Her eyes landed on a small, leather-bound book on the end of one shelf. The book looked to be well-worn as well as old. Something this worn had to be important. She carefully drew the book out and undid the ties holding the book closed. The book was in poor shape, with many of the pages torn or come loose from the binding, and she was as cautious as she could be in handling it. First she thought it might be some collector’s item, worth a lot of money, but she quickly saw that it was a diary of sorts. Much of the handwriting was faded and illegible, but there were some passages she could make out.
26th January, 1788
After two days of making advances to every cove and bay on the coast, the Captain found one to his liking, a fine big cove just waiting to wrap her arms around all us lucky bastards. The lads are all as excited as green boys at a two-penny hop.
The book had her full attention now. 1788! She made herself comfortable in the massive green leather wing chair, and turned on the brass floor lamp that hooked its head, like a curious onlooker, over the back of the chair.
7th February
We are all ashore now. I reckon the Captain was waiting for the cattle and women to land, for he threw a great party today. He read a fine speech to the lads about how grand the prospect is which ‘lies before a youthful nation.’ The lads are just happy they can now keep the bad food down without the sea heaving it up again on them. The Captain is naming this place Sydney, after his Lordship back home.
Sydney. The only Sydney she knew was in Australia. Could it be?
10th June
Winter beats at us with yet another day of rain. The huts have flooded and a goodly number of the lads have the scurvy. The Captain is taking the fittest of us inland tomorrow to search for ground that won’t kill a planting.
19th March, 1790
Wonderful news! The lads haven’t been in such high spirits since the two marines were hung last year for stealing food. A grand dame of a ship, the Lady Juliana, landed today with over two hundred more convicts, all women! It’ll mean more mouths to feed with nonexistent food, but I don’t think that’ll be on the mind of a single lad. It certainly won’t be on my mind.
Tia couldn’t help smiling. Men hadn’t changed much in over two hundred years, had they?
5th June
The Second Fleet landed today. More convicts, as many as arrived when we did. I fear we paved the way with our blood and sweat for them, the lucky bastards. Our marines are leaving! One hundred men arrived to take their place, calling themselves the New South Wales Corps. But soldiers are soldiers. There will be a way to manipulate them.
3rd December, 1792
There’s talk among the Corps that the Captain is leaving. John tries to deny it, but he smiles too much when he does. He knows something.
23rd March, 1801
Governor King finally got his wish. John is being sent back to England to face court martial. Who would have thought after all this time that John would be brought down because of something so foolish as a duel? Can it be that all my plans have come to naught? Sabra doesn’t know yet. Without John’s sponsorship, I fear for us. If we are separated, it will do to me what no other hardship on this land has done. I don’t know how I’ll go on.
She reread the passages she had been able to make out and desperately wished she could decipher the rest. It was like plugging into someone’s thought stream, the people and events all happening in the present moment. She wondered who they all were—John, Sabra, but most of all, the author. She looked at the cover and inside the cover, but there was no inscription or dedication. Could the diary have belonged to one of Dallas’ ancestors? It seemed likely. Why else would he have the book?
Keeping one eye on the diary and the other on the time, she returned the book to its resting place on the bookshelf prior to eight o’clock. It was a heavenly evening, and Tia would have preferred to wait on the veranda, but with nasty characters like St. James lurking about, she felt it more prudent to sit inside.
She had intended to wait in the parlor, but the furnishings in the library, though somber, were comfortable. It was a dark, masculine room, seemingly imbued with Dallas’ very personality. There was a small fireplace with a black marble mantel, and the wooden shelves built into the walls were ornately hand carved with designs of leaves, vines, and grape clusters. A large brass chandelier, dark with the tarnish of age, hung over the center of the room, and radiated more gloom than light. No crystal dripped from the fixture, but rather the brass branches were like those of trees, hiding tiny predators of the forest, both animal and human. Detailed fox, hounds, horses, and hunters, all wrought in brass, twined up and down the arms of the chandelier in an endless foxhunt.
A large print framed in dark wood hung on the wall opposite the bookshelves. Tia stepped closer to take a better look at it. It depicted dispirited Native Americans—some on horseback, some in covered wagons, and some on foot—being herded by blue-coated U.S. soldiers.
As usual, Tia wasn’t aware of Dallas’ presence until he was standing at her shoulder, his mouth inches from her ear.
“Quite a compelling scene, isn’t it?”
Hardly the sentimental greeting she might expect after a night like they had shared, but she wasn’t surprised. Even so, the timbre of his voice, as well as his very presence, made her want to jump. She forced herself to stand still when the magnetism of his body ate over her in tiny bites and chewed holes in her resolve. She tried to remember she was still mad at him for discussing her with his black-haired visitor.
She addressed the painting to fortify her will. “Yes. The ‘Trail of Tears.’” She paused, studying the picture. The faces were haunting. “It’s like a glimpse into the mirror of time.”
Dallas moved in front of her so that she couldn’t help but see his eyes. A strange light treaded the green depths. “What did you say?”
“Art. Art is a reflection of the world. So is photography. Not an exact reproduction of life, but . . . ”
“ . . . but the unique image burned into the artist’s soul.” There was surprise in his voice, and a little wonder. Wonder of her, or of the painting on the wall?
She cocked her head at the painting. “The artist, yes. But I think even more unique is the vision seen by each person who gazes upon the art itself.”
“How did you know it’s the ‘Trail of Tears’? Did Gillie tell you?” Amazement still altered the pitch of his voice.
“No. I haven’t just been a cop my whole life. I’ve always been interested in art.”
“Yes, but this specific painting . . . you know it.” The look he gave her made her forget the anger she had harbored all day. The light that swam in his wider-than-usual eyes could be interpreted as awe, but awe was a deceptive thing. The same look could communicate respect, reverence, or fear. She doubted he feared anything she could spring on him, but she didn’t know him well enough to discern if he was merely amazed that she was more than a pushy ex-cop, or if a genuine regard for her was growing.
“Yeah, I know it,” she answered softly. Her appreciation for art, especially early American art, was another thing that Bret hadn’t been interested in. But this man, for all his reticence and mysterious ways, saw her in ways Bret hadn’t in the nearly two years they had been together. She briefly wondered if the surprise on her face was as apparent as that in Dallas’ eyes. Her gaze touched the painting again. “The, uh, policy in the 1800s of Indian removal from their homeland in the Southeast to Oklahoma, if I remember the history. Hundreds died on the journey.”
“Thousands, actually. The human predicament doesn’t seem to change, does it? Man’s journey is customarily death. As you know too well, don’t you, Tia?”
She turned back to him and nodded, soaking in his appearance as she did. He was impeccably garbed, as usual, this time in taupe silk trousers and an ivory shirt. He was clean-shaven and neatly groom
ed, and Tia wondered if the untamed creature that had all but consumed her last night had been a dream after all.
“You waited for me,” he whispered, as if reading her mind.
“You really thought I’d leave? You don’t have much faith in your abilities, do you?”
His brows crept up his forehead just a little. “Oh, I have every faith.”
The look fanned anger which had cooled during the discussion of the painting. “And here I am, right? Affirmation of that faith. Well, the truth is that I’d like to get some answers before I go. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk last night.”
“As you wish. The night is yours. Have you eaten?”
She nodded. “Gillie said I shouldn’t wait for you. Dallas, can we get out of here? Maybe go down to the river to talk? Your house is beautiful, but I’ve been cooped up all day. If I don’t get some air I’ll go crazy.”
“Certainly.”
“You’re not afraid of St. James?”
He smiled, a genuine grin that reached his eyes and popped the long smile line into place. “With you as my bodyguard? Never.”
Damn the man. It was hard to stay mad at him when he looked at her like that. She ran upstairs for her purse. By the time she returned to the back door, Dallas had sunglasses on, and Gillie had the Lincoln out of the garage.
“We’ll be Under-the-Hill, Gillie. If anything happens . . . ”
“Yes, yes, I know. I’ll call you if you’re needed.”
Dallas drove down to Silver Street, but the parking spaces on the street were all taken. He snaked the big car past the concrete wall with “Welcome to Natchez” painted in blue letters and down the steep drive to the parking lot right on the river. They exited the car, and while Tia lamented the loss of the air-conditioning, the worst heat of the day was past.
Dallas adjusted his sunglasses and shaded his eyes with one hand. “Do you want to sit in the tavern up on the street? This is the off-season, so there shouldn’t be many people in there,” he asked.
“No, if you don’t mind, this is fine right here by the water. It’s beautiful.”
The view of the sunset over the river was indeed that. The horizon over the Louisiana shore was a wash of lemon that blended in a flawless gradient to crystal blue. The color of the Mississippi was a faithful mirror image of the sky color, but the gentle movement of the water spoiled the perfect reproduction, creating instead a living marble of blue and gold. The bridge to Vidalia was scalloped lace silhouetted against the backdrop of color. They sat on the rocks at the river’s edge, near each other but not touching. She had been so close to this man last night, as close as two people could possibly be. Why was she afraid to so much as touch him now?
“Dallas, who was the man who came to visit you this afternoon?”
“Just a . . . business associate. Why?”
“Well, he had the same sort of look about him as St. James. I just wanted to know if I should shoot him if I happen to meet him in a cemetery.”
Dallas laughed, and the smile line appeared as if by magic. “His name is Alek. He’s hardly what I’d call a friend, but he’s no friend of St. James, either. I don’t think you’ll be seeing him again, but if you do, please don’t shoot him. He has . . . connections in high places.”
“You told him about me.” She put as much accusation into the words as she could.
Dallas looked at her, but with the glasses he wore, she couldn’t see his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“When he left the house I was watching. He looked up at me and gave me a wink that would have a hooker blushing. I don’t mind the wink. What I mind is what you told him to evoke that wink.”
Dallas laughed again, and the rich sound was so engaging she was ready to forgive him without an explanation.
“What makes you think I told him anything? He’s a lecherous old bastard, and you’re a beautiful woman. End of story.”
He really thought she was beautiful? It was a lovely thought, but this was not the time to let flattery distract her. “He didn’t look old to me.” She pouted for the briefest moment. “So you didn’t say anything about me?”
He took the glasses off so she could see his eyes. Like the mirror of the river, they were alive with liquid gold. “Alek is older than he looks. And no, love, I didn’t tell him about you.”
Love. Another distraction. Did he have any idea what he was doing to her? His eyes were innocent enough, and he didn’t seem to be dodging her questions. But she had managed too many glimpses of the dark core beneath his urbane veneer to believe that his endearments were to be taken seriously. But whether his comments were artifice or all sincerity, the parts of her body he had so aroused last night responded to the distractions. She took a deep breath to try to douse the coil of heat his words lit inside her.
On to the next item on her checklist. “Tell me about St. James. Who is he? Why did he want to kill you?”
“He’s just a nasty piece of work. Revenge. That’s all. I ruined his family a long time ago, and now he wants me to pay for his suffering.”
She rounded her eyes. “What did you do to him?”
“He lost his peerage because of me.”
“His what?”
“Peerage. His title of nobility. If not for me, he’d be an earl, Lord St. James.”
“You’re kidding.”
He looked at her. “No.”
“Where is he from?”
“Great Britain. Have you ever been there?”
She shook her head.
“They take such things very seriously over there.”
“Is that where you’re from, too?”
“I was born in England. London, in fact. But I’ve lived all over the world.”
“I wondered about your accent. I couldn’t tell if it was British, Southern, or even Australian, dumb as that sounds.”
“Not dumb. Very astute. I lived in New South Wales for a time.”
New South Wales. The diary came instantly to mind. She still wanted to know more about St. James, though.
“What did you do to make him lose his title? And why?”
Dallas gazed back out over the water. Her eyes followed his to where the reflection of the dying sun replaced the molten gold with a sheen of coppery red, like a slick of blood covering the water. “It’s a very long and complicated story.”
“May I remind you that you said you were mine for the night? I don’t plan on going anywhere. That is, except with you.”
He turned toward her, and any pretense at Southern gentility fell in the look he gave her. The twilight imbued his pale skin a healthy glow, but it was the dark light in his eyes that ignited every burner inside her. This time her willpower had to work overtime to quench the thirsty flames threatening to consume her plan of questions and discovery.
“I warn you. It’s rather a fantastic story.”
She smiled. Would she expect anything else? “No ghosts?”
“Sorry, no ghosts. Still, I don’t think you’ll be bored.”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s any danger of that.”
He turned and looked again upon the river, and her gaze, as before, trailed his. Watching the swirling current was like looking back into time.
“A long time ago a man named Christian St. James put me in jail for something I didn’t do. I was only twenty at the time and very naive, but the one thing I knew how to do was survive. Something I expect you know how to do as well.”
He glanced at her, but she only smiled, not wanting to interrupt.
“I was accused of robbery and of trying to kill Christian. I was there, but I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to St. James. But he had connections, and I didn’t. Christian’s father was Edward St. James, Earl of Coventry. Christian was first-born, so he was
heir to the title.”
Tia gave a small shrug. “Maybe his accusation was an honest mistake. It happens.”
Dallas shook his head. “No. He had no real proof, but he wanted to blame someone. I was a commoner, and I was there. That’s all that mattered to him. If you had seen his face in the courtroom . . . No, it was a mistake, but not an honest one. Christian St. James never drew an honest breath in his life.”
“Is this Christian related to the St. James who tried to kill you? What did you say his name was?”
“Jermyn. Yes, Christian was Jermyn’s father.”
He had been right. The story was fantastic. Tia tried to study Dallas’ face and body language—a habit she had acquired long ago while interrogating suspects—but Dallas gave nothing away. She caught a fleeting muscle twitch in his cheek, but his hands and body were as still as the dead. She had taken the story of Veilina and Rowan with a grain of salt. A whole shaker full, in fact. But that was just a legend. Dallas was telling this story as if it were fact. Yet he displayed none of the signs that people typically did when they lied. There was no nervous leg crossing, no picking of invisible lint from his trousers, no extraneous hand gestures.
Unless he was the best liar she had ever met, Dallas believed this story of noblemen conspiring to put him in jail. She knew Dallas was eccentric, but did it go deeper than that? Did he suffer from a kind of delusion she knew nothing about? As a cop she had always tried so hard to hang on to her sanity in the face of violence and tragedy that she had scorned those less fortunate who weren’t able to grip reality as hard as she had. Had she fallen for a madman?
He glanced at her again, then continued. “I served my sentence and survived to live again, but I also survived for revenge. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I don’t know that I’d do anything different if I had the chance to do things over. I wanted Christian to suffer the way I had, but I didn’t want to use violence. It was tempting, but it would have been too easy for both him and me. I wanted his torment to stay with him for a long, long time.”
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