Behind him the Mississippi River flowed peacefully, yet the levee facing it served as a stark reminder of its unpredictable and often-violent moods. Before him, a grove of magnolias stretched from the road to the house, lining the pathway that led to Ashland Plantation, creating a living canopy of green. The magnificent trees, easily six feet in diameter, were in full bloom, their dark, glossy tops dotted with huge white blossoms. Even from his position beyond the grove, Rush could smell their ripe, sweet scent. He turned his gaze from the magnolias to the house, visible at the end of the alleyway of trees. The huge Greek Revival structure rose up from the ground to dominate all around it. A living vision of the past, looking at it brought to mind romantic stories of the Old South, of ladies and gentlemen and codes of honor. And it brought to mind other stories—bloody ones imbued with neither romance nor glory. Rush stared at the house, a dozen different emotions churning inside him.
