The Christmas Inn (23 page)
Renny angled across the gravel parking lot nestled into the
grasslands of the Black Lake Conservation Area and slid into her crossover
hatchback. The early fall sun shone overhead, spotlighting the small field
office invading the natural landscape. The actual lake lay only fifty yards away
and she could hear the low hum of a boat on the water as she cranked the
engine.
Going to Beau Soleil would be hard. She hadn’t been back in
over ten years, and that had been only to meet Darby in the cloak of the night
with a backpack holding her nightgown, a spare T-shirt and a toothbrush. So long
ago. So utterly stupid.
So, no, it wasn’t going to be much fun for her tripping down
memory lane—all because L9-10 had an adventurer’s soul.
The only consolation was Darby wouldn’t be there.
In fact, other than the occasional holiday, he hadn’t returned
to Beau Soleil. Renny hadn’t laid eyes on him since that horrible night, and she
really hadn’t wanted to see him again. Not since she’d woken up in the hospital
and realized she’d meant less to him than his family, than his damn place in the
not-so-grand society of Acadiana. The anger at him had burned hard and deep in
her gut, fueling her desire to get well if only to prove to him she didn’t need
him anyway.
In one way, Darby’s disinterest had given her life again. Had
given her purpose, so finally after years of hating him, she’d let the hard
kernel of pain go.
Now she felt nothing.
Or at least she’d convinced herself she felt nothing.
Life was more tolerable that way.
* * *
R
ENNY
PROWLED
THROUGH
the dense brush bordering the abandoned rice field
sitting several acres off the Bayou Teche. L9-10 wasn’t where the GPS tracker
indicated.
Hmm. Had the bird somehow lost her tracking device? Or maybe
some predator had eaten the bird, device and all? Improbable but not
impossible.
Thorns tugged at the material encasing her legs. Luckily, she
kept her protective costume and rubber boots in the trunk of her car for times
such as this, so her jeans and T-shirt were protected by the white sheeting. A
draped hat with a screen obscured her face so she resembled an odd-looking
astronaut prowling through the prickly vines and brush rather than an everyday
biologist.
“Ow,” she muttered under her breath as she unlatched a nasty
vine from the sheeting. She needed to be mindful of keeping a silent, remote
figure in case she actually found her rogue crane. Handlers were always careful
to erase any human aspect of their form when interacting with the cranes. The
goal was to produce birds as wild as possible—birds that avoided human
contact.
Where are you, L9-10?
She swiveled her head left and right, scanning the swaying
marsh grass that was little more than five acres in scope. Then she raised her
eyes and scoured the tree line across the wet grass bordering an inlet from the
sluggish bayou to her right. A flash of white appeared before disappearing
completely.
“Got ya,” she whispered as she stepped over the barriers Mother
Nature tossed in the way of all wetland biologists and conservationists. The hum
of a boat on the bayou accompanied her muttered curses as she slogged through
the grasses toward the area where she’d glimpsed the flash of white. L9-10
obviously had taken to roosting in one of the ginormous oaks dappling the remote
landscape. Perhaps she was showing a creative way to adapt. Maybe she’d found
something to eat in the wide-spread branches of the tree. Or maybe she’d taken
to the thick limbs because an alligator sat below her.
Renny stopped walking and stared at the big gator on the
sloping bank, tail halfway in the marsh water, basking beneath her poor
L9-10.
“Damn it.”
The huge prehistoric reptile lay sprawled with its baby claws
spread looking like a socialite on a cocktail cruise. Wasn’t in a hurry to go
anywhere, especially since its next meal perched a few feet above, solemnly
contemplating the marsh.
Perhaps the bird’s tracking bands had snagged on something or
perhaps it was already injured.
“And what are you doing here, big boy?” Renny whispered. Gators
were notoriously shy and didn’t frequent populated areas. But this little patch
of St. Martin Parish was remote and near fresh water teeming with crawfish,
snakes and frogs, along with the animals that fed on them. It was odd to see the
gator away from a large body of water, but perhaps it was protecting hatchlings,
since it was September. That would make her dangerous.
Rotten luck for L9-10.
Renny stood completely still many yards from the seven-foot
gator and contemplated her course of action. She wanted to get the crane to
safety, but where was safety? The purpose was to release the cranes into the
wild. The wild had big teeth. The cranes had to learn how to adapt and live on
their own. She didn’t want to go all Darwin on L9-10, but it
was
about survival of the fittest.
But L9-10 wasn’t just any bird. She was a very expensive
endangered species like the American alligator below her had once been.
Nature couldn’t win this round.
Renny would.
Even if it went against all she believed as a biologist. But
how was she going to get L9-10 away from the gator?
A loud crack sent Renny ducking for cover.
She covered her ears and crouched down just as the gator
started thrashing, its long tail whiplashing the ground as it moved toward the
tree line.
“Good Lord,” Renny squealed as L9-10 took flight right over her
and two hunters appeared to the left of her, heading for the gator that now
moved toward the inlet hidden behind the trees. Three more gunshots followed,
clouding the area with something invasive and foreign.
Renny unplugged her ears and looked frantically around for
L9-10, but the crane had taken flight, which made her wonder why the silly bird
hadn’t taken to the skies in the first place to avoid being al fresco dining for
the now-doomed gator.
Two hunters leaped from an ATV and moved quickly toward the
place where the gator had disappeared. It had not been a boat she’d heard
earlier, but rather a camouflaged, glorified golf cart favored by hunters. One
of the men caught sight of her and stopped. He did a double take.
Well, she
was
an odd sight.
This man, clad also in camo, lowered his gun and moved toward
her, his strides long and purposeful as he tramped through the lowland.
Renny tugged her draped hat off and started digging for her
credentials. She’d already received permission from Picou to access the land,
and these hunters themselves could be poaching on Dufrene property, though she
was fairly certain the man who’d slipped through the tree line heading for the
bayou was Nate, the oldest Dufrene brother.
“What the hell?” the man coming toward her muttered, shaking
his head.
She lifted her eyes and her mind clicked and whirred as a
horrible realization bloomed in her brain.
She blinked once before trying to school her features into
something other than shock.
The man she hoped to never lay eyes on again was standing right
in front of her, looking like a model for
The Great
Outdoors
Magazine
.
Darby Dufrene had come home to Beau Soleil.
ISBN: 9781459245297
Copyright © 2012 by Ruth MacLean
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