Two
Tristan woke up feeling relaxed. The early-morning sun shone across his bed, warming his legs. He took in a deep breath, scented with gardenias. Sandy. She’d glowed the last time he’d seen her, just as a pregnant woman should.
As he smiled sleepily and turned toward her, searing pain tore through his calf, igniting painful memories.
He wasn’t in his bed with his wife beside him. He was on a cot in his old Cajun friend Boudreau’s cabin, where he’d been since Boudreau saved his life.
A memory of dark water and bright shark’s teeth hit his brain. His muscles tensed and the hot pain in his calf, where muscle had been ripped away by thick, sharp teeth, seized him again.
Clenching his jaw and groaning quietly, he consciously relaxed his leg. He’d learned the hard way that if he could avoid tightening the tendons and whatever muscles were left on that side, it didn’t hurt quite so bad.
The pain finally faded, but it was no relief. All he felt was a gaping emptiness inside. He was supposed to be dead. Was dead, as far as his hometown, Bonne Chance, Louisiana, and his family knew.
He couldn’t have notified his family if he’d wanted to. According to Boudreau, he’d spent nearly two weeks unconscious, then when he finally woke up, he was too weak to stand and walk.
Since then, he’d forced himself to walk every day, pushing through the awful pain. He couldn’t imagine how his mangled leg would ever work right, but if determination had anything to do with it, he would be successful.
Every morning, he sent up a prayer of thanks to God for letting him live. He’d been granted quite a few miracles in the past two months, and that one was the greatest.
He needed another miracle, though. He needed to walk across the dock from Boudreau’s cabin to his family home. The miracle he envisioned was that once he got to the house, Sandy would be there waiting for him, beautiful and happy because he was alive.
He’d run to her without limping or falling and take her in his arms, feeling the swell of her tummy between them. She would take his hand and place it in just the right spot to feel their baby kick.
But Sandy wasn’t there. She was in Baton Rouge with his mother, thank God.
Thank God for several reasons. First, while seeing her might be his fondest dream, that wasn’t his primary motivation to recover as fast as he could. He had to find and bring to justice the man who’d ordered him killed.
And to do that, he needed to retrieve a vital piece of evidence—at least, he hoped it would be vital. But he had to get his hands on it and it was in the house.
As much as he longed for Sandy, he prayed she wouldn’t come back to Bonne Chance. Not until he’d tracked down the person who had tried to kill him and wanted him dead.
While he’d been daydreaming about Sandy and their baby, the sun had risen above the window casing. From the floor, he picked up the bumpy cypress walking stick Boudreau had whittled for him,
He took a deep, fortifying breath, then slowly sat up and swung his feet off the bed to the floor. Putting on his shoes was a painful chore, but not as painful as standing.
He used the stick to lever himself upright. As he balanced, putting weight on his right leg, he grimaced in anticipation.
And there it was. The pain. He cringed and tightened his grip on the walking stick. Outside, the morning sun shone through leaves and sent dappled shadows dancing across the ground.
Tristan lifted his face and let the energizing sun’s heat soak through him, trying to keep his mind clear and open, trying to be glad he was alive.
But as hard as he tried to stay in the warm, bright present, the nightmare of his struggle with death clutched at him. He couldn’t shake the memory of plunging into the dark, churning water off the oil rig.
He relived each terrifying moment, as dark, chill salt water seeped in through his mouth and nose and the shock of cold on his skin paralyzed his muscles.
He’d felt but hadn’t reacted to the bumps and nibbles and flesh-ripping bites of the sharks that circled him until he’d opened his eyes and saw blood everywhere. His blood. It had swirled and wafted past him like ink dripped in water, darker than the brownish water of the Gulf.
Tristan gagged and coughed reflexively, and greedily sucked in fresh air until the horrible memories began to fade. He was beginning to appreciate the small things in life, like breathing. A wry smile touched his lips for a second as he limped over to a rough-hewn bench Boudreau had built under a pecan tree.
He didn’t sit, because then he’d have to stand up again. Instead, he propped the walking stick against the bench and watched the morning come alive. Birds circled the yard, stopping to peck for seeds and nuts and insects.
Boudreau had a goat tethered to a tree with a generous amount of line so it could wander almost uninhibited. A vague memory of cool milk sliding down his throat took away the remembered burn of salt water.
As the quiet of dawn turned into the hustle and bustle of daytime in the bayou, Tristan made a decision. There was no more time for rest and recuperation. He had to solve the mystery of his near murder, and there was no better time than now. He would walk a mile today, all the way down to the dock and back. He was ready to walk that far. He had to be.
When Boudreau appeared, carrying a bucketful of water from a hidden artesian spring, Tristan told him his plan.
“What for you thinking about going down there?” Boudreau shook a finger at him. “You ain’t got the stamina yet, you. You want somewhere to go? Strip the sheets off that cot and take them down to the spring and wash them. Use that Ivory soap. It don’t hurt the water too much.” He stalked past Tristan into the house and within a moment came back out, carrying the bucket, now empty.
“Haul up a bucketful of water when you’re done washing. See how that goes, then we’ll talk about how far you think you can walk.”
“Boudreau,” Tristan said. “You saved my life. If you hadn’t been out fishing that morning and stopped the bleeding in my leg, I wouldn’t be alive now. I owe you too much and respect you too much to argue with you, but I can’t lie in bed any longer. I’ve got to strengthen this leg as much as I can, although I know it’s never going to be as good as it was.” He sighed. “There’s enough I won’t be able to do. I don’t want it to wither down to complete uselessness.”
“Wither? Son, ain’t no use making up stories about what ain’t happened yet. The future gonna happen, yeah, but its story ain’t been writ yet. You start pushing yourself too much, you’ll undo the good you’ve done and, before you know it, you’ll accidently throw yourself into that future of your own making. See?”
“So what should I picture, rather than the truth that without most of the muscle in my calf, I’ll never do better than a slow and painful limp for the rest of my life?” he asked bitterly.
Boudreau studied him for a moment. “How ’bout you picture that pretty little wife of yours back home and mourning for you. See if that’s a better motivation.”
“What? Sandy’s back? Here?” Shocked, he glanced in the direction of the house. Then one of the many things Boudreau had told him during the past few weeks came into his
