The cypress trees bent low in welcome as he paddled the boat through the thick mud of the swamp bottom, keeping watch over the woman who sat ramrod straight on the metal seat in front of him.
For the past two weeks Isabelle had said very little. Like a robot, she’d followed orders, eaten, showered, and slept when he’d told her, but stayed mostly silent. No conversation other than a few verbal affirmations to his questions regarding her comfort level.
He’d hoped to draw her out, to talk to her, to begin the process of healing her. But he’d gotten nothing. Instead, she’d gone further into her shell.
Shock? Maybe. She was probably confused as hell and completely disoriented. He’d circled them around Europe before chartering a plane back to the U.S. When they arrived in New York, he’d bought a car and driven to New Orleans, not using the direct route to do that, either. Instead, he’d gone east and then south. Good thing he had a stash of cash he could utilize to do everything he’d needed to do. No way could he have accessed Realm money to fund this venture.
The only good thing about Isabelle’s silence over the past two weeks was the time it had given Dalton to think, to plan. He’d known then where he was going to take her, what he was going to do. Hopefully, it would work.
Of course there were no guarantees, but at least it would give her a chance, which was more than the Realm would have given her.
“We’re in the bayou in Louisiana now,” he said, getting used to hearing only the sound of his own voice. But he kept talking day after day, hour after hour, hoping it would help Isabelle, that maybe something he said at some point would trigger a response from her. “A place I used to call home.”
Isabelle gave a curt nod in reply, remaining, as usual, virtually motionless. Her fingers held tight to the rim of the metal seat on the boat. She stared straight ahead while he paddled, not taking in the view of the swamp at all. For all he knew, she was completely catatonic.
As the boat broke through the low-hanging moss, the house loomed into view, a great sprawling home well hidden from those who didn’t know about it.
The Labeau family was his family. Not blood relations, but they knew him better than anyone. He had no blood family. He’d come from nowhere. He didn’t, in fact, exist. No one knew that except for the Labeaus. And now the only one still living who knew his secret was Georgie, and at-how old was Georgie now, forty-five, fifty or so? — hadn’t even been born when he’d first met her family. But when he’d contacted the Labeaus a week ago, Georgie had answered. She’d known right away who he was, had told Dalton this place would always be his home.
As always, the Labeaus could be counted on. He had to come back here. There was something he needed from this place and this family beyond the shelter it would provide Isabelle and him.
He drew the boat up to the dock. Several young children rushed to greet them, smiling and waving, their bare feet slapping hard on the wooden dock as they ran and smiled. They moored the boat while he helped Isabelle out.
“Miss Georgie says you should go right to the house.”
Dalton grinned at a young girl of about eight with dark hair and serious chocolate brown eyes. “I’ll do that. Thank you.”
“She sick?” the little girl asked, inclining her head to Isabelle.
He noted the purplish cast under Isabelle’s eyes, the drawn look to her face. She’d lost weight over the past couple weeks because she hadn’t eaten much.
“No, she’s just tired.” Dalton slid his arm around Isabelle’s waist and led her up the path toward the house.
He liked the old house. Reminiscent of a plantation home, the house was rectangular, two stories with a wraparound porch. It always looked like it had been freshly painted, white with green shutters at each of the windows, cheerful flowers climbing up out of pots sitting on the porch. The house was a sprawling mansion, at least what he would call a mansion, though there was nothing fancy about the place. But it was huge, it was clean, and to Dalton, it was the only home he had. More important, as soon as he took the first of the five stairs heading up to the porch, the tension within him dissolved.
He felt safe here, and Dalton rarely felt safe.
The screen door opened and a woman stepped out, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Her skin was flawless, the color of cream-flavored coffee. Her hair was cut short and her full lips lifted in a smile as she waited for them with her hands on her hips, her colorful ankle-length skirt swishing around her as she shifted back and forth. She looked a lot like her great-grandmother, that same kind of strange magic radiating in waves off her. It had been years since he’d been here, but he knew her. And she knew him.
“Dalton.”
“Georgianne.”
She held out her arms and he walked into them. She hugged him, and despite how much older he was than her, he was the one who drew comfort from the embrace. He pulled back and turned. “This is Isabelle.”
“Bienvenue à notre maison, Isabelle. I’m Georgianne. Welcome to the Labeau home. We’re so happy to have you here.”
“Bonjour, Georgianne.”
“Everyone calls me Georgie, and if you’re a friend of Dalton’s then you’re practically family.”
“Merci, Georgie,” Isabelle said, dropping her chin to her chest. “Je suis désolée.”
“Now don’t you go apologizin’,” Georgie said. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. We love having visitors here.” Georgie slung her arm around Isabelle. “Come on, let’s go inside for something cool to drink. It’s blisterin’ hot out here today.”
Isabelle nodded and went in with Georgie. Dalton noted Isabelle was having trouble making eye contact, as if she was uncomfortable.
Maybe she was just tired. But on a good note, she’d spoken more words to Georgie in those few seconds than she had to him in weeks.
The kitchen was exactly as he remembered. Linoleum floors, still scrubbed to a gleaming shine every day, no doubt. The one thing he remembered most about Celine, Georgie’s great-grandmother, was the woman always scrubbing something. She kept a seriously clean house and God help you if you tracked mud into her kitchen.
Gingham yellow-and-white curtains covered each window, open today to let what little breeze there was blow through the house. Georgie motioned to the old wooden table where Dalton had eaten many a meal. It could seat twenty, with wide benches on either side and chairs on each end that reminded him of thrones. It was a lot more scarred now than it had been on his last visit, but still sturdy as a hundred-year-old oak.
He climbed over the bench and took a seat next to Isabelle.
“Lemonade,” Georgie said, setting glasses down and filling them with ice before pouring lemonade from the pitcher. “Loaded with sugar, too, because girl, you look like you need some nourishment.”
“I haven’t been very hungry,” Isabelle said, her head bent down and her eyes averted as she grasped the glass and brought it to her lips. She sipped, then her lips curled in a hint of a smile. “Bien, merci. This is very good.”
“Drink it all. You look like you’re about to fall down.”
Isabelle exhaled. “I feel that way.”
“Then you should eat. There’s soup on the stove.” Georgie stood.
Isabelle raised her head enough to peer at Georgie through her half-lidded gaze. “Please, don’t trouble yourself.”