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Authors: Shirlee Busbee
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remarkably
fertile. A boy, Gordon, had been born in 1790, in 1794 there had been a girl,
Roxanne, and another girl, Elisa, had appeared barely a year later, in 1795.
Of
Martin one seldom spoke—he had continued his disagreeable ways, making himself
thoroughly disliked during his short life. When he had died unexpectedly of
yellow fever at the tender age of nineteen, there were those in Natchez who had
whispered that it was a profound blessing for the family.
Though
Brett had never had a warm relationship with Martin, he viewed his younger
siblings with a tolerant affection, and they in turn were comically slavish in
their love of the tall, handsome giant who appeared and disappeared with such
puzzling irregularity. Brett had once laughingly accused them of cupboard love,
since no matter where he had been, or under what circumstances, there always
seemed to be an intriguing and dazzling gift for each of them.
Whether
it was the children's innocent charm or his father's blatant happiness Brett
didn't know, but he had become increasingly aware of an emptiness within
himself—an emptiness that danger and excitement no longer seemed to fill.
Staring blindly at the dancing fire, he wondered uncomfortably if he didn't
envy his father's joy, if deep in his heart, he didn't long for that same
happiness. Which made him decidedly uneasy and suspicious about the reasons
behind his sudden certainty that he was going to accept Alejandro's unexpected
invitation.
Was
he going to Nacogdoches because he wanted to help Alejandro and wished to renew
his acquaintance with a distant member of the family ... or was he going
because he had never quite forgotten the emotions a child of seven had aroused
in him?
Furious
with himself for considering for even a moment such a possibility, he almost
dashed off a curt refusal of the invitation. But he didn't. Instead, cursing
himself for a fool and muttering under his breath something about
"mawkish, maudlin, midnight thoughts" he stalked out of the salon and
sought his bed.
Ollie
found Brett somewhat surly and bad-tempered during the weeks that followed, and
even though this unusual state of affairs lasted clear into the new year, he
paid it no mind—it would pass. Morgan Slade, arriving the following Wednesday
for an evening of drink and cards, wasn't quite so amiable about it.
Watching
his friend as Brett scowled at the cards he held in his hand, Morgan asked
bluntly, "Is something biting you? You've been like a sore-headed bear all
evening."
Brett
grimaced. Throwing down the cards on the oak table, he admitted, "Nothing
I'm certain of. I think it must be this bloody weather. God, how I hate
rain!"
Morgan
grinned in commiseration. It was true that the past several days had been
unpleasant, but knowing it was unlike Brett to let something as mundane as the
weather disturb him, he probed lightly. "Is just the weather making you
such disagreeable company?"
Rising
to his feet, Brett approached the sideboard and poured them both a snifter of
brandy. He handed one to Morgan and reseated himself. Staring at the
amber-colored liquor in his snifter, Brett said somberly, "Hell, I don't
know what's wrong with me! I think I've been here in Natchez too long. It's
time I was moving on again, but I find that no place in particular has any lure
for me."
"But
I thought you were going to visit that relative of yours in Spanish
Texas," Morgan said with surprise, his vivid blue eyes puzzled.
"Oh,
I probably will," Brett admitted moodily. "It's just that . . . oh,
damn and blast! I don't know what's the matter with me—I just can't seem to
arouse any enthusiasm for anything these days. Not even the thought of seeing
new territory pricks my interest."
Thoughtfully
Morgan said, "Have you seen Philip Nolan since his marriage last month to
Fannie Lintot?"
Surprised
and showing it, Brett answered, "No. Why?"
"Well,"
Morgan began slowly, "if going to
fertile. A boy, Gordon, had been born in 1790, in 1794 there had been a girl,
Roxanne, and another girl, Elisa, had appeared barely a year later, in 1795.
Of
Martin one seldom spoke—he had continued his disagreeable ways, making himself
thoroughly disliked during his short life. When he had died unexpectedly of
yellow fever at the tender age of nineteen, there were those in Natchez who had
whispered that it was a profound blessing for the family.
Though
Brett had never had a warm relationship with Martin, he viewed his younger
siblings with a tolerant affection, and they in turn were comically slavish in
their love of the tall, handsome giant who appeared and disappeared with such
puzzling irregularity. Brett had once laughingly accused them of cupboard love,
since no matter where he had been, or under what circumstances, there always
seemed to be an intriguing and dazzling gift for each of them.
Whether
it was the children's innocent charm or his father's blatant happiness Brett
didn't know, but he had become increasingly aware of an emptiness within
himself—an emptiness that danger and excitement no longer seemed to fill.
Staring blindly at the dancing fire, he wondered uncomfortably if he didn't
envy his father's joy, if deep in his heart, he didn't long for that same
happiness. Which made him decidedly uneasy and suspicious about the reasons
behind his sudden certainty that he was going to accept Alejandro's unexpected
invitation.
Was
he going to Nacogdoches because he wanted to help Alejandro and wished to renew
his acquaintance with a distant member of the family ... or was he going
because he had never quite forgotten the emotions a child of seven had aroused
in him?
Furious
with himself for considering for even a moment such a possibility, he almost
dashed off a curt refusal of the invitation. But he didn't. Instead, cursing
himself for a fool and muttering under his breath something about
"mawkish, maudlin, midnight thoughts" he stalked out of the salon and
sought his bed.
Ollie
found Brett somewhat surly and bad-tempered during the weeks that followed, and
even though this unusual state of affairs lasted clear into the new year, he
paid it no mind—it would pass. Morgan Slade, arriving the following Wednesday
for an evening of drink and cards, wasn't quite so amiable about it.
Watching
his friend as Brett scowled at the cards he held in his hand, Morgan asked
bluntly, "Is something biting you? You've been like a sore-headed bear all
evening."
Brett
grimaced. Throwing down the cards on the oak table, he admitted, "Nothing
I'm certain of. I think it must be this bloody weather. God, how I hate
rain!"
Morgan
grinned in commiseration. It was true that the past several days had been
unpleasant, but knowing it was unlike Brett to let something as mundane as the
weather disturb him, he probed lightly. "Is just the weather making you
such disagreeable company?"
Rising
to his feet, Brett approached the sideboard and poured them both a snifter of
brandy. He handed one to Morgan and reseated himself. Staring at the
amber-colored liquor in his snifter, Brett said somberly, "Hell, I don't
know what's wrong with me! I think I've been here in Natchez too long. It's
time I was moving on again, but I find that no place in particular has any lure
for me."
"But
I thought you were going to visit that relative of yours in Spanish
Texas," Morgan said with surprise, his vivid blue eyes puzzled.
"Oh,
I probably will," Brett admitted moodily. "It's just that . . . oh,
damn and blast! I don't know what's the matter with me—I just can't seem to
arouse any enthusiasm for anything these days. Not even the thought of seeing
new territory pricks my interest."
Thoughtfully
Morgan said, "Have you seen Philip Nolan since his marriage last month to
Fannie Lintot?"
Surprised
and showing it, Brett answered, "No. Why?"
"Well,"
Morgan began slowly, "if going to
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