Harvest Moon (Beaux Rêve Coven 4)

Thibaut held out his phone away from his ear. “I’ve got a month to make some decisions.”

“Told you he was gettin’ itchy,” Justus Kirkland muttered in the background.

“You weren’t gonna mention the fact you were about to ghost out of here?”

While Nitro kept complaining in his ear about the fact T-Bone hadn’t clued in anyone on the team about his departure, he hooked a left on Royal, passing high-end art galleries and windows displaying fancy party masks, not really seeing what he was passing. One by one, his team was dwindling, shedding the SEALs he’d fought beside, who’d become his brothers. First, Compass and Hawk, and then Dutch. It felt inevitable that more would leave—through death or injury, or because their women wanted th

em safe. He wasn’t sure he was ready to embrace the changes within his team. New SEALs had backfilled the empty spots, and they’d just finished a week’s training to break them in, but the new guys would have to find their place in the tight-knit unit. They’d have to earn their trust. Thibaut wasn’t sure he was ready to open his heart to new teammates he might lose along the way. Hell, if he lost any of his closest friends in an op, he wasn’t sure he’d come back whole.

As well, he’d begun to feel like the last man standing on his team—the only one who hadn’t paired off with some new honey. Yeah, maybe he was ready to go.

He heard shuffling in the background.

“Hey, I’m putting you on speakerphone,” Nitro said.

Thibaut grimaced. As irritating as this conversation was likely to become, he still felt warmed by his teammate’s concern. He’d been a douche, disappearing like he had without an explanation.

“You’re in New Orleans?” Justus said. “Need some company? I think we all have some leave to burn. We could bring that new guy, the one straight out of BUD/s. You got a cousin you can introduce him to?”

“Got one with most of her teeth,” he teased. His cousin Laure was a damn knock-out, but there was no way in hell he’d let any SEAL sniff around her skirts.

Justus groaned. “Hell, I’d settle for some of your mama’s cooking you’re always bragging about. Think about it. We could be there tomorrow. We’ve all got leave.”

“Nah. Think I need you clowns hanging around? Besides, what would your ladies say?”

“This about some girl?” Zach Browne said slyly.

Thibaut grunted. “It’s not about a girl. I haven’t been back in two years.”

“Don’t they do arranged marriages in that back-assward swamp you came from? Did your mama make you a match?”

Thibaut chuckled. “You’re an idiot, Zach. My mama’s not holding her breath on me gettin’ married. She’s certainly not gonna pick me out a wife.” Although she had mentioned the return of one female Thibaut had never expected to hear about again in her last letter…

The corner of St. Anne was just up ahead, and he realized his subconscious had led him in one particular direction. Maybe his being here was all about a girl… “Look, you guys done bustin’ my chops?”

“When can we expect to see your sorry ass back here?” Zach asked, his tone softer now.

“I have a couple weeks. Not sure how much of that time I’ll actually be here…”

“You need us, for anything…”

“I know, Zach. Got you on speed dial, bro.”

He ended the call and halted at the corner. Glancing down St. Anne’s, he saw a row of bricked buildings, small shops with their quaint painted signs hanging on hinges. So, she was back. Didn’t mean she was here to stay. Also, her return didn’t have a thing to do with him. His mother had mentioned some trouble her Tante Josette was having with the shop—a robbery, a smashed window, anonymous threats left on her answering machine…

For all that he’d told himself he’d come to New Orleans to play with the idea of seeing what work he might find here, he’d been bothered about the troubles Josette was having. A deep simmering anger blew through him again. What kind of garbage picked on an old, nearly blind woman?

Even after hearing about the troubles, he hadn’t let himself think about Josette’s niece. Going there was pointless.

Drawing a deep breath, he noted the unique aroma that was New Orleans in the summertime—the sewage from the storm drains, booze, puke. None of the scents overpowering, but constantly there despite the early morning scrubs most shop owners gave the streets and pavements.

He continued toward the sign that read Madame Josette’s House of Voodoo. He stood with his hand on the doorknob, looking through the crowded shop window, past the voodoo dolls, candles, beaded necklaces, and Mardi Gras masks, through to the wooden counter painted in a glossy Chinese red with its old-fashioned apothecary shelving behind it, filled with organic mysteries. Josette wasn’t seated in her tall chair behind the counter. No one appeared to be inside the shop. Didn’t she know when she gave tarot readings in the back that someone needed to keep watch over the cash register?

But then he remembered the bell above the door, which she didn’t really need because of her uncanny knack for sensing her surroundings. The woman couldn’t see her old deck of cards but knew instinctively which she placed on her table, something that had fascinated him as a child.

He turned the knob, listened to the light tinkling of the bell, and stepped inside, inhaling the scent of whatever incense Josette had set to burn that morning.

Shuffling sounded from the stockroom beyond a beaded curtain. “Be right with you,” came a musical voice. Not Josette’s.