She loved her father’s language. He’d wanted his American wife and daughter to speak it as well as they spoke English, and as a child Thena had enjoyed knowing that on the mainland people used English, but on Sancia she and her parents conversed solely in French. They were special.
Now whenever she used French, she thought of Glynnis and Philippe Sainte-Colbet and felt less alone. Today, worried about Beneba’s dream, she needed to have her parents’ spirits around her.
Thena tiptoed across old Oriental rugs to her bedside table and deposited her bag of birdseed on the rosewood surface. Work and don’t worry, she scolded herself. She had gardening to do, then some painting, and it was nearly eleven A.M.
Suddenly she heard the bounding arrival of canine feet on the front porch. A chorus of barking and whining began, and Thena hurried out of her bedroom. Cyrano, Rasputin, and Godiva stood at the door looking back at her anxiously.
Whenever someone—a misguided group of tourists or hunters thinking to find a refuge from game wardens—slipped onto Sancia Island, the dogs let her know. Today, remembering Beneba’s warning, Thena reacted to their alert with a shiver of dread.
“I’ll get the shotgun,” she told them.
Jed swung his gaze from the trail to the forest around him and back again. With all the savvy of an experienced hunter, he stayed aware of every sound and movement. Squirrels scampered up the pine trees, and he tracked their movements as he walked. Amidst the tall pines and ethereal, twisted oaks, the forest floor was nearly clean here. Where sunlight touched it, he saw a hint of grass growing.
A deer stepped into the sunlight and stopped, watching him without fear. Startled by such unusual behavior, Jed stopped too. They stared at each other for a moment.
Is every living thing here bewitched except me? Jed wondered. He had his wits about him now that sunlight had erased last night’s shadows from his imagination. Even so, he couldn’t deny a feeling of urgency to find the woman from the beach. She couldn’t be as magical as she’d looked. He’d meet her, put that notion to rest quickly, and get on with the business of telling her she had to leave his island.
He walked on, edging deeper into the forest. Sharp-leaved palmetto palms brushed against his jeans, and vines as thick as his muscular forearms twined so low from the trees that he could almost reach up and touch them.
Instinct made him freeze and start to listen a split second before he identified the sound of running hooves and rustling underbrush. Perturbed by the violent speed of the approach, Jed unsnapped the cover on the hip holster that held his small automatic pistol. His hand resting lightly on the gun’s rubber grip, he braced his feet wide apart and waited. Ghost or witch or whatever, he was ready.
Thena wrapped her legs tighter to Cendrillon as the mare leapt through the last barrier of underbrush and slid to a stop in the sandy forest path. Her heart hammering, Thena gasped with surprise to find a man standing perfectly still and staring calmly up at her from just beyond the range of Cendrillon’s snorting nose.
With a quick tug of the rope, Thena backed the mare a good five feet away from the stranger. He never moved and barely seemed to blink. She dropped the rein and slapped the butt of the shotgun snuggly into the crook of her shoulder, then took aim in the general region of his kneecaps.
“What do you want?” she demanded. The mare quieted, only her head moving to indicate her nervousness. Cyrano, Rasputin, and Godiva flung themselves onto the scene and gathered around Cendrillon’s feet, growling at the man who never took his eyes away from Thena’s.
“What kind of answer’ll make you put that shotgun down?” he asked after what seemed an eternity. His voice had not the slightest bit of fear in it. It drawled in a slow way that made her think of warm molasses and old western movies. She’d never heard a real person talk this way before.
“Don’t play with me,” she ordered. Jed lifted one sturdy brown eyebrow. From any other woman, that choice of words would have been suggestive. From her, it sounded innocent and deadly serious, he thought.
“Well, ma’am, I wouldn’t even give that notion a passin’ thought as long as you got that double-barrel pointed at me.”
“You’re very wise. What do you want?”
“Well, I came here to talk to a lady named Thena Sainte-Colbet.” He paused, and a trace of humor glimmered in his eyes. “The witch woman.” She made a huffing sound of offense. “Is that you, ma’am?” he asked politely.
She hesitated, glaring down at him. “Yes! Go away before I turn you into a newt!”
Jed wasn’t certain what a newt was, but for a second he entertained the notion that she just really might be able to make him into one.
“Put that shotgun down before I have to come take it away from you,” he commanded in his deep, luscious drawl.
“You talk big for a man alone, on foot, in the middle of my island.” The dangerous man would have a voice like low thunder, Beneba had said. Thena shivered. “You’re trespassing on Sancia Island. It’s private.”
“I reckon it’s not your island, ma’am.”
“You’re either very brave or very stupid then.”
He was silent for a minute, studying her, thinking—or at least trying to think, looking at her made it difficult—about her accent. “I once met a carnival fortune-teller who talked somethin’ like you,” he said in a conversational tone. “She was from Louisiana. I bet you’re from there too. Which are you, Miss Witch—Cajun or Creole?”
The sudden subject change distracted her, and he inched forward. “Neither. I was born here. My father was French and—stop right there!” Exasperated by his tactic, she pressed the shotgun tighter into her shoulder. “Don’t ask me questions. I’ll ask you. Tell me what you want! Are you here to hunt? To explore?” Her eyes narrowed angrily. “To steal?”
“I refuse to answer on the grounds that you might blast me with that rabbit knocker.”
“I might blast you anyway. You obstinate mainlander, you have five seconds to explain before I sic my dogs on you!”
“I can’t talk that fast,” he said in that languid voice. Thena thought of Clint Eastwood. The man had hawk eyes and a fascinating face and the same laconic appeal … and why was she thinking such nonsense right now?
“Your time is up,” she told him.
“Now just hold your britches—” he started. Jed frowned in surprise as the mare suddenly reared. The dark-haired witch woman quickly adjusted her aim, and Jed cursed softly as he realized that he was about to be shot. Shot and mangled, because all three of her damned dogs were coming towards him.
He leapt forward to grab the shotgun away, but too late. It roared with release. The pellets didn’t score a direct hit, but several ricocheted off a rock and struck his hand. Jed was dimly aware of the stinging pain as he grabbed Thena Sainte-Colbet, gun and all. The mare jumped in one direction and he pulled in the other, jerking the woman into his arms. They fell down, her scrambling, flailing body on top of his.
“Stop it, you violent rogue!” she yelled, as he shoved the gun away and caught her wrists behind her back. “You awful ruffian!”
He’d never had a woman call him such strange names before, like something out of a corny old movie. Jed almost felt like chuckling until he realized that the mare was going to paw his head off. And judging by the sound of their ferocious growling, the dogs wanted to help her kill him.
“Back!” he instructed the animals in a fierce, authoritative voice. Struggling against his chest, her thighs helplessly straddling his lean hips, Thena thought for a second that even her loyal crew wouldn’t trespass on the stony control of the man’s voice. He was strong—strong-voiced and strong-bodied—and she might well be at his mercy.
But no. He had to let go of her and cover his head as Cendrillon nearly caught his ear with a sharp forefoot. Rasputin—part Great Dane, part German Shepherd—grabbed one of his hands in a vicious grip. Thena rolled away, gasping for breath. She grabbed her shotgun, sat up, and angled it at his head.
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br /> “Back!” she echoed. Cendrillon moved away and Rasputin dropped the intruder’s bleeding hand. Jed propped himself on his elbows, his chest heaving with exertion, and stared down the shotgun barrel into her deadly gray eyes. He knew he was trapped.
“Reckon this is where you’re gonna leave my carcass for the buzzards,” he quipped grimly. “I reckon you’ve got buzzards on this godforsaken heap of sand, don’t you? I sure would hate to be left for those squawkin’ gulls and nasty pelicans. But go ahead and shoot me if you have to.”
His nonchalant control both impressed and infuriated her. “You idiot,” she hissed. “I wasn’t shooting at you. I was shooting at a rattlesnake. I should have let it strike you, as it was getting ready to do.”
Jed quickly twisted his head as the background noise of the dogs’ roaring growls took on new meaning. A few feet away they taunted and snapped at a rattler easily six feet long. After giving up on man for lunch, the giant dog that had bruised his hand so easily was now concentrating on snake for lunch.
Thena looked at the melee too, her brow creased in worry. The rattler slithered into a thick coil and shook its tail viciously. Her heart stopped. “Get back!” she yelled to the dogs.
Rasputin and Godiva—a shaggy, brindled mongrel—moved away from the snake in bounding leaps. But her old beagle, Cyrano, apparently thought it was threatening her. Growling, he darted forward just as the snake struck.
“Oh, no, no!” Thena cried in despair. The rattler clung to Cyrano’s throat and the stocky little dog fell down, struggling and whimpering. Thena jumped to her feet and ran forward, ready to shoot the snake. Suddenly the stranger leapt ahead and blocked her way with one outstretched arm.
“Let me by!” she demanded hoarsely.
“Ssssh.”
She glimpsed a flash of silver as he retrieved the pistol from his side holster. Thena gasped at the man’s speed and accuracy as a crisp, loud pop signaled the end of the rattler’s life. It dropped away from Cyrano’s throat and the stranger kicked its limp corpse into the underbrush.
Thena numbly propped the shotgun against a tree and sank down beside Cyrano’s quivering body. She gathered him into her lap and her stomach twisted in a sick, sinking knot of doom. Trouble had come.
“Old friend, old friend,” she whispered brokenly, stroking his head. “My dear little Cyrano. Dear little Cyrano. I think … are you … oh, there’s nothing I can do to help but hold you and love you.”
Jed drew long breaths. His bleeding hand hung limply by his side, the pistol still grasped in his large, work-scarred fingers. Watching Thena Sainte-Colbet bow her head and speak to the old dog, he felt self-rebuke and sadness. He was responsible for this.
“Go into the light now, old friend,” she said softly. Her heartfelt, simple words touched Jed at the center of his soul and sent shivers through him. He dropped to his heels beside her and fought gruffness in his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I … God, I’m sorry.”
Jed watched her hold her hand against the little dog’s side, watched the slow movement of his rib cage stop under her fingertips, watched her fingers float in gentle good-bye over the dog’s grayed old head. Her long, dark hair sheltered her face from his scrutiny.
When she looked up at him, he saw only a glimmer of tears. She didn’t need tears to convey her sorrow. Her eyes, large and expressive and so very gray that they looked like pearls, tore him apart with a store of old grief that couldn’t be expressed in tears.
“Cyrano belonged to my mother,” she told him. “She’s gone. Now I feel that another part of her has left me.”
“Oh, gal.” Her unexpected and intimate confession took him into her confidence for a second and made him feel needed. He’d never realized his rough cowboy voice was capable of sounding so tender. Jed reached forward and pushed her hair away from her face. When he finished, he awkwardly pulled his hand back and reached for the dog’s small body. “Let me take him.”
“No.” Her voice was firm, and a little cold. Jed looked back into her eyes and found the cold reflected there. She had the kind of lovely, intelligent face that told a man his heart would never be safe if she wanted to capture it. Now he saw that his was very safe, as far as she was concerned. “I’ll take him myself. I don’t need help from a mainlander.” She paused. “I knew you were coming. I knew you’d cause trouble. Now go away and take your trouble with you.”
“How’d you know I was coming? Who told you?”
“A fellow witch,” she said sharply, and gave him a curt, sarcastic look.
Then her delicate lips trembled and she turned her head away, gazing down at the still animal in her lap. Jed grimaced in distress as he heard her hoarse sigh of grief. She rose to her feet, cradling Cyrano’s body in her arms, and started down the path.
The horse—what was that funny name it had? Cendrillon? Jed remembered—followed her, along with the two big dogs. He picked up the shotgun and trailed behind with grim determination.
Fifteen minutes later the forest opened, revealing a big, two-story house weathered to oyster gray. Jed glanced over it quickly, surprised at its homey appeal. It sat in the middle of a sandy yard dotted with flower gardens that had been tended by an obviously skilled hand. The tin roof came to a central peak that disappeared under the umbrellalike arms of a giant oak tree.
The house and the porch that skirted all four sides were built high off the ground, on a thick stone base. A set of wide plank steps went up to a porch inhabited by old rocking chairs. He watched Thena carry her dog’s body past the house, across the clearing toward the forest on the other side. She turned around and looked at him when he started to follow.
“I’ll bury my friend without your help. Go back where you came from.” She whipped around and kept walking. Jed halted and nodded to her. But he had no intention of leaving.
When she wearily reentered the yard an hour later, she found him seated on the top of her steps, his arms propped on his knees and his fingers idly toying with a seashell. Thena’s quick flare of anger mingled with a disobedient surge of curiosity.
His hair was the color of rich coffee softened with cream, a luxurious brown. It was straight and he wore it moderately short, but it looked untameable, much like the man, Thena decided. His face was as lean as the rest of him, the nose blunt and a little bashed looking, the eyes deep set, the jaw almost too strong.
He was much taller than her own five feet five inches, and old jeans and an equally old short-sleeved shirt encased his taut, athletic body. She looked at his feet and her eyes widened. Cowboy boots? He was traipsing around her island drawling like Clint Eastwood and wearing cowboy boots?
He looked up suddenly, and she retreated behind a wall of reserve. For the first time, Thena noted that despite the rough edges and despite the fact that his presence was unwanted, she had on her porch a very handsome, very unusual man. He stood as she walked across the yard, and Thena hid the discomfort his silent scrutiny provoked. She stopped at the base of the steps and glared at him.
“Why are you still trespassing on my island?” she asked coldly.
For a second his mouth flattened in a line of frustration. Rasputin and Godiva trotted up, growling, and pushed their noses against her leg. The man spoke then, his voice deep and sad.
“If there was any way I could bring your dog back, I would.” Thena closed her eyes as his voice produced an unexpected quiver down her spine. “I … don’t know how to put things into real nice words, ma’am. But I’m just about as sorry as a man can be. I … I really am sorry.”
She looked up, found him faltering for more apologies and frowning, and wondered what made such a capable and calm man have trouble speaking. Shy? Was this man shy? Thena peered at him closely, and his discomfort seemed to grow. It touched her, and for a moment she could let herself soften towards him.
“It’s not all your fault,” she said gently. “Cyrano was a … stubborn little fellow. He knew the danger.” She tilted her head to o
ne side and absorbed the troubled look he gave her. “You seem to be a man who doesn’t know how to let his feelings show. Saying that you’re sorry is a very great gift for you to give, then. Thank you.”
The grateful expression that gentled his rugged face made her glad she’d gone easy on him. “You said the dog belonged to your mother. You got a pa, or is he gone too?”
Thena nodded. “They were both killed in a car accident two years ago.”
Jed felt compelled to keep talking, even though he suddenly realized that he hadn’t said this much to one person at one time in years. “My folks are both dead too. Mother died when I was five, my pa when I was twenty. But he wasn’t around all the time when I was growin’ up. I lived with my pa’s sister a lot.”
“Your pa’s sister,” Thena repeated. Why in the world was this stranger telling her all this personal information as if he’d been holding it in store for her? He had such an odd way of talking, this mainlander. Nobody along the Georgia coast talked this way. “Is she still alive?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Died a few years back.” He paused. “See, what I’m tryin’ to say is that I know how you feel about your dog. I’ve had a lot of animals I cared about, but not many folks. My mother and my aunt Lucy were the only people I ever really mourned for.”
“That’s too bad.” When he looked at her quizzically, tears veiled her eyes. “That means you haven’t had enough people to love.”
Shaken, Jed stared down at her tears and imagined for a second that a woman he’d just met was crying on his behalf. “Reckon not.”
Thena was crying on his behalf. Abruptly, her shoulders straightened. She didn’t understand why this lonesome-looking stranger provoked such a response in her, but she didn’t want to feel sorry for him after what he’d done. “Good-bye. I’m going back to the forest.” She turned around and stalked toward it. The mare appeared at the edge and waited.
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