Ciji Ware (37 page)

“Not to mention that our great-great-grandchildren may all die from toxic poisoning a century from now.”

Sim paused and brought his forefinger to his lips. “Shhh,” he warned softly. He cocked his head, and whispered, “Hear that?”

Daphne froze in place and listened to a soft, soothing birdcall and the sound of rustling leaves in a nearby tree. Without further warning, a pair of grayish-blue birds dove with lightning speed. They alighted on the roots of the tree and pecked a beakful of small insects before darting into the branches overhead once again.

“Warblers,” Sim whispered.

“They flew so fast, I didn’t see which part was yellow… their bellies, or their throats,” she whispered back.

“Their throats.”

The birds apparently had noted their presence, for they remained overhead, out of sight.

“What you’ve just witnessed is a rare appearance of the yellow-throated wood-warbler,” Sim explained in his normal voice. “Audubon described them in his journals as birds ‘that threw themselves by the thousands into all the cypress woods and canebrakes.’ In his day, these warblers were common as crows.”

“And now, I suppose, they’re a real find,” Daphne commented sadly.

“I’m afraid you’re right. Thanks to us humans crowding the land and using all our toxic chemicals on the soil, the groundwater is being poisoned and pollutants are thinning the eggshells of the birds that
have
survived. I got some great shots in this area a few days ago when I camped here overnight.”

Daphne stood very still, remembering the swiftness and beauty of the warblers as they dived to scoop up insects. “If there aren’t any insect-eating warblers anymore, then there will be too many of certain insects, right?”

“With tainted groundwater or other pollution, you’re left with a lot of dead birds and certain insects that survive, or that mutate into something you don’t want to take home to mother.”

“That’s what you mean by ‘connecting the dots’?”

“Yep,” he nodded. “We nature photographers crawl through mud or climb to the tops of granite crags or spindly trees in hopes that the images we capture in the wild will help people understand what our planet’s in danger of losing.”

Sim gestured that she should follow him, and they set off on a path that meandered along the creek. Occasionally he held up his hand like a crossing guard. He swiftly put the Canon to his eye and squeezed off a rapid succession of shots of some bird that Daphne couldn’t even see.

At one point Sim pointed through a clearing within a stand of trees, and whispered, “Well… well… look who’s here.”

“Where?” she demanded under her breath.

“Up there… straight ahead of us. Top of the third tallest tree.”

Daphne peered through the branches at a cloudless sky. A large, compact, chocolate-brown bird, with a wingspan that appeared to be nearly a yard wide, took flight and made lazy, downward spiraling circles.

“A hawk?” she queried softly.

Sim flashed her an approving smile. “In search of his lunch. Very rare sight here. Until recently, on the endangered list, in fact,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “
Falco
peregrinus
… a peregrine falcon, also known as the great-footed hawk in Audubon’s day,” he disclosed in hushed tones. “Mr. A. painted a pair devouring prey when he was in Mississippi and wrote in his journal that he and his companions killed upwards of fifty of them in one day.”

“Audubon, the naturalist?” Daphne whispered, aghast.

“Audubon, the painter,” he reproved gently. “He killed them so he could study them. His friends killed them for sport.”

“And they’re on the endangered list.”

“In some regions. Westward expansion nearly did them in.” Sim raised his camera and squinted through the eyepiece, following the hawk’s lazy movements in the sky. “In the mid-seventies, there were less than four dozen in the whole damn country.” Soon, thanks to the camera’s automatic focus capability, a hail of staccato clicks filled the air like shots from an automatic pistol equipped with a silencer. When, finally, Sim lowered his camera, an expression of pure bliss had settled on his features.

“You’ve brought me luck, Harp Honey. Maybe getting you outdoors a little is a good idea all around.”

She glanced overhead at the empty expanse of sky. “It’s a truly magnificent bird,” she said quietly. “What a privilege to have seen one.”

“Hungry?” Sim asked. “We’ve earned our lunch.”

“Has a bird got tail feathers?” she retorted good-naturedly. “I’m starved!”

Within minutes, they were back at Whitaker Creek.

“Oh, look! There’s a pretty spot.” Daphne moved toward a tree-shaded area beside a quiet pool created by fallen rocks and broken tree branches.

Sim unpacked a silver thermal blanket and stretched it out on the bank of the stream. Daphne pulled off her leather riding boots, checked for snakes, and thrust her feet into the creek up to her calves.

“Ohoooo,” she moaned with rapture. “The cool water feels so good!”

“Soup’s on,” Sim announced, and without further conversation, they fell to eating Leila’s delicious picnic fare.

“Ow!” Daphne exclaimed, slapping her upper arm. “Damn!
Why
do mosquitoes love me so much?”

“Women’s body temperatures are higher and—
hell
!” Sim slapped his cheek. “So much for that theory. Now they’re after me too.” He glanced at the creek and the still waters nearby. Water had also gathered in puddles on the lower side of the stream. “I think we’ve managed to pick a mosquito
breeding
ground for our picnic spot.”

“That’s what you get for letting an amateur decide where we should eat lunch,” she said, chagrined.

“That’s what I get for letting a pretty woman distract me from putting repellent on both of us.” Sim glanced through the branches overhead. “It’s gotten hot and it rained last night so it’s Happy Birthday time for a new generation of mosquitoes. Ouch!” He began pawing through his backpack. “I’ve got some Cabela Canadian Formula stuff in here somewhere…”

“Sorry, but I’ve got to get out of here,” Daphne declared, scrambling to pull on her socks and boots while Sim swiftly repacked the chicken in its foil wrap. “Yikes!” she cried, slapping her upper arm twice in quick succession. She donned her long-sleeved cotton jacket, but not before she suffered several more bites, as did Sim.

“Here,” he said, handing her a small plastic bottle. “It’s probably too little, too late, but at least put some of this on your face and hands.” They slathered themselves with insect repellent and headed back through the steaming woods. A half hour and a dozen yelps later, they caught sight of the cottage.

“You go first and hop in the shower,” Sim directed, shedding his pack and depositing it onto the veranda floor. He helped her out of her jacket, then sat her down in one of the rocking chairs and pulled off her leather boots.

She padded across the porch and was halfway to the front door before she turned, and said apologetically, “Do you need help with anything?”

“No… thanks. Go on inside. I left the air-conditioning on, so it should be nice and cool. Clean towels are on the stool next to the shower.”

Daphne scratched her neck and arm where welts the size of dimes had risen. “Gad, these things always do this to me! Do you have anything to stop the itch?”

“Do you know the old Aussie trick? Dab a bit of toothpaste on those bites. It works wonders.”

Daphne stared at him. “You’re kidding, right? I’ll look ridiculous, considering where some of these damn things bit me.”

“No, I’m serious,” he said laughing. “Toothpaste works in a pinch. But I have some industrial strength stuff I’ll give you later. First, though, you’d better shed all your clothes out here. We don’t want any of those critters invading the cottage. I’ll shake out your stuff while you’re showering.”

“Oh. Right. I get it. Take off
all
my clothes. Ah…”

Sim considerately turned his back, continuing to unpack his gear while Daphne divested herself of jeans, blouse, socks, and underwear. “Hurry up, or you’ll have to fight me for that nice cool water waiting in there,” he chided.

“Hmmmm,” was all Daphne said. The thought of Sim whipping her bra and panties in the air like signal flags to launch any leftover mosquitoes into the Great Beyond made her blush with embarrassment. With as much dignity as she could muster, she made a beeline for the blessedly cool sanctuary inside.

Chapter 16

Sim stood nude in the middle of Bailey Gibbs’s guest quarters with Daphne Duvallon—similarly unclad—not five feet away behind a shower curtain. He quickly donned his cotton bathrobe and ordered himself not to stare at her slender silhouette moving behind the drape as the sound of cascading water ceased and a slender arm appeared reaching for a towel folded on a nearby stool.

“Here’s some Bactine,” he announced. “Shall I hand it to you? It should stop the itching.”

“That’d be great. Thanks. I wish I’d brought a change of clothes,” she fretted. “Even if you shook mine outdoors to a fare-thee-well, I hate the thought of—”

“Want to borrow a shirt and some drawstring pants?” Sim intervened. “They’ll be pretty big, but you could roll up the legs.”

There was a long pause, and then he heard a brief “Good idea. Thanks.”

Sim rummaged through a duffel bag stowed beside his bed and found a pair of cotton sailing pants and a lightweight button-down dress shirt he hadn’t worn since he’d arrived in Mississippi. “Stick out your arm again.”

A moist hand, wrist, and forearm poked through the shower curtain and retrieved the donated articles. He noted the blunt nails and callused fingertips, slightly incongruous on such slender hands. Daphne Duvallon might be the daughter of a Southern belle, he thought, and schooled in the manners of a debutante, but she was no magnolia. She’d been a trooper despite the swarm of hungry mosquitoes.

“I’ll be right out,” she said. “Just give me a sec to—”

“Take your time,” he interrupted. Then he heard Daphne giggling. “Way too big?” he asked.

“Way,
way
too big, but nice and clean,” she said, still laughing. “No one but you will see me between here and Bluff House, anyway, so what the hey?”

The heightened intimacy developing between them was becoming highly erotic. Here he was, stark naked under his robe while Daphne, only a few feet from where he stood, was struggling to make herself presentable in his outsize clothing.

“Don’t laugh, okay?” she called.

“Promise.”

When she pulled back the curtain, his breath caught in his throat.

Her golden curls were piled on top of her head with a tortoise shell clip she must have retrieved from her purse. A few tendrils lay against a cheek flushed pink from the heat of the shower. She’d rolled up both the shirtsleeves and the pants legs, transforming the makeshift clothes into a set of stylish loungewear. Her long legs—and breasts, obviously minus her bra—prompted all sorts of uncensored yearnings.

Fresh-faced and smiling, she looked about eighteen years old.

“Actually…” he observed slowly, “you look great.”

“Mmmm,” she said, smelling her arm as she padded into the room in bare feet. “I loved that soap. What is it? Lemon something?”

“Verbena. Found it in France and always carry a bar wherever I go
.
Makes me feel civilized when my surroundings aren’t.” He noticed her take in the sight of his robe and bare feet and then lower her eyes self-consciously.

“Your turn,” she mumbled. “I’ll drown myself in some more of this anti-itch stuff while you take your shower.”

In the small, hexagonal room, Sim had no choice but to walk within inches of his visitor on his way to the minuscule bathroom. As he drew near, he inhaled her scent, an intoxicating blend of the lemony soap mixed with an indefinable aroma as seductive and womanly as any he’d ever come across. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and tucked a wayward curl behind her ear.

“I like your hair pulled up that way,” he murmured, locking glances as he read her expression of wariness mixed with—what? he wondered. He rearranged the unbuttoned collar on her shirt, teasing, “Now I can see your swan-like neck.”

She was actually
blushing
, he marveled.

“You Bird Men say that to all the girls,” she retorted in a self-mocking approximation of her mother’s Southern drawl.

“No, I don’t.”

And with that, he stepped inside the recessed shower, pulled the curtain closed, divested himself of his robe, and turned on the water full blast. He stood under its soothing cascade for several minutes while trying to restrain his rampaging imagination.

Daphne had declined his invitation to spend Sunday evening here, he reminded himself sternly.
So
just
cool
your
jets, Hopkins.