Mississippi Blues Read online

  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

  www.crimsonromance.com

  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 — my aunt, Ruth Burlison — 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!

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  About the Author

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  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 jumpsuit–20010.

  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.

  • • •

  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.

  • • •

  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.

  • • •

  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 — 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 conten
tedly. 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 —

  Miss Salinda Samantha Bouché

  requests the honor of

  your presence at her

  high school commencement …

  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.

  • • •

  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.”

  “Sounds good.” Summer darted through the door. “I need to change first.”

  “Hurry,” Mama fretted. “I want to finish before it rains.”

  “Looks real good.”

  After washing up and pulling on a loose sundress, Summer joined Mama on the porch and settled into the opposite chair. Just like every other Sunday, Mama was dressed as if she’d just come from church. She wore her favorite dress, matching heels, even nylons, and her nearly gray hair was clipped up in a loose bun. Large, midnight blue eyes dominated the delicate bone structure of her face. Only when she turned her head, and the puckered red scar cutting across her right cheek and mouth showed, did her perfectly put-together image shatter. Summer and her mother looked enough alike to be twins. Well, they had once — before Mama had been beaten, raped, and left for dead in a rain-soaked alley.

  She set the last bowl on the table. “It’s not much of a Sunday supper. But there’s lemon cake for dessert.”

  “This is perfect.” Summer popped a cherry tomato into her mouth and savored the sweet taste. Mama had all the time in the world to plan meals. Tonight there were slices of turkey, bacon, home baked bread, bean soup, and sweet tea.

  She prepared food as if Jace still lived at home.

  Summer forced away the unwelcome thought. She would not dwell on the injustice done to her brother tonight.

  They ate in companionable silence until the first drops of rain hit the screen. Mama immediately jumped up and began clearing dishes.

  “Just relax,” Summer urged. “It’s only a summer rain. I’ll help you in a minute.”

  “I have it. It’s no trouble,” Mama said. “You worked so hard today you deserve to rest.” She disappeared inside, and in a minute the sounds of running water and a Frank Sinatra tune floated over the evening air.

  Knowing it was useless to fret about it, Summer sank down in the oversized chair she’d found at a yard sale. Mama had good reason to hate the rain. The night she’d been attacked, she’d huddled on wet, cold ground for hours until someone finally came along and rescued her. Wishing things were different for all of her family, Summer pulled a knitted afghan over her shoulders, curled up and closed her eyes as a few soft raindrops blew through the screen and cooled her sunburned face.

  • • •

  Lindy Bouché stared at her plate, fighting tears.

  Today should’ve been one of the best days of her life — her high school graduation. When Trey graduated, there had been a party with most of Juliet’s population in attendance. Although not the best student in school, she still thought there’d at least be balloons, cards — hell, something. Not just sitting in the kitchen eating an ordinary fried chicken dinner. Their housekeeper made her special vanilla-champagne cake, but that was the extent of Lindy’s graduation party.

  Turning her arm, she admired the ruby bracelet Trey brought her from Afghanistan. With no warning, he’d come to the football field and seen her walk with her class. A shock since he hadn’t been home once in five years. Not since he joined the Marines. He explained he received an unexpected graduation announcement and decided to surprise her. Lindy knew Mother must have mailed him the invitation without telling anyone.

  She darted another glance at Trey. Five years had changed him a lot. Always taller than her by several inches, he’d gained twenty pounds of pure muscle. Lindy sensed the changes were more than physical. He was an adult now, not the kid he’d been when he left. Still drop dead gorgeous with dark hai
r and skin, her friends would be all over him again. Chasing him probably wouldn’t do them any more good than before. He had eyes only for Summer Hill, although she always ignored him like the pesky kid he’d been back then.

  He reached for another piece of chicken and winked at her. “Is Mother awake? I’m anxious to see her.”

  “No. She usually drifts off about six or so.” The Chief heaped a third portion of mashed potatoes and gravy on his plate. Without further comment, he dove into the pile of food. He had barely spoken since Trey arrived. If she didn’t know better, Lindy would think their father didn’t want his son home.

  She pushed the pile of mashed potatoes around on her plate. She didn’t have any appetite. Their family was a joke. Trey halfway across the world. The Chief consumed by his job. And the stupid doctors who said they couldn’t do anything for Mother. They couldn’t even give her enough painkillers so she could come to Lindy’s graduation. No one seemed to give a damn Mother was fading like a summer rose right under their noses.

  The Chief broke into Lindy’s glum thoughts. “What are you going to do tomorrow?”

  She stirred her green beans without interest. “I dunno. Nothing.”

  “How about looking for a job? You could help out at the station, do some filing.” He waved a chicken leg at her. “Or there’s summer school. Mrs. Knight said you could get your marks up enough to get into Vanderbilt for the spring term.”

  “Yeah, right. Like I have a chance of that happening.” Her mood grew murderous. Why couldn’t he just get off her back? She’d sooner sell herself on the street corner than be stuck in the police station where the Chief could keep his eye on her. She didn’t know what she wanted to do, but one thing was for sure — getting into Vanderbilt or any other college ranked last on her list.

  “Maybe you could at least apply to junior college.” He continued to point the chicken at her. “It’s not your mother’s wish, but it’s something.”

  “I don’t want to go to school. Not Community and not Vanderbilt. Especially not Ole Miss.” Attending the University of Mississippi had always been Trey’s dream, not hers. Lindy narrowed her eyes at the Chief. She was so sick of hearing about her mother’s dream she could throw up. Just because Miss Emily Devereaux had been the belle of the ball at college, everyone expected Lindy to follow in Mother’s high heels. Her mother wouldn’t care what Lindy would be doing because Mother wouldn’t be here in the fall. She’d be in the family crypt.