Cursed (Decorah Security #21) - Rebecca York Page 0,15

strange place, but she could always rely on the skills he’d helped her hone.

Outside, the sounds of the night lulled her. Nothing louder than the buzz of insects. Or frogs calling to their mates.

This was Andre Gascon’s territory. He’d described it in loving detail over the past few weeks, made it come alive in her imagination. He’d said that in the quiet of the night, the sounds of the bayou were like a natural symphony. And as she lay in bed, she had to agree. He’d made her long to settle down in a place like this, if she were secretly honest.

Feeling more peaceful than she had all day, she finally fell asleep. For a while she was deep in oblivion. Then she woke up. Well, not exactly woke, because she knew she was dreaming. And once again, she knew she was someone else. A woman named Linette who lived in a small cabin at the edge of the bayou. It was like the dream she’d had when she’d fallen asleep in the car.

“No,” she whispered. “Let me go. I don’t want to be here.”

“Yes, you do,” a voice whispered in her head. “Yes, you do. This is right for you. You’re home now.”

Whether she wanted it or not, it seemed that she had no choice. Once again, she was sitting on the front porch, waiting for a man named Andre. Not the man who had requested the services of Decorah Security. Another man who had lived long ago. Only she was back there with him—in his world.

He was wearing an old-fashioned riding outfit, and he had come on horseback, along the trail from Belle Vista.

Belle Vista? The same house where Morgan Kirkland slept?

Yes.

The knowledge was confusing, unsettling. But she accepted it, just as she finally accepted who she was—Linette Sonnier.

Not just accepted. She was glad to be here. Happy.

Andre stood for a moment at the edge of the clearing, barely visible from the porch. Then he beckoned to her before turning and leading his horse farther into the shadows of the trees.

Papa was out in the bayou again. But Momma was home. Linette cast a quick glance over her shoulder, then quickly climbed down off the porch and gathered up the skirt of her long dress as she ran into the shadows, following Andre and the horse.

Finally, he stopped in a spot where the sunshine filtered through the leaves. After tying his huge black gelding to a tupelo tree, he turned to her. The horse nickered in greeting. Like his master, he knew her well. With a smile, she turned to stroke her hand along his nose, wishing she had some carrots with her. “Hello, Richelieu.”

“Don’t you have a greeting for me?” the man asked, amusement in his voice.

“Oh, yes.”

He moved beside her, opening his hand, and she saw a carrot. When he offered it to her, she took it, then flattened her hand, feeding the treat to the horse.

“He likes you. So do I. Well, a bit more than like. I love you.”

The words made her heart squeeze, yet she whispered, “You shouldn’t.”

“I can’t help myself.”

The words were harder for her to say. Instead, she turned, holding out her arms, and he came into them, hugging her tightly and kissing her cheek before setting her a little away.

“I didn’t just bring a present for you to feed the horse. “I brought you something from New Orleans.” Reaching in his pocket again, he held up a small box. When she only stared at it, he removed the top and took out a gold locket hanging on a slender gold chain.

She reached to touch the beautiful piece, stroking the engraved work on the front of the locket. She had never held anything so precious or so finely made in her life.

She shook her head in regret. “I can’t take anything like that from you.”

“Of course, you can.”

Lifting out the locket, he held it in his hand, then sprang the catch. Inside were two miniature portraits. They had been done by a skilled artist, because she recognized the people immediately and gasped.

“You . . . and me.”

“Oui.”

“But how?”

“Do you remember that man who came to your father’s house, saying he was traveling through the area?”

“Yes.”

“You gave him a meal—and he kept staring at you. You told me he made you uncomfortable.”

She laughed. “Oui. I wondered what he wanted.”

“I am sorry I distressed you, chere. But he was the artist who painted these portraits. I needed him to see you, so he