Along the Cane River: Books 1-5 in the Inspirational Cane River Romance Series

by Mary Jane Hathaway

  He dropped her hand after a second and reached for a business card. “I’m Barney Sandoz. I’ve been workin’ with local leaders and community officials for decades to preserve Cane River Creole culture.”

  Lie.

  Henry’s stomach clenched. She wasn’t sure what part of his statement was wrong, but glancing at his business card, it wasn’t his name.

  “I was real excited to hear you’re tearing up a few sites on the grounds. I’m interested in bein’ part the project. Now, I know my Creole and freed slave history. I can identify a ten dollar Confederate treasury note at twenty paces.”

  “Doubtful we’ll be finding any cash in the slave quarters. The last artifact we uncovered was a small brass cross about an inch high.” She saw his eyes narrow and could practically see him calculating the worth of such an item. “And I wouldn’t way we’re tearing up the outbuildings. We’re excavating, removing the floorboards and looking behind the walls. If we find any rot or problems, we’ll fix them. That’s very kind of you to offer your expertise, Mr. Sandoz. Of course, anyone who works here needs to go through an application process with the National Park Service.”

  “Oh, I was just hoping to volunteer my services. I’ve dedicated my life to this area. There’s no price you could put on making sure our children and grandchildren know the sacrifices that our forefathers went through to build a life here. And it’s real personal to me. My great-great-great granddaddy Milton LeFleur was part owner of Oakland Plantation at one point in time.”

  Lie.

  Even if she hadn’t known the plantations history by heart, she would have known that was a lie. She felt sweat beading near her hairline and on the back of her neck. She stared down at his card, struggling to form a sentence. When someone lied to her, it was like watching a movie with the wrong soundtrack. Nothing made sense.

  “What year was this? I don’t know I’ve seen that name anywhere on the records.”

  “Oh, it was probably written out and covered up.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Those Prud’hommes weren’t all sunshine and happiness. Big powerful family like that.”

  The Prud’homme family was still in the area. As far as Henry could tell, they were as protective of the history, good or bad, of the plantation as anyone else. She decided she’d had enough of Barney Sandoz.

  “The archeology students have just started this week. I’ll let you know if we find anything that we’re unsure of or if we need another opinion.” There was no way she would let a man like Barney Sandoz near the excavation site. Or any other spot on the national park, for that matter.

  “My daddy used to say the time to peel your crawfish is before you eat him. If you wait too long to give me a call, I could be all tied up and then you’d be in a pickle.”

  Henry felt her blood pressure rising. She didn’t like the hard sell approach, especially from someone she’d never met. “Did you say you’ve been working with other places in Cane River? I was just at the parish archives today.”

  He straightened up as if she’d waved her fist. “I’ve been there. Don’t care much for the director. He’s not our kind of people.”

  “You mean, he’s not from around here? I thought he was a native.”

  “Huh. He may be from around here, but my mama would be rolling in her grave if I worked with a man like Gideon Becket. You know what he did, dontcha?”

  “He told me he was in prison for murder, yes.”

  “Not just murder. He strangled a man when he was just a boy and it was all over some cocaine.”

  Truth.

  “Look at the man,” he went on. “Looks like he did just fine up at Angola and that’s one of the worst prisons in the country. No boy could survive in place like that unless he’s scarier than all the other criminals. I bet he was part of one of those big cartels up there. Maybe he still is. I bet he’s all tattooed under those nice clothes. He’s got ice in his veins. You can’t look him in the eye and tell me that’s not true.”

  She thought of the way Gideon didn’t lie, the way he didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of him. He acted like a man with nothing to lose. Or one who didn’t care who he hurt to get what he wanted.

  “I don’t know him that well.” She held up his business card. “Thank you for stopping by and I’ll let you know if we need your help.”

  His eyes narrowed for a moment as if he wanted to get some kind of guarantee that he could be involved, but then he smiled. “Thanks for your time, Miss Byrne. And say hello to your aunt Kimberley. Tell her I’m a big fan.”

  Lie.

  She nodded, walking him to the door. As he left, she stood at the screen and watched him walk back down to his car. As he pulled away from Oakland Plantation, the sunlight flashed on the chrome hubcaps. Long after the dust had had settled back into the long drive way, Henry was there still, thinking.

  ****

  “Hey, how’s my favorite introvert?” Tom stood up from his desk and gave Gideon a hug, clapping him on the back. His dark curly hair stood out straight as if he’d been running his fingers through it.

  Gideon set down his leather satchel on the floor and slumped into the chair across from Tom’s desk. “Thinking he should get back to his office where it’s safe. I was just near run off the road ‘cause I was going the speed limit. Whatever happened to slow country life? It’s Thursday afternoon in Natchitoches and everyone’s driving like it’s Saturday night in New York City.”

  “You sound like old Sal Panettiere. Every Sunday he traps me at the door on the way out and gives me a lecture about how things were in his day, when the men caught dinner and the women cooked it.”

  “I’m not that far gone. I’ve had possum stew and I’ll stick with tater tot casserole, as much as I hate it, thank you very much.” He didn’t know how Tom could stand the cramped little office. Being the parish priest of the oldest church in Cane River should have some perks, like a window with a view. But Isle Brevelle was on the National Historic Registry and there weren’t many renovations they could do on such an old building. He rolled up his sleeves, his movements sharp with nervous energy and free-floating irritation.

  “Are you working out more?” Tom asked.

  “Me?” Gideon lifted an arm and flexed, letting his biceps strain against his shirt. “Maybe. It’s relaxing.”

  “Maybe too much of a good thing. You’re getting muscles on top of your muscles.”

  “I don’t see the problem with that.”

  “Let me put it this way,” Tom said. “I know you had to work hard to not look weak in prison. But here, it just may be the opposite.”

  Gideon frowned at him. “Are you saying I’m scary looking? Did somebody complain?” He smoothed his tie. “It’s not like I’m covered in tattoos and shave my head.”

  “No, nobody complained, but you’re always going to be working against preconceived ideas. If you look like you spend all your time preparing for a fistfight, it sort of fits their idea of who a felon is.”

  “Got it.” Gideon could always count on Tom to tell him the truth.

  Tom shuffled papers on his desk and Gideon knew what he was going to say before he said it. It was like clock-work, this conversation. Every spring, summer, winter, fall.

  “Vince and Sally called. They hope you’re well,” Tom said.

  Gideon nodded. Just hearing their names was like a physical pain, like a punch in the gut.

  “They say Austin’s doing really well at University of Louisiana. It’s his last year.”

  There it was, the kick that felt like a chaser to the emotional torture routine. “Good,” he managed.

  “They’d always be glad to see you. Maybe we can drive up together sometime,” Tom said, his voice carefully neutral.

  “You’ll never stop trying, will you?”

  He sighed. “Nope. They were the closest thing to real parents we had. For me, they are my parents, and you were there first, years before I was placed there. I know none of us are really related but I feel l
ike my family won’t be complete until y’all on the same page again.”

  “I can’t un-burn that bridge. There’s no going back.”

  “Only because you say so. They’ve never rejected you. They even wrote you in prison, even―”

  “Listen, I’m glad they say they can forgive me, forgive the way I lied to them and stole money from them and ran away to get on a bus going half way across the state so I could murder a man.” He could hear the anger in his voice. “But I have a hard time believing that. I’ve apologized to them. But I don’t think that relationship can be repaired. Not really.”

  “Of course it can. They loved you like a son.”

  Like a son. And without his willing it, a memory rushed through him. Austin tucked under his arm, head against his chest, listening to his favorite train book, again. Somehow he’d fallen into bedtime reading duty. Maybe Sally and Vince knew that being a big brother to Austin would help heal the loss of Katie Rose. Maybe they understood how much comfort it would give him to care for someone who was around his sister’s age when she was murdered.

  Gideon closed his eyes. What those men had done to Katie Rose, he had done to Austin. Not physically, but after being there Austin’s whole life, he’d walked away. He knew what it felt like to be betrayed as a kid and he knew what it was like when someone hurt a child that you loved. There was no way to forgive that. He couldn’t face Austin, and he couldn’t face his parents.

  “I just… can’t,” he whispered, opening his eyes.

  Tom nodded. “So, besides saving me from writing up the announcement of the jambalaya feed for the church bulletin, what are you doing here? You don’t usually drop by in the middle of the day.”

  “Just running errands. And I was thinking about going out on the river sometime. Maybe call up Bix and see if he wants to show us that spot he found with all the bluegill. You interested?”

  “Sure, name the day. But the last time we went out on the boat, you said Bix’s running commentary gave you a headache and you’d rather listen to banjo music for five hours straight.”

  “Even a whole day of his stories can’t be as bad as one more day sitting in my office. Nothing ever changes there. Day in, day out. Same old, same old.”

  “I thought that’s what you liked about the place. It’s not like you to get cabin fever.”

  “It’s been known to happen,” he said. “Actually, I’ve been thinking of going to the Southern History conference in Atlanta in November.”

  Tom was quiet for a moment. “A conference.”

  “Right.” Gideon tapped his fingers against one knee. “Or maybe the one in Miami in December. People probably think I’m some old recluse. ”

  He came around the front of the desk and leaned against it.

  “You never cared what people thought before.”

  Gideon couldn’t argue with that. “I just think I might need to be more visible… professionally.”

  “What started this? It seems like a pretty big change of heart.”

  “Nothing. And it has nothing to do with my heart. It’s just a conference.”

  “Okay. Then let’s talk about why you’re really here.” Tom waved his hand toward the phone, smiling. “You could have called. The telephone- it’s a modern convenience we non-historians use for purposes of communication.”

  “Well, if you’d rather I call next time, I can do that.” Irritation surged through him. “And don’t try to poke around in my psyche. I don’t need a counseling session.”

  “Fine. No poking.” Tom watched his face for a moment. “I guess I won’t bother being subtle. Just spill it.”

  “Nothing to spill.”

  “I’m your oldest friend. Probably your only friend. I know when you’re chewing something over.”

  “I just need some time on the river. Nothing major.”

  “Well, you know I’m always up for some bream fishing. Bix said they were real feisty when he was out with Paul a few weeks ago.” Tom paused, as if choosing his words carefully. His voice was much softer, all joking gone, as he said, “Gideon, you know that whatever it is, you can always talk to me.”

  “It’s nothing. No existential crisis, no test of faith, no big temptations. I just felt like a change of scenery was in order.”

  “Okay.” He smiled as he spoke but Gideon could see the tension in his shoulders, in the way his eyes were narrowed just a little. He didn’t say anything more, just stood there, leaning against the desk, arms crossed over his chest.

  A minute passed in uncomfortable silence. Gideon heaved a sigh. Half of him admired how Tom could engage people on the very deepest level, bringing their fears and hopes out into the light, giving support and encouragement by simply hearing what needed to be said. And the other half of him wanted to tell Tom that he was too old to have someone hold his hand and tell him everything would be okay. Some things would never be okay. Some things were irreparably broken.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Gideon said. “But I’ve known for years that Duane Banner is going to walk out of prison in October. I’m not going to throw away everything I’ve built here and turn my back on everything I believe, just to get revenge.”

  “It’s going to be tough once he’s out there, living like a free man. It’ll take some adjustment. It’s another step in learning how to live with what happened.”

  “And what I’ve done.” Duane Banner’s face was burned into his memory, along with images of terror and death that populated his nightmares. There had been a point in his life when he gladly took a place in hell just for the chance to kill the men responsible for the destruction of his family. “But honestly, none of that has anything to do with a river trip.”

  “Okay, I believe you” Tom said. “Just remember―”

  “I know,” he said. “And you’d be the first to know if I started making plans.” There was real comfort in knowing that if he ever confessed a temptation to give Duane Banner a taste of vigilante justice, Tom wouldn’t be disappointed in him. They both knew redemption wasn’t simple. You fought for it every day, down in the mud and the muck of life, one decision at a time.

  Tom nodded. “I’ll call Bix and see when he wants to go out on the river.”

  “Great. Let me know,” Gideon said. “I’m headed over to Oakland Plantation to drop off a few things. Have you met the new director?”

  “Henry Byrne? Not formally, but I’ve seen her a few times. I know Birdie and Frank Pascal from the Zydeco Festival planning committee. They seemed real excited to have her come home.”

  Gideon rubbed a hand over his beard again. Maybe it was time to shave it off. “I can imagine. Anyway, I better get there before they close the office.”

  “Wait,” Tom said, holding out a hand. Gideon could see the wheels turning in Tom’s head. “So, what do you think of her?”

  “Me? Seems fine.” He grabbed his satchel, stood up and glanced toward the door. “She sent a list of things she needed from the archives, I thought I’d bring them over, since she has some sort of anxiety disorder and doesn’t like to go out.”

  Tom frowned. “Doesn’t like to go out?”

  “That’s what she said.” Gideon had his hand on the door frame. He didn’t want to be pulled into a conversation about Henry Byrne.

  Tom started to say something else but Gideon was already waving and on his way out the door. He’d drop the papers off and head home. Or maybe he’d head down to the riverwalk and pick up some biscuits, barbeque and slaw at The Red Hen. After a quiet day at work, he usually looked forward to going home to his little house, but somehow it didn’t appeal.

  Chapter Three

  “If people would dare to speak to one another unreservedly, there would be a good deal less sorrow in the world a hundred years hence.”

  ―Samuel Butler

  Henry signed into her e-mail account and stared at the list of names in her inbox. Gideon hadn’t responded to the message she’d sent on Monday. Turning, she reached for her office phone, t
hinking she’d just call over to the archives and make sure Bernice remembered she was coming tomorrow morning. Her hand hovered over it. No, Gideon most likely saw her e-mail, made a note, passed it on to Bernice without thinking to respond. Nothing to worry about. It didn’t really matter in the scheme of things. Unless she arrived tomorrow in the middle of a Friday morning tour and couldn’t get access to what she needed. In that case, it would be a problem and she would have driven over there for nothing.

  Her inability to make a decision about a simple request was more irritating than anything else. She wasn’t an indecisive person but for some reason, she hesitated now.

  Henry stood up and faced the long window, drawing the heavy burgundy curtains to the side. The afternoon sun streamed in, lightening the deep green wallpaper to a jewel hue and flashing over the surface of the burnished oak desk. The pale blue linen summer dress she’d put on that morning felt wrinkled and stale. The old place couldn’t handle the August heat unless they kept the windows covered and every door closed, but she felt trapped in the dim little room after a few hours. She squinted out at the trees and the outbuildings in the distance. For her, the best part of Cane River Creole history was everything she could touch, repair, and explore. If she spent too much time inside with the papers, she started to feel claustrophobic.

  The temperature in the room started to climb and she dropped the curtain again. She would just drop Gideon a quick note. No need to overthink it.

  She hit the reply button and sat motionless. “Dear Gideon” seemed far too friendly. She erased “Gideon” and inserted “Dear Mr. Becket”. Now it was simultaneously too formal and too intimate. Erasing the “dear”, she typed a few lines, hoping for a good balance between chipper and professional. She sat back, re-reading the message. It seemed cold. She re-inserted the “dear” and read it over. No, better without it. Another quick deletion and she gave it another look, this time whispering it to herself. Maybe it was the word choice, or maybe it was too short but something seemed off.