his voice was soft and silky with warning. “Don' you go tryin' to get inside my head, Dr. Sheridan.”
Serena rolled her eyes. “God forbid. I'm sure I'd rather fall into a snake pit.”
One and the same thing,
chérie
, Lucky said to himself, but he refrained from speaking that thought, knowing it was the kind of statement a psychologist would pounce on. He was managing just fine. If everyone would just butt the hell out of his life, he would be great.
“How come you don' know Gifford's reasons for comin' out here?” he asked, going on the offensive. “Don' you ever talk to your grandpapa on the telephone? Mebbe you don' care what goes on down here. Mebbe you don' care about this place or Chanson du Terre, eh?”
“What kind of question is that?” Serena bristled, rising to the bait like a bass to a fly. “Of course I care about Chanson du Terre. It's my family home.”
Lucky shrugged. “I don't see you livin' there, sugar.”
“Where I live is none of your concern.”
“That's right. Just like it's none of my concern if someone wants to come in and flatten the place with bulldozers. It's not my family what's lived and worked on that land two-hundred-some years.”
Serena stared up at him, feeling as if she'd been hit in the chest with a hammer. “What do you mean, flatten the place? What are you talking about?”
“Chanson du Terre, angel. Your sister wants to sell it to Tristar Chemicals.”
“That's absurd!” she exclaimed, laughing at the sheer lunacy of the statement. “Shelby wouldn't want to sell Chanson du Terre any more than Scarlett O'Hara would put Tara on the market! You obviously
don't
know my sister. It would never happen. Never.”
She went on chuckling at the idea, shaking her head, trying to ignore the terrible certainty in Lucky's eyes as he stared down at her. The look was meant to assure her of the fact that he knew many things she didn't have a clue about. A part of her rejected the notion outright, but another part of her churned with a sudden strange apprehension.
At any rate, there was no time to question or argue the issue, because as they rounded a bend in the bayou there came the sudden deafening explosion of a shotgun—firing at them.
CHAPTER
5
SERENA HAD NO TROUBLE MANAGING A SCREAM THIS time. She shrieked, dropping to her knees on the floor of the pirogue and covering her head with her arms as buckshot hit the bayou in front of them, spewing muddy water and bits of shredded lily pad everywhere.
Her first thought was that they were being set upon by one of the honest men Lucky had been poaching from. Perhaps even the rightful owner of the crawfish squirming in the onion sacks two feet from her nose. She expected to hear another volley of shots and wondered if Lucky had a gun tucked away someplace to defend them with. But the initial
boom
faded away. In the ensuing silence, she lifted her head a few inches and peeked out between her fingers.
Gifford stood on the bank, legs spread, the smoking gun cradled loosely in his big hands. He was a tall, well-built man who didn't look anywhere near his age except for his thick head of snow-white hair, one lock of which insisted on tumbling rakishly across his broad forehead. With his square shoulders and trim waist, he still looked fit enough to wrestle a bear and win. His bold features were set in a characteristically fierce expression—bushy white brows lowered, square chin jutting forward aggressively. His nose was large and permanently red from years spent in the fields under the relentless southern sun.
“Goddammit, Lucky!” he bellowed, his voice a booming baritone that rivaled the shotgun for volume. “I thought you were that bastard Burke!”
“Naw,” Lucky called back calmly, poling the boat forward as if getting shot at didn't affect him in the least. “You might wanna shoot me anyway, though, when you see what I brought you.”
Serena rose up on her
Serena rolled her eyes. “God forbid. I'm sure I'd rather fall into a snake pit.”
One and the same thing,
chérie
, Lucky said to himself, but he refrained from speaking that thought, knowing it was the kind of statement a psychologist would pounce on. He was managing just fine. If everyone would just butt the hell out of his life, he would be great.
“How come you don' know Gifford's reasons for comin' out here?” he asked, going on the offensive. “Don' you ever talk to your grandpapa on the telephone? Mebbe you don' care what goes on down here. Mebbe you don' care about this place or Chanson du Terre, eh?”
“What kind of question is that?” Serena bristled, rising to the bait like a bass to a fly. “Of course I care about Chanson du Terre. It's my family home.”
Lucky shrugged. “I don't see you livin' there, sugar.”
“Where I live is none of your concern.”
“That's right. Just like it's none of my concern if someone wants to come in and flatten the place with bulldozers. It's not my family what's lived and worked on that land two-hundred-some years.”
Serena stared up at him, feeling as if she'd been hit in the chest with a hammer. “What do you mean, flatten the place? What are you talking about?”
“Chanson du Terre, angel. Your sister wants to sell it to Tristar Chemicals.”
“That's absurd!” she exclaimed, laughing at the sheer lunacy of the statement. “Shelby wouldn't want to sell Chanson du Terre any more than Scarlett O'Hara would put Tara on the market! You obviously
don't
know my sister. It would never happen. Never.”
She went on chuckling at the idea, shaking her head, trying to ignore the terrible certainty in Lucky's eyes as he stared down at her. The look was meant to assure her of the fact that he knew many things she didn't have a clue about. A part of her rejected the notion outright, but another part of her churned with a sudden strange apprehension.
At any rate, there was no time to question or argue the issue, because as they rounded a bend in the bayou there came the sudden deafening explosion of a shotgun—firing at them.
CHAPTER
5
SERENA HAD NO TROUBLE MANAGING A SCREAM THIS time. She shrieked, dropping to her knees on the floor of the pirogue and covering her head with her arms as buckshot hit the bayou in front of them, spewing muddy water and bits of shredded lily pad everywhere.
Her first thought was that they were being set upon by one of the honest men Lucky had been poaching from. Perhaps even the rightful owner of the crawfish squirming in the onion sacks two feet from her nose. She expected to hear another volley of shots and wondered if Lucky had a gun tucked away someplace to defend them with. But the initial
boom
faded away. In the ensuing silence, she lifted her head a few inches and peeked out between her fingers.
Gifford stood on the bank, legs spread, the smoking gun cradled loosely in his big hands. He was a tall, well-built man who didn't look anywhere near his age except for his thick head of snow-white hair, one lock of which insisted on tumbling rakishly across his broad forehead. With his square shoulders and trim waist, he still looked fit enough to wrestle a bear and win. His bold features were set in a characteristically fierce expression—bushy white brows lowered, square chin jutting forward aggressively. His nose was large and permanently red from years spent in the fields under the relentless southern sun.
“Goddammit, Lucky!” he bellowed, his voice a booming baritone that rivaled the shotgun for volume. “I thought you were that bastard Burke!”
“Naw,” Lucky called back calmly, poling the boat forward as if getting shot at didn't affect him in the least. “You might wanna shoot me anyway, though, when you see what I brought you.”
Serena rose up on her
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