Creek. It’s tricky. You need to watch for mud banks and oyster bars, and sometimes low water.”
If Brandy wanted to meet Fishhawk’s wife, it sounded like an offer she couldn’t refuse. “That would be great.”
“Her name’s Annie,” he added. “Not very Seminole, but she’s a modern Indian. Baby’s name is Daria.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there.”
In the utility room Brandy pulled on heavy boots. Then she tucked a camera and a small note pad into a canvas bag, debated taking a tape recorder, then decided it might spook the Seminoles. When she headed for the boat alone, Meg gave a low, woeful growl, and Brandy stopped to refill the retriever’s water bowl. She was glad to see the tide was coming in and the breeze was from the north. It wouldn’t blow the water back out of the shallow creek, but keep it high enough for them to make the run to the island camp. She was anxious to learn details for her feature about the island, and more about the Seminole couple themselves.
CHAPTER 7
At Alma May’s dock Brandy did not spot the landlady or Melba. Their jon boat was gone. Hackett waved a cheery hello to Brandy. “Brought Fish-hawk’s wife and kid to the island late this morning,” he called. The lock of hair fell across a forehead already damp from the early afternoon sunlight. “Annie’s not too thrilled about leaving her apartment for a wilderness camp-out, even if it is Seminole style.”
Brandy hitched her pontoon’s bow and stern both to a post, then climbed aboard the other boat. She noticed that Hackett had swept it clean and stowed his crates neatly along the sides. “I don’t see how Fish-hawk and his wife can throw any light on what happened to Hart,” she said, “but I might get a feature article about Fishhawk’s experiment.”
Hackett switched on the starter, the engine throbbed to life, and he turned to look behind him as he backed away from the pier. “Works for me.” He looked around and winked. “It gives me extra time with you.”
Flustered, Brandy fixed her gaze on the winding creek before them, trying to sort through her feelings. Attracted, yes. Flattered, yes. And yet, there was still John, crouched over computer or desk back in Tampa, annoyed with his wife, insensitive to her feelings, but not expecting her to be interested in another man.
Hackett continued smiling. “We’re kindred souls.” She did not answer.
He followed Petty Creek, winding upstream until at last he eased up to the mud bank, cut the engine, sprang over the bow, and pulled it ashore.
Single file they slogged up the narrow path, Brandy first. She supposed Fishhawk had beaten back the saw grass and spartina to make it easier for his wife and daughter, not for her and Grif. As she trudged up the last rise, a quick movement near an oak startled her. When she paused, a small, round face peeked around the trunk. It was a solemn little face, thatched with short black hair pulled tight at the temples. A tiny hand crept along the rough bark, exploring.
“Hello, there,” Brandy called. “Are you Daria?” Shyly, the little girl inched around the tree toward Brandy, her perfect white teeth showing in a hesitant smile. Brandy suffered a sickening flashback. For a moment she saw the little teeth, the jaw bone of the Safety Harbor child in the vandalized mound. With rapid strides Hackett caught up and looked down. “How’s my girl? We’ve come to visit,” he said. “Can you tell your mother company’s here?”
“I don’t think she’s old enough to talk yet,” Brandy said. Walking upright seemed to take most of her concentration.
“Daria!” The woman’s voice was high, frightened. In a flash of bright colors, Annie Pine rushed from the hammock, snatched up the child, scolded and kissed her. “No! You don’t ever leave Mommy and Daddy.” She spun around then, smiled at Brandy, and said, “I’m Annie. We’ve been expecting you and Grif. I took my eye off her for just a minute. I was
If Brandy wanted to meet Fishhawk’s wife, it sounded like an offer she couldn’t refuse. “That would be great.”
“Her name’s Annie,” he added. “Not very Seminole, but she’s a modern Indian. Baby’s name is Daria.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there.”
In the utility room Brandy pulled on heavy boots. Then she tucked a camera and a small note pad into a canvas bag, debated taking a tape recorder, then decided it might spook the Seminoles. When she headed for the boat alone, Meg gave a low, woeful growl, and Brandy stopped to refill the retriever’s water bowl. She was glad to see the tide was coming in and the breeze was from the north. It wouldn’t blow the water back out of the shallow creek, but keep it high enough for them to make the run to the island camp. She was anxious to learn details for her feature about the island, and more about the Seminole couple themselves.
CHAPTER 7
At Alma May’s dock Brandy did not spot the landlady or Melba. Their jon boat was gone. Hackett waved a cheery hello to Brandy. “Brought Fish-hawk’s wife and kid to the island late this morning,” he called. The lock of hair fell across a forehead already damp from the early afternoon sunlight. “Annie’s not too thrilled about leaving her apartment for a wilderness camp-out, even if it is Seminole style.”
Brandy hitched her pontoon’s bow and stern both to a post, then climbed aboard the other boat. She noticed that Hackett had swept it clean and stowed his crates neatly along the sides. “I don’t see how Fish-hawk and his wife can throw any light on what happened to Hart,” she said, “but I might get a feature article about Fishhawk’s experiment.”
Hackett switched on the starter, the engine throbbed to life, and he turned to look behind him as he backed away from the pier. “Works for me.” He looked around and winked. “It gives me extra time with you.”
Flustered, Brandy fixed her gaze on the winding creek before them, trying to sort through her feelings. Attracted, yes. Flattered, yes. And yet, there was still John, crouched over computer or desk back in Tampa, annoyed with his wife, insensitive to her feelings, but not expecting her to be interested in another man.
Hackett continued smiling. “We’re kindred souls.” She did not answer.
He followed Petty Creek, winding upstream until at last he eased up to the mud bank, cut the engine, sprang over the bow, and pulled it ashore.
Single file they slogged up the narrow path, Brandy first. She supposed Fishhawk had beaten back the saw grass and spartina to make it easier for his wife and daughter, not for her and Grif. As she trudged up the last rise, a quick movement near an oak startled her. When she paused, a small, round face peeked around the trunk. It was a solemn little face, thatched with short black hair pulled tight at the temples. A tiny hand crept along the rough bark, exploring.
“Hello, there,” Brandy called. “Are you Daria?” Shyly, the little girl inched around the tree toward Brandy, her perfect white teeth showing in a hesitant smile. Brandy suffered a sickening flashback. For a moment she saw the little teeth, the jaw bone of the Safety Harbor child in the vandalized mound. With rapid strides Hackett caught up and looked down. “How’s my girl? We’ve come to visit,” he said. “Can you tell your mother company’s here?”
“I don’t think she’s old enough to talk yet,” Brandy said. Walking upright seemed to take most of her concentration.
“Daria!” The woman’s voice was high, frightened. In a flash of bright colors, Annie Pine rushed from the hammock, snatched up the child, scolded and kissed her. “No! You don’t ever leave Mommy and Daddy.” She spun around then, smiled at Brandy, and said, “I’m Annie. We’ve been expecting you and Grif. I took my eye off her for just a minute. I was
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