He stepped out of the barrel and was reaching for a towel when suddenly the air was split by the crack of leather.
The whip wrapped around his torso in a blinding flash of pain, and he fell to his knees. Before he could react, the whip was jerked back, raking flesh, then popped again—once, twice, crisscrossing his back, the cuts deep and bloody.
It was only on the fourth blow Brett was able to fight his way from the cocoon of agony. He caught the end of the leather thong with his hands, felt flesh painfully splitting but held on and gave a mighty yank. His attacker cried out and tumbled forward into the firelight.
“Poppa, you!” Brett towered over him. “What the hell is going on?”
Leo got to his feet before roaring, “You goddamn fool, have you lost your mind? Raping Sinclair’s daughter? I ought to kill you and save him the trouble.”
Brett reeled before the astonishing charges. For the moment, pain was forgotten as he grabbed his father and slammed him against the nearest tree. “Talk, damn it! You tell me what this is all about, and do it fast.”
Leo repeated everything Sinclair had said, then warned, “You’d best get out of the bayou, or I might get so drunk one night I
will
kill you. You cost me the best job I ever had, all because you couldn’t keep that thing in your pants.” Catching Brett off guard, Leo brought his knee up to smash into his son’s crotch.
Brett staggered backwards, and Leo grabbed the whip and started to strike again. Brett rolled away just in time as leather slapped the ground inches from his face. He kicked out, and the old man fell.
Despite the agony ripping through his loins, Brett managed to stand, and in a rasping voice alien even to his own ears, warned, “I don’t want to kill you, but if you hit me again, I will.” Turning his back, he staggered to where he’d left his clean trousers.
“You better get the hell out,” Leo shrieked from where he lay, knowing he was too drunk to defend himself. “I’m tellin’ you, you’re a dead man.”
Brett snatched up a few belongings. His shotgun. Clothes. A side of bacon. A bag of chicory. He stuffed them all into a knapsack. It was pitch-dark, and he was exhausted from working all day and felt as if he were going to throw up from the pain between his legs. But he knew he had to leave—and fast.
He wasn’t worried about his father trying to beat him again.
Neither was he worried about Elton Sinclair.
The fact was, he was leaving because he feared what he might do if he laid eyes on Anjele. It was all becoming clear now. When the passion died down, she’d been scared of what she’d done. Probably she had been caught sneaking back into the house. Everything blew up at once, and she had yelled rape to protect herself.
The bitch! He cursed, thinking how he hated her, but hated himself even more for being such a goddamned fool—again. He headed deeper into the bayou with no fear of the night.
His rage would light the way.
Anjele sat beneath the willow, knees hugged against her chest. At first, she had passed the time by thinking of all kinds of reasons Gator was late, but finally she had to face the painful reality that he wasn’t coming. There was nothing to do but go home, crawl up the trellis, sneak in her room, and hope for a reasonable explanation later. She didn’t dare go into the bayou in search of him, for that would not only be foolish—but also humiliating.
She got up and headed up the gently sloping riverbank, shoulders stooped with disappointment, chin quivering as she tried not to cry.
Chapter Ten
Emalee was holding out a dipper of
cool water to one of the hoe gang when Simona jerked her sleeve and leaned to whisper, “Who’s that woman on the white horse over yonder by that pecan tree?”
Simona shaded her eyes with her hand and strained to see in the glaring early-morning sun. “Why, I believe that be Miss Twyla.”
“Well, how come she out here? I never see her out much in the summer.”
Simona shrugged. “I don’t know, but we soon gon’ find out, ‘cause she waving at us to go there.”
They were at the edge of a cane row and set their buckets and dippers down, should a thirsty worker seek water. It was a scorching day, and in the few hours they’d been in the fields, already they’d made four trips to the big water barrel for refills.
Twyla dismounted to stand in the shade. She returned neither their smiles nor polite greetings. Crisply she addressed Simona. “I understand you’re in the family way.”
Simona swallowed hard and nodded. She felt the first ripples of foreboding needling at her spine.
“My husband has been very pleased with your husband’s work, Simona. I believe he promised him a bonus after grinding season.”
Again, Simona nodded. She was really starting to worry, because Miss Twyla looked terribly mad about something, and she couldn’t think of anything she’d done. She hadn’t seen Anjele in weeks and didn’t think Emalee had, either.
Twyla looked at Emalee. “I understand you have two brothers who work for BelleClair, along with your mother and father.”
Emalee fearfully admitted that was so.
Twyla coolly glanced from one to the other as they watched and waited nervously. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Simona,” she began with an imperious lift of her chin. “There won’t be any bonus for your husband. As a matter of fact, you may tell him to stop by the overseer’s office this afternoon and draw his final pay. And yours, as well. You two won’t be working at BelleClair any longer.
“You, too, Emalee,” she concluded. “And your family.”
Emalee stuffed her fist in her mouth to hold back the bubbling sobs, but Simona, lips quivering, dared reach out and clutch Twyla’s sleeve in pleading desperation. “But why? Why you do this to us? What we do to you? We know you never like us to be around Anjele, and we have not seen her in long time. Please, whatever we do, let us undo it…have a second chance.”
Her reaction was exactly as Twyla had expected. Coldly, she removed Simona’s hand. Pursing her lips, as though reconsidering her orders, she finally asked, “Maybe there is something you can do. Tell me. What do you know about one of your people called Gator?”
Now Simona was really confused but quickly replied, “Nothin’. Nobody know nothin’ about Gator. He keep to hisself. Somebody say he not show up for work this mornin’. But what’s he got to do with us, Miss Twyla? How come you doin’ this to us?” Her hands went to her slightly rounded belly, as though to protect the now insecure future of the baby growing inside.
“You didn’t know he and Anjele have been secretly seeing each other?”
“Oh, no ma’am!” Simona swung her head wildly from side to side, and Emalee chimed in to assure she didn’t know anything, either.
Twyla was surprised but sensed they spoke the truth and decided it was time to get right to the point. “If the two of you cooperate with me, you may continue to work at BelleClair, and so can your families. If you refuse…” She let her voice trail off for effect.
“We do it,” Simona cried, willing to do anything, for well she knew it would be impossible for Frank and her to find comparable pay working anywhere else in the Delta.
Emalee likewise assured cooperation.
So Twyla proceeded to tell them, in no uncertain terms, exactly what she wanted from them. “And you’d better be very convincing,” she warned. “Anjele must not suspect anything.”
Simona and Emalee exchanged nervous glances, then Emalee dared wonder aloud, “What about Gator? What if he tells her we lyin’? He gon’ deny it all when he hears, for sure.”
“For sure, he won’t.” Twyla flashed a gloating smile. “He doesn’t dare show his face either at BelleClair or Bayou Perot, ever again. You need not concern yourself with him, or his father, whom I understand has also found it to his best interest to leave.
“So,” she finished, satisfied with their response, “do I have your word you will do as I’ve told you?”
“Yes,” Simona said stiffly, “but I don’ like doin’ it. Anjele, she my friend. I don’ like lyin’ to a friend.”
Timorously Emalee admitted, “I don’ like it, neither.”
For the first time, Twyla’s haughtiness and anger melted as she said compassionately, “You girls must believe me. It’s for her own good. No one else knows. No one must ever know.” She had been holding her handkerchief in one hand and opened it to reveal a large roll of bills. She handed it to Simona, who was blinking with renewed bafflement. “Here. Take this as a token of my appreciation. But promise me one more thing.”
Simona had never seen so much money in her life and instantly agreed, “Anything.”
“If this Gator shows up, if you hear of him anywhere around, you must get word to me or Master Sinclair immediately. Understand? And you must not say anything to him about what you’ve done.”
Simona knew that was the last thing she’d ever do, and a quick glance at Emalee confirmed she, too, had no intention of telling Gator or anyone else about the scheme. To soothe her conscience, Simona told herself Miss Twyla was right. They were doing Anjele a favor to end her illicit romance with Gator.
Without another word spoken, they watched Twyla mount and ride away, and only then did Emalee say fearfully, “I don’ know, Simona. I don’ know if I can do it. Anjele, she gon’ know I’m lyin’, for sure.”
Simona stared at the money. “Well, I can. For this much money, for my baby’s future, I can do anythin’. And you know I’ll share it with you. So when the time comes, you jus’ let me do the talkin’, and all you gotta do is agree with everythin’ I say. You can do that, can’t you?”
Emalee nodded. After all, her welfare, as well as her family’s, was at stake. “Sure, I do it. I don’ like it, but I do it.”
Anjele returned to the willow the next night, and when Gator again did not appear, she knew with heavy heart something had to be wrong. She tried to remember every word spoken, searching for some hidden nuance to indicate his insincerity. But she could recall nothing. Their times together had been wondrous and happy. Desire hadn’t been the total sum of their pleasure when together. Each time there was sufficient moonlight, he’d introduced her to yet more of the enchantment that was the bayou. Many evenings, they’d merely sat beneath the willow and talked of the world and all its splendor, and Gator would again tell her of his exciting travels on the high seas.
Above and beyond anything else, Anjele had felt that a warm, lasting friendship existed between them. Never would he just walk away without explanation, especially after the last night they were together, when she’d given him all a woman has to give the man she loves.
Dejected, forlorn, miserable, Anjele knew there was no need to wait any longer. He wasn’t coming this night. Something told her he wouldn’t be there the next, or the next, but by God, she was determined to find out what was wrong and tomorrow morning, she promised herself, she’d go to him in the cane field and get some answers.
She dreaded going back to the house, knowing sleep wouldn’t come as she tossed and turned all night, restless and worried. It was going to be difficult to slip away in the morning, for Raymond was to have returned to New Orleans tonight and would no doubt be arriving early to call. He’d been away nearly a month, and she hadn’t missed him at all. How could she, when she was obsessed with another man?
Anjele was also curious as to why Claudia was behaving so mysteriously—ignoring her, except to smirk now and then, eyes dancing as though she knew some deep, dark secret. And her mother wasn’t herself, either, or her father. Both seemed to be avoiding her, and at the dinner table, tension hovered like stillness before a storm. She was puzzled by it all, but didn’t dwell on it since she was far too preoccupied with her personal concerns.
She’d been out of the house for perhaps two hours when she returned to climb up the trellis.
But the trellis, she realized with a stab of horror, wasn’t there. It had been removed, and before she had time to wonder what was going on, Twyla stepped out from behind a hydrangea bush.
“Mother?” Anjele saw her stricken face in the scant moonlight. “What…what are you doing here?” she stammered, swept with chilling dread.
“I might ask you the same thing, dear.” Twyla was wearing a light silk robe over her gown, her long, dark hair pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck. When Claudia reported that Anjele had once again climbed down the trellis, Elton had had one of the gardeners take it down. Twyla had then taken up vigil in a rocker on the side porch till she saw Anjele coming across the lawn. “I think,” she said slowly, evenly, “we should go inside and talk about this. Your father is waiting in his study.”
Now Anjele knew, with startling clarity, the reason for everyone’s mysterious behavior—especially Claudia who, no doubt had seen her leaving, and tattled. There was nothing to do now but follow her mother and face the inevitable.
Her father sat behind his desk, fingers templed as he silently struggled to hold his temper. He waited till both Anjele and Twyla were seated before taking a deep breath and quietly asking, “Where did you go tonight, Anjele?”
She told herself it wasn’t really a lie. “For a walk.”
“You climbed down the trellis to go for a walk? Why couldn’t you just go down the stairs?” Not giving her a chance either to confirm or deny, he half rose from his chair to yell, “I’ll tell you why—you met a man, didn’t you?”