The Tiger Lily (8 page)

Morgan
gave him a twisted smile. "It doesn't matter," he interrupted easily.
"Time does heal the pain, my friend." His features suddenly hard, he
added, "Time also teaches one that women are never what they seem."

Women
and their deceitfulness was one subject upon which Brett and Morgan never
disagreed, and for the next hour, each reinforced the other's bitter assessment
of the opposite sex. Having exhausted the sins of women they had known, Brett
brought the conversation back to Philip Nolan.

"Do
you think he is really going to go horse hunting so soon after his
marriage?" he asked casually.

"I
doubt he means to leave within the next few months, but he did say something to
me last Tuesday that made me think he might be going west this fall some time.
With Nolan, you never know what he is going to do. Although, like you, I find
it peculiar that with a new bride and after his last brush with the Spanish . .
." At Brett's expression of interest, Morgan explained, "He almost
didn't make it back to Natchez; the Dons apparently wanted his hide rather
badly. And of course he asked for it, telling them he had papers to hunt horses
in one place and then being detected in another part of Texas where he had no
business. You know how suspicious the Spaniards are, they're so certain we're
going to steal their land from them."

"And
we aren't?" Brett interjected sardonically.

Morgan
shrugged his shoulders. "As long as they let us use the Mississippi and
the Port of New Orleans unhampered, I doubt there will be any trouble on that
score!"

Brett
grunted and then inquired, "You seem to know a great deal about Nolan's
plans. Are you going to go with him?"

"I
might," Morgan admitted slowly. "Like you, since I returned home from
New Orleans last fall, I've found myself growing more and more restless. There
is nothing to hold me to Natchez—I very well might just throw my lot in with
Nolan if he does leave."

"It
sounds interesting, but I doubt I can control my boredom until, and if, Nolan
goes horse-hunting again," Brett said dryly. "I suspect that before
spring arrives, I'll have shaken the dust of Natchez from my feet and wandered
God knows where."

"Well,
if you do go to Nacogdoches, ' it doesn't entirely preclude the trip with
Nolan. He had friends in that area, and I believe he frequently stops there, so
it's possible you might meet up with us."

Brett
nodded his dark head in agreement. "That may well be. We'll just have to
see how things develop. But in the meantime, I believe I won the last hand. . .
."

They
played cards for hours, but despite his late night and the consumption of a
prodigious amount of brandy and wine, Brett woke the next morning feeling more
satisfied than he had in days. He supposed it was because at last he had
settled in his own mind the question of the trip to Nacogdoches. He was
definitely going, even if the true reasons behind his decision were obscure. He
told himself he was bored, he'd never been to Nacogdoches; he liked Alejandro
and he'd once held Sabrina in affection, so why not go visit them? That he was
oddly eager to see his young stepcousin he stubbornly pushed to the back of his
mind. Besides, he reminded himself forcibly, at seventeen she was still a
child.

Having
settled that point to his satisfaction, in the following days Brett found
himself impatient to begin the journey to Nacogdoches and the Rancho del
Torres. Sofia was delighted with his decision, and for one awful moment he was
afraid she might decide to accompany him. Sofia took an amused, knowing look at
his carefully controlled features and burst into laughter. "No, I don't
intend to come with you. Of course, if Sabrina would like to return with you
and visit with us awhile, would you mind acting as her escort?"

"It
would be my pleasure," he muttered politely.

Bad
weather conspired to delay his departure, but it also gave him time for
reflection, and for the first time in his life he seriously considered his
future. Certainly, he admitted wryly, he could not continue as he was—gaming
and whoring, living with his past reckless abandon. Ideally he should settle
down at Riverview and prepare himself for the day the plantation would be his.
But with a twisted smile he finally conceded within himself that he would never
live comfortably at home for very long—within six months the small tight—knit
community of "Upper Natchez" would stifle him and the smooth running
of Riverview would leave him with too much time on his hands.

Having
admitted that much, he suddenly realized that he never would be happy living at
Riverview, and his jaw tightening, he came to a decision. He gave it careful
consideration, and then, his mind made up, he sought out his father.

Brett
found Hugh going over the account books, and Hugh looked up with delight when
Brett walked into the study the next evening. Laying aside his quill, he smiled
warmly and said, "This is a pleasure! I wanted an excuse to escape these
dull books!"

The
two men talked desultorily for some minutes, Brett sprawling lazily in a
crimson channel-backed chair near his father's walnut desk. They had served
themselves snifters of brandy from the crystal decanter that always sat on the
marble-topped table near Hugh's desk, and eventually Brett said quietly,
"I had a specific reason for calling upon you tonight."

"Oh?"

Bluntly
Brett said, "Before I leave on this trip to Nacogdoches, I would like you
to have the papers drawn that dispose of my interest in Riverview. Gordon
should have it. It is his home now, and God knows I've fortune enough without
it."

Hugh
was stunned. Blankly he murmured, "Gordon will not be penniless, you know.
Sofia had money of her own, and I have also added to it." His voice
deepening with emotion, he added, "You are my eldest son, my heir.
Riverview has always gone to the eldest son."

A
curiously gentle expression on his hard features, Brett said softly,
"Father, just because I was born first is no reason to leave Riverview's
fate in my hands." His lips twisted into a derisive smile. "On the
turn of a card I have lost and won a fortune equal to Riverview. Would you want
it in the hands of a wastrel and a gambler? Doesn't everything you have worked
for deserve a better caretaker? I want Gordon to have it."

Brett's
startling announcement had shaken Hugh, reminding him miserably that Brett's
memories of Riverview could never be happy ones, that while now the house rang
with laughter and joy, it had not always been so. His son might claim he was
renouncing the plantation because he was satisfied with his fortune, but Hugh
suspected that there was a deeper reason.

They
never spoke of the early unhappy years at Riverview, years in which they both
had lived in the hell created by Gillian, but Hugh was sadly aware that those
years had much to do with Brett's rejection of the estate. His comments about
being a wastrel and a gambler Hugh dismissed without further thought—he had no
doubts that his son would do the very best by Riverview should it come into his
possession. But would Riverview, with all its bitter memories, be best for
Brett? Inwardly Hugh sighed and candidly admitted to himself that there was
much to be said for Gordon's being the next owner of Riverview. But it had
always been understood that Brett was the heir, and Hugh was reluctant to
change that fact. Out loud he asked, "What about your own heirs? Someday
you may marry, and when you have children you may feel differently about
it."

Brett
looked cynical. "Father, marriage is the last thing you can expect from
me!"

Staring
at the scornful young face, Hugh was reminded vividly of himself during the
painful, ugly years following Gillian's defection. Then he had been full of
hatred and contempt for women, believing there wasn't a woman alive who didn't
practice deceit as easily as she breathed.

How
bitter I was then, Hugh thought with surprise, as bitter and cynical as Brett
is now. As bitter and cynical as I would be now except for Sofia. . . .

With
a wrench he brought his mind back to the question of Riverview. His expression
troubled, Hugh asked heavily, "Are you positive about this?"

A
slightly quizzical smile on his lips, Brett inquired wryly, "Have you ever
known me to change ray mind? I believe you once said that my stubbornness was
either my greatest vice or my greatest virtue—you hadn't at the time decided
which."

An
unwilling smile tugged at the corners of Hugh's mouth. "I still
haven't," he replied dryly. The smile faded, and sending Brett a searching
look, he asked again, "You're certain? There is nothing of Riverview that
you want for yourself?"

Thoughtfully
Brett admitted, "I wouldn't mind having the house I'm living in now and
some acreage to go with it." An impish grin flashing across his dark face,
he added dulcetly, "For my decrepit old age."

A
week later, Brett was once again sitting in his father's study. Giving his son
an unsmiling look as Brett sat across the desk from him, Hugh said testily,
"I've done as you wished. When you sign these documents you sign away all
claim to Riverview—it will all go to Gordon."

Brett
reached for the quill, but his father's hand stopped him.

"I
don't like this!" Hugh burst out explosively. "Riverview should be
yours! What if you lose that blasted fortune you have now? Then where would you
be?"

"I
would be precisely where I deserved to be!" Brett answered swiftly.
Conscious of his father's distress, he said seriously, "Father, have you
forgotten the plantation in Louisiana? The money and houses in New Orleans? The
lands in England? The funds in the bank in London? Good God! I have no need of
more!"

Hugh
gave a sigh, lifting his hand from Brett's. "I suppose you're right."
A brief smile flitted across his face. "I deeded you that house and a
hundred acres—for your decrepit old age, of course."

The
weather had begun to clear, and it appeared that the worst of the winter storms
were over. Two days after the meeting with Hugh, weighted down with messages
and gifts, Brett and Ollie rode eagerly away from Natchez, heading for the
Sabine River and Nacogdoches.

It
wasn't an easy trip. They were starting out early in the year, and all the
rivers and streams were swollen and rampaging. The trail they followed—and
often there was no trail—was first through gloomy, swampy wastelands inhabited
only by alligators and other wildlife. Eventually the countryside improved in
appearance despite being trackless and virtually uninhabited. There was thick
vegetation that nourished teeming game—bear, panther, and deer—and Brett
enjoyed the hunting; Ollie did not. Huddled next to a smoking camp fire and
being bitten to death by the hordes of mosquitoes that were just hatching as
the weather warmed, he was heard to grumble, "And to think I thought this
would be exciting!"

Brett
merely grinned, aware that while Ollie was ever ready for adventure, he had
never been introduced to the vast and varied wilderness that comprised the
largely unexplored American continent. He was perfectly suited to life in the
dens of iniquity to be found in the major cities of Europe, but nothing in his
young life so far had quite prepared him for living so close to nature.

And
while the same could probably have been said of Brett, he discovered that he
was enthralled by the varied countryside. The wild, untamed land appealed to
him; the savage joy of the hunt sung in his veins; the green solitude of swamps
and forest insidiously wrapped itself around him, making him more relaxed and
carefree than he had been in years.

Eagerly
Brett embraced the hardships of the trail: the unyielding ground for a bed at
night, the smoky camp fires, the need to secure their own fresh meat, and the
inherent dangers that were ever present along their journey —predatory animals
. . . and men.

The
Sabine River area was gaining a reputation as a haunt for desperate hunted men,
and twice they had been accosted by strangers whose demeanor and manner had
made Brett reach carelessly for the pistols he kept tucked in the wide leather
belt at his waist. And twice those same strangers had taken a long look at
Brett's shoulders, the cool green eyes, and the pistols held so expertly in his
lean hands and had ridden on.