Moonwitch

“Well, stap my vitals, if it ain’t Kyle Ramsey!”

Selena stared at the unkempt trapper, drawing back involuntarily as she caught a whiff of his powerful odor.

“Beaver Joe,” Kyle said tersely, reluctant to acknowledge the acquaintance with Selena there.

Swaying, Beaver Joe gave Kyle a black-toothed grin. “I wager Angel’ll be mighty pleased to see you. Heard her talkin’ ’bout you jest last week.”

Kyle stiffened, even more reluctant to have Selena learn about Angel Abbey, who ran one of the higher class bordellos on Silver Street. He started to pass by, but the trapper peered drunkenly at Selena.

“That a new gal yer bringin’ in? She’s a might scrawny. I dunno if Angel’ll want ‘er.”

“Why don’t you keep your tongue between your teeth,” Kyle suggested menacingly, feeling his own cheeks redden. “This ‘gal’ is my wife.”

The coarse trapper’s mouth dropped open. Kyle brushed past him, ignoring his shocked look—and trying as well not to notice Selena’s thoughtful scrutiny.

He hired a horse and carriage, and when he had deposited Selena and her parrot in the vehicle and arranged for their trunks to be delivered to the plantation, he climbed into the driver’s seat and urged the horse up the steep street. On one side was a precipice; on the other, hugging the bluff, were the shops, barrooms, taverns, gambling houses, slave dealers’ sheds and brothels of notorious Natchez-Under, as it was called by the river men.

Selena observed it all in wide-eyed silence, until they came to a two-story establishment that looked more prosperous than the others. Then she quickly averted her embarrassed gaze. A half-dozen women in various stages of undress lounged against the iron railing of the gallery, beneath a huge wooden sign with the words Heaven’s Gate emblazoned in red paint.

As the carriage passed, Selena couldn’t help but hear the trilling voice that floated down the street.

“Angel, ain’t that Kyle with that fancy bit o’ muslin?”

Hearing the name, Selena glanced up with a start.

The woman who must have owned it leaned out from the shaded gallery to get a better view. She was built in voluptuous, curving proportions and sported, Selena noted with a sinking heart, a high sweep of flaming red hair.

Kyle muttered an oath under his breath and, without so much as a glance, slapped t

he reins on the horse’s rump and propelled the animal into a brisk trot. His jaw was set tightly, and there was a deep flush under his tan.

The tips of his ears were shading to red, as well, Selena thought, observing him with a sideways glance. “Are there any more?” she asked, grateful that she managed to sound calm.

“More?” His tone was wary.

“Red-haired women in your past?”

He didn’t reply, but his ears turned a darker shade. Selena decided she wouldn’t care for the answer. She didn’t protest when he cleared his throat and began telling her about the town that crowned the bluff, how it had grown from an Indian village to a French fort, then an English, a Spanish and finally an American possession.

Natchez was laid out in squares, its tranquil streets flanked by chinaberry trees and magnolias, its gracious, galleried houses and numerous shops festooned with climbing jasmine. Selena was relieved to see such a stark contrast with the squalor below. The upper town’s inhabitants appeared far more prosperous, as well; frequently they passed gentlemen mounted on blooded horses and elegantly dressed ladies driving gigs or riding in well-appointed carriages. Trying to forget that some of those ladies might be intimately acquainted with her husband, Selena decided she would simply have to make the best of her situation while attempting to build a life with Kyle.

Shortly, they left the town behind by way of a narrow, deep-cut road and plunged into a forest of verdant growth.

“Is your plantation near here?” she asked, recollecting that she knew nothing about Kyle’s home.

“A few miles.”

“What is it like?”

“Montrose?” Kyle shrugged. “Like any other place, I suppose. It’s big.”

Selena mentally shook her head. If she had been asking about a ship, Kyle would have been able to describe it down to the last shroud and belaying pin.

Rather than taking him to task, though, she settled back to enjoy the ride. The enormous cedars and water oak rising from a tangle of creepers and vines of wild grape gave the feel of being in a deep tunnel—cool and fragrant with the scents of pine and damp earth.

Eventually the woods gave way to fields of cotton. Following the slow lift and fall of the land with her gaze, Selena could see acre upon acre of young plants that were just beginning to flower. It was different than sugarcane, but the bounty of the land made her feel almost at home.

And when some time later Kyle pointed to the crest of a hill and identified the sprawling plantation in the distant clearing as Montrose, Selena was conscious of a deep sense of pleasure. The two-story manor house stood among towering, moss-draped live oaks, its white stucco gleaming in the sunlight. The grace was evident even from so far away.