Sunrise Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Three

by Vivian Vaughan

  Suddenly the air turned colder around her feet, and she realized she was barefoot. This seemed to be a signal, for looking around she found a small mound at the base of one of the trees. The mound was heaped with leaves and moss. A crude cross was stuck into the damp soil and stood at a drunken tilt.

  The sight of the mound did strange things to the woman’s stomach and she fell to her knees in the soft earth. It was a small mound, not over a couple of feet in length and narrow. From somewhere in the distant trees the sound of crooning began and the woman hung her head over the mound and began to cry. She wept for the longest time, as though she would never stop. Finally, however, she did, raising her face to the heavens which were shielded by limbs and moss. The cool night air dried her cheeks and when she opened her eyes …

  Delta awoke with a scream. Her body convulsed as she stared at the vision from her dream, at the woman whose face remained clearly etched in her brain.

  Stumbling from the bed, she reached the chiffonier, opened it, then fumbled until she struck a match and lighted the oil lamp. Holding it close to the looking glass, she peered at her reflection. The image she saw in the glass almost caused her to drop the lamp. Again she screamed, but the sound was muffled by her soul-wrenching sobs. The image swam in the tears in her eyes.

  But she could still see it clearly. The woman in the nightmare was herself.

  She had already raced from the room before she realized she hadn’t changed her clothing. Rushing back inside, she cast off her nightgown and pulled on a loose-fitting wrapper without corset or petticoats, tying it securely around her waist. She shoved stockingless feet into her shoes and rushed from the room a second time.

  This time she didn’t stop until she reached Gabriel’s door. He opened it after the first knock.

  Hair flew every which way and tears streamed down her face. After a startled glance about the passageway, he pulled her into the room and closed the door.

  “What has happened, m’moiselle?”

  She had trouble stifling her sobs. Then when finally she did, she couldn’t decide how to convince him. She watched him light a lamp and turn up the wick.

  “I must see Brett. Tonight. He’s in danger.”

  Gabriel’s jaws tightened. “That is not possible, non.”

  “Has he left the boat?”

  Gabriel only stared at her.

  “You must take me to him, wherever he is. He’s in trouble. Serious trouble. He may even be … dead.” Sobs shook her shoulders, she wiped tears away with the back of her hand. “You must believe me.”

  Gabriel poured her a glass of water, which she refused.

  “Did he tell you about my dreams?” she questioned.

  Gabriel shrugged, noncommittal.

  “I’ve had nightmares for months. Brett knew about them. He said they could fit his situation—the danger he’s in.” She paused, afraid she had lost her cause by revealing such a thing. “Do you think I’m demented?”

  After a length of silence, he answered with a solemn, “Non.”

  “Good.” The relief of that brought renewed tears, which she stemmed quickly. “Good. Now I must persuade you to take me to him. Tonight I dreamed … tonight I dreamed about death.” Speaking the words caused her hands to tremble. She clasped them together. Continuing, she stared at her hands, not daring to look at him, for fear she would see refusal in his eyes. “I dreamed about death … in the bayou. About a grave. A child’s grave.”

  At his gasp she looked up to find him staring at her as though he had seen a ghost.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “Me, I believe you, oui.”

  “Then you will take me to him?”

  He stared straight into her eyes so long she began to wonder at her own sanity. Another thought raced to her mind. “You do know where to find him, don’t you?”

  “Oui.” Gabriel began to pace the small cabin. Back and forth. Back and forth. Finally he stopped, shrugged as in apology, and shook his head. “It is too dangerous, m’moiselle.”

  “Brett’s the one in danger,” she cried. “I must go to him.”

  Gabriel considered her with such a grave expression, tears brimmed in her eyes. “He would not like that, non. He left me to protect you.”

  “To protect me?” Tears rolled down her cheeks unattended.

  “Oui.”

  “From whom?”

  “From those who hunt him. For truth, I see they have found you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It took Delta a few more tears and a lot more entreating to persuade Gabriel to take her into the bayou to find Brett.

  “Me, I will try, m’moiselle,” he finally agreed, “but I cannot promise we will make it through the swamp. We must be extra careful with the troopers about. We don’ want to lead them to him, non.”

  Returning to her cabin, she donned the clothing Gabriel had dug out of a sack and handed her with the words, “These clothes, they are not stylish, non, but they will draw less attention when we leave the boat.”

  Since she and Gabriel were close to the same size, his shirt and breeches fit her well enough. She added a pair of her own boots, then twisted her hair in a severe knot at the nape of her neck and covered it with a slouchy hat, also from Gabriel’s bundle. Examining herself in the small looking glass, she desperately wished she could take a change of clothing, but Gabriel had cautioned her against carrying anything in her hands.

  With minutes to spare she rushed around the cabin arranging this, that, hoping to delay the all-out search she knew would eventually take place. When the maids came in to make the bed, she wanted the room to look as though she had gone on deck. And when Zanna and Stuart came looking—

  Hastily she dug out her tapestry portfolio containing her notebook and pencils. She could stuff it inside her shirt. When Zanna checked her cabin, as she surely would, the notebook would be gone, and Zanna would think she had left for her scheduled interviews. That might hold them a bit longer.

  Not forever, of course, but hopefully long enough to allow Gabriel to get them out of Baton Rouge before the troopers discovered her missing.

  After that—

  Remorse set in at the worry she would cause Zanna and Stuart. Remorse and trepidation. What if they wired her family? They were certain to, unless—

  Tearing a sheet of paper from her notebook, she scribbled a hasty message. At the top of the page she listed her interviews for the day: Magnolia Mound and the congressional chambers in the capitol building. It would take them time, precious time, to check those out. Below that she wrote: “Zanna, please don’t worry about me. I’m all right.”

  They would worry, of course, but perhaps not for a while. She placed the message on the shelf beneath her looking glass and surrounded it with other belongings, none of which she could take. Her fingers lingered on her hairbrush. Surely—

  No. The only thing she could stuff inside her shirt was the notebook, and she must take that.

  At the door her trepidation grew, enveloping her. What was she doing, stealing into the bayou with a man she didn’t know? Had she lost her mind?

  Turning she stared at the rumpled bed. Was she mad for chasing a dream? Demented for believing in it?

  Visions from her nightmare returned, and with them a resurgence of her fear for Brett. She felt again the damp bayou air about her feet, the eerie tangle of moss in her hair, the moldy leaves beneath her knees when she knelt beside the grave of the babe.

  Visions of that infant grave tormented her. For the first time she connected them with her earlier nightmares—with the crying of the babe, with Anne Bonny and her blue-eyed girlchild. Quickly then she left, locking the door behind her.

  Gabriel waited in the stairwell behind the paddlewheel, as he had said he would. She studied the wiry shadow of the man she had persuaded to take her into the unknown bayou, feeling her arms tremble. The only thing she knew about this man was that he played the fiddle. And that he was Brett’s friend.

  She strai
ghtened her shoulders. Gabriel was the only person who could take her to Brett. And now she was more convinced then ever that her ancestors were calling on her to save Brett’s life.

  Gabriel surveyed her attire. “Bien,” he approved. “Like two friends, we will walk side by side down the ramp, talking. Don’ stand too straight. If anyone watches, they mus’ think you’re a deckhand leavin’ the boat for supplies.”

  “What about you?”

  He held up his fiddle case. “Me, I leave ever’ morning at this time, sure. I take myself to the livery an’ hire two horses.”

  “Every day?”

  He nodded. “Come, we will go now. The passengers, they should be asleep, but if we pass anyone, keep your eyes down. The sky is still dark, sure. Even a frien’, he won’t recognize you unless you look him in the eye.”

  She followed him, amazed at his proficiency. Amazed and relieved.

  Since he had instructed her to carry on a conversation, she began by asking, “You leave the boat every morning at this time to hire horses for Brett and Pierre?”

  “Oui.”

  “What about yourself?” They reached the gangplank and walked down it, side by side. She felt her legs wobble on the unsteady walkway, although this morning she knew it could well be fear that weakened her knees.

  “Me, I return to the livery for a third horse when I need one,” Gabriel was saying.

  They stepped onto the docks. “You played your fiddle by the gangplank as a signal?”

  “Oui. Me, I took myself into town to look for those who might be a threat.”

  “How do you recognize someone who’s a threat?”

  “Ah, that is not easy, non,” he admitted. “Especially here in Baton Rouge. Here we must consider ever’one a threat.”

  The sky was already brightening in the east when they strolled across the docks. The only lights were the government beacons on poles. The air hung heavy with magnolias.

  Delta had to force her limbs to match Gabriel’s leisurely pace, for anxiety made her want to run for her life.

  She noticed how his eyes continually roamed the area from side to side and far ahead.

  “What kind of training have you had?” she questioned.

  “Training?”

  “As a sentry,” she explained. “You seem to be adept at seeking out spies.”

  “The war,” he replied, then added, “an’ a lifetime of looking behind me, oui.”

  His offhand statement brought a return of Delta’s earlier concern at putting her safety in the hands of this stranger. She wanted to ask him from what crime he was running, but she didn’t. She had come this far; for Brett’s sake she couldn’t turn back. Besides, his answer would likely only serve to frighten her more, and she was sure to need all her wits to get out of town.

  When they approached the livery, he instructed her to wait outside at the end of the building, where she envisioned being set upon from every side until he returned, leading two horses.

  They rode north, keeping to the leisurely pace Gabriel had set in crossing the wharf area. Delta’s anxiety rose.

  “If anyone is watching won’t they know we’re leaving town?”

  “They will see us ride north, sure,” he replied. “But the bayou is south. We’re following my morning routine. Me, I search the livery an’ talk with the hostler about strangers who rode in overnight. Then I take myself through town, watchin’ for anyone who even smells like a government man. For truth, in this town anyone could be a threat.”

  Suddenly Delta thought of Nat, who had insisted he saw through Brett’s disguise. “What happened to Nat?”

  The moment she asked the question, she bit her tongue, wishing she could take it back. Nat had called Brett a killer. So had the governor’s aide, if Brett were indeed Anatole Dupré. She didn’t necessarily believe either of them, but if this man riding beside her, a friend of Brett’s, called him a murderer, she would have to consider it. Gabriel would know the truth.

  “Don’ you worry yourself about him,” Gabriel responded. “Nat, he’s taking a ti’ vacation. He’ll turn up one day, for truth.”

  The road from the docks led through town and out a ways. When it forked Gabriel guided them eastward, along a trail he said would double back and reach the river well below Baton Rouge, near the steam-powered ferry. They rode through areas of lush green foliage and soft summer scents. She breathed a sigh of relief, reassured about Nat, thus about Brett. But inside she knew there was more than enough trouble ahead to keep her on edge until they found Brett.

  She would like to hope that once she found him, her fears would be resolved. She knew this might not be the case.

  Back on the docks shadows receded beneath the brightening sky to reveal the figure of a man who rose from his haunches, watching the pair of horsemen ride away from the livery.

  The one with the fiddle he recognized. That friend of the gambler’s. The other wasn’t large enough to be the gambler himself, and certainly not his bodyguard. Reason told the man that nothing was amiss. The stranger accompanying that fiddler was likely a deckhand he had taken along for company.

  But reason did not always hold true. And Trainor would brook no miscalculations where Anatole Dupré was concerned. The man dropped his cigarette to the earth at his feet, then ground it out with the ball of his booted foot.

  This he would have to report. He consulted his pocket watch. Perhaps he should wait a while longer, see if the fiddler returned at his usual time. Trainor wouldn’t take kindly to wasting time and effort on a false alarm.

  Zanna met Stuart outside the paddlewheel lounge for a late breakfast. He rose when he saw her coming and placed a tender kiss on her lips.

  “Where’s Delta?” he questioned, drawing out her chair.

  “Asleep. I knocked, but lightly. She’s been so upset over this business with Brett that she probably didn’t sleep much last night.” Zanna sipped the coffee the waiter set before her. “Do you think he’s gone for good?”

  Stuart stared into the muddy water three decks below them. “For her sake, I hope so.”

  “You sound as if you believe Gerard’s story.”

  “If that gambler is indeed Anatole Dupré, murdering his wife isn’t the half of it. Dupré’s the most wanted man in Louisiana, has been for ten years. Perhaps the most wanted man in the entire country.”

  Zanna’s eyes widened while he spoke. She glanced around the near-deserted deck, then asked in a whisper. “What else did he do?”

  “He’s wanted for murdering his baby daughter at the same time.”

  Zanna’s coffee cup clattered against the saucer when she set it down. “That can’t be true.” She pursed her lips between her teeth. Her eyes searched Stuart’s. “Can it?”

  He shrugged. “To my knowledge no one has positively identified Brett Reall as Dupré. But if that’s who he is, he’s extremely dangerous.”

  “Then I hope he’s gone,” Zanna sighed. “For Delta’s sake. And I hope she never learns the truth.”

  “From what Cameron says about Delta’s family,” Stuart told her, “Reall or Dupré or whoever the hell the man is had better be gone for his own sake. The Jarretts stick together against any and all adversaries. And believe me, they’re a formidable lot.”

  “Uh-oh. Speaking of formidable lots, look who’s coming.” Zanna sat facing the docks. Stuart turned at her words. Together they watched Luis Gerard, the governor’s aide, accompanied by half a dozen state troopers, dismount and hitch their horses at the rail near the boat. As in single stride they approached the Mississippi Princess.

  “Looks like we might have trouble.” Stuart scraped back his chair. When Zanna made a move to rise, he helped her. They watched Gerard and the troopers disappear as they stepped from the gangplank onto the main deck of the showboat.

  Stuart took Zanna in his arms and kissed her. She felt herself responding as she had longed to do for days. At thirty-five she had given up hope of finding a romantic kind of love, thinking such was reserv
ed for young women with stars in their eyes. The most she could hope for, she had told herself over and again, was to marry some old widower with gout or some younger widower with a houseful of children.

  Neither alternative appealed to Zanna, who finally decided she would rather spend her life directing dramas than living one. But Stuart Longstreet had set her heartstrings to strumming.

  At first she had refused to admit as much, thinking it impossible that he could feel the same way she did.

  Lifting his face, he grinned. “Hold that thought.”

  “What—?” She felt her face flush.

  He stared hungrily into her eyes, sending tingles racing down her spine. “That thought.” He kissed her again. “I had a pleasant morning planned for us, but looks like it’ll have to wait until we see what the governor’s men want.”

  “We have reason to believe our fugitive may still be on board,” Gerard was responding to Captain Kaney’s inquiry when Stuart and Zanna reached the observation deck where the captain had stopped the obviously irate governor’s aide and his band of state troopers outside the main dining room.

  “If he is, we’ll find him,” the captain vowed.

  Zanna listened, concern growing, while Stuart confronted Gerard. “What’s happened to cause you to believe this?”

  “His man, the fiddler, is still watching the town,” Gerard replied. “One of my informants told me he saw the fiddler and another man leave the boat just before daybreak.”

  “Another man?” Captain Kaney questioned.

  Gerard nodded. “Wasn’t Dupré, though. The man was too small to be either Dupré or that bodyguard of his.”

  “Pierre,” the captain supplied.

  “Whatever he calls himself, we believe both Dupré and his bodyguard are on board this ship.”