Sonya slid an uncertain glance toward the lean young man bringing Ginny’s horse, but only nodded. Their farewell was only slightly less awkward than the one with her father, and Ginny was unsettled and agitated as they left.
It was not a very comfortable departure, Ginny thought as she rode back along the curving river road that swept from the old Delery plantation along the banks of the Mississippi and down to New Orleans. Both Sonya and her father had acted so strange, as if—as if trying to tell her something. Perhaps she should have talked more to Sonya, or listened to her. But really, in light of all that had happened between them, it was difficult to trust her completely.
“Madame Morgan,” Girard said respectfully as their horses slowed to a trot at the city limits, “it is best if we ride along Magazine Street until we reach Canal. I do not think it safe here.”
A brisk wind had sprung up, blowing Ginny’s copper hair loose from the confines of the straw bonnet tied upon her head. The smells of late summer were in the air, vying with the more pungent scent of river debris and the mélange of cargo being unloaded on nearby docks. It was noisy, the serenity of the road behind them dissipating in a beehive of activity and swaying masts and the belching smoke of riverboats and steamers. Rough boatmen swarmed the clutter of cargo stacked along the wharves, some of them pausing to turn and look as they drew near.
As she pushed her blowing hair from her eyes, Ginny saw a familiar face among the men, and drew her mount to a halt. “Wait a moment, Girard. I see someone I know.”
He saw her at almost the same time, and a cheeky grin split his face as Paco Davis climbed the bluff to approach her where she waited on the rise overlooking the docks.
“You’re as beautiful as always, Ginny. Have you forgiven me yet?”
“No.” She tapped him lightly with the riding crop she held in one hand. “Tell me, I know there’s something strange going on. What is it? You owe me an explanation of some sort, so don’t look at me like that. After all that we’ve been through in the past, you should know you can trust me.”
Warily, Paco fixed her with an intense stare, his black eyes half-lidded. “I can’t tell you any more than Steve has told you, I’m sure. I’m just an errand boy.”
Ginny’s mount shied a bit when Paco put a hand on its bridle, dancing away from him. She lifted a brow as she calmed the horse. “I doubt that very much, but I can see you have no intention of telling me anything. Very well, I’ll just ask Steve. Is that the ship we’re taking?”
Paco nodded. “Yeah, it should get us there pretty fast, unless there’s another hurricane. It’s the time of year for them.”
The Liberty rode at anchor at the end of the dock, a small, two-masted schooner that looked neat and trim. Burly stevedores were loading cargo, huge boxes and crates that were lifted by a crane and swung on ropes to be lowered into the hold. The vessel dipped with each new burden, straining at thick chains and coils of rope holding it to the dock while men shouted orders and curses.
“Will you be sailing with us, or can you answer even that question?” Ginny asked. Paco flashed a white grin.
“I’ll be going along, at least at first. I’ve friends of my own to visit once we reach Mexico. But then, you’ll be visiting Don Francisco so shouldn’t miss us.”
“Us? I hope you don’t mean that Steve is going with you instead of staying with me. You do! I can tell by your face that’s what he plans, damn him. After promising me we would not be separated again. Where is he?”
“Ginny, por Dios, I didn’t mean…Look, you can’t blame him for something he didn’t say. Damn, my big mouth is going to get us all in trouble one day. Just wait and see what he says, all right? I don’t know if he’s going with me or staying with you. Steve hasn’t made any such decisions, or told me about it anyway.”
“Then I suppose Jim Bishop has told you that he has plans for Steve to go elsewhere?” Anger boiled inside her, coupled with dismay, hurt and uncertainty. How could he? Would he? After all the promises, the assurances that they’d stay together this time? Wasn’t that why she’d come with him, leaving behind their children once again?
Steve Morgan, I can’t live in uncertainty…. You will tell me the truth this time, by God!
Humid air lay in a cloud on Gallatin Street, oppressive and muggy, so that breathing left a bad taste in the back of Steve’s throat.
“Here, amigo,” Paco said, holding out a tumbler full of whiskey, “this should kill the taste of the air.”
“Or me.” Steve eyed the tumbler with distaste. “I don’t know how you drink this rotgut.”
“Quickly.”
Feeble light flickered from open doors of dance-hall saloons and barrelhouses, the only illumination provided in this dingy, dangerous section of the Vieux Carré. It was the haunt of pickpockets, cutthroats and thieves, riverboatmen and prostitutes. A short thoroughfare of only two blocks from Ursuline Avenue, through Hospital and up to Barracks Street, it contained some of the roughest dives in all of America, as well as New Orleans. The district was the natural habitat of the men they had come to meet.
The overflow of this vicious underworld spilled into adjacent Levee Street and Bill Swan’s Fireproof Coffeehouse. The coffeehouse was the only establishment in New Orleans where the Live Oak Boys were welcome, Swan having been a member of this formidable gang of ruffians himself before he managed to amass enough money to purchase his own, different brand of thievery. The Live Oaks took his resort under their protection, partly for
