Chapter 1
A STRANGE noise arrested Buck Farrell's attention. A splash? Was he that near the north bank? The big Negro, his sunny skin oozing perspiration, cautiously wormed his way through the brush. It was blistering hot. When he caught a glimpse of the creek's blue waters, the sight was wonderfully refreshing.
He heard that noise again. Somebody-or something-was splashing about in the north branch. Buck crept forward, not breaking a twig. He was determined to get a look.
His tremendous shoulders and hard-muscled legs ached. Since five o'clock that morning, he had been searching for a cow whose calf had died and who might be in trouble herself. Maybe it was the cow making all the noise. Buck wiped a deposit of sweat from his face. The idea of a quick, cooling dip was immensely attractive, although he could think of better companions than a cow.
Pulling aside a screen of elder bushes, Buck peered through the opening. His eyes found the bather and his heart stood still.
A girl. A nude girl!
He caught his breath, recognizing her as Maureen Hale, a young mulatto whom Buck had eagerly watched develop from a gawky, pigtailed child into a deliciously curved adolescent.
Ready for love, Buck thought. My love. Why hadn't he already told her how much he cared for her, wanted her? He had still been thinking of her as a youngster, had never said a word about his feelings-yet obviously she was quite grown. What had he been waiting for?
His gaze devoured the girl. She was sitting on a log now, her silky skin wearing a patina of beaded gold. God, how I love you, thought the stricken Buck. But this was not the time to plead his cause. He would have to court her, talk to Lula, her mother. Maureen had always seemed rather stand-offish, anyway.
Maureen stroked the water from her glistening thighs. Then her hands moved upward to the flat platter of her stomach and the solid prominences of her chocolate-tipped breasts. She caressed them with unconscious avidity, sighing as if she were deep in some dream.
Buck hungrily watched the girl slide from the log and swim about in the blue water with ineffable grace.
Suddenly his heart began to hammer. If she saw him, would she scream? It was wrong to stand here, peeking at her.
No matter, he decided. He would not miss this sight for anything. What a fool he had been to let her reach this ripe stage without proposing, if not marriage, at least an understanding. Angry with himself, Buck shifted his feet-disturbing a pebble. It trembled, and fell into the water.
Maureen looked up, fear distorting her face. For a long, emotion-laden moment, the eyes of girl and man locked.
Then she recognized Buck and a smile touched her lips. "Hey, what do you think you're doing? Do you make a habit of spying on girls?"
Buck stood ramrod stiff and rooted to the spot.
"Don't look," Maureen called. "I'll get out of the water and put on my clothes...."
Buck, mortified, was caught between heaven and hell. But his acute embarrassment proved too much for him. Suddenly he wheeled and plunged through the brush like a rhinoceros.
Reaching his horse, he mopped rivers of sweat from his face and looked back toward the creek, the image of the naked girl burned forever in his mind.
His hands trembling and his chest a vast, suffocating ache, he mounted and rode off across the fields.
Some miles away, Cyrus Scott finished his steak and ordered coffee. Then he sat back to enjoy the sight of Fleur Manning, part owner and hostess of the club, as she drifted about spreading light and joy among the many patrons. It was getting on toward evening, Friday evening, and the weekend swell was beginning to be noticeable.
The so-called "club"-actually a notorious roadhouse and casino-was perched on the tallest hill in a county that boasted many tall hills. From its glassed sides, in any direction could be seen twenty miles of woods-covered rises and valleys, checkered here and there by cultivation. Cy's eyes, however, were not for the scenic beauties of the countryside; what fascinated him at the moment were the beauties of Fleur Manning. She had not caught sight of him yet or she would have dashed to his side, her lovely face alight with the joy of reunion. This he knew as he knew his name.
Until gossip had driven her from the county ten years before, she and Cy had been fast friends in the best sense of the word. She had guided him deftly and eagerly over the threshold of manhood. This she had been able to do not because of greater experience but rather by dint of her superior initiative and mother-wit. It had been easy to love Cy Scott at that age because he had showed promise even then of becoming the big cat-muscled man that he was now. He shivered as he remembered the cave where it had started, on the bank on the north branch of the river.
He had been fourteen and she seventeen, but on that summer day their age difference had not been apparent after the first fevered touch. For with it had disappeared all the natural shyness and resistance to be expected of a boy only fourteen. From then on, until he was out of high school they had been inseparable. And Fleur he had to admit now, was hardly less attractive than she had been in those days.
The club was a swanky spot where you were covered merely by raising an eyebrow. Food and drink were the least of its attractions. The girls, the gambling, these were the money-makers. Les Corey, whose dream the place was, had well chosen the spot, the times, and the sheriff. The county was in the throes of industrial transition-a new paper mill and oil discovery, along with the old standbys, cattle and timber, were all flourishing. It made the citizenry feverish and heady with unaccustomed wealth. Cyrus Scott mused deeply of these things, sipping a liqueur, falling into a brown study....
"Hello, Cy!" The vehemence of the greeting almost blasted him out of his chair. She had come upon him without his knowing it.
He looked up at the woman standing before him. She, to be succinct, was sumptuous. Her strapless dress fitted as such a dress is supposed to, except that at the top it seemed barely able to contain the bounty of her breasts.
"How are you Fleur?" He stood quickly.
"May I sit down?"
"Are you kidding? Let me order you something."
"No. Not this early. Oh, Cy...." He thought her eyes were a little moist. "It's been a long time."
He nodded, but showed no emotion. Fleur Manning had been something of the county bad girl after Cy had gone off to college. She had left under a cloud and had come back under a mystery that people made worse than the cloud. She was reputedly the mistress of Les Corey-hiding it under the guise of part ownership of this venture. Part ownership, indeed, everyone said. Where would the likes of Fleur Manning get enough money to buy into something as elegant as the club?
Now she laughed ruefully and shook her gleaming blond head. "You're the same Cy, all right. Not much to say and always that veil over those gray eyes. But it's so good to see you."
He grinned and twin dimples dug into his rugged jaw.
The eyes came up and met hers. "I never was veiled to you."
"I guess I knew more about you than most," she admitted.
"I seemed a little of a puzzle because I was shy and reserved. Scared of my shadow."
"Yes. I understand you grew out of that."
"You helped a lot. I'll always thank you for it."
Her full, moist mouth twisted a little. "I helped because I loved you, Cy."
He shook his head. "You couldn't. I was three years younger than you-and didn't know which way was up."
"Didn't I know enough for us both?"
"I guess you proved that-and you knew I had a barnful of affection for you."
She bit her lip and looked away. "Yes," she said quietly. "Everyone else thought I was dirt. It never made any difference to you. If you hadn't gone off to college, things might have been different. People just wouldn't let me alone."
He raised a thick black eyebrow. "You wanted to be let alone in this county? Don't be silly. The only way that could happen is to have a father named Steven Scott and be heir to seven thousand acres of forest and pasture, set up house in the middle of it, and stay the hell away from people."
She chuckled. "Yes. Like Cy Scott. But my father is a landowner, too. A hundred acres on the north branch. He never made a decent living in his life until he became night watchman for the paper mill." Her blue eyes clouded. "You know what I wore next to my treasure the night I graduated? Flour-sack drawers. My white dress was made out of muslin curtains from Lula's house-you know Lady Bergstrom's cook?"
"And," he said, his voice mellow with the sweetness of memories, "you were by far the loveliest girl in the school that night."
Fleur, pleased, started to reply. But at that moment Les Corey walked by dressed in evening clothes, his beefy red face scraped and polished until it shone. He was a big man with abnormally broad shoulders, but he was short and when he walked he waddled. He hated it, but he couldn't help it.
"Evening, Mr. Scott. Glad to have you with us. It's not often we have the pleasure."
"The food," said Cy evenly, "was good."
"Thanks, and you have good company, too. But I'm afraid I'll have to borrow her. She's my hostess, and as such can't afford to play favorites." He grinned ingratiatingly, revealing a set of porcelain white dentures too obviously not his own. "Hope you'll pay us a visit again soon."
"Could be," replied Cy.
Fleur slid easily out of the chair and faced Corey. She stood an inch taller than he and the elegance of her sumptuous bounty made him look like a bedraggled percheron. "I was just going to tell you. I have a headache. I'll have to go home." Corey's face went hard. "That's too bad, but I can't spare Sam to take you home. 'Fraid you'll have to take some aspirin and make the best of it."
"I'll be glad to run you home, Fleur," said Cy Scott, rising. He towered over the other two and there was a glacial smile on his face.
"Thanks, Cy. Wait until I get my wrap."
She left them standing by the table, Corey fuming with rage because he had been outmaneuvered. "Are you always so accommodating?" he asked with a sneer.
"Invariably, where a beautiful woman is concerned," said Cy easily.
Corey muttered under his breath and Cy pounced.
He stuck a forefinger like a bar of steel into Corey's capacious belly, making him wince visibly. "If it can't be said aloud, don't say it at all," Cy advised with soft malice.
Corey gave him a malignant glance and walked away.
If they could have glided on wings from the peak of the immense hill upon which the club was perched to Fleur Manning's home, it would have taken possibly thirty-five seconds. But the road wound tortuously down the steep grade until at last it reached the level of the north branch bottoms. Here the road flattened out. They crossed an ancient bridge of rusty iron girders and turned left.
Fleur had moved over close to him, drawing her feet up on the seat and comfortably relaxing. "Is it true you're going to run for sheriff?"
Cy Scott jumped.
"What in the hell ever gave you that idea?"
"I was talking to Lady Bergstrom the other day.
She's the only one of the upper crust around here who'll still talk to me, you know. She said that the county was going to hell on a unicycle and if you'd inherited any of your father's iron and guts, you'd make a perfect sheriff."
Cy blew like a whale. "Lady's out of her mind. You had me shook there for a minute."
"Cy, I haven't been back very long. Is it as bad as people say? I mean everyone is blaming the sheriff and Les Corey and the club."
"I've heard the gossip. But you should know better than me. What's he doing-running dope, peddling reefers, white-slaving, or what?"
She was silent for a moment. "I don't know if you're aware of it, but I own a piece of the club."
"I'd heard-"
"And I suppose you heard the other story-that I was sharing a bed with Les."
"That's your business, Fleur."
"That's something I don't want as my business. If I told you that he's tried hard but has never made it-will never make it-would you believe me?"
"Unless you've changed a lot, I'll believe anything you tell me."
"Then consider yourself told. As for the other stuff that goes on, I'm not so sure it doesn't. It's hard to pin down anything like that. I know Les well enough to say he'd do anything for a dollar if he thought he could get away with it. But I have no evidence of anything except that he's got connections in Birmingham, Montgomery, New Orleans...."
"What for?"
"His bookie operations."
"He has those, too?"
"He surely does. We've had arguments about it. I say that since it goes on in the club, I should get a cut."
"He won't give you one?"
"Not a penny." She shrugged. "Cy, stop the car."
He did. She slid easily into his arms and her lips formed a hot, wet poultice of madness over his mouth. Just as it has always been, he thought, as his mind careened wildly through an electric blast of emotional upheaval that made his nerves jerk and blood hammer out a tocsin in his ears. She drew back a little and looked at him through luminous blue eyes that swam in a bath of crystal tears.
"It's still there, Cy. I couldn't be wrong."
He caressed her bare, smooth shoulders. "It's still there, Fleur. I feel it."
She sighed and leaned against the back of the seat. "Cy, when I saw you tonight, I knew I'd tell you all over again that I love you. I knew you wouldn't lie to me about how you felt. I also said to myself that whatever Cy has for me I'll take, and be glad to get. Maybe I can't have his love, but I can have that private heaven he used to take me to." She laughed low in her throat. "Even when he was only a fourteen-year-old, scared out of his wits."
He, too, laughed. She cuddled against him and slid a soft hand gently up his thigh.
"You won't fail me tonight, will you?"
"No, Fleur, I won't fail you. Where shall we go?"
"My house."
"What about your family?"
"Gone. There's only Kitty. She went to New Or leans to get her some clothes. Won't be back till tomorrow night."
"How thoughtful of her."
Fleur smiled. Her hand caressed gently. "That's what I thought when I saw you tonight." She sighed. "Drive on."
Fleur's home was a modest country dwelling that strove to be something it was not architecturally suited to be. There were too many tremendous trees hovering over it, dwarfing it, causing it to look smaller than it was. It had a wide front porch and the traditional angled roof. It was impeccably painted and the yard was carefully tended, the profuse flowers showing a woman's touch. The inside was much the same-the furniture cheap and loaded with handcrocheted doilies all tastefully arranged and stiffly starched, so clean and perfectly kept that their effect was one of artificiality, false propriety.
"Shall I make drinks?"
"Do."
She puttered about a sideboard that was too ornate and a little saggy in the middle. He walked up beside her and slid a hand about her waist
"One on account?"
She melted against him and the kiss was long and warming. He slid his hands to her hips and pulled her close and the trembling of her stomach as she gulped for needed air was transmitted back to him.
"Now let me fix drinks," she gasped.
She hurried. A few moments later they were seated on the couch.
"I've been playing with an idea for an hour or so," Fleur announced.
"Like what?"
"Why don't I arrange for you to meet Kitty?"
"I already know Kitty."
"When did you see her last?"
"Oh, three, four years ago."
"Yes. That long. At that time she was all arms, legs and hair. You should see her now."
He let his eyes wander affectionately over the generous body beside him. "I'm seeing all I want."
"Oh, hush. I know I'm past full bloom. If I didn't watch my diet carefully, I'd be as big as a house...."
"You needn't start that," he warned. "You're still the best-looking thing in this county and you can't talk me out of it."
She laughed. "All right, I'm great-but I'm thirty-five years old, Cy. Kitty is nineteen. You won't believe it when you see her. I'm ashamed to stand nude beside her. She makes me look like a cow. She has that wonderful flower-petal glow, that inner incandescence of glorious youth. And she has a blast-furnace burning inside her that feeds life to her in great red flames. You'd have to meet her to know what I mean."
"If what you say is true, then she must have half the population panting after her."
"She has her share and more. But guess who'd give his soul to have her?"
"Some several, I'd say."
"Yes-but I'm talking about Les Corey."
Cy Scott felt a flame of anger touch his throat. "Him? That-that hbg?"
"Him. He's offered me some attractive compensation if I'd help him arrange it."
"How does he explain wanting you both?"
"He doesn't bother to explain. After all, he's Les Corey. If he wants two girls, or four, what's so odd about that?"
Cy looked at her hard. "He sounds greedy. But the hell with him. And it isn't your sister I'm with. It's you."
He slid a hand beneath her long evening dress and moved it up the smooth column of her leg. She sighed and came into his arms. The kiss unraveled him just as he knew it would and the bared leg slid over his and possessed him.
Their lips parted and she looked into his eyes at close range. "You always liked the touch of me, didn't you."
"Yes," he said. "Such elegant quality."
"Shall we get comfortable?"
She got comfortable and she made him comfortable and the old days returned to them both, days when they had been young and foolish and utterly abandoned to the rites of passion.
He was thrilled that the years had touched her lightly. The difference was that she was bigger, more mature, with a richness like the succulent peach when it becomes golden under a red blush, ready to be plucked and eaten.
She cuddled close to him, urgency lacking because as of old they were sure of each other. She caressed him as though it were she who was the aggressor. She had gotten in the habit while he had been a mere broth of a lad who had to be led by the hand to the fount of ecstasy. She led him again, her lips hot and wet beneath the punishment of his. Her tongue, from old habit, made the first deep probe. It was almost like a signal and she became available to him, beckoning with her body, inviting him to take her treasure. And to him the familiar pot of honey was exquisitely sweet as he remembered.
She remembered, too. She remembered all the little caresses, the tiny details that had thrilled him in the past.
It was a rabid night and between the spells of madness were spells of heartbreaking tenderness.