Desperate, desperate, desperate not to love her.

Without looking again at Emmaline, he left the house, stood on the bottom porch step, and briefly covered his face with his hands. Damn, if he couldn't still smell her on his fingers. Damn if he couldn't still taste her on his lips, despite the rum he'd downed in an effort to obliterate her from his thoughts and body.

Someone moved toward him through the darkness. Liza. Turning on his heels, he headed down the path toward the swamp. She ran to catch up with him, saying nothing for a while, which screamed louder than words ever could.

Finally, he said, "If you've got something to say, say it."

Nothing.

"I assume you've seen Juliette."

"I seen her all right. What in this heaven was you thinkin', Chantz? What you gonna do now? That girl is just plain crazy 'bout you and don't you think it don't show. She float around that house like she got wings on her feet. What you thinkin' to go lovin' her in that cane patch? What if Maxwell found you? Or worse. Tylor. Lord, sittin' in the same room with Miss Julie and Miss Phyllis like sittin' in a room full of gunpowder- Juliette flashin' Phyllis looks and Phyllis flashin' her looks. There sat Phyllis on one side of the dinin' table and Juliette on the other. Both women glared at each other throughout the meal like two hungry cats over a rabbit carcass. I expected them to leap out of their chairs at any minute and collide atop Rosie's ginger cake. Can't think of why you'd do such a silly thing as to let yourself get seduced by that child."

Chantz stopped abruptly and faced Liza, watched as she took a cautionary step back, her eyes wide as walnuts. "You about to preach to me, Liza? Because if you are, don't bother. Heard it already. Besides, you're not exactly a fine example of good judgment when it comes to affairs of the heart. If yours and Andrew's relationship don't wind up with you marched off to the market and him disinherited it'll be a miracle."

He regretted the words immediately. The darkness did little to mask the distress on Liza's features. "You know good and damn well what you're riskin' by foolin' with Julie," she argued. "Ain't but one other thing that Maxwell has wanted more than Maureen Broussard and that is Belle Jarod. He ain't gonna like anyone gettin' in the way of his plans. If he got to get you gone from here, he'll do it." She stepped closer and lowered her voice. "Makes no difference he's your daddy, Chantz. He got only one son in his mind and that is Tylor, sorry excuse for a man that he is. I don't like to think what gonna happen to us if you leave."

She was right and he knew it. That didn't make the situation any easier to stomach, however. He continued toward the swamp, Liza trailing. Smoke from the bonfires stung his eyes and the rum in his blood made his head pound in rhythm with his rapid heartbeat. There was an edge to his nerves tonight. Judging by the expressions of the collected men who turned to acknowledge him as he entered the firelit camp, he wasn't the only one who felt the tension in the air. Normally there would be lively chatter, perhaps storytelling, singing, dancing. The only sounds tonight were the hiss and crackle of burning wood and the throaty growl of the fire that fingered high into the night sky. Heat shimmered in the air and as Chantz glanced around the silent black faces that were painted by sweat and flames he got the uncanny feeling he had just sauntered straight into Hell...

And there was the devil himself, leaning against a tree, face pale in the night shadows as he watched Chantz. Tylor. The son of a bitch had actually shown up. By the looks of him he was none too happy about it, either.

Louis moved up beside Chantz. "Boss, we all thinkin' maybe we oughts to wait 'til another time for this hunt. My Tessa done read them coffee grinds and she say we is in for trouble. There be spooks in the air tonight. I can feel 'em."

"You're too damn big to be so superstitious, Lou." Andrew moved out of the dark, grinning. He flashed a smile at Liza, then toward Tylor before crossing his arms over his chest and adding in a quieter voice, "The only buggers batting around Holly Plantation is up at the big house. Phyllis boldly confronted me tonight, demanding to know if there is anything between you and Juliette."

"That be none of Phyllis's business," Liza snapped at Andrew, causing the smile to slide from his face as he turned his gaze down to hers. "Can't have it both ways, Andrew Buley. You love somebody or you don't. Phyllis done made her choice. As my mama used to say, Phyllis done made her bed, now she gonna have to sleep in it- with Horace Carrington, God bless her soul. Best you remind her of that, Andrew. And while you're at it you best think long and hard 'bout it yourself. We all got choices to make in our lives and we gots to accept the consequences of our actions."

Liza turned on her heels and marched away. Andrew stared after her, frowning. "I swear I could live to be five hundred and I would never figure out a woman's moods."

Louis shook his head and lowered his voice. "Tylor gonna bring bad luck to this hunt. Don't much care for that look in your eyes either, Boss. I gots a feelin' you gots more on your mind than gator huntin'."

Placing a big hand on Chantz's shoulder, Louis lowered his voice. "Now ain't the time to be lettin' your personal feelin' for Tylor git in the way of what we gots to do."

Louis was right, of course. He must focus. Think coherently. He'd always been so damn good at remaining logical, undaunted, and steady as the Rock of Gibraltar during the most stressful of times. But in that moment logic did not exist in his mind- not that logic had played a great part in his life since he first set eyes on Juliette Broussard.

Tylor moved toward them in a halting stride, as if he were forcing his reluctant legs to move. Despite his sorry attempt to hide his nervousness, his white shirt clung to his skin by sweat.

Forcing a tight smile, Tylor said, "Judging by your glances my direction, I must be the topic of conversation."

"Suffice it to say," Andrew began, "that when I challenged you to join us in this hunt, I didn't actually believe you would do it."

Tylor's eyes narrowed. "Ask anyone. I'm quite the hunter, Andrew. Nothing I love more than to track down prey, close in for the kill, and pop it with a bullet right between its horrified eyes."

"Your idea of prey is anything that can't bite back. Helplessness incites your manhood, Tylor. Defenselessness empowers you into believing you actually have a grand pair of balls between your legs."

"One of these days I'm going to show you just how big my balls are, Andrew," Tylor replied with a smug smile that didn't reach his eyes. "One of these days you're going to regret the manner with which you insult me."

"Kill that bull gator tonight and my opinion of you will immensely improve, Tylor."

Lowering his voice, his eyes narrowing, Andrew added, "'Course you know the risks of this hunt. That bull's got a special sense in him- an ability to detect weakness. You've got bait branded smack across your forehead." Jutting one finger at Tylor's sweating brow, Andrew declared, "Right there. Says 'Eat Me' in big salty red letters."

Tylor swatted Andrew's hand aside.

His eyebrows lifting, Andrew said, "I suppose there's no time like the present to discuss the best plan of action to take in case that bull comes sliding out of the water to snap you out of that boat like you're a peach ripe for the plucking. Of course, you already know that once he closes his jaws on you it would take two men the size of Louis there to pry them open, if you're lucky. First he'll roll to his back to get you off your feet, then he'll carry you under and keep you there until you drown, give you a few shakes to break your neck or back.

"I understand that you don't have to worry much about pain. You go into shock immediately. Just feel a pressure mostly. About the only way you can save yourself is to put out his eyes. That'll be his only vulnerable place. You take your thumb and jab just as hard as you can into his eyeball. Of course we'll be there for you in case something happens. Won't we, Chantz?"

Tylor backed away; a pearl of sweat slid down his jaw as he turned his gaze on Chantz. "If something happens to me, you'll be answering to Daddy. That's for damn sure. You best keep that in mind, the pair of you."

Louis shook his head as Tylor stalked away. "That man is just mean to the bone, Boss. And crazy. I declare, he be the craziest white man I ever seen."

"Obviously you haven't spent a great deal of time in the proximity of my future brother-in-law," Andrew pointed out. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he withdrew cigars, handed one to Chantz, the other to Louis.

As Chantz lit the cigar, he watched Tylor settle against the cypress, shoulders slumped and lower lip drooping like a chastised child's. Fear radiated off his features as glaringly as the firelight.

Chantz knew well enough that Maxwell was behind Tylor's presence at this hunt. He could imagine Max shaking his fist in Tylor's face, declaring, by God, that Tylor was going to show some backbone for once in his life and how better to do it than this.

As he moved away from the firelight and muted conversation, night sounds pulsed and the air turned cool against his hot face. Weeds scraped his boots and frogs splashed the black, stagnant water where he wandered the shoal, trying to focus his mind on his objective and not on the nagging idea that he wanted- needed- to see Juliette again. Desperately. As if his damned life depended on it.

The boats were lined up side by side, half in, half out of the water. The stench of bait, rotting meat, and blood strewn over the water and shoals made Chantz's stomach queasy. Or perhaps it was the rum that was lying in the bottom of his belly like a pool of kerosene.

He wasn't a superstitious man- never had been- but something, some sense of foreboding, was working up his backbone in that moment, making the beads of sweat on his brow sting like bits of ice.

Odd. There had been few times in his life when he had experienced anything remotely like fear. Rosie had often teased him that he'd been blessed or cursed, depending on her mood at that particular moment, without the ability to experience the sort of distress that could turn a man into a cowering animal incapable of reason- like Tylor, quaking yonder in his fine boots and drenching his tailored shirt with the sickly sweet sweat of bone-chilling dread.

Idiot. Tylor wasn't afraid of that damn gator, he was afraid of Chantz.

Maybe Tylor wasn't so stupid, after all.

Louis was right.

Tonight was not the night to look a reptile demon in the eye. There were too many of his own scratching around in his head.

Too late.

The belly roar of the bull rolled out of the darkness like a menacing storm. The sound vibrated inside Chantz, shivered up the back of his neck so it seemed that every hair on his head crawled on his scalp.

There it was. The challenge. The taunt. It was as if the son of a bitch could read Chantz's thoughts.

He turned his gaze up the long, narrow bayou of scum-covered backwater. Blackness stared back at him, then the sound again, closer, deeper, echoing against the walls of cypress trees so he couldn't tell from what direction it came.

The hunting party moved to the water, every other one carrying lit torches. Two by two they climbed into their boats.

Chantz tossed his cigar into the water, then slowly turned to Tylor whose expression was frozen into something almost comical.

As Andrew and Louis joined Chantz, he said, "Tylor goes with me."

Andrew and Louis exchanged concerned looks. Chantz crooked his finger at Tylor and Tylor moved toward him as if he had weights on his feet. Louis thrust a torch at him. Tylor, his hands shaking badly, took it and stared past Chantz toward the water.

The boats moved soundlessly over the water's surface, barely leaving a ripple behind them. Torchlight cast yellow pools onto the black water. The high rushes and cypress knees reflected the illumination like slivers of glass. Then came the mist, vapor fingers reaching out from the scum-covered shoals in tendrils that coiled and twisted like pewter ribbon.

As Chantz poled the boat beneath the canopy of trees, Tylor crouched with both hands grasping the torch, jaw clenched so tightly every muscle along his neck stood out in tense cords. Up and down the bayou the boats scattered. Their torches burned in a burst of flickering golden light that floated in the blackness like celestial bodies. Taking up their spears, the men waited, silent, popping the water occasionally to draw the bull in.

"What do we do now?" Tylor asked, voice trembling with nervousness.

"Keep your mouth closed and your eyes open and the torch high." Chantz glanced at Tylor where he crouched in the boat bottom shaking so badly the vibrations sent tiny ripples across the water.

"Mind telling me just what it is I'm looking for?" Tylor asked.

"A bull gator around fifteen feet long."

Tylor curled his lip. "You're a smart ass, Chantz. Anyone ever told you that?"

"You, every chance you get. I said to keep the torch high. Higher."

"My damn arms are getting tired."

"You might try occasionally to lift something heavier than a glass of bourbon. Higher. The light will reflect

off his eyes like two burning coals."

"Maybe he high-tailed it-"

"He's here." Chantz searched the water. "Hear the silence? No frogs. No crickets." He shifted, gripping

the weapon tightly as he placed it across his knees.

"Got to be crazy to be in this boat with you," Tylor muttered, his voice trembling still. "You'd like nothing better than to see me dead, wouldn't you, Chantz?"

He looked at Tylor, felt his fingers tighten more on the spear shaft as he studied the man's profile.

Tylor's head turned and he stared into Chantz's eyes. "I can certainly understand how you feel. Your

existence in my life, after all, has been like an infected wound that won't heal. Sometimes I think you

thrive on suffering." Still, Chantz said nothing. He pressed his hand across his brow, tried to force himself to concentrate on the task at hand, to keep his emotions in control- refuse to allow Tylor to antagonize his anger. At some time during the last tense hour of waiting for the bull to appear, a bone weariness had crept into his body- a draining exhaustion and mounting despondency which, no matter how he tried to ignore it, wouldn't shake away. He had the odd, discomfiting sensation of sinking in quicksand every time he thought of holding Juliette that afternoon.

Tylor relaxed, shifted the torch from one hand to the other, flexing his cramped fingers by opening and closing them as he searched the water with apparently little concern, at least for the moment. "I have to hand it to you, Chantz, you've managed to hold on to your dignity quite well, considering the circumstances of your birth, not to mention your heritage."

Again, Chantz closed his hands more tightly around the spear, focused his attention on the dark water and not on the niggling of disconcertion squirming in his gut. A grin curving his mouth, Tylor slowly turned his gaze back on Chantz. There was something in his expression now. Something sinister and confident- not like Tylor at all. Not the nervous buffoon who trembled and perspired under Chantz's hard blue stare. He leaned forward and fixed Chantz with his calculating gaze. The smile slowly disappeared and his expression became hard and intent.

"I imagine growing up a nameless bastard is bad enough. The fact that your mama was nothing more than a mud dauber Daddy crawled on when he was too damn drunk to know what he was doing would be enough to shame most men to their death. Oops. I forgot. You were under the assumption that your mama was some banker's daughter from Carolina."

Suddenly Tylor smiled again, broadly. Chantz stared at him- forgetting the bull gator and Juliette- and for a moment he considered that Tylor must surely have totally lost his mind. Or perhaps Chantz had simply misunderstood him. Tylor would never have been such an imbecile to insult Chantz's mother in such a way, not if he cared for his life.

But a gleam of confidence burned in Tylor's eyes.

"The closest your mama ever came to Carolina was the west bank of the Mississippi River. I believe that's where Daddy stumbled over her outside that tarpaper shanty she was living in with her no-account mother and several snot-nosed younger brothers and sisters."

"You're a filthy liar." Chantz raised the spear and pressed the sharp tip against Tylor's throat.

Tylor scrambled back, nearly dropping the torch and causing the boat to tip dangerously side to side. He clutched at his throat, his eyes widening as he looked at his fingers smeared with blood. Slowly, slowly, his eyes, bright with the torchlight, shifted back to Chantz.

Chantz felt the weight of the spear balance in his two hands as he looked Tylor in his eyes and prepared to kill him. Wanting like hell to kill him. Happily prepared to burn in Hell for all eternity for the pleasure of watching him squirm in death throes.

The boat lifted out of the water as if plucked up by some invisible hand. For an eternal moment it hovered there, half in and half out of the water, and as Tylor let out a howl of fear and jumped to his feet, flinging the torch so it streaked through the dark like a meteor, the bull gator sank again like a stone. The boat hit the surface with a smack and tilt that caused Tylor to pitch over the side, into the water.

With frantic shouts the men in the closest boats paddled toward them.

Chantz jumped to his feet, balancing his weight as the boat rocked and bounced, spear raised as he searched the dark water for any sign of Tylor. He surfaced then, gasping and wailing in terror as he thrashed the water in a feeble attempt to reach the boat.

"Help!" Tylor choked as he looked up into Chantz's eyes, Tylor's face a mask of horrifying acknowledgment.

Reality blurred in that moment, flashes of memory: taunts and jeers through the years, the stones glanced upon his flesh and the pain that had choked him breathless as he'd stood on the outside of Max's world looking in- always into Tylor's face that haunted him like a nightmare.

Then that world came sharply back into focus and there was Tylor with his hand outstretched, the hate turned to desperation and helplessness.

"Son of a bitch," Chantz cursed, then tossed down the weapon and dropped to one knee, grabbed Tylor's hand and hauled him partway into the boat.

Tylor scrambled, kicked, and clutched. The boat rocked perilously, and as Chantz danced momentarily in an effort to regain his balance, Tylor rolled onto his side, blinked water from his eyes, and drove his foot into the back of Chantz's knee.

He hit the water hard. His weight drove him deep into the dark, wet void where the only sounds were the muted shouts of men and the rush of air bubbles by his ears. His hands clawed aside the tendrils of vegetation coiling around his arms and throat, and he fought his way to the surface and the wavering glow of approaching lights that seemed a thousand miles away.

And there was Tylor's pale face staring down at him with eyes wide and dark as chasms.

Breaking the surface, gasping for air, Chantz lifted one hand to Tylor.

Tylor, his expressionless face streaming with water, only stared.

The first thought that streaked through Chantz's brain as the bull gator took him was that Andrew had been wrong. Dead wrong. There was pain. A great deal of pain, then the pressure- crushing as the bull rolled over and dragged him under...

?Twelve.