Shotz had been highly suspected, but nothing could be proved. One of the woman's kin asked to search his belongings. When he refused, the man tried anyway. Shotz attacked him, gutting him from throat to belly button in front of witnesses. Then he had fled.
They found the money in his pack but he was gone.
By spring there was word that he had been seen in Texas. He was tried in absentia, found guilty, and sentenced to death. There was a price on his head in the state of Louisiana. But no one had seen or heard of him again.
Laron had asked for and been given directions to a couple of new German settlements where it was likely that Shotz might find refuge. He'd hurried out to the coast, Texas-bound. Now he stood on the gulf shore, staring out at the water to cross. Behind him was the mouth of the Vermilion River. His route back home. He could simply return home.
Sighing thoughtfully he checked his pot of water. It was just beginning to boil. He was hungry. The thought of fresh boiled crabs had his mouth watering.
A few feet from the fire was the catch of the day. He'd poled the pirogue into the shore early to avoid the pull of the outgoing tide. He'd been immediately rewarded by the sight of a huge tidal crab scurrying onto the beach intent on burying itself in the safety of the sand. Laron had chased the eager fellow down and tapped upon it lightly with his knuckles. The crab had frozen in fear and been easily plunked from the sand for supper. He'd dug up two others while gathering wood for the fire and the three were now impatiently awaiting their fate in a small bucket.
Laron squatted in the sand to stare in the bucket, admiring his catch. They were all of similar size and color and for the life of him he couldn't tell the one who'd raced on the beach with him from the others. He noted that they were attempting escape. But success did not seem close within their grasp. One would use the others to climb up the side of the bucket. But when it would just get the barest claw grip on the edge, the second would hang upon it wanting to follow it up. It seemed likely that they would make it, likely that they would see freedom once more. Then the third crab would get a grip on the second and all three would fall back in the bucket and start all over.
Laron watched this futile effort for several moments, curious. They were trapped. Victims of their fate. It was not that there was no escape, he realized. It was that they could not all escape. If one of them would sacrifice itself, become a ladder for the other two, then those two could get free.
He watched and watched. But crabs weren't as smart as humans. Or perhaps they simply did not know love. A man who loved would sacrifice himself to free the others.
Sacrifice. That is what he planned to do. To make a sacrifice of himself. Laron turned his gaze to the lowering sun in the western sky. Texas. He was going to Texas to kill a man. Not that he thought that killing Helmut Shotz was going to set them free, make them all happy. He'd thought that when he'd left Prairie l'Acadie, but he believed it no more. Days alone to ponder and question had made it clear. He could kill the man, but he would still not have what he wanted. Helga and the children could be free, but they could not be his. They could have the safety of the sand, but like the crab, he would remain trapped in the bucket.
The world was not so lawless that he could commit murder and expect to get away free. Even a worthless man like Helmut Shotz was allowed his life. Taking it would not be permitted. Laron would be hunted down, caught, tried, executed. He could not expect the deed to be forgotten.
Even if he managed to flee the scene, to get away to avoid the capture, even if he slunk back to the secluded safety of Prairie l'Acadie, he could never hide from such a secret.
Helga would know. He would know. And eventually the children would have to know, too.
The children, Karl, Elsa, and Jakob. Laron closed his eyes as he thought of them, yearned for them. Did a man love the children of his own loins more than he loved these? Laron could not imagine it.
Helga wanted the children to grow up rightly, to learn to do good and to be good. She wanted to teach them the morals that would make their lives better. Teaching was done by words, but more forcefully by example. She and Laron had cast off their love for each other because it could not be shown within the sanctity of marriage. How much more wrong would it be to devalue the sanctity of life by killing a man who stood in their way?
The children would see only great violence and great wrong in the people that they most loved. Their lives would be forever torn. Divided always in their hearts between the man who was a father to them and a murderer, and the man who fathered them and was murdered.
Laron continued to gaze at the crabs.
"Sacrifice." He whispered the word silently to himself.
He had planned to make himself a sacrifice. Truly he could see no other option. Was it right or wrong? He no longer knew. But he did know that he would forever be alone.
Chapter 16
Aida Gaudet had never been more than a few miles from her home. This day, the day of her wedding, she was traveling to the very end of the Vermilion River, but this was no wondrous and exciting wedding journey. This was a dangerous and harrowing errand to keep a man from making a horrible mistake. Strangely she felt not the slightest fear. A peace had settled upon her as she'd seated herself on the flat bottom boards in the old worn cypress skiff. It was going to be all right.
The day had been a long one. As evening approached it was difficult to remember that just this morning they had eaten the blueberry tart. Just this morning she had almost, but not quite lost her innocence. And just this morning, as she had insisted, Armand Sonnier had married her.
Now she ran headlong and heedless with him and Madame Shotz in a race for Laron's honor and perhaps Monsieur Shotz's life.
She glanced at Armand, standing at the back of the boat. His poling stick moved with care and efficiency, being both propulsion and rudder. He was a scholar, she thought. But there was nothing of the sickly, studious fellow now. He was a man on a mission. A mission to save his friend. And he was as strong and ready and able as the task required. She felt proud to call him husband.
The day had been fair and cool and the sun had shone brightly, but hadn't warmed the nip in the air. Armand, however, was drenched in sweat as he poled relentlessly, unwilling to allow the speed of the river alone to pull them downstream. They had made tremendously good time, he'd assured them. And now that they were low in the river, the evening tide was pulling them toward the sea in a very rapid pace.
They had good cause to be afraid. The tiny, less than seaworthy skiff was all but flying over the top of the water. An immersed log or a jutting rock just below the surface could tip them into the water at any moment. And the nests of gators got thicker and more numerous as they approached the sea.
But strangely she was not fearful. She was safe with Armand. She was safe with him, and sure. Anywhere that he chose to go, she would follow him there. Anyplace that he took her, she knew that he would give his life to protect her. And if the fates decreed this to be her last day on earth, then she would go to heaven at his side, content.
It was a strange sensation, this newfound trust, this certainty. Was it merely that she had wed him? Or was it because she loved, truly loved this man? Perhaps it was a foolish, female fancy, but never had confidence and assurance filled her so fully. He had seen her, truly her, not just the outside but her silly thinking and her chipped tooth. He had seen her and he had not turned away. It was a warm, comforting feeling and one for which she was grateful.
She glanced up at him again. She loved Armand Sonnier. He might not truly have wanted to marry her, but she determined that she would never give him cause to regret it.
Across from her Helga Shotz anxiously scanned the river and the bank. Aida was fearful for Laron, because Laron was dear to her, but Helga loved Laron as she loved Armand. She tried to imagine what she might feel if it were he who was in such danger. What if it were Armand bent on ruining his life? The idea twisted inside her, churning like nausea. She reached over to take th
e German woman's hand and squeezed it comfortingly.
"We will find him," she whispered. "I am sure of it."
"Have you had a vision of it?" she asked.
Aida shook her head. The only vision she'd seen had been the one of Laron cutting the shorn field. That one was for Armand, if she could ever make him understand. She had no comfort to offer Helga.
"But we will find him, I feel sure," she said.
Helga nodded, but her face continued to be lined with anxiety.
"Laron is a serious and thoughtful man," Aida told her. "Occasionally he gets mistaken ideas, like the plan to marry up with me. But once he has thought it through, he always knows the right way to go. It will be the same this time."
Helga nodded hopefully. "I pray you are right," she said and then shook her head with worry once more. "But love clouds the judgment, does it not?"
Her words were an unwelcome reminder of the morning in Armand's arms. She, loving him, had easily thrown caution to the wind. It was only his clear-eyed good sense that had prevailed upon them to resist sinful temptation. And she, loving him, had forced him to take vows that perhaps he did not want to make. Love did cloud the judgment, but she could not wish it away and would not if she could.
Aida forced her thoughts back to Helga and patted the woman's hand comfortingly. "Try not to worry," she said.
Helga smiled. "You are too kind to me," she said. "I have wronged you greatly and still you are kind."
Aida shook her head. "You have wronged no one but yourself, I think," she answered. "Things will be fine, I know that they will."
The woman gave her a wan smile, not believing, but grateful for the words nonetheless.
"He said that you were pretty," she told Aida. "I think he did not do you justice. You are very beautiful."
Aida shrugged. "The river here is beautiful and this country that we travel through. But I cannot love it. We can admire what we see. But we can only love what we truly know."
"Yes, you are right. And I can see that your Armand does truly know your heart," she said.
Aida blushed with shame at her words. If only what she said were the truth.
"Hold on to the sides of the skiff," Armand ordered, startling them both from their reverie. "We are drawing into the bay now and must put over before we are swept to sea."
A poling stick was only good when the water was shallow enough to catch the bottom with it. Armand deliberately kept close to shore where he had control, pulling with great strength and determination against the relentlessness of the sea.
"Once we get to the east shore," Armand told them. "We will pull up until the tide turns. We need rest and food anyway."
The two women clinging determinedly to the tiny skiff could not help but agree. As they approached the beach the danger lessened and the waves no longer seemed likely to tip the boat.
"Look," Helga called out. "There is a fire on the beach."
Aida followed her gaze and could see the blaze and one man standing on the sand.
"This is a desolate area," Armand said. "It could be an outlaw or pirate."
"It is Laron!"
Helga spoke the words with absolutely certainty that belied the distance that separated them from the man.
Aida shook her head disbelieving and then spied the long, cypress pirogue pulled up on the beach. Someone had braved the gulf waters in such an inconsequential craft?
"I think she's right."
Armand pulled toward the fire.
"Ho! The beach!" he called out in French.
The man in the distance turned toward them, waved, and called back.
Orva Landry was smiling to herself as she sat alone on the end of the dock in front of her house. She'd packed her bag, everything that she would need, and calmly she waited. Father Denis had taken the children to the Heberts. Jesper Gaudet had been by to pick up his daughter and had been startled and furious and near mad as a rabid dog to learn that not only had she married without permission, she had run off with her new husband without so much as a word.
Orva had finally made him see the sense of all of it and was sitting, waiting, humming to herself with pleasure. In the distance she already spied a pirogue headed in her direction. She waited knowing with certainty that Jean Baptiste would arrive shortly.
Beside her on the worn cypress planks was the blueberry tart that she'd made him. She'd left it cooling in the back of the cupboard, careful to keep it separate from the one she'd made for her own supper. She certainly hadn't wanted to get the two mixed up. This one contained a dangerous potion that she personally had no wish to ingest.
Of course, there had been no danger of that. Those naughty children, Armand and Aida, had eaten up every bite of hers. She should have hid it equally as well, she thought.
She shook her head thinking of those two. What a surprise they turned out to be. No matter how long she lived a woman could never tell who would ultimately end up with whom. Those two had been in the soup for a good long time now. All they had needed was a little push.
That was what Jean Baptiste was getting tonight, she thought. Just a little push.
"Heave to the boat, Jean Baptiste!" she called out. "I'm going upstream with you."
"Bonsoir, Madame Landry!" the young man said, surprised as he eased his pirogue closer to her dock. "It would be my pleasure to take you up."
"What a day it has been," she said. "I suppose you have heard."
"Just now," he said. "They say that my brother has married Aida Gaudet and the two have gone down the river with the German widow to find Laron Boudreau."
Orva nodded. "They should be all the way downriver by nightfall," she answered.
Jean Baptiste maneuvered closer, ultimately getting close enough to throw the old woman the rope. She deftly tied the boat and stood, ready to board.
"I cannot think how such a thing has come to pass," he told her.
The old woman chuckled.
"Strange times are brewing," she replied.
The young man helped her into the pirogue and settled her in front before untying and easing off from the dock.
"I made you this blueberry tart," she said, indicating the dish beneath the white cloth.
"For me, Madame?"
"Just for you," she told him, nodding as she pulled back the towel that covered it allowing him to admire the treat.
Jean Baptiste's eyes widened with appreciation. "It looks wonderful. I suspect I'd better save it for after supper."
"Yes," she agreed. "Definitely you must wait until after supper."
"Where are you headed tonight, Madame?" he asked.
"Well, first to your place," she said. "Then beyond. I aim to take your children upriver with me."
"My children?" He looked at her questioningly.
"Your old Tante Celeste hasn't seen those little ones in a month of Sundays. I heard the voices tell me that tonight is the night to visit."
Jean Baptiste's expression turned grave. Anytime the voices spoke of anyone, there was cause for concern.
"You don't think the old woman is ill, do you?" he asked. "Perhaps we should all go and spend time with her, Felicite and I, too."
"No, indeed not," Orva insisted. "Felicite's time is too near. And you'll need to be with her. I'm to go and take your three little ones. You are to merely drop us off and return to your wife. Jacque Savoy will bring us back tomorrow or the next day."
Jean Baptiste nodded a little uncertainly. Tante Celeste lived very far up the river, they'd be lucky to make it there by nightfall. If it seemed a very long trip for one or two days, however, the young man was not brave enough to question the traiteur about it.
"Pierre, too?" he asked curiously. "You want to take the baby also?"
Orva nodded. "All three of your children will go with me."
"I'm not sure Felicite will like that," he said honestly. "He's yet very small and still taking tit from time to time."
Madame Landry laughed. It sounded almost like a cackle. "Do
n't worry, Tante Celeste and I will manage fine. And Felicite will do as I tell her. It's time that you two spent an evening alone together. Sometimes it's necessary for a couple to learn the truth about how important they are to each other."
Jean Baptiste looked at her, speculation now evident in his eyes.
"You are up to something, are you not?" he said.
She smiled up at him. "That I am."
He hesitated, his brow furrowing in worry. "Are you to tell me, or must I be kept in suspense?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Actually, I intended for Armand to speak of it, but as I suppose he cannot I must do it myself."
"What was Armand to tell me?" Jean Baptiste asked.
Orva gazed at the young man for a moment and then chose her words carefully.
"Armand was to say that there is a love charm in this tart."
Jean Baptiste looked at her astounded and then laughed out loud.
"A love charm?" He shook his head, disbelieving. "You've made me up a love charm? Old woman, I've been married five years and have nearly four children. Do you think I am in need of such a nostrum?"
She smiled slyly. "I think you need what's in this tart."
Jean Baptiste still shook his head.
"I love my wife, Madame," he said.
"I never doubted it," she answered.
"Then why make a love charm?"
"Are you not interested in making love?"
Her question brought him to blush. They passed the rest of the trip up to his house in near silence. Orva was smiling to herself. She knew enough about life, and about men and women, to closely guess at the young man's thoughts. He had married young, much in love, and now saw himself burdened with duty and responsibility. He would willingly take the opportunity to have an evening alone with his wife. An evening when they might pretend, for a few hours, that they were the carefree lovers of their past.
True to expectations, Felicite was not keen on allowing the children to go off overnight with her. But Orva insisted and Jean Baptiste was even more adamant. In just a few moments the Sonnier children, baby Pierre included, were sitting in the pirogue, heading upriver for an unexpected visit to Tante Celeste. Felicite stood at the end of the dock watching and waving to them as they left.
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