A movement- just slight, in his arms. Then she made a sound and Chantz gently laid her on her back and smoothed the hair from her face. "Juliette? Darlin', open your eyes." He patted her cheek then shook her. She drew in a deep breath, coughed, then her eyes opened wide and looked into his. Fear, then confusion touched her features, then her arms lifted around his neck, and with a cry of gladness she threw herself against him. Her fingers twisted in his hair and her lips touched his cheek, his eyes, his mouth.

"Am I dreaming?" she cried.

His eyes closed, he crushed her to him. "No, darlin', you're not dreaming. "God oh God, I'm sorry for leaving you. I should never-" "Kiss me," she wept, and taking his face between her hands, kissed him passionately, tasting like tears and smoke.

As Liza sank back on her heels, Juliette held Chantz closer, as if she would dissolve her body into his, if

possible. Only then did she appear to notice Liza. She blinked and said almost angrily, "What are you doing back here, Liza? You should have been long gone-"

"We couldn't leave you, Juliette. And it's a damn good thing we came back. What happened here?"

She turned her face into Chantz's shoulder. He felt her struggle to hold back her emotions. "Horace," she

said. "He came looking for Phyllis."

"Son of a bitch."

Chantz tried to stand. Juliette clung, her desperation showing in her flashing eyes.

"He's sick, Chantz. Desperately. He might well be dead already."

"What the hell is going on here?"

Andrew walked out of the dark, his hair and clothes plastered to his body by rain. Liza jumped to her

feet and with a scream threw herself into his arms. Eyes closed, he lifted her off her feet and rocked her.

Louis joined them. He dropped heavily onto the damp ground and wiped his face with his shirtsleeve that

was singed and tattered. Smiling into Chantz's eyes, he said, "Sho' glad to see you, Boss. Done believe you gone over the bridge."

Chantz said nothing, just held Juliette, felt her heart beat against his and tried not to think about what

might have happened had he not come home when he had.

"Chantz? Chantz, honey, is that you?"

Chantz stood as his mother ran down the alley, her thin arms thrown open wide. She felt light as a bird in

his arms, and he found himself holding her more tightly than he had held her in a great many years. The last days pressed down on him- the frailty of life, how quickly it could be snuffed. He had seen enough tragedy the last days to fill his remaining lifetime with nightmares.

Lifting his head, he stared at the dozens of strange faces, the men who stood shoulder to shoulder holding lanterns high so light painted their features. He felt his mother stiffen.

"Who are these people?" he demanded, though some gut instinct turned over inside him. His hands curled into fists as he waited, shifting his focus back to his mother's stricken features.

Emmaline backed away, but as she opened her mouth to speak, Juliette pushed herself to her feet and caught his arm.

"I've employed these people. They're hard workers, Chantz, and all they ask is ten acres each to call their own- theirs as long as they work for Belle Jarod. Husband..." She closed her trembling hand around his arm and moved against him, took his face in her hand and smiled into his eyes. "I prayed for a miracle and God sent them. They're the answer to our prayers, Chantz. They're going to help us rebuild this house and replant those fields. They're going to help us prosper."

He looked at his mother who regarded him with a defiant lift of her chin and set of her shoulders. Mud daubers. The sick reality of why they were at Belle Jarod rolled in his empty stomach.

As if Emmaline could sense his thoughts, her eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry to shame you, son. But I can't run from it any longer. I brought them here to help you. To help your wife realize her dreams. And yours. Folks shouldn't be blamed for where they came from, Chantz. You've suffered from the bigotry yourself. You worked hard to become the man you are now, but chances are it might never have happened had Maxwell not extended the pittance of charity that he did." She turned her gaze on Juliette and her lips quivered with a faint smile. "I should listen to my own advice sometimes."

Emmaline turned and, joining the others, moved off into the rain drenched darkness. Liza and Andrew followed as did Louis.

Juliette's warm hand touched his cheek, and he looked down into her face that looked smooth as pearl in the darkness. The last days of fear and anguish rushed over him then, fierce as the moving water in the river, driven by a force beyond control. Taking her in his arms, he crushed her to him and buried his face in her hair- held her while rain ran in cool streams through the overhead trees and sprinkled their heads and shoulders.

With his eyes closed, he tried to swallow. Held her tighter. Heard her breath catch and her body shiver. "God, I missed you," he whispered upon her ear. "I was so damn scared, Julie, that I would never see you again. Or hold you again. So many people dead. Entire families, men and women and little babies. We took to burying them in pits one on top of the other because there are no more coffins- last count was ten thousand dead. Can you imagine?"

"Hush now." She kissed his cheek and pulled away, and when he reached for her again, she backed away further.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you mad because I went-"

"No." She shook her head and turned away, moved to the gallery out of the rain that had begun to spear harder from the night sky. Thunder rumbled and somewhere near the river came the sound of splintering wood. She sat on the bench seat Louis had built from old lumber, buried her clasped hands between her legs, and looked off down the long alley.

He eased to one knee before her, took her hot hand in his. Her palm felt moist with sweat. "Are you certain that fall didn't-"

"My head hurts a little." She smiled and touched a place above her right eye. "Actually... it hurts a lot. But it's so very inconsequential compared to what's happening to so many others." Her voice caught and for a moment she simply sat in silence, her shoulders oddly slumped, her head down as she stared at her hands.

He touched her hair and took her small chin on the crook of his finger, lifting her face so he could look in her eyes. "Still love me?" he asked with a faint curl of his mouth.

"Oh, Chantz, I fear you'll never know, truly know, how very much I love you."

"I'm depending on you to show me."

He grinned.

She grinned.

Then, as if the dam burst in her heart, she covered her face and began to shake. Chantz sat down beside

her and took her in his arms. She shoved him, jumped to her feet, and backed away.

"What the hell is wrong, Julie-"

"Chantz, your father is dead."

Thunder rumbled and the sky momentarily brightened.

"Maxwell is dead?"

"I was with him. I sat with him for the afternoon. I couldn't simply leave him, you see. He was so...

pitiful. And alone."

"Where the devil is Tylor-"

"New Orleans."

"Jesus." Sinking back against the wall, Chantz stared off through the dark. "Does my mother know?"

"No."

He closed his eyes. Some emotion turned over inside him, hot pain and hotter anger. Standing, he paced.

He walked to the far end of the gallery and fixed his gaze on the distant dark pond, vaguely aware of the spray of rain covering his face. His fists shook. "Bastard," he said through his teeth. "All I ever wanted was a single nod of acknowledgment, and bastard that you are you went and died on me..."

"I left him there," came Juliette's tired voice. "He needs burying, Chantz."

Nodding, running one hand back through his damp hair, Chantz laughed and shrugged. "Well, I guess it's the least I can do. After all, thanks to his charity I wasn't brought up a damn mud dauber." Juliette touched his back. "Forgive him, husband. I did. He died alone and frightened and begging forgiveness for his sins. He called out for you. He wept for you. He said that you were his finest accomplishment and if he had his life to live over he would not make the same mistakes again where you are concerned. Forgive him," she said softly, "or you'll never know peace in your life."

He turned slowly back to his wife. How small she looked in the dark, little more than a child, it seemed, with her long hair wild about her shoulders and her eyes very big. So many years ago- she wouldn't remember, of course- they had stood here similarly, she barely four and with ribbons in her hair, hand outstretched pleading for sweets, and him thinking her a pain in the butt. Later she had played amid the Cherokee roses while butterflies had danced around her shoulders.

She swayed.

He jumped to catch her in his arms, his heart racing with fear.

"Julie... darlin', what's wrong?" He kissed her hot dry brow, fear expanding inside him.

"I'm tired," she said wearily. "And sad. Very sad. Max's death was... dreadful."

He carried her into the house, over the scorched floor and up the stairs to their bedroom, placed her

gently on the mattress. The lantern on the near table cast her face in gold planes and blue hollows. Her

eyes looked dark and sunken. Her flesh radiated with heat.

Smiling, she reached for his hand. "Don't look so fearful. I'm fine. Really. I've simply been so worried about you, then your father... say you forgive him, Chantz. All my prayers won't do us any good if you won't in your heart of hearts put the anger and resentment from you."

Smoothing the hair back from her brow, he bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingered there, absorbing the faint hint of magnolias on her skin. Her eyelashes brushed his face. Her fingertips caressed his cheek. "Go," she whispered near his ear. "Take care of your father. I'll sleep and when I awaken we'll start again. Go," she repeated, looking into his eyes. "And hurry home. I've missed you long enough."

Her eyes closed and suddenly she was asleep. Chantz kissed her dry lips, her closed eyes, then forced himself to stand, to walk to the door where he stopped and looked back. "Julie?" he called softly.

Nothing.

"Darlin', I love you," he said, then stepped from the room and closed the door.

The others waited at the bottom of the stairs, their faces somber and frightened. Liza cried softly as Andrew held her. Rosie stepped forward and wrung her hands.

"She sick, ain't she?" Rosie said, her voice aquiver with worry.

"No." He shook his head in denial and moved toward the door.

"Are you sure?" Liza demanded.

He turned on her. "She's not sick. She's tired is all. Hell, she tumbled down a flight of stairs-"

"I'll sit with her."

Phyllis moved out of the salon, paused at the threshold as everyone turned to stare at her. But for two

bright red spots of color on her cheeks, her face appeared white as goose down. He might not have recognized her had he bumped into her in town. The black mourning garb she wore gave her the look of a corpse.

Her gaze locked with Chantz's, Phyllis did her best to straighten her spine and smile as nonchalantly as possible. "She might rest better with someone near. It's the least I can do, after all. She did open her home and her arms to me when I came here. For that matter, it's the least I can do for you."

She marched by Chantz, going partially up the stairs before pausing and looking back. "Rosie, will you bring me a bowl of fresh water and linens?"

"She's not sick," Chantz declared with a rise of anger and panic.

Andrew stepped forward. "Of course she's not. You know women. She'll feel much better once she's cleaned up a bit."

"She's not sick, Drew." The words rattled in his throat.