Each Time We Love

by Shirlee Busbee

  Part One

  Fortune's Daughter

  Spring, 1815

  Come, send round the wine,

  And leave points of belief

  To simpleton sages,

  And reasoning fools.

  Thomas Moore

  Irish Melodies

  Chapter 1

  "Savanna, put the damn rifle down! You know you're not going to shoot me." The voice was huskily masculine and decidedly exasperated; the gleam in the dark eyes, however, was exceedingly warm. But then the sight of Savanna O'Rourke often brought a warm gleam to the eyes of most men, and Bodene Sullivan was no different—even if he was her cousin.

  Standing merely an inch under six feet, endowed with the face and form of an ancient goddess, Savanna O'Rourke was undeniably a pulse-stirring sight as she stood there tall and proud in the late afternoon light of the Louisiana sun, the fading rays turning her glorious mane of waist-length, wavy red-gold hair into a halo of fire that danced around her lovely features. Even the plain gown of brown homespun couldn't disguise the exquisitely formed body it clothed, her temptingly full breasts straining above the modest bodice, her narrow waist and womanly hips clearly defined under the coarse material. She was barefoot, her slender feet balancing easily on the old log on which she stood, strands of ghostly gray-green Spanish moss, hanging from a swamp cypress behind her, framing her head and shoulders. Few men remained uninterested in her presence, but this morning, despite her sensual appeal, it was the long black rifle held so menacingly in her slim hands that was the object of Bodene's rapt attention.

  When Savanna remained unmoved by his words, Bodene held out his arms placatingly and in his most coaxing tone, one that seldom failed him, said, "I promise, I haven't come to play any more tricks on you."

  "That's what you said the last time!" Savanna O'Rourke snapped, the rifle holding steady. Not the least bit intimidated when confronted by a charming, powerfully built rascal who stood five inches over six feet, she threatened darkly, "I warned you, Bodene, that if you dared show your face around here again, I'd shoot you on sight!"

  Bodene's mouth quirked into a grin. "But you know you didn't mean it, sweetheart—you wouldn't shoot your only cousin, now would you?"

  Savanna tried hard to resist that devilishly attractive grin and the wheedling note in his voice, but despite her avowed determination not to let Sullivan inveigle his way into her life again, she could feel herself weakening. Her aquamarine eyes narrowed. Sullivan was not going to slip under her guard this time. "Go away! Go back to New Orleans and your gaming house and fancy women. There is nothing here for you."

  "You're here," he growled unhappily, his glance taking in the dismal surroundings. His tall, broad-shouldered body garbed in form-fitting buckskin breeches, an elegantly cut dark blue jacket and an embroidered waistcoat, Bodene stood on a small landing with a roiling, muddy Mississippi River to his back; in front of him, behind Savanna, lay the dark, mysterious swamps; to his right, a pitiful cluster of dilapidated buildings was the only sign of human habitation. A few scrawny chickens scratched hopefully around the sagging porch of one of the dwellings, and a pristine sign declaring proudly "O'Rourke's Tavern," hung from the edge of a roof badly in need of repair. Behind the buildings Sullivan knew that there were more chickens, as well as some pigs and a skinny cow. His mouth twisted.

  He almost wished the damned British had been able to penetrate this far north of New Orleans before the Americans had driven them back—he'd now be looking at a pile of burned rubble and Savanna wouldn't have any excuse to remain here. The only problem with that scenario, he admitted ruefully, was the fact that if the British had gotten this far inland, the Americans wouldn't have been the undisputed victors of the Battle of New Orleans and the War of 1812 wouldn't have ended on such a resoundingly triumphant note for the United States. But fortunately, in January of this year of 1815, the Americans had won the Battle of New Orleans, for which Bodene was inordinately thankful. He smiled grimly. He'd be even more thankful if he could now just convince Savanna to give up the ridiculous notion of eking out a living in this godforsaken stretch of no-man's land. If only she weren't so damned stubborn.

  Distractedly running a hand through his rebellious black hair, he muttered, "I heard you had some trouble. A gambler came into my place recently and said he'd stopped by here on his way downriver and that some of Hare's old gang—Micajah Yates, to be exact—had paid you a visit and damn near wrecked the place."

  "Por Dios! That has nothing to do with you!" she flashed back, outraged that he had assumed that she couldn't take care of herself, yet touched at the same time. But then that was typical of the feelings Bodene Sullivan aroused within her—nearly all her life she had been alternately torn between wanting to wring his neck and adoring him.

  There were only six years between the cousins—Bodene was twenty-eight and Savanna had just turned twenty-two in February—and while their resemblance to each other was not marked, their kinship was apparent to most people in their impressive height, the stubborn curve of their jaws and the mesmerizing charm of their flashing smiles. Their personalities were more alike than either would have been pleased to admit—both were hot-tempered, obstinate and proud almost to the point of being arrogant, yet they were generous, quick to laugh and fiercely loyal. They had been raised together and they shared something more than just having grown up together—both were the children of men who had not seen fit to marry their mothers, and both had suffered because of it.

  The bond between them was strong, despite their frequent, loud and vociferous disagreements, and Bodene's eyes took on that bitter gleam Savanna knew of old as he said grimly, "It has everything to do with me and you damn well know it! How do you think it makes me feel to hear that a band of outlaws have been harassing you? Especially "Murdering" Micajah! You're up here all alone, miles from anywhere or anyone, and you just can't seem to understand that you might be in danger."

  Savanna's full mouth curved into a faint smile. "I'm not alone. Sam's with me."

  "Sam!" Bodene bit out explosively. "What the hell good is Sam?"

  "I'se a lot more good than I look, Mister Bo," claimed a soft voice, and an old, grizzle-haired black man stepped out from between the buildings, a rifle that could have been the twin of Savanna's held competently in his bony hands. In his youth Sam Bracken had been a magnificent specimen of manhood, tall and deep-chested, but now, at almost seventy-five years old, after a hard life spent working in the cane and cotton fields, he had an obvious frailty about him.

  Bodene looked discomforted. When he was a child, Sam had outfoxed him and tanned his backside more times than he cared to think about. And despite his age, the old man would prove to be a surprisingly tough and tricky opponent if the need arose.

  "Sorry, Sam—I didn't mean to belittle your abilities," Bodene apologized. "It's just that I go half mad when I think of her up here, living God knows how. When she could be safe in New Orleans or with Elizabeth."

  Savanna snorted. "Live with my mother? She might yearn for respectability, but it doesn't interest me—especially not if it involves marriage to that earnest young shopkeeper she's been wishing on me since I was eighteen."

  Bodene grimaced. Elizabeth O'Rourke, Savanna's mother, was one of the sweetest, gentlest women alive, but having turned her back on the genteel world of her birth, she craved respectability for her daughter. Heedless of Savanna's arguments, Elizabeth couldn't get it through her head that her daughter really didn't want to marry and didn't give a damn about respectability.

  "Look," he began placatingly, "could we please go inside and talk?" His eyes hardened and he muttered, "And would you please put that damn rifle down before we both do something we're going to regret?"

  An impish grin suddenly curved Savanna's full mouth. "Such as you forcing me to shoot you!"

  Bodene grinned back. "Exactly!"

  She stared at him for a long moment before carelessly swinging the rifle over her slim shoulder. "You can come insid
e, but I'm warning you—no tricks! I'm not going to let you try to cheat me out of the tavern, like you tried to do the last time you were here."

  Turning away, she strode over to the building with the sign and mounted the steps, then crossed the rickety porch and disappeared inside.

  The inside of the building belied its shabby exterior, although it certainly was not elegantly appointed. Some effort, however, had gone into making it not only habitable, but comfortable as well. It was astoundingly clean; the wooden floors were scrubbed and had been painstakingly bleached to a soft white patina; a colorful quilt adorned one rough wall, and the few pine tables and chairs which were scattered about gleamed from frequent polishing. Against the back wall there was a long oak counter and behind it, neatly arranged, stood several gleaming bottles of liquor and various glasses and mugs. The scent of a spicy venison stew simmering in the kitchen behind the tavern, which was attached to the main building by a dogtrot, wafted tantalizingly in the air.

  The aromatic smell of the stew reminded Bodene that he hadn't eaten since early that morning, and shrugging out of his jacket, he murmured, "Is there any chance that you will feed me before we start arguing again?"

  Standing behind the counter and deftly pouring a glass of whiskey, Savanna felt her lips twitch. Covertly she studied her cousin as he pulled out a chair and made himself comfortable, his long legs stretched front of him, his wide shoulders resting against the back of the chair. He looked confident, very sure of himself, and Savanna toyed idly with the notion of throwing the whiskey in his handsome face, but promptly discarded it—Bodene's vengeance was always swift and exceedingly uncomfortable.

  Thinking of the devilish revenges they had wreaked on each other through the years, Savanna finally let the grin that had been tugging at her lips have its way. Dios! How she had missed him and his infuriatingly overbearing ways.

  Placing the whiskey beside him on the table, she asked, "Did it ever even occur to you that I might really shoot you?"

  Bodene took a long, appreciative sip of the liquor before he answered. His dark eyes full of laughter, he looked up at her and murmured, "In a rage, without a doubt! But not in cold blood. And since it's been some months since the last time I, er, annoyed you, I figured you've had plenty of time to get your temper under control."

  Savanna sent him an exasperated look. "Someday, Bodene, you are going to push your luck too far, and I only hope that I'm around to see you get your comeuppance." She walked over to the small doorway that led to the dogtrot and, opening the door and sticking her head through, she called out, "Sam, we might as well feed him. Bring some of the stew and bread when you can, por favor."

  While they waited for the food, Bodene savored his drink and looked around, smiling as he caught sight of a beautiful silver bell hanging over the doorway of the dogtrot—trust Savanna to instill a touch of elegance even here, he thought. Savanna busied herself behind the counter, fiddling with the glasses and bottles, ignoring her cousin. There was, however, a not uncompanionable silence between them, each one busy with their own thoughts.

  Not even aware that she was doing it, Savanna sighed, wishing that Bodene's unexpected appearance hadn't aroused such a storm of ambivalence within her. Part of her always yearned impatiently for the next time he would breeze into her life; part of her was certain she never wanted to lay eyes on him again. I'm happy with my life, she told herself stubbornly; yet when she listened wide-eyed to Bodene's enthralling tales of New Orleans, when he described in vivid detail the sights and the smells of the city, the houses, the people... the stunning gowns worn by the women, Savanna was aware of a dangerous longing deep within her.

  Giving herself an angry shake, she asked abruptly, "How's Mother? Did she know you were coming to see me?"

  "She's fine, relieved that the war is finally over," Bodene answered easily. "And yes, she knows I'm here to see you—she gave me her blessings."

  "Naturally," Savanna returned dryly. "Although why, since she can't convince me to marry that fool Henry Greenwood, she would want to see me established in your gaming house is beyond me."

  Bodene's lips thinned. "You know damn well that I would not allow you to work there!"

  "And how else would I earn my living?" she asked sweetly. "As a charwoman? Or perhaps a rich man's toy? Or do you think I'd make a good whore?"

  Forcing himself not to rise to her baiting, Bodene settled back in the chair. "You know, someone ought to have strangled you at birth—you certainly are the most infuriating female I have ever known."

  Having ruffled his feathers, Savanna laughed delightedly, an infectious sound that caused Bodene's own mouth to soften into a smile. Sam entered just then with a tray of food, and the next several minutes were spent in eating.

  During the meal, the cousins put aside their differences and concentrated on exchanging current news. Savanna did not have a great deal to contribute. O'Rourke's Tavern was situated in one of the many uninhabited and largely unexplored wilderness stretches along the Mississippi River between Natchez and New Orleans, and consequently it was not a hub of activity. The fact that the site of the tavern was on the opposite side of the Mississippi River from the bustling, more well-known river towns also added to its isolation, and the few visitors eager to partake of its modest amenities were mostly men on the run from the law, although there was the occasional brave settler who stopped for the night. The isolation, however, suited Savanna—she had grown up in such surroundings and the wild, trackless wilderness called to something deep within her and gave her a sense of peace and satisfaction she had never experienced at her father's home, Campo de Verde. Even the lawless men who crossed her path were more like old acquaintances, which in truth they often were, than like outlaws to be feared, and—except for a few such as "Murdering" Micajah—having known her as child, for the most part they treated her with a rough sort of respect and admiration. Savanna felt comfortable here, this way of life was familiar to her, whereas life at Campo de Verde had seemed stultifying and unnatural. Although the tavern was a lonely place to reside, Savanna loved it, and since Bodene lived in the glamorous and sinfully exciting city of New Orleans, it wasn't surprising that Savanna and Sam were listening with bemused attention to his every word.

  "You actually saw the pirate Lafitte and General Jackson?" Savanna asked breathlessly, her food momentarily forgotten.

  "Mmm, that I did, sweetheart," Bodene murmured as he soaked up the last bit of gravy with his bread and popped it into his mouth. "The Battle of New Orleans made some very strange bedfellows, I can tell you."

  Her elbows resting on the table, her hands propping up her chin, she stared with dazzled eyes at her cousin. "What did they look like? Oh, tell us more, Bodene!"

  Bodene complied with alacrity and they spent a very enjoyable hour together as he related the exciting events that had taken place so recently in New Orleans. But eventually the conversation drifted onto dangerous ground.

  "And Mother—was she frightened when the British attacked? Did she come into the city or stay at Campo de Verde?"

  "She came into the city—there was concern that the plantations south of New Orleans might fall into British hands. She wasn't frightened in the least—thought it most exciting, even when the artillery was at its most thunderous." Bodene sent Savanna a long look. "There is only one thing that frightens your mother," he said deliberately, "and that's the thought of you up here at the mercy of whichever murderous bandit happens to be in the area."

  Savanna's face tightened and, dropping her hands, she pushed herself away from the table. "It didn't seem to frighten her when we lived—if you can call it that—at Crow's Nest!" she snapped.

  "Davalos was still alive then, and that's where he wanted her to be, you know that," Bodene answered reasonably, his expression revealing none of his own emotions.

  A silence fell as they both were lost in remembrances of the unpleasant days of their youth.

  Bodene had been three years old when his mother, Ann Sullivan
, had died and his father, Innis O'Rourke, a wealthy planter in Tennessee, had reluctantly taken in the motherless boy. His parents had not been married, and, unwanted and unloved, Bodene had endured a miserable existence until Savanna's mother, Innis's gentle sixteen-year-old sister, had arrived two years later from Ireland for an extended visit. Elizabeth O'Rourke had taken one look at the black-haired, dark-eyed, unhappy little boy and had instantly opened her generous heart to him. Life suddenly became idyllic to the unwanted child, and Elizabeth became his shining angel. But those days at his father's plantation, Sweet Meadows, had not lasted long—Innis and Elizabeth eventually had gone on a long trip to New Orleans, and within weeks of their return, Elizabeth seemed to cry all the time and Innis was in a black, violent mood.

  Then the Spaniard had arrived. Bodene had not trusted Blas Davalos from the very first second he had laid eyes on the slim, arrogant man, and his mistrust had turned to white-hot hatred when it gradually dawned on him that this man was the cause of his adored Elizabeth's tears and Innis's rages and her eventual banishment from Sweet Meadows. He still vividly remembered being awakened in the middle of the night by a sobbing Elizabeth and hurried into his clothes and hustled down the wide, curving staircase into the small gig driven by Davalos. He had never seen his father or Sweet Meadows again.

  Bodene didn't remember a lot of those first days after he and Elizabeth had gone away with Davalos, and it was years before he realized that Savanna's birth, in one of those dreary little settlements along the Mississippi, had brought great shame and disgrace upon Elizabeth and had made her an outcast from her own family. And that by neglecting to marry Elizabeth, Davalos had branded his own child a bastard.

  If Bodene had not trusted Davalos on sight, Savanna's earliest memories of her father were somewhat hazy. She was nearly six years old before she fully understood that Davalos was actually her father—which wasn't surprising, since Davalos would conveniently abandon them for months, sometimes even years on end. Life was hard for them during those times, but when he would unexpectedly appear, for a while everything was very different: there were sudden luxuries—extra money, a silk gown for her mother, a fine knife for Bodene, a china doll and sweets for her. As a very young child, she had equated Davalos's infrequent appearances with mostly pleasant things—her mother's delight, the dazzling gifts he lavished upon them and the general air of gaiety that seemed to abound while he was with them. In those days, Davalos was a wondrous figure to her, someone whose presence made every day happy and exciting. But he stayed only a week or two, never more than a month, and then one morning he would mount his horse, leave her mother in tears and disappear... back to his real life, back to the life that did not include the gentle woman he had disgraced or the child she had borne him. Only as she grew older did Savanna come to bitterly understand that she and her mother had played a very small part in Davalos's life; that while he had been alive he had hidden their existence from the other world in which he had lived.