“Relax, child,” he said. “I mean you no harm.”
“I—I was afraid it might be them,” I said hoarsely.
“You’d been gone for over an hour and a half, and I was beginning to worry about you—just came to see if you were all right.”
“I—I guess I am.”
I was still trembling, clutching the dress and petticoat in front of me to hide my private parts. He looked at me for a long moment, and his lovely brown eyes filled with compassion.
“You look like a frightened doe, child,” he said quietly. “No one is going to hurt you, I promise. I won’t let them.”
“My stepbrothers—Clem—”
“No one is going to hurt you,” he repeated. His voice was very firm now. “You go ahead and get dressed. I’ll go back to camp and heat up the fish, make you some toast.”
I nodded, and Julian left. I pulled on my petticoat, adjusting the tight, tattered bodice over the full swell of my breasts. I felt a curious peace inside. All the terror, all the apprehension, all the worry seemed to melt away, and I had a sense of security I had never experienced before. I believed him. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt me. He would help me. I put on my dress, spreading the torn pink skirt out over my petticoat. All my life I had had to fend for myself, fight my own battles, and it was strange having a protector, made me feel real young, made me feel kinda soft and fluttery.
Julian Etienne was standing at the tepee thing with a paintbrush in his hand when I stepped into the clearing. He was finishing up the picture perched on the narrow wooden ledge. I stood very still, watching him. He was painting one of the wildflowers growing on a vine that dangled from a tree nearby. It was a gorgeous flower, pale orange with delicate gold and bronze specks—I hadn’t noticed the vine earlier, and of course it had been too dark for me to see it last night. He frowned, squinted at the flower; nodded, made another stroke with his brush, and stepped back to observe the picture.
And there the flower was on the stiff paper, as lovely as it was in life, hanging from the vine like a glorious bell, fragile petals opened to reveal the soft, deeper orange center with its stamen projecting like a golden fairy wand. I marveled at its beauty and at the magical gift that enabled this man to create anything as wonderful as the picture. He sighed deeply, put the brush down, and then turned. He saw me, and a peculiar look came into his eyes, as though he were marveling at the sight of me like I had marveled at the picture. It wasn’t lust, like I’d seen in the eyes of a dozen other men, and it was far more than mere admiration. It was something like awe, I thought, and it made me extremely uncomfortable.
“My God,” he said quietly.
“Is—is somethin’ wrong?” I asked nervously.
“I hadn’t realized—you were covered with mud, a wretched little creature with an awful, twangy voice—”
“My voice ain’t awful!”
“Isn’t,” he corrected, “and I was preoccupied when I went to check on you at the pond, saw nothing but the fear in your eyes. Up until now I haven’t had a proper look at you without a mask of mud. I had no idea …”
He paused, shaking his head, still looking at me with an amazed expression in those deep brown eyes.
“Am I so ugly, then?” I asked.
“You’re breathtaking, my child.”
“Breathtakin’? What’s that mean?”
“It means you’re a veritable vision, even in those rags. You may well be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“You’re joshin’ me,” I said, “and it ain’t polite.”
“Isn’t.”
“Isn’t. I ain’t beautiful at all, not like—like that flower you painted.”
“Far lovelier—and totally unspoiled.”
“I still got my cherry, if that’s what you mean. I ain’t lettin’ no man take it till I’m ready.”
He shook his head again, amused now. I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me or not, but at least he was no longer looking at me like I had two heads or something.
“What’s that tepee thing?” I asked him.
He smiled. “This ‘tepee thing’ is called an easel. A painter uses it to hold his work in progress.”
“Are you a painter?”
“Heavens no, I merely dabble.”
“That picture you done is mighty pretty dabblin’. If you ain’t—aren’t a painter, what are you?”
“I like to consider myself a botanist, though I fear my friends and relatives consider me merely eccentric.”
“What’s a botanist?”
“Botany is the study of plant life. A botanist is one who studies them. Tromping through the swamp, taking notes and gathering specimen and painting the flora and fauna is hardly a gentlemanly pursuit, according to my esteemed family.”
“What-ja plan to do with all them notes and paintings and things?”
“Eventually I hope to assemble a book. I’d like to do for our plant life what Audubon has done for birds, but I fear that aspiration is quite beyond my humble reach.”
“Who’s Audubon?” I asked.
“A most distinguished ornithologist,” he replied.
“Oh,” I said.
Julian Etienne smiled and strolled over to the fire. It was merely a bed of coals now with a skillet setting on top. The skillet had a lid on it now, and he removed the skillet from the fire and took off the lid to reveal a small mound of scrambled eggs, two slices of buttered toast and several tasty-looking fillets of fish, everything still hot.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Starvin’.”
“You must learn to pronounce the final g, child. You are starving, not star-vin’. Sit down on the blankets. I’ll put everything onto a plate. Want some more coffee?”
“I—I’d like some of that funny stuff you gave me last night.”
“I fear your tolerance of that ‘funny stuff’ deems that most inadvisable, particularly at this hour. Besides, I drank most of the rest of it myself after you went to sleep. I desperately needed it,” he added.
“Oh. Guess I’ll have to settle for coffee, then.”
“Guess you will.”
The food was delicious, the eggs soft, flavored with cheese, the toast of some kind of dark bread, wonderfully crunchy. The fish was tender and flaky, browned with butter, the best fish I’d ever eaten. Julian Etienne might be eccentric, whatever that meant, but he was a wonderful cook, better’n me, even. Imagine being able to produce a meal like this in the middle of the swamp. It was downright amazing.
“So,” he said when I had finished eating. “what do you plan to do now?”
“I ain’t—I’m not rightly sure,” I replied. “I know there’s a big town ’bout thirty miles from here—don’t know the name of it, but I know it’s on a river with a waterfront and lots of buildings.”
He nodded. “I’m quite familiar with the place, although I’d hardly call it a ‘big town.’”
“I’m gonna get there somehow and—and I guess I’ll try to get some kind of job. I can cook real good—not as good as you—and I’m a dandy housekeeper. I can scrub floors and make Beds and—there’s not much I can’t do around a house. Think one of them inns there might hire me?”
“It’s possible,” he allowed.
“I’ll get a job and save all th’ money I can, and then I’ll go to New Orleans and—and maybe I can find my ma’s folks. I don’t even know their name or anything about ’em, but somehow—somehow I’ll find ’em, and maybe they’ll take me in.”
Julian Etienne made no comment. His eyes were grave, and I got the feeling he seriously doubted this would ever come about. If her family kicked Ma out and refused to have anything else to do with her, why would they have anything to do with her bastard eighteen years later? And how would I ever find them in the first place? I realized how improbable it all was, but I couldn’t let myself have doubts. I … I had to have some kind of purpose. I could feel salty tears welling up in my eyes again, and I staunchly held them back. I wasn�
��t going to feel sorry for myself. I wasn’t. I was going to be strong and I was going to make it.
“More coffee?” he asked.
I shook my head, handed him my empty cup and got to my feet.
“Thank you for—for all your kindness,” I said. “If I hadn’t run into you last night, I don’t know what I’d have done. I—I guess I’d better be on my way now. I’ve got a lotta miles to—”
I cut myself short. My face went white. I heard heavy footsteps crashing through the swamp, accompanied by loud voices shouting back and forth. I recognized the voices. I began to tremble violently, and for a moment I felt I might pass out. My knees shook. I reeled. Julian Etienne took hold of my shoulder with a firm hand, steadying me. I looked at him with desperate eyes, my heart pounding.
“It’s—it’s—” My voice was a mere croak. “They—”
“Relax, child,” he said.
“It’s them, and they’re gonna—they’re gonna—”
“No one’s going to do anything to you you don’t want them to do,” he informed me. “No one is going to hurt you. Stay behind me, do you understand? Stay behind me, and don’t say a word.”
He calmly fetched his pistol and cocked it. The large, amiable man with those warm brown eyes and that gentle, humorous mouth suddenly changed into a completely different person. He was cool and calm and remote and as hard as granite, looked utterly confident, looked frighteningly intimidating, too. I cowered behind him as the voices and footsteps grew louder, came nearer, and I gave a loud gasp as Clem came tearing into the clearing, Jake and Randy hot on his heels.
All three of them stopped when they saw Julian Etienne standing there so calmly with the pistol in his hand. Clem looked flushed, a soiled white bandage tied around his head. His boots were covered with mud, and his shirt was torn, one sleeve dangling at the shoulder. Jake and Randy were in little better condition, both of them disheveled and splattered with mud. Jake leered at me, his eyes full of greedy anticipation, and Randy smiled a lazy smile, extremely pleased with himself.
“I told-ja she’d head this way, Pa,” he said. “I told-ja we’d find her if we just kept headin’ west.”
“I’m th’ one who tracked ’er,” Jake growled. “I’m th’ one who spotted that patch-a pink skirt caught on th’ branch.”
“Shut up, both of you!” Clem thundered.
He looked at Julian and looked at the pistol, and there followed a moment of silence broken only by the distant cry of a bird and the buzzing of insects. I stood behind my protector, peeking around his broad back, my knees still weak and trembly. Clem’s blue-black eyes were smoldering with anger, his mouth set in a determined line, but Julian’s expression and the sight of the pistol made him cautious. So I didn’t kill him, I thought. I wish I had. Oh God, how I wish I had.
“May I help you gentlemen?” Julian inquired.
His voice was cool, polite and absolutely chilling.
“I’ve come to get my girl. That’s her, hidin’ behind you. I don’t know what she might-a told-ja, but—she run off. I intend to take her back home. This ain’t none-a your affair, mister. If you know what’s good for ya, you’ll stay outta this.”
“It seems we have a problem,” Julian replied.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Apparently I don’t know what’s good for me.”
“Look, mister—”
Clem took a step forward. Julian leveled his pistol. Clem froze.
“Take one more step,” Julian said, “and I’ll put a bullet through your heart—quite cheerfully.”
“I think he means it, Pa,” Randy observed.
“Shut your mouth! Look, mister, I been prowlin’ through this swamp for hours, since before daybreak—before that, I was too weak. The girl slammed a skillet ’gainst the side-a my head, damned near killed me. My boys wanted to get the authorities, call out the bloodhounds, but I told ’em that wouldn’t be necessary. No need draggin’ other people into family affairs.”
“Quite sensible of you. Considering.”
“Considerin’?”
“Considering that the girl is legally a minor, was under your legal protection and that you attempted to rape her. I have no idea what the mores of the swamp might be, but I am thoroughly acquainted with the laws of the state of Louisiana. Assault on a female minor by an adult male is a criminal offense. A hanging offense,” he added.
“I—I never—”
“The girl gave me a full account of the incident, sir. She was so shaken she could hardly speak. She has bruises on her arms. She told me you had forced yourself on her, that you planned to let your sons use her sexually as well.”
“She’s a goddamn liar! I—”
“She begged me to help her. I agreed to take her to the authorities and file criminal charges. As you’ve so conveniently turned up, perhaps you will accompany us. It’ll save everyone ever so much trouble.”
“He’s bluffin’, Pa!” Jake cried.
Clem’s face had been flushed when he entered the clearing, but as Julian spoke so calmly about assault and the law and criminal charges, the color had slowly drained from my stepfather’s face. Randy had plucked a twig from one of the bushes and was idly picking his teeth, his eyes full of sardonic amusement. Jake stood with fists balled, belligerent, spoiling for a fight. Julian was completely unperturbed.
“On the other hand,” Julian continued, “I might just go ahead and put a bullet through your heart. That would save everyone even more trouble and is, I understand, a far more pleasant way to die than hanging.”
“He’s bluffin’, I tell ya!” Jake insisted. “We can take him, Pa! There ’re three-a us and only one-a him. You ain’t gonna—you ain’t gonna back down an’ let that little slut get by with what she did! We can rush him. He cain’t shoot all three-a us.”
“Indeed I can’t,” Julian agreed. “I’ll be content enough merely to shoot your father.”
“He’s serious, Pa,” Randy said.
“Utterly,” Julian drawled.
He lifted the pistol a bit higher, his arm perfectly steady, his index finger curled snugly around the trigger. Clem’s face was entirely bleached of color. He took a step back, then another, bumping into Jake. Jake cursed. Randy gripped his arm, pulling him back.
“She ain’t worth it, Pa,” Randy said. “She ain’t worth gettin’ shot for. We don’t need her. Lots-a other tail around. Maybe Jessie’ll move in with us. That’d be real cozy.”
“You cain’t let—” Jake began.
“You open your mouth one more time, boy, and I’m gonna knock th’ teeth outta your mouth,” Clem said, his eyes never leaving Julian and the pistol. “Your brother’s right. Th’ gal ain’t worth it.”
“But—”
Clem whirled and slapped Jake across the face with such vicious force that Jake reeled backward, crashing into the bushes and falling to the ground. Julian sighed, growing impatient. Clem faced him again, trying hard to control his anger and fear. He took a deep breath, his broad chest heaving, and finally he managed to speak.
“You—you still goin’ to the authorities?” he asked.
Julian nodded, grim.
“No need—there ain’t no need causin’ a lotta ruckus,” Clem said. “Th’ gal ain’t hurt. You take her. Yeah, you take her. Do anything you want with her. You got my blessin’.”
“Clear out,” Julian ordered.
Clem needed no encouragement. He helped Randy pull Jake to his feet, and then the three of them stumbled through the bushes and disappeared from sight. We heard their footsteps retreating noisily, heard a splash as one of them fell into some water. Julian sighed again and finally lowered the pistol. Neither of us spoke until the sound of their retreat died away completely.
“Is—is what you said about the law true?” I asked. “Is what Clem did really a hangin’ offense?”
“I’ve no idea, child. I was merely improvising.”
“Would you really’ve shot him?”
“Unque
stionably,” he replied.
“You ever shot a man before?”
“I’ve never even fired the pistol, actually.”
“Never?” I was incredulous.
“I’m much better with words than I am with firearms. I just carry this thing around with me in order to emphasize a point now and then. Works admirably,” he added.
“You’re daft,” I told him.
“But I do have a certain aplomb, you must admit. I suggest we pack up and leave now before your charming kin have second thoughts and decide to pay us a return visit. I have a large canoe tied up nearby.”
“You—you’ll take me to that town on the river?”
“Unless you keep on asking questions in that deplorable whine and I decide to throttle you instead. Hurry now, lass. It’s well after noon, and we have a long way to paddle.”
Chapter Five
THE LAKE WAS HUGE, surrounded by very tall cypress trees draped with moss. Sunlight reflected on the muddy brown-green water, making shimmery golden patterns on the surface. The canoe was indeed large, with plenty of room for the two of us and all the bags, but Julian handled it with ease, paddling with no apparent effort. I leaned back, resting my shoulders against one of the bags, watching him dip the paddle in and out, from side to side, the soft splash of water making a soothing sound. He really was in very good shape, I thought, quite muscular and surprisingly strong for a man of his advanced years. He had been paddling for over three hours and he didn’t even look tired, though his fine white shirt was damp with perspiration.
“I never seen this lake before,” I said. “It’s mighty big.”
“It leads into a smaller lake, and that leads into a narrow river which, in turn, leads into another wider river which takes us out of the swamp and to the waterfront.”
“You know an awful lot about these parts.”
“I’ve spent an awful lot of time here.”
“Paintin’ watercolors?”
“And collecting specimen and taking notes.”
They Call Her Dana Page 8