Resisting Samantha (Hope Parish Novels Book 10)

  Resisting Samantha

  Book #10

  Hope Parish Novels

  By Zoe Dawson

  Published by Blue Moon Creative, LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright by Karen Alarie. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your preferred vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Author Note

  I make every effort to research thoroughly all subject matter, but I’m not infallible. If you find anything in my novels that I have incorrect, please feel free to let me know.

  ISBN: 978-0-9861535-2-5

  Find Zoe Dawson on the web!

  Website

  Twitter

  Facebook

  Facebook Page

  Goodreads

  Blog

  Cover Design by Robin Ludwig Designs, Inc.

  http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank beta readers. Thank you, also, to Faith Freewoman for her excellent advice and editing skills. A big thank you also to Robin for her fabulous cover design.

  Dedication

  To believing.

  Chapter 1

  CHASE

  The half-moon cast a silvery sheen on the trees, and the mist floated, wispy and white, across the surface of the black water. The night was filled with a chorus of cricket trills, deep bullfrog calls, and green frog twang, with the occasional bird calls and the low hum of mosquitoes.

  Imogene’s was lit up, even after closing. That’s when Samantha Wharton baked her pies for the next day.

  I breathed deep. There were five pies cooling on the back porch railing that jutted over a canal-like stretch of bayou. She was sure to have a chocolate cream, and a lemon meringue, too. She had round screen protectors to keep out the wildlife, mostly bugs who were drawn to the lights. I could hear an occasional zap when one hit the electric bug swatter.

  I knew all about her pies, especially the eating of them, since I’d been delivering seafood to her establishment for two years, three months, two days, seven hours and twenty-four minutes.

  The structure sat at the edge of the Atchafalaya, the deep earth scent of the bayou and the smell of water mingled with the aroma of cherries, strawberries, and apple.

  Sweet and primal.

  Like the need inside me that I hadn’t been able to cure since I set eyes on her.

  Although I was obscured by the shadow just beyond the stairway that led up to the back porch and patio, I could see her. I shifted and stuck my hands in my pockets, unease rippling through me. My life was a jumble of unfinished and shirked obligations.

  She was crying again, like she sometimes did. I hated to think she was here alone, feeling blue. That was why I’d often just be passing by, or hoping for some afterhours pie and conversation. I’d been interested in her since she arrived and took this rundown mess and transformed it into something amazing. She even managed to keep the historical flavor of the place by finding and using dusty, original elements like the worn blue wood, the pressed tin ceiling, and even the old cash register.

  She brought out another pie and set it on the railing, then gazed out across the expanse of water to the dark, emerald green of the bayou, a sheen of tears developing while she stood there toying with the silver star on a chain around her neck. I didn’t take my eyes off her as she stood still, her arms folded protectively around her, the sorrow palpable. The silent, grieving tears tore at me, raked across my heart, and drew, not blood, but compassion.

  She looked like a belle, one of the women who would have fit perfectly into my former life as one of the golden children, the direct descendants of Colonel Beauregard Sutton. But that life, status, and prison were behind me.

  Unlike the belles I had known, Samantha was down-to-earth and steadfast, Miss Hospitality, full of warmth and sincerity and sensible qualities…and fire…and pain…and secrets in her eyes…

  I knew nothing concrete about her. Why she’d come to Suttontowne, and what she was running from. Our conversations were about the catch of the day, her orders, and the weather.

  Samantha was running. I recognized it from experience. I saw it every day in the mirror. Her delicate features were pinched, and I wanted to kiss away her turmoil, hold her against me, and comfort her as best I could.

  But I had my own demons to wrestle, and dragging her into that mishmash wouldn’t help either of us find our way through to the other side.

  Only a fool would stand here and ache. I was no fool. I was many things, few of them admirable, but I was no fool.

  Still, I didn’t move. I stood there and watched while Samantha scrubbed the tears from her face and fought off the next wave of sorrow. She struggled to school her breathing into a regular rhythm, and blinked furiously at the moisture gathering in her eyes as she crouched and wiped up a drip of fruit pie from the immaculate deck with the hand towel she’d used to carry the hot pie.

  She was a tough little thing. She thought she was alone, so there was no reason she couldn’t have curled up in one of the scallop-backed, bronze patio chairs and let loose. But she struggled to curb her emotions, fought for control.

  Unable to bear watching her any longer, I cleared my throat and set my foot on the stair.

  Samantha turned toward the sound, smoothing a hand over the cute apron she wore. “Chase? Is that you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was out for a walk and caught the scent of you baking.”

  “It is a nice night for a walk. Would you like a piece of pie and some coffee?”

  She couldn’t help being neighborly, even though Imogene’s had long since closed for the day. “I wouldn’t want to impose—”

  She waved her hand and made a soft, negative sound. “Nonsense, Chase,” she replied with her usual crisp, Yankee diction, “you’re not imposing.” She smiled and raised a brow. “And if I’m not mistaken, it seems you tend to come around when I’m baking apple. Could that be a pattern?” If I hadn’t seen her crying just a few moments ago, I would have been completely unaware now of her unhappiness. “What can I get you?”

  “Apple would be great.”

  She laughed and it was as charming as she was. “Apple it is. You take your coffee black, as I recall.”

  I nodded. “You recall correctly,” I said.

  “Have a seat, and I’ll be right back.”

  I settled into one of the comfortable chairs beneath an umbrella that was strewn with twinkly lights and wondered what Imogene would think of the way Samantha had preserved her legacy.

  The soft sound of Cajun folk music started up before Samantha re-emerged with a decorative wooden tray of coffee and pie. I got to my feet, the manners of a gentleman ingrained in me from birth by my momma. I took the tray out of her grasp, our hands touching. She dipped her head slightly, brushing at a wayward strand of hair and said, softly, “Oh, thank you.”

  I set the tray down on the table and waited until she was seated before I took my chair. She had given me a scoop of vanilla ice cream o
n top of the pie, and it was melting into the gooey apple goodness as the ambient hum of the June bugs built to a crescendo, then subsided.

  “Do you often walk in the evening?” she asked, her eyes lingering on my mouth as I took a bite. I didn’t need any encouragement to look at her lips and think about what it would feel like to kiss her rather than just stare pathetically at her for hours.

  I shrugged, my answer slow as I hauled my focus away from her mouth. “Sometimes. It clears my head and relaxes me before I sleep.”

  “I would think that you would be so exhausted by the end of the day, you’d just collapse. You work hard.” My body leapt in response to her softly spoken compliment, urging me to do something—anything—about it. Hard to keep telling myself that resisting her was a good idea. How could I give anything to her when I still had my past to sort out? I especially didn’t need the distraction.

  The apple and vanilla blended with the buttery, flaky crust on my tongue as I swallowed and gave her a wry look. “How do you know I work hard?”

  “Oh, well, fishing isn’t easy, especially with some of the fare you offer, like apple snails and crabs.” She took a bite of her own strawberry pie.

  “I take orders and fill them.” I got totally distracted by a smudge of strawberry at the corner of her mouth. “Ah…I don’t fish more than I have to.” She caressed my face with her eyes, looking for a clue as to why I sounded a bit distracted.

  I found myself leaning closer, breathing in her scent, floral mixed with sweet. I shouldn’t touch her, but compelled, I was helpless. “You’ve got some…filling…there,” I said, reaching out and using my thumb to wipe it away from the corner of her mouth.

  She didn’t flinch or pull away. She could have shifted away, or given some other signal that she wasn’t enjoying the incidental moment of intimacy.

  Just like I was.

  Without thinking, I brought my thumb to my mouth and sucked off the delicious strawberry. The taste was much too brief. Damn, she had soft skin, and it would have been better for my state of mind if I didn’t know that. I bet her lips would be even softer. My body reacted the way any man’s would when faced with a beautiful, warm, and soft woman this close. I got hard.

  There was a breathless quality to her voice that stirred me up as much as the way she looked at my mouth. “You’re a boutique fisherman, then.”

  “Yes, ma’am, pinky extended when I’m throwing my nets.” I shifted so my attention was fully on my pie. And not on how badly I wanted to sink my hands into her mahogany hair…and my tongue into that sweet mouth of hers.

  She laughed and something inside me quivered at the captivating sound.

  “I call myself an artisan fisherman. Small-scale, low-tech, low-capital.”

  She nodded, her eyes twinkling. “Much more manly than boutique, huh?” Her smile turned knowing, and grew wider.

  Her humor was contagious. “Yeah.”

  Her eyes danced a bit. “Do you have a busy schedule for the rest of the week?”

  “Off the charts. Fishing is only part of my business, and Braxton Outlaw needs eighty pounds of catfish. I also tie flies and take out charters, run the store. Plenty to do.”

  “Sounds like you need some employees to help you out.”

  “I think it’s going to come to that sooner rather than later.”

  I finished the last bite of my pie and she pushed the crust around on her plate. When she noticed I was done, she rose. “I’ll take that for you.” She gathered up the plates and cups to head back to the kitchen.

  “Can I help?”

  “No, thank you. I’m about to head home as soon as I get these pies inside. Thanks for interrupting your walk to have a piece of pie with me.”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve seen people fight for the last piece of your apple, and rightly so.” She blushed and fiddled with the handle of the tray. “It was no hardship.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, Chase Sutton.”

  “I could walk you home…if you like,” I blurted. I still was getting some uneasy vibes, and didn’t want to leave her alone. Right. I had other thoughts that I shut down firmly. I didn’t want her to think I offered my escort just to get dibs on some pie.

  I liked seeing that my offer knocked her a bit off balance, but she recovered pretty quickly. “Oh. That’s really sweet. It’s not out of your way?” There was a flash of longing in her eyes, but when she blinked, it was gone.

  “No, not at all.”

  She stood there for a moment staring at me as if I was a ticking time bomb. I knew the feeling. But this was about keeping her safe, not about getting into her pants. Yeah, right. Good job snowing yourself, Sutton.

  “Okay. Bring in those pies for me, then.”

  I made a couple of trips back outside to get them all, while Samantha washed, dried and put the plates and cups away. Her kitchen was spotless, organized, and every surface gleamed. It was clear she also was a hard worker.

  She turned off all the interior lights except for a fluorescent over the sink. “We’ll go out the back, but I just want to check the doors. Habit.”

  After she was satisfied everything was secure, we headed to the back door, where she paused to turn off the twinkly lights over the umbrellas. As we went down the porch steps, I automatically set my hand on the small of her slender back. My momma would be proud of my manners.

  We stepped down onto the fieldstone path that led around to the front and the crushed shell parking lot. But instead of trekking in that direction, we headed off at an angle to catch the road that would lead to her house.

  “I heard a rumor recently that you bought the Gainey slave quarters. I’d heard they were going to sell off parcels of the plantation.”

  “I did. So far I’ve bolstered beams, rebuilt sills, new windows and doors, gutted the inside. I’ve also converted the crawl space into a basement. I will admit, I had someone come out and lift the ceiling twenty feet, adding skylights.

  “I love the old wood and living in a place steeped in history. I found some books and letters in one of the walls. Looks like some of the occupants were learning to read and write. I’ve contacted a museum, and they’re interested in the materials.”

  I slowed and touched her elbow. “Wait, you did this construction on your own?”

  She stopped and faced me “Yes, I’m a DIYer.” I must have had a skeptical look on my face, because she set her hands on her hips and gave me an exasperated look. “What? Don’t you think a woman can handle construction? I assure you, I make certain I extend my pinky while using my tools.”

  That surprised a laugh out of me, and it felt rusty as hell. I had been alone in the bayou for a long time. It felt good to be talking to her. “Touché, sugar.”

  Her breath caught at my sugar tag. I was trying to stay away from it, but it had slipped out.

  “This look,” I pointed to my face. “It’s more of an interest in discovering a different side of you. So did you do the majority of the work on Imogene’s?”

  “Sure did,” she said with pride, and we started walking again. “And a damn fine job I did, too. That place is exactly how I envisioned it. Your Aunt Evie helped me find a lot of the antique pieces.”

  Her enthusiasm reached out and grabbed me by the throat, my interest in her piqued even more. “Before the trouble with Imogene’s daughter, AnnClaire, she ran a successful and profitable business back in the 1860’s. Talk about bucking the system.”

  “She did. I find it compelling to know that she’d been born to a wealthy Creole family in New Orleans, spent her formative years palling around with Marie Laveau’s daughter, and was privy to all the secrets and rituals of the practice of voodoo.”

  The hum of June bugs was louder here, away from the water, and it peaked, then leveled out and quieted, only to start up a few minutes later. The paved road dipped down, and I could see the Gainey place, a modest plantation house that was now occupied by Jessica and her husband Prejean Archambault. They had a four-year-old so
n, Sage.

  We passed the house, completely dark except for the porch lamp’s wan light spilling across their lawn.

  Samantha nodded as a slope-roofed, rectangle structure materialized in the distance. “What I love about Imogene’s is it was a place where people could get a home-cooked meal. There is something satisfying about providing something so basic. I like to think I’ve done her proud. As far as her use of voodoo arts to help or hinder the people in the community is concerned, I’m afraid I’m lacking in that department.”

  “I think she would be proud, and I’m sure she is content to remain the only legendary voodoo priestess in these parts.”

  “She’s safe there,” Samantha said with a chuckle. “It seems such a tragedy that, even her husband passed, she continued with her business, her practice of voodoo, and the raising of her daughter—clearly busy and immersed in her life—until that fateful day when AnnClaire was brutally raped and murdered.”

  “And the biggest irony is that, like the Outlaws’ ancestor, Duel, Imogene was hanged, in her case for supposedly causing that hurricane over on Bayou Berangere and killing all those fishermen.”

  “Do you think she actually did that? Called on the spirits to change the weather and punish the men who were responsible for debasing her daughter?”

  “So it’s told. AnnClaire supposedly haunts Imogene’s. Ever seen her ghost?”

  “Seriously? I hadn’t heard that one, but, no, I’ve never seen her ghost.”

  “It’s also said that AnnClaire was a more powerful priestess than her mother. Maybe it was she who summoned the hurricane from the grave.”

  “Maybe. I never thought about her exacting her own revenge. But would she have let her mother take the fall?”

  “I guess we’ll never know.”