Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

Laurel squirmed and wriggled, laughing, finally breaking free of his hold. Snatching her glasses out of his hand, she danced a couple of steps back from him, her gaze suddenly catching on his. While her heart beat a little harder, her laughter faded away, and something warm and seductive and invisible pulled at her, like the allure of the moon on the tides.

"I told you, sugar," he said, lifting his shoulders in a lazy shrug. "Me, I just like to have a good time. And you strike me as a lady in serious need of a good time." He shuffled a step closer, held a hand out to her. "Come on, angel. Let's you and me go and have us some fun."

She eyed him warily. "Fun? What's that?"

She couldn't remember the last time she'd done anything just for fun. Her work had consumed her life for so long, then had come the struggle just to keep herself from falling into a million tiny broken bits. And since she had come home, her focus had been on doing constructive things. She had enjoyed her time in the garden, but the goal had been to accomplish something tangible, a success she could see.

Jack ducked around behind her and got her by the shoulders, steering her down the levee toward the dock. "You need a lesson from the master, sweetheart. I'll teach you all about havin' fun."

Reluctantly letting him herd her along, Laurel shot him a skeptical look over her shoulder. "Would this 'fun' you're alluding to be of a sexual nature?"

His dimples flashed. "I sincerely hope so."

"I'm out of here." She changed directions deftly, ducking under his arm and marching back up the levee toward the parking lot.

"Aw, come on, 'tite ange," Jack begged, jogging around to cut her off. He gave her his most sincere look, pressing his hands to his heart. "I'll behave myself. Promise."

Laurel gave a sniff of disbelief. "Are you going to try to sell me swampland, too?"

"No, but I'll show you some. I thought we could take a nice relaxing sunset boat ride."

"Go into the swamp at sunset? Are you crazy? The mosquitoes will cart us off and carve us up for dinner!"

"Not in the boat I have in mind."

She gave him a long, considering look, amazed that she could even be considering his offer. She didn't trust him an inch. But the idea of a leisurely cruise on the bayou, of escaping to the wilderness that had been her refuge as a child, held a strong appeal. And Jack himself was temptation personified.

"Come on, sugar," he cajoled, his head tipped boyishly, an irresistible smile canting his lips. He held his hand out to her. "We'll pass a good time."

Three minutes later they were climbing aboard a boat that was essentially a small screened porch on pontoons. The roof was waterproof canvas in a jaunty red-and-white stripe. A pair of redwood planters filled with geraniums and vinca vines sat as decoration flanking the door to the screened area.

"This is your boat?" Laurel asked, not bothering to hide her skepticism.

Jack reached under the velvety leaves of a geranium, plucked out the starter key, and blew the dirt off it. "No."

"No?" she followed him into the cabin. "What do you mean, no? You're stealing this boat?"

He frowned at her as he started the engine and gunned the throttle. "I'm not stealing it. I'm borrowing it." Laurel rolled her eyes. "Lawyers," he grumbled, scowling as he concentrated on piloting the pontoon away from the dock. "Relax, will you, angel? The boat belongs to Leonce."

With the issue of ownership out of the way, Laurel sank down on one of the deep cushioned benches that faced each other in front of the console. She tried to concentrate on the passing scenery-the businesses that backed onto the bayou and the ramshackle boathouses that were tucked along the bank behind them; the houses that lined the bank farther down, many with people in the yard gardening or talking with neighbors or watching children play. Normal scenes of people with normal lives. People who had ordinary backgrounds and boring jobs.

The thought struck a pang of envy inside her that hummed and vibrated like a tuning fork. If she had had a boring job, an ordinary background, maybe she and Wesley would still be together. Maybe they would have a child by now.

Sighing, she toed her shoes off, pulled her feet up on the bench, and tucked them under her, settling in, unconsciously letting go of the tension and easing into melancholy. Slowly, the fierce grip she held on her mind eased, and her thoughts drifted. They passed L'Amour, the brick house looking vacant and lonely standing amid the moss-draped live oak and magnolia trees. Huey watched them pass from the bank, a woebegone expression on his face. Then civilization grew scarce-the occasional plantation house visible in the distance, the odd tar-paper shack teetering above the black water on age-grayed pilings.

The scenery grew lusher, wilder. Trees crowded what land there was, shoulder to shoulder, their crowns entangling into a dense canopy of green that blotted out the evening sun, leaving the ground below them veiled in darkness. Sweet gum and persimmon and water locust, ironwood and redbud and a dozen other species with buttonbush and thorny dewberry and greenbriar skirting their bases. The banks were thick with patches of yellow spiked cane and coffee weed, fan-fronded palmetto trees and verdant ferns. Vines and flame-flowered trumpet creeper braided together along the edge like embroidery, and the shallows grew thick with spider lilies and water lettuce.

The bayou branched off again and again, each arm reaching into another pocket of wilderness. Some of the channels were as wide as rivers, others narrow trickles of streams, all of them part of a vast labyrinth of no-man's-land. The Atchafalaya was a place where it seemed the world was still forming, ever-changing, metamorphosing, and yet always primitive. Laurel could never come out here without feeling transported back in time. That had always been the appeal for her, to escape to a time when none of her problems existed. The swamp worked its magic on her again, pulling her into another dimension, leaving all her troubles in the distance as the pontoon chugged along.

They passed through a shadowy corridor of trees where no land was visible at all, giving testimony to the constant battle here between water and earth. A cat squirrel vaulted from one gray trunk to the next, skittering around behind it to peek its head around and stare at the passing boat. Birds darted everywhere, warblers and wildly painted buntings and orioles; flashes of color in the gloom, flitting among the lacework of branches.

Finally, they emerged from the natural bower into an area where the bayou grew wide, looking more like a lake than a stream. Jack maneuvered the pontoon into a spot near the south bank, positioning them so they had a panoramic view of the swamp as the sun slid down in the west. He cut the grumbling motor and stepped out of the cabin to cast the anchor over the side. When he returned, he sank down beside Laurel, stretching his legs out in front of him, laying his arms along the back of the bench.

"It's beautiful, no?" he said softly.

"Mmmm…"

The sky was an artist's palette of color. The eastern horizon was a deep, luxurious purple that gave way to azure that faded into a smoky white that grew deeper and deeper orange to the west, where the sun was a huge ball of flame. Before them lay the swamp, desolate, beautiful, full of secrets. Laurel soaked it all in, absorbed the quiet of it, let the peace of it seep into her. The pontoon swayed gently on the current and the tension leeched out of her, leaving her limbs feeling heavy and relaxed.

In the absence of motor noise, the bayou chorus began. Crickets trilled in the reeds, an unseen string section. Then came the bass chug-a-rum of the bullfrog, then the rattling banjo twang of the green frog. From a distance came the occasional accompaniment of bird calls, and nearer the boat the low hum of mosquito squadrons lifting off the surface of the dark water to fly their sunset sorties.