Love and Glory: The Coltrane Saga, Book 3 by Patricia Hagan Page A
Authors: Patricia Hagan
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her again, harder. “You speak to me or I’ll kill you, Kitty Wright.” He was nearing hysteria, furious with her and with himself. “You tell me you’re gonna make the best of it, ’cause I swear to you I’ll see you dead before you leave me again.”
“I wish…” she spoke in a feathery voice so frail it was caught on the wind and swept away, “I wish I were dead.”
He jerked away, stunned.
“I think…” she forced the words past numb lips, “I think I am already dead.”
Her eyes closed, long, silky lashes sweeping against ivory-smooth cheeks. She went limp. Luke carefully lowered her body back to the ground.
She was breathing. He knew she was alive, but a cold chill passed through him as he saw that something in her had died. A part of her really was dead.
And as Luke stared down at her, he wondered whether Kitty would ever live again.
Chapter Six
Travis did not have to open his eyes and look outside to see that it was raining. The rumble of the thunder matched the constant throbbing in his head. Another night spent soaking up too much rum, and the only thing that was going to ease his pain was to get up and start drinking again.
Damn the rain. It had poured every day and every night since he had arrived in Haiti. Someone had said there were two rainy seasons—April to June and August to October. That meant he could look forward to July. It was nice to have at least that much to anticipate, even if the blasted rains came again after one month.
He licked his dry lips. Blast it, did everything have to taste of rum? He felt disgusting, saturated by the sickly sweet drink, but at least it helped ease his emptiness for a little while. He fingered his recently grown beard and thought about opening his eyes but decided against it for the moment. He did not want to know just yet whether the girl was still lying beside him. Probably she was, for it was, after all, her hut. He remembered staggering down the road sometime during the night, with her helping him, the two of them entering the thatched-roof hut with its dirt floor. He vaguely recalled her undressing him, fondling him between his legs, and finally cursing him in that strange mixed language of French and Spanish that she used when she was angry. Which was often.
The straw in the mattress beneath him was starting to prickle his bare buttocks. Soon he would have to get up and get dressed and get the hell out of that place. There would be another day of drinking rum, staring out at the mountains, and wondering what the hell he was doing in Haiti.
Haiti, he had been told by one of the government officials on the voyage over, was an old Indian word meaning mountainous land. He could well believe it. The mountains were densely wooded with peaks that rose to great heights. The tallest, Pic la Selle, was almost nine thousand feet high.
At first, Travis had enjoyed exploring. It was something to do besides brooding, which he had begun doing when he’d found out that his only role here was to serve as a marshal, of sorts, should he be needed. He hadn’t been needed so far, so there was much free time. Wandering around the coastline of cliffs, broken by indented coves and harbors, had been an adventure at first. In some places the mountains rose straight from the sea. He had enjoyed learning of the different kinds of fine woods found in these forests, mahogany, oak, pine, lignum vitae, cedar, satinwood, and rosewood. He had never seen some of them before and doubted he ever would again. In an arid area there had also been cacti and a tiny tree called a dwarfed thorn.
He had not minded the food so much, either. Diri et djondjon, a concoction of rice and black fried mushrooms, served with a sauce of onions and herbs called ti malice, had been particularly tasty. There were ample tropical fruits growing wild, but the peasants mostly ate rice and beans.
So, he thought with eyes still closed and the straw still prickling his buttocks, he could get up and
“I wish…” she spoke in a feathery voice so frail it was caught on the wind and swept away, “I wish I were dead.”
He jerked away, stunned.
“I think…” she forced the words past numb lips, “I think I am already dead.”
Her eyes closed, long, silky lashes sweeping against ivory-smooth cheeks. She went limp. Luke carefully lowered her body back to the ground.
She was breathing. He knew she was alive, but a cold chill passed through him as he saw that something in her had died. A part of her really was dead.
And as Luke stared down at her, he wondered whether Kitty would ever live again.
Chapter Six
Travis did not have to open his eyes and look outside to see that it was raining. The rumble of the thunder matched the constant throbbing in his head. Another night spent soaking up too much rum, and the only thing that was going to ease his pain was to get up and start drinking again.
Damn the rain. It had poured every day and every night since he had arrived in Haiti. Someone had said there were two rainy seasons—April to June and August to October. That meant he could look forward to July. It was nice to have at least that much to anticipate, even if the blasted rains came again after one month.
He licked his dry lips. Blast it, did everything have to taste of rum? He felt disgusting, saturated by the sickly sweet drink, but at least it helped ease his emptiness for a little while. He fingered his recently grown beard and thought about opening his eyes but decided against it for the moment. He did not want to know just yet whether the girl was still lying beside him. Probably she was, for it was, after all, her hut. He remembered staggering down the road sometime during the night, with her helping him, the two of them entering the thatched-roof hut with its dirt floor. He vaguely recalled her undressing him, fondling him between his legs, and finally cursing him in that strange mixed language of French and Spanish that she used when she was angry. Which was often.
The straw in the mattress beneath him was starting to prickle his bare buttocks. Soon he would have to get up and get dressed and get the hell out of that place. There would be another day of drinking rum, staring out at the mountains, and wondering what the hell he was doing in Haiti.
Haiti, he had been told by one of the government officials on the voyage over, was an old Indian word meaning mountainous land. He could well believe it. The mountains were densely wooded with peaks that rose to great heights. The tallest, Pic la Selle, was almost nine thousand feet high.
At first, Travis had enjoyed exploring. It was something to do besides brooding, which he had begun doing when he’d found out that his only role here was to serve as a marshal, of sorts, should he be needed. He hadn’t been needed so far, so there was much free time. Wandering around the coastline of cliffs, broken by indented coves and harbors, had been an adventure at first. In some places the mountains rose straight from the sea. He had enjoyed learning of the different kinds of fine woods found in these forests, mahogany, oak, pine, lignum vitae, cedar, satinwood, and rosewood. He had never seen some of them before and doubted he ever would again. In an arid area there had also been cacti and a tiny tree called a dwarfed thorn.
He had not minded the food so much, either. Diri et djondjon, a concoction of rice and black fried mushrooms, served with a sauce of onions and herbs called ti malice, had been particularly tasty. There were ample tropical fruits growing wild, but the peasants mostly ate rice and beans.
So, he thought with eyes still closed and the straw still prickling his buttocks, he could get up and
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