Siren's Call. Debbie Herbert

do?” Nash narrowed his eyes.

      “There’s this petty woman in town who hates me over something that happened years ago.”

      “Why would anyone hate you?” Nash asked.

      If Nash stayed around the bayou all summer, he was bound to hear the rumors of her loose morals. But she’d rather he learned it later, after he knew her better. That way, perhaps he wouldn’t judge her too quickly or unfairly. Lily shrugged, watching Sam rummage through a kitchen drawer. She hoped Sam’s isolation had kept him from hearing talk of her in town.

      “There’s one,” he muttered, returning with a smudge stick in his hand. “This is for protection.”

      Nash rolled his eyes.

      “White sage?” Lily guessed.

      “Smudge your car and your home every day. It may help keep away trouble.”

      “Thank you.” And she meant it. It might not even hurt to pay Tia Henrietta a visit and get some backup voodoo protection; if nothing else, the woman was entertaining. She hadn’t seen the crusty old hag in ages.

      Impulsively, Lily gave Sam a quick hug for his kindness. When she’d first met him as a child, she’d found the man intimidating with his stern features and the Native American symbols tattooed on both sides of his neck and forearms. But she’d quickly come to realize his gentle heart.

      She and Nash slipped out into the humid soup that marked bayou summers. A fine coat of perspiration popped all over her body, making the scratches on her arms and leg itch.

      They said nothing until she reached Jet’s truck.

      “I don’t like all this talk of danger and deception,” Nash said, leaning sideways against the Chevy truck. “Grandfather’s superstitious, but you believe you really have an enemy. Who is this woman you mentioned?”

      Lily sighed. Should have known Nash wouldn’t let it go. “Her name’s Twyla Fae.” Warmth flamed her face and she was thankful for the cover of darkness. “She thinks I’m after her husband, J.P.”

      A beat passed. “Are you?”

      “No! I have no interest in married men.”

      “Then why does she think you want her husband?”

      “Because J.P. dumped her for a few weeks and dated me. This was before they got married,” she hastened to explain.

      “Sounds like you were the injured party.”

      “No. I realized we weren’t suited before they got back together.” It had started out like all the others. She began each new relationship with hope that it would lead to love. The men groveled and proclaimed undying love—but only because of her voice and looks. No one saw her. It was always kindest to say goodbye sooner rather than later. A fact that no man appreciated and that had lead to her name turning into the town joke. Lily was that girl in the bayou. The one men were sure was an easy lay and the one women condemned as guilty.

      “I don’t understand why this Twyla is still angry.”

      “J.P. broke off with me when she told him she was pregnant with his child. Guess Twyla suspects he married her out of a sense of obligation.”

      “That behavior’s juvenile. What’s the woman done to you?” he demanded.

      “Usually she and her friends settle for whispering behind my back or giving me the cold shoulder. But yesterday morning was different. One of them called me a slut and when I went outside they’d left me a nasty surprise.” She quickly filled him in on the details.

      “That’s beyond petty. She needs to be prosecuted.” His green eyes darkened to the color of an Amazon rain forest at midnight.

      “You sound like my sister,” she said lightly.

      “Maybe I should talk to this Twyla.”

      Lily’s heart lightened at his defense. He had to care about her—at least a little bit. “No, I can handle this,” she said hastily. If Nash talked to Twyla, the woman would cast her in the worst possible light. “I was going to confront her today, but it’s too late tonight. When I do, I’ll carry the sage your grandfather gave me—as a precaution.”

      Nash snorted. “The old man must be the last Choctaw who takes all the old stories and ways as truth.”

      “And you don’t?” His attitude surprised her. They used to sit around for hours listening to Sam’s stories. Back then, Nash was proud of his tribe and its traditions.

      “Let’s say he takes it too far. Besides, we were talking about you and your problem.”

      Lily leaned into him and gave in to the urge to touch him again. She lightly ran a finger along the stern edge of his jaw. A delicious frisson of awareness shot down her spine at the contact. Nash didn’t move. Did he truly feel nothing between them?

      “Don’t,” he said in a harsh, tight voice.

      “Why? You don’t really believe you’re cursed, do you?” And he accused Sam of being superstitious? Her hand crept to the back of his neck, fingers combing his black, smooth hair.

      Abruptly, Nash pulled her to him, lips crushing against hers. Heat flared and liquid warmth pulsed through her body. His strength was more than the physical, unyielding planes of his mouth, chest and arms. It was an aura as primal and mysterious as nature’s spring fever erupting in every creature and living organism to mate and bring forth new life. Lily parted her mouth, inviting him to deepen the kiss.

      Nash thrust her away. “Goodnight, Lily.”

      Shock doused her like a blanket of snow. “Wh—Why did you stop?”

      He didn’t answer or look at her, but walked back to the porch, hands thrust in his jeans pockets.

      “Of all the rude, inconsiderate...” Lily sputtered, at a loss. She was the one who walked away from men, not the other way around. She folded her arms and smiled grimly at his fading figure.

       You can run, Nashoba Bowman, but we aren’t done. I’ll find out all your secrets. And in the end, I’ll be the one to decide when it’s over.

Chapter 4

      Nash crept closer, honing in on the low, slow snorting. Bup-bup-bup. Definitely not the high-pitched clattering of the common Rallus longirostris. Ever so carefully, he raised his binoculars. There... This bird was the size of a chicken, rusty-feathered, long-beaked. It lifted its head, revealing chestnut-hued cheeks instead of the gray of its close relative, the common clapper. He’d found the species he’d come to photograph.

      Camera replaced binoculars. Nash focused the telescopic lens and started snapping away. Good enough shots, but he wanted something spectacular, more worthy of the Nashoba Bowman standard he’d developed over the years. He crept ahead on all fours, the razor-sharp sea grass edges cutting his fingers and palms. It didn’t matter.

      His heart fluttered faster, like that of the bird. For every yard forward, Nash halted five seconds, until he drew so close the bird lifted its beak and black, wary eyes focused on him.

      Not here to hurt. I’m admiring you. Nothing to fear. Nash pushed the thoughts toward the Clapper Rail before raising his camera again and taking one incredible close-up.

      A haunting melody sounded through the brackish bayou island, disrupting their connection. Startled, the clapper opened its beak. Bup-bup-bup-bup. In a bustle of feathers and churned water, the bird half flew, half swam in a mad scramble for safety.

      Damn. He’d been so close to connecting with the bird, so close to slipping into its essence and establishing trust.

      The singing grew louder, sounding like a chorus of perfectly blended tones. Did Opal have