Destiny's Daughter (28 page)

Chase walked up beside her to examine the damage. "The workmen can have this repaired tomorrow. Let’s take a look at our hooded cowards."

Lifting a burned-out torch, he held a match to it and crossed the yard. Pulling off the hoods, he began examining the faces of the dead men. "I don’t recognize a one of them. They must have been brought in from some distance. From their accents, I don’t believe they’re even from Louisiana."

When he walked back inside, the women began to stand on trembling legs. Wearily they set aside their weapons.

"You saved my life," Gabrielle said softly to Francine. The beginnings of tears glistened in her eyes.

"Nonsense. You wounded him. I just finished him off."

"But I panicked. I don’t think I could have shot him again."

"It doesn’t matter." The tall woman gave Gabrielle a warm embrace, then turned toward Hattie Lee. "That was good shooting."

"I hope I never have to do it again."

The others nodded.

Annalisa was helped to her feet by Nate, whose face was the color of chalk.

"I’m sorry I was such a coward," he said softly. "I’m afraid I wasn’t any help to you."

"No help? Who pulled me to safety? Who loaded my gun? Who crawled to investigate the fire in the kitchen?"

"You’re being kind. When it came to actual battle, I froze inside. Maybe I really am more dead than alive."

Was he acting? Annalisa wondered. Was this his way of protecting his dual identity? Was he forced to play the coward so that no one would guess that he was really the noble Archangel? Or, and she tried vainly to ignore the tiny voice that nagged at the edge of her mind, was he really afraid to handle a gun?

"There are no cowards here," she said gently. "I know what you’ve been through." At his look of surprise, she said, "Hattie Lee told me about your wife and baby."

At her admission, he looked stricken.

Francine touched Nate’s arm. She was almost as tall as he, and blue eyes looked directly into blue eyes with understanding. "Annalisa is right, Nate. Many of us know your story, and have similar stories to tell. All of us have shared the same kind of pain and suffering during the war."

"I’ve learned that sometimes," Annalisa said in a voice thick with emotion, "it takes real courage just to go on living."

Turning to Delia, who was still half-sitting, half-lying against a velvet chair, Annalisa touched her shoulder. "I know how exhausted you must be. Come on. I’ll walk with you to your room."

At Annalisa’s light touch, the figure fell to one side.

"Delia." Annalisa reached for her, then gave a cry. "Delia. Oh, my God. Delia."

As she tried to pull Delia upright, Annalisa’s hand encountered something warm and sticky. The chair against which she had lain was soaked with blood.

Rushing to Delia’s side, Chase knelt and touched his fingers to the young woman’s throat. He could find no pulse. Lifting an eyelid, he studied her in silence, then pressed the lid closed once more. When he straightened, the others watched him in stunned silence.

"I’ll send for Dr. Lynch." Annalisa turned away.

"No." He touched a hand to her arm, as if to provide a buffer for the words he had to say. She lifted pleading eyes to his, begging him to keep his silence. She wasn’t ready. This was too sudden. She needed time. Time.

"Delia," Annalisa said, kneeling beside the silent figure. "You said you would never hide again. You vowed that if we ever had to defend ourselves, you would fight bravely."

"And she did fight bravely," Chase said, lifting Annalisa gently to her feet.

Annalisa knew that she was rambling, avoiding the truth. She couldn’t hear it. Not yet. "You don’t understand, Chase. Her mother made her hide in a bucket in the well. While she was hidden, Delia was forced to listen to the sounds of her entire family being murdered." Tears welled up, then spilled over Annalisa’s eyes, streaming down her cheeks, leaving their bitter, salty taste on her trembling lips. "She heard her mother plead for her brothers’ lives. And she had to hide there, listening to the sounds of the gunshots that took her entire family away from her. And she was helpless. Helpless."

The tears were falling faster now, as Annalisa took a ragged breath. She needed to keep talking about Delia, to keep from hearing those terrible, final words.

Beside them, Nate stared at the still figure on the floor and realized suddenly how many others had had to suffer as he had. Annalisa’s words echoed in his mind. Helpless. He’d felt so helpless. Shock. Denial. Rage. And a void in his life that could never be filled. He brought his tightly clenched fists to his temples and pressed, as if trying to erase the pain that throbbed.

"She liked having a gun, Chase. She said it made her feel safe. She was the best fighter among us. Ghosts." Annalisa could no longer see through the blur of tears. Wiping the back of her hand across her eyes, she sobbed, "She said each time she fired the rifle she was shooting at the ghosts of the men who killed her family."

Nate stiffened. Gabrielle turned to a dry-eyed Francine and cried soundlessly against her shoulder. Beside them, Eulalie turned into Hattie Lee’s arms and began to cry, softly at first, and then more loudly, as Annalisa said, "But ghosts can’t shoot back, Chase, can they? They couldn’t hurt her, could they?"

Taking her into his arms, Chase held her against his chest and allowed her to cry out all the pain. As her slender body shook with wracking sobs, he pressed his lips to her hair and cursed the fact that he was helpless to do anything more. She’d been so brave. He was so proud of the way she’d fought their cowardly attackers. She’d endured so much. And now he would have to stand by and watch her endure even more.

She felt her own tears flow freely. "I’ll send for Dr. Lynch now," she said between sobs.

"Annalisa." Chase stroked her hair and framed her face with his big hands. Staring down into her brimming eyes, he said softly, "There’s nothing more we can do for Delia."

"She needs blankets, Chase. She’s so cold. So young. So alone."

"Annalisa." Wiping her tears with his thumbs, he pressed his forehead to hers, as if to absorb some of her pain. "Delia will never be cold again. Or alone."

"But Chase ..."

"She’s gone to be with her family now. There is nothing more we can do."

She turned to stare at the lifeless figure. He felt her stiffen in his arms. His words struck her with the force of a blow.

Old Gray brushed against the still figure, making lazy circles around her feet, meowing pitifully. Stooping, Francine picked up the cat and cradled it against her chest, just the way Delia always had. Seeing that, Annalisa seemed to crumple in Chase’s arms. Her knees buckled and he slipped his arms under hers to support her. For a moment her face whitened. Then she lifted her face to him. "Delia?"

He’d never loved Annalisa so much or wished so desperately he could shield her from the pain she had to face. He nodded, and finally brought himself to say the words she most dreaded to hear. "No one will ever hurt her again. Delia is dead."

It was a somber group clustered around the open grave the next day. Annalisa, still in shock, leaned heavily on Chase’s arm. His mouth was a thin, tight line of repressed fury as he fought an overwhelming need to lash out at the cowards who hid behind masks and extinguished the bright young light that had been Delia.

Hattie Lee stood alone, dressed in a long black gown of heavy satin. A black veil cast shadows across her eyes. She carried a parasol to ward off the sun.

How could the sun shine on such a day? Annalisa thought dully. The skies should be leaden, oppressive. In fact, she thought, the skies should open up and weep for their loss. This day they were burying a part of themselves. One of the band of survivors had been cut down. There was one less ray of sunshine in their lives. Above them, the sky was the kind of hard, clear blue that poets write about. The sun was so bright it hurt to look at it, and Annalisa looked away, resenting it, resenting the tears that pooled.

Luther had insisted on accompanying them. With his arm in a sling and a shirt unbuttoned over the swath of bandages at his side, he leaned an arm around Eulalie’s shoulders, supporting the rest of his weight on a gnarled stick.

Gabrielle stood a little apart from the group, holding a handkerchief to her swollen eyes. Beside her, Dr. Lynch held his hat in both hands and stared straight ahead. The slight flush at his neck was the only sign of his agitation.

Francine stood alongside Nate Blackwell, who had insisted on staying the night. Her head was nearly even with his. With their pale hair and fair skin, they looked like carved alabaster statues. Though Nate looked as haggard as the rest, Annalisa thought she saw a light in his eyes that had never been there before. He stood ramrod straight, resplendent in a black morning coat over black breeches. Beside him, Francine, in a plain black gown, was his mirror image. They neither spoke nor touched, but each was acutely aware of the other’s pain. Held firmly against her chest, Francine cuddled the cat she had once thought ugly.

The cluster of mourners looked up as Emile Soulet approached. Snatching his hat from his head, the stocky man walked to Annalisa and extended his hand. Numbly she accepted it, wishing he had not chosen to intrude on their private grief.

"I just heard the news." Emile’s voice broke, and Annalisa realized that there were tears in his eyes. "If I had known," he began in a choked voice. "If I had been there, I could have kept her safe."

His big hand pressed Annalisa’s, leaving her palm damp and sticky. She was shocked by the depth of pain in his eyes.

"We did our best, Emile. We all fought together. She was brave." Her voice trembled. "So brave."

"But if I’d only been there, my little Delia would still be alive. I never would have let anything happen to her."

His little Delia? Annalisa’s eyes widened as she studied him. And then she knew. This boastful, slovenly figure contained a heart that was capable of love. He had loved Delia. Sweet, shy Delia and the loud braggart, Emile Soulet.

A tear squeezed from between tightly closed eyes and trickled down his bewhiskered cheek. Awkwardly, he wiped it with the back of his beefy hand.

"Stay with us," Annalisa said gently, looping one arm through his, "while we pay our last respects to Delia."

Suddenly it seemed important that everyone who had loved Delia should stand together. In this one simple act, Emile had become one of them. Annalisa felt him struggle to keep his emotions under control.

Hattie Lee walked to the edge of the open grave and placed a single rose on the rough pine box. In a rich, resounding voice that sang out like a tent preacher she intoned, "You became one of my children. So shy, so sweet, always trying to please. Your mama and papa would have been proud of your courage. Rest easy now, child." The voice quavered, then died in a long, drawn-out sigh.

Francine stepped up beside Hattie Lee. Placing her rose atop the casket, she said, "You were the little sister I never had. I never heard you cry or complain. You could make me laugh when I was down." Struggling to keep her voice from breaking, she whispered, "I hope you’re smiling now."

Gabrielle kissed the rose in her hand, then gently placed it beside the others. Moving to stand alongside Francine she murmured, "Chérie, you were like a frightened little bird when you first arrived. But like all birds must, you learned to fly. Fly home, Delia." She began to sob, and the tenuous hold on everyone’s emotions began to slip.

With Luther leaning heavily on her, Eulalie made her way slowly to the grave. Tossing down her rose, she said in her soft, honeyed voice, "There was a time when I wondered if I was black or white. I thought I didn’t fit in anywhere." She bit back a sob. "It never mattered to you. You taught me that love has no color."

Everyone who worked at the house continued adding a rose and a word, until the casket was covered with roses, lending their lovely fragrance to the summer breeze. The tapestry of their words wove the beautiful fabric of this young girl’s life. Most of the women were crying openly.

Chase kept a firm grip on Annalisa’s arm as she lifted the hem of her black gown and stepped forward. Placing her rose with the others, she said softly, "I knew you such a short time, Delia. But you became my teacher. And my friend. You are the bravest woman I’ve ever known." She swallowed back a sob and added, "And this family can rest in the knowledge that you’re now with your other family."

Emile Soulet lumbered forward. In his hand was a bouquet of drooping wildflowers. Kneeling, he placed them amidst the fragrant roses. Somehow they looked right, those simple flowers among the exotic. Continuing to kneel, he placed a hand on the pine box as if needing to touch the woman who lay within. In a voice wracked with pain he cried, "You were the sweetest little woman I’ve ever known. I’d give any thin’ to be there instead of you, love. Anythin’. I loved you, sweet Delia. More’n my own life."

Francine touched a comforting hand to the weeping man’s shoulders, and in a moment of shared grief, handed him Old Gray.

"I think Delia would like knowing you two were around to comfort each other."

The lop-eared old cat curled itself around Emile’s shoulder, sniffed his hair, then settled down as if the two were old friends.

"Thank you, miss. I’ll take care of Old Gray just the way my Delia did."

Annalisa studied the young woman who claimed to hate all men, and the man whose gruff demeanor hid a heart filled with love and grief. Even in death, Delia had brought out the best in those who loved her.

Swallowing back the lump in her throat, Annalisa turned away and accepted Chase’s arm. The others began drifting away as well, leaving Emile and the cat to a solitary, wracking grief.

On the long walk back to the house, everyone was strangely silent, locked in their own somber thoughts. Violent death had touched this once festive house. Were its inhabitants strong enough to withstand further attack?

The police chief and two of his assistants were waiting in the yard, their wagon loaded with the bodies of the dead men. While the women hurried indoors, keeping their gazes averted, Chase pulled Boulanger aside.

"Recognize any of them?" he asked.

The police chief shrugged. "Not a one. Where do you think they came from?"

Chase watched as one of the assistants threw an army blanket over the corpses. "The war has left hundreds of men looking for work. For enough money, I suppose, they were even willing to pull on a hood and kill innocent people. As long as there was no risk," he added ominously. "Now that they know these women intend to fight back, the word’ll get around. I don’t think it’ll be as easy to get volunteers the next time."

"You think it’s over?" Boulanger asked.

Taking a cigar from his pocket, Chase bit the end and looked thoughtful. "Not a chance. But I think they’ll look for an easier target next time."