A shudder crept up my spine as I inspected my new—temporary—home. I forced a smile as I pivoted to peek through the front window at the vast expanse of Lake Salvador. It was the furthest south I’d been since arriving in Jefferson Parish.
There was nothing special about the cabin. Two main rooms held the essentials. The walls were intact and the floor sturdy. Fresh bedding had been left for me in the splintered wardrobe.
“It ain’t nothin’ like you had in N’awlins, I’m sure. But it’s private.” Jack stepped behind me, grazing my backside. He leaned over my shoulder as if looking out the window. An unhealthy gray colored his sparse, once-brown curls. His pallor was that of a man who rarely spent time in the sun, clinging instead to the night. Only the bright veins of alcoholism spidering across his nose provided color.
The lecherous insinuation in his voice disgusted me only slightly more than his pronunciation of New Orleans.
“It’ll be fine.”
His breath warmed my neck, making the stale air feel oppressive.
I slipped away from him to inspect the other room.
In the kitchen, a dust-covered table and four mismatched chairs were pushed against built-in shelving. Haphazardly nailed scrap lumber formed shelves, each a different width and thickness. Some bowed up, and others down.
It makes no matter, I reminded myself. They’ll do just fine for the time they’re needed.
I crossed the kitchen and tugged on the door three times before it sprang free and opened onto a narrow-covered porch. Two wooden chairs, weathered and long abandoned, leaned against the exterior wall.
Lush greenery surrounded the back of the old fish camp. Thick palmetto leaves danced about the trunks of cypress and elm trees. Chartreuse colored moss dangled from above, taunting me to reach for it. The deep green of the bayou comforted my soul. It was warm and lovely, but it’d never be home. It wasn’t Ireland. Despite my yearning, it seemed I’d never be able to leave Louisiana. I’d never again travel the road to where my forefathers’ land ended, and the sea began. It was likely I’d die here, and my death was fast approaching.
Jack stepped beside me, wringing his hat in his hands, like a school boy waiting for the attention of a pretty classmate. But Jack Moret was no school boy. He was the brother of Claude Moret, and both were the most vicious hooligans I’d ever come across.
I forced a smile and hoped it appeared genuine. “Thank you again for your kindness. I don’t know what I’d have done without your help.” I caste my gaze up, lowered my lids ever so slightly, and then met his rheumy eyes again. “I’d have become destitute for certain.”
He leaned toward me, lowering his head toward my own. With a pronounced inhalation, he drew in my scent as an animal smells his prey on the breeze.
I stepped away and willed a blush to stain my cheeks before I hurried back into the cabin. Innocent and demure, I counseled myself. Play the part.
Jack followed me into the kitchen and leaned against the cupboard as I pulled several jars from my bag.
“I s’pose I should prepare. There hasn’t been a traiteur in the area for quite a while. The people must have a long list of ailments they’ll need tended to. I’m certain to be kept quite busy.” My message was as indirect as it was clear. As a healer in an isolated community, I’d be busy. I’d have no time for Jack Moret to woo me.
“I’ll stop by in a few days to check on ya’.” He strode through the front door with the air of a man accustomed to being trailed by his subordinates.
I fell into my own role, following him down the porch steps and to the shoreline. Stepping carefully, I avoided the gaps in the dock where boards were missing. I couldn’t risk falling through and breaking an ankle.
One of Jack’s men waited next to my few belongings. I’d brought two cases: a small one of clothing and blankets, the other full of remedies. Jack lit a cigarette and nodded. The man picked them up and carried them into the cabin.
“In the meantime, I’ll have some of my boys come by and check on ya. If anyone gives ya trouble, you tell ‘em you’re a guest of Claude Moret.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Moret.”
He edged closer, his large frame nearly blocking out the sun. With the hand that held his cigarette, he reached and lightly tugged at a red curl that had blown loose from my bobby pins. He tucked the strand behind my ear. The tips of his fingers lingered softly on my jawline as he pulled back and took a deep drag on his cigarette.
When he exhaled, my nose threatened to wrinkle at the stench. Jack leaned closer and dropped his voice to a smooth murmur. “I thought we agreed you’d call me Jack.”
I gifted him with a smile as full of innocence as I could muster. After all, that’s the persona that had lulled him into trusting me this far. To Jack I was an innocent Irish immigrant, without family, desperate to survive the financial collapse spreading across the country. He failed to realize that I was no simple immigrant, but a woman with nothing left to lose. I’d just as happily destroy myself if it meant successfully bringing Jack Moret, his brother and the rest of their gang to their knees.
“Of course, Jack. Thank you.”
His gaze lingered on my face then his eyes dropped to my chest before he turned his attention back to the skiff. His man was waiting to push away from the splintered dock.
Jack nodded then turned and stepped into the boat. He fixed his gaze up the bayou as the man maneuvered the boat into the current. He was done with me and moving on to important business. Moret business. He wouldn’t waste a moment to cast a glance back at the girl he was trying so desperately to seduce.
Your wife is such a lucky woman. Bitterness constricted my throat as I watched him disappear around the bend. I thought of the woman who was sitting home waiting for the attention of her criminal and philandering husband. Certainly, I’m not the only woman he’s tried to entice. A man like Jack Moret went after, and often took what—and who—he wanted.
How would he respond when his attentions toward me failed? The steel blade pressing against my thigh reminded me that I knew the risks of taunting—and denying—Jack Moret.
For the remainder of the morning, I busied myself unpacking my meager belongings.
The sun warmed the small cabin as the hours passed toward noon. A slow, but heavy breeze floated through the open windows. The air was fresh but did little to cool the rooms.
I was grateful for the overgrowth of trees. Shade protected the cabin from direct sunlight during the early part of the day. The afternoon would be nearly intolerable though. Once the sun peaked over the trees, there’d be no relief until it set again. I imagined the back porch had been built to avoid the late-day sunlight.
The front room of the cabin faced the lake. It contained a bed, arm chair, small table and the old wardrobe. I’d utilize this room for my private living area. The kitchen, with the shelves, table and basin, would be ideal for treating patients and mixing remedies.
Outdoors, I found a cypress cistern and a bucket for hauling water. With my herbs and ointments placed on the shelves, my clothing and books unpacked, I poured water into the basin and washed the sticky sweat from my arms and neck. My hot skin prickled against the cool path of the wet rag. Goose pimples erupted along my arms at the sudden chilling, then melted away as the hot air exerted its dominant effect. It didn’t seem possible that the humidity could be so much thicker in Cleric’s Cove than in New Orleans. I doubted I’d ever adapt to the heavy, oppressive heat of Louisiana. I missed the cooler and lighter Irish air.
I’d have no better luck washing away the sticky film on my skin than removing the dark stain of vengeance that clouded my soul. Giving up, I returned to the wardrobe and pulled Mum’s brocade carpet bag from the bottom. The material was thin, and the corners frayed. The metal clasp had the dark patina of three generations of use and resisted as I pushed it open. Once cream-colored, the satin liner was stained and rough.
I slid my hand into the hidden pocket. My fingertips pinched the links of my necklace and I pulled it into my palm. Throwing the bag back into the wardrobe I sat in the armchair, legs tucked under me, and looked out the front door at the lake. The water undulated, sunlight sparkling on each wave as they crested and fell again. The woosh of the swells as they lapped against the shore lulled me into tranquility.
I held the necklace tight to my chest, and the cool metal locket seemed to meld with my palm. My mind drifted, dwelling in images of the past. Mam, Da, Finnigan and I during happier times. Before we’d left Ireland. The possibility we’d dreamed of when we’d moved to New Orleans. Mam and Da setting up their practice and working together each day. Finn and I learning the arts of healing that’d been passed between every generation of Cassidy.
But those memories were before. Before Da got sick. Before the stock market crashed and jobs became harder to find. Before Finn turned to illegal activities—and the Morets—to help save our house.
I opened my palm and my fingers traveled across the dips and valleys of the design on the metal disk. I pushed my thumbnail into the groove on the side and opened the locket. My thumb fell into the empty divet that once held the last image of my happy family. The photo was gone now. Burned in a barrel fire on the banks of the Mississippi river. I’d had no choice. I couldn’t risk anyone seeing that photo. If anyone from Cleric’s Cove—or the Morets—were to see it and recognize Finn, then I’d lose the element of surprise. If anyone knew that Finn was my brother, it’d be harder for me to find out what happened to him. And harder for me to kill Claude Moret, if he had, indeed, killed my brother.