?Nineteen.

Maxwell walked the long row of cane, a stick in one hand, his sweat-damp kerchief in another. Tylor

dragged along behind him, tripping on a runner of grass that had taken deep root and was choking a slender stalk of cane that stood shoulder high to Max. With all the strength he could muster, Max sliced at the cane stalk with his stick. The stalk snapped with a spray of sugar sap over Maxwell's cheek.

"Sorry, worthless shit is what it is. All gone to hell, Tylor. All of it."

Wheeling on his son, the stick gripped hard in his white-knuckled hand, Maxwell stared into Tylor's sunburned face. "The whole goddamn place has gone to hell. Eight of my slaves have took off. These fields are fast getting eaten up by trash grass and the other..."

Grabbing Tylor by the scuff of his neck, Maxwell shook him like a dog with a river rat.

"Take a good long drink of that air, Tylor. Smell it. What does it smell like, son? I'll tell you what it smells

like. Smells like shit, don't it? Smells like rot and chickenshit and morass. Can't even sit on the damn

gallery in the evening because the mosquitoes have grown so thick. And why have they grown so thick, Tylor?"

Tylor struggled and Max gripped him tighter, shook him harder. "I'll tell you why, Tylor. Because since Chantz has been gone and that moron Wilcox has took over the ditches haven't been cleaned. There's enough morass swamping this place to invite every goddamn mosquito in Louisiana to breed here. Listen. You hear that? That's mosquitoes, Tylor. Goddamn mosquitoes. Have a look yonder. You see that dark haze in the distance? That's mosquitoes, not a goddamn mirage. Are you willing to admit yet that you're a goddamn fool for doing what you did to Chantz?"

"I did what I had to do, Daddy." Tylor yanked loose of Maxwell's hold and backed away, rubbing the nape of his neck. "You'd have done the same," he snarled, "had it been anyone else."

He shook his head and ran one hand back through his sweaty hair. "I place the blame over this fiasco at your feet. It's your damn obsession over Belle Jarod that's brought us here. Had you not gone sailing off to France and dragging Juliette back to Holly we wouldn't be in this predicament."

Max swiped at another cane. "Cane should be standing higher than this by now. At least to the top of my head. We've got maybe two more months of growth before harvest and we both know right now is the prime growth period. If I don't get another five feet out of this cane by October you might as well kiss Holly good-bye. Goddamn flood took half of my crop as it is. As it is, I'll be lucky to inspire these lot of slaves to mill what cane we do harvest.

"Well? What have you got to say for yourself, son?"

Hands on his hips, blinking the sweat from his eyes, Tylor stared at Max's feet. Gnats landed on his face and adhered to his skin.

"I'm saying this for the last time, Daddy. You're mixing up Chantz Boudreaux and God again. This cane would be as shitty if Chantz was here. What do you think, he goes around sprinkling fairy dust on each cane so it grows taller and sweeter? Cane is cane. This crop ain't as good as some and it's not got anything to do with Chantz Boudreaux."

"No? Well, let me tell you something in case you haven't been paying close attention the last twenty-seven of your miserable, lazy years. It's what happens in that goddamn sugarhouse that will make or break me. Chantz could take this lousy cane and squeeze every last drop of blood from it."

He shook a cane piece in Tylor's face. "Now you tell me how Boris is going to do that. He's an idiot who can't find his ass in the dark. And what about my levee? Louis doesn't know squat about building levees. Next water rise we get and this plantation is going to settle someplace out in the Gulf of Mexico."

"Next flood we get, Chantz or not, and your precious Holly House is going down the damn river. Chantz told you so himself." Tylor shoved Maxwell aside and made for his horse.

"I want Boris gone from Holly, Tylor!" Maxwell yelled after him. "The lazy pig is good for nothing but stirring up trouble."

"He's your damn overseer, you fire him!" Tylor glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "Last time I fired your overseer I got my ass whipped."

"I want him gone and I want Chantz back!"

Tylor froze.

Max moved up behind him. "Did you hear me, Tylor? You're going to Chantz and if you have to get down on your hands and knees and beg, you're going to convince him to come back."

"You can go to hell," Tylor declared coldly, his gaze fixed on his grazing horse. "Chantz would tear me in two with his bare hands if I was to go knocking on his door."

"Boris Wilcox is trouble. Louis told me that he's sniffing around the women. Not just the women, but the children, too."

Tylor's head turned and his eyes narrowed. "You're growing too damn soft. Everybody thinks so. You've drowned yourself too often in your fine bourbon so you can't think straight any longer. You haven't thought straight since you got word that Jack Broussard spattered his brains with a bullet. What happened, Daddy? Did your conscience finally get the best of you?

"If you were thinking straight, Juliette Broussard would be buried as deeply as her mother now. That's the only way you're ever going to get your hands on Belle Jarod."

"No harm is to come to Juliette, Tylor. Do you understand me?"

Tylor's mouth curled.

Maxwell swallowed and stepped closer. "You didn't have anything to do with that attack on her those nights ago, did you, son? You weren't part of that group that caused that old woman to die of fright, were you? Because if you were-"

"What do you think?" he sneered.

Tylor mounted his horse and spurred the mare toward the big house. Maxwell followed, whipping his horse to a lather with his cane stalk.

By the time he arrived at the house, Tylor had dismounted. He stood on the gallery, staring at the front door as Simon struggled with Tylor's agitated horse. Max's gaze swung wider and fixed on the big bay gelding hitched to a post.

Chantz!

Max slid out of his saddle even before his horse skidded to a stop near the stairs. He took the steps two at a time, flinging the cane stalk at Tylor's feet as he swept by him, into the house where he found Little Clara beaming and her cheek bulging and her every braid bouncing up and down as she danced on her tiptoes. From her hand spilled long ribbons of every color. Her eyes widened the moment Maxwell entered the house and she dashed off down the hallway, her skirt flapping and her braids bobbing.

"Boss Chantz be back!" the child squealed as she ran.

Max expected to find Chantz in the foyer- after all, the hired help was never allowed in the formal rooms until admitted.

But Chantz wasn't there.

Frowning, Maxwell entered his office, swept the room with a glance.

But Chantz wasn't there.

Then he moved back into the foyer and found Tylor, staring into the drawing room, his face white under

blotches of sunburned skin. Maxwell walked to the open doorway and looked in.

A man stood there, before the high open windows. Tall and distinguished looking in his smart-fitted

brown suit coat and trousers to match. He wore a brocade vest and a soft doe-colored cravat around his throat, cinched with a ruby broach.

He was drinking Maxwell's best bourbon. From Maxwell's finest crystal. Both of which Maxwell laid

away for any dignitary who might visit.

He turned from the window and looked at Maxwell. His mouth curled and he tipped the glass slightly, as if in toast.

"Hello, Daddy." His smile widened, white teeth against bronze skin, blue eyes like hard sapphires.

"What's wrong? My actually acknowledging you as my father somehow left you speechless?"

Chantz drank then regarded the bourbon. "Very nice. I often wondered how the good stuff you reserved

for your peers would compare to the garbage you gave me."

"Chantz?"

"That's right, Daddy. What's wrong? Don't recognize your own son when you see him?"

Tylor shoved Maxwell aside and glared at Chantz. "Where the hell did you get that suit?"

"If it's not my own brother-"

"Shut up. What the hell are you doing in this room like you're the king of England or something? Where

the hell did you get those clothes? They must have cost-"

"A gift."

Chantz's blue eyes narrowed and he took a short drink.

"I resisted at first. You know me. Never was good at accepting the generosity of others. Felt it somehow

lessened my manhood. I finally decided I had too damn much pride for my own good."

"Who the hell cares where he got the damn clothes," Maxwell declared as he moved further into the room. "What matters is you're back. We can sit down like grown men and discuss this sorry situation in which we find ourselves these days."

Maxwell motioned toward the side door. "We'll go to my office-"

"We'll stay right here...Daddy. I believe this is where you entertain your more distinguished guests."

Tylor coughed a deep laugh. "You're no guest, Chantz, and you sure as hell aren't distinguished, suit or no suit."

Chantz's black lashes lowered so his eyes were mere slits of dark blue as he regarded Tylor. Maxwell cleared his throat and moved to a high-backed chair, pointed to another and watched as Chantz eased into it and crossed his legs. His fingernails were well manicured and clean and his hair fell in a rich dark wave over his brow. The light through the window reflected from the broach at this throat. The blood-red ruby winked like a flirtatious eye into Maxwell's face.

Then Max's gaze shifted to Chantz's left hand where it rested casually on the chair arm. He swallowed and focused harder. Heat rose to his cheeks and his scalp began to sweat.

"Why are you here?" Tylor demanded as he moved to Maxwell's side.

"A number of reasons." Chantz held Maxwell's gaze, not so much as glancing at Tylor.

"Bring me a drink, Tylor." Maxwell settled back in his chair.

Tylor glared at Maxwell. "Get your own damn drink. What do I look like, a slave?"

"And while you're at it, Tylor, refresh Chantz's drink as well."

Tylor's jaw went slack.

"You heard me," Maxwell said in that tone that brooked no resistance. "Get us a drink. Now."

Maxwell took a steadying breath. "Heard you to be working the river, Chantz."

"I was."

"Can't see you enjoying it much. You're a cane man."

"I am."

"I'm hoping your reasons for coming here today are to ask for your job back."