Caroline Burnes - Familiar Vows

“You don’t understand what’s at stake,” he said.

She could see that he was working hard at reasoning with her. What he didn’t understand was that she’d never let anyone touch her equipment. Not ever. Not for any reason. Before she could answer, she noticed the black cat had hopped to the front seat. To her amazement, the cat opened the glove box and began to rifle through the contents. “Hey!” she yelled at the cat.

The man took her moment of inattention to strip the film from her camera. He dropped the roll in his pocket and handed the camera back to her.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said.

She was furious, but she still had her photographs. Whoever this Neanderthal was, he’d only gotten blank film. The best thing she could do was beat a hasty retreat before he tried to search her.

She walked past him to the driver’s door. “Shoo, kitty!” She waved her hands at the cat until he hopped out a front window. She got behind the wheel.

“Ms….” the man started.

She gunned the motor and drove out of the church parking lot like Satan was on her heels.

When she looked in the rearview mirror, he was standing there in his Confederate finery, the black cat sitting beside his polished black boots.

LUCAS WEST WATCHED THE red Alabama dust rise from the tires of the photographer’s SUV, a rental from Atlanta. He memorized the tag number, but since he had the film, it was a moot issue. And it was thanks to the cat that he’d gotten the film. He looked down, but the feline had disappeared.

He stood a moment longer, pondering the strange events. Whoever the photographer was, she’d come into the wedding like a Texas tornado. He felt the corners of his mouth begin to tug into a smile. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration. She’d been quiet and professional, but the first time he’d looked at her, she’d given him a jolt. She was a looker. No doubt about that. With her lacey white shirt, tailored black slacks and stiletto boots, she’d almost stolen his breath. Until he’d seen the camera.

He sensed someone approaching and turned to face Eleanor Curry, a lovely woman who traveled with a black cat. The idea of it made him smile.

“Who was she?” Eleanor asked.

“Photographer for Bride Magazine.”

Eleanor whistled softly. “That’s the magazine to be in if you’re into wedding royalty.”

“Lorry can’t risk it. I got the film. Cockamamie idea to send a photographer to photograph a wedding without asking the bride and groom.”

“It’s all about that candid moment,” Eleanor said as she took his arm and they walked toward the celebration in an arbor beside the church. “But you got the pictures, right? No harm done. Let’s have a glass of champagne.”

Lucas felt himself relax. He had the pictures; the danger had been averted. Now he wanted to enjoy this new beginning for a young woman who’d proven to be courageous and strong.

“It’s wonderful to see Lorry like this,” Eleanor said. “I was afraid she’d never be happy again.”

“She did a very brave thing for me.” Lucas took two glasses from a passing waiter and handed one to Eleanor. “I promised I’d see her into a new life. A happy life. I think this is the first step. Lorry and Charles have the whole future ahead of them.”

“They’re so in love.” Eleanor pointed her champagne glass toward a black shadow slipping along the chairs at the buffet table. “And I’d better get Familiar. He loves wedding food, but we have to catch a flight out this evening. It’s back to D.C. for a few weeks, then on to my seminar in New York. Peter will join me there when he finishes lecturing in Chicago.”

“Peter’s lucky to have you, Eleanor. And your cat. I know you believe he’s some kind of detective, but my imagination won’t stretch that far.”

“Oh, Familiar will stretch it.” Eleanor linked her arm through his. “Familiar has a way of letting you know exactly how smart he is. Now walk me over to kiss the bride and groom good luck. Then I’m going to retrieve my cat and head for the airport.”

Michelle walked through her studio, counting the photographs that would be shipped to Marco’s Gallery in SoHo. Her show, a collection of black-and-white pictures that ranged from landscapes to studies of the human body, had been selected with care. Since returning home from the gig for Bride Magazine, she’d spent the entire three weeks working on this show.

The men would be there within the hour to carefully crate the large canvasses and then transport them to Marco’s Gallery. This was a big moment, and Michelle savored it.

She toured the studio, and she stopped before each picture marked to go. The most extraordinary photograph—a bride, her gown weighted with seed pearls, a gossamer veil shading her beauty—was untagged. Michelle studied the picture, remembering the day in detail. Beside the bride was a handsome and gallant man in a gray Confederate officer’s uniform. He was leaning in to kiss his bride, and the look shared between them was one of total commitment and love.

Michelle traced the scar that was barely visible on the bride’s neck. She’d noticed it when she printed the picture, but she had no explanation for it. It looked as if someone had meant to cut the woman’s throat, but surely that wasn’t possible.

Michelle sighed. It was the finest picture she’d ever taken, but she didn’t have a signed release form. No matter how good, the picture would never be shown publicly. After she’d told Iggy about the man at the wedding trying to take her film, the editor had flatly refused to even consider using the Confederate wedding photographs. Michelle had printed this one, just for herself.

She put the last tag on a picture of two horses running in a pasture in a heavy mist. They were phantom creatures, coming out of the fog, nostrils flaring. She could almost hear the hoofbeats ring on the earth.

By tomorrow morning, the art critics would have reviewed her work. They were often unkind to magazine photographers who set up shop as artists. Only time would tell how they treated her.

Her cell phone rang, and she answered it with a smile. “Sure thing, Kevin. I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes. The guys are—” The sound of a knock interrupted her. “They’re here now, I think. Give me a few minutes to get them started, and I’ll meet up with you for that celebratory drink.”

Hanging up, she opened the door. Two men from Marco’s Gallery stood in the hallway, packing crates stacked neatly beside them. She showed them the numbered canvases.

“We’ll take care of it, Ms. Sieck,” one said. “Marco told us to use extra caution.”

“Marco is a good friend. Lock the door when you leave, and be sure and tell your boss I’ll be at the gallery by six-thirty this evening.”

Time for a Bloody Mary with Kevin, then a facial and massage. She’d scheduled her day to be as stress-free as possible. Tonight she’d be on public display.

Clutching her handbag, she hurried to the curb to flag a taxi. This was the day she’d been waiting for. Ten years of hard work—and twenty years of dreaming. It was all out of her hands now.

LUCAS ENTERED THE AUSTIN office complex of the U.S. Marshals Service, his boots tapping on the polished tile floor. How many mornings had he come into this same office ready for a day’s work? Not until Lorry Kennedy had he ever thought about quitting. Now the time was on him. He’d tendered his resignation and had only to turn in his badge and gun.

In twenty minutes, he’d no longer be a federal marshal.

As he walked down the corridor to the office, he thought about the ranch he’d bought in the Hill Country. His new life would involve cattle and horses and hard physical work. It was the remedy he’d chosen to help him deal with the death of his brother, and he was relieved to see that his fellow officers had honored his decision to quit. No one had made any effort to dissuade him.