Read Online Postmark Bayou Chene by Gwen Roland - Free Book Online

won’t need it for long, as I’m waiting for my husband.”
    The mention of a husband dampened Adam’s pleasure of watching her and brought him back to the reason he had been in the backyard.
    â€œOoooh, the fish.” He sprang from his squatting position and went back to the kettle over the fire. “Just a little bit brown, but that’ll make ’em crisper, don’t you know,” he said as he began dipping them out with the long-handled fork.
    An old copy of the New Orleans Times Picayune waited in a platter to receive them. Adam knew to plan ahead because fish are perfect only for the time it takes to dip them out. Waste time looking for something to drain them on, and you might as well throw them to the dogs to start with because they won’t be fit to eat. When he was satisfied that the first batch was perfectly placed, he began dropping another round of fish into the kettle.
    She watched every move, but Adam didn’t let her rattle his concentration. Only after both sets of fish were situated did he reply.
    â€œI’m not in the boarding business, and it’s probably not what you’re used to, but I have a room that might do for a time if you got nowhere else to go. How’d you come to be here?”
    Her eyes were set deep, which made them even harder to read. Maybe it was her angled face or the high-bridged nose. But when she shifted that dark gaze back to the treetops, Adam thought of red-shouldered hawks. He’d seen them with that same look when they were scouting places to build their nests high in the cypress trees, where their eggs would be safe from predators. Finally she appeared to light on a story she judged would be safe with him.
    â€œI left New Orleans to meet up with my husband, who’s on a business trip in New Iberia. Our boat had to detour around a logjam, and Bayou Chene was as close to New Iberia as they could drop me off. I’ll just be here until I can get word to him to pay my passage from here to New Iberia, since I don’t have money.”
    Squatting down to turn the second batch of fish gave Adam time to decide how much of that might be true. Didn’t she know anybody with the brains of a fox squirrel would wonder why a woman dressed so fine would be traveling without money in the tapestry reticule hanging from her wrist? The little bag cost at least two dollars if it was a penny. That surprised him almost as much as a husband who would let his wife travel alone on a steamboat across the swamp. By the time he finished turning the fish, Adam had made up his mind it was safest to just change the subject.
    He extended one hand and then the other to help the woman to her feet. Then he picked up the little traveling hat (another dollar, even without the dark red feather trimming the ribbon band). She dusted the hat and cocked it just so on her head, as well as if she was looking in a mirror. By the time he had finished forking up the second batch of fish, her collar was buttoned to the top, and she looked like she was ready to seat callers in her parlor.
    â€œWell, first let’s go in and do these fish justice,” Adam said. “Then we’ll see what we can do. Fate will come get your bags; you just bring yourself.”
    Breathing restored, she walked ahead of him to where he indicated the screen door leading into the kitchen. Whether it was the whalebone or her backbone, Adam couldn’t tell, but from the set of her spine, he figured this was a woman who’d break before she would bend.
    â€œSo you don’t have to cook outdoors,” Roseanne said. “But I can see why you do.” The beak-like nose jerked in a small sniff.
    Adam looked around at his cooking gear stashed here and there along with the rags, water buckets, and other necessaries that make up a kitchen. Trying to take it all in at once like she was doing, instead of gradually like it had accumulated, he understood how the sight might