The one who challenged, or the one who cowered?
Luc would give her time. Watch, learn her habits and intentions. He need not hurry. Nor would he repeat tonight’s confrontation. He’d tested the waters and found conflicting currents. Strong, difficult currents. He began to feel—as he hadn’t for nearly one hundred years—the thrill of mastering an indomitable sea.
Chapter Two
November 23, 1911, Waxing Crescent Moon,
Sweet Dreams plantation house, Mal Chance Bayou Louisiana
The next morning, Grace woke with a large number of aches and pains, as well as, a vague sense of unease.
She’d come a long way, weeks of travel by train, rented car, and finally, horse. Add multiple loads carried to and from her bedroom, then sleeping on the floor, so the aches and pains were no surprise. Hopefully, at some point, she’d acquire a bed. First, she needed to assess the house and determine what, if anything, could be done with it.
Paper and pencil in hand, she descended to the ground level kitchen. Slicing up two apples from her supplies, Grace grabbed her rifle, and clipped her water canteen to her belt. As she left the house, she nearly tripped over a small potted philodendron someone had placed within two paces of the door.
How odd?A gift from a neighbor?
Distant memory stirred, of her aunt telling her about anonymous gifts appearing at every full moon. She’d said the giver was never identified. The plant’s source would remain a mystery, for now.
By the end of the day, Grace was exhausted and very puzzled. Carrying her rifle and lantern, she ambled to the ancient dock that projected into the bayou and sat. Surrounded by a swampy, humid dusk, she contemplated what she’d found during her day’s inspection.
In every part of the buildings and grounds, she’d discovered most of the damage was cosmetic. Given the erosive force of constant damp and rapid growth vegetation, the structures were surprisingly sound. Neither her aunt’s papers nor the attorney who executed Sarah’s will had made mention of a caretaker or maintenance man.
Who patched the holes in the roof? Who repaired the foundation? Why hide the repairs, making the house appear crumbled and unsound? Who planted the seedlings in the herb garden?
Why was there no trace of anyone living here, or traveling to and from this place?
She pondered those questions, as dusk faded into night and she soaked up the calm of the bayou evening. All the usual sights, sounds and scents were present, and in addition, that odd cinnamon and sulfur aroma.
In the silence the drip-drip-drip of condensation into the placid surface of the bayou conjured the ring of that sledgehammer. A shudder chilled through her despite the swampy heat. She rotated her shoulders, to ease the tension brought on by the memory of the hammer falling from no one’s hands.I was tired and stressed. I imagined it all.
She hadn’t imagined the well-maintained condition of the house. The rooms should have been mold-ridden from the constant damp. Why weren’t the wooden columns and beams worm-eaten? Heck bats should have been roosting in the attic, but not one drop of guano signaled their presence. She’d no desire to encounter brown recluse or yellow sac spiders. The bayous certainly had their share of the venomous arachnids, but where were the cobwebs? Where was the dust of twenty years without a resident?
Why did she care? Because whoever was behind all this was a threat to her solitude for certain, and perhaps worse. Her mind circled long enough for her to realize she would not solve that puzzle tonight, possibly not for weeks. Seeking distraction, Grace grabbed her list from her pocket, reviewing the items to be repaired, donated, or thrown away. She should add equipment and supplies for the remaining repairs and hauling away what wasn’t needed, as well as staples for herself, feed for the horses, and an ice box.
She’d ride into Duval Point. What she couldn’t get there, she’d order. She’d ask aboutSweet Dreams. Did anyone come to the house? Why? Who? How often?
The last thing she wanted was company, but if someone was caring for the place, she could at least thank them before she warned them off.
She folded the page, returning it to her pocket, then lit the lantern. Night had fallen, and clouds chased each other across the waxing crescent moon. Grace would need the lantern to see her way back to the house.
***
From the shadows of the trees, Luc watched the woman on the dock. She’d had a full day, exploring the house and grounds, examining every inch of every building, surveying the condition of the property, keeping a running list as she worked.
Clearly, she’s determined to stay. Would she be boon or bane? Bane most likely. Very few ever came with good intentions. Still, certainty is best. He needed to learn precisely what she wanted.
He crossed the weedy lawn toward the dock, stopping a few yards short. The moon was not full. He must be certain she couldn’t touch him.
“Bonswa, chère.”
The woman grabbed her rifle, leapt to her feet, and turned in one fluid move. Putting the gun to her shoulder, she aimed into the darkness.
Luc found himself staring at the barrel of an impressive weapon. Certainly, more impressive than the muzzle loaders of his pre-curse days. His hyper-senses picked up the panicked race of her heart.
“Whoever you are, leave. I’m armed,” she called. Ice coated the dusky voice. Her words held as steady as the hands holding the rifle, unlike her pulse drumming with fear.
He felt that racing thrum, and the contradiction with her show of calm strength made him smile. “You haven’t enough light to shoot me, chère,” he crooned. “Wait a moment, and the clouds will part.”
