Jack prowled the grounds of L'Amour, too restless to be hemmed in by walls. He hadn't slept in… what? Two days? He'd lost track of time, lost track of everything but thoughts of death and worthiness… and Laurel. He couldn't get her out of his mind. Such indomitable honor, so much courage. He couldn't help caring about her. She was too pure, too brave, too good.

Too good for the like of you, T-Jack…

Dieu, what irony, as twisted as a lover's knot, that the most caring thing he could do for her would be not to care about her at all. Everything he touched died. Everything he wanted withered just within his grasp. He had no right to take her as part of his penance for other sins.

He walked down to the bank of the bayou and stood in the deep moon shadows of the live oak, staring out at the glassy water, the pirogue that bobbed at the end of the dock. The night sang around him, a chorus of frog song and insects in between thundershowers. A breeze teased the ends of the moss that hung down from the branches, and they swayed heavily, like ropes on the gallows.

He could see Evie's face hanging there in front of him, pale and pretty even in death, her beautiful dark eyes full of accusation and anger and disappointment. Evie, so trusting, so loving. He had loved her so carelessly, had taken so casually the precious gift she had made of her heart. Shallow, selfish bastard that he was, he had taken all she offered as if it were his due, part of the spoils of his success.

The guilt that weighed on him was heavier than anything in this world. It pressed down on him from above, in on him from all sides. He jerked around in a circle, looking for an escape route and finding none. He tried to back away, but came up against the rough trunk of the live oak, the bark biting into his back through the thin fabric of his T-shirt as the guilt pressed in on him.

Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes tight against the pain, and scalding tears trickled in a stream across his temples and into his hair. There were no adjectives in his writer's mind to describe the anguish, no words for the way it raked through his heart.

"Bon Dieu, Evangeline, sa me fait de le pain. Sa me fait de le pain."

He whispered the words over and over, a hoarse, broken chant for forgiveness, a mantra for relief from the terrible weight of his remorse. But he was granted no pardon. He knew he deserved none, because no matter how sorry he was, Evie would always be dead. And all the dreams she had dreamed would be dead. And all the babies she had planned to love would never be at all.

Because of him.

"Sa me fait de le pain," he mumbled, his face contorting against the pain. He turned into the trunk of the tree and pressed his cheek against the corrugated surface, clinging to the tree as regret wrung tears from him with merciless hands.

Sweet, sweet Evie, his wife.

Sweet, sweet Annie, like family.

Sweet, sweet Laurel…

Bad Jack Boudreaux. Never good enough. Not worthy of love, never meant for a family. Never anything a decent woman should want. A bastard, a cad, a killer.

What a cruel lie to think he could have anything. Better not to care at all than watch something so precious, something so deeply desired, slip through his grasp like smoke, like a magician's trick-there and gone in a heartbeat.

As fragile as life-there and gone in a heartbeat.

Whining softly with concern, Huey padded up to him and nosed the hand that hung limp at his side, sniffing for trouble or a treat. The dog's rough pink tongue slid along his palm hesitantly, offering comfort and sympathy, and Jack pulled away.

"Get outta here," he growled, swinging an arm at the dog.

The hound scuttled back clumsily, ears cocked, his head tilted in a quizzical expression. He woofed softly, falling into a play-bow and wagging his slender wand of a tail.

"Get outta here!" Jack roared.

All the anger and hurt that had gathered into a hard ball inside him burst like a nova and sent a hot, white rage through him. It tore out of him in a wild cry, and he lashed out at the dog, the toe of his boot just grazing Huey's rib cage. The dog let out a yelp of betrayal and fright, and ran ten feet away to stand cowering, looking at Jack with his mismatched eyes as hurt and innocent as a child's.

"Get the hell away from me!" Jack snapped. "I don' have a dog! I don' have a dog," he repeated, the adrenaline spent, his voice a ragged whisper. "I don' have nothin'."

And he turned and walked away from the hound, from L'Amour, and disappeared into the shadows of the night.