Along the Cane River: Books 1-5 in the Inspirational Cane River Romance Series

by Mary Jane Hathaway

  “― but that’s my opinion.”

  He blinked. She seemed to be waiting for a response. Glancing at the photos, he tried to guess what she’d been saying. “Hm.”

  “Do you agree?” Her eyes widened a little. She tapped the photo on the top of the pile. “It’s obvious.”

  Gideon considered asking her to repeat the question and then said, “You’re probably right.”

  It seemed to satisfy her and she turned back to the pictures, carefully replacing the lid and sliding it back onto the shelf. “Thank you for showing me around. I’ll gather a list of outbuildings I’d like to research. Could I come in Friday morning?”

  “Of course. My archives are your archives.” He cringed inwardly. What a ridiculous thing to say.

  To his surprise she laughed. “That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard from a historian.” They stood there for a moment, and he had the urge to ask if she needed anyone to show her around town. Then he realized he was standing in front of the door and she was waiting to be let out of the room. He turned and opened it, waving her through.

  “Thank you, again. I do appreciate your time,” she said as she passed.

  “Of course. That’s what we’re here for.” He followed her down the hallway and out into the foyer. “I’ll let Bernice know you’re coming back on Friday.”

  She turned just as he opened the door. The heat and humidity hit like a wall. “You won’t be here?”

  “No, but if you have any problem, just leave me a note and I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  An emotion crossed her face that he didn’t quite catch. “Thank you, again.” She held out a hand and he took it. A second later she was out the door, striding across the parking lot.

  It had been so many years since he’d felt regret that at first he didn’t recognize the emotion. As he watched her get into her car and reverse out of the parking space, it solidified in the pit of his stomach. If only he hadn’t sought revenge. If only he had known the whole truth.

  “Well, I never.”

  Bernice’s voice brought him back to the present. The past was done. There was no wishing it away for a life he couldn’t have.

  “I wonder why Birdie never mentioned Henry coming back to town.” She peered past him. “I get the impression she doesn’t get along with her family, ya know? Just an inkling.”

  Gideon nodded without commenting. Family drama and gossip held no fascination for him whatsoever. If he could make it back to his desk without hearing about every person in Henry’s whole family tree, he’d be happy.

  “Sure is pretty, though. I can see the resemblance in those green eyes, but it’s her smile that really gives it away. Just like Kimberly Gray, that’s for sure.” Bernice touched her hair, a self-conscious gesture.

  Fine, he’d bite. “Who?”

  “The actress. She was in some big movies, but I haven’t seen her as much lately. Yes, sir, it’s probably hard to get a decent role when you’re over forty, even as pretty as she is. Anyway, you know Birdie and Frank Pascal? Those are Kimberly Gray’s parents. They don’t brag on her much, since she’s livin’ a worldly life in Hollywood, and all. Lisette, their other daughter, is Henry’s mom. I heard her daddy walked away when she was real little, something about a waitress in―”

  “I see.” Gideon tried to cut off the litany of family issues. The only thing worse than having an ugly family background and dealing with gossip must be also having a famous relative. He felt a surge of sympathy for Henry Byrne. He knew what it was like to navigate a small town with your past clinging to you, like toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe. “Well, she seems like she’s serious about renovations over at Cane River and that’s the good news.”

  Bernice adjusted her necklace. “I just hope Kimberly Gray comes to visit soon. The last time she was here, I didn’t get to see her. My friend Margie texted me that she was down in the Pastime Café, but by the time I got my hair done and got down there, she was gone again.” She sighed. “Margie got her signature on her pocketbook and she waves that thing at me every time we go out together. She’ll never let me live it down.”

  Gideon flashed back to how Henry had agreed with him on hero worship and the distasteful habit of delving into personal details, how she hadn’t bothered to research him at all, other than his professional papers. Fame and infamy were two sides of the same coin. Henry probably dealt with invasion of her privacy on a daily basis. Perhaps that’s why she didn’t like to go out.

  “Do you need something?” Bernice was giving him a quizzical look.

  “No,” he said, turning back toward his office. “Just thinking.”

  Gideon sat down at his desk and picked up the silver pen Tom had given him when he’d first arrived in Natchitoches. It had been a gift to symbolize his new beginning, a new start. Most of the locals thought they were the oddest of friends, even though they were brothers, but they were more alike than anyone knew.

  Maybe it was just that time of year, where everything reminded him of the choices he’d made. Maybe he needed to spend more time at the river with Tom and old Bix. Maybe he needed to take a few days off and work in his garden. For years he’d been satisfied with his life. Now he’d lost his equilibrium faster than a spinning top knocked off its axis.

  Standing up, he walked to the window and stared out at the meadow. The water in the shallow creek glinted in the sunlight. A red tailed hawk circled lazily in the sky, hoping to snag a field mouse. Something about Henry Byrne reminded him he wasn’t dead yet. He wasn’t even that old. But hoping for a different kind of life was an exercise in futility. He had set his future the moment he’d strangled Mark Daniels to death on that cold November night.

  He needed to put the whole situation out of his head. Tell the truth, ruin the party. That old Cajun saying was true. The moment he’d explained where he’d been for the past fifteen years, cold reality had arrived.

  Gideon straightened his back. There was still so much to be grateful for. There had been a time when his future was only darkness and revenge. He’d fought for this well-ordered, quiet existence in Cane River. It was a better life than he could have hoped for. Certainly better than he deserved.

  Chapter Two

  “We are all sentenced to solitary confinement in our own skins, for life.”

  Tennessee Williams

  Henry pulled into the long driveway of Oakland Plantation and let out a sigh. This new position was everything she’d ever wanted but here it was, the second week, and already dissatisfaction had settled over her.

  She parked, leaning her forehead against the wheel for a moment and letting the cool air from the AC ruffle her hair. The stereo pumped out an upbeat pop song, the bass thumping in time to the ache behind her eyes.

  Being linked to Kimberly Gray was a pretty normal, run-of-the-mill day in Natchitoches. Hearing people lie with every other word wasn’t out of the norm, either, but her visit to the archives that morning had rattled her. All she wanted to do was go home, let down her hair, crawl into bed, pull up the covers, and not come out until tomorrow. Or next week.

  She wasn’t a quitter. Tightening her ponytail, she checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. On the outside, she looked fine. Confident, polished, and with a deliberately academic air, thanks to her glasses. She flashed a smile. She was used to having the upper hand in a conversation, whether she wanted it or not, but today she’d been flying blind.

  Gideon hadn’t tried to impress her, hadn’t uttered a word that was even a slight exaggeration. There was no false cheerfulness, no social nicety, no careful shading in his tones. Whether or not someone wanted to make friends, there was always a little kernel of pride that prompted them to put their best foot forward. It had been a very long time since she’d met anyone who didn’t lie. Everybody lied.

  Shutting off the car, she headed for the front porch. Not having a close working relationship with Gideon Becket wasn’t a total disaster. She wasn’t sure how much she would see him, but she
could still say they worked together. Plus, this was her dream job and the position carried a lot of weight.

  Oakland Plantation, originally known as the Jean Pierre Emmanuel Prud’homme, Plantation, wasn’t one the most beautiful antebellum plantation homes. Visitors who came expecting long rows of white pillars and a third floor ballroom would be sorely disappointed. But for those people who treasured Cane River’s rich Creole history of freed slave industries and farming, Oakland was a jewel in the crown of the historic park. Meticulously preserved and staffed year round, Henry had set her sights on working at the small plantation before she’d even finished her undergraduate degree.

  She could hear hammering from the small row house to the north. With a full time staff of five, and a part time construction crew of another ten, she had plenty of workers. Her previous jobs had been relatively solitary except for an assistant or two and she’d been worried about being seen as too young or inexperienced. But, aside from a few small bumps, the staff had made her feel nothing but welcome. She was intensely grateful for that.

  The screen door squealed as she swung it open and she made a mental note to check the hinges. They wanted to preserve everything, including the original hardware, but one good windstorm and the door might blow clean off, never to be found again.

  As she walked into the main foyer, the first thing she noticed was the smell of stale wood smoke. The next was the body of the main house caretaker near the wood stove, awkwardly placed on the wide plank oak floor. Her heart seized in her chest.

  “Miss Byrne, you back already?” Clark Thompson sat up slowly from his position near the old woodstove. He grimaced a little and rubbed his back. “They must not a-had what you needed.”

  She took a moment to calm herself before answering. The eighty year old handy man had spent his whole life working on the grounds of the historic park and he would die here, one day. But not today.

  “Mr. Thompson, I’m happy to report that they’ll help us in any way they can.”

  “And how did you find Gideon Becket?” He put a hand on a nearby chair and heaved himself to his feet. “He seems standoffish, but he’s a good man.”

  Henry paused. She wasn’t sure how many people knew about Gideon’s stint in prison.

  “Oh, I can tell what you’re thinkin’. I know about what he done.” He pulled out a blue hankie and wiped the sweat from his face. “But I believe a person can change. I believe in grace.”

  Truth.

  Henry felt a twinge of shame. She couldn’t deny that knowing about his past had changed her view of him. “Of course. I’m sure he’s a very nice person and I’ll see him around. We’ll be working together,” she said, more to herself that to Clark.

  “I wouldn’t bet on seeing a whole lotta him.”

  “Why not?”

  He squinted at the ceiling for a moment. “When I was just a little guy, there was an old lady name of Miss Aggy, living along the river, way back under the trees in a little shack. She’d been there years and years. One day, the ladies in the church decided she shouldn’t be livin’ down there all by herself so’s they came and dragged her into town. They bathed her and dressed her up real nice. Everybody was right pleased with themselves,” he said. “And you know what happened?”

  Henry shook her head.

  “The next day, she slipped away from all of ‘em and went right back to her place in the trees, back to that dark little hut. My mama said that some people like Miss Aggy spent too much time in the quiet of the woods to be comfortable living on a sunny porch in the middle of town.”

  “You’re talking about his time in jail? You think he doesn’t like being around a lot of people?”

  “I’m sayin’ he don’t like people, period.”

  Henry let that sink in for a moment. Maybe she and Gideon Becket had more in common than she’d thought.

  He jerked one shoulder up. “Anyways, he’s not real social. Sticks to his own business. I would probably avoid the man myself, but if Father Tom says he’s okay, I’m gonna take his word for it.”

  “Wait, Father Tom Clerc? From St. Augustine’s?” Usually her grandparents went to the Minor Basilica downtown but she’d visited the beautiful little historic church called Isle Brevelle a few times over the years. It was officially part of the Cane River Creole National Historic Park but she hadn’t made her way over there to formally introduce herself. Father Tom was young, and gregarious, and seemed to be a cheerful extrovert. Her mind couldn’t put Gideon, unsmiling and soft-spoken, into a friendship with Father Tom.

  Clark tucked the hanky back into his pocket. “They were raised up together. Best friends, those two. Father Tom said he wouldn’t be a priest without Gideon.”

  How very odd. Gideon was more and more of conundrum every passing moment. As soon as she got a chance, Henry would have to do some research. She didn’t mind being out of the loop, but this was getting ridiculous. “I didn’t think he was from around here.”

  “Father Tom is, I think. At least, he’s got people here. Miss Jenny LaRoche is his aunt, if I recall. She mentioned it at the St. Augustine Gumbo Feed last year while she was dishing me up a bowl of her secret recipe, which will remain secret because nobody’s interested in it, for sure. It was so thin, the more I ate, the hungrier I got. Anyway, in a town like Natchitoches, seems most everybody is related to somebody, Miss Byrne.”

  She had to smile, knowing exactly what he meant. “Why won’t you call me Henry? I first met you when my grandmamma brought me here. I wasn’t more than six or seven. ‘Miss Byrne’ just sounds so formal.”

  “Well, I might never have told you this, but my brother’s name is Henry and I just can’t see you as a Henry.” He cocked his head, dark eyes narrowed. “You sure you don’t have any other name? You sayin’ Miss Birdie couldn’t talk your momma into a better choice? A girl with a smile that pretty should have a pretty name to go with it.”

  She stepped toward him and lowered her voice a little. “I’ll tell you a secret, Mr. Thompson, just because you and my family are so close.”

  “I’m listenin’,” he said.

  “Henry is my middle name. But my first isn’t really much better,” she said softly. Then she put a finger to her lips.

  “What?” He leaned back, disbelief on his face. “How could it be worse?” Then he seemed to take note of her expression and hurried on. “I mean, Henry is a fine name but really, I can’t imagine not preferring somethin’ else. Is it another man’s name? You know, I’ve never been fond of Horton. There was a boy in my school named Horton and he was a real bully. I don’t like Alfred, either. Sounds sniffy.”

  “Alfred, like Batman’s butler?” She considered that for a moment. “I don’t think I’d mind that one, actually.”

  “So, what is it? Now I’m downright curious.”

  “No, sir. I’m not telling. You’ll have to trust me that Henry is better.”

  “Huh.” He shot her a look. “You think you the only one who can dig around for some old papers?”

  Henry felt her insides go cold. “I’m just teasing you. I’ll tell you. Just not today.” She forced herself to smile. “Now, I’m headed out to the overseer’s house to check the limewashing, and then to the slave quarters to see how those archeology students are coming with the excavation.”

  “Awright. I’m gonna fiddle with this flume a bit longer. I’ve looked for a replacement for this model but if it don’t work, we’ll have to quit using the stove.” He rubbed his chin. “It was real nice havin’ that going during the chilly days. Felt just like old times.”

  Henry knew he meant before electricity, before all the updates that had come to the house. She knew the changes were needed, especially when they transferred ownership to the national park system and the house became a visitor’s center. But she also longed to have seen the home, as it was, before it the desks and phones and visitor displays.

  She stepped into her office and set her purse on the antique desk. She flipped through the pile of ne
w mail without really seeing the addresses. Even though she’d intended to walk straight out to the check on the lime washing she found herself sitting down in her chair, swiveling toward the window and staring out at the tree-lined driveway. Maybe it had been a mistake to come back here. She’d spent so long researching the area, uncovering the long-hidden drama of the past, she’d almost forgotten that she had a few secrets of her own.

  There was a light tap on her door and a young woman’s head appeared in the crack. Her round cheeks were flushed and the scarf around her curly brown hair was askew. “Henry, I hate to bother you but you’ve got a visitor.”

  “Oh, you’re not bothering me, Vonda.” Henry hated being caught staring out the window. Vonda Mason and Joe Schachner were the two newest archeology students and she didn’t want them to think they did all the work while she watched the grass grow. “And you don’t have to be the secretary. How’s the excavation coming along?”

  Vonda wiped a hand over her brow. “Jeremy and I just came in to get some more ice for our water bottles. We’re just not used to this humidity yet.”

  Henry checked her hair in the mirror next to her desk and straightened her skirt. “Minneapolis is a different climate, for sure. It’ll be better by September.” She glanced up. “I know that sounds like a long time, but it will fly by.”

  “Right. I bet it will,” Vonda said, forcing a smile.

  Lie.

  She took a breath and stepped through the door. The first few weeks were bound to be filled with meeting new people and then it would settle down. It wouldn’t always be this hard to talk to her coworkers.

  A man stood by the old wood stove, toeing a spot near one of the cast iron legs. His cream linen suit was wrinkled at the knees as if he’d been sitting for most of the day. He turned as she crossed the foyer and she saw his gaze flick from her head to her toes, and back.

  She pushed up her glasses with one finger and held out a hand. “How can I help you?”