almost hear it bang shut. He looked past her, as if she had ceased to exist, his face a stony mask. His silence left her free to draw her own conclusions.
Perhaps Shelby had made some kind of public statement against poachers or places like Mosquito Mouton's. It would be like Shelby to get on a soapbox and publicly antagonize people she thought of as unsavory. Her views would be met with widespread approval among the upstanding members of the community, something that would appeal enormously to her ego. Shelby had always required a great deal of attention and praise, and had been willing to go to whatever length she needed to get those things. It wouldn't have been beyond her to pick on a man as dangerous as Lucky Doucet. She would have considered the potential for self-aggrandizement long before giving a thought to the potential for trouble.
Serena wondered if her sister had any idea she'd made an enemy of a man who carried a hunting knife the size of a scimitar.
They moved on up the bayou, the silence of the swamp as heavy and oppressive as the heat. The denser the vegetation became, the more overwhelming the stillness. It played on Serena's nerves, tightening them so that something as innocent as the “quock” of heron set them humming.
The deeper they penetrated into the wilderness, the less it looked like man had ever intruded upon it. The most conspicuous sign of human habitation Serena saw was the occasional slip of colored plastic ribbon tied to a branch to mark the location of a crawfish trap.
Lucky pulled up beside one of these—a red ribbon tied to the branch of a willow sapling—and set about emptying the dip net set in the shallow water beneath it. The thin mesh was brimming with red crawfish. He raided four nets along the same bank, emptying their contents into the onion sacks he had stored in the bow of the pirogue, going about his task as if Serena were nothing more than an annoying piece of cargo he had to step around. She watched him with interest, not daring to ask if the traps he was harvesting were his.
“Are we nearly there?” she asked as Lucky once again began to pole the pirogue north, then east.
“Nearly. You'll know when we're just about onto Gifford's.”
“I doubt it. It's been years since I've been out here.”
“You'll know,” he said assuredly.
“How?”
“By the gunshots.”
Serena made a face. “That's ridiculous. Old Lawrence said something about people getting shot at too. I know my grandfather can be cantankerous, but shooting at people? That's absurd. Why would he shoot at people?”
“To scare them off.”
“And why would he want to scare people off?”
“So they'll leave him alone.”
Serena shook her head impatiently. “I don't understand any of this. In the first place, it's not like Giff to desert the plantation for so long a time, not even during crawfish season.”
“He's got his reasons,” Lucky said enigmatically.
Serena gave him a long, searching look. She didn't like the idea of this man knowing more about her family's concerns than she did. It made her feel like the outsider. It also threw a glaring spotlight on her deficiencies as a granddaughter. She didn't come home often enough, didn't keep up with the local news, didn't call as often as she should. The list of venial sins went on, adding to her feelings of guilt. Still, she couldn't keep herself from asking the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.
“And just what do you think those reasons are, Mr. Doucet?” she queried, looking up at him.
His face remained impassive. “Ask Gifford, if you want to know. I don't get involved in other people's lives.”
“How convenient for you. You have no one to worry about, no one to answer to except yourself.”
“That's right, sugar.”
“Then what are you doing bringing me out here when you would clearly rather have come alone?”
Lucky scowled at her, his black brows pulling together like twin thunderheads above his eyes. When he spoke
Perhaps Shelby had made some kind of public statement against poachers or places like Mosquito Mouton's. It would be like Shelby to get on a soapbox and publicly antagonize people she thought of as unsavory. Her views would be met with widespread approval among the upstanding members of the community, something that would appeal enormously to her ego. Shelby had always required a great deal of attention and praise, and had been willing to go to whatever length she needed to get those things. It wouldn't have been beyond her to pick on a man as dangerous as Lucky Doucet. She would have considered the potential for self-aggrandizement long before giving a thought to the potential for trouble.
Serena wondered if her sister had any idea she'd made an enemy of a man who carried a hunting knife the size of a scimitar.
They moved on up the bayou, the silence of the swamp as heavy and oppressive as the heat. The denser the vegetation became, the more overwhelming the stillness. It played on Serena's nerves, tightening them so that something as innocent as the “quock” of heron set them humming.
The deeper they penetrated into the wilderness, the less it looked like man had ever intruded upon it. The most conspicuous sign of human habitation Serena saw was the occasional slip of colored plastic ribbon tied to a branch to mark the location of a crawfish trap.
Lucky pulled up beside one of these—a red ribbon tied to the branch of a willow sapling—and set about emptying the dip net set in the shallow water beneath it. The thin mesh was brimming with red crawfish. He raided four nets along the same bank, emptying their contents into the onion sacks he had stored in the bow of the pirogue, going about his task as if Serena were nothing more than an annoying piece of cargo he had to step around. She watched him with interest, not daring to ask if the traps he was harvesting were his.
“Are we nearly there?” she asked as Lucky once again began to pole the pirogue north, then east.
“Nearly. You'll know when we're just about onto Gifford's.”
“I doubt it. It's been years since I've been out here.”
“You'll know,” he said assuredly.
“How?”
“By the gunshots.”
Serena made a face. “That's ridiculous. Old Lawrence said something about people getting shot at too. I know my grandfather can be cantankerous, but shooting at people? That's absurd. Why would he shoot at people?”
“To scare them off.”
“And why would he want to scare people off?”
“So they'll leave him alone.”
Serena shook her head impatiently. “I don't understand any of this. In the first place, it's not like Giff to desert the plantation for so long a time, not even during crawfish season.”
“He's got his reasons,” Lucky said enigmatically.
Serena gave him a long, searching look. She didn't like the idea of this man knowing more about her family's concerns than she did. It made her feel like the outsider. It also threw a glaring spotlight on her deficiencies as a granddaughter. She didn't come home often enough, didn't keep up with the local news, didn't call as often as she should. The list of venial sins went on, adding to her feelings of guilt. Still, she couldn't keep herself from asking the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.
“And just what do you think those reasons are, Mr. Doucet?” she queried, looking up at him.
His face remained impassive. “Ask Gifford, if you want to know. I don't get involved in other people's lives.”
“How convenient for you. You have no one to worry about, no one to answer to except yourself.”
“That's right, sugar.”
“Then what are you doing bringing me out here when you would clearly rather have come alone?”
Lucky scowled at her, his black brows pulling together like twin thunderheads above his eyes. When he spoke
Similar Books
