Heaven in a Wildflower (43 page)

He could see the rapture on her face, hear her pleasured sighs and moans, knew she was rapidly approaching her own pinnacle of ecstasy. He held back till he felt the velvet recesses of her begin to quiver against him. He set a slow, tantalizing tempo, then increasing. Her nails digging into the hard flesh of his back were like spurs, urging him onward.

At last, he felt the final zenith approaching, the great, inward shudders, simultaneous with near-agonized cries as she burrowed her face in his neck. He took himself onward to ultimate release, gasping out loud at the sheer wonder, for never, not with any of the women in his past, had it ever been this way.

Dizzily he slumped against her, then abruptly rolled over onto his back to take great gulps of air, for he was breathless. Was it so wonderful before, he dared wonder, all those years ago on that one special night? He knew he’d loved her then, but now loved her more. For there had been a mellowing of heart, of spirit, as he’d come to know her even better. He couldn’t bear to think of ever letting her go, but knew he couldn’t control the future, could only grasp the here and now.

She rolled on her side, snuggling her head against his shoulder. His arms tightened about her protectively as she teasingly whispered, “I’m not going to let you go, Brett Cody. You might not want to be saddled with a blind woman the rest of your life, but you’ll have to hide so I can’t find you, because I never want to leave your side, and—”

“You won’t,” he vowed fervently, fiercely, turning to jerk her roughly into his arms. Hungrily, possessively, he began to rain kisses over her face. His hands moved over her as though wanting to touch all of her, savoring the feel of what he now considered his very own. “You aren’t going to lose me, Anjele Sinclair. Forget the war. Forget everything but you and me, and here and now, because I want you for always and ever.”

His lips found hers, and they clung together in the cooling breezes, the dying embers of the fire before them merging with their bodies to ignite once again the carnal passion.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The way became increasingly familiar
to Brett as they left the banks of the Pearl and moved west to the Big Black River.

Crossing by ferry, they continued on to the Mississippi. Moving parallel, they would reach the fringes of Black Bayou a few miles south of Vicksburg.

Pressing her head against Brett’s broad back, Anjele was filled by the wondrous feeling of love. He made her feel needed, wanted. Though she hungered to see his face and drink in the precious sight of him from head to toe, she felt no less a woman in his presence. In only a short while, Claudia had made her feel inferior, useless. Yet, despite the arduous journey, wrought with misery, Brett gave her confidence in herself, lifting her spirits. Perhaps most wonderful of all, by painting with words, he had created for her a landscape into the world, and she no longer felt totally trapped by darkness.

He had told her he was taking her to a place of shelter, where she could rest and try to get her memory back. She relished the thought of being with him, but still wished she could return home and attempt to claim what was rightfully hers. But as long as the war went on, it was impossible. To the Yankees, she was a criminal, as well as a fugitive.

Brett was describing the forest around them, laughing over the antics of a chipmunk that seemed to be following them. He would appear every so often to peer curiously out from foliage at the edge of the trail, then scamper away to meet them farther ahead. She told him how she adored animals and found it easy to recount her nights in the bayou and the wondrous sights to behold.

“Raccoons, deer, even a fox. It was wonderful. The person showing me was Cajun and knew the bayou, so he was able to take me to special places.”

Brett managed to keep his voice even as he asked, “Was he the one you mentioned back at the prison?”

“Yes,” she admitted, with only a twinge of pain to remember, for loving Brett made Gator easier to forget. “Like I said, I was so young, only sixteen. I was just having fun, like girls do. He didn’t mean anything,” she added with a scornful laugh, lest he suspect she was lying.

When he made no comment, lapsing into a stony silence, she teased, “You’re jealous, aren’t you? I told you, he didn’t mean anything to me, but he was a wonderful guide into the bayou, and—” She fell silent, noticing the horse was slowing, at the same time she could feel his tension. Fearfully, she asked, “Is something wrong? What do you see?”

Brett had promised himself as he got close to the Laubache plantation he would stick to the river trail and avoid the temptation to look around. After all, it had been nearly nine years. Still, he didn’t want to risk seeing anyone who might recognize him. He had changed into civilian clothes way back in Biloxi, putting his Union army uniform in a saddlebag.

So it was his intent to keep on going. But then he realized he was passing the spot where the Laubache pier had once been. Riverboats had even tied up there sometimes, when loading or unloading guests. Now, however, all that remained were pilings and rotting boards jutting up out of the muddy water.

“Brett?” Anjele prodded behind him, alarmed by his continued silence.

“Nothing to be afraid of,” he murmured.

“But what is it?”

“I’m not sure.” He reined the horse away from the bank, cutting towards what used to be a flower-bordered path leading beyond rows of meticulously pruned evergreens. Now he saw the flowers were choked by the grasp of rank weeds, the passage tangled and overrun by wild honeysuckle.

He could not believe what he was seeing. Once, a carpet of green velvet had spread up the gentle slope to the mansion. Now, like the path, the lawn was overgrown with stirrup-high weeds. Ahead, he blinked in pained bewilderment at the sight of the once-grand house—doors swung from jambs, one section of roof was caving in, windows broken.

And then he saw the gazebo, or what was left of it. Once trailing with fragrant roses and wisteria, it was now barely held together by briars and bramble vines. He stared at the floor with its gaping, rotting holes and smiled sardonically to envision Margette and him in the throes of the passion he so stupidly thought was never-ending love.

Gone were the endless lines of whitewashed fences with prize horses grazing beyond. In the distance, he could see what looked like the burned remains of the barn.

He told Anjele what he was seeing as he rode on toward the sugarhouses. He merely said he’d known the folks who lived there when he was a boy, not about to divulge the truth.

Peering through a broken window, he could see huge vats, half-filled with soured and crusted molasses. Beyond, he saw the fields of rotting cane.

What had happened? True, the Yankees were pushing up the river, but slowly. Hell, he’d heard only a few days ago about the battle at Labadieville, down at Bayou Lafourche. That was way south of New Orleans, almost to the Gulf at a point between the mouths of the Mississippi and the Atchafalaya. So the Union didn’t have total control of Louisiana, and sure as hell hadn’t made a serious assault on the Vicksburg, Mississippi area—yet. So what in thunderation had happened to Haskill Laubache’s once-splendorous plantation?

He rode past deserted slave cabins, stretching in parallel rows behind the main house. He recalled how, at the time he had worked the fields, Laubache had already replaced the old clay-between-posts structures with new ones of solid brick. Now nature was creeping out from the swamp beyond to devour with tongues of weeds and vines.

Moving back to the house, Brett dismounted at the foot of the marble stairs leading up to the dilapidated porch. He carefully guided Anjele inside. He’d never been in there, had no idea what it had looked like in its day of grandeur. Now the walls were bare, stripped of curtains and adornment.

He led her throughout the house, describing devastation. “It was plundered. Totally. I don’t see anything left. Not a piece of crockery, not a chandelier, not even a candle.” He took her upstairs to find the same abandonment there, as well.

He paused in what had once been Margette’s room, and he knew that, because she’d pointed out the French doors leading to it one night when they were in the gazebo. Where the other rooms had merely been stripped, he noted this one bore evidence of destruction, vandalism. Holes had been knocked in the walls, all windows and the French doors smashed. Bits and pieces of furniture shattered beyond repair. It was as though someone had gone berserk, bent on committing absolute ruin. He described the pathetic scene to Anjele, but of course gave no indication he had known the former inhabitant.

The upstairs hallway formed a gallery, which opened to the entrance foyer below. Brett was about to descend the stairway when he noticed how the rear of the gallery hooked back to a hallway almost hidden from view. Steps there went down to what looked like the service wing of the house, but he also discovered a small bedroom still containing furniture—a bed, a small chiffonier. In one corner, there was a dumbwaiter, which, he decided after opening the door and peering down the narrow shaft, went into a service pantry below. Obviously, a slave had slept there, probably in service to the Laubache children. He recalled that Margette had two young brothers, twins. Whoever had plundered the house had failed to notice the room, or perhaps they weren’t interested in what had been provided for a slave.

Brett was mystified but knew they needed to be on their way. Soon it would be dark, and he hoped to reach Black Bayou before then so there’d be time to check out the area while it was still light.

Returning to the river trail, they hadn’t gone far when Brett saw the Negro man sitting on the bank with a cane pole, fishing. Three nice-sized catfish, secured by a line, desperately flip-flopped at the water’s edge. Startled, the man dropped his pole and scrambled to his feet as fast as his decrepit old bones would allow. “Please, massah, please don’t hurt me. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.”

Quickly explaining to Anjele what was going on, Brett assured the man he meant him no harm. “We’re just passing through.”

“Oh, praise the Lord.” The old man’s head bobbed up and down. Patting his shirt pocket, he offered a toothless grin to say, “But I was ready for you, for sure.”

Brett laughed. “You got a gun in that pocket? Must not be a big one.”

“Oh, naw sir, I ain’t got no gun. I got my papers in here, so’s you’d know I ain’t no runaway slave.”

“What’s your name?”

“It be Rufus. That’s the name what’s on my papers Mastah Laubache give me. He gimme that name, too.”

Brett, jolted, wanted to verify. “You were a slave of Haskill Laubache’s? And he freed you?”

“Yassuh. He freed all his slaves, and they all took off up North, afraid somebody would tear up their papers and put ‘em right back on the block and auction ‘em off to a new owner. But me, I stayed, ‘cause I is too old to be making treks like that. Besides”—he lowered himself to the riverbank once more, confident everything was now all right—“Mastah Laubache, he also give me permission to fish this river all I wants, so I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“And where is Mr. Laubache, Rufus? The house is falling down. The entire plantation has gone to seed. What happened here?”

Anjele, arms about Brett’s waist, was listening intently, not about to ask questions, though she was puzzled by his apparent deep concern.

Rufus saw no harm in telling what everybody around knew, anyway, and said bluntly, “Terrible things happened, that’s what. Mastah Laubache, he’s dead. Killed himself. Reckon he figured he didn’t have nothin’ to live for, once them boys o’ his got in all that trouble.

“And I knows all this,” he proudly declared, “‘cause I was house help. I was Mastah Laubache’s butler, and I knowed ever’thing what went on in that family.”

As Brett listened, stunned, Rufus proceeded to recount the tragedies leading to Laubache’s downfall. Margette had run away with a married man. When the twins took exception to a wisecracking drunk in a Vicksburg saloon, they were both gunned down. Edythe Laubache died of a broken heart, and Haskill Laubache had then freed his slaves, shut down all operations of the plantation, and finally committed suicide.

Rufus shook his head in disgust and said, “Within a week, the place had been stripped faster than vultures on a stillborn calf.”

“Does anybody ever come around here?” Brett wanted to know.

“Soldiers sometimes. Passin’ by. Ain’t seen no Yankees, yet,” he added, frowning. “And I hope they don’t come this way. Don’t want no fightin’ around here. No sir. I just wants to spend the rest o’ my life fishin’, not dodgin’ bullets.”

They rode on, and Anjele couldn’t resist asking, “Did you know those people?”

“Not very well,” he said, which was not far from the truth. When it came down to it, he hadn’t known Margette at all or he’d never have believed her when she swore to love him. And he should have learned his lesson then, damn it, and he wouldn’t be in the mess he was in now. It was hell being able to love a woman only because she was blind, and he wondered how long he could go on living a lie.

Anjele did not pursue it. Brett had lapsed into an uncharacteristic silence. Something was wrong, but she didn’t want to ask. Maybe, she thought warily, it was best she didn’t know.

When they entered the fringes of Black Bayou, Brett was dismayed to find no trace of the old path leading in. The weeds and undergrowth were nearly saddle high. Above, gray moss rained down as though still grieving over the Cajuns’ departure. No doubt they had moved on when Laubache and his plantation crumbled, probably heading farther downriver, as his family had done so many years ago.