by Webb, Peggy
Colt had given more than a passing thought to Uncle Pete's proposal, but somehow he managed to find fault with every woman he dated. And their numbers were legion.
He and his uncle shared a glass of iced tea in the kitchen before Pete climbed the stairs to go to bed.
Colt had intended to do the same thing himself. Tomorrow would be a long day. Star Fire was being delivered from Kentucky, and he and Pete would need all their resources to settle the Thoroughbred into his new home.
But something else claimed Colt's attention, drawing him out the back door and past the paddocks to an ancient stone barn partially covered with ivy. The barn had been built in 1870 and was one of the original structures on Colt's estate in Point Clear. He'd converted it to an office, mainly for the view of the rolling polo fields beyond the window, but also because of its architectural features.
It was cool inside, a tribute to the builders who knew the value of thick stone walls in the Southern heat. Ancient beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling, and thick cypress shelves suspended high above the work area displayed Colt's collection of pottery. He turned on the floodlights. Flowerpots and teapots and bowls and urns came into view, handmade pottery of all sizes and shapes.
Colt rolled the ladder to a stop before an intricately designed urn, one that looked as if it had been done by ancient Egyptians. Carefully he lifted it down, then set it on his desk and traced the potter's name, carved in the bottom.
He'd stumbled onto the small gallery in Soho five years earlier, and had fallen in love with the piece in his hand. "A brilliant young artist," the proprietor had told him. "Up and coming. Soon everybody will be clamoring for a piece of work by Ann Debeau."
Though Colt had a knack for acquiring horses that the polo world would soon be clamoring for, he didn't purchase art for the same reason. He didn't care if the work would increase in value. It didn't matter to him whether the artist was well known or would never be heard of. He bought for one reason only: The work had to speak to his soul.
More than any other piece of pottery on his shelves, Annie's urn spoke to his soul. Not only his soul, but also his heart. High on the shelves underneath the lights it was a beautiful work worthy of admiration, but in his hands it was alive, as if the heart of the artist pulsed there as well.
Tracing the intricate design, he pictured Annie—dynamic, vibrant, a tiny china doll. She was not at all what he would have expected, and yet she was absolutely perfect.
He caressed the work of art she'd created, and his palms grew hot. The air around him became charged with energy. It was the same electricity he'd felt earlier that afternoon in the little shop downtown when he'd kissed Annie.
A strange impulse, that kiss. Almost as if magnets were pulling him toward her lips.
Colt turned off the lights and went back to the house. Sprawled in the middle of a bed handmade from lightning-struck cedars that hadn't survived the storm of '36, he dreamed of swimming naked in the moonlight with Annie, her hair grown long and floating behind them like a banner of ebony silk.
CHAPTER THREE
"Flowers for Miss Ann Debeau." The delivery boy held a huge bouquet of orchids. Ann tipped him generously, then ripped open the card.
"Only one more day. Can't wait to see you. Rob."
Ann parted her way through boxes and set the bouquet on a Victorian table beside the French doors. Margaret Finley left the box she was packing to admire the beautiful blooms.
"Nice. They must be from that young man Gilly told me about."
In Brooklyn such a personal remark would have been considered intrusive, but Margaret Finley had been Gilly Debeau's friend since the two of them were in first grade. There was nothing Gilly didn't tell her. She was almost like family.
"He wants me to come home," Ann said.
"You don't sound too excited about it."
"It's not that I don't want to see Rob. There's just so much to do here. I don't know whether to store the furniture or let it stay here. I don't know whether to sell the house or keep it."
"You know what I always told Gilly? Don't let outside pressures color your decisions." She put her arm around Ann's shoulders. "Honey, you've got to make up your own mind in your own time. That young fellow in New York will wait."
"Thanks, Margaret. I don't know what I would have done these last few weeks without you."
"If something's going on, I'm right in the middle of it. Gilly says ..." Quick tears sprang to her eyes. "Lordy, what am I going to do without her?"
"You have me." Both of them were thinking that soon Ann would be in New York, but neither of them mentioned it. "Here, let's get these things into your car."
"You shouldn't be giving me all these clothes and jewelry."
"Aunt Gilly would want you to have them."
By the time Margaret drove off, dusk was falling. Ann went inside, kicked off her shoes, and turned on the lamps. She was in the kitchen making a tuna sandwich when the doorbell rang.
Margaret must have forgotten something. Ann didn't even put on her shoes.
"Margaret?" she called as she padded to the door.
"Sorry to disappoint you."
He was taller than she remembered, more vibrant somehow, as if standing on the front porch of Windchime House had added to his considerable appeal.
"Oh, my." Ann's heart fluttered like hummingbird wings. She put her hand over her chest in hopes of slowing it down.
"I could say I was just passing by and decided to drop in, but the fact is I was out riding today and saw a bank of flowers that reminded me of you, and so I dismounted and separated them from the thorny bush at great peril to myself."
From behind his back Colt Butler produced a huge bouquet of the most beautiful wild pink roses Ann had ever seen. She was extraordinarily pleased, then immediately felt guilty. She couldn't continue taking gifts and flowers from this man.
"Consider them a belated memorial to your aunt," he said, as if he'd read her mind.
"My favorite. Color and all." She buried her face in the fragrant petals. "How did you know?"
"Logical. They match your skin."
"Thank you for the flowers."
"I was hoping you'd invite me in so I could see the inside of this house."
"Of course. Come in."
She stepped aside for him to pass, but when he saw her bare feet he stopped squarely in front of her.
"Hmm, nice." The way he looked at her made her sizzle. "Nothing is sexier than a pretty woman in bare feet."
"I'll get my shoes."
He followed her into the kitchen. "Afterward, I can show you how to turn that tuna into a gourmet meal."
"Afterward?" Shoes forgotten, she felt herself blushing.
His chuckle was wicked. "After the tour."
In addition to being flustered, she felt slightly treacherous. Why did Colt's wild roses please her more than Rob's hothouse orchids? And why was she more excited over the prospect of showing Windchime House to this gorgeous interloper than at the prospect of going home to her fiancé?
What she would do is get the tour over as quickly as possible, then sit down to her tuna all by herself, and concentrate on the things she should be thinking about—the house, Rob, the wedding . . . Good grief. She was getting married in six months.
"We'll make this a quick tour," she said, but she was soon caught up in his enthusiasm.
Hearing his extravagant praise, she felt almost as if she were seeing Windchime House for the first time. Family portraits lined the wall as they climbed the stairs, and he lingered in front of each one, asking dozens of questions.
"My father, James ... a doctor . . . died in a plane crash, six years ago . . . My mother, Lisa . . . she lives in Paris. Those two were painted by Fiorella Sabatini."
"These two are painted by a different artist." It was not a question. Colt had a good eye.
"Yes. The artist is Porter Rockland. My great Aunt Gilly at sixteen, and my grandfather Richard Debeau, painted the day my father was born. T
hat's the reason he looks so harried. He'd scheduled the sitting months prior to the date, never guessing that Daddy would make his entrance two months early. Poor Grandpa. They say he raced back and forth between the bedroom and the sunroom so many times, he wore a path in the carpet."
Ann didn't know why laughter came so freely with this man. Nor could she say why she felt such ease in his company, ease with an underlying current that she dared not name.
The portrait at the top of the stairs mesmerized Colt. "This is you?"
"No. My grandmother, painted when she was eighteen."
"Incredible." He alternately studied the portrait, then Ann. "I would have sworn it was you dressed for some kind of costume ball. You're a dead ringer."
Ann never looked at the portrait without the eerie feeling that she was looking inside herself. Charlotte Ann Harris Debeau had the dewy look of a woman in love. Her eyes were shining, her lips were slightly parted as if she'd been surprised by a kiss, and her skin had the natural flush of a woman who had just been thoroughly loved.
The woman in the portrait seemed to beckon them closer. They studied her, standing side by side, so close, their thighs were touching. Even that small contact gave Ann goose bumps. She knew she should move away, but her feet seemed to be glued to the floor.
"That's amazing work," Colt said. "Such power, such passion. Who is the artist?"
"Anthony Chance. His body of work was small, but it's considered the best portrait art of the twentieth century."
"His use of color and shading rivals the masters."
"You know art."
"Pottery, mostly." Colt took her hands, studied her palms, traced her fingers, then bent down and placed a gentle kiss in each palm.
"Thank you, Ann Debeau, for hours of pleasure." She sucked in a sharp breath, and his eyes twinkled. "I have one of your pieces. It's the prize of my collection."
"In view of such high praise, how can I refuse to share my humble tuna with you?"
o0o
Colt was enchanted. That was the only reason he could think of for staying at Windchime House until almost eleven o'clock. The house had cast a spell.
Or was it the woman? She was a soft woman, given to quick laughter and feminine gestures that melted him right down to the tips of his well-worn leather boots.
Did she feel the magic, too, or was she truly in love with the man who waited for her in New York? It wouldn't do to pursue that line of thought.
The clock in the hallway chimed the half hour. She followed him to the front porch, still barefoot.
The wind whipped her hair into her face, and she tucked it behind one ear. He pictured her on the beach wearing a white dress that flowed around her, tucking her hair behind her ear. The image was so real he passed his hands over his eyes to clear his vision.
Drops of rain as big as dinner plates splatted onto the front porch.
"There's a storm brewing. You be careful, Annie."
"I'll be gone long before the storm. I leave early in the morning."
Something lurched inside him, as powerful as a ship torn loose from its moorings.
"Can I drive you to the airport?"
"I have the rental car. But thanks anyway." She held out her hand, as tiny and delicate as a flower. "And thank you for the roses."
He solemnly shook her hand, then pressed another quick, hot kiss in her palm, a heroic gesture considering what he wanted to do.
"Your life should be filled with roses, Annie Debeau."
She stood on the porch, waving until he was out of sight, the wind whipping her hair, her bare toes curled under.
It was an image that stayed with him on the drive down scenic 98, round the bend past the Grand Hotel, and beyond the Point Clear Polo Club to the gentle slopes and curving paths of his own estate.
The image was still with him the next day when the storm off the coast of Florida built force, veered westward, and was dubbed Hurricane Bethany. He was in the stables checking on a new foal when the call came to evacuate.
There would be no evacuation for Colt. He would stay with his horses.
"I'll round up the horses in the west pasture and secure the ones in the lower meadow," he told Pete.
Further inland than Windchime House, he was not in the same danger as the residents along the shore. His slicker was scant protection from the storm. Wind was gusting so high that young trees were bent double, and torrential rains quickly turned small streams on his property to swiftly moving, treacherous creeks.
The high-strung polo ponies shied away every time a tree limb popped, bucking against the howling winds that whipped their tails and manes, and the blinding rains that blotted out the landscape.
Colt leaned low over his mount, Warrior, a tried and true stallion who had served his time on the fields and was now retired to bask in the sunshine, roll in the meadows, and carry his master on an occasional leisurely jaunt around the estate.
"Steady there, now." Colt rubbed Warrior's neck. "Bring them in, boy."
He squinted, trying to see the barn. Failing that, he relied on his instinct to take him and his valuable horses in the right direction. As the horses thundered ahead of him, Colt said a prayer of thanksgiving that Annie was safe in New York.
CHAPTER FOUR
"I just heard the news, Ann. What's going on down there?" The phone lines crackled, and Ann pressed the receiver closer to her ear.
"It's a hurricane, Rob."
"Good Lord. I told you not to change your plane reservations."
Ann gripped the receiver so hard, her knuckles turned white. Lately she seemed always to be defending herself to Rob. "There's still a lot I have to do before I can come home."
"The newscaster said they were evacuating Fairhope."
"I know that. You don't have to make it sound like an accusation."
"I'm scared for you, Ann. That's all."
She sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. I've been on edge ever since I found out Aunt Gilly was sick." A tree branch tore loose from a large magnolia and crashed onto the front porch. She jumped, and the receiver clattered to the floor.
"Ann? Ann?"
"I'm here. I just dropped the phone."
"You've got to get out of there, Ann. Do you still have the car?"
"Yes." She looked out the window, searching for the rental car, a small red sedan, but all she saw was a solid wall of gray rain.
"Then leave. Now. Call me as soon as you get out."
"It'll be hours, Rob. The only way out is across the Causeway, and the latest report is that traffic is backed up all the way to Daphne."
"Just go. Call me."
"Okay." She had her lips all pursed to say, "I love you," but he'd already hung up.
Ann raced upstairs for her shoes and her raincoat, threw her toiletries into a small flight bag, then hurried downstairs. The wind tore the front door from her hands and it slammed against the wall so hard, the panes rattled. Bending her head against the wind and rain, Ann fought her way to the car. By the time she got behind the wheel, she was soaked through to the skin.
She inched down the driveway, the road barely visible. There were no other vehicles on scenic 98, and she was buoyed by her progress.
"At this rate I'll be across the Causeway before dark."
The sound of her own voice comforted her. She had grown up in Fairhope, but she had been too young to remember the only hurricane that had actually hit that part of the coast. All she remembered were the tales her parents and Aunt Gilly had told about Hurricane Dianne.
"Some fools had hurricane parties and died on their own rooftops," her daddy had said.
"A whole pig floated through the lobby of the Grand Hotel" was Aunt Gilly's most often-repeated story.
Ann's tires parted the water already rising over the highway, and it spewed out behind her like the wake of a rowboat. The small curving hill onto Fairhope Avenue had disappeared in the gray rain, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she finally reached the bottom. But her relief was short-
lived. Traffic was backed up all the way to Summit Street, bumper to bumper, inching along at a snail's pace.
Ann kept the car radio on.
"Evacuate now," the announcer said. "Fairhope will be in the eye of Hurricane Bethany."
He called out a number of statistics, all of them grim and frightening—wave crests and flood levels and wind velocity. Aim tried to sing to cheer herself up, but she petered out on the second verse of "Love Lifted Me."
Strange that she had chosen a hymn as emotional shelter from the storm. It led her to thinking about her argument with Rob over whether to have the wedding ceremony in the church or in his parents' home on Long Island.
"It'll be so much nicer at home," he'd said. "Then we can step right outside to the pool for the reception."
"Vows exchanged in front of a fireplace don't have the same appeal as vows exchanged in front of an altar," she'd said, but like most of her arguments with Rob, she was losing this one.
Her car rocked and swayed in the deepening waters, and the clock on the dashboard told her that it had taken two hours to go four blocks. People began abandoning their cars, some striking out toward the highway, others turning back to their homes.
"Accidents are piling up on the Causeway. It's totally blocked," the announcer said. "Do not attempt to cross. Repeat. Do not attempt to cross."
Ann's heart sank. It was too late. There was no way she could evacuate.
She tried to steer the little car off the road, but the waters caught her and swept her sideways, almost through the window of Fairhope Pharmacy. It took all her strength to shove her door open against the force of the rising water, then she bent her head and started in the direction she hoped was home.
o0o
An expert pilot, Colt was one of the first people to volunteer for rescue operations. His office in the bunker-like barn housed his emergency communications system as well as a generator-operated refrigerator and hot plate, a well-stocked pantry and cots for him and Uncle Pete.
Exhausted from long hours herding horses into the barn, Pete was snoring on the cot, the dogs curled at his feet, while Colt listened through his headphones.
