"Maybe if Horace Carrington didn't beat the hell out of his workers, they wouldn't bolt at every opportunity," Chantz said as he turned back to Wilcox.

"Ain't my business or yours what Carrington does with his slaves, Chantz. My business is huntin' em down. Your business is punishin' the one who helped him and we ain't leavin' here until we see that it's done." Stepping closer, Boris added through his teeth, "If you don't inflict rightful discipline, I will. As Carrington's representative, I got the right."

He glanced around, into the resigned faces of the Holly slaves. The dense air smelled of fear that mounted as Tessa howled all the louder, rocked all the harder. The fire of blazing torches exaggerated the heat that in that moment felt as if it were boring through Chantz's skin.

Max stepped forward then. "That man is my gang driver, Wilcox. I can't have him out of commission-"

"You got no choice, Max." Wilcox shook his head. "Example's got to be made. You let this man get away with harborin' runaways and next thing you know they'll all be doin' it. Punishment is fifteen lashes." He shoved the coiled whip toward Max. "He's your property. Now git to it."

"I'll do it!" came the eager voice.

Tylor shouldered his way through the crowd and snatched the whip from Boris's hand. "I'm sorry to say that some of us ain't got the backbone it takes to lay leather to flesh. Well, I do. Strap that man up, boys! By the time I'm done with him, he'll turn in his own mother."

Cold fury rushed through Chantz. There were ways of whipping a man guaranteed to strip the flesh in a fashion that made the pain next to unbearable- and Tylor was damn good at it. The sadistic little bastard took pride in it.

"What's wrong, Chantz?" Tylor waved the whip under Chantz's nose. "Think you can muster up the backbone to do your job as overseer of this plantation?" Tylor glanced at Boris. "I doubt it. I ain't seen him pick up a whip but once in the ten years he's worked as overseer."

"I don't need a whip. They're eager enough to work hard and respect rules when they're treated right."

"Obviously he didn't respect the rules this time, did he?" His eyes narrowing, Tylor shoved the whip against Chantz's chest. "Whip him, Boudreaux, or I will."

The night became silent but for the pulsebeat of insects and the croak of frogs in the river.

Tessa crawled on her hands and knees and wrapped her thin arms around his legs. She turned up her tear-streaked face. "Lawd, Boss Chantz, don't be whuppin' my man. Don't be doin' it. He love you, Boss. He love you so hard, don't be whuppin' him, I begs you!"

Liza rushed over and pulled Tessa away. She hugged her close, her dark, troubled eyes turning up to Chantz as she rocked and crooned comfort words into Tessa's ear.

Chantz turned to Louis.

"Sorry, Boss." Louis shook his head. "He my own flesh and blood. You woulda done the same 'cause you a good man and take good care of folk." He put a big hand on Chantz's shoulder. "You do what you gots to do, Boss. Best it be you. Won't hurt so bad. Ask only one thing. Don't be strappin' me up."

Louis pulled his shirt off. He dropped to his knees and braced his hands on his thighs.

Chantz looked at Liza who gripped Tessa in her arms. "Get her out of here," he ordered. His voice sounded deep and unsteady, his throat tight with anger. His mind scrambled for any way out of the dreaded situation, but it all boiled down to Tylor and the whip in his hand. Tylor would kill Louis without compunction.

He waited until Liza got Tessa in the house and closed the door. Then he took the whip from Tylor, his own eyes reflecting his disgust as Tylor smirked. Sweat rose as did the sickness in his stomach. He felt his heart squeeze severely and his body began to shake. Bracing his legs apart, he let the eight-foot twist of braided leather loose so it coiled on the ground between his feet. "You ready, Louis?" he asked gently, his voice rough and unsteady as he looked into his friend's eyes.

Louis nodded and braced. "I ready, Boss."

The torchlight danced over Louis's broad, sweat-slick back.

But for the muffled whimpering of Louis's wife from the shanty, silence hung thick as the humidity in the air.

With sweat burning his eyes, Chantz turned back to Boris. "What will it take for you to walk away right now and forget this?"

Boris's lips curved and his eyes narrowed. "Do it or Tylor will... boy."

With the final crack of the whip, Chantz flung it as hard as he could at Boris's feet. Legs braced, he said, "Now get the hell away from here."

The men mounted their horses, one by one peeling away to ride off into the dark. Tylor hung back as Maxwell returned to the house. He looked at Chantz, then down at Louis, spat on the top of Chantz's boot then pivoted on his heels and walked away.

Chantz turned and fell to his knees, took Louis's sweating face in his hands and searched his agonized face. "Damn you, Louis. Damn you. Look at me, you bastard." He shook his friend, self-disgust making his stomach roll. "What the hell did you think you were doing? Why didn't you come to me-"

"Didn't want you involved, Boss." Louis shook his head and averted his eyes. He grimaced.

Closing his eyes, his hands curling around the back of Louis's head, Chantz took the man in his arms, pressed Louis's head to his shoulder, and swallowed back the grief in his throat. "I'd rather have taken the damn whipping myself, Lou. You know that."

Louis nodded and his big hands came up to grip Chantz. "I know you loves me, Boss. I know you do."

Tessa came running from the shack, and Chantz backed away, stumbled to his feet, blinded by tears and sweat and the absolute fury he felt at Boris and Tylor. He wanted to storm up the path and haul Tylor out by his lank hair. He wanted to beat the meanness out of him. He wanted him to suffer- Juliette stood in the dark, beyond the torchlight, despair on her face, her body trembling. Chantz stopped short as he saw her. The sick in the pit of his stomach rose up his throat.

"Chantz," she cried, her hand reaching for him.

"Get the hell away from me," he choked. "Do you hear me, Juliette? Just stay the hell away from me."

?Seven.

The emotion in her heart and head was not unlike the swirling, dizzying sensations that had rocked her upon hearing of her father's suicide: shock and heart-sinking despair. Followed by righteous anger that a man would be whipped for sheltering his own brother... that a man would be forced to whip his friend in order to protect him from a far worse cruelty at Tylor or Boris Wilcox's hands. What fury she had first felt for Chantz participating in the punishment had fast evaporated when recognizing his disgust, when witnessing his pain, him holding his friend in his arms as if Louis were a broken child... of the tears in his eyes that he'd tried desperately to hide when coming face-to-face with her in the dark.

She had spent the remainder of the evening in her room with the doors locked. Rosie had attempted to coerce her out with rice pudding and lemonade. Liza had tapped gently but unconvincingly. Then Little Clara came tiptoeing and volunteered a chunk of ho'hound if Miss Julie would stop crying. Juliette had unlocked the door for the child and both had curled up together in the middle of the bed, sucked on hard candy, and watched lightning bugs dance like fairies in the dark.

The next two days she avoided going out-of-doors altogether, which annoyed her all the more. Rosie had promised to teach her how to dip wicks for tallow candles, which she did in a cauldron over an open fire.

Once she glimpsed Chantz and Maxwell standing nose-to-nose on the whistle walk, Maxwell shouting into Chantz's face about the escalating cost of repairing the levee. Chantz hadn't so much as flinched in the heated wave of Maxwell's anger and Juliette had found herself mesmerized once again, caught up in emotions she had never before experienced...

By the end of the first day of the Buleys' visit she would have gladly traded a few lashes of Chantz's whip for the visual and verbal cuts administered by Mrs. Buley and her daughter Phyllis, who was pretty, but far too prissy. And rude. Juliette's irritation mounted as Phyllis refused to so much as look Juliette in the eye. When Phyllis spoke to her- if she spoke to her at all- it was with barely more respect than she showed Liza, which was precious little. Liza insisted that Phyllis was jealous of anyone who would likely rob her of the gentlemen's attention. Perhaps, Juliette mused, but she got the feeling there was more to Phyllis's hot glances than met the eye. And as far as Hazel was concerned, no doubt there were far too many recollections of Maureen batting like moths in her memory. Every time Juliette opened her mouth, Hazel glared at her as if Juliette had launched a full-scale war to seduce her husband. As if she would. Fred Buley resembled Simon's bullfrog.

Hazel Buley was thin as a beanpole with hair black as the jet earbobs she wore. Her brows were fixed in a deep vee between her brown eyes, giving her the appearance of a perpetual scowler. Not that Juliette blamed the woman for any unhappiness she might harbor. To spend one's life with a man who not only resembled Simon's bullfrog but erupted frequently with the most foul-smelling flatulence, so that Juliette was forced to cover her nose with her scented kerchief, would depress most women to their coffins.

Upon their arrival the Buleys had swept through Holly House like they were royalty, sending servants scurrying and Rosie to the kitchen, grumbling under her breath. For the last day Rosie had practically worked herself to a frazzle. Phyllis demanded her eggs poached for breakfast while Hazel wanted hers scrambled. Then there was Fred Buley who continually sent back his fried eggs because the yolks were too runny or too hard, and who wanted his grits sweetened not salted.

Finally reaching the end of her tether of patience, Juliette had stood from her chair and declared at the top of her voice, "What difference does it make if the damn eggs are poached or scrambled or the grits are sweet or salted? If you're hungry enough you'll eat. If not, I suggest you take a lounge on the gallery and pray that your dinner is more to your liking."

Maxwell had glared at her with a cheek full of biscuit, his face red as the strawberry jam on his plate. Tylor howled in hilarity and Rosie dumped an entire platter of brawn in Hazel's lap.

For the next half-hour Maxwell, upon ushering her into the privacy of his library, as quietly as possible, considering his irritation, pointed out to her that the Buley family was one of the most respected families in Louisiana and should they decide to could spoil her chances of ever being accepted into their polite society. She, of course, pointed out that there was absolutely nothing "polite" about the Buleys and if they were an example of "polite" then she would certainly hate to come face-to-face with crassness.

On the other hand, Juliette found Andrew Buley, Phyllis's older brother, handsome and charming and without the pretentiousness of his family.

She frantically wondered how she would survive the three long days of acting as hostess to Max's guests. With mounting despair, she realized that she must certainly harbor yet another of her mother's infamous traits.

Chitchat bored her to tears. So did stupid people.

Idling for hours in the gallery shade, fanned by the overhead punka while flies buzzed and hounds panted and drooled puddles, filled her with a restless annoyance that made her feel explosive. Had Liza not lingered in the background, diverting her attention each time Fred Buley leered at her from behind his cigar, she would no doubt have further embarrassed Max and totally humiliated herself.

But therein was a problem as well. Apparently Phyllis and Hazel found sport in Liza's fetching. By the time they all finished their midday meal and sprawled on their gallery lounges, Liza had run herself ragged. Her clothes were drenched with sweat, which wasn't surprising, considering the heat felt close to boiling. Juliette, however, kept a keen eye on her friend, who sat on a hard chair near the door wagging a palmetto fan at her face. Something had been amiss with Liza since the evening she had confronted Tylor in her bedroom. Occasionally she glanced at Juliette with a shadow of some underlying emotion swimming in her dark eyes.

"I declare," Phyllis sighed as she cooled herself with an ornate fan of dyed blue pigeon feathers that perfectly matched her dress and silk slippers. "I can't recall such a hot spell so early in June. I'm simply exhausted."

"Feels like rain again," Fred mused as he smoked and looked out on the Holly grounds that were finally drying. New grass had sprung up in thick thatches and the children, too young to work in the cane fields, were scattered over the grounds, nearly to the river, bent and plucking weeds that they tossed into willow baskets. "How's the rebuilding of that levee, Maxwell? Making any progress?"

"For whatever good it will do me," Max replied, smoking. "Chantz said if I'm to guarantee flood protection I'd have to tear down this house and construct a dam right here where we sit. Can you imagine? I told him he could go to hell. Man's crazy as a betsy bug if he thinks I'm moving my house."

Andrew, his long legs crossed and his white shirtsleeves rolled nearly to his elbows, turned his brown eyes on Juliette where she sat with her hands clasped in her lap and her mind drowsy with boredom. Andrew had obviously taken after his mother, slender with refined features and brown hair that waved slightly around his temples and nape. He had a kind look in his eye and an easy way of speaking that took the edge off her discontent at having to wile away her time watching hounds pant when she would rather be off in the kitchen meddling in Rosie's business.

"Chantz is a smart man," Andrew pointed out, smiling at Juliette. His eyes narrowed slightly as she sat straighter with the mention of Chantz's name. Her face turned warm and with frustration she realized it had nothing to do with anger. "He's got a good eye for detail, not to mention sugarcane. Might behoove you, Maxwell, to listen to him."

"I would expect that coming from you, Andrew," Max said, frowning. "You're his friend."

"Yes, I am. Therefore, I know what Holly Plantation means to Chantz. He's a man who takes great pride in his accomplishments. Those cane fields are his accomplishment. Correct me if I'm wrong, but when the sugar finally settled last season, you sent as many hogsheads down the river with half the cane as some planters did with full crops."

Tylor mopped his face with a kerchief and curled his lip. "Why is it ever damn conversation somehow gets on the topic of Chantz Boudreaux?"

Andrew flashed him a less than tolerant smile. "Perhaps if you took a more active role in this plantation you'd find yourself the topic of conversation. Not much to say about a man who does nothing more than sit around all day swatting flies. Then again, maybe Max should count his lucky stars. I suspect by the time you finished asserting your authority over your daddy's slaves there wouldn't be enough of them capable of harvesting the cane, much less cooking it."

Phyllis stopped her fanning; her eyebrows drew together. "Mr. Carrington tells me that one of his runaways was discovered here at Holly a few nights ago, sheltered by that monstrously big Louis creature. Chantz was forced to whip him for it."

Again, Andrew looked directly at Juliette, his expression serious. "A terrible thing for Chantz. He respects Louis mightily. The feeling is mutual. But far better to have been by Chantz's hand than Tylor or Wilcox."

Juliette left her chair and walked to the ledge of the gallery. Drawing in a shallow, unsteady breath, she said, "The whipping of a human being is unforgivable."

"I'm certain Chantz would heartily agree with you, Miss Julie."

She looked around, straight into Andrew's eyes.

"I understand," Phyllis said somewhat dreamily as she fixed her gaze on the brown moving river in the distance, "that compared to most, when it comes to punishment, Chantz has a gentle hand. There is a certain talent few men possess that enables one to apply light pain that leaves the skin burning, but not cut."

Phyllis pressed a lace-edge kerchief to the hollow at the base of her throat. Her voice dropped. Her eyes became sleepy. "Funny, isn't it? On the surface Chantz doesn't seem like the sort of man who could be gentle."

She fluttered the fan at her face and moistened her lips with her tongue. "There is nothing remotely gentlemanly at all about his appearance. Everything about him exudes energy and anger and barely restrained power. The man virtually sucks the very air out of the room when he enters it. How he can possibly contain all that ferocity to show the slightest hint of gentleness astounds me."

"Been a long time since Chantz last whipped a man." Andrew looked out at the river. "Only one other that I know of-"

"Cost me eight hundred dollars," Max pointed out angrily. He walked to the far end of the gallery, hands on his hips. "I haven't forgiven him for it. Every time I ride by that grave, I get mad all over again."

"Man who rapes little girls deserves what he got, Max." Andrew narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "I suspect Chantz would do the same again, given similar circumstances. You know what he's like when it comes to children. Got a protective streak in him wide as that damn river."

Hazel looked around at Liza. "Fetch me some water, Liza. All this chatter about whippings and Chantz Boudreaux has made my throat feel like river mud. Can't we talk about something else, gentlemen?"

Yes, please, Juliette thought. Anything besides Chantz Boudreaux.

Wearily, Liza stood and entered the house. Juliette noted that Andrew's gaze followed her before he forced himself to focus again on the water. His face looked darker and intense.

"Heard tell there have been a number of deaths in New Orleans," Fred said, then puffed on his cigar. "Down along the river district. City is holding its breath that we're not looking at a new outbreak of fever."

Hazel huffed and puffed out her breasts with self-importance. "River wastrel. Those dreadful mud daubers and foreign shipmen. They're all crawling with one form of disease or another. We shouldn't be too hasty in jumping to frightening conclusions."

"Still, we won't be making any jaunts to New Orleans any time soon, just to be on the safe side. Damn fever take off through the city and the outcome would be catastrophic. Last major outbreak killed five thousand."

Phyllis sniffed and shrugged. "That was years and years ago, Papa. We're far too sophisticated now for such a disease to annoy us."

"Long as it stays in the river district I shan't give it another moment's thought." Hazel's lips thinned and curved as she slid a look toward Juliette. "God has a way of cleansing the scurf from society when need be. He smites them with His heavenly sword by disease or... fire so that the righteous may prevail."

Juliette stared into Hazel's face until dark color crept into the woman's sallow cheeks. With a lift of one eyebrow, Juliette said, "I take it you're a very religious woman, Mrs. Buley."

"I attend mass every Sunday," she replied.

"Then you're aware of Matthew seven one. 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.' Or as Thomas Browne, noted physician wrote sometime in the late sixteen hundreds,'No man can justly censure or condemn another, because indeed no man truly knows another.'"

"Amen," Andrew declared, cutting off whatever remark his mother was prepared to make. Her mouth snapped shut like a trap; giving Andrew a glower that made him grin, she then turned her pointed chin toward the river and sniffed.

"We could discuss my wedding plans," Phyllis chirped, allowing Juliette a smile that was just short of smug.

"Again?" Andrew covered his yawn with the back of his hand.

"It's going to be a garden affair with five hundred guests. We'll have a barbecue, and did I mention that Marr Engles is designing my gown?"

"Yes," Andrew said. "Several times."

"It's not every day I get married." Phyllis dabbed her hanky to the beads of perspiration on her brow.

Her dark eyes flashed toward Juliette, no doubt to determine if she had sufficiently grabbed her attention.

"Marr is from New York where he was the finest couturier outside of Paris."

"Until he ruined himself," Fred pointed out with an edge to his voice.

"He married a Negro," Hazel said in a low voice. "Can you imagine?"

"She was a quadroon, Mother," Andrew corrected with a touch of annoyance.

"Doesn't matter." Hazel set her chin determinedly. "Color is color. Makes no difference whether she's

black as spades or pale as fresh cream. There are simply some things that are not condoned. One is