by Beth Andrews
He did. So much it hurt. But it was a risk, being with her. Trusting her.
He wanted to turn her away, wanted to go back to his nice, normal, safe existence but he looked into her eyes. Saw hope there. Saw love there.
And he knew he was a goner. That this woman, this complicated, stubborn, beautiful woman, was going to make his life interesting in the best possible ways.
“Yeah,” he sighed, knowing when he was beat. “I want that, too. I want you, Tori.”
She smiled; a real smile that lit her eyes and her entire face. Then she launched herself at him, buried her face against the side of his neck and held on as if she’d never let go.
He’d never let her go.
EPILOGUE
Eighteen months later
TORI’S FIRST WEDDING had taken place at the county courthouse, the only witnesses her future in-laws, her father and the judge’s secretary. She’d been all of eighteen, eight months pregnant and desperate to be loved.
Today she’d stood before a priest at the front of St. Bernard’s church, her son and her sisters at her side, and had promised to love Walker Bertrand for the rest of her life.
A promise she knew she’d have no problem keeping.
“You’re smiling,” Walker murmured into her ear as they enjoyed their first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Bertrand to the sound of Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable.” The warmth of Walker’s fingers seeped through the silk of her dress at her hips. “You know that makes me nervous.”
Tori pressed against him, touched the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “Now why on earth would that make you nervous?”
His grip tightened but he kept their movement slow and easy. “Because it usually means you’re up to something. And want to drag me into your plans.”
“I don’t remember you complaining the other night when my plans included a can of whipped cream and that ugly purple tie you refuse to throw away.”
“My mom gave me that tie.”
“So I shouldn’t mention that it makes an excellent blindfold?”
He blushed and glanced over to where his parents sat with Tori’s father. “Shh. Do you want me to be struck dead by lightning?”
She laughed and he grinned. Kissed her warmly. God, how she loved him, this stubborn, gruff man. Her man. She held her left hand out, admired the silver band on her ring finger. Her husband.
Walker settled his hands onto her lower back, his touch now familiar but no less exciting than it had been all those months ago at the Tidal Pool motel. Tori laid her head on his shoulder.
For the past year and a half, her family had been dealing with the consequences of the truth about Valerie’s disappearance and death. Tori knew they would always be affected by it in some way. They were scarred and forever changed, but ultimately, they had survived.
She liked to think they were stronger for having gone through it.
Raising her head, she searched out her family. Nora sat across from Erin and Collin, having what appeared to be quite the lively conversation while Griffin held his sleeping eight-month-old daughter. Tori still wasn’t sure how much she trusted Griffin, but even she could see he was crazy about his wife and daughter and would do anything for them.
Tori’s father, looking handsome in his dark suit, was speaking with Walker’s parents while Ken and Astor sat at the table behind them. Unfortunately, not all of her family’s wounds had fully healed. Thanks to counseling, Ken and Astor had weathered the storm of his infidelity, but the rift between Ken and Tim remained. And Anthony had yet to forgive his father, but did his best to remain in contact with his mother, sister and cousins—and most especially, Jessica—while stationed overseas.
Tori nodded toward Jess as the teen led Tanner out of the reception hall. “I guess that tells us all we need to know about how that just friends thing is working out for them,” Tori said.
When Tanner left Mystic Point last fall to attend Belmont University, a small school in Nashville, he and Jess had decided they should be free to see other people. But every time he came home, they were inseparable.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
The sound of Layne’s loud, flat tone had Tori and Walker stilling. They looked toward the buffet line where Layne stood, a glass in one hand, a plate filled with food in the other.
And a puddle of water between her feet.
“Is that what I think it is?” Walker murmured as Ross rushed to his very irritated, very pregnant wife.
Tori nodded. Her sister’s water had broken. “I told her she was going to have that baby today.”
“Heading to the hospital,” Ross said as he steered Layne past them.
She rolled her eyes. “Ross, I’m not even having strong contractions yet.”
“Better safe than sorry,” the chief said, looking more nervous and flustered than Tori had ever seen him.
Ross had maintained his position at the police department, but Layne had decided it would be better for both their careers and their personal life for her to accept a position with the county sheriff’s department.
“This one’s for the newest member of the Sullivan family,” the D.J. said into the microphone as Justin Bieber’s “Baby” began to play.
“What’s going on?” Brandon asked, meeting Walker and Tori as they left the dance floor hand-in-hand.
“Your aunt is having her baby,” Walker said.
“Yeah? Cool.” Brandon flipped his hair from his eyes. Looked down at his mom, thanks to his latest growth spurt. “You two going to have one?” he blurted. “I mean…it’s okay, you know, with me, if you do.”
Walker kept his eyes on Tori as he slung an arm around her son’s shoulder. “Glad to hear it.”
“Me, too,” Tori said, kissing Brandon’s cheek.
They still had their differences—what parent and teenager didn’t? But things were much better between them now. She and Greg had agreed to share custody of Brandon until he was sixteen, at which time they would let him choose where he wanted to live. For now, he spent Wednesdays and weekends at his dad’s and the rest of the time with Tori.
“I want another one,” Tori said softly as Brandon headed toward his grandfather. Clearing her throat, she faced Walker. “I want a baby.”
“What about the café?”
They had talked about kids, of course, but they had planned on waiting. They had only recently moved into their new home, a renovated house close to the beach. Walker still worked out of Boston but was considering moving to a station closer to Mystic Point. Tori had taken over the café, but she hadn’t done it alone. Her father had gone into business with her and, while they made their fair share of mistakes, they were muddling through just fine.
“It’ll all work out,” she said, knowing it was true. “Between Dad and Patty, the café will survive my maternity leave. I don’t want to wait. I want it all.”
For the first time she believed she could have it all. That she deserved it.
He cupped her face in his hands. “No more waiting.” He kissed her. “I love you, Tori.”
She held on to his wrists, happier, more content than she’d ever imagined. “I love you, too.”
Oh, she still didn’t believe in fairy tales—life was too imperfect for that. But looking into Walker’s eyes, surrounded by their families and friends, the future a bright promise, she did believe in something else.
A happy ending.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt of The Road to Bayou Bridge by Liz Talley!
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CHAPTER ONE
August 2012
Naval Station, Rota, Spain
THE PAPER ACTUALLY SHOOK in Darby Dufrene’s hand—that’s how shocked he was by the document he’d discovered in a box of old papers. He’d been looking for the grief book he’d made as a small child and instead had found something that made his gut lurch against his ribs.
“Dude, come on. The driver needs to go.” Hal Severson’s voice echoed in the half-full moving truck parked below the flat Darby had shared with the rotund navy chaplain for the past several years. His roommate had waited semi-good-naturedly while Darby climbed inside to grab the book before it was shipped to Seattle, but good humor had limits.
“Just a sec,” Darby called, his eyes refusing to leave the elaborate font of the certificate he’d pulled from a clasped envelope trapped in the back of his Bayou Bridge Reveille yearbook. How in the hell had this escaped his attention? Albeit it had been buried in with some old school papers he’d tossed aside over ten years ago and vowed never to look at again, surely the state of Louisiana seal would have permeated his brain and screamed, Open me!
Yet, back then he’d been in a funk—a childish, rebellious huff of craptastic proportions. He probably hadn’t thought about much else except the pity party he’d been throwing himself.
The moving truck’s engine fired and a loud roar rumbled through the trailer, vibrating the wood floor. The driver was eager to pick up the rest of his load, presumably a navy family heading back to the States, and his patience with Darby climbing up and digging through boxes already packed was also at an end. Darby slid the certificate back into its manila envelope, tucked it into his jacket and emerged from the back end of the truck.
Hal’s red hair glinted in the sunlight spilling over the tiled roof, and his expression had evoled to exasperation. The man was hungry. Had been hungry for hours while the movers slowly packed up Darby’s personal effects and scant pieces of furniture, and no one stood between Hal and his last chance to dine in El Puerto de Santa Maria, the city near the Rota Naval Base, with his best comrade. “Let’s go already. Saucy Terese and her crustacean friends await us.”
“Not Il Caffe di Roma, Hal. I don’t want to look into that woman’s eyes and wonder if she might greet me with a filet knife.”
“You ain’t that good, brother,” Hal said in a slow Oklahoma drawl. “She’ll find someone else on which to ply her wiles when the new guy arrives.”
“You mean the new guy whose name is Angela Dillard?”
“The new JAG officer’s a girl?”
Darby smiled. “Actually she’s a woman.”
Hal jingled his keys. “Entendido.”
“Your Spanish sucks.”
“Whatever. Now get your butt in gear. There are some crabs and sherry with my name on them.”
Darby tried to ignore the heat of the document pressing against his chest. Of course, it wasn’t actually hot. Just burning a hole in his stomach with horrible dread. He was an attorney and the document he carried wasn’t a prank, but he couldn’t figure out how the license had been filed. His father had virtually screamed the implausibility at him nearly eleven years ago—the day he’d shipped Darby off to Virginia—so this didn’t make sense. “Fine, but if Terese comes toward me with a blade, you must sacrifice yourself. If not, Picou will ply the sacrificial purifications of the Chickamauga on you. She’s been waiting for five years to get me back home to Beau Soleil.”
Hal rubbed his belly. “Did they perform human sacrifices?”
“Who? The Native Americans or Picou?”
“Either.”
Darby grinned. “I don’t know about the Chickamauga, but my mom will go psycho if I don’t climb off that plane.”
“Consider it done. No way I’m left to deal with your mother. She makes mine look like that woman from Leave It to Beaver.”
“Your mom is June Cleaver all the way down to the apron and heels.” Darby knew firsthand. Her weekly chocolate chips cookies had caused him to pack on a few pounds.
“I know. All women pale in comparison.” Hal opened the door of his white convertible BMW, his one prideful sin, and slid in. He perched a pair of Ray-Bans on his nose and fired the engine.
“Except our housekeeper, Lucille. Can’t wait to get my hands on her pecan pie.” Darby took one last look at his beachfront flat before sliding onto the hot leather seats of Hal’s car. He’d already shipped his motorcycle to the States weeks ago. He wanted it available when he got to Seattle and went in search of apartments, though he knew he’d likely have to sell it in favor of a respectable sedan. With all that Northwest rain, he’d have little chance to take as many mind-clearing drives as he had along the coast of Spain. Plus, Shelby hated it.
“Well, say goodbye, dude,” Hal said, sweeping one arm over the sunbaked villa where Darby had spent the past two years, before pulling away and heading toward the motorway that would take them into the city.
“Goodbye, dude,” Darby said, parroting his friend. He smiled as the wind hit his cheeks, but as soon as he remembered the document, his smile slipped away. Trouble brewed and this homecoming would be no cakewalk despite the pecan pie that waited.
“Are you sad? Thought you’d been ready to leave Rota since you got here, Louisiana boy.”
How could Darby tell him his mood wasn’t about leaving the base and his small adventure in Spain but about the marriage license he’d found in his high school trunk? He could, but there was no sense in ruining his last night with the man who’d become like a brother to him over the course of his deployment. With Hal being the base chaplain, most would think him an odd choice of roommate for a formerly degenerate bayou boy, but something about Hal clicked as soon as Darby met the man who’d been looking for a flatmate. Having Hal as a friend, guide and trusted mentor had made the move overseas tolerable. In fact, after a few months, Darby had downright enjoyed himself.
And he’d found Shelby through Hal.
And when he met the blonde teacher who taught at the American school on base, he knew he’d finally grown up, finally left his confusion and his past behind. Here was what he’d been looking for—a beautiful woman, a promising career, if the interview went well, and a clean slate in a new place—so he’d flung the dice and shipped his things to Seattle rather than home to Bayou Bridge.
He patted the inside pocket of his jacket.
But maybe he wouldn’t be moving forward as soon as he’d planned.
Because he was fairly certain he was legally married to Renny Latioles.
* * *
RENNY LATIOLES ADJUSTED her reading glasses and stared at the computer screen. How did L9-10 get so far away from the Black Lake Reservoir? And even more disturbing, why was the damn crane on Beau Soleil property?
“She still there?” fellow biologist Carrie Dupuy asked, mindlessly sipping the bitter coffee that had been sitting in the urn all day long. Coffee stayed brewing at the Black Lake station where they worked side by side on the reintroduction of the whooping crane into South Louisiana.
“Yeah, and I don’t get it. It’s over sixty miles from the habitat you’d think she would prefer. No other crane has gone that far to the north. There isn’t a lot of marsh in that parish even with the wetlands receding.”
“It’s been well over a week, Ren. Maybe you better head up and get a visual. Make sure she’s not tangled up in something.”
“But the bird is moving around in a fairly large perimeter. If you look at this satellite map, you can see the field it’s inhabiting.” Renny dragged a finger across the screen. “Look. Woodlands, bayou and one abandoned rice field.”
Carrie frowned at the computer. “I agree. It doesn’t make sense, but obviously L9-10 has found a little slice of heaven in St. Martin Parish. Maybe this is a good thing, this adap
ting and surviving in an atypical area, but we need to check this out in person, and since you live up that way...”
Renny pushed back from the screen, rolling toward the filing cabinet sitting a few yards away. She grabbed a fresh logbook.
“Why not just take your computer?”
Pushing tendrils of hair out of her eyes, Renny shook her head. “Nope. Going old-school. Especially since Stevo lost the tablet in the basin. I’ll take handwritten notes and then add them to our files when I return. If L9-10 decides to stay in her new digs, I’ll have to spend a bit more time close to Bayou Bridge.”
“Easy for you because you live there.”
Renny shook her head. “It actually worries me since you’re heading to Virginia in a few weeks.”
“I’ll call Stevo in Baton Rouge and see if he can send Ruby back to work on field notes and mind the fledglings. The captive cranes seemed to like her. She even got L-3 to take walks with her.”
Renny nodded. “She’s a good grad assistant. Glad we got her instead of that smarmy ex-fraternity president.”
As the project manager carrying out the reintroduction of the whooping crane into the wintering grounds of Southwest Louisiana, Renny had tremendous pressure to succeed on her shoulders. The federal and state grants only stretched so far, and after losing one of the released cranes to natural predators earlier that summer, she felt even more driven to prove all was going as planned. Private donors liked to see results—successful results—or they didn’t open their wallets. And at the rate their funds were dwindling, they needed to tread carefully.
Renny felt something sink in her stomach. Ironically, L9-10 was on Beau Soleil property, which, come to think of it, wasn’t so odd considering the Dufrenes owned lots of land in St. Martin Parish. No problem except there were far too many painful memories attached to anything named Dufrene—even an abandoned rice field.
