down, folks. Nothing to get excited about. The fire’s been contained in one stateroom.”

  Roiled memories stirred fear inside Delta’s stomach. Scenes from John James Audubon’s workroom flashed through her head, accompanied by the premonitions she had experienced there. She jerked free of Stuart and started running up the deck.

  “Where’re you going?” he called after her.

  The captain’s voice came through again, continuing to try to calm the passengers’ fears. “The fire has been extinguished. I repeat, the fire has been extinguished. No harm done.”

  While people around her paused to stare at each other, confused over what they should do next, Delta kept running.

  Stuart and Zanna followed, catching her on the observation deck.

  “Where’re you going?” Zanna panted from behind.

  Stuart came abreast of her and kept pace.

  Outside Brett’s stateroom, she stopped short, her hands pressed to her heart to contain its erratic beating. The door was thrown open. Smoke billowed out, but she saw no flames. Several of the crew rushed inside, then out.

  She stepped forward, attempting to look inside the cabin.

  “Don’t go in there, ma’am. The room’s full of smoke.”

  “Is there—was anyone injured?”

  “No ma’am,” came the reply. “The gent’s a lucky fellow, though. Everything inside has been destroyed.”

  Stuart shouldered past Delta, demanding, “What exactly happened?”

  The crewmember shrugged. “Don’t rightly know, sir. Orville said he heard an explosion of some kind. Likely we’ll never know how it started.”

  Delta’s mouth felt as dry as if it had been scorched with smoke. “Where is he? The passenger?”

  “Can’t
say for sure, ma’am. Orville here was deliverin’ a dinner tray to the stateroom when the door burst open with the percussion. Flames leaped ever’where, he reported.”

  Delta’s eyes darted around the hallway, pausing on each person in the gathering crowd. Suddenly she heard the strains of a fiddle over the escalating noise. Finding its source, she saw Gabriel standing apart from the group, playing his fiddle.

  When she caught his eye, he held her gaze, steady and unconcerned. But when she tried to make her way to him, he vanished down the staircase.

  Feeling a hand on her back, she turned and found Stuart staring at her with sympathetic eyes. Beside him stood Orville. Stuart drew her to his chest, patting her shoulders in a protective, comforting manner.

  “Orville here says he heard a splash outside the boat when he went for help. He looked over the rail and saw the gambler swimming away.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Brett Reall was gone. Like a line from the melodrama, those words kept ringing through Delta’s head.

  Brett Real was gone. She confirmed the fact over dinner when she sat beside Captain Kaney. Although she hadn’t felt like eating, she had felt still less like returning to her cabin where she would do nothing but think of Brett.

  “I suppose you moved the occupants of the burned-out stateroom to another cabin,” she commented to the captain over a steaming bowl of mock turtle soup, which on better days she would have enjoyed.

  “As a matter of fact,” the captain replied, “that gambler’s gone. I got word not to expect him on board for the duration of the trip.”

  Although Stuart had told her the same, Delta was still unprepared to hear the words spoken. Soup dribbled from her spoon, splattering back in the bowl. “Where do you suppose he went?” she managed to ask.

  “Can’t tell by me,” Captain Kaney retorted. “Left me in a bind, that he did. The gents expect a certain level of player for their quiet games at night. And the ladies certainly expected him to continue their ti’ games. Of course, he hadn’t been available for those for the last several days. Don’t know what got into the fellow.”