So I tiptoed past him with Sweetie and Pluto following, and we went out on the sand so I could smoke a cigarette. I didn’t do it often—had in fact fought and beaten the demon tobacco for years. Now I was cutting myself a little slack. Graf and I would both recover our strength and put this behind us, including the smokes.
A child’s laughter caught Sweetie’s attention, and she bounded over the sand dunes and disappeared. She was a gentle dog, but I didn’t want her size to intimidate a kid. I stood up and followed with a disgruntled Pluto at my side. The cat was not a fan of early mornings either. The tang of salt in the air only made it worse for the water-disdaining feline.
I stopped on top of the dune. Down the beach, Sweetie Pie ran circles around a child with flowing brown curls that hung to her waist. She looked to be eight or nine. When Sweetie paused, the child spun cartwheels in the sand. She was too far away for a clear view, but her delight in the beach and water was obvious.
I’d been happy at her age. Endless laughter and adventure. The joy of sun and sand and movement. Shading my eyes with my hand, I searched for an adult. The surf could be dangerous, and the girl was far too young to be outside alone.
A slender woman with long blondish curls waved a scarf, and the child skipped to her and took her hands for a swing. Mother and daughter, I thought. They knelt side by side and lavished affection on Sweetie. One day Graf and I would have a child that beautiful. Two. A girl and a boy. Or two girls. Or two boys. It really didn’t matter, as long as they were healthy.
Fear had kept me from starting my own family. I lost everyone I loved, and I didn’t believe I could recover if something happened to my child. So I’d run away from the possibility. I’d held Graf off, postponing wedding dates and potential children. My miscarriage hadn’t helped. Now, though, I was done with fear and running. Graf and I would build a family. I was strong enough now.
Not to mention the thing Jitty kept a countdown on—my biological clock was ticking away. This week, while my fiancé and I were on the beautiful beach, I would commit to Graf and a bicoastal life that included children, movies, horses, travel, and a deep and abiding love for my husband. And Jitty, of course.
The mother and daughter raced down the beach, and Sweetie returned to me, ears flopping and tail wagging with delight. Pluto, on the other hand, stared at me with golden-green eyes that seemed to say, “Look at that stupid hound. There is nothing more pathetic than a dog.”
“Let’s make some coffee,” I suggested. “Graf and I have a guided tour of Fort Gaines at ten. Time to roust him up and get him ready for the day.”
* * *
Fort Gaines was built for people much shorter than my height, and poor Graf had to stoop to pass under some of the arched entrances. The group for the Sunday morning tour was small, a handful of fall beachcombers taking advantage of the October weather. In the summer, I could imagine the fort would be crowded with tourists.
Our tour guide, Angela Trotter, was a slender young woman with navy blue eyes and a love of the old fort and its checkered history. Originally used as a port and defense point by the French explorer Iberville, the barrier island, which has shifted and changed shapes and locations as a result of hurricanes, played a role in the development of the Gulf Coast rim. Military strategists had used Dauphin Island to defend the vulnerable—and valuable—inner waterways. The island had also been a waypoint for pirates, and Angela Trotter brought the past to life.
“One of the most colorful pirates to sail these waters was Jean Lafitte. A French nobleman by birth, he attracted the best sailors, some of them French nobility who were more in the model of anarchists than Black Beard pirates.”
Angela outlined Lafitte’s colorful career—the island stronghold he built off the coast of Louisiana on an island in Barataria Bay, and how he declared the island a free state, where slaves kidnapped from the cotton, rice, and sugarcane fields were given the full privilege of citizenship.
“One such highborn lieutenant of Lafitte’s was a pirate named Armand Couteau,” Angela said. “It’s rumored he hid a treasure worth millions on Dauphin Island. Many have hunted for the lost gold using all types of equipment, but nothing has ever been found. Most believe the hiding place is now underwater. Savage storms have shifted the island’s contours too many times to count.”
Unfortunately, I couldn’t give the tour my full attention, because I was worried about Graf. He’d gone for a long walk up and down the beach before we came to the fort, and now his face was pinched with exhaustion and fatigue. He was trying too hard, another thing the doctors had warned me about.
When the guide moved us along the barricades that gave a glorious view of the Gulf, Graf lagged behind. I dropped back to walk with him.
“Go with the group,” he urged me. “My leg is hurting, and I’ll take it slow for a little while. Make notes so you can tell me all the stories.” His smile was more grimace.
“Let’s head back to the cottage. I’m tired, too.”
“Don’t mollycoddle me.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just spoiling it for you. Go listen to the tour. I’ll catch up in a bit.”
“I came to spend time with you,” I said. “The tour isn’t important. Look”—I pointed to the south—“This is the place where Union naval commander Admiral David Farragut tried to navigate the mine-salted Mobile Bay and declared, ‘Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.’”
Movement across the fort’s yard caught my eye. The blond woman from the beach disappeared into one of the old powder buildings. If she was on the tour, she’d dropped out to pursue her own interests. Maybe she was a local who already knew the history. I was about to ask Graf if he’d seen her when footsteps alerted me that someone approached.
The young tour guide joined us. “You guys okay?” she asked. “I haven’t bored you into a coma, have I?”
“We’re just enjoying the view,” I answered. “My fiancé is a little tired.”
“We’ll wait for you in the hold.” She didn’t give us a chance to decline. She hurried away to catch up to the group.
“Ready to rejoin?” I asked.
“Let’s see this to the end. Then I’m going to need a hot soak in that lovely bathtub and a long nap.”
“You’ve got it.” I turned to follow him and saw the blond woman. She was half in shadow behind the powder house, and her attention was directed at Graf.
I wondered if she recognized him from one of his films, or if she was wondering what injury he’d sustained. With any luck, he’d heal perfectly before the Hollywood gossip machine found out he’d ever been hurt.
Also by Carolyn Haines
Sarah Booth Delaney Mysteries
Smarty Bones
Bonefire of the Vanities
Bones of a Feather
Bone Appétit
Greedy Bones
Wishbones
Ham Bones
Bones to Pick
Hallowed Bones
Crossed Bones
Splintered Bones
Buried Bones
Them Bones
Novels
Revenant
Fever Moon
Penumbra
Judas Burning
Touched
Summer of the Redeemers
Summer of Fear
Nonfiction
My Mother’s Witness: The Peggy Morgan Story
About the Author
CAROLYN HAINES is the author of the Sarah Booth Delaney mysteries. She is the recipient of both the Harper Lee Distinguished Writing Award and the Richard Wright Award for Literary Excellence. Born and raised in Mississippi, she now lives in Semmes, Alabama, on a farm with more dogs, cats, and horses than she can possibly keep track of.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SHORTY BONES. Copyright © 2014 by Carolyn Haines. All rig
hts reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover illustration by Hiro Kimura
eISBN 978-1-4668-5364-5
First Edition: April 2014
Sarah Booth Delaney 13.50 - Shorty Bones Page 4