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Return of the Warrior
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Royal Lockdown
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Chase Melancon felt his chest tighten as he pulled to a stop at the wrought iron gate to Belle Vista plantation. Contrary to the name, the view wasn't very impressive. The gate hung crookedly on rusted hinges. And tall stands of cane had encroached on the access road, making it look more like a trail through the swamp than the entrance to a grand estate.

Before climbing out of the van to move the barrier aside, Chase swept his dark gaze over the cypress and oak trees that blocked out most of the light. Then he picked up the automatic pistol that lay on the passenger seat and stuffed it in his belt. No use getting shot before he got a chance to inspect his property.

"My property," he said aloud, as he brushed back the thick dark hair that had fallen over his brow.

The reality of ownership struck him as he closed his strong hands around the rusted metal, and he went very still. Belle Vista plantation was his. Defying convention and his grasping relatives, old man Rousseau had left the house and surrounding land to Chase Melancon.

He shook his head, still hardly able to believe the turn of events. The Melancon family had been servants on this plantation — at the beck and call of the Rousseaus. And now a Melancon was the top dog. If he lived long enough to establish his claim.

After climbing back into the van once more, Chase drove slowly up the rutted drive, holding his breath as he came around the final curve and saw the house. From a distance, in the rays of the late afternoon sun, it looked just the same as he remembered. The wide galleries. The raised porch. The white columns. However, the closer he came to the edifice, the more he took in the state of disrepair. Some of the columns sagged. And mold discolored the corners of the white siding.

Well, he was going to put it all right. Turn the house and grounds into a showplace. And he had the skills to do it. Before he'd left to enlist in the army, his father had taught him everything he knew about repairs and restoration. Some of Chase's tools were in the trunk. He'd bring the rest from Lafayette later.

Again he drew his gun as he stepped onto the circular drive. Again he scanned the underbrush, looking for one of the Rousseau men, Hugo or Wyatt. Either of them would drop him in his tracks as soon as speak to him.

He was cautious, too, of the weathered boards under his feet as he climbed the wide front steps. They needed replacing. So did much of the porch surface.

Mr. Gaylord, the lawyer who had informed him of the legacy, had given him the key. He inserted it in the lock, pushed the door open, and stepped into the front hall.

Instantly he knew that something wasn't right. The scurry of footsteps caught his ears. One of the bastards had gotten here first after all.

"Hold it right there."

The intruder ignored him.

In a rush of movement, Chase pounded down the hall, gun drawn, in time to catch up with a fleeing figure disappearing through the kitchen door. He got a quick impression of a black T-shirt, black sweat pants. A baseball cap.

He grabbed an arm, whipped the intruder around. The baseball cap flew off, and long blond hair cascaded into view.

He drew in a quick, shocked breath as he found himself staring into the wide blue eyes of Julienne Rousseau.…

To be continued...



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