Mississippi Blues
D'Ann Lindun, author of
Wild Horses
,
Shot Through the Heart
,
Desert Heat
, and
Cooper's Redemption
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2013 by Christine D. Linscott-Dunham
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6139-7
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6139-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6140-0
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6140-5
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123RF.com
Dedicated first and foremost to my daughter, Brandi, who loves this book as much as I do. I'll never forget her perfect southern accent and “how's your mama” as long as I live!
Second, I'd like to mention a very special lady â my aunt, Ruth Burlison â whose faith in me has never wavered.
Third, this book was rejected a million times before I held my breath one last time and mailed it to my wonderful editor, Jennifer Lawler, who said yes!
Thank you all!
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Something tangible sizzled in the air, an undercurrent of high tension.
Jace Hill shot a glance around. All the other cons seemed normal, so he pinched his lips together. The last thing he needed was to draw any attention to himself. Angola guards were quick to use their clubs first and slow to ask questions later. Most were overly eager to put anyone in the hole who looked at them the wrong way.
Jace figured out a long time ago it was safest to keep his head down and his mouth shut. After five years behind the prison's unforgiving walls, he'd learned the art of living an invisible life. Like a ghost, he moved about praying no one saw him. Keeping low was how he'd survived so far and how he planned to keep on surviving. To the guards, the cons, anyone on the inside, he had no name, no identity beyond the number stenciled across the back of his orange jumpsuitâ20010.
Someone yelled, and the driver tromped on the gas shooting the bus forward. Whether from its unusual speed, or the deep ruts, the vehicle whipped from side to side. One tire dropped into the shallow ditch lining the road, tipping the bus still rolling on two wheels. Shackled to a steel pole, Jace's arms screamed a protest when the movement jerked him sideways. His limbs stretched so hard he feared them being pulled out of their sockets. The floor seemed as if it were going to fall from under his feet. Shouts and curses filled the air.
For a moment, it felt as if the bus would right itself. But instead, it flipped, sliding down an incline. The chains anchoring Jace to the pole broke in half, and he flew like a basketball. Someone's fist or foot hit him in the face, his ribs slammed into metal. He grabbed for something solid, but caught only air. The squeals of tearing tin sounded like a dying animal. Or maybe he heard his own cries mingling with the others.
His head crashed into the ceiling and the world went black.
⢠⢠â¢
Jace's left cheek rested against cool Louisiana dirt, and he tasted blood, dirt, and gasoline. Gradually, the world came back into focus. When he gingerly touched the back of his skull, his fingers came away clean. By some miracle, he didn't have a bashed-in brain. His head hurt worse than the time a guard hit him with a shovel for mouthing off about the shitty food.
One at a time, he tested his fingers, arms, and legs.
All worked, though he hurt like hell.
He pushed up to a sitting position. His wrists and ankles still wore iron bands, but the force of the wreck had broken the chains. He turned his aching head and saw the other men laying in bloody tangles of flesh and clothing. Snake Wilson lay a few feet away, his sightless eyes staring at the blue sky.
Lucky bastard
. Jace wished they could trade places.
The driver hung half in and half out of the shattered front window. Easing his pounding head the other way, Jace looked for the two guards. One lay sprawled in a twisted heap a few feet away, but there was no sign of the other man. Maybe he'd been squashed under the bus. Jace couldn't muster up any sympathy.
Completing his perusal of the area, Jace saw something that made his pulse jump. The wreck sheared the razor sharp fence surrounding the perimeter of Angola.
A chance to escape.
Already the alarms began to scream a shrill warning, and the hounds bayed with blood lust. If the dogs picked up his scent, there'd be no second chances. If they caught him running, though, there'd be no telling how he would end up. Hanging from a tree, maybe.
He almost jumped out of his skin when somebody grabbed his arm. Handy Graves, an enormous black man, said, “Come on. Let's get the hell out of here.”
With a groan, Jace pushed to his feet and staggered toward the woods. With a jolt of adrenaline, he thrust himself over the barbed wire and into his unexpected shot at freedom.
⢠⢠â¢
After an hour of steady jogging, they found a cove of magnolia trees and collapsed in the middle of them. Covered in sweat, out of breath, too tired to move, they weighed their options. “We need to split up,” Jace gasped. “Our odds are better that way.”
Handy nodded. “Where you gonna go, man?”
He had no idea. For the last five years, he'd dreamed of walking into Mama's kitchen and sitting down to a meal of ham and cornbread. But he couldn't now. Not like this. “I don't know. I guess I'll figure it out later.” He spat. “We gotta move. The guards'll be on us like flies on honey.” The baying hounds sounded closer.
Handy held out his hand. “Good luck.”
“You, too.” They shook and left in opposite directions.
Like a homing pigeon, Jace turned toward Mississippi.
⢠⢠â¢
The silver Greyhound, destination Juliet, Mississippi, squealed to a stop in front of the Jackson bus station blowing a cloud of noxious smoke behind it. Trey Bouché watched the driver throw his duffle bag into the bus's underbelly then followed the surly man aboard.
He chose the cleanest seat he could find, one toward the back. Only two other passengers rode this route â an old black man snored loudly in the furthest corner and a young woman wrestling with a squirming baby claimed a center seat. Ignoring Trey, she unbuttoned her blouse and offered the fussy infant a nipple. The baby settled down, suckling contentedly. Finally, the woman covered the child's head and her bare breast.
Trey looked away. After five years in the marines, most spent in Afghanistan where a woman could be stoned to death for showing her face in public, he sometimes found American women amazingly free. He settled in the seat with not enough legroom, intending to snack on a Snickers and Coke he'd bought from vending machines in the station. Instead, he set them on the empty seat next to him. The combination of the bumpy ride and the scents of stale popcorn and unwashed bodies turned his stomach.
He stared out the window. Magnolia trees were in bloom, their pink blossoms hanging like lace veils over the road. The bomb-weary streets of Kabul just didn't compare to springtime at home. Nowhere came close. He'd never been to a place he loved more than Juliet, Mississippi.
The city streets of Jackson passed, and soon the flat, pine-covered land of the delta rolled by. A wave of nostalgia washed over him. For five endless years, he'd longed for the sights and sounds of home.
And for one woman.
He could've come back sooner, but he'd not been wanted by his family ⦠or Summer. Lifting his hip, he reached in the back pocket of his Levi's and pulled out a crumpled envelope. Inside was a card. He knew the words by heart â
Miss Salinda Samantha Bouché
requests the honor of
your presence at her
high school commencement â¦
He refolded the card and stuffed it back in his pocket as a heavy sigh escaped him. At least one member of his family wanted to see him. He doubted anyone else cared if he ever showed his face in Juliet again. Before ugly history could grab him and drag back into the past, he slammed his mind closed.
There would be plenty of time for facing his demons once he reached
LeFleur.
⢠⢠â¢
Lightning streaked across the sky, promising a storm.
Summer Hill patted dark soil firmly around the roots of the very last candy-striped petunia and leaned back, satisfied with the results of her hard work. The garden was a little late this year, but would soon be overflowing with vegetables. Although exhausted, she'd taken time to add flowers down one edge of the vegetable garden. Thankfully, she'd gotten all the plants in before the incoming rain hit.
“Supper's on,” Mama called from the safety of the porch.
“Okay. I'm finished.” Summer stood and brushed off her dirty knees. Her lower back ached and she rubbed it. Although only twenty-seven, today she felt more like forty. Peeling off her gardening gloves she admired her handiwork. The dark earth would soon be alive with baby veggies and flowers. She glanced at the falling sun as a drop of rain hit her nose.
Mama's voice raised a notch. “Summer, you comin'? It's goin' to rain.”
“Yes, Mama. Won't you please come out and see my petunias? They're still your favorites, right?” Even as Summer pleaded, she knew it was useless. No matter how many flowers she planted her mama would sooner die than step one foot beyond the porch.
“I can see them from here.” Mama backed away from the door. “Get cleaned up now and I'll bring supper out.”
Summer rinsed her hands and face in the hose then climbed the steps, taking care to lock the screen door carefully behind her. It had taken months of scrimping every penny to buy supplies for the porch, and several more months before she could afford to have it built. The entire time the workers had been here Mama hid inside. Summer talked Mama into sewing brightly colored tablecloths and cushions for the old wicker furniture she'd dug out of the shed.
Proud of their work, Summer nearly despaired when Mama refused to step foot on the newly constructed project. After days of gentle coaxing, she finally gave in and did as Summer asked. But she insisted upon a lock on the screen door, never mind someone could put their fist through it.
Summer hated to think what it would take to get her mama out in the yard and garden. Hopeless. She would never do it.
Reaching up, Summer switched off the overhead fan. They wouldn't need it. The wind scattered the muggy May heat. A red sunset cast a soft, pink glow on the side of the old house making it appear as if it had gotten a recent paint job. She smiled grimly. The walls hadn't seen paint in many years and wouldn't again anytime soon.
Mama came out carrying two platters. “I didn't make anything fancy. Just soup and sandwiches.”
