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Murder in Marshall's Bayou
by S.H. Baker
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Copyright (c)2003 by S. H. BAKER


Zumaya Publications
www.zumayapublications.com

Suspense/Thriller


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       From the door, the view was limited by the surrounding brush. Someone could easily hide. Was Red leaning against a tree, watching this place, when he was killed? It was possible.
       It just didn't make much sense.
       I picked up a pinecone and held it in my hand as I started back to the trail. It was another spectacular day -- too cold for mosquitoes and too warm for winter. This was my favorite time of year in the marsh.
       As I stepped over a new channel in the sand, something caught my eye. I stopped, turned around and frowned at the piece of blue flannel.
       It wasn't a torn piece of clothing lying on top of the ground; it was a piece sticking up. When I crouched down and pulled, I found that it was a much bigger piece than I'd thought. I tugged harder and sand fell away. A sick feeling hit the pit of my stomach when I realized something was attached to the cloth.
       Dropping to my knees, I pushed the sand away to reveal the top of a shirt and followed it up to a hard mound that had to be a head. As I dug sand away around the face, the stench rose. Trying not to gag, I breathed through my mouth.
       With my handkerchief, I brushed off the face. It had been a long time since I'd seen Billy White, but my guess was that the blond hair protruding from the sandy grave belonged to him.
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       This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
       MURDER IN MARSHALL'S BAYOU
       (C) 2003 by S. H. BAKER
       ISBN 1-894942-28-0
       Cover art and design by Marlies Bugmann
       and Martine Jardin
       All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
       Published by Zumaya Publications 2003
       Look for us online at http://www.zumayapublications.com
       National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data
       Baker, S. H. (Sarah H.)
       Murder in Marshall's Bayou : a Dassas Cormier mystery / S.H. Baker.
       ISBN 1-894942-28-0
       I. Title.
       PS3602.A33M87 2003 813'.6 C2003-910821-X
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         *Dedication*
       This book is dedicated to Ruth Doyle, who provided the right words for the voices in my head. Thank you, also, Lydia Broussard (my wonderful mother), Bob (my dear husband), Leonard Koel and the Gang of Four for your encouragement and support.
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         *Chapter One*
       Marshall's Bayou, Louisiana
       September 26, 1924
       I never thought I'd look forward to returning to Marshall's Bayou. Nothing ever happened there. Even when the rest of the world was listening to jazz and racing around in motorcars, I knew I'd find everything at home just as it had been the day I left.
       Leaning over the side of the boat, watching the black water slip by, that thought was somehow comforting. I was twenty-four with the bitter taste of duty fresh in my mouth -- swearing I'd never return -- when I left the marsh right at the end of the war. Burying two brothers has a way of making things bitter. Especially when I was the one who wanted to go, and I was the one left behind.
       Yet, five years later I returned home, not as Dassas Cormier, conquering hero, saver of damsels, civilization and decency. No. I returned as Dassas, failed cowboy, failed roughneck and, most recently, failed lawman. I rode the mail boat with my tail between my legs.
       If there had been some way to return in the middle of the night I would have. But there wasn't. Determined not to look like a thief slinking in, I climbed up and balanced on the side of the boat as it approached the waiting group, then I hopped onto the ancient dock and tied the rope to the cleat as if I didn't have a care in the world. I even tipped my hat and flashed my best smile at Widow Clawson and her daughter, Celia.
       I must admit, Celia had changed for the better. The last time I'd seen her, she had been a towheaded kid dragging a tattered doll by the hair. Now she was a blossoming young lady with curves a little too full to be stylish. She batted her eyelashes in response to my attention.
       "Dassas Cormier, you dirty dog! Get your ass over here and let me look at you." The dock shook under Harley Herbert's weight as he marched toward me. Realizing he'd spoken a bit too loudly, he reddened and muttered an apology to the ladies for his language before grabbing my shoulder and hauling me into Theriot's.
       Theriot's dance hall was dark and dusty, as if abandoned; but Buddy Theriot leaned on the bar, a rag draped over his substantial shoulder, and Isaac Broussard sat on a stool, smiling as usual. If not for a few gray hairs on the two of them, I would have sworn I had stepped back into an afternoon in 1918. The huge mirror behind the bar with the reclining woman etched into the center was still intact. It had always been considered a capital offense to break that mirror, no matter how serious the fight.
       "My word, I can't believe it. The travelin' boy is back," Buddy said. "You too good to drink with us now?"
       "Of course, he ain't," Harley answered. "Whiskey's on me."
       "Whiskey?" I asked, glancing around. Theriot's wasn't as well-hidden as most speakeasies.
       "Sure," Harley said. "Who's going to stop us? There ain't no law around here no more."
       "What happened to Red?" I asked.
       "Dead," Buddy said, shaking his head slowly. "Shot and left to die out in the marsh."
       My stomach clenched at the news. "When?"
       "About two weeks ago."
       "Who did it?"
       "An escaped convict from Texas."
       "They caught him?"
       "No, but he robbed the bank in Orange four days before Red was killed." Buddy sighed. "Now we can't find a soul who's willing to wear the badge."
       The thought of Red's death hit me hard. I had fond memories of the burly redhead who'd been the only law in Marshall's Bayou since before I was born. He'd helped me out of a scrape or two and even taken me under his wing when I was a kid.
       "I don't suppose you'd be interested?" Buddy eyed me strangely.
       "Bien sur," Isaac said. "You have the experience."
       I shrugged. "I'll think about it."
       My three drinking partners exchanged meaningful glances as Buddy filled a shot glass and placed it in front of me.
       Now, I had no intention of ever wearing a badge in Marshall's Bayou. Or anywhere else, for that matter. But I was a firm believer in keeping all options open as long as possible. That was the only reason I didn't turn the offer down flat.
       I raised my glass and downed the contents. Whatever it was they called whiskey was liquid fire in my throat. I cringed, trying not to gasp.
       "What did you make this out of," I croaked, "sugar cane?"
       Harley slapped my back, nearly sending me to the floor. "Hell, no! We keep the sugar cane gin for important guests. I call this the cow piss special. Nice color, no?"
       His comment sent everyone into a fit of hysteria -- they were a few shots ahead of me. It felt good to laugh with old friends.
       I tried not to think about Red Doucet.
       We talked about Isaac's family and Buddy's business. The group showed me the trapdoor behind the bar that would be used to dump the stash if the law ever appeared. I wasn't sure the trapdoor actually worked, but it was good in theory.
       Several drinks later, my courage sufficiently boosted, I decided to start on the final leg of my journey. I was sent off with a round of cheers.
       It was hard for me to remember the marsh with any fondness when I was away from it. I'd think about the long, hot nights with mosquitoes buzzing in my ears and the miserable, sticky days of cutting hay. Sweat glued the hay to my neck and arms, and every movement worked the dried stalks a little farther into my skin. It was wretched work.
       So why, then, was it all so beautiful? Maybe it was the alcohol, I didn't know. Whatever it was, I felt like I was seeing the marsh for the first time.
       The trail from the dock followed the bayou then turned east for a quarter-mile. A flock of red-winged blackbirds led the way, clinging to the taller blades of marsh grass while waiting for me to catch up. Heavy clouds had rolled in from the Gulf, sending waves of shade along the trail to cool the air; and the long, low call of a gator broke through the insect noise. The short grass was greener than emeralds, and the thick, salty air filled my lungs. By the time I stepped into the yard, I was smiling.
       I stopped, dropped my bag to the ground and studied the house. What was different? The pecan and fig trees were a little bigger, and the paint was fresh, but there was something else. It took a few moments to realize it was the roses that made the picture perfect. Mama's roses, so long forgotten, bloomed again along the side of the house. It had to be Becky's touch.
       "Daddy! Someone's here!" The voice belonged to my nephew, Frank. He had been a child when I left. I was stunned to find him a young man already.
       I grabbed my bag and continued toward the house.
       "Well, I'll be. Dass!" Becky hurried down the steps and threw her arms around my neck. She was the same slender woman I remembered -- motherhood certainly hadn't ruined her figure or dampened her spirit. I'd always envied my brother.
       "I can't believe Al didn't tell me you were coming." She held my arms and looked up at me.
       "It's not his fault," I said. "He didn't know."
       "Then why on earth didn't you write us? We'd have been at the dock to meet you."
       "I didn't know I was coming myself until I started out. If you don't have room -- "
       "Don't be a goose," Becky said. "We always have room for you and you know it." She nodded to the young man who stood on the top step with his hands in his pockets. "Frank, come down here. You remember your Uncle Dassas."
       Frank shook my hand and tried not to stare. He had his mother's black eyes, a head full of the Cormier brown curls and a firm handshake.
       "It's good to see you, Frank," I said. "I won't mention how much you've grown since I saw you last."
       "Yes, sir." Turning, he took my bag.
       "And this," Becky said, pulling a smaller child out from behind Frank, "is your niece, Chloe. Say hello, Chloe."
       "Hi." The child was a third the size of her brother, and a perfect replica of her mother. She had been born shortly after I'd left.
       "Hi there, Chloe." I touched her rosy cheek, and she smiled at me. Her smile warmed my heart.
       "Any more?" I asked.
       Becky grinned and grabbed my hand to lead me inside. "Only one." In the front room, she lifted a toddler from the floor and handed him to me. "This is Fred."
       The boy had hair as orange as any I'd ever seen. He grinned as he tried to pinch off my nose.
       "Well, now, that's a sight and a half."
       I turned to find Alcide standing in the doorway, fists on his hips. When I tried to shake his hand, my brother grabbed my shoulders and hugged me, careful not to flatten his son between us.
       "It's sure good to see you," Alcide said. "Why in tarnation haven't you written?"
       I felt bad enough for my lack of correspondence; there was no excuse.
       "Al -- "
       "Oh, what difference does it make now?" Becky asked. "I'll put the coffee on. You two sit at the table."
       Alcide was the brother closest to me in age, and the only one left alive. He'd made it back from overseas without visible injuries, but there were scars, nonetheless. He moved slower than he had before the war, and there was a sadness in his eyes. He led the way to the dining room.
       As soon as we were alone, Alcide leaned forward with his elbows on the table. "Dass, are you in some kind of trouble?"
       When I frowned, he said, "It doesn't matter if you are. I just want you to know you can always stay here."
       I shook my head. "Thanks, Al, but I'm not in trouble. At least, not the kind you're talking about."
       "What, then?"
       "It's nothing," I said. "Really. Just some things I have to sort out."
       He nodded. "I'm here if you need me."
       "Thanks."
       Becky's coffee was even better than I remembered. We sat and talked well into the night.
       The morning air the next day was thick and sweet.
       "You know you don't have to do this." Becky handed me a bucket and held the bottom of the ladder.
       I pinched and twisted the figs loose, careful not to tear the tender skin. Milk from the ends coated the gloves she'd insisted I wear. I'd forgotten how much figs used to make me itch.
       "I know," I said.
       She pointed to the fruit I couldn't see, and I picked it while a persistent fly circled my face. When we had one side of the tree stripped, I handed the bucket down and then followed it. We started anew on the opposite side.
       "Dass."
       "Yeah?"
       "What's it like?"
       I maneuvered around a large branch and glanced down at the woman. She leaned on the ladder and stared dreamily at the sky.
       "What?" I asked.
       "New Orleans. What's it like living in a big city like that?"
       "Oh, it has its advantages, I suppose. The restaurants are open late, and there's always a show in town somewhere." I thought about Cherry, whose show drew men from all over the city, and smiled to myself. "But it has its disadvantages, too."
       "Like what?"
       I sighed and placed an unusually large fig gently in the bucket. "When you get that many people together in one place, some of them are bound to be bad. There's just no way around it."
       My comment was met with silence for a while.
       "What happened, Dass?"
       "Where?"
       "In New Orleans. To you."
       I steeled myself against the fresh wave of pain and continued to work. "It's a long story, Becky. There must be something better to talk about on such a nice day."
       "I suppose," she said.
       "How are things going for you and Alcide?"
       "Good. We lost some cattle to the drought last year, but it rained buckets this summer. I think we'll do well in the spring sale."
       "And Al? How's he doing?"
       "Better. He still never sleeps all the way through the night, but he doesn't have the nightmares like he used to. I guess it just takes time. I do wish he'd talk to me sometimes."
       "I don't know," I said. "Maybe talking about it makes it kind of real again."
       "Maybe."
       There was no maybe about it. I knew it for a fact.
       "Where are all the kids from school these days?" I asked. "Is anyone left in the marsh?"
       "Well," she said, "DeeDee is still here. She and Antonio are on their fourth child. Will Strickler is working with his father. Their herd is the biggest down here. And of course, Grace married Billy White -- "
       Grace Trahan -- the subject of every fantasy I'd had as a youth. Her golden eyes held wisdom far beyond her years, and her long, black curls fell seductively around her shoulders and breasts. To tell the truth, she'd never really left my dreams. I sure as hell couldn't imagine her married to Billy White.
       "Dass?"
       "Huh?"
       "Anyone in particular you want to know about?" She looked at me with concern, kind enough not to mention my childhood crush on Grace. Becky was the only person alive who knew about it.
       "Oh, no. Just curious."
       "Well, I know Mae always had an interest in you."
       "Me and every other guy in the parish."
       Becky slapped my leg playfully as I started down the ladder. "Oh, Dass, you shouldn't talk like that. Especially about Mae. After all, she married Daniel Griffin, the new Methodist minister."
       I stepped to the ground. "Wait, wait, wait. Are we talking about Mae Strickler?"
       Becky nodded.
       Mae had always been the wildest girl in the marsh. Good-hearted, but wild.
       "What happened? Did she suddenly start believing in hell?"
       "Dass! You're terrible."
       I grabbed my heart. "You wound me to the core."
       She grinned and shook her head.
       I tried to imagine what my life would have been like if I hadn't left home. Would I have ever had the guts to tell Grace how I felt about her? Probably not. Maybe I would have married Mae and had a couple of kids. Or maybe I would have ended up a crazy old man who wandered the marsh and hunted gators. Whatever the case, my life would have been very different.
       I never would've shot Dolores Minster.
       A shiver ran up my spine.
       "Dass? Are you all right?"
       "You bet your boots, sis. Which tree you want to clean next?"
       She studied my eyes a moment then pointed out the next over-laden tree. I closed the ladder and balanced the middle rung on my shoulder.
       It wasn't until the second night descended that I finally relaxed.
       "Here." Alcide pulled the cork from a fifth of whiskey and handed the bottle to me. "This isn't the junk they serve up at Theriot's."
       "Becky doesn't mind if you sit around and drink with me?" I asked.
       His whiskered face widened into a smile I could barely see in the moonlight. "Becky's a good woman," he said. "She knows me better than I know myself." Love glittered in his voice like gold dust. "She said she's been saving this bottle for just such an occasion."
       I took a sip and leaned back in the old wooden chair, recalling the day Alcide had told me he wanted to ask Becky to the spring dance. I actually did the asking. Alcide just stood there and shook like a leaf -- a dumb leaf. When Becky said yes, I thought my brother would faint.
       That night was the first time I'd seen Alcide drink. And he told me, in something of a drunken stupor, that he planned to marry Becky. I think I made some remark about him being a big, clumsy oaf, and that she'd just felt sorry for him. I was jealous as hell.
       That night and the one before his wedding were the only times I saw Alcide drink before he left for France. He was the serious one of us -- the rock, we used to call him. Becky was a lucky girl.
       "What else does your wife say?" I took another swig and handed the bottle back.
       "She thinks something bad happened to you."
       "Damn, she's one smart cookie."
       "That she is," he said, "but it doesn't take brains to see it, Dass. It's in your eyes."
       Sitting on the dark porch with my only brother, I felt as safe as was humanly possible. Still, I knew that if I closed my eyes at that very moment, I'd see Dolores Minster's face. I'd hear the terrible noise I wanted so badly to forget.
       "I shot a woman."
       In the long moments of hesitation, my chest tightened.
       Finally, he asked, "Was she a criminal or something?"
       "No," I said. "It was a mistake. I killed a woman, Al. Just an innocent girl who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. How in the hell am I supposed to live with that?"
       "You just do," he said quietly.
       I thought about the horrors my brother must have seen. But it was war -- he was a soldier.
       "It's not the same," I said, trying to bite back the anger.
       "Death is death, Dassas. They were all innocent, all those men who died in those bloody damned trenches. They were all in the wrong place at the wrong time."
       I looked over, surprised by the tears that ran down his cheeks. Staring at the moon through the screen, he handed me the bottle.
       "You just do," he whispered.
       I thought about Red. Even Marshall's Bayou was stained with death.
       Later that night, I lay in my old room. The salty Gulf breeze eased across my bed and the songs of insects and reptiles filled the night. It wasn't until I closed my eyes that I saw the darkened doorway and felt the gun in my hand. I squeezed the trigger -- just slightly -- and waited for the thief to emerge. My body shook and I held my breath. My stomach tightened into a knot -- 
       There was nothing to do but let the dream run its course again and hope to live through it. Morning would eventually arrive.
       "The breakfast was wonderful."
       Becky beamed a smile at me as I handed her a stack of dishes. Alcide carried drinking glasses to the counter.
       "You help me?" Chloe stood at my feet, holding an oversized apron closed behind her back.
       I knelt, turned her around and tied a bow.
       "Thank you," she said, her eyes wide.
       "You're welcome."
       She reminded me of Coralee, my baby sister. I hadn't seen Cora since she'd moved to North Dakota with her husband. I have to admit -- as much of a terror as Cora could be, I missed her a little.
       Alcide grabbed my shoulder, and we walked together into the sunroom.
       "Dass, I'm sorry I have to leave so soon after you got here. If this hayseed is as good as Phil Mayhew says, I don't want to miss out on it. I'll be back Sunday night at the latest."
       "Don't worry about it," I said. "I'm not going anywhere right away."
       "I find that hard to believe." He lowered his voice. "But I'm really glad you're here. I always hate leaving Becky and the children alone. Especially now, with the shooting and all."
       "Don't worry, Al. Just think of me as their guardian angel."
       "Angel, huh? I have a heard time thinking of you that way."
       I grinned.
       Al clapped my shoulder then grabbed the bag that waited by the door. The family followed him out to his saddled horse. I waited on the steps and watched him tie the bag behind his saddle, kiss his offspring and then kiss Becky and hug her. Feeling like an intruder, I looked away.
       We waved as Alcide turned down the road. Only his head and shoulders were visible for a while above the marsh grass, and then even they disappeared. Becky wiped her eyes on her sleeve as she walked past me carrying Fred. She smiled through her tears.
       "I always blubber like a baby when he leaves."
       When was the last time someone had cried for me? Probably not since I left Mama standing on those same steps the first time I went to the oil fields. I felt like I was missing out on something important as we went back inside.
       "Becky, you need anything from the store?" I asked.
       "Yes, please," she said. "Will you see if Mr. Brandon got the soap I ordered?"
       "Will do. Frank, you want to walk with me?"
       The boy looked wistfully at his mother. "I've got chores," he said.
       Becky wiped her eyes again and smiled at us. "If you promise to do them as soon as you get back, you may go."
       I thought the boy's face might break, for all the effort he put into not grinning too much. His eyes gave him away.
       "Yes, ma'am. I promise."
       We walked side-by-side in silence for the first half of the trip. Frank's lanky frame promised a tall man someday, just like his father. Now he had the clumsy look of a man-child. I remembered the awkwardness well.
       "Daddy said you were a policeman in New Orleans," he said.
       "Yes, I was."
       "Did you have a badge and everything?"
       "Yes."
       He shoved his hands in his back pockets as he walked. "Did you ever catch any bank robbers?"
       "No."
       He frowned at the trail in front of us.
       "I bet there's lots of pretty girls in New Orleans," he said, watching my reaction out of the corner of his eye.
       "Yep. Lots."
       "I'm going there," he said, "as soon as I turn sixteen."
       "You're just going to leave your folks? Who's going to help your dad drive the cattle? Or your mom weed the garden?"
       My questions elicited quiet contemplation. Finally, as we approached the dock, he shrugged. "Maybe I'll just go for a visit."
       "I think that sounds like a good idea."
       "Uncle Dassas, will you take me to New Orleans?"
       "We'll see, Frank."
       That time, he did grin. I held his shoulder as we walked up the stairs to the dock.
       The door to Theriot's was already open.
       "You want a root beer?" I asked.
       "Mama doesn't let me go in there," he said quietly.
       "You've never been inside Theriot's?"
       He shook his head.
       "Well, how about we keep this our secret?"
       The boy nodded then fell in behind me.
       "Dassas!" Harley Herbert's voice shook the walls. "Dry already?"
       "I guess I'm not the only one," I said.
       Harley laughed and pulled out the stool next to his.
       I motioned over my shoulder. "Ya'll know my nephew?"
       Buddy nodded and Harley shook hands with the boy.
       "Buddy, how about a root beer for Frank?" I asked.
       "Comin' right up," Buddy said. "And you want the house special?"
       "It's a little early, don't you think?"
       Harley shook his head. "Never too early for the good stuff."
       I cringed at the glass Buddy slid in front of me. Not that it really mattered -- I wasn't on duty or anything. Taking a deep breath, I downed the golden fire. It hit my stomach like a brick.
       Frank drank from his foamy glass, his eyes trained on us. I remembered the first time Papa bought me a root beer at the same bar. I was considerably younger than Frank.
       "Another?" Buddy asked.
       "No. No thanks."
       Harley slapped my back. "You been away from the marsh too long, son."
       "I guess so." I shook my head. "Tell me, who found Red?"
       "I did," Buddy said.
       "Where?"
       "Up in the piney woods, near Mrs. Richard's. After I found him, I came back here and got Harley."
       "You both saw him?"
       They nodded.
       "How many times was he shot?" I asked.
       "Twice," Harley said. "Once in the back and once in the chest."
       "What was he shot with?"
       Harley huffed as he frowned in thought. "Well, it wasn't no shotgun. My guess is a pistol or a small caliber rifle."
       "What caliber?"
       "Hell, I don't know. You'd have to go to Cameron and ask the sheriff. He ain't tellin' us nothing."
       I nodded. "So, what was Red doing out there?"
       "Who knows? Maybe he was chasing the convict."
       "Was he on horseback?"
       "I don't think so," Buddy said. "His old buckskin was still stabled."
       "Anything unusual about the place where you found him?"
       Harley and Buddy both shrugged.
       "He was just lying there on the ground," Harley said.
       "On the trail?"
       "No. He was off the trail a ways, up in the bushes."
       "You know," Buddy said, "there was one thing, now that I think about it."
       "What?"
       "There wasn't a whole lot of blood around. Not for a man who bled to death."
       Harley nodded. "That's true. I hadn't given it no thought, but you're right."
       Strange. Maybe the blood had seeped into the ground. Or maybe Red's body had been moved.
       But why would his body have been moved? Unless where he was killed was important. What if he hadn't been shot by an escaped convict? That would mean that the murderer was still on the loose and safe because no one was searching for him.
       I tried not to be enticed by the thought of a mystery, but I couldn't help myself. Besides, someone had to know for certain what happened to Red. The old man deserved at least that.
       Looking up from the bar, I found Buddy, Harley and Frank staring at me.
       "Are you done?" I asked Frank.
       "Yes, sir."
       I pulled several coins from my pocket and tossed them onto the bar with a nod.
       "Don't forget where we are," Buddy said.
       Harley chuckled.
       I took a deep breath of the warm marsh air and strolled along the dock to Brandon's Mercantile, the only other official business establishment in Marshall's Bayou. Frank walked through the door I held open.
       The place hadn't changed any more than Theriot's had. Shelves were filled with goods and hardware. I ran my fingers down the length of a cane fishing pole and then continued on to the pile of crab nets. A long day of fishing sounded just about perfect.
       Frank waited behind the woman who stood at the counter, studying the box of buttons. I stopped beside him.
       "Then, I guess I'll just take two of the black ones," the woman said to Mr. Brandon. There was something about her voice that grabbed my attention. I stared at the back of the blue skirt that was gathered tightly around a small waist. Her shoulders were broad but slender, and her black hair was pinned into a severe bun on the back of her head. The woman suddenly turned and caught me with her golden eyes.
       My heart thumped hard.
       "Well, Dassas Cormier," she said, "I didn't know you were back."
       I bowed slightly as I worked to steady my voice. "Grace," I finally said.
       She was every bit as beautiful as I remembered.
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         *Chapter Two*
       "Are you here to stay?" Grace asked.
       "No, I don't think so," I said.
       "You must stop by and visit. We can reminisce about our lost youth."
       "I don't think you've lost much of it."
       She lowered her head and smiled demurely, and my knees threatened to buckle.
       "Here," I said, "let me -- us ... walk you out."
       We followed Grace to the tattered buggy that waited near the steps. The condition of the buggy was matched by the gelding hitched to it -- the horse was on his last leg.
       Grace must have seen my reaction to her gig. "My mare died recently," she said, "and now I'm left with this old nag. As soon as Billy gets back, we'll buy another. I've had my eye on a filly that Isaac Broussard wants to sell. It's not like..." She looked up at me then smiled and looked down. "I guess I'm babbling," she said quietly.
       I was suddenly lightheaded at the realization that I made Grace nervous.
       "So, how is Billy?" I needed to remember that the woman standing in front of me was married.
       Her smile saddened. "He's working in the oil fields. Actually, he was due back nearly a week ago."
       "He's a week late?"
       She nodded and then shrugged. "It's not the first time he's been late coming home."
       The man had to be an idiot. If I had Grace Trahan waiting for me I'd never leave the house. I'd spend the rest of my life trying to make her happy.
       "Really, stop by when you can," she said.
       I helped Grace into the buggy. Her slender hand was warm in mine. I nodded.
       "Sure," I said.
       Of course, I wouldn't.
       The gelding stumbled once getting back onto the road then walked slowly away, his steps echoing as dull thuds on the hardened mud.
       "You want me to ask about the soap?"
       I looked back at Frank. For a moment, I'd forgotten he was there. I nodded, and he trotted up the steps.
       The honking of a dozen geese -- the only sign of fall -- merged into the sounds of the morning marsh. I closed my eyes to listen. It's funny how distinctive the sounds are at different times of the day. If I had just awakened from a stupor, I would have known that it was late morning before I ever saw a bit of daylight. Geese crossed the sky, heading for the Gulf.
       "It's not in yet," Frank said. "Mr. Brandon says maybe on Tuesday's boat."
       We started back down the trail together.
       "You like Mrs. White, don't you?" Frank asked.
       "Who?"
       "Mrs. White."
       Grace. That's right -- her name was no longer Trahan, was it? Somehow, that fact made her marriage more real in my mind, so I guess I had ignored it.
       "That's old news," I said. "Another lifetime." I dropped my arm around my nephew's bony shoulders. "Now, I'm going for a walk. I suppose you better get back to your chores before I get in trouble."
       The boy nodded. "Thanks for the root beer, Uncle Dassas."
       "You're welcome," I said. "Tell your mom I'll be back in a few hours, will you?"
       "Yes, sir."
       Frank ran off, his legs threatening to tangle with every stride, and I took the trail to the north.
       Leaving the short grasses of the coastal marsh, the trail entered the taller reeds and bushes where the air was still. Sweat started down the sides of my face. I swatted at late-season mosquitoes and quickened my pace, trying not to think about Grace.
       It was a relief to finally get into the piney woods. There, the undergrowth thinned and the breeze hit me again. Lifting my hat, I wiped my forehead with my sleeve.
       When I was a boy, I'd followed my mother along the same trail to Mrs. Richard's place. Mrs. Richard was old then, and I supposed her to be a witch. Later, I realized she was simply an old woman who had outlived her husband and stayed mostly to herself. She gathered and dried herbs, including the sassafras leaves we added to our gumbo. My mother bought file from her by the quart jar.
       The shack was more weathered than I'd last seen it. Dry, gray wood cried out for whitewash.
       "Mrs. Richard?" I said as I tapped on the doorframe of the screened porch. "Mrs. Richard? It's Dassas Cormier."
       "Who?"
       Her voice was a lot closer than I'd expected. I hadn't seen her sitting in the shadows on the porch.
       "Dassas Cormier. I used to come here with my mother. Years ago."
       "I remember you," she said. "You always looked frightened half out of your wits, like the devil was on your tail."
       I smiled. "Yes, ma'am. That was me."
       "Well, come on in, if you ain't too scared."
       When I pulled the door open, a yellow cat darted out, startling me for a second. I took a deep breath and continued. The porch creaked under my weight as I walked in and stood in front of the woman. Now completely ancient, she sat hunched over in her chair, her brown, wrinkled face mostly hidden under a pink bonnet, a corncob pipe in her hand.
       "Mrs. Richard, I'm sorry to bother you..."
       "How come you was always so frightened?"
       "Ma'am?"
       "When you was a kid and used to come here with your ma."
       I glanced down at my hat. "Well, I thought you were a witch."
       Her rocking chair went back, her mouth opened to reveal toothless gums and her laughter came out as a cackle. When she finally stopped laughing, she dabbed her eyes with her sleeve.
       "Well, now, at least you're honest," she said.
       I grabbed her arm as she rose slowly from the chair.
       "How about a cup of coffee?" she asked.
       I nodded. "Thank you."
       "You wait out here. We'll drink on the porch. Besides," she said as she stepped through the doorway, "I don't want you to see where I hide my dried bat wings."
       Her laughter faded into the darkened house.
       The old woman had probably watched me approach; the view from the porch was unobstructed for quite a distance. Somewhere off to the west, smoke from a cooking fire rose through the pines. It spiraled upward until it hit the wind above the trees and took off in a straight line. I wondered who lived out that far.
       "Here you go," Mrs. Richard said.
       I took the cup and saucer from her shaking hand, amazed that she'd made it so far without sloshing the coffee. "Thank you."
       She returned to the rocking chair, the pipe exchanged for her own cup. The coffee was rich and sweet. I waited a polite moment before continuing.
       "Mrs. Richard, you heard about what happened to Red Doucet?"
       "Yes. Poor man," she said.
       "I understand he was found near here."
       "Yes, sir, about a quarter-mile to the west."
       "Really?" That would be somewhere near the smoke I'd been watching that had tapered off and nearly disappeared. "Who lives out there?"
       "No one lives out there. That's some of Emite Mudd's summer pasture."
       "But there's smoke coming up in the trees."
       "Is there? Well, I can't see so good no more." She sipped from her cup.
       "Did you hear any shots? They said Red was shot twice."
       "No, I haven't heard no shooting in a long while. Not since Emite and his boys was out here killing snakes. That was ... Lord, it must have been in the spring. Now that the ducks is coming in, I expect I'll hear some."
       "Yes, ma'am."
       I wasn't yelling, or having to repeat myself, so I decided that Mrs. Richard would probably have heard gunfire within a quarter-mile of her house. It strengthened my suspicion that Red's body might have been moved. Where had he been when he was shot?
       "What is it you do, Dassas Cormier?"
       "Not much right now," I said. "I'm here visiting my brother."
       "And what did you do before you was visiting your brother?"
       "I was a cowboy for a while. And then I worked for the New Orleans Police Department."
       "You don't say. Nice town, New Orleans. I imagine it's changed some since me and my Henry spent our honeymoon there."
       "Yes, ma'am."
       "Are you married, Dassas Cormier?"
       "No, ma'am, I'm not."
       "A nice-looking young man like you and you ain't married? That just don't seem right."
       I wasn't comfortable with the way the conversation was going, and I was anxious to get out and look around. Draining the last drop from my cup, I rose.
       "Thank you for the coffee," I said, placing the cup and saucer beside a Christmas cactus on an old washbasin stand. "I should be going."
       She nodded. "Now, you come on back if you want me to brew you up a love potion some time, you hear?"
       I turned back at the door. Sunlight caught the woman's face, revealing an amused glint in her dark eyes and a wide, wrinkled grin.
       I felt the color rise in my cheeks. "Yes, ma'am."
       I'm fairly sure I heard her chuckle as I rejoined the trail through the pines.
       The ground was mostly sand -- old dunes from a long-lost beach. Pine needles mixed with the sand to form a soft and absorbent surface, one that blood could easily soak into. I had to remember not to rule out any possibility. Maybe Red had been shot out here late one night when Mrs. Richard was asleep. Blood wouldn't pool on top of the sand.
       Guessing at the location of the smoke I'd seen, I left the trail and headed west. The undergrowth thickened, slowing my progress. The last thing I wanted to do was step on a cottonmouth that had slithered out of the marsh. Pushing branches out of the way, I checked the ground as I walked.
       The smell hit me before I saw it. It was a familiar smell -- one that seeped from back doors in New Orleans. It was the smell of heated corn mash.
       I looked up just in time to keep from running into the low shack that was tucked into a thicket. A tiny ribbon of smoke rose and disappeared.
       Chances were good that someone was going to be unhappy about me finding their still. I stepped back slowly, watching the wooden door, until I bumped into a tree. I looked around then walked twenty yards or so away and sat in a clear spot beneath a pine. I couldn't quite see the shack, but I could see the trail leading up to it.
       I wondered if Red had wandered onto this still when the owner was inside. Or maybe he'd been out here looking for it. The Eighteenth Amendment was no more popular in this corner of Louisiana than it was in New Orleans, but Red Doucet was the chief of police. Many times when I was young I'd heard him say, "I may not like it, but the law is the law." At that time, drinking had still been legal, but I imagine he'd felt the same way about Prohibition. And whoever was running that still was definitely breaking the law.
       It occurred to me that Buddy had been the one who found Red. And Buddy Theriot must be the one who sold whiskey from this still. If he wasn't the man actually brewing the stuff, he definitely knew who was.
       Dinner with Becky and the kids had been difficult. Watching her place the bowls of food on the table with such motherly tenderness made me wonder what it would be like to have a family that depended on me and loved me -- what it would be like to have a woman to cherish and hold in my arms every night. I pictured Grace cuddling our infant, her face warm with love. Then I realized that she might already have children, and it became almost impossible to eat. Becky accused me of not liking her chicken stew. That certainly wasn't true; she was a wonderful cook.
       When the family was safely tucked in for the night, I headed to the dock. Fortunately, there was enough of a moon to light the trail. I'd been away so long that I might have gotten lost in the marsh in the dark. That would have been embarrassing.
       It was Saturday night, and Theriot's was hopping. Prohibition may as well have been a fairy tale, for all the patrons cared. Music filled the building, provided by a fiddle, accordion, guitar and washboard. I couldn't quite make out who the musicians were in the smoky lamplight.
       "Dassas! Come on in here and sit yourself down, you dog," Harley yelled over the music.
       I joined him at a table, where he filled a glass and shoved it in my direction.
       There must have been thirty people in the dance hall. Most of them I recognized, but some were either newcomers or from elsewhere. Of course, the younger ones would have been kids when I saw them last.
       At the end of the song, a couple joined us at the table. The young woman was dressed in a fashionably short, straight blue dress and had bobbed hair. She would have fit right in with the classiest New Orleans speakeasy crowd.
       "Dassas, you remember Sissy Welsh?"
       "Sissy?" I guess I didn't do a good job of hiding my amazement, because the young woman grinned. She'd been about twelve when I left. "I must admit, I wouldn't have recognized you."
       She twirled the end of a long necklace in her fingers as she lowered her head. "I certainly recognize you, Dassas Cormier," she said. "I've always had the biggest crush on you. You're the bee's knees."
       "The bee's knees, huh?"
       She nodded slowly and then watched me as she sipped from her glass.
       "And you know Antoine," Harley went on.
       I shook hands with the man, who was much more interested in Sissy than in talking to me. The music started again, and Antoine and Sissy rejoined the crowd on the dance floor.
       "Harley, I need to talk to Buddy," I said, leaning over the table.
       "He's around here somewhere."
       I leaned closer. "Do you know where he gets the juice?"
       Harley raised his glass and smiled. "I don't know and I don't care. As long as it keeps coming, I'm one happy son of a bitch."
       I watched the dancers while I drank and waited. Finally, Buddy walked out from a back room with an armload of bottles. I met him at the bar.
       "Dass! Glad you made it. We've got a real party going tonight."
       "What's the occasion?" I asked.
       He shrugged. "Saturday, I guess."
       After he put the bottles away and refilled waiting glasses, I pulled him to the quiet end of the bar.
       "I've got to ask you something," I said.
       Buddy tossed the towel over his shoulder and leaned forward on his elbows. "Fire away."
       "I was out at Mrs. Richard's today."
       "Yeah?"
       "Yeah. Buddy, I found a still."
       He tried not to show it, but I saw him stiffen just a little. One thing my training had taught me was to recognize when someone's guard went up. Buddy's definitely had.
       I took a deep breath and continued. "Is it your still?"
       "No," he said.
       "But you know whose still it is."
       Buddy frowned at the bar.
       "Look," I said, "maybe Red found the still and the person running it shot him."
       Buddy's eyes snapped up to mine, and he shook his head. "No, Dass, you're way off base."
       "What makes you so sure?"
       "I just am. Now, why don't you have a drink or two and enjoy the music?"
       "Buddy, even if the owner of the still isn't involved, maybe he saw something. I just want to talk to him.
       "Leave it alone, Dass." The warning note in Buddy's voice was unmistakable. "Now, go have a little fun."
       Without looking back, he returned to his waiting customers and smiled as he spoke to them.
       I went back to the table and my newly filled glass.
       "He tell you to go to hell?" Harley asked.
       "More or less," I said.
       "Why are you so interested?"
       "I'm trying to find out what happened to Red."
       "Red got shot, Dass. He died."
       "Yes, I know. I want to know who did it."
       "Are you sure?"
       I frowned at the man. "Yes."
       He shrugged. "Well, if you don't find out tonight, it won't make much difference, will it? Here, drink up." He raised his glass. "Welcome home."
       I met his glass with mine and then downed the warm whiskey. Christ, it was strong! After shaking off the burn, I filled my glass again just as Sissy approached.
       "You are going to dance with me, aren't you?" she asked.
       I couldn't think of a reason not to.
       Two hours later I found myself leaning against a piling under the dock, getting carried away with Sissy Welsh. When she put her hand where it shouldn't have been, I gasped and pushed her back to arm's length.
       "What's the matter?" she said, her bottom lip sticking out in a pout.
       "This is, uh, moving a little fast, don't you think?" I was having trouble focusing on her pretty blue eyes. That's when I realized I'd had entirely too much to drink and was about to make a big mistake.
       I released her, straightened and took a deep breath as I rearranged my shirt collar.
       "Sissy, I'll walk you home."
       When she fell forward against me, I caught her shoulders.
       "Don't you want me, Dassas?"
       I couldn't help but kiss her again when she pulled my face to hers. She may have been young, but she knew exactly what she was doing. Her kiss kindled desires I had a hard time denying. When her hand started down my side again, I grabbed her wrist.
       "Come on, Sissy, that's far enough. You're going home."
       She didn't protest a second time. With Sissy clinging to my arm, we stumbled down the path to the Welsh house. I'm not really sure how I managed to find it, but I did.
       I eased Sissy onto the edge of the porch. When I started up the steps to the door, she grabbed my hand and pulled me back.
       "No, Dass, don't. Please."
       "I can't leave you out here," I said.
       "I'll be all right."
       At that moment, the door flew open and Jonathan Welsh stepped out. He was still the monster of a man he'd always been, with a full beard that was only slightly gray.
       "Goddam it, Sissy!" he bellowed. "You've been out catting around again! And who the hell are you?"
       The man towered over me from the middle of the stairs, his hands curled into fists at his sides.
       "Dassas Cormier," I answered. I couldn't really think of anything else to say.
       "Daddy, please!" Sissy cried. "Dassas just brought me home. That's all. Please!"
       The man hauled Sissy up by the arm and shoved her through the doorway.
       "Get inside," he said. Then he marched back down the steps and pointed a finger in my face. "If I catch you sniffing around that girl, I'll break your goddamn neck. You got that?"
       "Yes, sir," I said.
       As soon as the door slammed and the night was quiet again, I turned back and found the trail home. I tried to sneak into the house quietly, but I stumbled over something and made a racket. Not wanting to wake everyone, I dropped into the first chair I found, leaned back and closed my eyes. The entire world was spinning.
       With all the alcohol in my system, I still couldn't stop the dream. I stood at the doorway, my pistol drawn, waiting. Time seemed to stop. I heard nothing but the rush of blood in my ears. Why didn't he come out? He had to come out soon. When he did, I'd have the drop on him. I'd have the drop -- 
       "Dass?"
       I jumped at the soft voice beside me. "Christ!"
       "I'm sorry," Becky whispered, "I didn't mean to startle you."
       I took a deep breath. "It's all right," I whispered back. "I didn't mean to wake you when I came in."
       "You didn't. I wasn't asleep."
       "Why not? It's the middle of the night."
       "I always have a hard time sleeping when Al's away," she said.
       The woman crouching beside me was little more than a silhouette in the starlight, but I could feel the softness her face held.
       "Al's one lucky son of a gun," I said quietly.
       Crickets filled in the silence between us.
       "I'll help you to bed," she finally said.
       When she rose, I extended my hand, and Becky took it in hers. She led me through the house to the back bedroom and stopped at the edge of my bed. As I sat, she lit the lamp and lowered the flame to a soft glow.
       "You need some help?" she asked.
       I shook my head and smiled at her. She looked so gentle in her cotton gown and robe. Before she left, she kissed the top of my head.
       "Good night," she whispered.
       I pulled my boots off then gave up, blew out the lamp and collapsed.
       "Dassas?"
       I cringed at the pounding as I lifted my head from the pillow. "Yeah?"
       Becky leaned into my room. "You have company," she said.
       I groaned and closed my eyes again. "Tell whoever it is to come back later."
       "I think you might want to get up for this one," she whispered. "It's Grace."
       "Grace?" I sat up quickly then grabbed my head with both hands. Becky raised her eyebrows.
       "I'll be right there," I said.
       "Take your time, Dass. You look terrible."
       "Gee, thanks," I croaked.
       The mirror verified her assessment. I looked like a dog coming in from a rainstorm. As I filled the washbasin, I wondered why Grace had shown up so early in the morning. Unable to come up with an explanation, I concentrated on making myself presentable. It took longer than it should have.
       Fred crawled around on the sunroom floor between Becky and Grace, who sat in cowhide rocking chairs across from each other. When Grace looked up, I thought my heart would stop. Early morning sunlight streamed across her face, brightening her eyes and the color of her lips. Black curls, only pulled back from her face and not pinned up, fell well below her shoulders in the front and back. She wore a loose white cotton blouse and a plain black skirt -- seductively old-fashioned. Did she have any idea how great she looked?
       "I'm sorry I woke you, Dassas." Her voice was as soft as a morning breeze.
       "That's quite all right. May I get you some coffee?"
       "No, thank you," she said.
       I waited, but Grace just looked down at Fred. I frowned at Becky, who shrugged.
       "Would you like to go for a walk or something?" I asked.
       Grace nodded. "That would be nice."
       She stopped to thank Becky for her hospitality on the way out. I fell in beside her as we walked down the road.
       "I ... I don't really know what to do," she said.
       "What's wrong?"
       "It's Billy."
       I have no idea what I'd expected, but it wasn't to discuss her husband. I took a silent deep breath and tucked my hands into my pants pockets.
       Grace continued. "I'm worried, Dassas."
       "I take it he's still not home?"
       She shook her head.
       "You told me he's done this before."
       "He's been late coming back from the oil fields, but never this late. The more I thought about it, the more I worried."
       "Do you think something has happened to him?" I asked.
       She sighed. "I don't know."
       "Would he have been carrying anything valuable -- any money?"
       "Yes," she said. "He should have gotten paid for the past two months of work." She stopped, turned and touched my forearm. "You think he might have been attacked for the money?"
       I looked down at her hand, and she slowly withdrew it. When our eyes met, I couldn't help but wonder how her lips would taste. Clearing my throat, I continued to walk. Grace matched my pace.
       "I wouldn't jump to conclusions," I said. "Maybe he stayed on for another week. I know when I worked in the fields there was always someone who didn't show up when they were supposed to. They used to offer us extra work all the time."
       I glanced over and saw her nod. She studied the ground as she walked, her beautiful mouth tightened into a frown.
       "Grace, what do you want me to do?"
       We stopped, and she looked up, tears welling in her eyes. "I don't know. I don't even know why I came to you. I ... I just don't know what to do."
       I took a deep breath and smiled at the woman of my dreams. "Tell you what. If he doesn't show up by Monday I'll check into it."
       She turned a smile on me that melted my heart. "Thank you, Dassas. I knew you'd help."
       She stood on her toes, grabbed my arm to pull me down and kissed my cheek. Her lips were soft and warm. I closed my eyes and filled my lungs with the scent of sweet lavender.
       Then I watched her walk away. It puzzled me that she was so worried when she'd been almost unconcerned the day before.
       Ambling back to the house, I wondered what I was getting into. It would take a full day to get to the oil fields. I'd either have to pay to get there, or I'd have to ride all the way. Just the thought of a couple days on horseback made me hurt all over. Then I'd have to find a man I didn't like and haul him home to the woman I wanted. How could life be so cruel? I let the screen door slam behind me.
       "Coffee?" Becky asked, handing me a cup.
       "Thanks."
       "She's married, you know."
       I nodded. "I know, you told me."
       "So, what does she want?"
       I smiled at the protective note in my sister-in-law's voice. "She wants me to find her husband."
       "Oh. Are you going to do it?"
       I shrugged. "I'll try. But I have something more important to do first."
       "What?"
       I sat in the rocker that Grace had abandoned and held the steaming cup under one eye at a time. The heat soothed my sandpaper eyelids.
       "Has Al ever told you that you're a nosy woman?" I asked.
       She grinned. "No. Al knows to just tell me everything so I don't have to ask."
       "Smart man," I said.
       "Are you going to church with us?"
       "No, I don't think so."
       As it was, I spent most nights in hell. I didn't need a preacher telling me I'd spend eternity there, too.
--------
         *Chapter Three*
       My vigil in the woods was rewarded when, just after nightfall, a man approached the shack walking slowly and with a limp. He ducked into the doorway and disappeared for about a half-hour. When he emerged, he carried a burlap bag over his shoulder. Glass clinked.
       I watched him close the door to the shack and start down the trail. Although I couldn't make out his features or identity, I could see his movements in the moonlight. He didn't look around. He didn't pause and listen. He just walked, his hat low on his forehead.
       I followed him, careful not to get close enough to be heard. He took the trail to the bayou and didn't even look when a gator slid into the water a few feet away. By the time he approached the back door of Theriot's I'd come to the conclusion that the man I followed either had nerves of steel or didn't care if he lived or died.
       The bootlegger traded his bag of bottles for a handful of coins then turned and walked north again along the bayou. He took a small path to the east and followed it for several hundred yards. I stopped, crouched behind a bush and watched him enter his house.
       That's when I realized who he was. My stomach turned at the sight that unfolded in the moonlight. Where there had once been a beautiful, two-story house there was now an empty field. It must have been the storm of '20. I'd heard reports about the damage, but this was the first I'd seen. Why Joshua Wakefield hadn't rebuilt in four years I couldn't imagine. Instead, he appeared to be living in the old shack that once stood in the shadow of his beautiful home.
       Men change. Of that I had no doubt. Still, Buddy was right. There was no way Joshua Wakefield could have been responsible for Red's death.
       I was a kid when Captain Wakefield moved to Marshall's Bayou with his lovely young wife. He was a bona fide war hero, fresh from fighting Pancho Villa. When the Great War started, Joshua reenlisted and went overseas. He returned wounded.
       Joshua and Red had been best friends from the start. Many afternoons I'd found them sitting on the bench in front of Brandon's Mercantile planning the next fishing trip or discussing politics. No matter what had happened to him, Joshua would never have killed Red.
       But maybe he knew something. I walked to the door, listening as I approached. There was no sound from inside. I knocked.
       "Yeah?" The door flew open; and Joshua Wakefield stood in the doorway, staring at me through narrowed, bloodshot eyes. His face was heavy with whiskers and his hair was wild. "Do I know you?"
       "Yes, sir. Dassas Cormier." I stuck out my hand.
       After a long moment, recognition produced a bit of a smile, and Joshua took my hand. "Sure. I remember you. All grown up now, I see."
       "Yes, sir, I guess so."
       "Come in."
       The room was filled with empty bottles, dirty dishes and soiled clothes. It was the home of a man who found no joy in living. Something had gone terribly wrong.
       "Pardon the mess. I don't get company anymore. Here," he said, removing a pile of books from a chair, "have a seat."
       "Thank you."
       "Drink?"
       "No, sir."
       "I assume you don't mind if I do." Not waiting for a response, he filled a glass and drank half. His hands shook.
       "Captain Wakefield -- "
       "None of that 'captain' shit. It's Joshua."
       "Yes, sir."
       He sat in the chair across the table from me.
       "Joshua, I know where you were tonight."
       He didn't flinch. "Yeah? Well, so do I. And trust me, that's pretty rare these days." He took another long drink.
       "I'm trying to find out what happened to Red."
       He frowned for a second and then nodded. "Yeah, Red."
       "He was found near your still."
       "That's what they tell me," he said.
       "Do you know what he was doing out there?"
       "No, I don't. I go out there at least once every day or two when I'm brewing, and I never saw him."
       "Never?"
       "Not out there."
       During the silence between us, I looked around the one-room shack. The only thing that seemed to be in place was a painting of his wife and daughter that hung on the far wall. His wife sat in an upholstered chair with the child standing at her side. They both smiled sweetly.
       "Had that done the last time we were in Texas," he said.
       I glanced over and found him also staring at the painting. There was something distant in his eyes.
       "What ... what happened to them?"
       "Storm of nineteen-twenty. Angelina, my wife, was torn right out of my arms. Then something fell on me. When I woke up, I found Christine's body in the clearing where my house had been. I never found Angelina. The storm took everything in the world that I loved."
       He sighed with a pain that made my chest ache and then took another drink.
       "So, you didn't hear shots or anything?"
       "Huh?" He stared at me from the tragic past.
       "When Red was killed, you didn't hear the shots?"
       "Oh. No. I didn't hear a thing. Fine man, Red. I'll miss him."
       "Yes, sir."
       Somehow, I was sure he'd never miss anything or anyone again. His soul was dead. Still, I was fairly certain he'd have told me whatever he knew.
       I rose to leave and stopped at the door. "Thank you, Cap -- Joshua. I'm really sorry about your family."
       He nodded and continued to stare at the painting.
       It was a relief to get out of the house.
       I was more confused than ever. The still had felt like a solid lead when I first discovered it. Now it didn't. That returned me to the possibility that Red had died elsewhere.
       I muttered under my breath at having to start over and walked back to the house.
       Monday was fast approaching. As soon as Alcide made it back, I needed to check with Grace to see if her wayward husband had shown up. If he hadn't, I'd have no choice but to look for him. What on earth had possessed me to make such a promise? The only part I looked forward to was seeing Grace again.
       Back at home, Becky, Frank and Chloe were scattered around the living room, occupied with their own work, and looked up when I entered.
       "Success?" Becky asked.
       I shrugged as I dropped into a chair. "Yes and no."
       "We saved a dinner plate for you," she said. "It's on the counter with a red-checkered napkin over it."
       "Thanks." I rubbed at the kinks in my neck that had resulted from hiding in the bushes for hours.
       Becky put her sewing down, crossed the room and stopped behind me. With strong, artful fingers, she kneaded my shoulders and neck, working the knots loose. I closed my eyes.
       "This is heavenly," I said.
       She didn't answer but continued to rub.
       "Why is it again that you didn't marry me?" I asked.
       "You never proposed," she said. Then she leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. "At least, you never proposed marriage."
       I groaned when she hit a particularly tender spot, and Chloe giggled.
       Grinning, I remembered the night I'd proposed something much less decent than marriage. We'd shared a bottle of stolen wine and then several kisses. I'd tried to persuade Becky to let me feel the breasts I'd watched blossom under her cotton dresses. At fourteen, she had a great figure for being so skinny. But Becky and I had been friends for too long -- we ended up laughing and then stumbling home. I was barely thirteen at the time, and that was the extent of our romantic involvement.
       "Now, go eat," she said.
       "Yes, dear sister-in-law, whatever you say."
       Chloe giggled again and followed me into the kitchen.
       Alcide arrived first thing in the morning. I sat across from him drinking coffee, listening to details of his trip and trying to shake off the effects of the nightmares. Becky watched me with concern. I smiled to reassure her.
       "I think this will be the best seed we've had," Alcide said. "We'll plant first thing this spring and have the earliest alfalfa in the state."
       "Sounds like a good plan," I said.
       "It is." He hesitated long enough to draw my attention from my coffee. "You know, we could work the place as partners, Dass. With two of us, we could run twice the cattle and raise twice the hay. We could even plant a little cotton."
       Just the thought of picking cotton made my back hurt. Still, it was an option.
       "I don't know, Al. I'm not really sure what I'm going to do yet."
       I hated seeing the disappointment in his face.
       "Give me a while to think about it, will you?" I asked.
       Alcide smiled and nodded. "Sure, Dass, take whatever time you need. I just want you to know how much I ... we would love to have you here."
       "He's right," Becky said.
       I thanked them both, trying not to give away the emotion that welled in my chest.
       "You want to ride out to the winter pasture with me?" Alcide asked. "I need to start checking fences."
       "I'd love to," I said, "but I'm afraid I promised to do something else first."
       He nodded. "When you're done," he said.
       "You bet. I'll meet you out there."
       "Oh, and you're welcome to that black gelding while you're here," he added. "His name is Midnight."
       "Thanks, Al. Has he ever been ridden?"
       My brother drew himself up tall with wide eyes to look indignant. "Would I do that to you?"
       His actions made me all the more suspicious. Since I was a kid, we'd always played tricks on each other that often resulted in one of us landing flat on our back on the ground. There was usually a wild or ill-tempered horse involved.
       "Hell, yes," I muttered.
       Alcide tried to stifle a laugh and ended up choking on his coffee. I slapped his back and grinned.
       After breakfast, I walked very slowly through the marsh. The air was cooler than it had been since I arrived. I buttoned my jacket against the coastal wind. Birds clung to the waving cattails, not even bothering to chirp at me; and the gators were all in the water. Clouds gathered on the southern horizon, dark and ominous. It had been years since I'd been through a Gulf storm; I hoped this wasn't one blowing in.
       Becky told me that Grace and her husband were living in Grace's family home. I knew exactly where it was. I'd spent many evenings leaning against an oak tree in the yard, praying for a glimpse of Grace through the curtains. One night I actually got to watch her brush and pin up her long black hair. The memory fired my fantasies for months. Maybe longer.
       I slowed as I approached the place. A man worked in the pasture beside the house, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his head bare. At first I thought it must be Billy and started to turn around, but then I saw the man had dark hair. Last time I'd seen Billy, his hair had been the color of straw. It wouldn't have darkened up that much. And Billy was heavier.
       It finally dawned on me that the man was Kyle Trahan, Grace's older brother. He'd left Marshall's Bayou when Grace and I were very young. I'd heard that he moved first to Texas and then to California. What was he doing back in the marsh?
       I stopped at the gate, about twenty yards from him.
       "Kyle?" I asked. "Kyle Trahan?"
       The man spun around. At first he looked angry, then his face softened and he brushed his hands off on his pants as he walked toward me. He was tall and slender with gray streaks in his otherwise coal-black hair. His face bore the lines of outdoor work, although his clothes didn't fit the task. The black pants, white shirt and black vest looked more like something a banker would wear.
       "Yes," he said, "I'm Kyle Trahan. And you are?"
       "Dassas Cormier," I said. "Grace and I went to school together."
       "Louie's little brother?"
       I flinched at the mention of my oldest brother's name. "Yes," I said.
       He reached over the wooden gate and shook my hand. "Well, I'll be dipped. It's good to see you."
       "Thanks," I said. "You, too." I nodded toward the pile of lumber he had been working on. "Building something?"
       "Huh?" He glanced back. "Oh, no, I'm covering up the old cattle well. Too much salt in it."
       "Are you planning to dig a new one?"
       "No, I don't think we need it. We don't have cattle anymore, and there's another well on the other side of the house. I'll just keep the horses and milk cow over there."
       "So, you've moved back to the marsh?"
       The man shrugged. "Only visiting for a little while. I thought I'd lend Gracie a hand."
       I wondered why he felt the need to help his sister when she had a husband, but I wasn't about to ask. Looking around, however, I guessed it was because Billy didn't seem to find it important to keep the place up.
       "Is there something I can do for you?" Kyle asked.
       "I'm looking for Grace. Is she in the house?"
       "Yes, why?"
       "I promised to stop by this morning," I said.
       He nodded.
       "Good to see you again," I said then turned and walked to the house. I felt the man's eyes on me, but by the time I made it to the door and looked back he had returned to his work.
       My heart started pounding before I was halfway up the stairs. It was ridiculous to react like a child, but I couldn't help it. Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the doorframe.
       "Yes?" Grace's sweet voice came from the next room.
       "Grace? It's Dassas."
       "Oh!" She walked toward the screen door, untying an apron and pulling it over her head. "Come in," she said. "I was just putting a cake in the oven. I'm sorry I look such a fright."
       I opened the door and stepped into the living room.
       Grace looked anything but a fright. Her glorious hair was pinned up on her head, and several loose strands danced around the edges of her face. Her cheeks were rosy from working in a warm kitchen, and her eyes glistened as she looked up at me. My breath escaped all at once.
       "May I get you some coffee?" she asked.
       "Yes, if you have some already made."
       "Of course. Please, have a seat." She hurried into the kitchen.
       I'd never been inside her parents' house before. The living room was neat, not overdone. The white walls were clean and freshly painted, and the furniture, though old, was in good shape. I unbuttoned my jacket and picked out a large upholstered chair to occupy. The chair was firm and comfortable and faced the door to the kitchen.
       The walls held several paintings, none too expensive looking. An old portrait that hung over the sofa was of Grace's mother. She had been a beautiful woman. Grace looked a lot like her. I pulled at the collar of my shirt, which seemed suddenly tight. Fortunately, a nice breeze made it in through the windows.
       The breeze wasn't enough, however, to wipe out the faint smell of crude oil, reminding me that I was in the home of a woman married to an oil field worker. I'd never been able to get the smell out of my own place when I'd worked in the fields. It seemed to seep into everything.
       Grace emerged carrying a tray. I jumped up and took it from her, praying my hands weren't shaking enough to spill the coffee. Once I got the tray to the tea table, I sighed as quietly as possible and returned to my chair.
       She sat on the sofa across the table from me and poured the coffee. Her movements were controlled and smooth. She'd taken the time to straighten her hair and brush the flour from her sleeves. I hid my smile in my cup.
       We drank in silence for several minutes. The clock on the mantle was all I could hear above my heartbeat. I glanced up and caught Grace's golden stare. We both looked away.
       "I was sorry to hear about your mother," I said.
       "Thank you."
       More silence.
       "Grace, have you heard from Billy?"
       She shook her head and sighed, returned her cup to the tray and folded her hands in her lap. "I don't know what to think."
       "I ... I have to ask this. Is there any chance that Billy has just ... left?"
       When her glance caught mine, it was filled with an emotion I couldn't begin to identify. Then, almost as quickly as it had come, the emotion was gone -- well hidden behind her calm mask. Funny, I'd never thought of her beautiful face as a mask before.
       "No," she said quietly, "I don't think so."
       I was ashamed of myself when I realized I was hoping she'd say yes.
       "Who's he working for?" I asked.
       "Sun Oil."
       "Where?"
       "One of the fields near Orange, I think."
       "You don't know which one?"
       She shook her head again. "We don't talk much these days."
       "Does he usually come in on the boat?"
       "No, he rides in from Cameron."
       "Maybe something happened to his horse. Maybe he's taking the boat in this time."
       "I don't think so," she said. "If something happened to Billy's horse he'd just get another one."
       Grace rose and walked slowly to the screen door. She stopped with her back to me. "Something has happened to Billy. I can't explain it, I just know it has."
       I drank the last sip of coffee and placed my cup on the tray as I stood. "Grace, do you want me to look for him?"
       When she turned around, I cringed at the tears in her eyes. She cried for her husband, as she should. I guess I'd hoped she held some secret feelings for me, as I'd always held for her; and that she was happy to be rid of the husband she didn't want. It was stupid, I know.
       I walked to her and touched her arm gently. She wiped her eyes with the ends of her delicate fingers and then looked up at me.
       "If he isn't on the boat tomorrow, I'll ride it out," I said. "I'll find him for you, Grace. Okay?"
       She nodded and more tears started. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't know why I'm -- "
       "It's all right," I said.
       She took a deep breath and straightened. "Dassas, why are you helping me?"
       I smiled at her. "Because you asked me to."
       She returned my smile through her tears. "Thank you."
       "I haven't done anything yet."
       I released her arm and she stepped aside; but before I could get all the way out, she stopped me.
       "Dassas, will you come by for dinner tonight?"
       "Grace, I don't -- "
       "Please, let me fix dinner for you. It's the least I can do. Kyle is leaving for Lake Charles today. I'll have a whole chocolate cake to eat by myself."
       "Chocolate, huh?"
       She nodded.
       How the hell could I refuse her anything? It was impossible.
       "What time?"
       "Six?"
       I nodded. "I'll be here at six."
       Frank staggered as he adjusted the roll of barbed wire on his shoulder.
       "You sure you got it?" I asked.
       "Yes, sir," he said.
       I lifted a roll to the folded feed sack draped over my own shoulder and followed him along the fence line. Alcide stood in a puddle hammering a post into the ground. He stopped and wiped his face on his sleeve when we approached.
       "You can put those down at the last one," he said.
       "You want us to wrap?" I asked.
       "Sure."
       Frank untied one roll while I started the end of mine near the bottom of the post. I wrapped the wire, twisted the end with the wire pullers then hammered in a staple. My nephew handed me the end of his roll and I repeated the process while he started back to the wagon for the third roll.
       "I'm glad to see you haven't forgotten everything," Alcide said.
       I lifted my hat and grinned up at him. "I guess I spent too many years out here to forget how to pull wire."
       Alcide leaned on the post, and I rose beside him.
       "You know, Dass, I never told you how much I appreciated you staying here and taking care of things when we all left."
       I sighed. "It's not necessary -- "
       "I mean it," he said. "I can't imagine what would have happened if Becky and Frank had been here alone when Pop died."
       "That was the hardest part, you know. All the damned funerals."
       Alcide nodded slowly, staring off toward the Gulf. "Yeah, I'm sorry I wasn't here to say goodbye. I really miss Louie and Trey."
       "Yeah." I glanced at my brother then followed his gaze to the water. "Hey, you'll never guess who I saw today."
       "Who?"
       "Kyle Trahan."
       "Really? What's he doing in the marsh?"
       I shrugged. "Helping his sister, I guess."
       "That would be a bit unusual for him, from what I hear."
       "Oh?"
       "Louie always said Kyle never helped anyone but Kyle." He shrugged. "Of course, people change."
       We watched Frank struggle with the wire. The wind buffeted his brown curls into his eyes as he walked, but he didn't falter.
       "You've done a good job with Frank," I said. "He's growing into a fine young man."
       "Thanks," Alcide said. "You know he wants to be just like you. He's always talking about his Uncle Dassas."
       I grunted at the irony. The boy had the perfect role model right in front of him, and he idolized the loser brother instead. I'd have to find a way to set him straight before I left again.
       Frank dropped the roll to the ground and huffed a few times. Alcide studied him with fatherly pride then handed the roll to me.
       "All right, there's no time to waste," he said. "Frank, push the first roll to the next post and we'll staple it in place."
       "Yes, sir."
       "Al, I'm sorry I won't be here to help tomorrow," I said, twisting the third strand on the post.
       "Don't worry, Frank and I can finish it up. At least we'll have a good start on it." Alcide shoved a stick through the roll and lifted it. "So where are you going?"
       "I'm headed over to Orange."
       "Going to sign up in the oil fields again?"
       "No. I'm just going over to look for someone."
       "Who?"
       "Billy White."
       When Alcide didn't respond I glanced back. He was frowning a little, but I wasn't sure if it was from the exertion or the conversation. When we put the rolls down at the next post, he positioned the pullers on the wire, showed Frank how to hold them and hammered in a staple.
       "What do you want with Billy?" he asked without looking up.
       "I don't. I'm just looking for him because he's missing."
       Alcide pulled the second wire.
       "Do you have any idea which field he's working in?" I asked.
       "I know he was at Spindletop a while back. I'm not sure about now. I do know he's got a buddy over in Orange. Clyde Starks, I think his name is. He visited Billy down here a few times over the past year. Last time, I had to help throw him out of Theriot's. I got a black eye for the effort, too."
       "My big brother with a black eye and I missed it?"
       Alcide grinned at me and picked up the third line. I twisted a kink loose.
       "Dass, if you go looking for Starks, be careful. He's crazy as a loon and mean."
       "I will," I said.
       "You want a pistol to take with you?"
       "No."
       I couldn't imagine ever holding a pistol again.
       Marsh mud darkened the bathwater quickly.
       "Ready for some more?" Becky asked from the door.
       "Sure," I said.
       I covered myself with the washcloth as she eased in, carrying a steaming pot.
       "Close your eyes," she said.
       "You're sure it's not too hot?"
       "Oh, Dass, don't be a baby."
       "I'm not, it's just -- "
       The nearly scalding water poured over the top of my head stole my words.
       "See?"
       I nodded as I wiped my face. "Thanks."
       After Becky closed the door behind her, I eased down into the tub and let the warm water cover my tired body. I'd forgotten how much work repairing fence was. Heat pulled the strain from my arms and back.
       I felt guilty leaving Alcide and Frank to finish the work by themselves and had promised to be back in time to help drive the cattle. No matter what happened with Billy, I'd keep my promise.
       Closing my eyes, I thought about dinner. How was I going to sit across from Grace for an entire meal and act like a civilized adult? All I could think about was how incredible she'd looked all those years ago seated in front of her vanity in a pale pink chemise, her arms and neck bared, brushing her long, beautiful dark hair.
       I opened one eye and frowned at the unwanted results of the memory.
       There was a tap at the door.
       "Yeah?"
       "Dass, it's almost five-thirty," Becky said.
       "Thanks."
       I sat up and rinsed off the last of the suds. I'd promised to be there at six, and I still had a ways to go before I'd look presentable.
       I prayed I wasn't making a big mistake.
       By the time I was dressed and brushed, Becky waited at the door for me. She inspected my coat as I turned in front of her.
       "There, that's better," she said, brushing off the back.
       When I turned around, she grinned up at me. "My, don't you look dashing?" Then she frowned.
       "What's wrong?"
       "I'm afraid you may look too dashing," she said. "After all, Grace is..."
       "Married," I said. "Yes, Becky, I know. I'm just having dinner with her."
       "But what will people think?"
       "I don't give a damn what people think," I said.
       The gossip in Marshall's Bayou was one of the things that had originally driven me away. I'd never told Becky about the things I'd overheard, and I never would. It infuriated me to know that anyone could think ill of her.
       "All right, Mr. Dassas Cormier. Run along before you're late."
       "Yes, ma'am." I leaned over and kissed the side of Becky's head. "Thanks for your help."
       "You're welcome. And be good."
       I stepped through the door and took a deep breath of the early evening air. It smelled unusually sweet.
       "I'll try," I mumbled.
--------
         *Chapter Four*
       The dinner of fried chicken, rice and okra was great, but I had trouble getting it down. Grace sat across the table from me in the growing darkness with candlelight dancing on her face and in her eyes. It was the first time since arriving that I was thankful Marshall's Bayou didn't have electricity.
       Our attempts at conversation were short and pathetic until we started on the past. It was easier to talk about other people. And Grace and I knew different stories about the same kids. I told her the truth behind Willis Meaux's broken arm.
       "He swore he had figured out how to fly. He said it was all in the arm movement, that you weren't supposed to flap, but to bend your elbows like this."
       I demonstrated and Grace laughed into her napkin. Her eyes sparkled as she watched me.
       "I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen. You know the big old oak trees in front of Isaac Broussard's place?"
       She nodded.
       "This was long before Isaac bought it, of course. The place was just ruins back then. Anyway, Willis climbed up to the top of the tallest tree and jumped." I shook my head at the memory. "I swear, for a few seconds there, I think he did fly. Then he fell like a stone. Broke his arm clean in two."
       Grace wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. "Why on earth would Willis think he could fly?"
       "Well, it might have had something to do with the bottle of wine we'd shared."
       "If you two were only twelve, where did you get wine?"
       "I stole it from Theriot's."
       "You stole it?"
       I cringed. "Yeah."
       Grace shook her head slowly and grinned. "I knew you were a bad boy, Dassas Cormier."
       "Not that bad," I said.
       Our eyes met for a moment. I wasn't sure if I saw meaningful emotion in her eyes, or if I just wished it was there. Christ, the woman had no idea how beautiful she was. Or how badly I wanted her.
       Grace rose quickly and began to gather the dishes.
       I stood. "Let me help."
       "No, sit down."
       "Yes, ma'am." I followed her orders.
       She smiled. "I'll bring out the cake."
       I watched her carry the cake to the table and cut two slices. The dress she wore was old-fashioned, with a tight waistline and high collar -- lots of buttons down the back -- and looked great on her. Her hair was still pinned up, uncovering her long, slender neck. I wondered if her lips were truly rosy or painted. I couldn't tell.
       When I took the plate of cake from her, our fingertips touched. A charge passed between us that may or may not have been real. I certainly felt it. She did nothing to suggest that she did.
       We ate in silence. I was afraid to look at her. When we first sat down to eat I had a firm grip on the situation. Grace was a friend, a married friend who wanted company for dinner.
       I was losing that grip quickly. The longer I sat there, the worse it got. If I could just make it last a little longer...
       "Is the cake all right?"
       I looked up to find Grace watching me, frowning.
       "It's delicious. Really."
       Her frown faded a little.
       I finished off the cake, which really was good, and folded my napkin onto the table.
       "Coffee?" she asked.
       "No." I rose quickly, barely catching my chair as it started to fall over backwards, and then turned to face her. There was no way to stay another minute. "Thank you for dinner, Grace. I have to go."
       "But, Dassas..."
       I stopped at the front door, my jacket in one hand and the other on the glass doorknob. Grace stood close behind me -- I could feel her.
       "You don't have to go," she said quietly.
       I jumped when she touched the back of my arm.
       "Grace, you don't know what you're saying," I said through clenched teeth.
       She ran her fingers slowly down my sleeve. I swear I felt the heat of her touch through all the fabric. I turned around and found her studying me with wide eyes. She looked frightened, but more beautiful than ever.
       "Grace, I..."
       My hand acted completely on its own when it reached out and touched her cheek. Her skin was warm and smooth. Silky.
       "I..." No matter how hard I tried, the words wouldn't come.
       Grace raised her chin as I lowered my face to hers. At the first taste of her, I was lost. Never in my life had I felt such a perfect mouth under mine, such sweet, warm lips.
       There was something terribly wrong with the situation. Why on earth would Grace Trahan let me kiss her like this? After all the years I'd dreamed about her -- it just couldn't be real. I considered the possibilities.
       "Grace," I gasped, straightening, "is this ... some kind of payment?"
       Her eyes grew even wider. "What?"
       "Is this payment for helping you?"
       The slap caught me off-guard with its speed and power. I held my stinging cheek.
       "I thought ... you bastard," she hissed.
       When she spun around, I grabbed her hand to stop her.
       "Wait, Grace, I'm sorry. Wait."
       After a moment, she quit struggling and stood with her back to me.
       "I didn't mean to insult you," I said. "Really. I'm just trying to make some sense out of this. You don't understand the situation."
       "What situation?" she asked.
       Urging her back around, I touched her cheek again and brushed away a stray tear with my thumb.
       "Grace, I've been crazy about you all my life."
       Confession really must be good for the soul, because I felt like a weight had just been lifted from my chest.
       "What?"
       "You heard me," I said.
       "Why didn't you ever say anything?"
       I traced the line of her jaw. "I was terrified that you'd laugh." I leaned forward and kissed her again then backed up and looked into her eyes.
       She slid her hands around my waist, burning the skin on my sides through my shirt where she touched me.
       "I wouldn't have laughed," she whispered.
       I pulled her into my arms and took her precious mouth. The woman of my dreams met my kiss with a passion that knocked me over. I fell back against the doorframe and pulled her closer. Her arms closed around my back.
       My mind reeled and my body responded to hers instantly, but I still had some measure of control. I had to leave immediately, or not go at all.
       The latter was unthinkable.
       With one more taste, I held her shoulders and pushed her back. Her eyelids were heavy with desire. I gasped for air.
       "Grace ... I really have to go."
       She looked down and then back up, her eyes wide again.
       I held her face in my hands. "Listen to me, Grace. If I find Billy, then I'll come back here and you can have your choice -- him or me. I'll abide by whatever choice you make. But I can't do this now. I can't make love to you while he's still your husband. Do you understand? I can't do it."
       She nodded slowly, her eyes studying mine.
       I kissed her lips one last time, turned and walked away from her as quickly as possible. At the old oak, I stopped in the darkness, leaned against the trunk, and gulped down the thick air. At that moment, I hoped that God was up there, watching me. I sure as hell didn't want to waste the gesture. Walking away from Grace had been the toughest thing I'd ever done.
       I laughed at myself as I worked on shaking off the desire. There was no way I'd get any sleep that night. But if I did, I knew who would be in my dreams.
       The boat was late.
       I sat on the edge of the dock, leaning forward and swinging my feet, waiting for the ride out of Marshall's Bayou. Crabs scurried through the brown water along the shoreline, reaching up with bright blue claws for the minnows that were careless enough to get close. Now and then, they caught one and disappeared into deeper water.
       It was warm again; the coolness of the day before was completely forgotten. There were still clouds on the horizon, but I couldn't take them seriously with all the sunshine. Becky had pointed out that the cattle were lying down before I left, indicating an impending storm. I called her a witch, and she slugged my shoulder before sending me off with a bag of food and a hug.
       "Leaving already?"
       I looked back to find Harley climbing the stairs to the dock.
       "Just for a few days," I answered.
       "Oh, ho! Off to Texas for a little taste? They got some sweet girls over in Port Arthur. Of course, I'm sure you know that already."
       I shook my head. The man was only capable of thinking about two things: booze and women.
       I climbed to my feet and stretched. "Damn boat," I muttered. "I don't think it's coming today."
       As if conjured up by my words, a puff of smoke rose above the marsh in the distance, followed by another.
       "At last."
       Harley slapped my back, almost sending me off the edge of the dock. "Tell me, Dass, you find out what you wanted about Red?"
       "No, not really. But I'll tell you, I think his body was moved."
       "You do?"
       "Yeah, I do."
       The man sighed.
       I narrowed my eyes. "Why are you so relieved to hear that?"
       Harley shrugged. "Who says I am?"
       "I do," I said. "Are you and Buddy worried that Joshua Wakefield might have shot him?"
       "What do you mean?"
       "I mean that if Joshua Wakefield shot Red, he'd go to jail or be hanged. That would dry up the only supply of hooch left around here, wouldn't it?"
       "Damn, Dassas! If you wasn't such a good friend I'd bust your nose for that. You think I'd be more worried about a little juice than about who killed Red?"
       We stared at each other. That was exactly what I thought, but I didn't have any great desire to get my nose broken. I shrugged.
       "No, I guess not."
       Harley grabbed my shoulders and squeezed. "Good," he said. "Now, you want a quick one? Captain Teller has to get the boat unloaded before it leaves again."
       "No, thanks."
       "Okay. I'll keep a seat warm for you. Hurry back."
       "Yeah."
       I watched the boat approach, the chug-chug-chug of the steam engine growing louder. The whistle blew three times and then three more, and the old tug turned toward the dock. I stepped up to the cleat to catch the rope.
       After helping unload, I climbed on and sat on the edge, staring at the fuzzy line between marsh and sky. The clouds looked like distant mountains.
       I wondered what I'd find in Texas.
       I knew what I wanted to find. I wanted to find Billy White dead. It was a rotten thing to admit, even to myself. Desire takes men to ends they would never have imagined.
       By the time we pulled into the port of Orange, it was the middle of the night and clouds had rolled in to hide the moon. I said farewell to Captain Teller, grabbed my bag and wound my way across the docks. Following the streetlights through the drizzle, I walked down Front Street and then Main until I found someone awake. The room I rented wasn't luxurious, but it was dry and warm.
       I pushed the curtains back on my second-floor window and looked out just as lightning lit the empty street below. The rain started in earnest. I pulled a slice of bread and jar of figs from Becky's bag and ate as I watched the downpour. Thunder rattled the windowpane.
       It was too late to scout around town; most of the dance halls and gin mills were closed. As a sober person, I'd stick out like a sore thumb in the ones that weren't. My search would have to start in the morning. That left me the whole night to lie around and think.
       Not good.
       As I'd suspected, I'd slept little the night before. I was still confused about Grace. What did she mean when she said she wouldn't have laughed? Had she been waiting all those years for me to make the first move? God, had I wasted all that time?
       No, it couldn't be. I would have known. Wouldn't I?
       Popping the last piece of sweetened bread in my mouth, I put the lid back on the figs and tucked the jar into the bag. What I really wanted was a steak. The bread would have to do, though. Orange was a boomtown, but it wasn't New Orleans. Restaurants didn't stay open past midnight.
       I stripped and hung up my clothes then turned out the light and stretched out on the bed. Rain continued to pound the side of the hotel and my window. The oil fields would be a mess if it kept up all night.
       No matter how hard I tried to avoid it, my thoughts returned to Grace. The taste of her kisses would be with me for the rest of my life, even if I never tasted them again. I wondered how her body looked and felt, how she'd feel against me, under me.
       I turned my head at the noise from the hall. A woman giggled and a man tried to quiet her. She giggled some more. After several minutes of drunken discussion, the door to the next room opened and slammed shut.
       Closing my eyes, I tried to ignore the noises of the indiscreet couple on the other side of the wall.
       The roads into the oil fields were sloppy as they wound through eerie forests of oil rigs. Rain fell off and on all morning, creating black rivulets through the countryside.
       The oil business is one where everyone is suspicious of everyone else. If they don't know who you are, they think you're out sniffing around for a geologist's report. It took me three hours of searching before I found anyone who would admit to knowing Billy White. It was a foreman at one of the newer fields west of Orange. His name, ironically, was Slim. He was anything but.
       "When I find that little shit, I'm going to fire him," Slim bellowed. "But first I might bat him around some."
       "Didn't he show up for work?" I asked.
       "Hell, no. And he put me in a bind, too. I needed at least one more man on the drill rig. We fell behind schedule. And this damned rain doesn't help." He spat and then frowned up at the clouds.
       "I understand he has some pay coming."
       "I don't know nothing about that. You'd have to ask up at the main office. Of course, I doubt they'll tell you anything." Slim pointed and yelled, "Benny! Get your ass over to the rig! I see you slacking off one more time and you're out!"
       "Thanks for the help, Slim," I said.
       He shook my hand but didn't release it right away. "You know anything about drilling?"
       I nodded. "Yep, enough to stay away from it."
       He released me, laughed and headed for the rig. Men scattered before him.
       As Slim had predicted, the people in the main office offered no help. In fact, they accused me of being a spy from Gulf Oil and threatened to have me removed from the property. I left under my own power.
       Catching a ride with a carload of workers, I made it back to town quickly. There was only one lead left to follow: Clyde Starks. But first, I needed something to eat.
       I found a cafe and ordered a steak. While waiting on the food, I considered the situation. The only thing I knew so far was that Billy hadn't made it in to work two weeks ago. Maybe Clyde could tell me if he had even arrived in Orange.
       There were probably others who could help -- who knew about his life away from home. A lot of the men kept girls here, girls their wives knew nothing about. In fact, some of the young ladies waited for several men to return to the oilfields and share their wages. Maybe one of those girls waited for Billy. For that matter, maybe one had run off with him.
       That was wishful thinking on my part.
       The town had grown a lot since I'd been a roughneck, but the workers' places were still obvious. They were cheap hotels and boarding houses with entrances marked by black mud and broken whiskey bottles. As soon as I got a little food in my belly, I'd start searching. I'd eventually have to run across the places Clyde and Billy frequented. There just weren't that many choices.
       The steak was dry and tough. Still, washed down with milk, it hit the spot. I left a generous tip for the overworked waitress and walked across the street to Maggie's. The boarding house had been my favorite place to stay when I was working the oilfields.
       Maggie, a lovely Irish woman who took care of her boarders by filling them with heavy, rich food, had sold out years ago. The place had fallen a notch or two with her departure.
       "I don't know no one by that name," the girl behind the counter said. She couldn't have been more than fifteen. "You want a room? If you're nice, I'll let you share mine." She crossed one foot behind the other and leaned forward on the desk, revealing more than she should with her low-cut dress. She was well-developed for fifteen.
       I cleared my throat. "Um, no. Thanks."
       The girl shrugged and turned her attention to a book that lay open on the counter. "Too bad," she mumbled.
       I left.
       Two dozen places later I was ready to give up. People were less friendly than they used to be and, therefore, less likely to know anyone's name, or at least to admit it. I stepped out onto the porch of Mrs. Monte's and leaned against a pillar, trying to decide which way to go. I was already beyond the limits of the areas I knew.
       "Hey, ain't you Dassas Cormier?"
       I looked over my shoulder at the source of the voice. A man approached, limping badly, and stopped beside me. He pulled a bag from his pocket and offered me a smoke. I waved off the offer.
       There was something familiar about the man. His face, though whiskered and worn, was younger than I'd first thought. In fact, he couldn't be much my elder, even though he stood hunched over.
       "I know you," I said.
       "Yep. It's been a few years since we both worked for Sun."
       "Daryl? Is it really you?" I had a hard time believing the man before me was the same man I'd started out working beside. He'd been a powerful, muscular youth then.
       "Yep." He gave me a nearly toothless grin; then he frowned. "I know. You didn't recognize me."
       I didn't want to be rude, but curiosity took over. "What happened?"
       "Oh, it's a sad story, I guess. Not long after you left, a drill string took off half my foot. While I was in the hospital, I got a taste for morphine that I just couldn't shake. Then I got out and had a few other problems." He made a motion of drinking and raised one eyebrow.
       "I'm sorry to hear it," I said.
       "Yeah, well, that's the way it is sometimes. I'm working for some of the boarding houses now, painting and fixing things. It ain't so bad."
       I was suddenly anxious to get away from my former friend. He was a walking reminder of how life could go horribly wrong in the blink of an eye.
       "It's been good to see you, Daryl. I..."
       "I heard you asking about Clyde Starks," he said.
       "Yes. Do you know him?"
       He nodded. "I've run into him once or twice. Lost a couple of teeth the last time."
       "Do you know where I can find him?"
       "I think he has a regular room at the Milford."
       I smiled. I was staying next door to the Milford. "Thanks, Daryl."
       "You take care, Dassas. Don't turn your back on that mule's hind end."
       I shook the man's hand and started back across town at a brisk walk. There seemed to be a break in the clouds, but I had no faith in it lasting.
       The desk clerk at the Milford was not too cooperative until I slipped him a few coins.
       "Two-twelve," he said.
       I nodded and took the stairs two at a time. Room two-twelve was halfway down the hall. I knocked, waited and then pounded. There was no reply. Cursing my bad luck, I decided to hunt down a little dinner before returning.
       The speakeasy next door to the Milford was almost too obvious. It was probably raided periodically, but it was worth the risk for a quick drink. Besides, I figured the chances were good that Clyde frequented the place when he was around.
       I held up a silver dollar when the window slid open. The window closed and the door opened right away. The giant defending it pulled the coin from my fingers as I walked past.
       The place was full for a weeknight. Of course, in an oil town days don't mean as much -- there's always a party somewhere.
       "Hey, big daddy," someone whispered in my ear as she slipped her arm around me. "Want to buy a girl a little giggle water?"
       "Maybe even more," I whispered back.
       "Oooh, sounds like fun."
       "What's your name?"
       "Sally. What's yours?"
       "Dassas."
       I motioned for two drinks and pulled Sally close to my barstool. She grabbed the inside of my thigh.
       "Sally, I'm looking for a friend."
       "Oh? I'll be your friend."
       I smiled at the woman, whose bobbed hair was the color of bleached cotton.
       "I'm looking for Clyde Starks."
       Sally stiffened and tried to pull away from me. I wrapped my arm around her waist.
       "Whoa, Sal. What's wrong?"
       "I don't drink with friends of Clyde's."
       "No? Why not?"
       "Let's just say I like my face the way it is," she hissed.
       "Okay, let me guess. Clyde beat up a friend?"
       "'Shredded' is more like it."
       The more I heard about Clyde, the less anxious I was to meet him.
       I pulled the woman closer in order to talk in her ear. "Look, Sally, I don't actually know Clyde. I'm looking for someone he knows."
       "Yeah? Who?"
       "Billy White."
       She relaxed a bit and shrugged. "Don't know him."
       "What about Clyde?"
       "He doesn't come in here anymore. Not since last week when he started a fight. I don't know where he goes for juice."
       "Is he still in the Milford?"
       "Probably. I've seen him around."
       The drinks arrived, and I handed one to Sally. Her hand returned to my thigh as she took the glass.
       "I'm glad you're not a friend of Clyde's," she said. "I think you're kind of cute."
       "Hmm. You're not so bad yourself. A modern woman, I'd guess."
       "Definitely so. You dance, Dassas?"
       I downed the whiskey and then shrugged. "After a few of these, I'll do just about anything." I didn't see the harm in enjoying a dance or two. Sally had the right moves, and she'd been helpful.
       At midnight, I heard footsteps on the stairs and ducked back into the shadows. A huge man with a handlebar moustache and arms the size of tree trunks stumbled to the door of room two-twelve. He fumbled with the key then staggered in and slammed the door behind him.
       I waited a moment or two before walking to the door and knocking.
       There was no answer.
       "Clyde. Clyde Starks. I need to talk to you."
       Still no answer. I decided that he might have passed out. Taking a deep breath, I tried the doorknob. It turned. I pushed the door open slowly, surprised by the darkness.
       "Clyde?"
       There was a moment of unbalance as I was pulled into the room and thrown against the wall.
       "Who the hell are you?" he growled.
       His arm across my throat made it difficult to breathe, much less answer. "I'm ... looking ... for -- "
       The fist that hit my stomach went clear through to my spine. I doubled over. The next blow came to the back of my head. It wasn't just a fist.
       I fell to my hands and knees, gasping for air. I think he must have kicked my side, because I flipped over and hit the wall.
       It was about then that the world vanished.
       When I came to, it took a while to remember what had happened, and then to figure out where I was. I decided I was in the upstairs hall of the Milford. My head must have been bleeding at one time, because the front of my shirt was covered with blood.
       I was fairly sure it wasn't Clyde's blood.
       Everything hurt as I held the wall and struggled to my feet. It wasn't the time to confront Clyde again, so I worked my way down the back stairs and outside. It was raining.
       No one even gave me a second look as I held the brick wall and staggered to the edge of the building. I only had to cross the alley and I'd make it the rest of the way, but I hesitated to release the wall. My legs felt like noodles. I was just about to take the plunge when I heard a familiar voice.
       "Dassas! Oh, my God, what happened?"
       I winced when Sally started to put her arm around me.
       "Come on, honey," she said, ducking under my arm. "Let me help you."
       Even with Sally's help, it took a while to get back to my room. I tried, unsuccessfully, not to groan when we sat on the edge of the bed. Sally brushed my hair aside to look at the back of my head.
       "Oh, baby, this looks bad. What did he hit you with?"
       "I don't know," I said.
       I worked on the buttons of my shirt while Sally filled the washbasin and dunked a towel. She cleaned the blood from my neck and shoulders, and was horrified when I coughed up more.
       "Dassas, I should get a doctor."
       I shook my head. "I'll be okay," I said, hoping like hell it was true.
       Sally wiped the front of my chest. "Nice muscles," she said.
       I cringed.
       "I guess this isn't a good time."
       "Not really," I said.
       Sally helped me into bed and kissed my cheek. "You're a nice man, Dassas. You better stay away from Clyde."
       "Thanks, Sal," I said.
       She winked at me before turning off my light and leaving.
       Some time later, I woke to the squeak of the door to my room slowly opening. Heavy steps crossed the room. All I could see was his outline.
       I'd have given ten dollars to have my pistol in my hand.
--------
         *Chapter Five*
       "Who are you collecting for?" my attacker growled.
       His breath was foul and pain shot through my chest where he leaned on my bruised ribs. I couldn't see him draw back, but I felt the air just in front of his fist. My head snapped sideways.
       "Goddam it," I yelled, "quit hitting me!"
       "Who are you collecting for?" he yelled back.
       "No one! I'm not collecting anything!"
       "Oh, yeah? Then, what the hell do you want?"
       I struggled under his weight. "If you'll get off of me, I'll tell you."
       "You try anything, I'll blow a hole in you the size of Texas. You got that?"
       "Yeah."
       Slowly, he rose. I rubbed my jaw and pushed myself up in bed. The overhead bulb suddenly glared.
       Clyde Starks pointed a Colt at me, but he lowered it when he got a good look. I made sure he could see that both of my hands were empty.
       "Who the hell are you?" he asked.
       "I'm Dassas Cormier."
       "Never heard of you."
       "I'm looking for Billy White."
       Clyde raised the barrel of the Colt back to my chest. "What for?"
       "He's missing," I said. "His wife wants to know if he's coming home or not."
       He snorted. "Yeah, I bet she does."
       I frowned, wondering what that meant. "Have you seen him in the past two weeks?"
       Clyde dropped the weapon to his side. "Naw. And the little bastard owes me three dollars."
       "Could he have made it to town without you knowing about it?"
       "Nope."
       "Do you have any idea where he is?"
       "No." He turned toward the door but stopped and turned back. "You might try Melissa."
       "Melissa who?"
       "Just Melissa. She's in the house two blocks down Main on the right. And if you find him, you tell him I'm looking for him, too."
       I nodded.
       Clyde walked out, leaving the light on. I cringed at the pain as I rolled out of bed, crossed the room, hit the switch and tiptoed back. Even though my heart still raced, I was unconscious in a few short minutes.
       In my dreams, someone stroked my forehead. Her hand was warm and comforting. As the fuzziness faded, I realized it wasn't a dream. I opened one eye.
       "Good morning," Sally said.
       I groaned and struggled to sit up. She helped me.
       "I thought I'd make sure you were still alive."
       I ran a hand through my hair. "I think I am."
       "Oh, baby, what happened to your jaw?"
       I touched the new bruise and cringed. "Clyde must have followed me back here. He stopped in after you left."
       "I don't think he likes you much," she said.
       I laughed, and then regretted it as pain shot through my chest. "No," I said through clenched teeth. "I think you're right."
       "What are you going to do?"
       "I got the information I wanted," I said. "There's someone else I need to talk to."
       "Is he going to beat on you, too?"
       "God, I hope not." I turned and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
       "How much longer you going to be here, sugar?"
       I smiled at Sally. "I'm taking the boat out tomorrow."
       "Well, maybe I'll see you later, then."
       "Maybe."
       "You need some help getting dressed?"
       "No."
       Sally patted my arm and then started to rise. I grabbed her hand and squeezed.
       "Thanks, Sal."
       She gently kissed my cheek. "Anytime, sugar."
       After Sally left, I took a clean shirt from the closet and eased into it. My jacket was soiled, but the sun was out so I opted for leaving it behind. I figured I'd fit in better with my sleeves rolled up anyway.
       People were out on the streets, enjoying the sunshine. I tipped my hat to several pairs of young women who studied me and then put their heads together to giggle.
       Walking was more than just a little painful, but some of the stiffness was gone by the time I made it down the two blocks. I wasn't sure which of the two frame houses Clyde was talking about, so I chose the closest. An older woman answered the door.
       "Good day," I said, smiling, "I'm looking for Melissa."
       The woman scowled at me. "Try the whorehouse next door," she said. Then she slammed the door in my face.
       It was probably a mistake she was tired of. I walked to the next house and knocked.
       The second reception was much friendlier. A scantily clad redhead led me into the parlor then sat close and rubbed my arm.
       "Are you sure it's Melissa you want? I'm much better than she is."
       I nodded. "I have no doubt. But I need to talk to Melissa."
       "Talk, huh? It'll cost you the same if you talk or not. Shirley's pretty strict about that."
       "I understand."
       The redhead rose slowly, tracing the neckline of her chemise with one long fingernail. "I'll just go check on Mel, then. See if I can't hurry her along." The woman winked and then left.
       I was a little surprised that Melissa had company so early in the morning. A clock chimed nine times as I sat and counted. After a while, the redhead and a blond woman appeared, each on one arm of a tiny, elderly man. He grinned from behind an oversized nose and reached up to kiss each girl on the cheek. They fussed over him and led him to the door then returned to the sitting room.
       Melissa took my hand with her eyebrows raised.
       "My! You were right, Irene. This one is a treat."
       I grinned. One thing I'd learned in New Orleans was that these ladies knew how to flatter a man. I didn't take it seriously.
       "Miss..."
       "Melissa," she said. "Just Melissa."
       "Melissa, I want to ask you a few questions."
       "Questions? It that all you want?" She looped her arm through mine and led me down a dark hallway. Snores from the rooms on each side indicated that the other inhabitants slept.
       "Right this way," she said, pushing open the last door.
       I paid her first then insisted that she sit on the bed while I stood at the window. It was easier not to be tempted that way.
       "I'm looking for Billy White."
       She took a cigarette from the nightstand, lit it and crossed her shapely legs.
       "What do you want with Billy?"
       "I just want to know where he is, and if he plans to return home. He's got a wife."
       She took a long drag from the cigarette and nodded. "I know. They all do." Then she sighed. "I don't know where he is. He was supposed to be here two weeks ago, but he didn't show. I wasn't real surprised, at first."
       "Why not?"
       "Billy's a big talker, you know? He's always promising me stuff that he can't deliver. This time, it was a necklace. He said he was getting paid and he'd bring me a necklace with a diamond. Of course, I'm not holding my breath."
       "Did he say where he was getting the money?"
       Melissa shook her head. "I just figured he was lying anyway. I didn't pay much attention."
       "Do you know if he was ... seeing anyone else?"
       She grinned. "I don't think so. I doubt he had that much energy, if you know what I mean."
       I added a dollar to the money I'd already placed on the dresser. "Thanks," I said as I started for the door.
       "You sure you don't want anything more?"
       I looked back. Melissa leaned back on her elbows and had one bare foot up on the bed. I could see why she was so busy. I smiled and left.
       The day dragged on. I didn't want to lie around for fear of getting stiff again, but it hurt to move too fast. I opted for sitting on a bench and watching people pass for an hour or two then worked on a bowl of fish stew. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I got a whiff of the food.
       After eating lunch, I walked down to the docks. I wasn't sure if it was because I grew up in the marsh or what, but I always found it easier to sort things out to the sound of water lapping on pilings. I sat on the edge of an empty pier and closed my eyes to the sun.
       I was fairly certain now that Billy hadn't made it to Orange. That left two possibilities: either he'd run off somewhere or something had happened to him on the way. If I intended to thoroughly check it out, I'd have to ride the trail he would have taken. The idea of a long ride on horseback wasn't appealing. In fact, it sounded downright impossible considering my condition.
       Maybe I'd start on the Marshall's Bayou end. I'd have to talk to Grace first and find out what horse he rode. If the horse turned up along the way, I'd have a lead on Billy.
       No matter what had happened, chances were good that Billy wasn't coming home. Not after more than two weeks. That led me to the next question: what should I do about Grace?
       I still found it hard to believe she was attracted to me. But if it was true, was it right for me to make love to her?
       The answer, of course, was no. I was raised in a good Christian family. Marriage was the prelude to any physical contact between a man and woman. Well, with some exceptions. But those exceptions didn't involve honorable women.
       Grace was an honorable woman.
       My brain found ways to argue. It was, after all, 1924. The world had changed since my parents were born. People were free to follow their desires more than they'd ever been before. A man didn't have to marry a woman just because he saw her bare knees. He didn't even have to worry about her ending up with child when he gave into temptation.
       Yes, the world was a modern place.
       I opened my eyes and stared out at the shimmering water.
       The rest of the world might be modern, but Marshall's Bayou sure as hell wasn't. If I took Grace to bed and anyone found out, she'd be ostracized. How could I even consider it?
       I muttered a string of curses as I rolled over and worked my way to my feet.
       I met up with Sally shortly after dinner. We dropped into the Back Door, the speakeasy I'd found the night before, and had a few drinks and a few dozen dances. Sally was a good partner; she knew all the latest steps. The exercise was almost as good for me as the juice. By the time we got up to my room I wasn't feeling any pain.
       The woman knew how to kiss.
       She helped me out of my shirt and undershirt as I removed her dress and eased her back onto my bed. Her mouth was warm and her fingers felt great on my skin. I trailed kisses down to her neck and then dropped my head to her shoulder as she pulled me tightly to her and wrapped her legs around my hips. It was all such a haze -- her warm, inviting body and my drunken desire. I reached between us to loosen my pants when she was suddenly still.
       "My name is Sally," she said.
       "What?" I raised my head and looked at her.
       She frowned up at me. "I said, my name is Sally."
       "I know that."
       "Then why are you calling me Grace?"
       I cringed. "Oh, Christ, I'm sorry." With a sigh, I rolled over and lay beside her, my arm over my eyes.
       All my life, it had been Grace I'd been with to some extent. Now she was just too close, too real. I suddenly realized I couldn't even pretend.
       "I'm really sorry, Sal," I whispered.
       Sally traced circles on my bare chest. I lifted my arm and found her beside me, her head propped on her hand.
       "Is Grace your wife?"
       "No."
       "Are you in love with her?"
       I sighed again. "I don't know. Maybe."
       "What's she like?"
       "Sally, I'm trying not to think about her."
       "You're not doing a very good job," she said.
       I laughed, and then we both laughed. I wrapped my arm around her, and she put her head on my shoulder, carefully avoiding my ribs as she cuddled close. It had been ages since I'd held a woman like that. She felt good.
       "Isn't someone waiting for you somewhere?" I asked.
       "No. I have a room at the Mayfield."
       "Are you from here?"
       "No. I grew up in Kansas. I'm a bookkeeper at the lumberyard."
       "You really are a modern woman."
       She nodded against my shoulder. "Most of the time."
       I smiled and held her tighter. At some point, we fell asleep.
       At the dock the next morning, Sally hugged my neck and kissed my cheek. "Thanks for being such a gentleman, Dassas."
       "Is that what I was?" I asked.
       She smiled. "Yes, and you know it. Next time you're here, look me up."
       "I'll do that," I said. I kissed her before releasing her then picked up my bags and hopped on the boat. Captain Teller nodded from his station at the wheel.
       I watched Sally wave from the dock and then grow smaller and smaller until she disappeared. Why couldn't I have a soft spot for a girl like her? No problems, no complications. It would be nice.
       But I didn't. I ached for Grace. Not only for her body but even for just a glimpse of her face. I wanted to hear her soft voice. I wanted to smell her clean, fragrant skin. Damn. I was in bad shape.
       The boat ride was long. We picked up other passengers, but they had all departed again before we started down the bayou. I sat at the bow of the boat, eating the last of Becky's bread and watching egrets take flight as we approached. By the time we pulled up to the dock at Marshall's Bayou, my insides vibrated with the hum of the boat's engine.
       The quiet of the marsh was overwhelming as I started down the trail. I took a detour to Grace's, leaving my bags in the grass beside the main path. I rolled the food bag up tight so the ants wouldn't get into it before I returned. Then, straightening and practicing a smile, I continued. I didn't want Grace to know about my injuries. Fortunately, the bruise on my jaw was almost invisible.
       I stopped at the end of the path. Grace stood at the clothesline, removing sheets. The late-day breeze wrapped her skirt around her legs and loosened her hair. I watched for a few moments.
       "Want some help?" I asked.
       She spun around, holding her chest. "Dassas!"
       "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." I pulled a clothespin from the far end of the last sheet and then held the corners together.
       "Did you come in by boat?" she asked.
       "Yes. I thought I'd stop and talk to you before I go home."
       We moved closer and closer as she folded until we stood less than two feet apart. Grace didn't look up at me. I smiled at my desire to lean down and steal a kiss. I wondered if she'd slap me again or return it. It was tempting. If it hadn't been for the pain leaning over would cause, I might have tried.
       "Come on in," she said. "I'll put this away."
       I followed her into the house, stopping in the living room to wait for her return. I wasn't sure how much to tell her about what I'd found out in Texas.
       "Do you want some coffee?" she asked from the kitchen.
       "No, thanks, I can't stay that long."
       Grace walked into the living room and sat on the sofa. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at me. I was surprised that she simply waited for me to speak.
       I took a deep breath and sat in the chair I'd occupied during my first visit.
       "I don't have much in the way of news," I said. "Grace, I don't think Billy made it to Orange."
       I watched her frown at her hands a moment and then look up at me again.
       I continued. "I was thinking about riding the road he would have taken and looking for signs. What horse was he on?"
       "He left on a bay gelding. The horse has a white star and a stocking on his left hind leg." Her voice was steady and amazingly calm. "How do you know he didn't arrive?" she asked.
       "Well, he didn't go to work, and he wasn't at the hotel where he usually stays."
       This was my chance. I could tell Grace about Melissa. She'd probably be so angry that she'd send Billy away if he ever did show up. It would have been easy, and I would have been guaranteed the woman I wanted.
       But it would have hurt her.
       "I talked to a coworker, Clyde Starks. Clyde hadn't seen him. I also checked around town." I shifted in the chair to relieve the stress on my side. "Grace, did he say anything unusual before he left? Any hint that he might not be headed to the oil field?"
       "He did get excited about something the day before he left."
       "What?"
       She shook her head. "I don't know, he didn't tell me. But he said that I better be extra nice to him or I'd be sorry."
       "What did he mean by that?"
       "I don't know. He said a lot of things when he was drinking. I didn't really listen."
       "Was he drinking?"
       "He was always drinking."
       I sighed. "Well, if you think of anything else, let me know. It'll be a few days before I can make the trip."
       Grace nodded and smiled sadly at me. "Thank you for looking, Dassas."
       I shrugged and rose. "I'm not done yet."
       She also rose. It was obvious that neither of us was going to step toward the other. The memory of the taste of her kiss burned in my brain, making my heart race all over again.
       "I'll see you later," I said. Turning, I left without looking back. My hands shook.
       When I arrived at my brother's house, I was greeted by a hug from Becky. Frank and Alcide were working in the barn, getting the tack ready for the cattle drive. I picked up Fred and winced when his chubby little knee hit the wrong spot.
       Becky must have seen my reaction. She took Fred from me and put him on the floor. "What's wrong?" she asked.
       "Nothing. What makes you think something's wrong?"
       She put her fists on her hips and glared at me. "Dassas..."
       I picked up my bags and carried them to my room. When I returned, she was waiting in the kitchen.
       "Come on, quit worrying," I said.
       "Sit." She pointed to a chair.
       When I hesitated, she narrowed her eyes in warning.
       "All right. But it's not as bad as it looks."
       I sat, lifted my shirttail out and unbuttoned my shirt. Becky pulled a chair up next to mine. I raised my undershirt.
       "Dass, this looks bad."
       I winced when she gently touched the black-and-green bruise left by Clyde's boot.
       "The ribs might be broken."
       "I don't think so," I said, hoping I was right.
       "Don't move." She jumped up and disappeared. In a moment, she returned with liniment and strips of old bed sheets. "Take off your shirt."
       "Only if you promise not to peek," I said.
       She ignored my attempt at levity and started spreading the liniment on my skin. I jumped at the first touch.
       "Sore?" she asked.
       "Cold," I said. "And sore."
       "Don't be a baby, Dass."
       I leaned forward and Becky reached around me to wrap the bandage.
       The back door clanged and the floor shook as Alcide walked into the kitchen, carrying his youngest child.
       "Glad to see you're back," he said to me. Then he frowned. "What's going on here?"
       "Your brother managed to get himself hurt," Becky said.
       "What happened?" Alcide stood behind his wife and studied me.
       "It's nothing," I said. "Just a little tussle."
       Becky tied the bandage and looked up at me. "What else?"
       "Nothing."
       She narrowed her eyes again. I swear, she could get the truth out of a riverboat gambler.
       "Well, there's this little cut on the back of my head. But it's nothing, really."
       She parted my hair and looked, then huffed as she walked off, presumably returning to her medicine cabinet.
       Alcide grinned at me. "You find Billy?"
       "No, but I found Clyde," I said.
       "I could have guessed that. I told you to be careful."
       "That you did."
       Becky wrapped a towel around my shoulders. "Lean your head forward," she said.
       She washed the wound with warm water.
       "This isn't necessary, you know," I said.
       "You might as well relax, Dass," Alcide said. "You're not getting out of it."
       The smell of the whiskey hit me the same time as the sting did, knocking the wind out of me. "Son of a -- "
       "Hold still," she said. "I have to make sure it's clean."
       After a few seconds, the sting waned, and I was able to breathe again. "You've got one hell of a mean streak in you, woman. And you're wasting good whiskey."
       She continued to work. "Be quiet, or I'll get my leeches."
       I laughed then cringed as she dabbed at the wound with more medicine of some kind. Finally, she released me from the torture.
       "Anything else?" she asked.
       "No." I raised my right hand. "I swear."
       "All right. Go get cleaned up, all of you. It's nearly time for supper."
       I followed Alcide, and Frank followed me.
       "Uncle Dassas, did you go to any speakeasies in Orange?" he asked.
       "Frank!" his mother called. "That's enough of that!"
       I turned around and winked at the boy. He grinned.
       After supper, I sat on the porch with Alcide and Frank. Alcide smoked one of Papa's old pipes. The burning tobacco smelled good and reminded me of days gone by.
       "What's your next move?" he asked.
       "I was thinking of riding the road, at least up to Cameron. Farther, if necessary. Billy's not here, so he must have gone somewhere."
       "You showed up just in time, Uncle Dassas," Frank said. "Two mysteries at once."
       "Yeah," I said. "And nothing ever happens in Marshall's Bayou."
       That's when it hit me. Nothing ever did happen in the marsh. Until now. It was too much of a coincidence. What if Red's death and Billy's disappearance were connected somehow? The thing I couldn't get, though, was any hint of what that connection might be.
       "What was it like, being a policeman in New Orleans?" Frank asked.
       I sighed and pushed the rocking chair back.
       "I liked helping with investigations," I said. "It was interesting trying to figure out what had happened after it was all over. And it was nice getting to know people on my beat. But the walking part," I said, shaking my head, "that got old fast."
       "Did you carry a gun?" the boy asked.
       "Yeah." I waited, hoping the next question wouldn't come.
       "Did you ever shoot anyone?"
       Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alcide touch his son's shoulder, a silent command. Frank looked up at his father.
       "Yeah," I said. "I did."
       The familiar pain started in my chest. It was a lot worse than bruised ribs.
       I stood in front of the door, holding my breath, waiting. Any moment now, he'd run out. Any moment. Wait, I told myself. Just wait.
       He ran through the dark doorway, headed right for me.
       Something in his hand glistened. A gun. He pointed a gun at me and ran.
       I pulled the trigger.
       Pop.
       One shot. The man dropped in his tracks and rolled on the ground. The smell of gunpowder burned my nostrils.
       It wasn't the robber. I shook my head and stared. It wasn't him!
       I fell to my knees beside her. It was Grace. She looked up at me, her mouth open, her eyes wide with accusation. I looked down at the horrible noise. Blood bubbled up from the hole in her chest. The sucking sound made me sick.
       I covered the hole with my hand and pulled her into my lap. "No! Don't die. Grace, don't die!"
       I'd shot her. Her mouth opened and closed without sound. Blood flowed out onto my legs and then the bricks. Grace's blood. It spilled into a pool around us. She was dying in my arms.
       "No! Grace! You can't die. I won't let you!"
       But she was dying, and I couldn't stop her.
       "No!" I screamed.
       I sat up in the dark, shaking, covered with sweat.
       "Dassas?" Becky whispered from the door. "Are you all right?"
       I turned and sat on the edge of the bed, dropped my face to my hands and closed my eyes.
       "Yeah," I said.
       "Dass?"
       When I looked up, Becky stood in front of me. She lit the lamp by my bed then sat beside me. She put her arms around me and I leaned over until my head was on her slight shoulder.
       I couldn't stop shaking for a while. The dream was so real. That was probably because it was more a memory than a dream. Of course, it wasn't Grace I'd shot in New Orleans. But it could have been. It had been just an innocent young woman.
       Now she was dead because of me.
       Becky raked her fingers through my hair until I was finally still. Then she moved so I could lie down again, and she sat beside me. Her face was kind and full of concern.
       I smiled at her. "Thanks."
       She smiled back, brushed my hair from my face and kissed my forehead. After blowing out the lamp, she tiptoed from my room. The door squeaked as it closed.
       I was grateful for Becky's comforting arms, and for her lack of questions. I prayed that I wouldn't dream again.
--------
         *Chapter Six*
       I think the dream was still on my mind the next morning when I went out to help Alcide and Frank carry hay from the barn. The result was that nothing seemed to go right. I lifted a bale and nearly fell over from the pain.
       "Son of a bitch," I seethed as I stumbled to the wall, holding my ribs.
       "Dass," Alcide said, "are you all right?"
       "Dammit." I kicked the wall. The old boards shuddered.
       "Frank, go to the house and ask your mother for the new bottle of saddle soap," Alcide said. "It's in the closet on the back porch."
       "Yes, sir."
       I turned and sat on top of a bag of oats, rocking to ease the pain.
       "Maybe I should send for the doctor," Alcide said.
       I shook my head. "It's not that bad. Really."
       "Then what's wrong?"
       "I'm just tired of feeling so damned worthless. I can't get anything right. God dammit, Al, I'm a failure." I dropped my head to my hands and stared at the ground.
       "How can you say that?" His voice was calm.
       I looked up. "It's true," I said. "How can it not be?"
       Alcide sat across from me, picked up a piece of hay and stuck it between his teeth. He sighed. "I don't know, Dass. I don't see it that way."
       "What the hell do you know? You've got this perfect life, with a beautiful wife, wonderful kids. You've got medals to prove you're worth something. I've got nothing, Al."
       "What is it you want?"
       "Hell, I don't know. I want something."
       When he didn't respond, I sighed and sat up. I knew I was feeling sorry for myself; I just couldn't seem to stop.
       "Then I imagine you'll get it," he said.
       I frowned at him.
       "You always were the most stubborn of us, the most persistent," he said. "Probably because you were the youngest."
       "What does that have to do with anything?" The frustration swelled into anger. If Alcide didn't stop looking so smug, I was ready to slug him.
       "Do you remember the first time you climbed the big oak tree behind the house?"
       "No."
       "I do," he said. "I watched you jump up, trying to get that bottom limb. You missed it by at least a foot. I started to go out to give you a boost, but Louie grabbed my arm. He said you needed to do it yourself.
       "So, the two of us stood there and watched. You jumped and jumped until your face was red. Then you looked around, ran off and came back with Mama's milk bucket. You turned it upside down and stood on it to reach the limb. In two minutes, you were halfway up the tree."
       "Mama whipped me for getting her bucket dirty," I said.
       "Yeah, but you got up that tree. Dass, you've always had to do things your own way, and you've always managed to get them done. Whatever it is you need to do, I have faith that you'll find a way."
       I shook my head and smiled. "Damn, Alcide, when did you get so wise?"
       He stood and tossed the straw aside. "I've always been wise, little brother. You've just never noticed."
       When he wrapped his arm around my shoulders, the last bit of frustration and anger dissipated.
       "Now," he said, "I want you in good shape to help move the cattle. I suggest you go find something to do that won't cause you more damage for a few days."
       I nodded. "I do have a few things to take care of."
       "Good."
       I entertained Fred and Chloe while Becky salted jerky and baked cookies. She was determined to make sure we had plenty to chew on while we moved the cattle.
       "Uncle Dasso," Chloe said.
       I grinned at my new name. "Yes?"
       She handed me a tiny teacup and pretended to fill it from an equally tiny teapot. Fred put his cup on his head.
       "Do you have children?" Chloe asked.
       "No, I don't."
       "Why?"
       "Well, I guess it's because I've never had a pumpkin patch."
       She frowned, sticking her bottom lip way out.
       "Didn't you know that's where children come from?" I asked.
       "No," she said.
       "Well, it is. When your mama and daddy wanted you, they planted pumpkins. God hides a baby under a perfect pumpkin."
       I watched the wheels of her mind turning as she rearranged her make-believe kitchen. Fred giggled when the cup slid off his head and hit his nose.
       "All right," Becky said, "babysitting duty is over."
       "Aw, Mom," I whined.
       Chloe covered her mouth and laughed into her hands.
       Becky lifted Fred from the floor. "Chloe, pick up the toys and then you can help me change your brother."
       I held my nose, and Chloe laughed again. I chuckled as I watched her try to hold too many dishes. Finally, she gave up and opted for two trips.
       "Thank you," Becky said.
       "No need to thank me. I am, after all, their uncle. Where do you think they inherited all those smarts from?"
       Becky rolled her eyes then smiled at me before carrying Fred from the room.
       "I'm going out for a walk," I called after her.
       "Okay."
       I felt a little like a bum, just messing around while everyone else worked, but I knew Alcide was right. I needed to let my ribs heal so I could ride. I wanted to get onto Billy's trail -- to do something useful. Maybe I'd just borrow Al's buggy and ride west for a ways. Plucking a stalk of grass and stripping it as I walked, I thought again about the coincidence of having something tragic happen to two people at once in Marshall's Bayou.
       It was possible, maybe even likely, that Billy had simply skipped town. I'd never known Billy White very well; but from what I'd heard, I didn't figure him for a man of great moral fiber. It puzzled me that Grace would marry such a person. It just didn't fit.
       If I didn't find out what had happened to Billy, I couldn't go to Grace the way I wanted to. It wasn't fair that I'd have to suffer because her no-account husband hadn't told her he was leaving. If only I could find some kind of sign...
       I looked up, startled to realize I'd walked almost all the way back to Mrs. Richard's. I turned west and trekked to Joshua's still. Maybe there was something I'd missed.
       Twenty yards out I stopped and looked around. I didn't even know exactly where Red was found, just that it was somewhere close, a little off the trail. The rain had changed the sandy landscape while I was in Texas. Narrow channels had formed in the muddy spots and clumps of grasses had been undercut. Pine needles were massed into waves. Any evidence that had once been there was now gone.
       A tiny trickle of smoke was all that rose from the still. I walked to the shack, pushing brush aside to check for snakes. It didn't matter much if I interrupted Joshua; he was aware that I knew about the still.
       "Joshua? Are you here?"
       When there was no answer, I lifted the latch and pulled the door open. I had to duck just to look inside.
       The drum of the still was old and scorched. It had definitely been in operation for a while. The fire below was dying embers, but a glass jug held newly distilled alcohol. The air reeked. There was nothing else in the building but a few empty jars, an old cast iron pot and a pile of kindling.
       Joshua would probably be back soon. I backed out and replaced the latch. The stack of firewood piled against the side of the shack was nearly depleted. There were only a few good-sized logs left.
       From the door, the view was limited by the surrounding brush. Someone could easily hide. Was Red leaning against a tree, watching this place, when he was killed? It was possible.
       It just didn't make much sense.
       I picked up a pinecone and held it in my hand as I started back to the trail. It was another spectacular day -- too cold for mosquitoes and too warm for winter. This was my favorite time of year in the marsh.
       As I stepped over a new channel in the sand, something caught my eye. I stopped, turned around and frowned at the piece of blue flannel.
       It wasn't a torn piece of clothing lying on top of the ground; it was a piece sticking up. When I crouched down and pulled, I found that it was a much bigger piece than I'd thought. I tugged harder and sand fell away. A sick feeling hit the pit of my stomach when I realized something was attached to the cloth.
       Dropping to my knees, I pushed the sand away to reveal the top of a shirt and followed it up to a hard mound that had to be a head. As I dug sand away around the face, the stench rose. Trying not to gag, I breathed through my mouth.
       With my handkerchief, I brushed off the face. It had been a long time since I'd seen Billy White, but my guess was that the blond hair protruding from the sandy grave belonged to him.
       I sat back on my heels and tried to work out the next move. Billy or not, this was a body that shouldn't be here -- probably the body of someone who had met with foul play. It was most likely a crime scene. I needed to contact the law.
       I pushed the sand back over the corpse to protect it and then looked around to mark the spot in my memory. Holding my side, I took off trotting down the trail.
       Marshall's Bayou had been left behind when the century turned ... with a few exceptions. There were two automobiles in the area. The one that actually ran belonged to James Strickler. By the time I got to James's place, I was walking and my ribs throbbed.
       "Good morning to you," a young woman called from the porch. She had beautiful auburn hair, bright green eyes and a slight hint of a brogue. I hadn't yet met her, but Becky had filled me in on the new schoolteacher that James had married.
       "Good morning, Mrs. Strickler." I took a deep breath, trying to regain my wind, and winced at the sharp pain.
       "Are you all right?" Anna Strickler asked, starting down the steps.
       "I'm fine," I said. "My name is Dassas Cormier."
       "Ah, so you're the famous Dassas Cormier. Frank talks about you all the time. It's wonderful to meet you." She shook my hand with a firm grip that belied her petite frame, causing me to smile in spite of my discomfort.
       "I'm afraid my nephew has a fanciful imagination. But it is a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Strickler. I might have paid more attention in school if I'd had you for a teacher."
       Her freckled cheeks reddened as she smiled.
       "You are a charmer, aren't you? What can I do for you, Mr. Cormier?"
       "I'm looking for your husband," I said. "I have a favor to ask of him."
       "He's at Isaac Broussard's, helping rebuild a henhouse. Do you know where that is?"
       "Yes, ma'am." I bowed slightly. "Thank you."
       "Are you walking?" she asked.
       "Yes."
       "May I offer you a ride?"
       "I wouldn't want to impose," I said, trying not to give away my joy. The idea of walking another half-mile wasn't exactly appealing.
       "Oh, it's no bother. Let me get my scarf."
       I started slowly toward the barn, waiting for Anna Strickler to catch up. I assumed we'd have to hitch the horse to the buggy.
       "Mr. Cormier!" she yelled. "It's this way!"
       I turned around and followed her to a building beside the chicken coop where a black Ford waited.
       "You know how to drive?" I asked, unable to hide my disbelief.
       "Yes, don't you?"
       "Well, yes," I said.
       "Good. I imagine you can also push if we happen to get stuck in the mud."
       "Yes, ma'am."
       I liked the new schoolteacher. She had spunk.
       She also liked to drive very fast. My kidneys ached to match my ribs by the time I climbed out of the car at Isaac's. We'd hit a couple of holes hard enough to send my head into the canvas roof.
       "Dassas Cormier!" James Strickler pulled off his gloves and shook my hand. "Isaac told me you were back."
       "Good to see you, James," I said.
       "I see you've met my wife," he said, wrapping his arm around the young woman's waist. "Not many people are smiling after their first ride with the local speed demon."
       I rubbed my lower back. "I can't imagine why."
       "What brings you out here in such a hurry?"
       Isaac walked up and said hello, and the four of us stood together.
       "I have a problem I'm hoping you can help with. I found a body."
       "A body!" Mrs. Strickler responded. "Who is it?"
       "I'm not sure," I said, "but I think it's Billy White."
       "Oh, my. What happened?"
       "I don't know."
       James shook his head. "What do you want me to do?"
       "Well, I was hoping you could drive to Cameron to get the sheriff. I think we have another murder."
       "Another murder?" Isaac said. "Mon Dieu! Two murders in less than a month. Where did you find the body?"
       "Up near Mrs. Richard's," I said.
       All three of them stared in disbelief.
       James said, "You think..."
       I shrugged. "That's why I want the sheriff here. I've got the body covered so it won't be disturbed. Can you drive over to Cameron?"
       "You bet," James answered.
       "I'll go with you," Isaac said. "The rain might have washed out the road."
       "What about me?" Anna Strickler asked.
       James turned her around. "We'll give you a ride home."
       "And, Mrs. Strickler," I said, "please don't mention this to anyone just yet."
       "Yes, I understand," she said.
       Isaac grabbed my arm. "We should be back before dark, unless we run into some big problems. You want a ride down the road?"
       "No," I said. "I'll take the trail. I think I'll wait for you up in the woods ... just to make sure the body isn't disturbed."
       "Good idea."
       I thought about going to Grace's, but decided to wait. I didn't want to break the news until I was certain the corpse was Billy. Also, I wanted to be able to tell her what had happened to him. At that moment, I wasn't sure.
       My stomach growled. I should have stopped by the house to let Becky know what was going on, but I was in too much of a hurry to get back. As soon as I returned, I pushed the sand around to reveal a small piece of flannel shirt again and, using a pine branch, brushed away my tracks. I picked out a sheltered spot off the trail and sat.
       I stayed in that spot for three hours.
       Finally, just as I was about to nod off in the noon warmth, I heard the whoosh of footsteps through the sand.
       Joshua walked slowly up the trail, his hat low on his forehead and a sack over his shoulder. He walked with one hand in his pants pocket and seemed intent on the trail in front of him. I rose up to a crouch and watched. If he hesitated even a little...
       He stepped right over the body without changing his stride in the least and continued along the trail. The piece of flannel remained unnoticed. I sighed with relief; I really hadn't wanted him to know where the body was buried.
       After giving Joshua a while to take care of his still, I stood up and ambled toward the shack. We met halfway between the still and the body.
       Joshua looked up and stopped. For a man who was breaking the law, he was amazingly calm.
       "Joshua," I said.
       He narrowed his eyes at me for a moment and then nodded. "Dassas. What brings you out here?"
       "To tell you the truth," I said, "I found a body."
       "Oh?"
       "Yeah, just up the trail."
       He frowned. "A dead body?"
       I nodded.
       "Someone besides Red?"
       I nodded again.
       "Well, I'll be damned. Who is it?"
       "Billy White, I suspect."
       He nodded slowly.
       "Joshua, I don't suppose you know what happened to him?"
       The man scratched his whiskered cheek as he shook his head. "No, I don't."
       "You understand how this looks?" I wasn't sure it was sinking in. He didn't really seem to be all that interested, in spite of his words. His eyes just looked empty and red.
       "Yeah," he finally said. He eased the sack from his shoulder and lowered it to the ground then reached inside his coat and withdrew a silver flask. He held it out to me.
       "No, thanks," I said.
       Joshua took a long drink and then returned the flask to his pocket.
       "I can't help how it looks," he said. "I don't know what happened to either of them. Things aren't always as they appear."
       "True."
       He hoisted the bag again. Glass clinked.
       "Joshua, the sheriff is on his way. I'd suggest you not come back here for a day or two."
       He nodded. "No problem. I'm out of mash anyway." He started down the path but stopped a few feet from me and turned back. "Thanks," he said.
       "You're welcome."
       I probably shouldn't have, but after Joshua left, I erased his trail. I just knew he wasn't involved, no matter how bad it looked. Then I decided to go back to the house for some food. Under the best of circumstances, it would be several more hours before the sheriff arrived.
       Less than an hour before dark, I caught up with the group at the main trail and introduced myself to Sheriff Coucher, a tall, older man. Dr. Miller and two deputies accompanied him, as did Isaac and James. I led them to the body.
       "You haven't moved it?" the sheriff asked.
       "No," I said, "I dug up enough to realize it was a body. Then I covered it again."
       "Any idea how long he's been here?"
       "If it's Billy White, he's been missing for about three weeks."
       "Really?" Isaac asked. "I didn't know that."
       "He was supposed to be at work." I turned to the sheriff. "In Orange," I explained. "He never showed up."
       "Well, son, you did the right thing. Boys, dig all the way around him carefully. I don't want to destroy any evidence."
       As soon as the face was uncovered, Isaac crouched beside it. "Yep, it's Billy," he said.
       The sun dropped just as Billy was completely uncovered, giving his sand-encrusted body a downright ghostly appearance. No one said much as we lifted him onto a sheet and started forward. We used lanterns to see the trail back.
       "We need some place to let Dr. Miller look at him," Sheriff Coucher said.
       "We can take him to my place," Isaac said.
       James spoke up from the back. "No, you have children. Take him to mine."
       Isaac nodded. "Good idea."
       We carried Billy to James's and stretched him out on a workbench in the barn. With a half-dozen lamps, it was at least possible to see. Sheriff Coucher and I helped the doctor; everyone else moved back to the door. We cut off Billy's clothes and brushed away as much of the sand as possible.
       I'd been around quite a few bodies in New Orleans and had even helped out with an autopsy once, but the bodies had never been three weeks old. The stench was almost too much to bear. Fortunately, I hadn't eaten much, so my stomach stayed more or less settled. I noticed that James and one of the deputies stepped out for a moment after Dr. Miller started poking around in the wounds.
       "He was stabbed six ... no, seven times in the chest and abdomen," the doctor said. "Strange thing, though. I don't see any defensive wounds."
       "What does that mean?" the sheriff asked.
       "It means that he was probably unconscious when he was stabbed." The doctor frowned as he felt around Billy's shoulders and neck; then he looked up at me. "Help me turn him."
       Taking a deep breath first, I helped roll Billy onto his side. His decaying flesh ripped under my fingers, nearly sending me out to join James.
       "Careful," Dr. Miller said.
       "Sorry."
       "I need the lanterns closer," he said.
       I moved all the lanterns to one table.
       "Ah," the doctor said quietly, "that would explain it."
       "What?" the sheriff and I asked at the same time.
       "See here? This man was hit on the back of his head. The blow didn't kill him, but it probably knocked him out."
       "What was he hit with?" I asked.
       The doctor put his face much closer to Billy's scalp than I would have then searched his bag until he found tweezers. He pulled something out of Billy's head.
       "Wood," he said. "He must have been hit with a heavy piece of wood."
       "Wood?"
       "Yes." The doctor placed the evidence in a small pouch and looked around for more. He found two more pieces. "I'll take these back and examine them," he said.
       "Anybody want -- oh."
       We all spun around at Anna Strickler's voice. She stared wide-eyed at the body then covered her mouth and marched out. James and Isaac dashed out after her.
       Rolling the corpse back over, the doctor straightened out Billy's right arm and held his hand near the lamps. "This man worked in the oil fields?"
       "Yes," I answered.
       "I thought so. Most of the oil workers have this tar under their fingernails. Takes days to get rid of it. I'm not sure why it's only on his right hand, though," he muttered.
       Dr. Miller spent another half-hour checking the body before straightening up and closing his bag.
       "I don't see anything else," he said. "I'll sign the death certificate, but I'll need a good estimate of the time of death. Anyone know anything?"
       I stepped back from the body to get a little more air. "He left home three weeks ago Friday. I don't know anyone who saw him after that."
       Dr. Miller nodded. "That's the date I'll use then. You can go ahead and bury him."
       One of the deputies and I wrapped Billy, blew out most of the lanterns and carried the rest out. We all walked to the house in silence.
       "My wife made coffee," James said.
       The sheriff cleared his throat. "I don't suppose anyone has anything stronger?"
       Isaac held the screen door. "I think I can find something for us."
       Anna pointed me toward the washbasin. It took a good scrubbing before I got most of the smell off my hands. Or maybe it was just stuck in my nostrils. There's certainly nothing more foul.
       We sat around the dining room table. James, his wife and one of the deputies drank only coffee. The rest of us chased our coffee down with a few shots of rum. The burn of the juice going down was somehow cleansing.
       "You've done some police work?" the sheriff asked me.
       "Yes, sir," I said. "I was with the New Orleans police for a little over two years."
       "Did you like it?"
       I looked over at the man, who didn't look at all like Red. This man was tall and slender with a gray moustache and wavy gray hair. But something about his mannerisms reminded my of my lost mentor.
       "It had its ups and downs," I said.
       The sheriff refilled his glass and passed the bottle to me. "That's a good way to put it," he said, raising his drink.
       I raised mine and nodded then downed another swig.
       "So, you took a look around out where the body was found?"
       "Yes, sir, I did."
       "And you didn't find anything?"
       I could feel Isaac's eyes on me and realized he knew about the still. Of course, a large percentage of the men in Marshall's Bayou probably knew about it.
       "No," I said, "nothing. And I'm afraid the rain this week would have washed away any footprints."
       The sheriff nodded. "Well, Dassas, you come on over to Cameron when you get a chance and we'll talk," he said. "I could use a man like you in my office. You've got a level head."
       "Thank you, sir," I said.
       I had no intention of signing up with the Cameron Parish Sheriff's Office, but it was one of those options.
       "Boys," Sheriff Coucher said, "we should start back. I don't see what else we can do here." He looked at Isaac and me. "You'll let us know if something comes up?"
       We both nodded.
       The deputies thanked Anna and James and disappeared outside. I followed the sheriff and doctor out.
       The unfamiliar sound of an engine cranking quieted the night creatures. Shortly after the auto, following its two tiny beams of light, disappeared on the road, the frogs and crickets started singing again.
       Isaac slapped my back. "Why don't you come on over to my place and have another sip or two?"
       "Thanks, but I've got something I need to take care of."
       Isaac nodded. He told his relatives goodbye and started down the trail toward Theriot's. I did the same, following several steps behind him. At the fork, we parted with a quick handshake. Most of the people in Marshall's Bayou respected Isaac in spite of the fact that he hadn't been there long. I sincerely liked him.
       As Isaac turned south, I started north. I was anxious to get back and wash up, and maybe swipe a cookie or two. Then I had one more thing to do before the night was over.
--------
         *Chapter Seven*
       "Are you sure it's Billy?" Grace asked. "Maybe I should..."
       "It's him," I said.
       She stood quietly. I'm not sure what I expected. At least some kind of reaction. Not this.
       "What time did he leave here?" I asked.
       She shrugged. "In the morning, early."
       "You saw him?"
       "No. But I heard him in the kitchen."
       "Doing what?"
       "I don't know. Making coffee, I suppose."
       "Did he usually leave for a week without saying goodbye?"
       When Grace looked down, I realized it wasn't the time for questions. I'd just told her that her husband was dead.
       "James Strickler is taking care of the casket," I said, "and Isaac will talk to Reverend Griffin about the funeral."
       She nodded then looked up. There were no tears.
       When my father died, it had taken a month to finally hit me. For that month, I didn't feel anything -- no sadness, no loss. I was saddling a horse one morning and found his spurs hanging under the blanket. I sat down and cried like a baby until there were no tears left.
       Maybe that's what was going on with Grace. Maybe it hadn't hit her yet.
       "Grace," I said, "you'll be okay. I promise."
       She nodded again. "You want some coffee?" she asked.
       I followed her into the kitchen, leaned on the counter and watched. She moved with the finesse of an artist as she took two cups from the cupboard and placed them on the top of the stove. Then she tapped the side of the coffee pot with the tips of her fingers.
       "Grace..."
       "Dassas, don't worry about me."
       "Grace..."
       "You're wondering why I'm not more upset." She spoke with her back to me. "The truth is, I haven't had much of a marriage. Billy could be charming when he wanted to be. After our wedding day, he didn't seem to want to be charming anymore. We haven't ... haven't shared a bed in over two years."
       The pain in her voice, though she tried to keep it well hidden, tore at my heart. I walked up behind her and touched her shoulders.
       "Grace, I'm really sorry," I whispered. When she leaned against me, I turned her around and held her. She locked her arms around my waist, pressed her face to my chest and cried. I got the distinct feeling the tears weren't for Billy.
       "Shh, it's all right," I said, stroking her hair.
       She nodded.
       We stood together in silence. Grace's tears stopped, but I couldn't let her go. I rested my cheek on the top of her head. She felt so perfect in my arms.
       I'd been around a bit in my twenty-nine years. I knew the taste of the Creole women in the Quarter. And whenever Dianne Feingold wanted to play the poor little rich girl, I had obliged. Then there was Cherry -- sweet Cherry -- and a number of others.
       But when it came right down to the crucial moment, the last second when I closed my eyes, the woman I always held was the one who stood in my arms. I knew then I was in love with Grace. I'd always been in love with her.
       "When will Kyle be home?" I asked.
       "Tomorrow, or the day after," she said. Her voice was muffled in my shirt.
       "I'll come by tomorrow."
       She nodded.
       "Goodnight, Grace."
       She leaned back and looked up at me. Her golden eyes shimmered with the remnants of tears. "Goodnight."
       I picked up my hat on the way out. Grace held the door open a moment after I left. I heard it close.
       When I reached the oak, my steps slowed and stopped. I turned and watched her pass in front of the window. She stood in the middle of the living room then walked slowly to the kitchen.
       I took a deep breath and slapped my hat against my thigh. I didn't give a damn about my reputation, but Grace's was another matter. Was I really depraved enough to do this?
       Pounding my chest with the side of my fist to ease the pain, I walked slowly to her door. Standing in front of it, I raised my hand to knock ... and froze.
       I couldn't do it. If the door hadn't opened, I would have walked away.
       But it did open. Grace stood there, looking at me, unblinking and silent. She stepped back to allow me in then closed the door and locked it. When she turned around, I pulled her to me and kissed her. She clung to my shoulders, trembling.
       There was no need to ask -- we both knew what would happen. I released her mouth just long enough to lift her into my arms. She pulled my mouth back to hers.
       I carried Grace to bed.
       It was well after midnight when I started home. The moon had already set so the going was slow. It gave me time to recover from having to leave Grace's bed.
       Grace was everything I'd ever dreamed, and more. Her body had to be the most beautiful on earth, especially when her silky locks fell over her bare shoulders. And her responses were unrestrained, full of lust. Each time I thought I'd had enough she'd offered more. I'd taken it. In the end, she'd fallen asleep in my arms.
       But the best part was that I didn't have to pretend; when I whispered her name, she answered.
       I felt no remorse for what I'd done. At that point, I wasn't even worried about reputations. All I could think about was how wonderful she was -- how right it felt.
       I walked like a drunkard. Every inch of my body was blissfully tired. I managed to get into the sunroom without much noise, but I knew I'd wake everyone if I tried to negotiate the path to my room in the dark. Wincing at each sound, I lowered myself into a rocking chair and dropped my hat to the floor. Maybe I'd just rest until I could walk straighter.
       "Uncle Dasso?"
       I jumped at the whispering voice.
       "Chloe? Is that you?" I whispered back.
       "Yes."
       "What are you doing up?"
       "I had bad dreams."
       "Come here," I said quietly.
       The child crawled up into my lap and put her head on my arm. I held her and rocked as much as I could without making the floor creak.
       I don't know when we fell asleep.
       I managed to get out of the house before Becky could shame me into going to church with the family. There was still plenty to do to prepare for moving cattle. I finished oiling the tack then cleaned and trimmed horses' hooves. The black gelding Alcide had offered me was surprisingly calm.
       When I finished that, I started greasing the wheels on Alcide and Becky's buggy.
       Nothing seemed to be getting through my muddled thoughts. I wanted to work out the details of what had happened to Billy and Red, but it didn't make sense. Every time I tried to puzzle it out the only thing I could think about was Grace. I was worse off now than before I'd shared her bed.
       I didn't hear Alcide walk into the barn.
       "You know I can't afford to pay you for all this work," he said.
       I grinned.
       "I thought you were going to take it easy for a few days."
       "I am taking it easy," I said.
       "Really? Then you better stick around after you're back on your feet. We'll get rich."
       I stood up and wiped the grease from my hands. I guess I wasn't hiding my feelings very well.
       Alcide leaned back on one of the empty stalls and waited.
       I cleared my throat. "I've done something I probably shouldn't have."
       When he laughed, I glared at him.
       "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that you're always doing things you probably shouldn't. I don't ever remember seeing you so remorseful."
       "I'm not remorseful, so much. Well, maybe I am."
       "Confused?"
       I nodded.
       "Can I help?" he asked.
       I leaned on the stall across from my brother and studied him. He was freshly washed and combed and filled with Sunday peace. I envied him that peace.
       "Do you believe in sin, Al?"
       "Sure. Don't you?"
       I shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I do."
       "But?"
       "But maybe the only real sin is hurting someone you care about. Or even just risking causing that hurt out of selfishness."
       Alcide nodded slowly. "I think that certainly qualifies."
       "So what do you do? If you sin, what do you do?"
       "Well, I pray for forgiveness and try to do better."
       I wiped my hands again and threw the rag to the ground. Wouldn't it be nice to be able to just pray and be forgiven? How could I pray when I wanted nothing more than to repeat my sin?
       "Dammit," I muttered.
       "Dass, are we talking about Grace?"
       I looked up. "How did you know?"
       "I heard you come in last night. It was pretty late."
       "Yeah, it was late. Too damned late."
       "Dass, I don't usually stick my nose in your business. But there's stuff here you don't know about."
       "Like what?"
       Alcide pushed off from the stall and walked around in a small circle, obviously considering his words. He stopped and looked at me.
       "I also don't believe in repeating gossip. Unfortunately, I'm afraid the gossip about Grace and Billy might be true."
       "Look, I know they hadn't been close in a long time -- "
       "I think it was worse than that," he said. "I think he hit her sometimes, when he was drinking. I believe she's been through some really bad times in the past few years."
       My stomach pinched into a sick knot at the thought. I turned around, closed my eyes and dropped my forehead onto the post. Christ. It was bad enough when I thought that she might be turning to me because her husband had just died.
       "Dassas..."
       I swung around. "Maybe they're wrong, Al. They usually are."
       "I don't think so. I saw the results one time."
       "But maybe it was -- "
       "Dass, why don't you talk to her?"
       "I can't! What the hell am I supposed to say? 'I'm sorry I made love to you ... I didn't mean it?' A lie would only make it worse."
       "You're in love with her." He said it as if he'd just made an incredible discovery.
       I took a deep breath and blew it out.
       Alcide shook his head. "Look, Dass, that's even more reason to talk to her. Does she know how you feel?"
       I shrugged. "I haven't told her ... exactly."
       "You need to talk to her."
       "I'm serious, Al, I don't know what to say."
       "You'll find the words," he said. "I know you will."
       "How can you be so certain?"
       My brother smiled at me then turned and left the barn.
       I chickened out.
       It felt like a summer afternoon. I dropped my line into the bayou, leaned back on the dock and tipped my hat down over my eyes. Some creature slipped into the water near me.
       The sound of the water lapping against the pilings helped me get my mind off my troubles. Well, a little, at least. I ran through the "facts" of Billy's discovery. It bothered me that he was found so close to where Red had been. And it was very strange that Billy had been clubbed, stabbed and then buried, while Red had just been shot. It didn't sound like the same killer. If Red had been killed by the convict, and Billy had been killed by someone else...
       The possibility of having a murderer running around Marshall's Bayou was too absurd to consider.
       I turned my attention to Billy's life before he died. He'd promised his girlfriend jewelry. Was he planning to spend part of his paycheck on her? Or had he just been making hollow promises? Or did he have some kind of scheme in mind?
       There weren't many ways to get rich in southwest Louisiana. There was cotton, cattle, oil or bootleg whiskey. Cotton and cattle took years of work and planning, and there were no oil fields in the area. That brought me back to Joshua's still. But even a still took time to run.
       Of course, there was always blackmail. Or larceny.
       Perhaps Billy had stumbled onto Joshua's operation. I guessed that, given Joshua's attitude, blackmail wasn't really an option; but Billy might have decided to steal the hooch. Then Red ran across the still and confronted Billy. Billy shot the chief of police...
       No, wait, that left Billy alive and walking around. Unless Joshua did away with the thief.
       No, it didn't feel right at all.
       I raised my line out of the water to check the bait. The shrimp still hung lifeless on the hook. I dropped it back in.
       Another possibility was that neither of them died in the woods. Billy and Red could have been killed elsewhere and both moved. That brought me back at the beginning with no idea what the hell was going on. Even the sound of the bayou wasn't helping.
       The whole thing gave me a headache.
       I pushed my hat back, pulled my line in and twisted it around the pole. Then I stashed the pole along the trail and walked south until I reached the Gulf.
       In spite of the mild afternoon, muddy waves rolled onto the beach with a thunderous roar. There must have been a storm offshore somewhere. After checking to be sure I had the beach to myself, I pulled off my boots and peeled off my shirt and undershirt. The bruise on my side looked a little less purple than it had the day before.
       Trying to clear my mind, I walked along the foam line, enjoying the sun on my skin. Sand crabs scattered in front of me, and seaweed bladders popped under my feet.
       Strange things wash ashore on the Gulf coast -- curious objects from foreign ships. I stopped to examine something sparkling blue in what was left of the sunshine. I dug a circle around the object with my toes then knelt and pushed the wet sand away. Trying to ignore the memory of uncovering Billy's face, I exposed the smooth surface of a glass float about the size of my fist. It was intact, so I pulled it out of the wet sand, rinsed it off in the surf and held it as I walked.
       As a kid, I'd spent hours on the beach with my mother. She was a landlubber, born in Oklahoma, and never tired of the Gulf. We'd find pink seashells, pieces of old rope and wood that had been distorted and grayed by the water. Together we'd drag our booty home. She'd arrange it at the edge of the garden while telling me stories about pirates or Vikings.
       Mama would have liked the glass float I'd found.
       Nothing seemed to help. I couldn't stop thinking about Grace. Alcide was right -- I had to talk to her. But I needed to be sure of what to say.
       I sat on the front of a sand dune and watched the light fade until the line between the water and the sky was nearly gone.
       Hidden from sight from Grace's house, I stood on the trail for several minutes, trying to shake loose the cobwebs of a sleepless night and get my courage up. When I realized it wasn't working, I walked to the door. Grace didn't answer my knock until the third try.
       "Good morning," I said.
       She invited me in and led the way to the kitchen but didn't return my greeting. I guessed from the dark circles under her eyes that it wasn't really such a good morning.
       She stopped at the kitchen window and looked out for a few moments before turning to face me.
       I surveyed the floor between us.
       "Grace, I -- I want to apologize for -- for -- " I'd completely forgotten the speech I'd planned. Just being close to her was killing me.
       "For what?"
       "For giving in to temptation," I said.
       "Do you?"
       "Do I what?"
       "Want to apologize."
       "Yes. If word gets out -- "
       "Did you tell someone?"
       "Well, no, but -- "
       "I didn't tell anyone," she said.
       "Grace, you don't understand."
       She looked as though she were interrogating a wayward child, annoyed but not too concerned with the outcome. She stood inside an invisible wall.
       "Dammit, Grace, do you have any idea what would happen to you if anyone knew?"
       Her eyes snapped up to mine, and she frowned then turned toward the stove.
       "Yes," she said quietly, "I have a very good idea." Her shoulders raised and lowered with a sigh. "Coffee?"
       As I stood there, trying to apologize to this woman for taking advantage of her, I couldn't stop thinking about how much I wanted to drag her back to bed. If I didn't find something else to concentrate on, she'd soon know exactly what I wanted.
       I walked across the room and sat on the kitchen stool. "I also came by to see if there was anything I could do to help with the funeral."
       Her voice was quiet. "I thought you said you would be here yesterday."
       "I did." There were too many things to feel bad about. "I had other things -- "
       "Don't lie, Dassas. Please."
       It was more than I could take. I rose and closed the distance between us. She stood with her back to me, so I held her shoulders and pressed my cheek to the side of her head.
       "Grace, I'm sorry. I didn't know what to say to you."
       "Why would you think -- "
       We both jumped at the sound of the back door. I stepped away from her.
       "Grace? I'm back." Kyle strolled in, hesitating only for a split second when he saw me. He kissed his sister's cheek and accepted a cup of coffee from her.
       "Well, Dassas, to what do we owe this visit?"
       Grace turned around. "He found Billy," she said.
       "Where?"
       "Buried," I said. "Near Mrs. Richard's."
       "Gracie," Kyle asked, "are you all right?"
       She nodded.
       He leaned back on the counter, crossed his ankles and studied me as he sipped his coffee.
       "Isn't that where the chief of police was found?" he asked.
       I nodded. "Close."
       "Interesting," he said. "What do you think happened?"
       "I don't know."
       He narrowed his eyes and studied his cup. "I heard there was an escaped convict in the area."
       "Yes. He's the one suspected in Red's death."
       "Have they caught him?"
       "Not the last I heard."
       "Well, maybe he killed both of them. After all, they were probably together."
       "Really?"
       "I wouldn't be surprised," Kyle said. "Red was here the day Billy left for work, looking for him. Said he was involved in something suspicious."
       "Like what?"
       Kyle shrugged. "He didn't say."
       I glanced over to find Grace staring at her brother, her eyes wide. "But, Kyle..."
       "I'm sorry, Grace," he said, "I didn't want to worry you. Red stopped by while you were out."
       She frowned. It must have been a shock to find out that Red was following her husband.
       This led me back to the idea that Billy was involved with the still. What if Billy spotted Red and killed him, then someone else killed Billy and buried him? The person who hit Billy over the head might not have even known about Red. Maybe the escaped convict really had been out there.
       Dr. Miller's words bounced around in my head. He must have been hit with a heavy piece of wood. There was a whole stack of wood not far from where Billy was buried -- beside the shack that held Joshua's still.
       That sick feeling started again in my stomach at the thought of Joshua being involved. I had to find out.
       "Grace," I said, "I need to check on something."
       She nodded then followed me to the door.
       I stopped on the first step and looked back. Our eyes met, saying everything there was to say. She knew I'd be back.
       The trail into the woods was quiet, as was the still. I stopped at the woodpile and carefully examined each log. There was nothing -- no sign of blood or hair. Of course, if I were a killer with a piece of evidence, I'd try to destroy it.
       Scanning the ground, I made slow, widening circles until I was out twenty yards past the shallow grave. Still nothing.
       Returning to the shack, I looked around inside. The only remnants of logs were charred end pieces on the floor.
       If the bloodied log had been burned, the murderer must have done it. And there was only one person burning logs around there.
       I walked slowly back to the house, trying to convince myself that I didn't need to go to the sheriff with this information. I hadn't succeeded by the time I arrived.
       "Dass," Alcide said, "you missed breakfast." He carried a pail of milk from the barn.
       "I'm not hungry," I answered. "Al, can I use your gig for the day?"
       "Of course. Everything I have is yours. Except my wife."
       I nodded. "Thanks. I'll be back before dark."
       The road to Cameron was muddy and rutted, but I made the trip in fairly good time. I caught up with the sheriff at Lucy's Cafe.
       "Dassas Cormier," he said, wiping his hands, "have a seat. You eat yet? The gumbo is fresh."
       "Thanks." I shook hands with the sheriff and took a chair across the table from him.
       "This is Buzz, my sister's boy," he said.
       The pimply teenager was wolfing down a sandwich.
       Sheriff Coucher raised one eyebrow. "He works for me now and then."
       I nodded and motioned to the man behind the counter. "Gumbo?"
       The large man acknowledged my order and ambled to the stove.
       "So what brings you all the way out here?" Sheriff Coucher asked.
       "I was hoping you might have some news about Billy White's death. Or Red's."
       The gray-haired sheriff looked at his nephew. "Go fetch Dr. Miller."
       The boy stuffed the last bite into his mouth as he rose. He was gone in a flash.
       Sheriff Coucher leaned forward. "He's not real bright, but at least he does what I tell him."
       "There's something to be said for obedience."
       "Yes, sir. That there is." The sheriff sat back in his chair and laughed.
       I didn't realize just how hungry I was until the bowl of gumbo was under my nose. I half-listened to the sheriff's description of his office and the kind of work they did. It was a pitch, and a pretty good one, but not nearly as interesting as the bowl I quickly emptied. He obviously wasn't going to talk about the deaths until the doctor arrived.
       Dr. Miller strode in, with Buzz right behind him. We exchanged greetings and they joined us at the table.
       "Have you found out anything new?" the doctor asked.
       I shrugged. "I'm not sure. I was looking around the area for the piece of wood Billy was hit with. I found some logs -- "
       "Lumber," Dr. Miller said.
       "What?"
       "He was hit with lumber not logs. I put the splinters under a microscope and found smooth, cut edges. Had to be milled lumber, fairly fresh."
       That changed everything. The only lumber around the shack was the rickety stuff the shack itself was made of, and none of it was missing. I also didn't believe any of it would stand up to much of a blow.
       "There's one other thing," Sheriff Coucher said. "We just got word that Ajax Berkley was picked up in Lake Charles."
       "Who?"
       "Berkley, the convict we suspected of killing Red."
       "Did he have a gun?" I asked.
       Sheriff Coucher frowned. "No," he said. "I was planning to head your way in the morning to take another look around. The trail's cold now, but you never know."
       "Sheriff, how about giving me a couple of days?"
       "You got a lead?"
       "No, I just think I have a better chance of checking around without spooking the killer."
       "If he's still there," he said.
       "Yes." I turned to the doctor. "Could you tell anything about the killer by the stab wounds?"
       "Not really," Dr. Miller said. "But from the depth of the wounds in the chest, I'd say the killer was either a man, or a very distraught woman. And with the number, the killer would have been covered in blood -- "
       "Gentlemen," the sheriff interrupted, "we should take this conversation outside."
       I glanced around to find people staring at us. The woman at the next table looked pale and held her napkin to her mouth.
       When we stood up, I pulled coins out of my pocket. Sheriff Coucher grabbed my arm.
       "Lunch is on me," he said.
       I thanked him and followed the group to the sidewalk.
       "As I was saying," Dr. Miller continued, "the killer and the murder scene would have been covered in blood. And the knife was large, like a butcher's knife."
       "I don't suppose Berkley had a butcher's knife on him?" I asked the sheriff.
       "That I don't know," he said. "Are you stuck on the idea that Berkley was responsible?"
       "Well, no, but I don't want to consider the possibility of two murderers on the loose in the marsh."
       "Yeah," the sheriff said, "it doesn't sound like the same killer, does it?"
       "No. Still, I have this feeling that the deaths are related."
       "Why?"
       "Because the bodies were so close together, and because nothing ever happens in Marshall's Bayou."
       The sheriff nodded. "You've got a point."
       "I need to go," Dr. Miller said. "I have an appointment in five minutes."
       I shook the man's hand. "Thank you."
       "Good luck," he said.
       After the doctor left, Sheriff Coucher grabbed my shoulder. "Come on over to my office, son," he said, grinning. "Let me explain to you why you want to work for me."
       I'd unintentionally lied to my brother when I promised to have the gig back before dark. I turned off the road squinting to see the trail. Fortunately, the mare was sure-footed and knew where she was going. Frank met me at the barn and helped me put the horse and buggy away.
       "Did I miss anything exciting?" I asked him.
       Frank led the mare to the stall and filled her trough with feed. "Mama's soap came in on the boat, and Papa got a letter from Aunt Cora," he said. "That's it."
       "Well, that's something."
       He frowned, and I laughed. As we walked toward the house, I dropped my arm around his shoulders.
       "Don't worry, Frank, someday you'll wish for days like this, I promise."
       "Yes, sir," he said, obviously unconvinced.
       "It's about time you showed up," Becky said. She held the door for us.
       I kissed her cheek as I passed her. "You were worried about me, huh?"
       "No, I thought you'd swiped my buggy."
       Chloe giggled. I grabbed her and carried her with me to the kitchen. "Anything left over from supper?"
       "There's a little smoked ham and butter beans on the stove," Becky said.
       I traded my niece for a plate. "Where's Al?"
       "He's resting."
       "Isn't it a little early for bed?"
       "He has a headache," Becky said. "I gave him a powder. He should be up and around in a little while."
       She carried a lantern into the dining room and sat in the chair beside mine.
       "You two go get ready for bed," she said to her children.
       They complied with a minor amount of protest.
       As soon as we were alone, she leaned toward me. "Dass, I heard some things today."
       "Oh?"
       "I was in Brandon's and overheard Mrs. Welsh telling Mrs. Clawson about something she heard three weeks ago."
       "Becky -- "
       "Dass, just listen. Mrs. Welsh and her two boys were walking past the old Trahan place. She heard Grace and her husband having a fight. It must have been a bad one. She said Grace told Billy that if he ever tried to come back in the house, she'd kill him. That had to have been around the time he disappeared."
       Suddenly, the ham didn't taste so good. I worked to swallow a bite.
       "Dassas, you know I hate gossip as much as you do, but I just don't want anything to happen to you."
       "Becky, do you really think I'm in danger of being killed by Grace Trahan -- White?" I was trying not to let the emotion show. The good folks of Marshall's Bayou would always find someone to talk about. The fact that it was Grace made me angry.
       "Hey, you've heard of Lizzie Borden, haven't you? Looks can be deceiving."
       "Becky -- "
       "Dass, I'm just asking you to keep your guard up, that's all. You know how much I care about you."
       I sighed and then nodded. "Okay, I'll keep my eyes open."
       "Good." She rose, kissed the top of my head and left me alone with my plate.
       I'd completely lost my appetite.
--------
         *Chapter Eight*
       Grace answered the door with a bit more enthusiasm than she had on my last visit.
       "Good morning," she said.
       "Good morning," I answered.
       I could hear her brother in the kitchen so I stepped back when she held the door open.
       "Don't you want to come in?" she asked.
       "Walk with me."
       She glanced back then stepped out and closed the door. "Where to?"
       "I don't care. Someplace where we can talk."
       When I grabbed her hand, she looked shocked. After a moment's hesitation, she laced her fingers into mine. We walked the trail to the bayou without talking, found a secluded spot on the side of the levee and sat. I reluctantly released her hand but sat close enough to feel the heat of her body on my arm.
       "I went to Cameron yesterday," I said.
       She looked out at the water. "And?"
       "And I talked to Sheriff Coucher and Dr. Miller."
       "What did they say?"
       "They said Billy was hit from behind with a piece of lumber then stabbed with a large knife, like a butcher's knife." When she didn't respond, I continued. "I think maybe his body was moved."
       Grace gazed down the bayou so I couldn't see her face. The sun on her hair made it shimmer like silk, and a light breeze gave it life. I leaned closer to inhale her scent.
       "Why didn't you ever talk to me when we were kids?" she asked. Her voice was barely audible above the sounds of insects and birds.
       "I was scared to death."
       She swung around to look at me. "Of what?"
       Her face was beautiful beyond compare. The sun lightened her eyes and smoothed out the tiny lines in her forehead. Wisps of hair framed her temples and cheeks.
       "Of you, I suppose."
       "How could you be afraid of me?"
       I smiled at the innocence. Didn't she know? "You were the prettiest girl in town. In the whole parish, for that matter. Every boy in Marshall's Bayou was nuts about you. I knew there was no way I could compete. I didn't have Tommy Dupre's money or Frank Mudd's brains or Pierre D'Lonne's good looks. I was just this dumb, clumsy kid who couldn't even talk when you were around."
       When I reached over and eased a strand of hair from her cheek, Grace closed her eyes. I couldn't resist kissing her. She kissed back then laid her head on my shoulder. I held her, gently rubbing her back, wishing our spot was more private.
       "I thought you hated me," she said.
       I sighed and held her tighter. How could she have possibly thought that?
       She continued, "I was jealous of Becky and Mae, and all the other girls you were friends with. I wanted you to like me."
       "Grace, I was crazy about you. You were the only girl I ever wanted."
       She sat back, wiping her eyes. I turned, pulled her across my lap and placed her in front of me, between my legs. She leaned back against my chest, and I kissed the side of her head.
       "I didn't know," she whispered.
       We watched an egret land across the bayou and walk along the shore with long, elegant steps. The bird plucked small fish from the muddy water without effort and completely ignored us.
       "What happened, Grace? How did you end up with Billy?"
       I felt her sigh. "I don't know, exactly. After the war, it seemed like everyone either left or got married. Mama had been sick for a long time, and Kyle was in California. Billy just appeared and helped me out. When Mama died, he took care of everything. Everyone assumed we were engaged, among other things. Next thing I knew, we were married. I didn't really know what else to do."
       "There's a whole world out there, Grace. Didn't you even think about leaving?"
       "How? I couldn't just pack up and leave."
       "Why not? You must have had some money from your father's cattle. You could have sold the house."
       "Yes," she said, "there was money, for the first year."
       "What happened?"
       Grace moved forward, out of my grasp, and rose. "Does it matter? Billy's dead. It's the end of a bad dream. My brother is here now. Why do we have to talk about it?"
       "We still have to figure out who killed Billy."
       "Why? What difference does it make?"
       The desperation in her eyes terrified me. It couldn't be true -- Grace couldn't be responsible for Billy's death. I refused to even consider the possibility. Not Grace.
       "It makes a difference," I said, as I rose and brushed the dirt from my hands. "We can't ignore -- "
       "Please, Dassas. Just for today, can't we pretend that none of it happened? That we're kids again? Just for one day?"
       I followed her on the path to her house, working to keep up. Finally, she slowed, and I walked beside her.
       She glanced over at me. "Would you like to see my new horse? Kyle bought her from Isaac Broussard."
       The playfulness in her eyes knocked me for a loop. It was as if she were a different person. I couldn't help but smile.
       "Yes, I'd like to see her."
       I wanted to hold her hand again, but Grace kept her hands clasped together in front of her.
       "What happened to your other mare?" I asked.
       "She died from drinking the salty water in the well that Kyle boarded up."
       There was no sign of life around the house when we ducked into the barn. Grace dropped the latch into place then led the way to a stall where a dun filly rested her neck across the door, watching us. The horse whinnied at our approach.
       "Isn't she pretty?" Grace asked. She scratched the filly's face and jaw.
       "Yes, she is."
       She smiled and leaned close to the horse. "I don't think he's really paying attention to you," she said.
       Lowering her head seductively, she glanced at me. Damn her, she was teasing me.
       I stepped up behind her and grabbed her around the waist. She yelped with surprise and struggled half-heartedly.
       "Dassas! What are you doing?"
       "You know what I'm doing," I growled into her ear. "And you know what I want."
       She covered her mouth to muffle her laughter. I held her tighter, stealing kisses from her neck.
       Grace fought to speak quietly between giggles. "But -- but what if -- what if we get caught?"
       I nibbled on her ear. "Isn't there a loft in here?"
       She nodded.
       I spun her around and kissed her as I walked backwards to the ladder. She worked on my shirt buttons. When I hit the ladder, we stopped.
       Holding her face in both hands, I kissed her mouth and nose and eyes. Nothing in the world mattered as much as being there with her.
       "Grace," I whispered, "I care a great deal for you."
       "As I do you," she whispered back.
       My heart raced at her words and touch.
       "I've never felt this way before," I said. I wanted to tell her that I loved her, but I'd never spoken the words to a woman. They didn't come out as easily as I thought they would.
       Her eyes filled with tears as they studied mine. I wondered if her heart overflowed as mine did. Unable to stand the intense emotion for another moment, I pulled her into my arms and kissed her. The need grew by leaps and bounds. One or both of us groaned as she pressed herself into me. We were panting by the time we climbed the ladder.
       I must have been whistling when I hopped up the back steps.
       Becky called out from the sunroom, "What on earth are you so happy about?"
       "It's a beautiful day, dear sister-in-law," I answered. I tossed my hat onto one of the hooks of the rack and dropped onto the sofa. Chloe climbed up into my lap.
       "It was a beautiful day," Becky said. "Most of it's gone, in case you hadn't noticed. Did you get some dinner?"
       I scowled at my niece as she pulled a piece of hay from the shoulder of my shirt. She stuck it in my hair and laughed.
       "I had some soup," I said.
       "Where?" Becky asked.
       "You're getting nosey again."
       "Concerned, Dass."
       "Nosey."
       She huffed her indignation as she approached with Fred in her arms. "Here, will you watch this one for a minute? I have a few things to do." After she placed Fred beside Chloe, she pulled the hay from my hair, held it up and looked at me, her eyebrows raised in question.
       I pinched my nephew's sides. "Freddy, my boy, how was your day?"
       The child pointed one finger toward my nose, and Chloe giggled. I glanced over to find Becky shaking her head as she walked from the room.
       At that particular moment, nothing short of murder could have ruined my good mood. I didn't even hear Alcide and Frank arrive until they had their boots off and were filling a washbasin.
       "Daddy!" Chloe yelled. She wriggled out of my lap and dashed to the porch.
       It wasn't long before Alcide walked in with her in his arms. Frank followed.
       "Dass, how are the ribs?" Alcide asked.
       "Good. I'm ready to work."
       "Great. We have four others lined up to meet us at the gate tomorrow morning. I plan to leave here just as soon as we can see enough to ride."
       "Who did you get?"
       "Isaac and Antoine Broussard, JP Breaux and David Welsh."
       "Sounds like a good crew."
       "Yep." Alcide looked at his daughter. "Let's go find your mama and give her a big kiss."
       Chloe nodded, and they left the room. I lifted Fred into the air and blew into his belly button. The child's laughter made me smile.
       An hour later, we sat down to a huge spread of smoked ham, baked chicken, beans, rice, okra, pickles and fresh bread.
       "Becky, this looks wonderful," Alcide said.
       She smiled and even blushed a little. "I don't want to worry about any of you getting hungry out there."
       "I don't think you'll have to worry about us getting hungry for a month," I said. I passed the bowl of beans to Frank.
       While we ate, Becky repeated all the news she'd heard at the store, with a few exceptions. My brother was quiet during the meal. As I refilled my plate, I glanced over and noticed that he didn't look quite right.
       "Al, are you okay?"
       "Sure," he said. "Just a little tired."
       I decided it was probably the dim light that made him look bad and returned my attention to my plate.
       "You were gone a long time today," Becky said to me.
       I grinned at her. "Yep."
       "Are you going to tell us where you were?"
       "Around."
       "Around where?"
       We all jumped when Al's fork fell, clattering onto the table.
       I'd never seen my brother look so ghostly white. He held the table and frowned at his plate. If I hadn't been sitting next to him, I never would have caught him before he hit the floor.
       "Al!" I pulled him up, but he was a rag doll.
       Becky wrapped her arm around his waist from the other side and the two of us held him on his feet. "Let's get him to bed," she said.
       Alcide and I were about the same size, but he was almost dead weight. It was a struggle to get him into his room. We stretched him out, and Becky pulled off his shoes and socks.
       "Becky, what's going on?" I place my hand on Al's head and found it hot enough to raise blisters. His face had gone from white to red in no time.
       "Dass, get a cold rag, would you?"
       I did, and then helped Becky get my brother undressed and under three blankets. By then he was shivering and still unresponsive.
       "I need to get the doctor," I said.
       "No." Becky sat on the edge of the bed and wiped her husband's face with the rag. Then she folded it and placed it on his forehead. "No," she said quietly, "the doctor can't help." She stood up. "Watch him while I get some more blankets."
       I sat there watching my older brother shiver. His teeth chattered, and the bed shook. I couldn't remember ever feeling such helpless terror. Not since the shooting.
       We buried him under a huge pile of blankets. Still he trembled. Becky sat beside him, and I stood at the foot of the bed. She looked calm and in control, but I guessed that she was terrified, too.
       "Mama?" Frank leaned into the room. "Is Daddy all right?"
       "Yes, son, he's just fighting the fever again. Will you please make sure your sister and brother finish supper?"
       After a few minutes, Al's shaking slowed. He remained unconscious.
       "Becky, what the hell's wrong with him?" I asked.
       She gently wiped her husband's face as she spoke to me. "We go through this about once a year. He was gassed in France and was so sick they thought he'd die. They put him in what he calls a death ward. But after a week or two, he managed to get better, so they gave him a rifle and sent him back to the trenches.
       "About a year after he got back, he was hit like this in the middle of the night. I woke up certain that he was dying, and I sent for Mrs. Strickler, and she summoned the doctor. The fever lasted three days. Dr. Miller said that the gas had burned his lungs and left them susceptible to infection. All we can do is try to help him through while his body fights it."
       She looked back at me. "It seems to be getting better. Last winter, he was only sick for a day or so. Of course, he's really weak afterwards, but I have to work at keeping him in bed."
       "He told me he'd been hit with gas, but he never said anything about being hospitalized. Why didn't he tell me about this?"
       "Your brother is a proud and stubborn man, Dass. He didn't want you to feel like you had to come back because of him."
       I sighed. "The old fool," I muttered.
       "Maybe," she said quietly, "but he's my -- fool."
       When I realized Becky was crying, I sat and pulled her into my arms. She silenced her sobs in my shirt, and I held her until she was in control again. She wiped her face and turned her attention back to Alcide.
       "I'll check on the kids," I said.
       She nodded.
       It was a quiet group that cleared away the table and changed for bed. Frank helped me carry Fred's crib into my room, and we put him down for the night. Even the little one was unusually sullen and went to sleep without a sound.
       I carried Chloe into the room she shared with Frank.
       "Daddy's sick," she said.
       I placed her in the middle of her bed, held the covers up while she crawled under then tucked the blanket in and sat beside her.
       "He's not feeling too good right now," I said. "I'm sure he'll be better tomorrow."
       "I don't like it when Daddy's sick," the girl said. Huge tears slipped from her eyes and started down her cheeks.
       Smiling, I wiped her tears away with my thumb. "I bet your daddy worries about you when you're sick, too."
       She nodded.
       "You go to sleep and I'll watch him." I kissed her forehead and tucked the covers under her chin.
       "Goodnight," she said.
       "Goodnight, Chloe."
       I left the lamp on for Frank and returned to Al's room. My brother's condition hadn't changed much. Becky hadn't moved.
       "The kids are in bed," I said. "Why don't you get some sleep? I'll wake you up if anything at all happens."
       "No, I -- "
       "Come on, Becky." I grabbed her shoulders and urged her to her feet. "Lay down in my bed. You need to get some rest so you can take care of your babies tomorrow."
       Without another word, she disappeared.
       I pulled a chair up beside the bed, sat and studied my brother. He wasn't shaking as much, but he was thrashing around a little under the blankets and mumbling something I couldn't understand. I pushed his hair back from his forehead. He seemed to calm a little at my touch.
       What would I have done if he'd told me about this earlier? I really wasn't sure. More than likely, I would have returned home. At least, I hoped I would have.
       Now I knew about it.
       An hour stretched into two. The floor creaked in the hall under bare feet; I turned when Frank tiptoed in.
       "How's he doing?" he asked.
       "He's quiet," I answered. We spoke in whispers. "You should be asleep. We've got a lot of work ahead of us."
       He shrugged. "I know."
       "You want to sit with me for a little while?"
       He nodded and brought a chair in from the dining room. He sat near enough to talk.
       "Uncle Dassas, how come you weren't in the war?"
       "I was the youngest in the family, besides Coralee. Our oldest brothers, Louie and Trey, joined up right away. Then your dad joined. Papa was sick, so someone had to stay back and take care of things. I was elected."
       "Did you want to go?" he asked.
       I nodded. "Very much."
       "Are you sorry you didn't?"
       "I was, for a long time. Now I'm not so sure."
       "Why?"
       "Taking another person's life is -- is tough to live with. There's a reason that one of the commandments is 'Thou shalt not kill.'"
       "Isn't it different when it's war?"
       "I suppose. I believe it's still tough."
       "Daddy never talks about the war," he said. "You think he killed a lot of Germans?"
       "He probably did, but that's not what he got the medal for."
       "What medal?"
       I shook my head. It didn't really surprise me that Alcide hadn't told his son.
       "Your dad got the Distinguished Service Cross for saving the lives of five other soldiers. I don't know all the details, but I know the platoon was pinned down by machine gun fire. Al's squad was ordered to wipe out the machine guns. Three of his men died right away, and several more were shot. Alcide made it out of the trench and killed the German gunner. Then he carried the wounded men back to the trench one at a time while under fire. If he hadn't done that, those five men would have died."
       Frank stared at the mound of blankets. "I didn't know," he whispered. "How come he never told me?"
       "I think it's hard for him to talk about the war," I said.
       The boy nodded then sat silently beside me for a while. Finally, I reached over and touched his shoulder.
       "Can you sleep now?" I asked.
       He nodded again and rose. At the door, he turned back. "Thanks," he said.
       "You're welcome."
       I dipped the rag in fresh water and wiped Al's face. His fever raged on. I walked around the room and stared at the moon through the window. It was impossible to even imagine what my brother had lived through.
       His voice drew my attention, and I returned to the edge of the bed.
       "No," he mumbled, "he's dead already. Stop!"
       "Shh, Al, it's okay," I said, wiping his forehead again.
       He rolled his head from side to side. "No! Let go of me! I have to get to him. Can't you see? His leg is off! Let me go!"
       "Al, you're all right."
       He opened his eyes and stared at me. "Dass? What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice gravelly.
       "I'm looking after you."
       "It's not me. Jennings is dying, I have to get to him."
       I pushed his hair back with the rag. "No one is dying here tonight, Al."
       He frowned. "No?"
       "No."
       With that, his frown disappeared. He closed his eyes and was instantly unconscious. Carefully, I moved back to my chair.
       I must have fallen asleep sitting up, because my neck was stiff when I heard Al's voice again.
       "Becky?"
       I returned to the edge of the bed and raised the wick on the lamp. He looked surprised to see me.
       "Dassas?"
       "Yes, it's me. How do you feel?"
       "Like hell," he said. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face. His forehead was much cooler -- the fever had broken.
       "Believe it or not, you look better."
       "Thirsty."
       "Okay, hang on." I filled a glass from the pitcher Becky had set on the night table and helped him get a few swallows down. The effort was almost too much for him. He then lay still for a while with his eyes closed.
       "Dass," he said quietly.
       "Yes?"
       "All I want -- is to see -- my kids grow up."
       "You will, Al. You'll see your grandkids grow up, if I can help it."
       He smiled. "Tired. Going -- to sleep."
       "You do that. I'll be right here."
       "Did I hear Al?" Becky whispered as she tiptoed into the room.
       I nodded. "The fever broke."
       "Thank you, Jesus," she whispered. She stopped beside me and rested her hands on my shoulders. "You get some rest now. It's still at least two hours before dawn."
       "Okay." I rose and started slowly toward my room.
       "Dass?"
       I turned back. "Yeah?"
       "Please don't tell Al I cried. I want to be strong for him."
       "Don't worry."
       Becky smiled. "Thanks."
       I was tired enough to collapse. Yet when I stretched out on the bed, my mind wouldn't stop working. Now that I knew about Al's struggle, there was only one thing to do. I had to stick around Marshall's Bayou to help out.
       I must admit, the fact that Grace was there and that our relationship was progressing so nicely didn't hurt. As soon as it was proper, I'd ask her to marry me. The idea of sharing a home with her, even raising a family, made my heart speed up to match my thoughts. What would our children look like? Would they have blue eyes like mine or would their eyes be golden? Maybe they'd have her silky black hair with my waves. Who could say? Maybe we'd have enough kids to get all the traits in there. Certainly making babies with Grace would be nothing short of heavenly.
       From the crib beside my bed, Fred gurgled, stirred and then was quiet. I listened. It was almost possible to hear the Gulf waves. I remembered lying in my bed on hot summer nights, praying for a breeze. When it came, the salty air carried the rhythmic roll of the water. It was better than Mama's rocking chair.
       But at that moment, nothing helped. All mixed together -- joy, concern, hope, fear -- my emotions hit a rolling boil. I actually considered seeking shelter under Grace's oak tree, watching her darkened window. Of course, that was absurd.
       Finally, I gave up and got out of bed. If nothing else, I could have the horses and gear ready to go when Frank awoke. It had been a long night -- a little extra sleep wouldn't hurt the boy. And I'd made it without rest once or twice in New Orleans when wild celebrations kept me until my shift started.
       I knew I'd pay for it later.
       "He wants to talk to you before you leave," Becky said. She motioned with a nod of her head to my brother's room.
       Alcide was propped up on a pile of pillows. His face was as pale as death.
       "I feel just terrible about this, Dassas. I didn't mean for you to have to head up the whole drive."
       I sat on the edge of the bed. "What, you think I can't handle it?"
       "Come on, you know that's not true."
       I grabbed his knee through the covers and shook it. "I know. Don't worry about anything except getting well."
       He nodded then frowned at his hands. "I'm sorry if I was a handful last night."
       "You weren't."
       "I usually end up back in the trenches when I have one of these bouts and I distinctly remember you being there, so I must have been halfway awake."
       "It's okay, Al."
       "Thanks for helping Becky and the kids."
       "Damn, Al, this is getting downright mushy."
       He grinned. "There is something else."
       "What?"
       "Frank has been working cattle with me for a few years now, but he's never gone without me -- "
       "Let me guess. You want me to make sure he doesn't get hurt?"
       Alcide nodded. "Something like that."
       "Okay, son back in one piece and cattle in winter pasture. Or is it cattle back in one piece -- ?"
       "No, I think you got it the first time."
       I smiled and he smiled back. It had been ages since I'd felt so close to Alcide. I started to tell him that I had decided to stay in Marshall's Bayou, but it wasn't the time. Maybe later, over a bottle of whiskey.
--------
         *Chapter Nine*
       The ride to the pasture was invigorating and gave me a chance to get comfortable with Midnight. He had a smooth stride. I was still confused by my brother offering me such a nice horse. Something had to be wrong.
       Clouds gathered on the horizon, threatening to make the drive a cold one. I wondered if we were sending the cattle into the marsh just ahead of the last big storm of the season.
       "Good morning," Isaac said. He wore his usual smile, in spite of the long days of work ahead. "Where's Alcide?"
       "Sick," I said. "I'm afraid you'll have to make do with me."
       "I think we can handle that."
       Antoine, Isaac's cousin, stood beside him at the gate. It bothered me that Antoine was grinning, especially since he wasn't looking as much at me as he was at Midnight.
       "So, Dassas," he said, "where did you get that horse?"
       I patted the gelding's neck. "My brother loaned him to me. Why?"
       "Oh, nothing, nothing at all. Just curious."
       I narrowed my eyes at the man, but he didn't give in. Instead, he concentrated on rolling a cigarette.
       "Where are the others?" I asked.
       "They'll be right along," Isaac said. "We rode by their places on the way out and they were stirring."
       As if conjured up by our words, JP Breaux and David Welsh appeared from among the trees. JP, the oldest of the group by a dozen years, was also the quietest. When he did speak, it was usually in a strange mixture of French and English.
       David was the youngest of five boys, all blonds, and a good kid. When I left, he was only fourteen, but he'd had all the signs of maturing well. It looked as though he'd lived up to that promise.
       "Good morning," I said.
       David said, "Mr. Cormier -- "
       I corrected him. "Dassas."
       "Dassas," he said, "it's good to see you." He looked at my nephew. "You ready to work up a sweat, Frank?"
       Frank nodded.
       Antoine opened the wire gate and we rode in, then he pulled the fence closed again. I helped him roll back the wire at the far end of the corral. We'd spend the day driving cattle into the opening.
       "Frank and I will take the east fence," I said.
       Isaac nodded. "We'll take the middle. JP, you and David can have the west."
       "Okay," I answered, "we'll meet back here this evening. I'm expecting about a hundred and twenty head, plus a few new calves."
       We rode off in pairs. Frank followed me along the small trail that rose with the surrounding land and snaked through the trees. We spotted several groups of cows and calves on the way out. They barely noticed us.
       About ten o'clock, we hit the back fence. I dismounted and stretched my back and legs. It'd been a while since I'd spent all day on horseback -- no doubt I was going to regret it.
       "You want me to ride down the fence?" Frank asked.
       "No, I want you on this side. I'll ride down a hundred yards and then signal. We'll start up at a slow walk. Keep your eyes open. Got it?"
       "Yes, sir."
       After a short break, we did just that. I studied the clouds as I rode. They covered more than the horizon now, and the air smelled like rain.
       Frank waited for my wave, and we started forward. I could just make out Isaac to my left. He and Antoine were running a little ahead of us. That made it easier to see which of the cattle they expected us to get.
       We encountered the first group of cows right away. Frank should have ridden around the edge of the herd and urged them forward. Instead, he charged in and scattered the dozen head in all directions, including behind us. I sighed and turned my horse toward my nephew.
       Frank trotted around the group that stopped just short of the fence. The cattle reacted as expected and ran until they were out of sight. Fortunately, they ran in the right direction.
       "Frank! What the hell are you doing?"
       "I -- I was trying to round them up," he said. "They spooked."
       His horse was still jumping with excitement when I stopped beside him.
       "Frank, the cattle don't need quite so much persuasion."
       The frustration on the boy's face sparked a familiar feeling. I remembered needing desperately to impress my older brothers.
       I sighed. "I'll make you a deal. If I don't have to chase down any more cows that you've spooked before the end of the day, I'll take you to New Orleans as soon as school is out for the summer."
       "This summer?" His eyes were suddenly as big as saucers.
       "Yep."
       Frank frowned. "But Daddy says I'm too young to go to New Orleans."
       "Don't worry, I'll take care of your dad. All you have to do is calm down and let the cattle go at a leisurely walk. Think you can do that?"
       "Yes, sir!"
       I nodded then angled back to my position, whistling to move the cows ahead of me. Frank moved slowly forward.
       As the day advanced, so did the clouds. Rain began to fall around one o'clock. I pulled my slicker on and stopped to make sure Frank did the same. The rainwater felt like ice when it managed to find bare skin. I tucked my hands in and lowered my head. This was the part of driving cattle I never much liked.
       The trail seemed to hold every bit of the rain and flooded quickly. Midnight pawed at the puddles of water. I spoke softly to soothe him, but it didn't seem to work. Once he even splashed the water high enough to get my pants wet.
       When the rain eased to a drizzle, I dug jerky out of my saddlebag and chewed on it as we plodded along. Then I topped the beef off with a biscuit just before the rain picked up again. At least we didn't have thunder loud enough to spook the herd.
       By the time we approached the corral, Frank and I had about sixty head in front of us. I can't remember ever being so happy to see a fence. Isaac and Antoine had long since arrived, deposited their cattle in the corral and moved off to the side. Just after we did the same, JP and David drove their herd in. Antoine and Frank closed the fence behind the last calf.
       It was easy to see, even before we counted, that we had at least a hundred and twenty animals. We all pulled off our saddles and staked out the horses for the night.
       "Anyone run into problems?" I asked.
       "We found one down," Isaac said. "Tell Alcide the old speckled cow he was worried about didn't make it."
       "Okay. Anything else?"
       They shook their heads.
       "So," Antoine said, "how was your horse?"
       I shrugged. "Not bad. He likes to splash around a bit."
       Antoine grinned at his cousin. "He does like the water, no?"
       Isaac seemed to be working hard to keep from laughing. "Mais oui," he said.
       Even JP and David grinned. I decided that I wouldn't complain about Midnight again, no matter what happened. And they obviously expected something to happen.
       Becky handed me a cup of steaming coffee and leaned back on the buckboard beside me.
       "How's Al?" I asked.
       "He's weak, but better."
       "Good." I held the warm cup in both hands and sipped.
       "Dass, you must be tired."
       I smiled at her. "A little."
       She raised her eyebrows.
       "Okay, a lot."
       "Why don't you come back to the house with me?" she asked. "You could be back out here fairly early."
       "Thanks, but we need to start out right at daybreak. Don't worry, I'll be all right. Besides, if I went home, I'd miss the chance to sleep out here in a cold, wet bedroll."
       "Oh, of course," she said. "You certainly wouldn't want to miss that."
       "No."
       I finished the coffee and had another cup while JP stirred the warming stew. When it was ready, we all wolfed down a bowl or two and followed it with a piece of Becky's pound cake.
       Isaac's wife sat beside him while he ate, trying not to be too obvious about doting on him. I have to admit, I envied them their wedded bliss and wondered about the possibility of finding the same in the near future. Just thinking about Grace made me giddy.
       When dinner was over, we pulled the bedrolls out of the back of the rig, and the two women climbed into the front and headed home.
       It was a little chilly when the sun set, but at least the rain had stopped. JP stoked the fire and we all gathered around. The sound of the Gulf, closer than usual, drowned out the songs of all the night creatures except an occasional alligator. The cattle grazed twenty yards away.
       "The cattle look good," I said.
       "Yes," Isaac answered. "Much better than 'eighteen. Remember that?"
       I nodded. "That was bad."
       The drought had killed off lots of cattle around Marshall's Bayou. The animals that lived were bags of bones.
       "Yeah," Isaac said, "we got close to that last year, but the rain finally came. Still, most of the cisterns dried up first. Everyone was spooked."
       "Mama was worried," Frank said.
       "With good reason," Isaac said. "It's tough to keep children healthy with only salty water to drink."
       I watched Isaac push a twig into the fire. He was a man I respected, and a unique one. Most of the French Acadians I knew felt inferior to the rest of the world. In response, they were either sullen and quiet, like JP, or tended to drink too much and get boisterous. But Isaac was completely comfortable with himself and his heritage, and he was a man of integrity. People looked up to him.
       Antoine drew a flask from his saddlebag, opened it, took a sip and passed it on. The whiskey was better than any I'd had yet. Frank took the flask and looked at me.
       "One sip," I said. "That's it."
       The boy took a drink and then gagged and coughed. I slapped his back, and the group laughed. Frank flashed an embarrassed grin, then handed the flask to JP and joined into the friendly laughter. I couldn't resist tousling his hair.
       We talked a little longer, recalling old times both good and bad. Finally, I gave in to the weariness. I stretched my bedroll out beside the fire and lay down, trying not to groan at the ache in my back.
       Despite the cold and wet and pain, I was asleep in about twenty seconds.
       Morning arrived almost instantly. We only took time for one cup of hot coffee before saddling up. There was plenty of ground to cover, and no one wanted to be pushing a hundred cows in the dark.
       I left Frank and JP at the gate to count as we moved the herd from the pen. Isaac took point, and I waited to catch the stubborn steers that wanted to go the wrong way. There were a few. As the last of the herd made it through, Frank stayed back to close the gate then caught up with me.
       "A hundred and thirty-six," he said.
       "Really? That's more than we expected."
       "Yep. Daddy will be happy."
       "I'm sure he will. Now, work your way up to about the middle. We don't want any of the herd trying to slip away."
       "Yes, sir." Frank urged his horse to a fast walk.
       JP took the left flank as I took the right and we drove the cattle down the road toward the marsh. It was slow and uneventful; I had plenty of time to munch on biscuits and think.
       During the night, all the clouds had disappeared. It definitely hadn't been a Gulf storm moving in, only a fall shower. The marsh grass looked refreshed and greener.
       The road, however, was muddy. Cattle slipped and slid in front of me when they hit the soft spots. The herd trampled all the wheel ruts into mush. My horse plodded through the mess as surefooted as any.
       Shortly after eleven, we arrived at the trail that cut through the top of the marsh. The wide path was crossed periodically by deep ditches that fed the bayou. The water didn't flow fast enough for one to actually see the movement, but it eventually ended up in the Gulf.
       At the first crossing, the cattle bunched up in the front; the leaders were unwilling to step into the murky depths without goading. When they finally did, the front half of the herd charged across. But the back half was made up of the older, slower cows and newborns that would follow mama anywhere. I waited until the last were almost across before starting in.
       I guess I was daydreaming, because at first I thought Midnight had stepped into a gator hole. His back end went down quickly. Then I realized what was about to happen.
       Before he could drop completely, I jumped off, landing in thigh-deep water beside him, and waded out of the way. The horse fell to his knees and then to his side, completely submerging my saddle -- biscuits, raincoat, bedroll and all. I muttered a string of curses under my breath as I tugged on the reins.
       In his own sweet time, the horse rolled back to his knees, straightened out his front legs and then stood. Before he would move a step, he stretched his neck and shook from his nose to his tail, sending a spray of water twenty feet around him. Then he walked on as if nothing had happened. My saddle was soaked.
       I led him across the ditch before getting back on. I was met at the other side by Antoine and JP, who were laughing so hard they nearly fell off their mounts. I swung up into the saddle and trotted between the two, patting Midnight's neck.
       "Good boy," I said, "that was refreshing."
       Antoine's guffaw followed me until I caught up with the herd. Now I knew what they'd all been waiting for.
       It was the damnedest thing -- the way that gelding loved the water. Every ditch we crossed, he repeated his performance and there was absolutely no way for me to stop him. We got into a routine so that I was already climbing back on by the time he started up. It saved a lot of time, and resulted in me being drenched when we got to the corral four hours later.
       Isaac, who'd been in the lead all day, waited at the gate with one leg crossed over his saddle horn. He did a rotten job of hiding his amusement.
       "Mon Dieu! What happened to you?"
       I shrugged. "I was getting a bit dusty. I figured it would save on work if I didn't have to fill the tub tonight."
       "Oh? Is that so?"
       "Yep. Besides, I'm not that wet."
       I slid to the ground. My boots sloshing with each step gave me away. Even Frank got in on the action. When I shot him a threatening glare, he tried to stop laughing, but he just couldn't do it.
       "Let's get them counted," I said, trying to redirect everyone's attention. "I'm ready for supper."
       Isaac rode to the fence and hopped off. "How about you and me, Monsieur Wet Boots?"
       "All right, that's -- "
       "More like Monsieur Wet Ass," Antoine said, laughing at his own joke.
       " -- enough," I said, turning my glare on Antoine. "Get back there and move the cattle."
       "Yes, sir."
       We opened the gate and counted silently as the cattle squeezed through the small opening. When they were past us, they ran into the marsh and scattered.
       As the last one made it, I looked up.
       "One thirty-six?" I asked.
       Isaac nodded and extended his hand. I took it.
       "Damn good drive," he said.
       "Damn good," I agreed.
       Antoine passed another flask around for a quick toast. Frank didn't partake. The kid looked worn out, but he tried hard to hide it. I remembered how he used to work to stay awake at night when he was about five. I guess he was afraid of missing something. It was hard to believe how long ago that had been.
       I don't know why, but for the first time, at that moment, I felt I was really home. It was a good feeling.
       We rode back in tired silence.
       Something was nagging at the back of my brain, but I was too exhausted to figure out what. Or maybe too comfortable. I opened my eyes at the tap on the door.
       "Come in."
       Alcide carried a pitcher in with him. "Becky said she thought you might want this."
       I nodded as I took it from him and added the hot water to the tub. The steam was wonderful.
       "How did it go?" Alcide sat on the stool beside the tub. He looked frighteningly pale still, but I was glad to see him walking. I'd worried when Becky said he was taking a nap.
       "Good. Isaac said to tell you the old speckled cow didn't make it."
       Alcide sighed. "I didn't really expect her to."
       "You've got a hundred and thirty-six head."
       "That's about a dozen more than I thought. You didn't see any other brands in there, did you?"
       "No."
       "Good. That's a lot better than last year."
       "Yes," I said, "Isaac told me about the drought. Sounds like it was rough."
       "It was. It got so bad that James Strickler's wells salted up."
       "Really?" The nagging suddenly started again. "But his wells aren't salty now, are they?"
       "No," Alcide said, "Even Isaac's wells are good."
       "And James is south of the Trahan place, right?"
       "Yeah. Why? Is something wrong with the Trahan wells?"
       There was no way salt water from the Gulf would have bypassed every well in town to ruin one of Grace's. Why would Grace have lied? It didn't make any sense.
       "No," I said, "I must have misunderstood."
       We sat in silence for a moment. I looked up at Alcide. "I'm thinking about staying in Marshall's Bayou for a while. Would that be all right with you?"
       My brother smiled. "You know it would. But there's one thing. I don't want you staying here because you're worried about me. I'll be fine, Dassas. Really. This problem isn't going to do me in."
       "I know." I wasn't really convinced that he believed what he was telling me, but I wouldn't have admitted that.
       Alcide looked down at his folded hands. "This doesn't have anything to do with Grace, does it?"
       I smiled and shook my head. "No, not really."
       "But?" He looked up.
       "But I have been thinking about her a lot," I said.
       "Dassas, I hope you'll think hard about this before you get in too deep so soon after -- "
       I sat up, surprised by how quickly anger rose in my chest. "I don't give a damn about my reputation."
       "It's not that. I just think that Grace probably needs someone to lean on right now. Maybe -- maybe she could be persuaded to start something that wouldn't last."
       "You think she's using me?"
       Alcide shrugged. "I don't know, Dass. I just don't want to see you hurt."
       The only sound was the dripping of water from my arms as I thought about my brother's reservations. I knew there was a strong possibility that he was right -- I just hated to admit it, even to myself.
       "There's one other thing," I said.
       "What?"
       "I promised to take Frank to New Orleans next summer."
       Alcide frowned first, then grinned and shook his head. "As long as you promise to bring him back."
       "I promise."
       "Okay." He sighed as he rose. "I'll be on the porch when you get out."
       He walked slowly from the room, hunched slightly as if by age. I'd never seen Alcide look so frail. The sight chilled my heart.
       I'd nearly fallen asleep in the bathtub, but as soon as I stretched out on the bed my mind started racing. I recalled the year before I left Marshall's Bayou. The situation had been desperate, and then got worse. All the cisterns ran dry, and all the wells filled with salt water from the Gulf. Horses and cattle turned into walking skeletons before they dropped. And there were too many funerals as fevers swept through the area. It was tough to watch tiny caskets lowered into the ground.
       Giving up, I rolled out of bed, crossed the room and eased into a chair in front of the open window. As expected, the saddle had left several bruises on my backside. It took some work to find a comfortable position on the wooden seat.
       In the summer, I slept with all the windows open. But it was cool enough at night now to close them. Still, I needed the thick, fresh air so I kept one propped up. I folded my arms on the sill. The night was alive with sound.
       Why had Grace lied about the well? And why was she having her brother cover it if there was nothing wrong?
       Something else occurred to me. The only place I'd seen lumber lately was at the well. Kyle was using it to cover the hole.
       Billy had been hit with a piece of sawn lumber.
       The question I didn't ask Grace was the one that was probably most important: had Billy really hit her? There were plenty of cases in New Orleans of women who'd been driven to violence by heavy-handed men. I remembered finding one man with a kitchen knife stuck all the way through him. He had just reached the pinnacle of his nightly activities when his wife, apparently on top, drove the knife into his chest so hard that it pierced the mattress. She sported bruises on her arms and neck and a blue-and-red handprint on her face. I must admit I had a hard time arresting her.
       Had Billy hit Grace one too many times? Had she finally lashed out, striking him in the head with a board? She was a lot stronger than she looked -- certainly strong enough to do it. Or maybe her brother had done it, protecting her. Maybe the well held evidence of the crime. I couldn't imagine what kind of evidence that could be. It certainly wasn't Billy's body.
       I ran my hands through my hair as I rose and walked back to bed. I had to check out Grace's well.
       The idea that I might find something terrified me.
       The marsh was quiet and covered with predawn dew. I walked the trail I had once known so well, stumbling only twice. By the time I got to Grace's, the sky was pale blue and I could see the horizon, but the world still slept.
       I squeezed through the barbed wire fence and approached the well slowly. The top was now complete, with only a small pile of scrap lumber stacked beside it. The wood was already starting to gray in the Louisiana sun.
       As I started around the well, something crunched under my boots. I stopped, knelt and picked a piece of glass from the dirt. The shard was fresh and stained with something dark and sticky. Holding it, I rose and stepped closer.
       The well cap was tightly constructed. It would take a crowbar to pry a board loose. But that wouldn't do me any good until I could see down into the opening. Of course, it might not do me any good, anyway. What could possibly be hidden -- ?
       I stopped. The gentle morning breeze blew across the top of the well and hit my face. I could smell the fresh lumber -- and something else, a smell that was all too familiar.
       I cringed and then closed my eyes. "Dammit, Grace," I whispered.
       This explained a lot. Maybe too much.
--------
         *Chapter Ten*
       After making my discovery before dawn, I'd gone back home and waited impatiently for a decent hour. It was nearly nine as I stood on her doorstep. She didn't answer the door when I pounded on it.
       Grace and I had shared the most intimate moments two people could share, yet my heart hammered as I waited for her to answer.
       The house was silent. I checked the outbuildings.
       "Grace?"
       She wasn't in the barn. Neither was the buggy. But her filly was in one stall and the old gelding was in another.
       Maybe Kyle had taken the buggy. If so, Grace could be with him. Who knew how long they'd be gone?
       I really wanted to talk to her. It worried me that she'd lied about the well. Still, this was Grace. How could she have been involved in Billy's death? This was the woman I loved.
       I could do nothing but wait. Trying to find something else to concentrate on, I covered the ground to Brandon's quickly. I planned to buy tobacco for Alcide. I couldn't think of anything else to get him, and his birthday was less than a month away. If I had to order the gift, it could take that long to arrive.
       The breeze was almost biting as I climbed the stairs with my hands in my pockets. Winter was in the air. My footsteps echoed off the storefront as I traversed the dock, and the door squeaked at my entrance.
       When I realized Grace stood at the counter, I started toward her. The hushed conversation she and Mr. Brandon shared slowed my progress.
       "But, how am I supposed to eat?" Grace asked.
       "I'm really sorry, Mrs. White," Mr. Brandon said. "Isn't there anything you can use to pay on the account?"
       "If I had the money, I wouldn't be..."
       Grace spun around, and they both stared at me.
       "Grace?" I reached out for her arm.
       She shrank from my grasp then rushed past me and out the door. I was still in shock as I heard her footsteps on the stairs.
       I turned back to the elderly shopkeeper. "Why won't you give her credit?" I asked.
       "I've extended the credit far past the limit already. I can't make orders on credit." He sighed. "I feel just rotten."
       "What was she here for?"
       He nodded toward a crate that held flour, sugar and coffee, as well as something wrapped in butcher paper.
       "How much is this?" I asked.
       "Three dollars and twenty-eight cents."
       I dug a ten-dollar bill out of my pocket and dropped it on the counter. With the crate under my arm, I headed for the door.
       "Your change," Mr. Brandon said.
       "Put the rest on her account," I answered.
       Trying not to be too angry with the merchant, I let the door slam behind me. I knew he had to make a living, but the thought of letting a woman go hungry made me mad. When that woman was Grace, my blood boiled.
       She must have been running, because I never saw her on the trail ahead of me. Holding the crate, I pounded on her door again.
       This time I heard her cross the wooden floor. She opened the door just enough to speak through the crack.
       "Dassas, please go away."
       "Grace, open the door. I need to talk to you."
       "Please..."
       "I'm not leaving until we talk."
       She hesitated then finally opened the door. I walked past her and placed the crate on the kitchen counter.
       "You shouldn't have done that," she said.
       "Don't worry about the groceries. I have the money."
       I wanted to rush forward and sweep her into my arms, but it was important to keep my head. I needed to question the woman standing in front of me about her husband's death. She was a suspect, like any other.
       When I looked into her brown, red-rimmed eyes, damp from the tears that still stained her cheeks, it was hard to remember that. I stepped forward, and she fell against me. Holding Grace, I turned and leaned against the counter. Silent sobs wracked her body as I stroked her hair and held her.
       I don't know how long we stood together. Time always seemed to stop when I touched her. Much too quickly, she stepped back, wiping her eyes with her fingertips.
       "I'm -- sorry," she said.
       "Don't be," I answered.
       She nodded then unloaded the groceries with her back to me. I loved the way her hair, pulled up into a bun, broke free in soft strands at the collar of her blouse.
       Grace placed the empty crate on the floor and turned around. "What do you want to talk about?" she asked.
       "I want to know why you lied about the well."
       "What?"
       "The well. It isn't salty. Why did you lie?"
       She stared at me. "I didn't lie."
       "Grace, I know what's going on."
       "What?"
       Why did she insist on continuing the deceit? "Do you really expect me to believe your mare died from drinking salt water? How long did it take for her to wither away? A day?"
       Her eyes darkened as her stare turned into a frown.
       "What happened?" I asked. I needed an explanation, an excuse for her behavior. Anything. "I can't help you unless I know the truth. Did you two fight over it? An oil well in Marshall's Bayou -- that's worth a pretty penny."
       "Oil?"
       "Come on, Grace, drop the act."
       "Act?" Her frown was gone. She glanced out the window in the direction of the topic of discussion then looked at me again. "You're telling me there's oil in that well? But, my mare -- "
       There was no way Grace was as good an actress as this. She really didn't know there was oil in her well. Of course, that didn't mean she was off the hook for her husband's murder.
       "I assume your mare stuck her head in the well and got a snoot-full of sulfur dioxide." I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly as I walked across the room to the window. "Grace, tell me what really happened that morning."
       "I told you. Billy left for work. I heard him making noise in the kitchen, and then he was gone."
       "What kind of noise?"
       She shrugged. "I don't know. Noise."
       "Like he was looking for something? A jar, maybe?"
       "I don't know." Grace narrowed her eyes and looked at the floor as if recalling a distant memory. "Perhaps."
       I pulled the shard out of my pocket and held it in my palm. "I found this near the well. It has oil on it. I think it's part of a jar that was used to get a sample from the well. And I think Billy was the one who filled the jar."
       "Why do you think that?"
       "When Dr. Miller looked him over, he said Billy's right hand had crude under the fingernails. Not his left, just his right. I don't ever remember only getting one hand dirty in the fields. And it sure as hell didn't take a week to get my hands clean again. Billy had been home for more than a week, hadn't he?"
       She looked up at me again. "Two weeks," she said.
       "I think he got crude on his hand when he filled the jar."
       Grace stood in silence. What really bothered me was that she didn't ask who I thought had killed Billy. If I were in her shoes and was innocent, I would have asked.
       I returned the evidence to my pocket and ran my fingers through my hair. "What do you think happened?"
       "I don't know," she said. "I was asleep."
       "Where was Kyle?"
       She shrugged. "Gone."
       "Grace, the only people who would benefit from the well were you and Billy."
       "So, you think I killed my husband because of it? Why would I do that?"
       "Maybe he planned to keep the well for himself. You two had been fighting. You were overheard threatening him."
       "Dassas, you really think I had anything to do with Billy's death?"
       Of course not, I thought, I love you and I know you didn't do it. But the investigator in me knew I was only being swayed by my emotions. Anyone was capable of anything. That much I'd learned in New Orleans.
       Grace suddenly turned and walked from the kitchen. I followed her to the front door, and she held it open.
       "Thank you for the groceries," she said. "I'll pay you back as soon as I can. I wish you would leave now."
       "Grace -- "
       "I mean it. Don't come back." She spoke to me but looked out at the sky, her face tight with resolve.
       How could I blame her? If she really was innocent and I was accusing her of murder --  Then again, if she was guilty and I was too close to the truth, she'd want me gone.
       I walked away in a fog. What was I going to do with this new information? I should to go to the sheriff. If I waited long enough he'd come to me. Could I really do anything that would incriminate Grace?
       And what would happen when the rest of the town found out about the oil? The fever would hit. Oil fever. It was every bit as bad as gold fever, creating black, sticky boom towns where drill rigs rose into dead jungles and the stench spread for miles. But there was no way around that, either. The country was hungry for oil. Everyone would have a chance -- 
       I froze and stared at the bay gelding standing in the corral. His chest was dark with sweat.
       I spun around and stared at the house. How could I have been so blind? There was one other person who would prosper from the discovery. With Billy out of the picture, the land reverted to the children of the original owners. If Grace didn't know what was going on, Kyle must have. He was the one who had boarded up the well, hiding the treasure from prying eyes. And he wasn't gone the day Billy died -- he said he'd talked to Red.
       I skirted around the side of the house, avoiding the windows in the front. As I approached the door, I heard voices inside. I stopped, leaned forward and listened.
       "I lied for you," Grace said. "You killed my husband."
       I could barely hear Kyle's response. "What if I did? Who cares? The bastard didn't deserve to live, not with the way he treated you."
       "But, Kyle, you murdered him."
       "Yes, dear sister, I did. If I hadn't, he would have squandered away every penny we'll get from this well."
       "Kyle -- "
       There was suddenly silence in the house. I straightened up, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. As I stepped backwards, the door flew open. Kyle Trahan stood in the doorway with his pistol pointed at my chest.
       "Come in, Dassas. You're just in time."
       It wouldn't have taken much of a shot to hit me if I'd tried to run, and over his shoulder I saw Grace standing in the middle of the room, very much alone. I couldn't leave her there. I followed Kyle's instructions.
       I reached for Grace, and something cracked against my head and darkness fell.
       I'm not sure what I was aware of first -- the cold goo my cheek was pressed into or the pounding in my skull. I tried not to groan as I opened one eye. The old wooden wall in front of me made no sense.
       Then the smell hit me, and my stomach tightened. It was the stench of blood, old and new, decaying and fresh. If I didn't get up, I was going to retch.
       I raised my head and pushed up to my hands and knees. The world spun wildly as I studied the imprint of my face in the mud.
       "Let me help him!"
       Grace's voice broke through the pain, and I looked up. Kyle restrained her by the wrist. His pistol was still pointed in my direction.
       "He's not important," he said. "I'm giving you a chance at happiness, Grace. They're going to pay us a fortune for the oil lease."
       I groaned as I sat back on my heels and held the back of my head. Blood had already caked around the wound.
       We were behind the barn. The ground was stained black with years of death. This was the spot reserved for butchering, where chicken and hog blood mingled with steer's. To my left, a hatchet was buried in an old tree stump and a butcher's knife stood beside it. This was probably the butcher's knife used on Billy White. An empty hook swung above us, suspended by rope and pulleys. Looking at it made my head swim even more.
       "Kyle," I said, "why did you kill Billy?"
       Kyle sneered. "He was a worm, nothing more. He discovered the truth and was about to go to Sun Oil. I couldn't let him get his grubby hands on this money."
       "But, Kyle," Grace said, the tears barely held in check, "why? You've always been successful. What difference did it make to you?"
       Kyle glanced around then sighed. "My dear sister, things haven't always gone as well as they should. I lost my fortune in California to a claim jumper. And he was a stubborn man, Mr. Francisco Ferdinand. He tried to tell me my claim was worthless, that he had the original. I had no choice but to get rid of him. I'd invested nearly every penny in that land. I'm afraid I spent my last dollar getting that filly for you."
       Grace's tears flowed now as she stared in horror at her brother. He still gripped her wrist.
       "What about Red?" I asked.
       Kyle glared at me and huffed. "That stupid old man. He showed up here looking for me. It turns out that Francisco's family is rather wealthy. Wealthy enough not to need my land. And wealthy enough to put a reward on my head. I found out about it when I was in Arizona. I guess the word finally made it to Marshall's Bayou, and old Red decided to collect.
       "He must have followed me out to the woods that morning. It was still dark. He tried to sneak up on me while I was burying Billy, but I heard him coming. Fat, stupid old man," he muttered.
       A shiver ran up my spine as I realized that the beast who held Grace's wrist had already killed at least three times. What was to keep him from killing again?
       "Kyle," Grace pleaded, "please."
       He turned an evil grin on her. "Too bad you have to be so prim and proper. Of course, once the town finds out that you ran off with your boyfriend here, they won't think quite so well of you, will they? And your husband dead less than a month. You wicked girl, you. I'll probably end up with a houseful of pies from sympathetic young widows. It could be fun."
       I jumped to my feet. The world whipped around before my eyes, and I fell over, cursing.
       Kyle glanced at me and snickered. Then he returned his attention to Grace. He was going to shoot her, and I couldn't stop him. I couldn't even focus. The two of them were blurs.
       "The shots," I said. "Someone will hear them."
       "Yes, they will," he answered. "And I'll tell them about the fox I saw carrying off the last chicken. Fast little devil, I don't think I even hit him. Funny that I can't find my sister. And look! The buggy is gone. She must have taken it somewhere. Maybe she had someone with her."
       As my focus returned, I could see the smile spreading across his face.
       "It will be perfect," he said. "I'll have witnesses to my discovery."
       Kyle pulled Grace closer and raised the gun to her head. "The marsh is an awfully big place. I'll make sure no one stumbles over the bodies this time," he said quietly.
       God, I had to do something. With every bit of strength I could find in my body and soul, I pushed myself forward. When my shoulder hit the soft flesh of his stomach, I heard the gun go off. I prayed the bullet hadn't found its intended target as I pushed Kyle to the ground and spread myself on top of him. I heard him grunt at the impact and then yell through clenched teeth. My vision was gone again, but I swung at the place where I thought his face should be. My fist must have just grazed his chin. His fist was more accurate.
       There was nothing I could do but pin him down until I could see again, so I lay on top of him, fighting to hold him to the ground. It wasn't easy.
       When a shot fired, we both jumped and lay still.
       "That's enough!"
       I turned my head and squinted at Grace. I wasn't really sure which of us she pointed the gun at. Maybe both.
       My eyesight cleared, and I worked my way to my feet. Grace followed my movement with the barrel as I approached her. Her entire body visibly shook.
       "Grace, it's all right," I said. "Give me the gun."
       Flame flew from the end of the barrel and for one fantastic moment, I thought she'd shot me. I froze. Then I heard the groan behind me and turned to find Kyle on his back, the hatchet in his hand. Blood oozed from between his fingers where he held his shoulder.
       Grace's face was as white as a sheet. I stepped forward and grabbed her just as she collapsed. Still unsteady myself, I dropped to my knees then sat and pulled her into my lap.
       "What's going on?" James Strickler ran into the yard. As the closest neighbor, he must have heard the shots and worried about Grace.
       "Can you help us up?" I asked.
       James grabbed my arm and pulled me up. I carried Grace to the house. Fortunately, James didn't release me because I would have tripped over my own feet.
       As soon as I stretched Grace out on the sofa and sat on the floor beside her, James ran from the house.
       "I'll get help," he said over his shoulder.
       "Grace?" I pushed her hair back and held her hand to my lips. There was no blood on her; the first bullet had missed. I was relieved to feel her hand tighten around my fingers.
       James left for Cameron to get the sheriff, and Joseph Strickler removed the bullet from Kyle's shoulder and bandaged him. Grace had a dozen women watching over her when I left.
       "Sit," Becky said, after we got home. "And lean forward."
       "It's better already," I said, following directions anyway. There was certainly no point in resisting. My vision had cleared and I'd regained my balance, but I was suffering from a tremendous headache. Apparently, Kyle had hit the back of my head with his pistol and left a fairly good gash.
       Scissors snipped behind my head.
       "Come on," I said, trying to sit up.
       "Don't move, Dass, or you'll get these scissors in your scalp. It's a good thing you have a hard head. And don't worry, your gorgeous curls will grow back."
       I heard my niece giggle.
       "Chloe, go play on the porch," Becky said.
       "I want to watch," Chloe said.
       Her mother must have given her one of those looks that only mothers can give because the child left the room. The snipping continued.
       "This may sting a little," Becky said.
       It was an understatement.
       "Damn, Becky, that's enough," I said through clenched teeth. The whiskey ran down each side of my neck.
       "Don't start whining again," she said.
       "I'm not -- whining. You're -- enjoying this," I managed to get out.
       After several more torturous minutes, she taped a bandage over the cut and squeezed my shoulders.
       "All better now," she said.
       I took a deep breath as I sat up. The woman had a cruel streak.
       The backdoor slammed and Alcide strode in. "Is he going to live?"
       "I'm afraid so," Becky said. "You two want coffee?"
       "Please," he answered, as he took the seat across from mine. "How do you feel?"
       "Like I got kicked in the head by a mule," I said.
       "At least you didn't get shot."
       "Thank God for small favors."
       "Dassas," Becky said, scolding me for my blasphemous remark.
       "Sorry."
       Alcide continued, "Isaac and Harley are watching Kyle at Theriot's."
       "Good."
       We thanked Becky for the coffee then waited until she left the room.
       "What on earth were you thinking?" my brother asked, frowning sternly.
       I shrugged. "I didn't realize he had a gun until it was too late."
       "You could have been killed."
       "I nearly was."
       Alcide shook his head and smiled at me. "You solved the murders."
       "Yeah."
       "You don't seem very happy about it."
       All I could think about was Grace. I wanted to hold her and keep her safe, but I wasn't even sure she'd ever speak to me again. And I couldn't say I'd blame her. If she'd accused me of murder I would have been upset.
       "Just worried," I said.
       "About Grace?"
       I nodded slowly.
       "Have you told her how you feel?" he asked.
       "No, not yet."
       "Are you going to?"
       "Yeah."
       Alcide rose and disappeared into the kitchen then returned with the coffee pot and refilled my cup.
       "Good," he said.
       The house was nearly dark when I pushed the door open.
       "Grace?"
       Mrs. Strickler sat beside a single lamp in the living room, a pile of sewing in her lap. She pressed her finger to her lips.
       "Shh," she said, "Mrs. White is asleep."
       I nodded as I walked quietly into the room, easing the door closed behind me.
       "How is she?" I asked.
       "She'll be all right after she gets some rest. That was quite a shock, you know."
       "Yes, ma'am."
       "Have you heard if the sheriff arrived?"
       "Yes, ma'am, he did. Kyle's in custody. He'll stand trial as soon as the circuit judge gets back."
       "That poor girl," Mrs. Strickler said. "I suppose she'll lose her brother now. After all she's been through."
       I thought about asking to see Grace, but it wasn't proper, and Mrs. Strickler was a very proper woman. I could wait. Grace would need someone to lean on during the trial, and I would be there for her.
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         *Chapter Eleven*
       It's funny how things work out sometimes. I'd dreaded the upcoming trial, for Grace's sake. She would have to tell the world about her brother and live the horror again. She might even have had to admit the truth about her husband.
       Then Kyle saved us all the trouble. The third day in custody, he managed to escape. A posse hunted him down but was unable to bring him in alive. I wondered if that had been his plan all along. There was no doubt he'd hang for killing Red.
       Kyle's funeral was on a Thursday. The woods looked bleak from the cemetery. The grass seemed to have died overnight when a cold front moved in.
       Grace wore a black dress and veil and stood alone beside the grave. I saw no sign that she cried. In fact, she didn't move at all until the service was over. Then she turned and walked to the carriage.
       I followed her and helped her in.
       "Grace, are you all right?"
       Her golden eyes shown through the veil as she looked down at me. "Yes," she said.
       "May I stop by later?"
       She shook her head. "Not today, Dassas."
       "Tomorrow?"
       She nodded.
       I kissed the back of her gloved hand before releasing it.
       During the week of turmoil, I hadn't been alone with Grace at all. I wanted her with every bit of my heart and soul -- and body. I wanted to fall to my knees in front of her and beg her to marry me.
       I'd even ordered a ring from Mr. Brandon. He'd assured me it would be in on the Friday boat. I would wait for the boat to arrive before going to see her. Then I could propose to her in style. All she had to do was agree to share my life. Hell, I could even wait to take her to bed again. I suddenly seemed to be filled with patience -- something I'd never had in great abundance before.
       Grace Cormier. The name bounced around in my head as I watched her carriage wind down the road back to the marsh.
       "Dass?"
       I looked over as Becky hooked her arm through mine.
       "It isn't considered good taste to look so happy at a funeral," she whispered.
       "Sorry," I whispered back.
       I helped her into the buggy and climbed in beside her. We followed the procession.
       "Is Grace holding up?" she asked.
       "Yes, I think so."
       "Why were you smiling?"
       I grinned. "Just thinking about tomorrow."
       "What's tomorrow?"
       "It's the day I ask Grace to marry me."
       Becky's eyes widened. "Really?"
       I nodded.
       "Dass, I don't think enough time has passed since Billy's death -- "
       "I don't give a damn," I said, "I can't wait any longer."
       "Oh? So Dassas has lost his heart?"
       "I prefer to think I've found someone to share it with."
       Becky squeezed my arm. "I always knew there was a romantic hidden in there somewhere."
       "Just don't you dare tell that to anyone."
       I winked at her, and she smiled.
       There was a bit of a crowd at the dock Friday morning. Several people waited on the arrival of loved ones, and several more, like me, waited for the freight. I stepped into Theriot's.
       "Dassas!" Harley bellowed. "Come on over here. You're just in time to buy me a drink."
       I couldn't believe I was even considering a drink before noon, but I thought it might help my nerves. I'd spent all morning and most of the night trying to decide what to say. My hands shook.
       "Sure, why not," I muttered, pulling coins from my pocket and slapping them onto the bar.
       Buddy looked around then filled the glasses under the bar and placed them in front of us. Harley and I both downed the liquid fire at once.
       "So," Buddy said, leaning on his elbows, "have you thought about our offer? I think you'd make one hell of a chief. Especially now."
       I smiled. "Thanks. I'm still considering it."
       In truth, I was. The chief's job was something I could do while working with Alcide. The pay wasn't great, but it would help. Especially if I had a family to support.
       I looked over at Harley and found him squinting toward the window.
       "Ain't that Grace White? Where the hell is she going?"
       I spun around and was shocked to find Grace on the dock. She was dressed in traveling clothes and stood between two carpetbags.
       I ran out and skidded to a stop. "Grace?"
       "Dassas. I -- I didn't know you were here."
       "Grace, what are you doing?"
       Noise from the tug's engine filled the air as it pulled up to the dock. People pushed their way to the edge.
       I grabbed Grace's arm and led her down the steps to a sheltered place behind the dock.
       "Grace, what are you doing?"
       "I'm leaving," she said.
       "You can't! Not now."
       "Why not?"
       "Because. You can't."
       I studied her beautiful eyes as they studied mine. Pain shot through my chest when I realized she was really leaving.
       "Where are you going?"
       "To New York."
       "Why?"
       She smiled at me, but her eyes filled with tears. Mine did the same.
       "Because of you," she said. "You're the one who convinced me there's a world to see. I plan to see it."
       I wanted to beg her to stay, but I couldn't do it. I'd been selfish enough already. I just nodded.
       Grace wiped her eyes then reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope.
       "I was going to post this before I left," she said.
       I took the envelope, turned it over and frowned at my name written in flowing letters. As I started to tear it open, she placed her hand on mine.
       "Please, don't read it yet."
       "Grace -- "
       I looked down at her lovely face, bathed in sunlight and glistening with tears. My voice was gone, so I pulled her to me and kissed her, trying to fill her with the emotion that was drowning my heart. When I could no longer breathe, I held her and pressed my mouth to her ear.
       "Be happy," I whispered.
       She nodded.
       Then I released her. Grace left me. I couldn't watch. As soon as the sound of her shoes on the stairs faded, I hurried down the path along the bayou until I found a clearing. Gasping for air, I sat and opened the letter.
       Dearest Dassas,
       By the time you read this, I will be gone. I'm going to live with my aunt in New York, at least for now. I know you will be happy for me. It's my time to see what's out there.
       You've given me things I've never had. You've given me confidence and courage. No one has ever treated me the way you have, and I am eternally grateful.
       I must tell you the truth. I've always loved you, Dassas Cormier, for as long as I can remember. And I always will. You broke my heart when you left, but I forgive you. I wish you a long, happy life. I will remember you every night in my prayers, as well as my dreams.
       Perhaps our paths will cross again. I do hope so.
       All my love,
       Grace
       The tears fell as I carefully slid the letter back into the envelope and folded it into my pocket. I couldn't begrudge Grace her chance for happiness, even if it meant letting her go.
       Still, it hurt like hell.
       "I'll always love you, Grace Trahan," I whispered.
       Closing my eyes, I listened to the tug whistle announcing the boat's departure. Then the engine roared. After a long while, the sounds of the marsh swallowed the mechanical chugs. A gator called out. I'd never realized what a lonely call it was.
       I'd been through pain before, but this was a whole new realm. Still, I knew I could handle it. When the tears finally dried, I pushed myself to my feet and walked slowly back to Theriot's. The dock was nearly empty. I returned to the barstool.
       "Buddy, give me another one."
       He nodded and placed a glass before me. The whiskey felt good burning its way down. I pushed the glass forward and looked at the two men who studied me in silence.
       "I've decided to take the job," I said.
       Buddy smiled, reached under the counter and produced a badge. He handed it to me. I put it on the bar and slid it to my right.
       "Not yet," I said. "First I plan to get drunk."
       Harley reached over and squeezed my shoulder. "Well, I guess I'll just have to keep you company," he said. "I sure don't want to see you get drunk alone."
       I nodded, sighed and raised a fresh glass.
       "Happy birthday, Alcide."
       My brother smiled then hugged me. "Thanks," he said. Holding me at arm's length, his smile spread across his whole face, filling even his eyes. "I'm happy that you're here to celebrate with me."
       "Me, too." I handed him the package of tobacco.
       Alcide pulled the ribbon off, opened the pouch and held it to his nose. "Mmm," he said, "smells fresh. Thank you."
       I lifted Chloe into my arms, and she giggled as she reached out and touched my new moustache with her fingertips. She pulled her hand away.
       "What do you think?" I asked her.
       "Feels funny," she said.
       "Funny?"
       She nodded.
       I gobbled at her neck. She squirmed and squealed. "It tickles!"
       I laughed at her gleaming eyes as I lowered her to her feet. She was definitely going to break some poor man's heart someday.
       Becky pulled me down for a kiss on the cheek.
       "I think it looks nice," she said.
       "Thanks."
       "Of course, it does tickle."
       I shook my head as she walked into the kitchen.
       "Coffee will be ready in a minute," she said.
       I sat in the chair beside my brother's.
       "How was Cameron?" he asked.
       "Good. The sheriff offered me a job."
       "Are you going to take it?"
       "What, and miss all this excitement?"
       Alcide nodded. "Good," he said. "I'll miss you when you leave again."
       "I'm not going anywhere just now."
       "How's the house?"
       I sighed. "It's a little strange." Living in Grace's house without her was a tough thing at first, but I was adjusting. In a way, it felt like part of her was with me. "Gulf Oil is moving in next week. I'm not thrilled at the thought of having a rig in my front yard, but we'll see. I can't beat the price."
       Grace had arranged, through her lawyer, to have her house available for the chief of police to rent at a very reasonable rate. She must have known I'd accept the job.
       Alcide leaned back in his rocker. "Got any plans for Thanksgiving?"
       "I've been informed that I'll be having dinner with you," I said.
       "Well, good." He looked over at me with a strange sort of smile. "I got a letter from Coralee. She'll be here, too."
       I cringed.
       "Now, it's not as bad as all that," he said. "She's your sister."
       "Yeah."
       Alcide laughed.
       "What?" I asked.
       "Oh, nothing. I'm just glad you're going to be here. Otherwise, I'd have to suffer through it alone."
       Becky carried in a tray of coffee cups and gave us each one. Then she sat on the sofa.
       "I almost forgot," Alcide said. "I have a horse for you."
       "What's wrong with this one?"
       My brother looked at me with wide, innocent eyes. "Nothing. Why would you think something was wrong with him?"
       I held my coffee out of the way as I helped Fred up into my lap. His pudgy little smile made me laugh. I caught Becky watching me and winked at her.
       I guess, with the help of my family, my heart was on the mend. Above all else, it felt good to be home.
         END
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         *About the Author*
       Sarah Baker grew up in New Orleans, Louisiana. After a year at Emory University in Atlanta, she dropped out and moved to Alaska, where she enjoyed a taste of the Wild West pipeline days. Three years later, Sarah returned to the Lower 48 and earned a master's degree in engineering from The University of Texas at Austin. As a civil engineer for the government, she has lived all over the United States, but considers both Alaska and Louisiana home. She currently lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with her own personal hero, has a fantastic job working for the Forest Service and has finally stumbled onto the joy of her life -- writing.

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