Each Time We Love (3 page)

All too soon Jeremy found himself locked in the adobe-walled
jail in San Antonio, fearing that every day might be his last. For
months he languished in his small cell while the Spanish officials
argued and waited for word from Mexico City about what to do with him.
And when word did finally arrive, Jeremy's heart sank—he was to be
taken to Mexico City to be tried for the murder of Bias Davalos.

In Mexico City, his plight did not improve dramatically even
though he was found innocent of killing the Spaniard. He was still a
gringo and viewed with great suspicion by the Spanish, To his horror,
he found himself sentenced to ten years in prison simply for having
been in the country without permission and, of course, for stealing
Davalos's horse and saddle.

Nearly a year later from the day he had first laid eyes on
Davalos, as Jeremy stared morosely out of the barred window of his tiny
cell, a cell that would be his home for ten long years, he viciously
cursed a fate that had shown him the way to great riches and then had
cruelly prevented him from seeking it.

But time will pass, he told himself grimly as he began to mark
off with a pebble the days of his confinement on the walls of his
prison. Time will pass and when it does… A crafty smile curved his
mouth. When it does, I'll be paying a visit to Savanna O'Rourke___

Part
One

Fortune's
Daughter

Spring,
1815

Come,
send round the wine, and leave

points
of belief To simpleton sages, and reasoning
fools.

Irish Melodies
Thomas
Moore

"Savanna,
put the damn rifle down! You know you're not going
to shoot me!" The voice was huskily masculine and decidedly
exasperated; the gleam in the dark eyes, however, was exceedingly warm.
But then the sight of Savanna O'Rourke often brought a warm gleam to
the eyes of most men, and Bodene Sullivan was no different—even if he
was her cousin.

Standing merely an inch under six feet, endowed with the face
and form of some ancient goddess, Savanna O'Rourke was undeniably a
pulse-stirring sight as she stood there tall and proud in the late
afternoon light of the Louisiana sun, the fading rays turning her
glorious mane of waist-length, wavy red-gold hair into a halo of fire
that danced around her bewitchingly lovely features. Even the plain
gown of brown homespun couldn't disguise the exquisitely formed body it
clothed, her temptingly full breasts straining above the modest bodice,
her narrow waist and womanly hips clearly defined under the coarse
material. She was barefoot, her slender feet balancing easily on the
old log on which she stood, strands of ghostly gray-green Spanish moss,
hanging from a swamp cypress behind her, framing her head and
shoulders. Few men remained uninterested in her presence, but this
morning, despite her sensual appeal, it was the long black rifle held
so menacingly in her slim hands that was the object of Bodene's rapt
attention.

When Savanna remained unmoved by his words, Bodene held out
his arms placatingly and in his most coaxing tone, one that seldom
failed him, said,
"I
promise, I haven't come to
play any more tricks on you."

"That's
what you said the last time!"
Savanna O'Rourke snapped, the rifle holding steady. Not the least bit
intimidated when confronted by a charming, powerfully built rascal who
stood five inches over six feet, she threatened darkly, "I warned you,
Bodene, that if you dared show your face around here again, I'd shoot
you on sight!"

Bodene's handsome mouth quirked into a grin. "But you know you
didn't mean it, sweetheart—you wouldn't shoot your only cousin, now
would you!"

Savanna tried hard to resist that devilishly attractive grin
and the wheedling note in his voice, but despite her avowed
determination not to let Sullivan inveigle his way into her life again,
she could feel herself weakening. Her aquamarine eyes narrowed.
Sullivan was
not
going to slip under her guard
this time! "Go away! Go back to New Orleans and your gaming house and
fancy women! There is nothing here for you!"

"You're here," he growled unhappily, his glance taking in the
dismal surroundings. His tall, broad-shouldered body garbed in
form-fitting buckskin breeches, an elegantly cut dark blue jacket and
an embroidered waistcoat, Bodene stood on a small landing with a
roiling, muddy Mississippi River to his back; in front of him, behind
Savanna, lay the dark, mysterious swamps; to his right, a pitiful
cluster of dilapidated buildings was the only sign of human habitation.
A few scrawny chickens scratched hopefully around the sagging porch of
one of the dwellings, and a pristine sign declaring proudly "O'Rourke's
Tavern," hung from the edge of a roof badly in need of repair. Behind
the buildings Sullivan knew that there were more chickens, as well as
some pigs and a skinny cow. His mouth twisted.

He
almost
wished the damned British had
been able to penetrate this far north of New Orleans before the
Americans had driven them back—he'd now be looking at a pile of burned
rubble and Savanna wouldn't have any excuse to remain here. The only
problem with that scenario, he admitted ruefully, was the fact that if
the British
had
gotten this far inland, the
Americans wouldn't have been the undisputed victors of the Battle of
New Orleans and the War of 1812 wouldn't have ended on such a
resoundingly triumphant note for the United States. But fortunately, in
January of this year of 1815, the Americans
had
won the Battle of New Orleans, for which Bodene was inordinately
thankful. He smiled grimly. He'd be even
more
thankful if he could now just convince Savanna to give up the
ridiculous notion of eking out a living in this godforsaken stretch of
no-man's land! If only she weren't so damned stubborn!

Distractedly running a hand through his rebellious black hair,
he muttered, "I heard you had some trouble. A gambler came into my
place recently and said he'd stopped by here on his way downriver and
that some of Hare's old gang—Micajah Yates, to be exact—had paid you a
visit and damn near wrecked the place."

"Por Dios!
That has
nothing
to do with you!" she flashed back, outraged that he had assumed that
she couldn't take care of herself, yet touched at the same time. But
then that was typical of the feelings Bodene Sullivan aroused within
her—nearly all her life she had been alternately torn between wanting
to wring his neck and adoring him!

There were only six years between the cousins— Bodene was
twenty-eight and Savanna had just turned twenty-two in February—and
while their resemblance to each other was not marked, their kinship was
apparent to most people in their impressive height, the stubborn curve
of their jaws and the utterly mesmerizing charm of their flashing
smiles. Their personalities were more alike than either would have been
pleased to admit—both were hot-tempered, unbelievably obstinate and
proud almost to the point of being arrogant, yet they were generous,
quick to laugh and fiercely loyal. They had been raised together and
they shared something more than just having grown up together—both were
the children of men who had not seen fit to marry their mothers, and
both had suffered because of it.

The bond between them was exceptionally strong, despite their
frequent, loud and vociferous disagreements, and Bodene's eyes took on
that bitter gleam Savanna knew of old as he said grimly, "It has
everything
to do with me and you damn well know it! How do you think it makes me
feel to hear that a band of outlaws have been harassing you?
Especially
"Murdering" Micajah! You're up here all alone, miles from anywhere or
anyone, and you just can't seem to understand that you might be in
danger!"

Savanna's full mouth curved into a faint smile. "I'm not
alone. Sam's with me."

"Sam!"
Bodene bit out explosively. "What
the hell good is Sam?"

"I'se a lot more good than I look, Mister Bo," claimed a soft
voice, and an old, grizzle-haired black man stepped out from between
the buildings, a rifle that could have been the twin of Savanna's held
competently in his bony hands. In his youth Sam Bracken had been a
magnificent specimen of manhood, tall and deep-chested, but now, at
almost seventy-five years old, after a hard life spent working in the
cane and cotton fields, he had an obvious frailty about him.

Bodene looked discomforted. When he was a child, Sam had
outfoxed him and tanned his backside more times than he cared to think
about. And despite his age, the old man would prove to be a
surprisingly tough and tricky opponent if the need arose.

"Sorry, Sam—I didn't mean to belittle your abilities," Bodene
apologized wryly. "It's just that I go half mad when I think of her up
here, living God knows how! When she could be safe in New Orleans or
with Elizabeth."

Savannah snorted. "Live with my mother?" "She might yearn for
respectability, but it doesn't interest me—
especially
not if it involves marriage to that earnest young shopkeeper she's been
wishing on me since I was eighteen!"

Bodene grimaced. Elizabeth O'Rourke, Savanna's mother, was
undoubtedly one of the sweetest, gentlest women alive, but having
turned her back on the genteel world of her birth, she craved
respectability for her daughter. Heedless of Savanna's outraged
arguments, Elizabeth just couldn't get it through her head that her
daughter
really
didn't want to marry and didn't
give a damn about respectability.

"Look," he began placatingly, "could we please go inside and
talk?" His eyes hardened and he muttered, "And would you please put
that damn rifle down before we both do something we're going to regret?"

An impish grin suddenly curved Savanna's full mouth. "Such as
you forcing me to shoot you!"