Each Time We Love Read Free Page A

blue jacket and
an embroidered waistcoat, Bodene stood on a small landing with a
roiling, muddy Mississippi River to his back; in front of him, behind
Savanna, lay the dark, mysterious swamps; to his right, a pitiful
cluster of dilapidated buildings was the only sign of human habitation.
A few scrawny chickens scratched hopefully around the sagging porch of
one of the dwellings, and a pristine sign declaring proudly "O'Rourke's
Tavern," hung from the edge of a roof badly in need of repair. Behind
the buildings Sullivan knew that there were more chickens, as well as
some pigs and a skinny cow. His mouth twisted.
    He
almost
wished the damned British had
been able to penetrate this far north of New Orleans before the
Americans had driven them back—he'd now be looking at a pile of burned
rubble and Savanna wouldn't have any excuse to remain here. The only
problem with that scenario, he admitted ruefully, was the fact that if
the British
had
gotten this far inland, the
Americans wouldn't have been the undisputed victors of the Battle of
New Orleans and the War of 1812 wouldn't have ended on such a
resoundingly triumphant note for the United States. But fortunately, in
January of this year of 1815, the Americans
had
won the Battle of New Orleans, for which Bodene was inordinately
thankful. He smiled grimly. He'd be even
more
thankful if he could now just convince Savanna to give up the
ridiculous notion of eking out a living in this godforsaken stretch of
no-man's land! If only she weren't so damned stubborn!
    Distractedly running a hand through his rebellious black hair,
he muttered, "I heard you had some trouble. A gambler came into my
place recently and said he'd stopped by here on his way downriver and
that some of Hare's old gang—Micajah Yates, to be exact—had paid you a
visit and damn near wrecked the place."
    "Por Dios!
That has
nothing
to do with you!" she flashed back, outraged that he had assumed that
she couldn't take care of herself, yet touched at the same time. But
then that was typical of the feelings Bodene Sullivan aroused within
her—nearly all her life she had been alternately torn between wanting
to wring his neck and adoring him!
    There were only six years between the cousins— Bodene was
twenty-eight and Savanna had just turned twenty-two in February—and
while their resemblance to each other was not marked, their kinship was
apparent to most people in their impressive height, the stubborn curve
of their jaws and the utterly mesmerizing charm of their flashing
smiles. Their personalities were more alike than either would have been
pleased to admit—both were hot-tempered, unbelievably obstinate and
proud almost to the point of being arrogant, yet they were generous,
quick to laugh and fiercely loyal. They had been raised together and
they shared something more than just having grown up together—both were
the children of men who had not seen fit to marry their mothers, and
both had suffered because of it.
    The bond between them was exceptionally strong, despite their
frequent, loud and vociferous disagreements, and Bodene's eyes took on
that bitter gleam Savanna knew of old as he said grimly, "It has
everything
to do with me and you damn well know it! How do you think it makes me
feel to hear that a band of outlaws have been harassing you?
Especially
"Murdering" Micajah! You're up here all alone, miles from anywhere or
anyone, and you just can't seem to understand that you might be in
danger!"
    Savanna's full mouth curved into a faint smile. "I'm not
alone. Sam's with me."
    "Sam!"
Bodene bit out explosively. "What
the hell good is Sam?"
    "I'se a lot more good than I look, Mister Bo," claimed a soft
voice, and an old, grizzle-haired black man stepped out from between
the buildings, a rifle that could have been the twin of Savanna's held
competently in his bony hands. In his youth Sam Bracken had been a
magnificent specimen of manhood, tall and deep-chested, but now, at
almost seventy-five years old,