He'd been hauling junk up out of the bayou for weeks now, working literally from sunup to sundown, cleaning up dozens of sites careless people had chosen for disposing of such things as old refrigerators, iron bedsteads, stoves, mattresses, bicycles, and tires. It was a job that needed doing and one that he could devote himself to and exhaust himself with in the hopes of gaining a few hours of sleep at the end of the day.
When the job called for it, he used a gas-powered winch, but he fell back on it only after he'd spent a good long while trying to pull the object out by himself-no matter what it happened to be. The exertion cleared his mind and made certain the overriding pain he felt was in his muscles.
He took up the rope now and tightened the slack gradually until he was leaning back hard against it, straining to inch the boat up out of the water. He heaved, his every muscle standing out, physical pain blocking all thought from his mind. Beads of sweat slipped past the bandanna he wore around his forehead, stinging his eyes. He leaned back, pulling until his blood was roaring in his ears. He didn't even hear the outboard motor till the bass boat was nearly to the bank.
From the corner of his eye he saw Gifford and groaned inwardly. Why couldn't the world just leave him alone? He adjusted his grip on the rope and heaved backward again, doubling his concentration on his task, dragging the boat up another six inches toward the bank. The sound of the outboard ceased abruptly, but Lucky worked on as if he were completely oblivious of Gifford Sheridan's presence.
«I had me a mule once could pull like that,» the old man drawled. «He was a damn sight smarter than you, though, I reckon.»
Lucky sucked in a lungful of humid air, adjusted his grip, and hauled back on the rope again, the corded muscles in his neck and shoulders standing out as he pulled. The nose of the old rowboat lunged forward as the back end pulled free of the mud. Within a couple of minutes he had the dilapidated craft halfway ashore. He dropped the rope then and went to tip the water out of the boat. Gifford sat patiently watching him from under the brim of a battered old green John Deere cap.
«What are you doin' here?» Lucky growled, not looking up from his task. He pulled a small anchor from inside the boat and heaved it onto the bank. «I thought you got everything you wanted, old man.»
«What would it matter to you if I did or didn't? Everybody knows you don't give a damn about anyone but yourself.»
Lucky said nothing as he drained the boat. He didn't need this. His life was miserable enough without having this cantankerous old man chewing his tail. He'd done what he had to do. That was the end of it.
«You broke her heart,» Gifford said succinctly.
Lucky flinched inwardly, the words like a whip across tender flesh. He focused on the junk in the boat as he stood there waist-deep in the bayou. «I didn't ask her to fall in love with me.»
«No, but she did anyway, didn't she? God knows what she sees in you. I look at you now and all I see is a stubborn, selfish man too caught up in his penance to see he doesn't have anything left to pay for.» Gifford shrugged and sighed, his shrewd dark eyes on Lucky the whole time, never wavering. «Hell, I don't know, maybe you like pain. Maybe you like thinking you could have had a decent life with a wonderful woman, but you passed it all up to suffer. Catholics do like their martyrs.»
He didn't so much as bat an eye at the murderous glare Lucky sent him. The old man sat leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs and his big hands dangling down between his knees, as calm as if he were sitting over a fishing pole waiting for a bite. Lucky turned abruptly and waded ashore, dragging the old rowboat with him. When the boat lay on its side like the carcass of a whale, he turned back toward Gifford.
«I did what was best.»
Gifford snorted. «You did what was easiest.»
«The hell I did!» Lucky snapped, taking an aggressive step toward the bow of the bass boat. «You think I wanted to walk away from her? No. But what kind of life could I give her? What kind of husband would I be?»
«Not much of one until you get yourself straightened out. I don't see any sign of that happening any time soon,» Gifford said sarcastically. «I guess I can just go on home and tell Serena she's crying herself to sleep at night for no good reason.»
The blow was on target, even more so than Gifford could have hoped. Lucky had heard Serena's tears. He had found himself on the gallery of Chanson du Terre late one night, just to catch a glimpse of her, just to ease that one longing a little. He'd seen her curled up on her bed, crying into the shirt he'd left behind. He'd told himself then he'd done the right thing; he didn't deserve her tears. But the sound of them, the idea of them, had been enough to tear his heart in two.
«I can't give her what she needs,» he said, staring down at his boots.
«What do you think she needs, Lucky? Money? An executive husband? Serena can make her own money. If she wanted an executive, she could have had one long before now. All she needs is for you to love her. If you can't manage that, then, by God, you are one sorry soul indeed.»
«She knows I love her,» Lucky admitted grudgingly.
«Then come back.»
«I can't.»
Gifford swore, his patience wearing thin in big patches. «Goddammit, boy, why not?»
Lucky gave him a long, level look. The corner of his mouth curled up in a faint sardonic smile. «I got my reasons.»
The old man's jaw worked and his face flushed, but he held his temper in check. «Well, Lucky,» he said at last on a long sigh, «you have a nice life out here all by yourself.» He reached around for the starter rope, his fingers closing over the handle. «Don't worry about Serena. She'll buck up. She's a Sheridan.»
The engine sputtered, then roared to life, and Gifford calmly rode away, leaving Lucky feeling as unsettled as the bayou in the churning wake of the outboard motor.
The feeling still hadn't subsided by sundown when he abandoned his job for the day and made his way home. It hadn't lessened any by midnight when he sat on the floor of his studio drinking and staring morosely at his paintings in the moonlight. He had managed to keep the worst of his feelings at bay these past few weeks, denying them, dodging them, burying them, but now they rose to the surface like oil on the bayou. They clung to him, refusing to be ignored even as he tried to study the painting on the easel before him.
He hadn't painted in weeks. He had expected to find the same peace in it as he had after returning from Central America, but when he'd taken up the brush and applied it to the canvas he'd felt nothing to compare with the peace he had found so briefly in Serena's arms. That kind of peace he never expected to find again.
That had been an unwelcome revelation. The solace he had once found in this place was lost to him. He had retreated from the love Serena had offered him and found not peace, but misery in the form of a terrible wrenching loneliness that felt as if a vital part of him had been torn out and taken away.
He couldn't go out into the swamp without thinking about the way she had given him her trust there in the place she had been afraid of. His house was haunted by her memory. He hadn't slept a night in his bed because he couldn't lie there without remembering the feel of her body against his. Every time he turned he thought he caught the scent of her perfume in the air. He could feel her presence but he couldn't touch her, couldn't see her, couldn't take her in his arms and have her chase away the darkness in his soul.
«Damn you, Serena,» he muttered, pushing himself to his feet.
The emotions rose higher and hotter inside him, tormenting him. He paced back and forth before the easel with his head in his hands as he realized with a sense of panic there was no escape. He could work till he dropped and the feelings would still be there inside, waiting for a chance to torture him. He could drink himself unconscious and they would still come to him through the haze of oblivion.