At last, mercifully, it was over. General Sherman ordered his troops to withdraw, and everyone was shouting victory. Brett retained his pessimism to warn, “He’s not through. He’s only retreating to wait for Grant and regroup. Then he’ll be back. Probably in the spring.”
Bel happily assured him, “And we’ll be ready.” Then, on a somber note, he placed his hands on Brett’s shoulders and told him, “Thank you, my friend, for making us see it is our war, too.”
“I’m afraid it eventually becomes everybody’s war. Whether they like it or not.”
“And you are gonna stay and help us fight it, no?”
Brett told him there was something he had to do but declined to go into details. In the past days, when he’d come so close to being killed himself a couple of times, he had realized he’d been wrong to leave Anjele as he had. If anything happened to him, she was helpless. So he had made up his mind to do what he should have done a long time ago—turn her over to the Confederate government for protection.
Then he had a war to worry about.
And when it ended, he’d find her and see what the future held.
“A woman,” Bel teased. “I bet the Gator has another woman.”
“Not another woman.” He grinned. “She’s the same one, only she doesn’t know it.”
Bel blinked. “I don’t understand.”
Brett turned away, thinking how it wasn’t important that he did.
It had happened over a period of days.
At first, the silver blanket turned to one of smoky white. Then came pale pink, and finally, miraculously, came the morning when she awoke to the world in all its glory.
She could only lie there, slowly looking about the room, fearing that if she moved too much the curtain would fall again, returning her to the pit of eternal darkness.
But the curtain did not come down, and after a few moments, she slowly got out of bed and walked about. Deciding movement would not harm, she padded from the room and out into the gallery leading around the stairway. Then she began to skip about, finally running, giggling with delight at everything she saw.
Remembering she was barefoot and wearing only a thin nightgown Brett had stolen from someone’s clothesline they’d passed along the way, she hurried to dress.
Finally she ran all the way downstairs and burst out the front door. Arms spread wide, face lifted skyward in thanksgiving, she ran across the brown lawn. It was the first of January, though unseasonably warm, but after all it was Mississippi, and the Southland, and praise God, she could see, and oh, how she wished Brett were there so she could share her joy, and—
Brett.
She stopped running, stopped dancing about, suddenly sobered to realize that at long last she’d be able to look into the eyes of her beloved. What did he look like? Oh, she yearned to know but knew it didn’t matter. He could be the ugliest creature God ever put on earth, and she’d love him no less. Her heart was his, for always and always, and now that she had her eyesight back, they could really make plans and start to live.
Rufus had come upon her, scared to see her out and roaming about by herself. When she shared the miracle, he leaned very close and stared into her eyes, then cried, “Glory be! Praise God! You can see, Miss Anjele! You can sho’ enuff see!”
Two days passed. Anjele was getting nervous, anxious for Brett to return. By day, she walked about, drinking in the sights of the place that had been her home the past months. By night, she lay awake, reveling to think that it really was just night and, best of all, only temporary.
It was almost pitch dark when Rufus came running to tell her he’d spotted Brett coming around the bend in the river. He could tell it was him, because he was moving slowly, close to the bank, avoiding being seen by one of the many gunboats cruising up and down the Mississippi.
“He’s gonna sho’ be happy when he finds out you ain’t blind no more,” Rufus cried.
Anjele wanted the time to be special. She didn’t want to just run to meet him yelling she could see him, at last. No, that wasn’t the way she wanted him to find out, and had planned the moment carefully.
It would be at dawn, because there was no moon this night. Wanting him to be able to see the love mirrored in her eyes, she would force herself to wait till the first light of day fell across them.
Rufus understood she wanted to be alone when Brett got there, so he grinned and bid her good-night.
Anjele made her way to the pier, using a walking stick to probe the way. In the pitch darkness, it didn’t matter her sight had returned. It was impossible to see anything, but she could hear the sounds of his boat bumping against the pier as he groped to tie it. She called softly, “Brett, is that you?”
“Anjele, honey, what are you doing out here?” He leaped to grab her and crush her in his arms, showering her face with kisses. “God, I’ve missed you so…”
“And I’ve been crazy with worry,” she cried, pressing close against him. “Are you really all right?”
He assured her he was fine and took her hand, leading her away from the river. “Come on. I’ll tell you all about it.”
She continued to pretend she was still blind. They sat down, and after a soul-searing kiss that left both of them breathless, he recounted the battle.
“Thank God,” she whispered, relieved that, for the time being, the Union had been forced to withdraw. “But what happens next?” She smiled in the darkness, confident that any plans he had made could only be enriched when he learned her vision had returned. But when he didn’t answer, she felt a shiver of apprehension. Something told her whatever he had in mind he was reluctant to discuss.
He reached for her, whispering, “We’ll talk in the morning, Angel, because here and now, I want you. It’s all I’ve dreamed about.” He pulled her almost roughly down beside him. Her breasts squeezed against his chest, and his hands moved to cup her buttocks and crush her tighter still. Immediately she felt his hardness between her thighs as his mouth found hers, warm, hungry, fierce with passion.
His tongue touched hers possessively, and he then moved to devour her face and neck, all the while nimbly unfastening the bodice of her dress, jerking it almost savagely away to free her breasts.
Anjele was licked with flames of desire. Spreading her thighs to receive his probing fingers, she cried out as the fire burned brighter. Shamelessly, raggedly, she begged him to take her.
A great roaring began, and she felt herself being swept away as molten waves of pleasure washed over her writhing, twisting body. She felt his hot, ragged breath against her ear, the thunderous pounding of his wildly beating heart against her naked breasts. Then he was pulling away from her, but only long enough to strip off his clothes before once more savagely, but sweetly, assaulting.
She gasped to feel the delight of his entry. Almost furiously, he hammered into her. The explosive thrusts charged through her loins, upwards into her belly, and deeper, still, to the very depths of her enraptured soul. Mercilessly, her nails dug into the rock-hard flesh of his back as she sought to bring him yet closer.
At last, when she thought she would surely die if he didn’t end the ecstatic torture, they came simultaneously. It rocked them both with wonder, and they clung together for long moments afterward, naked flesh drenched by the sweat of near-savage consummation.
He rolled away to lie on his back, keeping her close beside him, her head upon his shoulder. As always, they shared whispered vows of love for all eternity.
Brett was exhausted but so grateful to be back and holding her close. Dreamily he told her, “In the spring, I hope we make love outside all the time. Maybe on a spot like this hillock. I remember it used to be covered in flowers. All colors.” He turned to hold her close once more, nuzzling his chin in her soft hair. “Oh, Angel, darling, I can’t wait for spring. Making love to you is like holding heaven in my hand, like finding heaven in a wildflower.”
He closed his eyes. Unable to stay awake any longer, weariness took him away.
Anjele was drifting herself, so at peace in his arms.
She was awakened with a jolt and sat upright. The cool breeze from the river brought her to instant alertness. This time, it was not a sound just heard but the echo of Brett’s words of the night before.
She had been dreaming, in the throes of the same, recurring nightmare. She was kneeling beside her father, straining to listen to what he seemed so desperate to tell her. Only this time, she could hear him.
Wildflowers.
The door had been opened, and now she knew—the last word her father had spoken had been
wildflowers
.
Another memory came flashing back.
The day they had been to the family mausoleum, he had been touched by the sight of wildflowers growing out of her mother’s crypt. “Life growing out of the aperture of death,” he’d said.
And now she knew what he had been trying to tell her in his last breath—the plates were hidden in the family crypt.
The first light of dawn was streaking the sky, and she turned excitedly to Brett. He lay with his back to her, and she touched his shoulder, anxious to share two exciting miracles, instead of one.
He sleepily grumbled, rolled over on his back, but did not awaken.
Anjele’s hands flew to her gaping mouth.
Dear God, she realized with a slamming jolt of her heart that left her struggling to breathe,
she was looking at Gator
.
Chapter Thirty-One
Anjele followed the course of the river.
In its constant turning and twisting, the Mississippi relentlessly ate into the banks, making undercuts on one side, new points on the other. Riding Brett’s horse, she had to be ever alert, for the way was treacherous, and what appeared to be solid ground could actually be eroded beneath.
She rode doggedly, wanting to get as far away as possible before Brett woke up to find her gone.
Brett.
She bristled, burning with white-hot rage.
Gator…
She cursed herself for not realizing the truth but how could she? He’d had the advantage, because she could not see him, and he had successfully endeavored to mask other ways he might be recognized. He had changed his voice, his personality and mannerisms, and, blast him, even the way he’d made love to her.
Anjele also reminded herself that Gator had been out of her life for over four years.
Oh, she was furious. To think it had all been a trick, a scheme, from the very start. Brett was a Yankee soldier. Somehow, someone had discovered she had once made a fool of herself over him and figured, given her blindness, he could use the same guile to bewitch her again. Of course, the motive was for her to eventually lead him to the lost plates.
Perhaps some things did change, she thought with a grimace, but not Brett’s ability to deceive.
The pieces began to fall together. Now she knew why he hadn’t taken her to the Confederates. He wasn’t worried about someone trying to kill her. He just wanted to make sure he was the only one around when her memory returned. The attempt on her life had no doubt been staged to make her look to him for protection, willing to believe anything he said.
In that frozen moment, when she saw the truth, the scream of indignant rage had mercifully locked in her throat, allowing time for shock to melt into seething anger and force her to realize she had to flee. Once he discovered she knew of the ruse, there was no telling what he might do. But one thing was certain—he’d never let her go.
Anjele knew she had to get to New Orleans as quickly as possible to find out if she was right about the meaning of her father’s last word. If so, if the plates were indeed hidden in her mother’s coffin, she would retrieve them and then make her way to Richmond and turn them over to the Confederacy. Brett would come after her. She had no doubt about that. Once he found out from Rufus she could see, he’d know she had recognized him at first light and quickly left in a rage. He would also conclude she’d head back to New Orleans to try and find the plates, suspecting she had known all along where they were, and the fact that she was considered an escaped prisoner by the Union would not stop her from returning.
She had taken his horse, and that would slow him down a bit. He would lose time having to find another, because he couldn’t take the small boat all the way downriver to New Orleans, and there was no other means of water transportation. Steamers and paddle wheelers were, of course, no longer operating for passengers.
She passed a few cabins along the way but waited till almost dark to stop at a small farmhouse. A friendly elderly couple, who introduced themselves as Jasper and Daisy Kinston, kindly gave her shelter, especially when she told her hastily contrived lie about being on her way to New Orleans in hopes of reaching her ailing mother before she died.
Jasper, however, was very vocal about the dangers she faced. “You ain’t got no business travelin’ by yourself. And you not only have to worry about Yankee raiders and foragers, but Rebel deserters, too. Lots of meanness goin’ on out there now, missy, and it’ll be suicide when you get to Natchez Trace. Ain’t even safe there during daylight hours, but at night it’s terrible, the haunt of the worse scourges of Mississippi and Louisiana—murderers, renegades. You’d never make it.”