Patricia Hagan (4 page)

He held out his hand. “You don’t want to shoot me. You have no reason to. My name’s Scott Colter, and I’m just passing through.”

“And you swear you didn’t set that trap?” she asked, staring at his outstretched fingers.

He shook his head. “Believe me.”

She laid the gun aside and shook his hand. “Holly Maxwell. Sorry about the gun, but what was I to think?”

“What are you doing out here in this wilderness?” he asked.

She stared up at him, chiding herself for the feeling of vulnerability overcoming her. “I told you. This is my land. I live here.”

“Your land?” he echoed.

She tilted her head defiantly. “This is one piece of land the damn Yankee carpetbaggers didn’t get. It’s mine. My grandpa left it to me, and I paid the taxes this morning. Nobody can take it away from me.”

He continued smiling, which infuriated her. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

He studied her face. “I was in the war; I wanted some time to myself, to get my thoughts together after all the killing I’ve seen. I didn’t realize I’d get somebody’s dander up just being here.”

Holly snatched up the gun again. “Are you a goddamn Yankee bastard or did you fight for the South?” He laughed, and she said sharply, “Keep laughing. You’re one word from being blown to hell, and that word is ‘Yankee.’”

Scott Colter thanked heaven that he had never lost his Texas drawl. “You really do hate Yankees, don’t you?” Then, without giving her time to answer, he went on, “It’s strange, a pretty young girl so bitter.”

“What were you laughing at?”

“Your language,” he murmured. “You still need your mouth washed out with soap.”

Holly wouldn’t let herself be deflected. “Are you a Yankee bastard, I asked you.” His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. “I won’t ask you again, mister.” She raised the gun.

Moving so quickly she didn’t have time to stop him, he grabbed the gun and tossed it aside. Towering over her, he said, “I told you, I don’t like guns pointed at me. Now, if it’s any of your business, I’m a Southerner. I’m from Texas.”

Holly shrugged. “All you had to do was say so.”

“Would you have shot me if I weren’t a Southerner?” he challenged. “The war is over. Can’t we live in peace now?”

Holly laughed. “You sound like my mother. I hate Yankees and I always will. That’s why I’m living here, in the swamp, where there aren’t any, thank God.”

She walked over and picked up the rifle. He made no move to stop her. Without looking at him, she murmured, “I’ve got to go,” and she started back toward her campsite.

“Where are you going?” he called. “Where do you live?”

She didn’t turn around. “Never mind. You just go now. Get off my land. I don’t like strangers nosing around.”

He fell into step beside her in a few long strides. “I never knew a woman who lived in the swamps before. Mind if I come along? I’d like to get to know you better.”

“Yes, I do mind,” she snapped. “Go away.”

“I think I like Yankee women better.”

Holly stopped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

There was a mischievous gleam in his dark eyes. “Well, this is your land, but you aren’t offering me any hospitality. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I lost my haversack when I tried to cross a lagoon on a log and lost my footing. I don’t know these parts as well as Texas, so I haven’t been able to find any food.”

Holly smiled. “Some folks eat foxes if they’re hungry enough.”

“Yeah, but he was such a cute little fellow.”

They both laughed, and the tension began to drain away. “All right,” she conceded. “Come along and we’ll starve together. I wasted the rest of the daylight on you, and now I don’t have anything to eat, either. But I’ve got firewood and coffee.”

He followed her through the brush, and she motioned for him to sit down while she got a fire going. When she turned toward him a few moments later, he was gone. Fine, she decided, despite a surge of disappointment. Let him go. She didn’t need him.

She set the coffeepot to one side of the fire and settled down beneath a tree. This was, she mused, the best time of the evening, when fireflies were beginning to sparkle among the shadows and crickets began their nighttime serenade. The air was cool, and the sky faded from misty purple to charcoal.

The sound of footsteps crashing through the brush brought her out of her reverie. Quickly she reached for her rifle.

“Don’t point that thing again,” Scott Colter yelled before he appeared. He stepped into the clearing a moment later, grinning down at her in the fire’s glow.

She gasped as she saw the two dead rabbits. “Where did you—”

“I’d already made camp up the river a ways. I had to decide whether you were worthy to share my supper before I offered it.”

Holly laughed. It was a good, warm feeling. “So you’ve decided I’m worthy?”

“As long as you watch your language.”

She knew he was serious despite his manner, and although she was the first to admit that she overdid the swearing sometimes, she’d picked it up from Grandpa and it didn’t really bother her. But it did bother him. “Okay. I promise to be nice.”

He set about skinning and cleaning the rabbits, and she asked, “How long will you be around here?”

“Two or three days. Isn’t it my turn to ask a few questions?”

Warily, she nodded. “I suppose.”

“To start with,” he gave her a brief glance. “Why are you still fighting the war?”

She picked up a stick and began to draw random patterns in the dirt. It was none of his business. Why should she pour out her feelings to a stranger? On the other hand, who else did she have to talk to? Maybe a stranger was just what she needed.

She began to talk, telling him, little by little, everything. When she talked about the devastation of Magnolia Hall, tears began. By the time she told of Grandpa’s death, she was crying freely.

Pausing to take a deep breath, she then gave him a long, searching look. “It’s over now,” she said. “I can’t forgive and I can’t forget. It’s best I stay out here and make a life for myself away from all the reminders.”

He was silent. He placed the rabbits on a spit and then came and sat down beside her. “I think,” he said finally, “you’re doing yourself a grave injustice, hiding like this. You’re denying yourself any chance for a normal life. What about getting married, having a family?”

Coldly, she said, “My mother tells me Vicksburg is now filled with Yankee men. You think I’d marry a Yankee?”

He laughed softly but not unkindly. “Who says you have to marry a Yankee? Not all the Southern men were killed in the war, you know.”

She gave her long braid a toss. “Who says a woman has to have a man? I don’t have to have a husband,” she challenged him, cinnamon eyes sparkling in the golden firelight.

He reached out to touch her hair, and she drew back. “No. Don’t move,” he commanded tersely, deftly unfastening her braid. He ran his fingers through the strands to loosen it, and her hair fell softly around her shoulders.

Holly shivered. Why was she reacting so strangely? Why could this man provoke her with just a touch?

His hand dropped to her shoulder and he gazed down at her warmly, so warmly. “Pretty. But you try not to be. Why?”

Embarrassed, Holly squirmed like a child. “I don’t. I…mean I’m not,” she stammered. “I’m just not interested in things like…romance.”

He smiled. “Not interested, Holly?” He pressed his mouth to hers, gently at first, and then his kiss became warm, seeking, lips parting as his tongue began to probe.

Holly meant to push him away, to twist her head from side to side and escape his tantalizing lips, but something deeper urged her to cling to him, to answer that fiery kiss. His lips were setting hers on fire, and she felt the flames spreading wildly.

Suddenly, she pulled back, trying to wrench away, but he held her tightly, wrapping his arms around her to hold her against that rock-hard chest. “No, we mustn’t! Please!” she gasped.

His eyes searched hers. She looked at him just as boldly, and knew herself lost.

He brushed his lips against hers again and she trembled, afraid. “You don’t want me to stop, Holly,” he told her sternly. “You want me to make love to you.”

She said nothing, and he asked, “Have you ever been with a man?”

She shook her head, and he trailed a gentle fingertip down her cheek. “I thought not. You little hypocrite. You just wanted to be able to say, later, that I forced you. You want everything you know I can give you, but you won’t admit it.”

His hand slipped to her breast, and she came out of her stupor. Slapping his hand away, she hissed, “No! You’re wrong! Now let me go, please. This shouldn’t have happened. We shouldn’t have…”

He released her but continued to gaze deeply into her eyes. “If I’ve offended you, I’m sorry. You probably need time to grow up.” He added, “I’ve never had to force myself on a woman, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to start with a kid.”

Nodding toward the fire and the roasting meat, he asked, “Would you like me to just take my portion and go?”

“No. Stay,” she said quickly. Then, softly, she added, “I enjoy talking with you. I’m just not interested in…other things.”

He smiled at her and suddenly the tension was gone again. They sat side by side and ate the succulent food, then sipped hot coffee and talked easily together. Holly told him of her love of the river and the swamps and the woods, and he tried to describe his Texas homeland. They skirted conversation about the war. Night settled in, a thick shroud over everything, and they were consumed by darkness, their faces illuminated only by the soft, flickering flames.

Holly was completely relaxed as she leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes. Scott’s voice droned on, fading away as, finally, she succumbed to the sweeping hand of sleep.

Sun was streaming across Holly’s face, and she stretched in the warmth. Then it all came rushing back and she sat up, looking around. He was gone.

“Did you miss me?”

He stepped into the clearing, carrying limbs and twigs, which he dropped on the dead ashes of last night’s fire.

He smiled in that mysterious way. Was it a genuine smile, or was it arrogance? “Don’t worry. Nothing happened. When it does, I want you awake to enjoy it.”

She was about to inform him that nothing was going to happen between them, but she kept quiet. He said he’d be grateful if she would show him around, and she saw no harm in that.

They spent the day together, Holly acting as guide. She explained to him that some people referred to that part of the state as “South Mississippi,” but to those who lived there, it was the “piney woods.” Scott listened to everything, memorizing the landscape. At midday they visited an old fisherman Holly had known all her life, and he treated them to creamy oyster stew and hot, crusty hoecakes.

The afternoon hours were spent trekking the boundaries of Maxwell land—what would soon not be Maxwell land any more.

Holly’s bitterness surfaced completely as she talked about Jarvis Bonham, and Scott tried to pacify her. “All of this was yesterday, Holly. Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow may not come, so just enjoy now. Don’t let anger spoil the only thing you can be sure of—today.”

But Holly’s tirade wasn’t so easily brushed aside. “Jarvis Bonham is just a small part of what’s happening. The whole state is being taken over by Radical Republican carpetbaggers and white trash.”

Scott finally led her away from what was left of Magnolia Hall, back to the beauty of the swamps. As the day drew to a close, they found themselves on the banks of a crystal clear inlet.

Scott marveled. “What? No brackish waters? It’s hard to believe a place like this exists near the muddy river.”

Holly explained that it was fresh water, fed from an underground spring. It would stay clear until it found its way to the river beyond. “This is where I come to swim, because the water is always clean and fresh and cool.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

A stab of fright went through her. She wore no undergarments beneath Grandpa’s old shirt and trousers.

Oblivious to her discomfort, ignoring her silence, Scott stripped off
his shirt. Holly couldn’t stop looking at his broad chest, the dark mat of hair curling downward.

He was moving to unfasten his trousers, and she tried to protest but all she could manage was a soft, strangling sound deep in her throat.

Scott didn’t turn around to face her, but he knew what she was thinking. “Swim with me, Holly,” he said gently. It was neither a request nor a command, but a declaration.

The water glistened, ripples dancing in the raspberry sheen of the distant sunset.

He held out his hand to her. “It’s up to you, Holly. This can be one of the todays I told you about—the only times that matter.”

She wanted to. Yes, she wanted to reach out and take his hand and let him lead her to whatever glory awaited them. But wasn’t it wrong? Wouldn’t giving in make her an immoral trollop? The realization gave birth to a wave of anger. A man could seek his pleasure without condemnation. Why should it be different for a woman?