Free The Sacred Shore by T. Davis Bunn

do.” The sigh sounded as though it came from the depths of Andrew’s heart. “But she is not Anne.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œOf course you don’t.” He drew his brother over, and this time Charles did not object. “Come sit down. I will tell you of the circumstances, of the tragedy that has shaped our lives.”

Chapter 8
    Nicole sat amidships in the village’s largest skiff, willing to let others do the paddling upriver against the Vermilion River’s current. Normally she disliked sitting quietly by, as though a woman was not able to handle a boat as well as any man. She could paddle, sail, net, and fish as well as the next. The long pikes used for stabbing the huge catfish in the shallows, no, she did not have the strength for that. But normally when she entered a skiff or canoe, she faced its challenge with the best of them. Not today, however. This skiff held three adults and the pile at her feet—their three guns and the crossbow.
    She had asked the other two to come because she had not wanted to say her farewell to Jean Dupree alone. She did not want to risk breaking her decision to leave, find herself turned from the chosen course by his compelling words and convincing smile. Part of her still hoped that he would come over to her side, confess he had been wrong to ever become involved with such evil men, and agree to rejoin the community and her. But when they had arrived at his dwelling, set in a sheltered alcove several miles downriver from the village, it had been empty. Nicole knew instantly that this was the answer to her hopes, and that his decision was already made. Even so, she needed to see him a final time. Because she also knew where he would be found, she was very relieved to have the company of these two men. At her direction they had turned upriver past their village to continue the search.
    â€œTurn in here,” she now said quietly.
    Guy himself handled the bow, and he turned to look doubtfully back at her. “Are you sure?”
    â€œThis is it,” Nicole confirmed. “You may trust me on this.”
    â€œYou have been here before?”
    â€œMany times.” There was no longer any need for secrecy. No need for hiding what she had carefully held about Jean.
    Guy’s oldest son handled the stern, a strapping lad of seventeen, already a head taller than his father. “I have fished down here before. It ends a hundred yards ahead in a small pool.”
    â€œThis is the turning,” Nicole insisted.
    Looking resigned, Guy turned the boat and started down the small bayou. They were perhaps ten miles from the village—it was hard to tell exactly. The Vermilion River meandered and backed upon itself constantly, opening into great swampy reaches, splitting time after time into so many bayous only the largest had even been named.
    Swamp cypress lined their way, the roots reaching out like black arms and branches crossing overhead, hung heavy with Spanish moss. Cypress and moss—they intertwined every aspect of life here on the Louisiana bayous. The skiff’s rope was knit from Spanish moss. The boat itself was hollowed from a single cypress trunk. Even the houses were built with these two materials. Buildings were beamed in cypress because termites and beetles did not devour this wood. The moss was mixed with mud and shaped into wattle, which filled the spaces between the beams. Cypress shingles formed the roof. Nicole looked upward at the sunlight flickering through the branches and the hanging moss. The morning was green and beautiful and filled with the scent of springtime. The water flickered and danced, an emerald mirror that reflected their passage with timeless beauty. She took a deep breath, another, and missed this world already.
    Guy seemed to understand her mood, for he said over his shoulder, “I would never have thought you would be the one to leave.”
    She studied the broad back of her