Midnight in Ruby Bayou (41 page)

Walker chuckled.

She looked for him again. She could tell he was closer, but she still couldn't see him. Sound carried a long way in the marsh. “Where are you?”

“Behind a tongue of mud and marsh grass. Keep talking. I'm liking the picture of you and Honor doing your brother's laundry.”

“We're smarter than that. We let Kyle herd us home, then we waited. Sure enough, he slipped out and got on his bike. We followed him back to the make-out spot. He hid where we had before and watched. You should have seen his eyes. Did I mention that Libby had the biggest boobs in the county?”

“Nope, but I'm getting the picture.”

“A cow at milking time?” Faith asked innocently.

“Never seen one of them.”

“She had two, actually.”

Walker gave up and laughed. “There you go.”

“Where? I haven't moved.”

He pushed back from a blind tongue of water that ended in a mudbank. “Just full of sass and vinegar, aren't you?”

“
Moi?
You must be thinking of my twin.”

Quietly he poled around a bunch of reeds. Faith stood thirty feet away, her back to him, just on the other side of a low ridge of grass. She wore jeans that were old enough to be soft and tight enough to make him remember where she was the hottest.

“What I'm thinking about,” he said, “is that sweet spot I found last night.”

His voice was low, husky, and seemed close. But she still couldn't find him. She made an impatient sound and peered over the grass toward the trees. No one. “Think out loud. I can't see you yet.”

“I'm thinking about how I'd like to slide you out of those jeans again. I'm thinking about the way the backs of your thighs feel against my palms when I—”

She cleared her throat loudly and started talking. Fast. “And I'm thinking about the front page of that newspaper you mentioned.”

“Turn around, sugar. No one's here but us.”

She looked over her shoulder. Walker was screened by a clump of grass. Or standing in the mud. Or something. It was a lot wetter out where he was than where she was.

“I knew you were good, sugar,” she said huskily, “but I didn't know you could walk on water.”

Laughter and an odd sort of pain sliced through Walker. He found himself wishing that he could put Faith into the skiff, glide from marsh to bayou, and disappear with her.

Forever.

Take care of her any way you have to. Lawyers are cheap.

The best way he could take care of her was to get her back to Seattle and then disappear. She was a forever-and-family kind of woman. All he would let himself be was a here-and-now, solitary kind of man. The cost of failing someone else was just too high.

For the second time in his life, Walker wished all the way to his soul that things could be different.

Nothing changed except the amount of pain he carried around inside him.

He wasn't surprised. He had learned a long time ago that wishing didn't change a damned thing.

“What are you doing?” Faith asked.

He eased the skiff around the mound of grass. “I'm thinking about the best way to get you into this skiff without getting you muddy as a frog hunter.”

The sexy humor in her eyes disappeared as she saw the disreputable-looking skiff. “Me? In
that?
Forget it. I'd rather be lost in the marsh.”

“It's a good skiff.”

“It's a piece of crap.”

He gave the oars a deceptively easy pull. The prow of the little boat buried itself in the grass about six feet away from her. “Climb aboard.”

“I wouldn't get in if my life depended on it,” Faith said flatly.

Walker looked over his shoulder at her. She wasn't kidding. “Don't like small boats?” he drawled.

“Wrong. I loathe them.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I spent the most terrifying hours of my life with Honor and my brothers in a small boat. Naturally the younger sisters were facedown in the fish and stinky water at the bottom of the boat while the boys worked like hell to get us ashore before the wind or waves dumped all of us into the strait. Where, by the way, the water temperature would have killed us in about half an hour.”

“There's no wind here, no waves, and the water isn't cold.”

“I'm happy for you.”

“But you're not getting in the boat.”

“Right.”

“I'll let you sit up just like one of the guys,” Walker drawled.

“No, thanks.”

“I'll bail it out.”

“Hang colored lights and banners if you like. I'm still staying on land.”

“You're really scared, aren't you?” he said quietly.

“Give the boy a gold star for figuring it out.” Faith's voice, like her mouth, was tight.

He laid the pole aside and climbed out easily over the bow, dragging the little skiff well above the reach of the slowly rising tide. When he turned toward her, she backed away as though afraid he would grab her and dump her in the skiff.

“Easy, Faith,” Walker said. “I wouldn't do that to you.”

She took a shaky breath and a better grip on her nerves. Walker wasn't the kind of bully who would grab her and force her to do something—for her own good, of course.

“I know,” she said. “Sorry. Some people are terrified of snakes, or bats, or moths, or heights, or caves. I'm terrified of little boats.”

“Sounds like you have reason. I guess it didn't take Honor that way, since she and Jake spend so much time on his boat. Or is it only open skiffs and such that bother you?”

“Both Honor and I were terrified by anything less than a ship for years. Until Kyle disappeared, Honor refused to board any craft shorter than two hundred feet. But the only way for her to help Kyle was to use a small boat.” Faith shrugged jerkily. “Honor used the damn thing. After a while, she came to love it. And Jake. He had a lot to do with it.”

“Well, nothing so dire as death or love is at stake, so let's see if we all can't find our way out of this little bit of tidal marsh on foot.”

“What about that?” she asked, pointing toward the skiff as though it was a snake.

“I'll take care of it.”

Walker checked that the skiff was secure before he led Faith over her back trail. It took several false turns before he found the point where she had turned wrong. Soon muddy clumps of grass gave way to sandy scrub. From there, the path to the beach was clear.

“If you know the way to the house from here,” he said, “I'll get the skiff and meet you at the dock.”

“I know the way. Just go up that dip in the sand berm and follow the path to the live oaks. But I want to go shelling some more.”

Walker tried to think of a nice way to tell her to head back to Ruby Bayou where he could keep an eye on her. If he gave her an order, she would get her back up and walk the beach until hell froze solid.

Sensing his reluctance, Faith dug in her jeans pocket and pulled out the swirling fragment of whelk. “The lines of the shells here are incredible. Elegant yet powerful.”

“Sounds like your jewelry.”

She smiled almost shyly, pleased all over again that he truly liked her work. “With luck, some of it will be.”

Walker made his decision—roundabout rather than head-on. “Watch what you pick up. The cone shells are poisonous if the snail is still alive. They won't kill you, but they sure won't help you, either.”

She blinked. “Poisonous snails?”

“This is the Low Country, sugar, home of copperheads and cottonmouths and even a rattler or two. Anything that survives here likely has teeth or a stinger. Or both.”

“Does that include people?”

He smiled, showing two rows of hard white teeth. “What do you think?”

She looked beyond the smile to the tension around his dark blue eyes. “I think I'll head back to the house and see if Mel is awake. She hasn't been here long enough to bite or sting.”

“There you go.”

“Since I'm being so nice about it, why don't you tell me the real reason you don't want me on the beach alone.”

“Kyle's gut. Archer's orders.”

“Oh.” She blew out a breath as she shoved the shell back in her pocket. “Well, damn,” she drawled as she turned toward the path to Ruby Bayou. “I sure do wish that boy would eat more antacids.”

Walker laughed, then grabbed Faith and held her close. The gardenia, salt, and woman scent of her went to his head like the best bourbon.

“Thank you,” he said against her hair.

“For what?”

“For not making me use the tie-and-stuff method.”

She looked at him curiously. “Should I know what that means?”

“I sure do hope not. See you at the dock.”

“You might as well tell me. Sooner or later, I'll find out what it means.”

“Later works for me.”

With a sideways look that promised retribution, Faith headed for the path that led to Ruby Bayou. Walker watched until her bright hair disappeared beyond the brown marsh grass. Then he went back to get the skiff.

It was gone.

Adrenaline slammed through Walker. He didn't bother looking for the little boat. He knew it hadn't wandered off on its own. Heart racing, he ran back to the path to Ruby Bayou, hoping that whoever had stolen the boat wouldn't beat him back to the house. Back to Faith.

Protect her however you have to.

He had tried. But now it looked like he had screwed up.

Again.

D
avis Montegeau drove the dirt road to Ruby Bayou with the blind stubbornness of a wounded animal dragging itself to its lair. He had to use his left foot for both accelerator and brake pedal, because his right leg was useless. The pain in his right knee was excruciating and nauseating by turns.

At least there was nothing left to throw up in his bruised stomach but the blood he had swallowed since Buddy smashed his nose. Now his entire face was so swollen that he could barely see. The rest of his body joined in the chorus of agony that stabbed through him with every breath, every beat of his heart.

Sal had watched the whole process with all the animation of a man watching paint dry. He hadn't even spoken until Buddy began to stomp Davis, who by then was curled around himself on the floor.

That's enough, Buddy. The stuff he brought is worth a week's interest on what he owes. But if I don't have the principal, half million, in seven days, you can stomp him into tomato paste and spread him on a pizza.

Tears of pain, hopelessness, and terror streamed down Davis's face like blood from his split lip. The bumpy drive made him whimper. He kept going anyway. There were several dizzying times when he came close to passing out before he finally saw the big, decaying house. He hung on to the wheel and steered around to the rear.

After a few fumbling tries he managed to turn off the engine. Then he looked longingly at the broad gallery that circled the lower floor. Only twenty feet to the house. Maybe thirty. Six steps up to the porch. Through the kitchen, out, turn in to the library.

In his mind he could already see the clear bottle, feel bourbon's hot oblivion searing away the taste of blood.

But he couldn't even open the car door. Through eyes glazed with pain, he looked up at the old live oak that shaded one side of the house. The moss on the thick, twisted branches looked dusty, and the resurrection ferns growing on the broad limbs were shriveled. Like him. Dimly he wondered if blood would revive the ferns even better than rain did.

“Daddy Montegeau, is something wrong?”

Mel's light, sweet voice called out from the screen porch. The door slammed as she hurried down the steps to the car.

He wanted to turn toward her, but it hurt too much.

She opened the car door for him. “Oh, God! What happened?” she asked anxiously.

With an effort, he summoned the energy to speak. “Fell.”

“Can you walk?” Without waiting for the answer, Mel turned and shouted toward the house. “Jeff, come quick! Your daddy's hurt!”

Walker had caught Faith halfway up the path. He was still out of breath from his sprint when they both heard Mel's cry through the scrub. Faith reacted out of instinct, gathering herself to run for the house.

“No.” He grabbed Faith's arm. “From now on you're staying close to me.”

“Just because that skiff drifted off doesn't—”

“It didn't drift,” Walker said curtly. “Somebody set it adrift. Somebody who followed you. Or me.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” he cut in. “Give me your word you'll stay close to me or you'll find out exactly what tie and stuff means.”

His eyes told Faith she would lose the argument. “Fine,” she said tightly. “Consider me your bloody shadow.”

“I'm holding you to that.”

He took her hand and together they broke into a run, heading for the house. Walker's leg had begun giving him a twinge somewhere during his sprint through the sand. Now it ached, but he ignored it. As he passed the battered dock, he saw both skiffs tied off to a post, but he didn't slow down. Ahead he could see Davis Montegeau's big white Caddy parked carelessly on the grass. The driver's door was open and Mel was trying to help Davis out of the car.